In Bethesda, Maryland, four powerful men sat in a plush office in a picturesque baronial structure on the campus of the National Institutes of Health.

One was powerful in the religious world; one in the political realm; two in the medical community.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was dark blue and clear. The well-manicured grounds outside were alive with green. The whole area resembled the most exclusive of country clubs.

But the four men were oblivious to their resort-like surroundings.

Arguments raged. Accusations were hurled. Fingers were pointed. And in the end nothing was resolved. Through it all, one man had not raised his voice. One man had not engaged in the bitter debate. One man a normally very verbose man had not said a word.

But the man had listened. And the man had made a decision.

As the meeting broke up, the man pulled Dr. John Lowell to the side and said five words: "We have to talk alone."

To which Dr. Lowell nodded and replied, "Let's get back to New York first."

Max closed the lab door.

"So how were the fish biting?"

"Pretty good," Winston drawled.

"I caught one of the biggest bass ya ever did see. She must have weighed a good "

"Great. Congratulations. Now why don't we stop playing games?"

"Playing games? I don't getcha, Lieutenant."

Max renewed his pacing with surprising vigor.

"Would you mind telling me why you were in Washington three days ago?"

"How do you know "

"Don't worry about how. Just tell me why."

Winston's expression remained cool, his tone impatient.

"While I don't reckon it's any of your goddamn business, I stopped in Washington to visit some friends on my way home. Happy?"

"Your home in Alabama?"

"That's right."

"The cabin by the lake and all that."

"Yep."

"Tell me something else, Winston what parts of Washington did you visit?"

"I don't see why that's important."

"It's not really. I just want to know why you went to the National Institutes of Health."

Winston tried to glare at his interrogator, but Max had his back turned.

"You had me followed?"

"Yes."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but there is nothing very sinister in that. I was visiting a couple of former co-workers.

I used to work there."

"Interesting," Max replied.

"Then how come there is no mention of it in your resume?" Max reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his hand, reached into his front pants pocket, withdrew again.

"Damn, I had it here someplace."

"Lieutenant..."

"Here it is." Max took out the crumbled piece of paper and unfolded it with quick fingers.

"Now this resume covers your work history from your undergraduate studies to the present day.

When exactly did you work for the NIH?"

Again the silence. Then: "I have a friend who works for the NIH, okay?

Is that such a crime? I didn't want to say anything because I knew he would jump "

"Now there are two ways we can play it," Max said, ignoring Winston's shifting explanations.

"One, you can tell me what I want to know. Two, you can continue your little charade and I can arrest you."

"On what charge?"

"Murder in the first degree. Breaking and entering. Assault."

"You're out of your cotton-pickin' mind. Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

"Riccardo Martino."

"Who?" Max smiled.

"The patient who was murdered in the clinic."

"I don't know the name of any patients. Harv must have told you that."

"Riccardo Martino was mentioned in the story on Newsflash a few nights back."

"I don't recall the name," Winston said with a dismissing wave of his hand.

"And anyway, you got nothing on me."

Max leaned forward. O'Connor's expression was relaxed, but Max had seen the familiar scared shadow cross his face briefly.

"Sure about that, Winston?"

"Whadda ya mean?"

"We have a witness who will swear under oath you were in the hospital at the time of Martino's death, even though you claimed to be home."

"Get lost."

"The same witness saw you hit Dr. Riker over the head. We also know you were in the lab breaking into Dr. Riker's files."

"You're bluffing," he said.

True, Max thought, but now he noticed that O'Connor's voice was not as confident as it had been. Max decided to give him another little push.

"And one other thing." Max turned his head so that his back was to Winston.

"Drop the southern drawl. It's insulting."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Max turned around, his eyes toward the floor, pencil between his teeth.

Something close to a smile passed his lips.

"No one who has lived in New York for the past twenty years has a southern accent that thick. You sound like somebody on Heehaw."

Again, silence.

"We know you work for the NIH," Max continued.

"We assume you're CIA-trained. And we know what you've been up to."

"You don't know shit." The southern accent was weaker now, less pronounced. Winston's Adam's apple bopped up and down continuously as he swallowed.

Max took the pencil out of his mouth and examined it.

"I know I have the authority to drag your ass down to headquarters, book you for murder, and seal you in a cage. If you think your CIA or your NIH buddies are going to rescue you, you are very much mistaken. This case is too hot. They'll let you rot before admitting you're one of them."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Winston said, but there was now a clear waver in his voice.

"Then just humor me by listening to your other option," Max continued.

"You might find it interesting." "I told you I don't know "

"Option 2: you can tell me what you know," Max interrupted.

"In return, I will promise to keep our conversation confidential it'll just be between you and me. Washington will never know anything about it. Think about it. The choice is yours." There was a stony silence which Max by taking out his handcuffs and a plastic card from which he read: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you "

"Hold on a minute."

Max looked up from his card.

"Something you wanted to say?"

Winston rubbed his face.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't. But if you don't cooperate, I'll pin Martino's murder on you. That's a promise."

For a brief moment Max and Winston locked eyes. It was Winston who looked away.

"What do you want to know?"

"Who are you working for?"

"All confidential, right?"

"Right. Who are you working for?"

Winston took a deep breath and released it.

"I don't know.

I'm a CIA operative, but I report to the Department of Health and Human Services."

"To whom?"

Winston shook his head.

"No names."

"Raymond Markey?" "I said, no names."

"What is your function?"

"Gathering information on the clinic."

"What kind of information?"

"Any and all."

"And how do you go about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you gather your information?"

Winston shrugged.

"Simple. I snoop around. I break into the confidential files.

Whatever it takes."

"Is that what you were doing the night Harvey stumbled across you?" Winston paused. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"You gotta light?"

Max shook his head.

"I don't smoke. It's bad for you."

"Yeah, sure, and chewing pencils is healthy, right?"

"Were you in the clinic the night Martino was killed?"

"I'd rather not answer that."

"Then I'll take that as a yes."

Winston O'Connor found a set of matches near a Bunsen burner. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as though the cigarette were an oxygen mask and he was caught in a fire.

"Take it anyway you want, Lieutenant. But I did not kill anyone."

"Why did the NIH want all of this information?"

"I don't like to theorize, Lieutenant."

"Try."

Another deep puff.

"I assumed that the NIH wanted to check up on the clinic's progress independently. They got a big investment here, and Harv and Bruce can be pretty damn secretive." Max thought for a moment.

"Okay, tell me this: why did you report to Washington in person three days ago?"

"My contact was worried."

"About what?"

"He didn't like the positive media reports about the clinic."

"Why not?"

Winston shrugged.

"He wanted to know what Harvey was up to what he was going to do next."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth. I can break into files and I can snoop around, but I cannot read another man's mind. I told them I had no idea."

"What has the NIH said to you about Michael Silverman's kidnapping?"

"Not a thing. I haven't spoken to them since the day I flew into Washington."

"Has your contact ever mentioned the Gay Slasher?"

"Never."

"Do you think your employers are behind it?"

Winston smiled, the cigarette dangling from his lip.

"How fuckin' crazy do you think I am, Lieutenant?"

Shrug.

"How often did you break into the clinic's confidential files?"

"About once a week, I guess."

"During the daytime or the night?"

"Night usually. When I thought no one would be around."

Max nodded, pacing.

"Except you didn't know Michael was on the third floor, did you, Winston?"

"Huh?"

Max walked toward him.

"A few hours before Martino was murdered, a new patient had been secretly whisked into the room down the hall Michael Silverman.

Naturally, you wanted to find out who he was. So you broke into Harvey's private files that night."

"Now hold on a minute." "But you screwed up," Max continued.

"Dr. Riker was on the floor at the time. He heard you in the lab. So you knocked Harvey out."

"Slow down a second."

"Then you went downstairs, killed Martino "

"I didn't kill anybody!" he interrupted.

"Okay, I admit it. I was in the lab that night. I broke into the file cabinet and saw Silverman's name. I knew the NIH boys would be interested in him so I tried to find out more. That's when Harv interrupted me.

I guess I panicked a little. My instructions were not to get caught under any circumstances. So when Harv came in the lab, I hit him in the back of the neck. But I didn't kill Martino, I swear it."

"You're a martial arts expert." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah, so?"

"And the blow to Sara's neck was delivered by a martial arts expert."

"Whoa, back up a second, Lieutenant. I didn't touch Sara Lowell. For that matter, I never touched her husband or Janice or that Martino guy.

Christ, I felt awful when I heard about Janice.

She was a fine woman." Winston lowered his head into his hands.

"I never hurt anybody, I swear. I was just trying to gather information for a branch of the government that has every right to know what was going on in here. There is nothing illegal in that."

"What else do you know?"

"Nothing. I swear."

Max stopped his pacing and restarted his nodding. "You better not be holding out on me. Or else."

He had tried to sound tough, but it came out too whiny.

Damn.

"Tuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm commnngggg!"

Michael tried to ignore the continuous cries of the prostitute in the next room and consider his options.

One, he could try to break the chain manacled to his ankle.

The problem lay in the fact that the steel was rather secure; more to the point, it would not budge.

He could yell out the window for help. But suppose George or his accomplices heard him?

Three... There was no three. He stood and tested how far the chain would allow him to roam. He could get close to the window but not to the door.

George probably did that on purpose. The door was a scrawny-looking thing with rotted wood and a lock that a strong gust of wind could break in two.

He sat back down, his nose throbbing painfully. Downstairs, the topless bar was in full swing now. The music was considerably louder than earlier, the vibrations from the deep bass potent enough to reach inside Michael's chest. Prostitutes and their clients walked about freely in the hallway. Michael heard doors shut on both sides of his room. Then a woman yelling:

"Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm cominnngggg!"

The woman screamed into her fake orgasm. The man grunted into his real one.

The sessions never lasted more than a couple of minutes.

Then it would all start again. The prostitute would come upstairs with a new John. There would be the same giggling. The same fake orgasm.

The same

"Fuck me" words shouted at the same rehearsed pitch. Over and over. Performance after performance.

The woman's high-pitched squeals of delight were incessant, monotonous, passionless, as though Michael were listening to a robot or an actress who had learned her lines too well.

Okay, let's think this through. Harvey tells me Raymond Markey wants to use me as the clinic's guinea pig. Next thing I knew, I'm in the Orient with a psychopath. So what can we conclude from all this.

Just one thing:

I have to get the hell out of here.

Cramps ripped through his stomach. The cause, he knew, could be his hepatitis or withdrawal from the addictive SRI or... or something new.

Something AIDS-related.

"Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it..."

The very air had mingled with the sleazy surroundings, giving everything around him a dense and seedy feel. Breathing nauseated him.

The women's cries were maddening in their repetition, hour after hour, endless. He put his hands to his ears and tried to block them out, but the sounds were right outside his door:

"Come on, Frankie," a whore purred with a thick Asian accent.

"Right behind you, sweetheart. Damn, I spilled my drink."

"This way, Frankie. Tawnee going to show you good time, you see."

"Might just be the other way around, honey," the man, an American, slurred. He was clearly inebriated.

"I take care of your big cock. You see."

"Bet your ass you will." The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a pinball.

"You like that, Frankie?"

"Yeah, that's wonderful."

"You want to go in room now, Frankie?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

"Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?"

"Let's talk about it in the room."

Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.

"No, Frankie, this way," the whore said.

The door shook.p"

"Damn door is stuck."

"Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter."

"Fuck the sign, sweetheart.

"I'll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls."

"No, Frankie, wrong room." Her warnings were more urgent now, but Frankie did not pay heed.

"That's boss man's room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here.

Frankie!"

Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gave way. Michael's eyes widened as the door began to swing open.

"No, Frankie, wrong room." The whore quickly reached through the portal. She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of the door, and began to swing it closed.

For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained with fear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael's heart sank as the door closed.

"Come on, Frankie," the whore tried to enthuse.

"We go have fun. You like too much."

"I hope so, sweetheart. Let's party!"

Then Michael heard another door open and close.

Frankie's penis remained flaccid.

"What's the matter, Frankie?" Tawnee asked.

"You no like me?"

Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls and doing a yeoman's job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super strange.

Frankie's sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip-side of a softy: premature eruption of of' Mount Vesuvius. Not being able to achieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.

Super strange.

It wasn't the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a battalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty.

But his

"Throbbing Warhead" had never had any trouble engaging in the past. The Big Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger by now, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn't the chicks fault either.

She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a kitten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw the cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel getting sucked off by a working pro was one of his favorite things.

But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad.

Check that. He was feeling un horny And why?

Because he was a basketball fan.

"Lie down, Frankie. Relax."

He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the International Herald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michael Silverman. Super strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic on the east coast of the USA.

So then why the hell was Silverman chained to the floor of a Thai whorehouse?

Simple, Frankie. You're drunk. Check that: you're shit-faced, you thick-dicked macho hunk. You imagined the whole thing. How long was the door open, Super Stud, two seconds? You barely saw the guy.

Good point, except for one thing. Frankie never hallucinated.

Drinking loosened him up. Drinking made him feel good.

Drinking made him pass out and pee in his pants. Drinking did not, however, cause him to imagine kidnap victims chained to a floor. He had to tell the police, and he had to tell them right away. Could be a reward in it for him.

"Whoa, honey, slow down a second," he said.

The whore lifted her head.

"Something to please you, Frankie?"

He stood and grabbed his pants. He zipped slowly, making sure he kept his Trouser Snake from running wild and getting caught in the metal teeth.

"Don't take it personal, sweetheart, but I gotta go. Maybe next time."

"But, Frankie-"

"Here's fifty bucks. I'll tell boss man you were great.

Don't worry."

He winked and then headed out the door.

Tawnee shrugged and picked up the fifty dollar bill. Poor man, she thought. It was sort of sad. She had seen more than her share of penises in her day, but the thing in that guy's pants looked like a baby's pinkie.

So sad.

Sara arrived at the family estate a few minutes before eight.

Cassandra met her at the front door.

"Hi," Sara said.

"Hi."

That was the extent of their conversation.

They sat on either side of the den and waited in silence. Their eyes never met. They seemed to be avoiding each other, like teenagers left alone on a first date, but above all they looked weary.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, the only noise in the still surroundings. Sara began to tap her leg and sing an old classic from Thin Lizzy, but the words died away quickly.

"Sara?"

"Yes."

"I hope Michael is okay."

Sara nodded, a thin smile on her lips.

"He is."

They heard the familiar sound of the Mercedes diesel engine.

Their father was home. With great effort Sara made her way to her feet. Cassandra did likewise. As they headed down the corridor, past portraits of ancestors and the fine wooden paneling, John Lowell entered.

John saw his two daughters immediately and stopped. He did not call out to them or try to back away. He just stood there for a moment, staring, a defeated look on his face.

Cassandra stepped forward.

"I told Sara. I'm sorry " John interrupted his daughter with a raised hand.

"You did the right thing," he said.

"what's going on, Dad?" Sara asked.

"Perhaps we can explain."

"We?" Cassandra repeated.

John lowered his head and stepped aside. From behind him Senator Stephen Jenkins entered the room. His appearance had changed radically since the Cancer Center gala two weeks ago.

Bradley's father looked drawn. His eyes were unfocused and bewildered.

The senator tried to smile.

"Hello, ladies."

The sisters shared a confused glance.

"Dad," Sara began, "I don't understand what's going on."

"I know you don't, honey," John said gently.

"Maybe we can explain it to you in the study."

Harvey's eyes were red. He had not been home in five days, and he had not seen Cassandra since their brief tryst in his office the day Michael had been kidnapped. His sleep came in infrequent periods of semiconsciousness at his desk, more like airplane dozing than genuine REM sleep. For several minutes at a time he had managed to push Michael from his mind and focus on work. But the minutes never lasted very long before his attention reverted back to Michael. Still, he felt keyed up by new developments. The changes in the SRI formula enhancements, really were going to achieve the desired effect, he was sure of it. He just had to buckle down a little more, push himself a little more.

As anyone who knew or worked with him could attest, motivation had never been a problem for Harvey. More than anyone, he understood the ramifications of his work. That knowledge spurred him on when others almost all others would quit.

The intercom buzzed.

"Dr. Riker?"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Riker called again. She wanted me to remind you to call her as soon as possible. She said it was urgent." Harvey sighed. Urgent. Yeah, right. To be fair, Jennifer probably wanted to know how Sara was doing and if they had learned anything knew about Michael. He really didn't have the time to go into all that with her. Besides, thinking about her still distracted him, and the last thing he needed was a distraction.

"Okay, thanks, I'll get back to her."

"Would you like me to place the call for you?"

Harvey thought for a moment and decided he might as well get it over with before Jen became hostile.

"That would be fine, thanks."

"I'll connect you."

A few moments later Harvey heard the phone ringing.