Miracle Cure Read online

  Praise for the novels of

  MICHAEL PALMER

  CRITICAL JUDGMENT

  In the tiny town of Patience, California, Dr. Abby Dolan has seen a frightening syndrome among her emergency room patients. It begins with baffling, seemingly minor symptoms, but builds relentlessly until it plunges its victims into insane, murderous rages. Abby searches for clues to this deadly mystery, but she may not find the answer until it’s too late to save her patients, her career … her life.

  “Wrenchingly scary … Palmer is reaching the top of a demanding craft.”

  Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A novel that manages to scare the socks off the reader while still providing made-for-Hollywood entertainment.” —The Globe and Mail, Toronto

  SILENT TREATMENT

  When Dr. Harry Corbett’s wife Evie dies suddenly the night before her scheduled surgery, the police suspect homicide—and Harry is their sole suspect. But before Harry can uncover what secrets led to Evie’s death, the murderer strikes again. And this time it’s clear to Harry that the killer stalking this busy urban hospital can only be a doctor.

  “Guaranteed to terrify anyone who … has reason to step inside the doors of a hospital.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Palmer owes this reviewer about three hours of sleep spent reading this can’t-put-it-downer. You are cautioned:… Don’t start this one at 10 at night.”

  —The Washington Times

  FLASHBACK

  Eight-year-old Toby Nelms is losing his will to live. Months after surgery, Toby wakes up screaming, reliving every moment of his operation—all the trauma, all the pain. Dr. Zack Iverson is determined to find out why—because the next victim may be wheeling into surgery right now.

  “The most gripping medical thriller I’ve read in many years.” —David Morell

  EXTREME MEASURES

  Talented and ambitious, Dr. Eric Najarian has been chosen to join a clandestine elite of medical professionals who think he has what it takes—if he will play by their rules. Should he refuse to take part in their sinister plan, he will be their next victim.

  “Spellbinding … a chillingly sinister novel made all the more frightening by [Palmer’s] medical authority,”

  —The Denver Post

  “Packs a substantial wallop.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Fast-paced … a bedrock of authentic medical detail.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  NATURAL CAUSES

  A young doctor’s prescription for prenatal vitamins is the only factor linking three emergencies in childbirth, two of them fatal. As Dr. Sarah Baldwin races to clear her name and find the real cause of death, it becomes horrifyingly clear that someone will do anything—even murder—to hide the devastating secret.

  “Reinvents the medical thriller.” —Library Journal

  “Timely … Entertaining. A page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  SIDE EFFECTS

  Dr. Kate Bennett has it all: A loving husband, a great hospital to work in, a rosy future. Then her best friend falls ill, victim to an unknown disease that has already killed two women. Racing desperately to save her friend, Kate uncovers a terrifying medical secret that threatens her sanity and even her life—and whose roots lie in one of the greatest evils in the history of mankind.

  “Has everything—a terrifying plot … breakneck pace … vividly drawn characters.”

  —John Saul

  THE SISTERHOOD

  Inside Boston Doctors Hospital, patients are dying: surviving surgery only to perish inexplicably, horribly, in the dark, hollow silence of the night. A tough, bright doctor and a dedicated nurse will risk their careers—and their very lives—to unmask the terrifying mystery that threatens us all.

  “Terrific … A compelling suspense tale.”

  —Clive Cussler

  “A suspenseful page-turner … jolts and entertains the reader.” —Mary Higgins Clark

  Michael Palmer has been a practicing physician for more than twenty years, most recently as an emergency room doctor and a specialist in the treatment of alcoholism and chemical dependency.

  ALSO BY MICHAEL PALMER

  FROM BANTAM BOOKS

  THE SISTERHOOD

  SIDE EFFECTS

  FLASHBACK

  EXTREME MEASURES

  NATURAL CAUSES

  SILENT TREATMENT

  CRITICAL JUDGMENT

  THE PATIENT

  FATAL

  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  MIRACLE CURE

  A Bantam Book

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Michael Palmer.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-4884.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78124-6

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

  v3.1

  TO JUDITH PALMER GLANTZ

  FOR YOUR TALENT AS A MOTHER

  AND YOUR GRACE AS AN EX

  AND

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY FATHER

  WE MISS YOU, POP

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My name is on the cover of this book but it was hardly written in a vacuum. My deepest gratitude goes once again to my tireless editor, Beverly Lewis, assistant editor Christine Brooks, and my incomparable agents, Jane Rotrosen Berkey, Don Cleary, and Stephanie Tade.

  In addition, thank you—

  Dr. Anthony Zietman for the evening at the King’s Rook;

  Drs. Michael Fifer and Igor Palacios and the gang at the MGH cath lab for your skill and hospitality;

  Dr. Jerry Faich for the inside stuff;

  Dr. George Allman for sharing knowledge and experience;

  Dr. Michael Czorniak for the articles;

  Dr. Bob Smith and Bill Wilson for the tool kit;

  Beverly Tricco, Sam Dworkis, and Mimi Santini-Ritt for the readings;

  Matt, Bekica, Daniel, and Luke for the inspiration and the help in solving problems;

  And special thanks to Dr. Cary Akins, Renaissance man and mender of broken hearts.

  The people named above have contributed mightily to the color and flavor of this novel. Any errors or other misrepresentations of fact are purely mine.

  M.S.P.

  THERE ARE THREE KINDS OF UNTRUTHS; LIES, DAMN LIES, AND STATISTICS.

  — ATTRIBUTED TO BENJAMIN DISRAELI BY MARK TWAIN

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One - Two Years Later

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven


  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue One - One Week Later

  Epilogue Two - One Month Later

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  IT TOOK EVERY BIT OF HER STRENGTH, BUT SYLVIA Vitorelli managed to force a third pillow under her back. She was nearly upright in bed now. Still she felt queasy and hungry for more air. It was the dampness and the mold, she told herself. If she were in her apartment in Boston rather than her son’s farmhouse in rural upstate New York, this would not be happening. Not that her breathing had been all that great in Boston, either. For months her ankles had been badly puffed and her fingers swollen. And now, over the past few weeks, she had been experiencing increasing trouble catching her breath, especially when she lay down.

  Sylvia cursed softly. She should never have agreed to make the trip to Fulbrook. She should have told Ricky that she just wasn’t up to it. But she had really wanted to go. The ghost of her husband, Angelo, had made living in their apartment a constant sadness. And the dust and noise surrounding construction of Boston’s central-artery tunnel had made living in their part of the North End unpleasant. Besides, her daughter-in-law, who had always acted as if her visits were an inconvenience, had actually made the call inviting her to spend almost two weeks away from the city. The kids ask for you all the time, Mama, she had said. And autumn is so beautiful up here.

  Sylvia checked the time. Ricky, Stacey, and the children would be at church for another half hour or so and then were going to stop by to see some friends. She had begged off going with them, citing a headache. The truth was, she didn’t feel as if she could even get dressed. She should try to get up, maybe make something to eat, watch Mass on TV, but when she tried to move, she suddenly was seized by a violent, racking spasm of coughing, accompanied by a horrible liquid sound in her chest.

  For the first time, she began to panic. The dreadful gurgling in her lungs persisted. Now she was gasping for breath. Sweat began to pour off her forehead, stinging her eyes. Her purse was right next to her on the bedside table. She fumbled through it for her pills with no clear idea of what she would do once she found them. Her fingers, which lately had remained somewhat swollen most of the time, were now stiff, obscene sausages, bluish and mottled.

  The air in the musty room seemed heavy and thick. An extra fluid diuretic pill might help. Maybe one of the nitroglycerins, too. Desperately, she emptied her purse out onto the bed. Alongside several vials of pills was an appointment card from the clinic at Boston Heart Institute. Drops of perspiration fell from her face onto the ink. Her next appointment was a week from tomorrow. In order to fly to Ricky’s for the eleven days, she had had to skip a Vasclear treatment—the first one she had missed in almost a year. But the missed medication couldn’t possibly be the reason she was having so much trouble breathing now. She was down to only one treatment every two weeks, and was due to drop to one a month before much longer. Besides, her cardiologist had told her when she called that it was perfectly okay for her to go.

  Oh, my God, she thought, as she frantically gulped down one pill from each of the medication vials. Oh, my God, what’s happening to me? Suddenly she remembered that the nitroglycerin, which she had not had to take since the early days of her Vasclear treatment, was supposed to be dissolved under her tongue, not swallowed. She tried to get a tablet into place under her tongue, but her hands were shaking so hard that she spilled the tiny pills all over the bed and onto the floor.

  Her left ring finger was beginning to throb. The gold band she had worn for over fifty years was completely buried in her flesh. The finger itself looked terribly swollen and dark violet, almost black in color. Oh, please God, help me.… Help me!

  Drowning now, she struggled to force air through the bubbling in her chest. A boring, squeezing pain had begun to mushroom outward from beneath her breastbone and up into her neck—angina, just like before she had begun the treatments. She had to get Ricky on the phone. Or was it better to call 911? She had to do something. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She was breathing and coughing at the same time, getting precious little air into her lungs. There was no telephone in the guest room.

  Gamely, she pushed herself off the side of the bed and lurched across to the bureau. Her feet were like water bottles, her toes little more than nubs above the swelling. Another spasm of coughing took away what little breath remained. She clutched the corner of the bureau, barely able to keep herself upright. The cough was merciless now, unremitting. Perspiration was cascading off her. Her head came up just enough for her to see that the mirror was spattered with blood. Behind the scarlet spray was her ashen face. She was a terrifying apparition. Her hair was matted with sweat. Bloody froth covered her lips and chin.

  Seized by fear unlike any she had ever known, Sylvia turned away from her reflection, stumbled, and fell heavily to the floor. As she hit, she heard as much as felt the snapping of the bone in her left hip. Sudden, blinding pain exploded from that spot. Her consciousness wavered, then started to fade. The agony in her hip and chest began to let up. Ricky … Barbara … Maria … Johnny.… One by one her children’s faces flashed through her thoughts. The last face she saw was her Angelo’s. He was smiling … beckoning to her.

  PART ONE

  TWO YEARS LATER

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BOSTON GLOBE

  Jungle Drug Holds Promise for

  Heart Disease

  Researchers at Boston-based Newbury Pharmaceuticals are heralding what they say may be a major breakthrough in the treatment of heart disease, now America’s number one killer.…

  “YOU CAN’T THROW THE SEVEN OF HEARTS, BRIAN. I just picked up the eight of hearts three cards ago.”

  “I’m betting you’ve got eights.”

  “Okay.… Bad bet.… Gin.”

  Brian Holbrook watched his father score up gin plus nineteen and sweep the cards together with practiced ease. The hands that had once been thick and strong enough to crush walnuts were spotted from sixty-three years in the sun and bony from almost a decade of infirmity. But they could still handle cards.

  Jack Holbrook—Black Jack Holbrook to many for as long as Brian could remember—wasn’t a professional gambler. But he dearly loved to bet. He called it wagering, and he would do it on anything from the Super Bowl to whether the next car coming around the corner would be foreign-made or domestic. Two bucks, ten, a hundred—it really didn’t matter to Jack. The game was the thing. He was, and always had been, the most fiercely competitive man Brian had ever known.

  Careful not to let his father see, Brian glanced at his watch. Three o’clock. They had been playing gin for almost two hours. At a penny a point, they kept a running score until one of them, invariably Jack, reached ten thousand. Brian was currently down over seventy dollars.

  “How about we quit and watch the ball game?” he suggested.

  “How about we ride into Boston, have an early dinner, and see that new Van Damme movie?”

  “I’ve got to be at the club at nine.”

  “T
here’s plenty of time. I don’t remember the last time we spent a whole day together like this.”

  Jack was right about that. With two jobs and his weekly supervised visitations with the girls, Brian was usually either on the move or dead asleep, facedown on the bedspread. The club was Aphrodite, one of the Day-Glo rock spots on Lansdowne Street, across from Fenway Park. Brian was a bouncer. At six three, 215, he fit the part well, though at thirty-eight he was a bit long in the tooth for the work. Then, of course, there was the matter of his education. An M.D. degree with board certification in internal medicine and cardiology made him an oddity among the bouncers. But without a license from the Board of Registration and Discipline in Medicine, those certifications were useful only for the bottom of a birdcage.

  It was a rare totally free Sunday afternoon for him. Becky and Caitlin were away for the weekend at Phoebe’s parents’ place, so his weekly visitation was postponed until Tuesday. And for some reason, his boss at Speedy Rent-A-Car hadn’t noticed that he failed to slot Brian for yet another Sunday in the office. A career man at Speedy, Darryl loved exercising power over people—particularly the new college grads who used the agency as their entry into the job market. He hadn’t found out until well after Brian started work at the place that he was an M.D., but since then, Darryl had done his best to make up for the lost time.