Miracle Cure

Miracle Cure Page 4

Harvey Riker helped himself to another martini.

His third. Or was it his fourth? He was not sure.

Harvey was not a heavy drinker, but lately he had found himself eyeing the bottle with new respect and desire. So much had happened the past few weeks. Why now? Why when they were on the brink of cornering and even destroying the AIDS virus did all this have to happen?

He handed the glass back to the bartender.

"Another," he said simply.

The bartender hesitated but then took the glass.

"Last one, okay?"

Harvey nodded. The bartender was right. Enough was enough.

He spun back toward the crowd. Michael was still talking with Cassandra. Man, she was something else. Talk about sizzle. A guy could get sunburn just standing near her. Make that sunstroke.

And how old is she, Harvey? Young enough to be your daughter, I suspect.

He shrugged. No harm in fantasizing, was there?

But his mind quickly returned to the other matter. The matter.

His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, but there was still no sign of Sara.

"Hello, Dr. Riker."

Harvey turned toward the familiar voice.

"Hey, Bradley, how you feeling?"

Bradley Jenkins, the senator's son, smiled at Harvey.

"Much better, thanks."

"Any problems?"

Bradley shook his head.

"Right now I feel great. It's like some sort of a miracle...1 just don't know how long it will last."

Harvey looked at the soft-spoken young man. Sara had introduced Harvey to Bradley years ago, well before Bradley had become his patient or even suspected he had AIDS.

"Neither do we, Bradley," he said in a serious tone.

"The important thing is to continue the treatment. Stopping in the middle can be more dangerous than the disease itself."

"I'd be crazy to stop."

"When is your next visit?"

Bradley never answered because his father stepped between them.

"Not another word," Senator Jenkins hissed at Harvey.

"Ibllow me." Harvey did as the senator asked. He followed him down the long corridor, keeping a yard or two between them. Senator Stephen Jenkins stopped at the last door, opened it, glanced back down the corridor to make sure no one was looking, and then waved for Harvey to enter. He closed the door behind them.

They were in Dr. Lowell's library now, a huge, two-level room jammed from floor to high ceiling with thick, leather-covered books. There was a sliding ladder to facilitate getting volumes from the higher shelves and a catwalk that circled the room like a running track. Dark oak was the color of the shelves, the floor, the furniture.

Senator Jenkins began to pace.

"You should know better than to speak to my son in public."

"We were just talking," Harvey said.

"This is a party. People talk."

"Do you know what would happen if people found out the truth about Bradley?" Harvey paused.

"Peace in the Middle East?"

"Don't get cute with me, Riker."

"Nuclear armageddon? The end of Friday the Thirteenth sequels?"

"I owe you, Dr. Riker, but don't push me."

Harvey's tone was brisk.

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my son's life."

"We don't know that. Only time will tell for sure."

"Still," the senator said, "it is encouraging. I'm very grateful."

"I'm. touched."

"I also heard about the death of your partner Dr. Grey. My condolences."

"Care to make a public donation to his favorite charity?"

The senator chuckled without humor.

"No."

"Then how about getting the Senate to vote us more funds?"

"You know I can't do that. The media and my opponents will tear me apart."

"For helping cure a deadly disease?"

"For spending the voters' hard-earned tax dollars to help a bunch of immoral, limp-wristed perverts."

"Like your son?"

The senator lowered his head.

"Low blow, Riker. Very low.

If it ever got out that Bradley was..." He stopped.

"Gay?" Harvey finished for him.

"Is that the word you're looking for? Well, it won't. Not from me, at least."

"Then I'll do what I can to help the clinic discreetly, of course." Senator Jenkins paused for a moment, thinking.

"Besides," he continued, "there are other ways to raise more money without involving me."

"Like how?"

"Make your results public."

"It's still too early."

"It's never too early," Jenkins said.

"You don't think there're rumors about your success in Washington? How do you think I found out about it? All you have to do is show the media some of your test cases. Show them that Krutzer kid or Raul Leander."

Harvey almost smiled.

"What about Bradley? The son of a senator would certainly draw more attention than a couple of unknown gays."

"You can't use him."

"Even if it means saving more lives or is your son the only homosexual worth saving?"

"You cannot use Bradley, Riker. That's final. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Senator. I understand that some things are more important than human lives like reelection campaigns."

The senator stepped closer. He was a big man and he towered over the smaller doctor.

"I'm getting a little tired of your moral outrage, Dr. Riker. You're out of your league here, and I've seen smaller mistakes ruin a man."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm warning you. Someone might decide to step on you if you become too bothersome."

Harvey returned the senator's glare.

"You must be mistaking me for somebody who gives a shit," he replied evenly.

"If my clinic goes down the tubes, a certain right-wing, narrow-minded senator from Arkansas would go with me."

Senator Jenkins shook his head. "You're so goddamn blind, Riker. You don't even understand what you're involved in here."

"So tell me."

"Your cause has more than its share of enemies," Jenkins continued.

"There are plenty of people who would not mind putting an end to your research. Powerful people."

"Like your Jenkins stepped back and shook his head.

"I'm just trying to save my son's life," he said softly.

"But there are important people who want the clinic closed...

permanently."

"I'm aware of that. I can handle it."

Senator Stephen Jenkins walked toward the door and opened it.

"No," he said, "I don't think you can."

Sara stared at Michael and Cassandra. Her hand gripped her cane to the point where her knuckles turned white. She fought off the desire to bash Cassandra with the same cane. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Sara knew that she was playing into her sister's hand, that Cassandra was just trying to bait her. But Sara still felt a flush of anger and jealousy that colored her cheeks red.

Lord knows she should be used to Cassandra by now.

Sara cleared her throat and began to step toward them when somebody blocked her path.

"Good evening, Miss. Lowell."

Sara looked up, surprised.

"Good evening, Reverend Sanders." "Please," the minister said, his famous smile spread across his face, "a moment of your time."

He escorted her toward the empty corridor and out of view.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Sara began.

And what the hell are you doing here anyway?

"The Holy Crusade is a large contributor to your father's organization," he explained.

"Your father had no choice but to invite a representative from our organization. Since I've always wanted to meet the prestigious Dr. Lowell, I decided to be that representative."

"I see," Sara replied.

"Yes, Miss. Lowell, despite your biased hatchet job on the Holy Crusade and what we believe as God-fearing "

"I did not mention beliefs in my report," Sara interrupted.

"I discussed finances and taxes." Sanders smiled.

"You think you are so clever, don't you, Miss. Lowell? Do you really think that your petty report can hurt my ministry? You are a stupid woman. In trying to destroy me, you have done the very opposite."

Sara leaned against her cane.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but if you'll excuse me..."

She began to hobble back toward the party, but Sanders reached out and gripped her elbow firmly.

"The money has been pouring in since we went off the air, Miss. Lowell.

My 800 number is ringing like crazy. The free publicity from the show "

"Let go of me or start singing soprano."

His grip tightened.

"Your attacks on me have mobilized my supporters. The righteous see a threat, and they are rising to help-"

"Is there a problem here?"

Sanders released Sara's arm and spun quickly toward the voice. His smile was back in place.

"Why, you're Michael Silverman! The basketball star! I'm a big fan of yours. Pleasure to meet you, sir."

Sara watched as Sanders stuck out his hand. Michael's eyes were burning, his temper just barely reined in. Sara moved toward Michael and caressed his shoulder. Michael's muscles were taut and knotted. He continued to ignore the reverend's outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sanders withdrew it, his smile faltering just slightly.

"Yes, well, it was nice chatting with you all," Sanders rambled, "but I really must be going back to the party now."

"Oh must you?" Michael countered.

Sanders was sweating profusely now.

"I look forward to seeing you both at the party," he said.

"Good- bye, Miss. Lowell."

"Good- bye, Reverend."

Sanders turned toward Michael.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Silverman, the Holy Crusade is a big supporter of Israel. I thought you should know."

Michael watched Sanders disappear down the corridor.

"Permission to beat his head in."

"Permission denied... for now."

"You never let me have fun anymore," Michael said, beginning to relax a little.

"I'm sorry."

"And he's a big supporter of Israel. Isn't that nice, honi bet some of his best friends are Jewish."

Sara nodded.

"He probably wants to convert."

"I'll perform the briss."

Michael hugged Sara tightly.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Tine," Sara replied. She took off her glasses and wiped them with Michael's handkerchief.

"So what have you been up to tonight, my valiant hero?"

Michael shrugged.

"The usual saving small children from fires, fighting crime in the streets, getting pawed by your sister."

Sara laughed.

"Cassandra can be a tad aggressive."

"Just a tad like Napoleon. You weren't upset, were you?" "Me?" Sara asked.

"Never. I did, however, feel this strong desire to bash her head in with my cane."

"That's my girl."

"You fought her off bravely, I suppose."

He put his fist to his chest.

"My chastity remains intact."

"Good."

"By the way, you were great tonight."

She arched her eyebrows.

"I meant on the show, silly girl. No wonder Sanders was pissed off.

You tore his ass to pieces."

"But he's probably right, Michael. All the expose will do is galvanize his supporters and gain him a few new ones."

"In the short run maybe. But even imbeciles learn eventually."

"They're not imbeciles. A little gullible perhaps..."

"Whatever," he replied, taking her hand.

"Ready to face your adoring public?"

"Not really."

"Good. Then follow me, my little kitten."

"Where?"

"You mentioned something earlier in the evening about my having my way with you."

"Did I? I don't remember."

"It was right after you referred to me as the Stud Machine."

"Oh," she said, moving toward the stairwell.

"Now I remember."

"Senator Jenkins!"

Stephen Jenkins turned toward the voice. His painted, vote getting smile, already applied to his jowly face, was holding up quite nicely.

"Hello, Reverend. How wonderful to see you!"

Senator Jenkins and Reverend Sanders exchanged firm handshakes.

Sanders, the senator knew, was one of the most influential men in the South. Over the course of the past decade, the religious right had been crucial in Senator Jenkins' reelection campaigns, and no one delivered their votes like the Reverend Ernest Sanders. If Sanders was on your side, he praised you as a descendant of the Prophets. If he was against you, well, Satan received kinder treatment in his sermons.

Luckily for Jenkins, the reverend had backed him. Without his grassroots support, the senator might have lost on the last go-around to that upstart liberal the Democrats had pitted against him.

"Thank you, Stephen. Quite a party, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Jenkins replied.

Without so much as a head nod or knowing glance, the two men stepped down the long corridor, out of earshot and sight.

Their smiles quickly dissolved away. Ernest Sanders leaned toward Jenkins' ear, his face tight and set.

"I'm not very happy about the guest list for this party," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"What the hell is Dr. Harvey Riker doing here?"

"He's very close to John's daughter," Jenkins explained.

"This is not good, Stephen. His being here... it helps give him a certain legitimacy, don't you think?"

The senator nodded, though he really did not agree. He also knew his old friend John Lowell was a hell of a lot more upset at Sanders being here than Riker. John had made it very clear he did not want anyone to know of his association with the televangelist.

"A lot has been happening lately," Sanders continued.

"We'd best prepare ourselves. I think we should all meet next week."

"Where?"

"At Bethesda."

The senator nodded again.

"Are you in town for long, Reverend?""

"No," Sanders replied.

"I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon. I only came up for the interview and... how should I put it?" He paused, thinking.

"To keep the holy coalition together."

Jenkins felt something cold skitter down his back.

"I don't understand."

Sanders looked straight at Stephen Jenkins.

"Nothing to worry about, Stephen," he said. "I'll take care of everything."

Several hours later Harvey Riker spotted Sara standing by herself near the bar. Finally, he thought, as something akin to relief drifted through him, a chance to speak with her alone. For the past fifteen minutes Harvey had watched Sara and Bradley Jenkins engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation.

They were interrupted by Bradley's father, who moved between them and pulled Bradley away. No surprise there. Harvey knew that Bradley confided in Sara. Senator Jenkins probably did too.

Sara was leaning against her cane, sipping lightly at her drink.

Harvey approached her.

"There you are," he began. " I've been looking for you all night.

Congratulations on the show."

She kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Harvey. How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"And the clinic?"

Harvey shrugged.

"Okay."

"Did Michael speak with you yet?"

"About what?"

"About his stomach."

"No," he replied.

"What about it?"

Sara frowned.

"I'm going to kill him."

"What's wrong with his stomach?"

"He's been having terrible stomach pain for over a week now."

Harvey nodded, finally understanding.

"That explains his grimacing all night." "I can't believe him," Sara continued.

"He1 promised me he would speak to you."

"Don't blame him, Sara. I haven't been the most approachable company this evening. He probably thought it was a bad time."

"So what's wrong?"

"I need to talk to you about something important." Despite Harvey's earlier vow, he had gone well beyond that fourth martini.

He took yet another swish, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid circling in his mouth before he swallowed. He might have been a little tipsy earlier, but his mind became sober and alert now.

"It involves the clinic," he began slowly, weighing each word in his head before it passed his lips, "and I think it involves Bruce's death." He stopped.

He motioned with his hand.

"Let's take a walk." They moved through the French doors and out onto the broad expanse of landscaped grounds. Many guests were outside now, the party spilling from the crowded ballroom onto the lawn and formal gardens beyond. The two strolled in silence past the pool, the cabana, the tennis courts. Sara led Harvey down toward the barn where her father kept the horses. She opened the barn door, releasing the smell of hay and animals. They entered. A horse neighed.

"This is a beautiful estate," Harvey said.

"Yes, it is."

He stroked the broad forehead of a large grey horse.

"Do you do much riding?" he asked.

Sara shook her head.

"Cassandra's the rider in the family.

The doctors did not like the idea of me on a horse as a child so I never got into it."

"Oh."

"So why don't you tell me what's up?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

"Nothing new there."

Harvey chuckled and then scanned the area to make sure that no one was around.

"All right," he said slowly, "here goes. As you know, Bruce and I have been running the clinic for almost three years now, trying our best to keep all results secret and avoiding the press at all costs."

"I know," Sara replied," but I never understood why. Clinics and doctors usually crave media attention."

"Usually, yes. And I, for one, am never against seeing my smiling face on TV. But this is something different, Sara, something big. First, our treatment is experimental. In such cases even a rumor of success brings on expectations which probably cannot be met. Second, we are working with only forty patients, many of whom do not want their cases made public for obvious reasons. AIDS is still the evil plague in our society, one that inspires prejudice and discrimination of the highest order."

"I see."

"But a few new factors have entered the game."

"Such as?"

"Money," he stated flatly.

"We're running out of it and we need more badly. Without some public pressure on the federal government to extend our grant and without some outside donations, the clinic won't survive much longer, and..." He stopped.

"And there's something else," he said.

"Something you have to swear to keep to yourself."

"Go ahead."

"Swear."

She looked at him, puzzled.

"I swear." He sighed deeply.

"You've probably heard some of the rumors, Sara. No matter how hard we tried to keep things quiet, the word began to leak out. It started with the success of the drug on the isolated virus in the lab. Then we injected it in mice. Over time, the HIV was destroyed in virtually every instance. The same thing happened when we moved up to monkeys."

Sara swallowed.

"What are you trying to say?"

"You can't keep something like this a secret for very long," he continued, "and frankly speaking, we felt it was time to let the facts be known a little bit at a time, of course."

Her mouth dropped open. She had heard a vague rumor or two and dismissed them as wishful thinking.

"Do you mean...?"

He nodded.

"We have found a cure, or at the very least a strong treatment, for the AIDS virus."

"My God."

"It doesn't work all the time yet," he continued quickly, "and it is not a wonder cure in the classic sense. It is a long, often painful regimen, but in a number of cases we have had great success."

"But why would you want to keep that secret?"

He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. Sara had never seen Harvey look so tense and strained.

"A good question," he replied.

"HIV, the so-called Human Immunodeficiency Virus, is a very tricky bug.

It was hard to know for sure if we were truly blocking its effect or if the virus was just taking it easy on us for a little while. HIV is constantly changing, mutating, even hiding inside human cells. We didn't know about the true, long-term effects of what we were doing.

Imagine, Sara, if we came out claiming to have a cure for AIDS only to find out we were wrong."

"It would be catastrophic," she agreed.

"To put it mildly. Plus we have the HHS to contend with."

"The Department of Health and Human Services? What do they have to do with this?"

"Everything. They're a giant bureaucracy and bureaucrats have a way of slowing things down to a crawl. The Public Health Service hell, the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, the National Institutes of Health all that is under the goddamn control of the Department of HHS."

"Bureaucrats on top of bureaucrats."

"Exactly. That's one of the reasons we kept our safehouse out of the country, where no one from Health and Human Services could interfere whenever they got bored or somebody's ego was bent out of shape."

"I'm not following you."

"You know that I served as a medic in Vietnam, right?"

She nodded.

"Well, I spent a lot of time in Southeast Asia. It's a quiet society.

Mysterious. No one interferes with your business. Bruce and I decided to keep all our lab tests tissue specimens, blood samples, that kind of thing in Bangkok, where they would be not very accessible."

"To avoid some of the bureaucracy?"

He nodded.

"While their function is certainly justifiable, the PDA, for example, has a habit of testing drugs for years to make sure they're safe.

You've probably read about all the experimental drugs the PDA won't allow AIDS patients to take."

She nodded.

"Never made much sense to me."

"It's a complex debate, but I agree with you. If AIDS is a terminal illness, what harm can it cause a poor bastard who's already on death row to experiment? What we at the clinic hope to do was to provide the PDA with so much evidence that any unnecessary delay would be prevented. At the same time we could test our compound without the panic and media attention that our results would cause." Sara thought for a moment.

"But couldn't you just show the government your results in secret?

They'd be sure to allocate more funds once they saw some positive results." He smiled.

"You forgot that the people who decide these matters are politicians.

Can you picture a politician being closemouthed about something this big? No way, Sara. They would try to milk this for all the votes it could get them."

"Good point."

"And one other thing. Not all the bigwigs are in favor of our program.

Your father, for one."

"My father's objections to your clinic are different," she snapped defensively.

"If he knew that a cure was being found "

"Perhaps I spoke too hastily," he interrupted.

"Your father is a dedicated healer and I would never question his commitment to stop human suffering. I don't agree with his stand on AIDS, but I understand that it is a difference of opinion, not ideology.

But there are others, Sara men like that bastard Sanders and his lobotomized followers who would do anything to stop our research."

"But I don't see what all this has to do with Bruce's death.

If you were so close to reaching your goal, why did he kill himself?"

Harvey lowered his head. His bloodshot and tired eyes stared down at his shoes.

"That's just the point."

"What is?"

He fiddled with the mixing straw in his glass.

"Let's say I wanted to prove to you that we really have found a cure for AIDS.

What could I show you to prove our claim beyond a shadow of a doubt?"

"Case studies."

He nodded.

"In other words, patients who have been cured, right?"

"Right."

"Bruce, Eric and I saw it the same way. The major part of our research is our patients, Sara. Obviously, if we can present to the world patients who are fully cured patients who are no longer HIV positive then we have the evidence needed to support our claim."

"Understood."

"The problem is that two of our best case studies Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian are now dead." "AIDS-related?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Murdered."

The word hit Sara like a sharp slap.

"What?"

"They both died of multiple stab wounds within two weeks of one another."

"I didn't read anything about this."

"The murder of gays is hardly front-page stuff, Sara."

"Did you talk to the police?"

He nodded.

"They thought it was an interesting coincidence but nothing more. They pointed out other similarities between the two men both were gay, lived in Greenwich Village, had brown hair, etcetera, etcetera."

"They could be right," she said.

"It could be just a coincidence."

"I know," he agreed.

"I thought that too."

"But?"

"But now Bruce is dead."

"And you think his suicide is related to this?"

He paused and let out a deep breath.

"I don't think Bruce committed suicide, Sara. I think he was murdered."

Sara felt her mouth go dry.

"But how can that be? Wasn't a note found?"

"Yes."

"And wasn't it in Bruce's handwriting?"

"Yes."

"So how- "

"I'm not sure how it worked. It could have been a clever forgery or something I don't know."

Sara's face twisted into a look of puzzlement.

"Then you're saying that Bruce was thrown through the window?"

"I'm. saying that it's worth looking into. Bruce was supposed to be in Canctin on vacation. What kind of man flies home early from a vacation to kill himself? And something else."

"Yes?"

"A few minutes before Bruce died, he called me on the phone.

He sounded scared shitless. He said he needed to talk to me in private about something important. I'm sure it was about the murders. We only spoke for a minute or two before he suddenly hung up."

"Did Bruce tell you where he was?"

"No."

"Let me ask you something else," she continued, her mind racing now.

"Are there other good case studies you could present besides the two murder victims?"

"Yes. At least four others. I know this whole thing sounds crazy, Sara, and yes, I know there are a million more rational solutions to all of this. There could be a psychotic gay-basher hanging around the clinic who followed Whitherson and Trian home and killed them. It could even be another patient or a staff member.

But Sara, this is so big, so important. If and I admit it's a big if if someone murdered them because of their affiliation to the clinic and if that someone does the same to the others, it could mean a delay in proving that the treatment works. That delay could cost thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of lives." "I see your point," she said, "but why are you telling me?" Harvey smiled, though his face still looked weary.

"I don't have much, Sara. I'm divorced. I have no kids. My only brother died of AIDS. My father died years ago and my mother has Alzheimer's. I work all the time so I don't have a lot of friends."

He stopped now as if trying to summon up some additional strength.

"Michael has always been like a son to me. That makes you, well, the best kind of daughter-in-law. Whether you like it or not, you and Michael are my family."

"We like it," she said softly. She took hold of his hand.

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

"I'm going to tell Michael, but I wanted to speak to you first.

Eric, of course, knows. He's been wonderful since joining the clinic last year. I depend on him for everything."

"I'm glad he worked out so well."

"Yeah, well, Eric and I are both starting to question our sanity over this whole murder mess. We're not sure if we're complete lunatics or just a pair of paranoid conspiracy nuts. Working on a disease like this one can make you a little batty after a while.

Will you help me investigate this?"

"I'll get on it right away," she said.

"I have a friend in homicide, a Detective Max Bernstein.

"I'll speak to him about it. But I have another suggestion."

"What?"

She hesitated.

"Let me do a story on the clinic."

"Huh?"

"Well run it live on Newsflash. The positive publicity will force the government to refinance the clinic." "I don't know, Sara," he said.

"It might piss off Washington."

"So what?" she countered.

"You'll have all of America on your side after this report. The politicians wouldn't dare close you down." Harvey looked down and said nothing for a few minutes.

"Harv?"

"Can you keep our location and identity a secret?" he asked.

"No names of doctors, no names of patients, nothing like that?

I won't risk a patient's confidentiality."

"No problem."

He looked around, his eyes misty and afraid.

"If you think it will work..."

"It has to," Sara urged.

"Like you said before, it's time to let the world know."

Harvey nodded.

"Okay then. Do it." He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it. His face fought to look cheerful.

"Now let's change subjects for a while. How are you doing?" "Actually," Sara said with a hint of a smile, "I need a small favor."

"Name it."

"I need you to find me a good obstetrician."

Now it was Harvey's turn to look surprised.

"Jesus, Sara, are you...?

She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn much to say yes, to see Michael's face after a positive test result came back.

"Right now, I'm just late."

"Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?"

"No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and the networks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings through the roof."

"Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?"

"Yes."

"Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She'll know you're coming." He paused, his voice becoming serious.

"I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have you told him?"

She shook her head.

"I'd rather wait for the results of the test.

I don't want to build up his hopes if it's just another false alarm."

"Do you mind if I meet you there?"

"I'd like that."

"Great.

"I'll see you then."

"Harvey?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won't say anything, but it's really giving him some problems."

"I'll speak to him right away."

George sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell's driveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party was winding down now. Most of the guests had already left.

George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while his intended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine.

The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Perignon champagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing that in a few hours the knife in George's hand would slit open his arteries and extinguish his life forever.

He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, it gleamed menacingly.

A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He recognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenalin coursed through his veins.

He turned the ignition key and followed.