The ringing of the telephone jerked George out of his sleep. He awoke, as he always did, quickly, alert. He picked up the receiver before the second ring.

"Hello."

"Did you read this morning's paper?"

George sat up and checked his watch. The voice on the other end sounded different this time still agitated and strained, but now there was something else. More fear. Maybe even anger.

"No," George replied.

"Should I have?"

"According to the Herald, the Gay Slasher tortured and castrated Scott Trian before killing him."

"You sound upset."

"They were supposed to die quickly, damn it! I never said anything about torture or mutilation."

"If you're unhappy with my work " "Unhappy? You're a lunatic. I thought I was dealing with a professional, but you're a goddamn psychopath."

"I was following your orders," George said.

"The mutilation just speeds up the end result. It makes sense financially."

There was stunned silence on the other end.

George continued, "I assume you also read that everything went smoothly with Jenkins' murder. I dumped the body just where you wanted it."

" "Did... did you disfigure him?"

"He died from the first stab wound. The same with Whitherson."

"You're sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Then just promise me you won't hurt any of the others." George almost smiled.

"I am merely the executioner, the one who pulls the switch or drops the gas pellet. But you... you are the judge and jury. You are the one who ordered their deaths." "No," the voice said slowly, "I am not."

Again there was silence. Then the voice said, "Promise me, George.

Promise me that no others will be needlessly tortured."

George paused.

"Okay. But I assure you it was for the best."

There was a long release of breath and then the voice said, "The situation is different now. You'll have to be more careful.

The police are going to start watching."

"Watching what?" George asked.

"The police force can't guard every faggot in Manhattan... unless there's something else."

"Something else? I don't understand." "I think you do," George said.

"Listen, I don't care who you are. I don't care why you want these people killed. It's not my concern. But I need to know what the police are thinking. I need to know what the real connection is between the victims so that I can prepare properly. Otherwise, mistakes can be made."

Silence.

"Can I assume," George continued, "that these men have more in common than being gay?"

"They're all patients at an AIDS clinic," the voice said.

"So that explains why you told me to wear the mask and gloves."

"Yes."

"And Dr. Grey worked at this clinic?"

"Yes."

"So let me get this straight: Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were all AIDS patients at a clinic operated by Bruce Grey?"

"Yes."

"And the police know this?"

"They know most of it. The rest they'll figure out."

"So they may look into Grey's suicide again."

"They might." George thought for a moment.

"I have an idea, but it'll cost you."

"I'm listening."

"I'll kill a couple of random faggots "

"No!"

"Hear me out. I kill a couple of faggots who don't have AIDS or aren't being treated at this clinic. It'll throw the cops off the track. Make it look even more like the work of a psychotic gay hater

"No!"

"Then I'll change the way I kill the next few.

"I'll make it look like an accident or better yet, a suicide. If these guys have AIDS and are on death row anyway, a suicide might not be looked into too closely."

"The police will be looking for something like that. You'll never get away with it."

"Worth a try."

"No. I want you to use the same methods unless I say otherwise."

George shrugged.

"Your money."

"And remember the only people who are to be put to death are the ones I say." "Not put to death," George said.

"Excuse me?"

"They're not being 'put to death," George continued.

"They're being murdered." "Do you eat here every day?" Sara asked.

"No," Eric Blake replied. They both slid their trays along the hospital cafeteria girders. The room was packed with doctors, nurses, lab technicians everyone dressed in white coats or blue hospital scrubs with the words

"Property of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center Removal From Premises Prohibited" emblazoned across the chest. Everyone looked exhausted, the men unshaven, the women baggy-eyed. Working 40-hour shifts can do that to a person.

Sara looked down at the hospital pizza and frowned.

"Eric?"

"Yes?"

"Is mozzarella cheese supposed to be green?"

"It's one of the better items on the menu."

"I think I'll pass."

"I can order in Chinese, if you'd like."

She shook her head.

"Michael would kill me. He hasn't eaten Chinese in two days and he's already suffering withdrawal pains."

"He always did love Chinese food."

They found a table toward the back where the room was relatively quiet.

"How's Michael feeling?" Eric asked.

"I haven't had a chance to check in on him today."

"About the same," Sara replied.

"He's taking a nap right now.

I don't know, Eric... he just doesn't look right to me."

"He'll be fine." Eric carefully opened his container of milk.

While everyone around them drank directly from the carton, Eric poured the milk into a glass and then lifted it to his lips.

"It's kind of spooky seeing Michael here though. Like a bad deja vu."

"What do you mean?"

"It reminds me of when we were kids," he said.

"Of when Michael's stepfather beat him."

Sara winced.

"He doesn't talk about it much."

"I know. I don't blame him. It was a bad time, Sara, best forgotten."

She nodded slowly, picturing Michael as a helpless child in a hospital bed. A flush of anguish and anger rose in her. Her mind traveled back five years to the first time she had learned about Michael's past, a few hours before she met him for the first time.

"I want you to interview Michael Silverman," Larry Simmons, managing editor of the New York Herald, told her.

"The basketball player?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Why? Basketball is hardly my area of expertise."

"I don't want a story about basketball. I want a story about Michael Silverman, the man. Look, the NBA finals are on now and everyone is applauding Silverman's skill on the court. But where did he come from? What made this Jewish kid from New Jersey become such a fantastic athlete?"

"Hasn't this story been done before?"

"Others have tried. Others have even dug up some of Silverman's tragic past."

"Tragic past?"

"It's all in the fik. But I don't want you to look at it right away.

I want you to start by going directly to Silverman."

"So why hasn't the story been done before?"

"Because Silverman won't talk to the press about his personal life.

Ask him about a jump shot or a quick move to the basket and he'll be as poetic as Proust. But ask him about his pre-college years and forget it."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Get him to talk. Find out what he's all about. Be honest and open with him. If that doesn't work, be sneaky."

She laughed.

"And if all else fails, I'll hit him over the head with my cane."

"Now you're talking."

A half hour later she called Michael's apartment in the city.

"Mr. Silverman?"

"Yes."

"My name is Sara Lowell. I'm a reporter for the New York Herald." "Oh yes," Michael said, "I've read some of your work, Miss. Lowell.

I liked the expose you did on the housing commissioner last month.

Powerful stuff."

"Thank you."

"Now what can I do for you?"

Sara was somewhat taken aback. She had been prepared for an ogre, a man more than a little wary and suspicious of the press. But this man was very polite. Gracious even.

"I'd like very much to do an interview with you at your convenience."

"I see. Have you become a sportswriter, Miss. Lowell?"

"Not really."

"Then what sort of story do you plan on doing?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just a general piece on Michael Silverman off the court. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know you a little better."

"Sounds like pretty dull stuff." "I don't think so," Sara said.

"From what I hear, you're a fairly interesting person."

"So," Michael continued, "all you want to do is a light piece on how I like to go to the theater, collect rabbits, garden in my underwear, stuff like that?"

"Sort of."

"I assume, Miss. Lowell, that you already know that I do not grant interviews on my personal life."

"I've heard something to that effect, yes."

"And you won't ask any personal questions? Nothing about my love life or my childhood?"

"You can always say, "No comment."

" Michael chuckled.

"You forget, Miss. Lowell, I read your column.

You don't do fluff. You probe and penetrate and usually go for the kill."

"Mr. Silverman, this article is nothing like " "Explain something to me," he.

"Why can't you reporters understand that my personal life is none of anyone's business?

Why can't you just report what happens on the basketball court and leave me alone?"

"The public wants to know more."

"Frankly speaking, I don't really give a shit what the public wants.

How come I never see a reporter's life story smeared across the headlines?

How come I never see a story on how you lost your virginity, Miss. Lowell, or about that wild college weekend where you had too much to drink?"

"No one wants to read about me, Mr. Silverman."

"Bullshit. No one wants to read about me either unless I'm scoring baskets."

"Not true."

"Listen, I'm not in the mood to be this week's tabloid story, okay?

Just leave me alone. And why do you have to play all the devious head games with me? Why couldn't have you been honest enough to admit what you were really after?"

She hesitated before answering.

"Because you would have probably hung up on me."

"Very prophetic of you. Good-bye, Miss. Lowell."

She heard him slam down the receiver.

"Eat shit, Mr. Silverman."

So much for his being a nice, easy-going fellow. She stood and headed for the door.

"Where you going?" Larry Simmons called to her.

"To Silverman's apartment."

"He agreed to the interview?"

"No. He hung up on me."

"So?"

"So sneaky didn't work. Maybe bouncing my cane off his skull will prove more persuasive." "Before you go," Larry said, "I think you should read his file after all." He handed her a manila envelope.

The file was short but potent. One page to be exact. Sara skimmed the sheet.

"I don't believe this," she muttered.

"I thought you might find it intriguing."

She read out loud.

"Born Beth Israel Hospital, Newark, New Jersey.

His father, Samuel Silverman, died in a car crash when he was five.

Mother, Estelle Silverman, remarried a year later to a Martin Johnson.

Between the ages of six and nine Michael had eight overnight hospital stays. His injuries were rumored to have been the result of physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather and included several broken bones and three concussions. When Michael was ten, his mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the forehead. Michael found her body.

He has no brothers, no sisters. Stepfather abandoned him after the suicide. Only living relative was paternal grandmother, Sadie Silverman, who raised Michael until her death when he turned nineteen."

She looked up.

"Jesus, Larry, you want me to go after this guy?"

"None of it has really been printed before because the details are too sketchy. Keep reading."

Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading.

"Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano." She paused.

"The guy's a pianist?"

Lorry nodded.

"That part is fairly well known."

"Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row... reputation of being a bit of a ladies' man "

"That's the understatement of the millennium," Larry interjected.

"The man changes women like some men change socks." He smiled.

"Hope you don't get sucked in."

"Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn't sound like my type."

"No one is your type," Larry replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said, "that you never date."

"I've got too much work to do."

"Excuses."

"And no one interests me right now, okay."

"Listen, Sara, I'm sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years."

"So?"

"So you're going to have to find someone else. I'm taken." She smiled.

"Damn. You found me out."

"And don't be so quick to judge Silverman," he added.

"Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?"

She put the file on her desk.

"This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism," Sara said.

He shrugged.

"Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous. well, you'd have to go back to Sandy Koufax."

"What's your point, Larry?"

"It's a great human interest story. A man who overcame incredible adversity to become one of the world's top basketball players. And he'd be a perfect role model for abused kids."

"Suppose he doesn't want to be a role model."

"Tough. He's news, Sara, big news. So the story is a bit sensational so what? You're a reporter and this is a damn good story."

"All right, all right. I get the picture. I'm on my way over there now."

"Sara?"

She looked up, startled.

"I'm sorry, Eric."

"Don't apologize. I know you've got a lot on your mind right now, but remember this all Michael's problems are in the past.

You two are going to have a baby together, and Michael has never been happier in his life."

Sara tried to smile, but it never reached more than the corners of her mouth. She sensed that Michael's past woes were not finished with him yet, that they were still potent enough to reach into the present and hurt him... "Mind if I join you two?" "Hello, Max," Sara said.

"Max, you know Eric Blake, don't you?" "I believe we've met," Bernstein said.

"How are you, doctor?"

"Very well, thank you," Eric replied as the beeper on his belt went off.

"If you two will excuse me, I have to go." "Emergency?" Max asked.

"No. Just time for rounds."

Max scratched his face hard, like he had fleas.

"Can I ask you a quick question before you go?"

Eric stopped.

"Of course."

"When was the last time you saw Dr. Grey alive?"

Eric thought a moment, "The day he left for Cancun."

"Did he look the same to you?"

"The same? I don't understand."

"I mean, was his hair still dark and did he still have a beard?"

"Yes," Eric said without hesitation.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Thanks, Eric."

"Anytime, Lieutenant. I'll see you later, Sara."

"Bye, Eric."

Eric Blake neatly piled the garbage on his tray before leaving.

When he brought his tray to the window, he was the only one who took the time to sort his silverware.

Sara turned to Max.

"I called you three times today."

"Sorry. Its been a busy day."

"Are you getting much flak about the castration story in the news?"

Max's whole body seemed to shrug.

"Nothing I can't handle with a grenade launcher and tear gas."

"I can imagine. Okay, so what have you learned?"

He leaned forward, his right elbow on the table, his left arm thrown behind the back of the chair.

"First of all, Bruce Grey had blond hair and no beard when he allegedly jumped out the window. He also was wearing cosmetic contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. I checked with several of his friends, even the limousine driver who dropped him off at the airport. Bruce definitely had dark hair and the beard when he left New York."

Sara nodded.

"As you would say, "Interesting."

" "To say the least. But there's more." He quickly told her about the rest of his conversation with Hector Rodriquez at the Days Inn. Sara sat stunned, quietly listening.

"Then Grey didn't commit suicide," she said when Max finished.

"He was murdered, Sara. I'm sure of it."

"And someone wanted to make it look like a suicide," she said.

"Seems so," Max replied.

"Hmmm. Bruce's murder has to be connected to the stabbings, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"So why did the killer want to make Bruce's death look like a suicide while doing nothing to hide the fact that the other three were murdered?"

"I don't know," Max said. He stood up, circled the table for 10 apparent reason, and sat back down.

"Max."

"What?"

"You're playing with your hair again."

Bernstein looked up at his right hand. Strands of hair were apped around his middle finger as though it were a curler.

untangled his finger and put his hands on the table.

"Saves 3n a perm," he explained with a smile.

"So what else did you learn?"

He leaned forward.

"This morning I went through the personal possessions found in Grey's hotel room. Everything was there wallet, ID, cash, credit cards, briefcase, change of clothe seven passport."

"So?"

"There was no stamp for Mexico on the passport."

"No mystery there. You don't need to use your passport to go into Mexico. Just proof of citizenship."

"Then why did he bring it with him?"

She shrugged.

"What else did you find in the passport?"

"It's what I didn't find," he said.

"You know those pages where the customs officials stamp the country you're visiting?"

"Yes."

"One of those pages had been neatly clipped out of Grey's passport. You would never notice unless you looked at it closely."

Sara looked up at the ceiling.

"So the killer doesn't want anyone to see what was on that page. Maybe Bruce never went to Mexico. Maybe he went someplace else and the killer doesn't want us to know where."

"My thinking exactly. So I called the Oasis Hotel down in Cancun."

"Did he check in?"

"Yes."

She waited for him to continue but he just sat there, smiling.

"Max, stop playing games with me. What happened?"

"I called your old contact at customs and immigration."

"Don Scharf?"

"Right. I know I should have asked you first, but time was of the essence. Anyway, he remembered me from that case we did a few years back where that rapist fled to Puerto Rico."

"What did you find out?"

"Well, it took a while but we finally traced down where Bruce went."

"And?"

"And Bruce did go down to Cancun first. But he flew out of Mexico the very next day."

"So where did he go?" Max smiled.

"Bangkok."

"There's no question about it, Eric," Winston CXConnor, chief lab technician at the Sidney Pavilion, said with his Alabama twang.

O'Connor had been working for the clinic since its inception and, in fact, had not lived in the South since entering Columbia University eighteen years ago. Still, the years had not subdued Winston's deep Southern accent.

"Take another look at the Western blot. The band pattern is unmistakable."

Eric swallowed and reached out his hand. The wall clock, one of those noisy kinds that schools use, read 5:10 a.m. When was the last time he had left the clinic? Eric did a little quick math.

Forty hours ago. He needed sleep something terrible, but all of a sudden he felt wide awake.

He glanced down at the photograph and remained silent for a moment.

Eric knew what the readings meant, but he kept staring at them anyway, as though he could make the bands on the photograph slide lower or higher by just concentrating on them.

"Let me take a look at the ELISA test."

Winston sighed.

"We've already looked at it twice."

"I want to look at it again. You sure you used the right sample?"

Winston looked at him strangely.

"Are you kidding?"

"I want to make sure."

"You were standing here when I did it." Winston said.

"I don't make mistakes on these kinds of things. Neither do you."

Eric lowered his head.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Winston crossed the room and opened a door that looked like it belonged on a refrigerator. His hand reached in and extracted a plate.

"Here. And here's the digital read-out of the optical density."

"Get me the T cell study too."

"Again?"

Eric nodded.

"Here," Winston said a moment later.

"What the hell you looking for, Eric?"

Eric did not respond. He examined all the tests and studies at least a dozen more times. Somewhere in the background he could hear Winston sigh and curse under his breath every time Eric asked to look at the same thing again.

"For crying out loud," Winston half-snapped, "how many times are you going to view this stuff? There's no mistake here.

Shoot, we've never made a mistake on this test ever."

"It can't be," Eric muttered.

"It just can't be."

"We've had hundreds of positive HIV tests come through here," Winston continued.

"Why all the double-checking on this one? I've run the ELISA and the Western on this guy twice now.

There's no question about the results."

Eric moved to a chair as though stunned by a blow to the head. He slowly picked up the phone and dialed.

"Who you calling?" Winston asked.

His voice came from far away.

"Harvey."

"I'll put this stuff away then."

"No," Eric said.

"Harvey will want to look at it too."

"But both of us have already " "He won't believe us," Eric said.

"He'll have to see this one for himself."

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