Sara watched him. He looked handsome in his gray suit with a solid blue tie, but the clothes were just not him. There were no wild splashes of color, no yellow and green paisley, no purple floral pattern, no funky polka dots—so drab and . . . and lifeless for him. His face, somber, ashen, tired, matched the look.
He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. His fingers unfolded it and his palm smoothed it out against the podium. He glanced down at the statement, but he did not read the words. His hand pushed the paper to the side and slowly his face tilted upward. Then he just stood there for a few moments and said nothing.
Through the glare of flashbulbs, Sara could sense the unease in the audience. Murmurs began to stir and strengthen through the press corps. She moved closer to Michael, took his hand in hers and squeezed. The coldness of his hand startled her. Then he did something very strange. He turned toward her and smiled—not a fake or tired smile, but a genuine, beautiful Michael smile. It comforted her and frightened her at the same time. The smile slipped away from his lips slowly as he turned back to the microphone.
“Yesterday,” Michael began, “I learned that I have contracted the AIDS virus.”
Immediate silence. The murmurs ceased as though they had been on a tape recorder that had been switched off.
“I am entering a private clinic which you will hear more about during this program. That’s all I have to say. Thank you.”
He stepped back, smiled anew at Sara, and took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
The press attacked with both barrels. “How long have you been gay, Michael?”
“Sara, how long have you known your husband was homosexual?”
“Is the marriage a farce?”
“Have you had sex with any of your teammates?”
With each question, Michael involuntarily winced. Finally, he stepped back toward the podium to set the record straight. When he reached the microphone and the room fell silent, Michael turned away without saying a word. He bent down and kissed Sara’s cheek.
“Like I said before, let’s get out of here.”
HARVEY watched the report alone.
Being alone was fine with him. That was how it should be. Cassandra had been a mistake from the start. Talk about your basic self-delusion—he must have been taking major mind-expanding drugs to think someone like her could be interested in someone like him. Besides, he had the clinic. He could not afford distractions that would hinder his concentration and affect his work negatively.
He shook his head. Enough of this. There were much more important things to worry about than his creature comforts. Harvey pushed Cassandra clear out of his mind and focused on the NewsFlash report.
Donald Parker was doing an excellent job, presenting the facts without too much innuendo. To help the clinic keep its anonymity, the report did not give the name or address of the Pavilion. Thank God for that. Harvey could just imagine the riots if the clinic’s name and address were used in the report. Talk about bedlam.
Better still, only Eric’s name was used in the report. The name of the “chief researcher” was left out. Perfect. Couldn’t be better. Parker had even given an 800 telephone number and an address for those who wanted to make donations to the clinic and suggested writing or telegramming Congress to approve additional grants for the “unnamed” AIDS clinic.
Donald Parker’s blue eyes swerved forward, making contact with millions of viewers. Harvey could see why Parker was considered the best in the business. His intensity made you forget that you were watching television. He became a houseguest, just a member of the family seated in the den instead of a studio.
“Even more glaring,” Donald Parker’s deep voice continued, “is the clinic’s connection with the so-called Gay Slasher who has been terrorizing New York City’s gay community for the past two months. In reality, the Gay Slasher might better be called the AIDS Slasher. Here’s our report.”
His voice was now on tape. “Young men found stabbed and mutilated—they had everything to live for.” Several snapshots of bloodied sheets draped over bodies, an arm or leg jutting into view, flashed across the screen. “The world at large believed that a psychopath was hunting down members of the gay community. But new evidence has come to light which blows that theory right out of the water and draws a more devastating conclusion.”
A proper pause. “The so-called Gay Slasher is murdering AIDS sufferers. In fact, the murder victims all had one thing in common—they were patients at the clinic we have been discussing tonight.”
After another proper pause, Parker continued. “The first victim was Scott Trian.” A smiling photograph of Trian came on. “Trian, a twenty-nine-year-old stockbroker, was murdered in his apartment in the most grisly fashion imaginable. He was tortured and mutilated with a knife before he finally bled to death.”
Bill Whitherson’s image replaced Trian’s. “William Whitherson, a vice president at First City Bank, was the Gay Slasher’s next prey. Over twenty stab wounds were scattered across Mr. Whitherson’s face, neck, chest and groin. He was found in his apartment by his roommate, Stuart Lebrinski, who had left the victim only an hour before. The blood was still flowing from Mr. Whitherson’s wounds when Mr. Lebrinski came back from the supermarket.” The picture of Bill Whitherson faded away . . .
. . . and a photograph of Bradley Jenkins appeared in its place.
Harvey felt his heart constrict in his chest. “Oh God, no. Don’t . . .”
“The murder of Bradley Jenkins, son of Senator Stephen Jenkins and a secret patient at the AIDS clinic, put the Gay Slasher on the map. Bradley was found behind a gay bar in Greenwich Village—”
Harvey no longer heard his words. “No,” he whispered in horror. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”
REVEREND Ernest Sanders watched the report. It was bad, very bad, but Sanders did not get angry. Anger was a wasted emotion, one that clouded the mind, shoved away rational thought. What he needed to do was think clearly.
Dixie was upstairs in the bedroom, passed out on the bed from too much wine. Again. Third straight night. But he loved her. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—even his enemies confessed to that—a far cry from the Tammy Faye stereotype of an evangelist’s wife. She meant the world to him and so he lavished her with expensive gifts and the best of everything. Still, she despised him. He could see it in the way she looked at him every time he came through the door. His son, Ernie Junior, had grown into a handsome young man who worked in the ministry. He had learned the Gospel well, was a passionate speaker, made a whole heap of money, and hated his father too. The repulsion in his son’s face, Sanders thought, would make a blind man blush.