Extreme Measures (1991)

by Michael Palmer

  Michael Palmer's Bestsellers

  THE SISTERHOOD

  "A suspenseful page-turner ... jolts and entertains the reader."

  --Mary Higgins Clark

  "Terrific ... a compelling suspense tale."

  --Clive Cussler

  SIDE EFFECTS

  "Has everything--a terrifying plot ... breakneck pace ... vividly drawn characters."

  --John Saul

  FLASHBACK

  "The most gripping medical thriller I've read in many years."

  --David Morrell

  NATURAL CAUSES

  "Reinvents the medical thriller"

  --Library Journal

  SILENT TREATMENT

  "A Marathon Man-style plot loaded with innovative twists ... extremely vivid characters."

  --Kirkus Reviews

  ALSO BY MICHAEL PALMER

  From Bantam Books

  The Sisterhood

  Side Effects

  Flashback

  Extreme Measures

  Natural Causes

  Silent Treatment

  Miracle Cure

  And coming soon

  The Patient

  The characters, events, institutions, and organizations in this book are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any apparent resemblance to any person alive or dead, to any actual events, and to any actual institutions or organizations, is entirely coincidental.

  EXTREME MEASURES

  A Bantam Book

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from "Me and Bobby McGee" by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, copyright (c) 1969 by Temi Combine, Inc. All rights controlled by Combine Music Corp. and administered by Emi Blackwood Music Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright (c) 1991 by Michael Palmer.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-19185.

  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: 978-0-307-78120-8

  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, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  In honor of the fiftieth wedding anniversary

  of May and Milton Palmer

  of Longmeadow, Massachusetts,

  and

  In loving memory of

  Mr. Fred Jewett of Barefoot Bay, Florida

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest gratitude to Eric Radack for the spark, to Donna Prince and Susan Terry for the sounding board, to Dr. Scott Fisher for his expertise and critical reading, to Noelle for her patience, to Beverly Lewis for her editorial grace, to Jane Rotrosen Berkey for being so much more than just an agent, and to Bill W. and Dr. Bob for providing me the tools to get projects done. And a special thanks to Dr. Wade Davis. I hope we meet some day.

  M.S.P.

  Falmouth, Massachusetts

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  I

  JUNE 7

  The sign, painted in uneven black letters on a two-foot length of weathered barnside, read: CHARITY, UTAH. POP. 381. It was pocked by bullet holes and wedged upside down between two dense juniper bushes.

  Marilyn Colson would have missed the sign if she hadn't tripped over a root and fallen heavily onto the hard, dusty desert ground. The discovery distracted her from the newest in a growing array of bruises and scrapes, and kept her--at least momentarily--from another outburst at her husband.

  Their four-year marriage was on the ropes even before they blew their vacation on this latest monument to Richard's self-centeredness. Now, as far as she was concerned, it was down for the count. The Jeep he had insisted on renting for their "four-wheel journey to nowhere and everywhere," the Jeep that Richard said he could repair with his eyes closed, had broken down God-only-knew how many miles from nowhere. And of course, the part that had gone was the only one Richard hadn't counted on. Some psychologist! The man could never see any point of view but his own.

  Marilyn picked several burrs from her T-shirt. When--if, for Christ's sake--they ever made it back to L.A., she was going to call Mort Gruber and tell him to go ahead with the divorce. And that, she decided as she pushed herself angrily to her feet, was that. She pulled the sign free, blew some of the dust off it, and held it up for her husband to see.

  "I give you"--she swung the barnside around in a grand gesture to the barren, rolling, shrub-covered landscape--"Charity, Utah. Home of the largest, most complete Jeep-repair center this side of--"

  "Marilyn, can't you lay off just this once? I said I was sorry."

  "No, you didn't."

  "I did, dammit. That's all I ever do with you. Here, let me see that sign."

  He studied it for a moment, then tossed it aside and pulled a frayed, sweat-stained map from his knapsack.

  "It's not here," he said.

  "Richard, in case you hadn't noticed, it's not here either."

  "God, you are snide."

  "No, Richard. What I am is lost. I'm lost and filthy and hurting and hungry and angry and ... and cold." She glanced toward the hazy sun sinking into the horizon. "Dammit," she snapped suddenly, "I don't care what it takes. I'm getting the hell out of here. I work hard--as hard as you do. Harder. It's my vacation, too, and I want to eat in a French restaurant and I want to sleep between clean sheets, and take a fucking bath in a tub with a Jacuzzi."

  She turned and stalked up the stony slope of one of a chain of modest hills that seemed to stretch to the horizon on either side.

  "Marilyn, will you get back down here. I tell you, we're not lost. Give or take a mile, I know exactly where we are. We can camp here tonight, and then keep heading east first thing tomorrow. By noon we'll be on Highway Fifty. You'll see ... Marilyn?"

  The woman stood motionless at the crest of the hill. Then, slowly, she turned back to him.

  "Richard," she called out, "maybe you'd better hike on up here. I think I may have just found Charity, Utah."


  The town, half a mile or so to the south, was nestled in a valley ringed on all sides by hills. It appeared to consist of an unpaved main street, starting and ending at the desert and crossed by two or three smaller streets. To the east and north, fields of some sort stretched into the desert. The buildings lining the streets glowed eerily in the fading daylight, looking more like a Hollywood set than a functional village.

  "Do you suppose it's a ghost town?" Richard asked as they dropped down the slope and into a dry arroyo, out of sight of the low brick and clapboard buildings.

  "Could be, but there are people there right now. I swear I saw lights in two of the windows. God, am I going to be pissed if they don't have a place with hot water."

  "You are really a princess, Marilyn. Do you know that?"

  "And you are ... well, let's forget what you are. Look, couldn't we call some kind of a truce, at least until we get out of this?"

  "Sure, but you're the one who--"

  "Richard, please ..."

  They followed the arid streambed for a while and then trudged up a gentle rise that ended, suddenly, in a small, well-planted field of corn--perfect rows of stalks as high as their heads, surrounded by closely strung barbed wire.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," Richard mused.

  Marilyn had already reached the far end of the field.

  "Richard, come on," she called back.

  "Where in the hell do they get the water?"

  "If you'd hurry up, you could ask them," Marilyn said, gesturing toward the road where, twenty or thirty yards ahead, two men were walking casually away from them. Save for the men, the neatly swept street was deserted. No cars, no bicycles, no other people. "Excuse me," she called out. "Hey, you two up there, excuse me ..."

  The two men glanced back at her and then continued walking.

  "Richard, for crying out loud, will you help me out?"

  Without waiting for a response, Marilyn started after them. At that moment a bell began chiming through a series of speakers mounted on poles along the street. Almost instantly people began emerging from several of the buildings to plod after the two men. Marilyn stopped short. To her right, a woman stepped onto an open porch from beneath a sign marked simply STORE. She looked to be in her late forties, although her stoop-shouldered posture and unkempt jet hair made that only the roughest guess. She wore a short-sleeved print housedress over a pair of khaki fatigue pants. A patch with the name MARY embroidered in gold was sewn over one breast.

  "Excuse me," Marilyn said.

  The woman looked at her impassively.

  "My name's Marilyn Colson. That's my husband, Richard. We're from Los Angeles, and we were on a camping trip, and ..." Marilyn, studying the blank expression on the woman's face, stopped in mid-sentence. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "I ... understand ... you," the woman said.

  "And can you help us out? Direct us to a hotel?"

  "Hotel ...?"

  "Yes. A place to stay."

  Marilyn waited several seconds for a response, then turned to her husband.

  "Dammit, Richard, will you come over here and help me out? There's something wrong with this woman."

  "She's an addict," Richard said simply.

  "What?"

  "An addict. Look at those needle tracks on her arms. She's probably stoned to the gills--either that or totally burnt out."

  "What should we do?"

  "Well, for starters I think we should be a little less aggressive."

  "Go to hell."

  "And next, I think we should find someone else to talk to."

  "You can start by talking to me," a voice behind them said.

  The Colsons whirled. Marilyn gasped. Standing not ten feet from them was a man, tall and lean, wearing jeans, a plaid hunter's jacket, and a baseball cap. Strapped to his waistband was a two-way radio. The double-barreled shotgun cradled on his right arm was aimed at a spot just in front of them.

  "You go on in to dinner now, Mary," the man said. "Else you'll get nothin' to eat tonight."

  Without even a gesture of acknowledgment, the woman shuffled off.

  "My ... my name's Marilyn Colson," Marilyn said, clearing the fear from her throat. "This is my husband, Richard. We ... we're lost." She smiled inwardly at her husband's likely discomfiture with the admission. "Our Jeep has broken down about half a day's walk in that direction. We were hoping someone in your town might be able to help us get it towed in and fixed."

  "How'd you get here?"

  "I just told you, we walked from where our--"

  "No, no. I mean here." The man gestured to the spot where they were standing.

  "We came from the north," Richard said, stepping forward. "Over those hills, then down along an arroyo, and up into your cornfield. I'm amazed at how you can get irriga--"

  "What do you want?"

  "Want?" Marilyn echoed with a hint of anger. "What about someone to talk to who isn't pointing a gun at us?" The man lowered the shotgun a fraction. "And then we could use a place to stay and some help with our Jeep. Isn't there anybody in this town who does cars?"

  "This ain't no town," the man said, spitting through a gap between his front teeth.

  "Pardon?"

  "I said, this ain't no town." He spat again, then added matter-of-factly, "It's a hospital ... a mental hospital."

  "Richard?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay if I move my bed next to yours?"

  "Sure."

  "I'm sorry for the way I talked to you today. I was upset."

  Marilyn Colson pushed her metal-frame bed close to Richard's and lay on her side, staring through the window of their bungalow at the infinity of stars spattered across the ebony desert sky. Slowly she slid her hand up her husband's leg and began stroking him the way he liked.

  The day, one of the worst in a marriage full of such days, had taken a marked turn for the better. After a tense few minutes with the "mental health worker," as Garrett Pike, the shotgun-toting man, called himself, they had been escorted to a low cinder-block building--the clinic--and turned over to Dr. James Barber, the director of the Charity Project. Barber, a psychiatrist, was a balding, cheery man, with an open smile and manner. And although he had explained little of the project, beyond that it involved the reclamation of an old ghost town and was a federally funded experimental installation for dealing with the criminally insane, he had made them feel welcome. Further, he had promised assistance with their Jeep as soon as his maintenance man returned from a trip to "the city" with the only four-wheel-drive vehicle the project owned. His only requests were that until that time--probably by the following morning--they stay within the confines of the clinic and its fenced-in yard, and that they ask no further questions about the operation.

  Now, after a hot shower, a meal of chicken-fried steak and red wine, and an after-dinner conversation in which Barber showed himself to be well-read and thoughtful in a number of areas, they were alone in the guest bungalow, just behind the clinic.

  "Richard?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't you think this is sort of romantic? I mean, how many of our friends have ever done it in a mental hospital?"

  Richard continued to lie on his back, hands locked behind his head, unresponsive to her touch.

  "Something's wrong," he said finally.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just what I said. Something's not right here. Remember after dinner when I mentioned Stack-Sullivan's theory on maturation inversion in traumatized children?"

  "Actually, I don't, no."

  "Well, I described it completely backwards."

  "You what?"

  "Merely for the sake of discussion. And Barber just agreed with what I said. He's either an absurdly uninformed psychiatrist, or--"

  "Richard, let me get this straight. Here's this man, being incredibly hospitable to us, and you're running a goddam test on him?" She pulled her hand away. "I can't believe you!"

  "Yeah," he whispered. "Wel
l, I don't think we should talk about it anymore. For all I know, this cabin is bugged."

  "This is crazy, Richard. He probably just wasn't paying much attention to you. God knows I wasn't. You're not exactly riveting when you get going with that psych theory shit of yours."

  Richard's response was cut short by a fit of coughing. He sat up on the side of his bed, hands on knees, until it subsided.

  "What's the matter?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I'm having a little trouble catching my breath. I had asthma as a kid, but nothing for years."

  "Maybe there's some mold in here or something. Or maybe it's unexpressed stress."

  "I'm going out into the yard for a bit."

  "Should we go see the doctor?"

  "I tell you, he's no--"

  Once again a spasm of coughs cut him off. He pushed to his feet and stepped out of the bungalow into the cool night air.

  Marilyn lay alone on her bunk, wondering how she ever could have thought the two of them were the match for a lifetime. Well, the hell with it, she decided. She had given it her best shot. Now it was time to move in other directions. Unable to get comfortable, she rolled over, and then rolled back. She bunched the pillow beneath her head. The air felt heavy and stale. Finally she went to the armoire and brought back a second pillow, which she bunched on top of the first.

  Better, she thought as she lay back in bed. Much better.

  One minute passed, then another. She began to feel calmer. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed and seemed to come more easily. The last sound she heard before the darkness of sleep drifted over her was her husband's coughing.

  It was seven-thirty by her watch when the loudspeaker bell woke Marilyn from shallow, fitful sleep. She had been up for most of the night, in part from Richard's entering and leaving the bungalow several times, in part from his spasmodic racking cough, and in part from her own increasing shortness of breath--better when she sat up, more marked when she lay back.

  She was alone in the cottage. Pale morning sun washed through the east window, highlighting a dense, shimmering mist of suspended dust. Marilyn found the mist reassuring. Small wonder they had had such a difficult night. She pushed herself off the bed, aware of a persistent, unsettling tightness in her chest--a band that seemed to prevent her taking in a full, deep breath.