Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four. “Uh, three.”
“What was the latest victim’s name?”
“Martino.”
“Martino, Martino . . . ah, here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous drug abuser?”
“That’s him.”
“So let’s see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay. Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?”
“No.”
“Then what killed him?”
“An injection of cyanide.”
“My God, how awful. Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is. I’m really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. I’m sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence.”
A terrible coincidence? “With all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic have been killed.”
“Yes, but you’re forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, the senator’s son, was also found stabbed to death. According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed Trian and Whitherson—this so-called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it.”
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Markey was smiling on the other end of the phone. “Well, yes, but—”
“So there is nothing to worry about. Now, if Jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we’d have quite a problem on our hands. Your reports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. We’d have to assume other discrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be reexamined and all your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose your grant.”
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight. The report on the clinic, on the murders . . .
. . . on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein’s voice came back to him.
“What exactly is Parker going to cover?” Max had asked Sara. “The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins’ kid being treated at the clinic?”
And Sara’s answer. “All of it.”
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought. But how? And why didn’t I think of this before? What the hell is going on here?
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence. “But of course,” he said, “we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic, so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Good-bye, Dr. Riker.”
RAYMOND Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all. What a mask it was. Incredible really—as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders’ history. Poor boy from the South. Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way. He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington’s most powerful circles.
Including mine, Markey thought.
“Done,” Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties. They had become something of a trademark over the years. Red ties and thick glasses.
“Good,” Sanders said. “Has your source come up with anything new?”
“Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush-hush.”
The reverend shook his head seriously. “Not a good sign. They might go public with Michael Silverman’s illness.”
“You don’t think my call will stop them?” Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment. “I don’t think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins’ connection to the murders,” he said. “But if they’ve decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don’t see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them.”
“Maybe we should forget this whole thing,” Raymond said tentatively. “It may have gone too far already.”
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes. “Are you trying to back out, Raymond?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally and professionally. And I have that videotape right—”
“No!” Markey shouted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voice grew calmer. “I’m still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking.”
Sanders’ smile returned. “Conspiracy is such an ugly word,” he said. “I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in our crusade to do His work.”
Straight from his TV show, Markey thought in disgust. Sanders’ “holy mission” was to tell the world that Armageddon was upon them. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS epidemic.
After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is the modern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immoral without mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle. For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready? Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carriers in the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.
Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God’s plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. His mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpit Sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord’s plague were somehow lifted . . . well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reverend Sanders’ interpretation of the Gospel.