Panacea by F. Paul Wilson

expression turned angry. “Why do you tempt me like this?”
    â€œI’m not. I … I simply thought you deserved the option.”
    â€œTo what? Circumvent God’s plan?”
    â€œNo, of course not. I meant to get back in the fight, back to doing the Lord’s work.”
    â€œThe Lord is testing me. Haven’t you been listening all these years? Every affliction has a purpose, every trial is part of His Divine Plan. You’ve disappointed me terribly, Nelson.”
    â€œSorry. I—”
    Jim stared off into a corner of the room. “Leave me now. And take those abominations with you.”
    Crushed, Nelson pocketed the vials and turned to leave.
    â€œFinish this, Nelson,” said his uncle behind him. “You were put into my care for a reason. I was struck down for a reason. Everything in our lives has happened so that you could finish this battle. God has chosen you as his instrument, his sword. Do not let him down.”
    â€œYes, Prior,” Nelson said and hurried out.
    He’d simply wanted to give his uncle a chance to regain the use of the dead half of his body. Was that so bad?
    Yes … yes, it was. Jim was right. He should not have tempted his uncle that way. He had acted like the Serpent in the Garden.
    And it was good that his uncle had been strong in his heart and faith. Nelson still had two vials, and he knew that two miracle cures would be far more convincing than one. A single cure could be written off as a case of good timing and nothing more. But two … a pair of simultaneous cures would put Pickens in the palm of his hand.

 
    9
    By the time he’d reached Park Slope, Nelson still hadn’t shaken off the bad residual feelings from his visit to Uncle Jim. He parked in his rented spot in an underground lot on 12th Street and walked up to Seventh Avenue. As he hurried along he was accosted by a well-dressed woman handing out fliers.
    â€œPlease donate to the NCLR.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he said, pausing.
    â€œThe National Center for Lesbian Rights.”
    Nelson couldn’t help making a face. The neighborhood had become a sapphic circus over the past decade or so.
    â€œLesbians. How quaint.”
    â€œWe serve the whole LGBT community.”
    He knew he should hold his tongue and move on, but silence was acquiescence. He felt compelled to speak out.
    â€œEven worse. Why on earth would I want to help promote dykes and sodomites?”
    She shook her head. “You can just say no. You don’t have to be so intolerant about it.”
    â€œYes, I do, actually. That’s what I’m into. You people like to say ‘Free to be you and me.’ Well, this is me.”
    He left her with her mouth hanging open.
    A few blocks away, he entered an apartment on the second floor of a 7th Street brownstone that still belonged to Uncle Jim, who’d bought it for a song back in the days before Park Slope had become trendy. Nelson had grown up here, and during that time its price tag had rocketed through the roof.
    Nelson hung up his suit jacket and went to the refrigerator where he poured himself a glass of chilled white wine from a five-liter jug. He admitted to two weaknesses: good suits and a daily glass of wine. He didn’t drink hard liquor, but Jesus approved of wine—even drank it Himself during His time in human flesh—so why shouldn’t Nelson occasionally indulge? He favored Carlo Rossi Rhine. He’d tried more expensive varietals and blends but found he preferred the cheap stuff.
    Not so with his clothes. The suits were an extravagance, he admitted, but part of the role he had to play in the CIA. The rest of his life was as Spartan as the one his uncle had lived.
    Sipping the fruity blend, he looked around his empty apartment and felt a need for someone with whom to share tonight’s success. But, like a snippet of melody from a car cruising past on the street, the feeling