. . . adios was good-bye. Buenos días was good morning. The same with chemistry. H2O was water. CO2 was carbon dioxide and HCl . . .
. . . “and they started to fly . . .”
. . . HCl was hydrochloric acid.
Acid.
Harvey’s tortured voice pursued her. “You have to die, Sara. You have to . . .”
Sara glanced behind her. Harvey had scrambled to his feet. He pried his hands off his face and took a knife from his pocket. His face was red and blotchy.
Sara turned back around and moved forward. Behind her Harvey began to lunge toward the lab door. He moved like a maniac—without reason, without concern for what might be in his way. And like a maniac, he moved fast.
“You have to die. You have to . . .”
She tried to hobble faster. Her eyes fixed on the doorknob. Just a few more seconds, just a few more steps, almost there, almost . . .
She reached out. Her hand touched the doorknob and then closed around it. Harvey was right behind her now, just a few yards back. He stumbled and dove forward, landing inches away from her. Sara turned the knob.
The door was locked.
Her heart sank. Her fingers quickly moved to the dead bolt...
“You have to die, Sara . . .”
. . . and twisted it clockwise. She heard the bolt slide back. Her hand moved back to the knob again.
That was when she felt cold fingers wrap around her ankle.
From the floor below her. “You have to die, Sara. You have to.”
She screamed, trying to pull her bad foot free, but he held on. He suddenly tugged hard and Sara toppled to the floor beside him. Pain rushed up her leg. She kicked at him, but the blows did not seem to bother him. He was beyond pain now, beyond any form of rationality. He was like some robot set on destroy and nothing she could do would deprogram him. He had to silence her. He had to save his clinic. There was nothing else.
He pulled her ankle and her body slid toward him. Her fingers reached out, trying to grasp anything that might slow him down, but there was nothing but the slick tile.
“. . . have to die . . .”
He grabbed her hair and tugged harshly. Holding her in place, Harvey raised himself up. He lifted the knife above his head. Sara made a fist and swung. It landed in Harvey’s groin. He made an oofing noise and fell off her.
Sara scrambled to her feet. She twisted the knob. The door opened. She heard Harvey scream.
“NO!”
She fell out into the hallway as Harvey stumbled to his feet after her.
Then Sara heard somebody say, “It’s over, Harv. Drop it.”
They both froze.
The voice, Sara thought . . . but it can’t be.
Her line of vision traveled past Harvey. It traveled down the corridor until it reached the spot where the voice had come from.
“Michael!”
STILL holding the knife, Harvey spun toward the voice. The acid had rendered his right eye useless, but his left could still make out shapes. A man was standing about ten feet away from him. It was Michael. And the figure behind him . . . He squinted, trying to make out the face....
His tormented voice said her name. “Cassandra.”
With tears running down her face, Cassandra turned away.
“Let go of the knife,” Michael said. “It’s over.”
Lieutenant Bernstein came flying around the corner. Sergeant Monticelli followed with his gun drawn. He aimed at Harvey’s head.
But Harvey had already dropped the knife. There was no point in continuing. Killing Sara would no longer benefit AIDS because Michael knew the truth. So did Cassandra and Lieutenant Bernstein and that other police officer. He could not kill them all. He could not hide the truth any longer.
So what should he do now?
His whole body went limp. The officer with the gun tackled him and flipped him roughly onto his stomach. There was no need. Harvey offered no resistance. Through his one good eye, he saw Michael pick up Sara. They embraced for a very long time.
He was cuffed and dragged to his feet. Cassandra still could not face him. A pity. He had really cared for her. He might even have loved her. But how could he make her understand that his happiness was irrelevant? How could he make her understand that he had become merely a shell, a tool, a valuable asset in the war against AIDS? His personal life was immaterial. It was Harvey the doctor and researcher that mattered; Harvey the man had always been superfluous.
His eyes still burned from the acid, but he was not thinking about that anymore. He was mulling over his options. He would get a lawyer, a lawyer who could stall for as long as possible. Just a few months of freedom was all it would take to perfect SR1 . . .
“You have the right to remain silent,” the police officer was saying. “Anything you say . . .”
. . . and even if he had to spend time in jail, so what? He might be able to work on the formula in prison and correspond with researchers in the outside world. He had read about a doctor doing that somewhere. He could still make a contribution, still give the world his expertise.
But first, he would call a lawyer. A good, smart lawyer.
Yeah, that was it. That was what he’d do. That was exactly what he would do.
EPILOGUE
THURSDAY, APRIL 9
LENNY walked into the Eighty-seventh Street Precinct. He strode past the usual ugly glares and catcalls with a smile.
When he arrived at his destination, Lenny said, “Take that pencil out of your mouth.”
Lieutenant Max Bernstein looked up. “Hi, Len.”
“Ready to go visit Sara and Sam?”
“Let me just finish this up.”
“What is it?”
“Paperwork. That’s all I do now.”
“Hang in there,” Lenny said. “Someone has to blaze the trail.”
Max began to fiddle with his new mustache. “I never thought of myself as much of a trailblazer.”
“Sometimes greatness is thrust upon you.”
“No one talks to me anymore,” Max said. “All I get is shit detail.”
“Being a leader is a lonely business.”
“It’s not funny, Len.”
“Do you wish you never said anything?”
Max remembered the news conference seven months ago. Newspaper and television reporters from all over the globe were there to cover the capture of the Gay Slasher and the revelation that SR1 was a hoax. On that day Max had not planned on saying anything except the usual “this was a team effort” bullshit. His mouth, however, had other ideas.
A reporter had asked, “How does it feel to be a hero, Lieutenant?”
“I’m just glad the case is over.”