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Another nod.
“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth now. If you scream, I’ll break your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are always screaming on this street.” George reached out and ripped off the tape.
Michael caught his breath. With some effort he worked his vocal cords. “What do you want?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“Forget it, Michael.”
Michael managed to sit upright. “Can you take off the handcuffs?” he asked. “They’re killing my shoulders.”
“Sure, but the ankle chain stays on.” George used a small key to unlock the handcuffs. They opened with a click. “Better?”
Michael nodded. He rubbed his wrists, eyeing George in the process. His head still swam; his vision still blurred. George sat no more than a yard away.
Now or never, Mikey boy.
Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain and distorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what he did next.
With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his fingers were forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked the fist and launched it toward George’s face.
The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumped into Michael’s body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physical prowess. George’s right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a casual wave.
“You are a brave man, Michael Silverman,” George said. “You are also very foolish.”
George’s hand reached out and took hold of Michael’s broken nose between his thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.
Then George twisted.
Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a horrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousand beetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped. Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael’s eyes widened and then closed, his body falling slack.
“Try something like that again,” George said, “and it will be Sara who pays the price. Understand?”
Michael could barely nod before he passed out.
CASSANDRA looked at her sister. Sara’s bright green eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them. The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look of incomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had been knocked unconscious in Michael’s room—three days of depression, sadness, fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions had hardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara’s hurt had transformed itself into something more powerful, something more . . . useful.
Anger. No, rage.
“Hiya, baby sis.”
Cassandra’s smile was broad, too broad. It looked fake and Sara knew it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“Just come out and say it.”
The smile fled Cassandra’s face, leaving behind no traces it had ever been there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the bed next to Sara and took her hand.
Sara looked down at their hands and then up into her sister’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked gently.
“I know I haven’t been the best sister in the world,” Cassandra said.
“Neither have I.”
“But I love you.”
Sara tightened her grip on Cassandra’s cold hand. “I love you too,” she said.
Tears began to slide down Cassandra’s cheek. “I think Dad is mixed up in this whole Gay Slasher thing.”
Sara felt her body stiffen. “What?”
Cassandra nodded. “I think he’s involved in some kind of plot to destroy the clinic.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I overheard him arguing with Reverend Sanders in his study the morning after the charity ball.”
“But Dad said he didn’t know him.”
“I know. Harvey told me that. So I became suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn’t around. There were letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at the Cancer Center were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy named Markey—”
“Dr. Raymond Markey?”
“That’s him. Assistant Secretary of something.”
“Health and Human Services.”
“Right.”
Sara tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly dried up. “But that doesn’t mean he’s involved with Sanders.”
“That’s what I thought . . . until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept trying to make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I became suspicious. So I hid in his closet. Reverend Sanders came by again.”
Sara sat up and stared directly into her sister’s eyes. “Tell me everything they said, Cassandra. Everything.”
BANGKOK at night.
The Thai locals approached every white-faced person who walked down Patpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have made a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thais knew him personally; some had met him on occasion; many knew his name; all feared going anywhere near him.
Despite the enormous crush of people, the locals parted when George walked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way. It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretch out its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead. George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiating rates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Tokyo conference room.
When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native taxi of Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter, the tuk-tuk had its good points—it was small, quick, used up next to no fuel, and was open-air. It also got crushed in an accident, had no headroom, and was open-air.
The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hands in a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched his fingertips, and said, “Sawasdee, kap.”
George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as the driver. “Sawasdee.”
“Where to?”
“Wats,” George barked.
The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blue tuk-tuk. The driver continued to smile. Typical Thai, George mused. Thailand, Land of Smiles. Everybody smiling. They might be griping, whoring, thieving, murdering, but they always smiled. George liked that.
They stopped at a traffic light on Silom Road. A voice shouted, “Hey, mate!”
