Extreme Measures (1991)

by Michael Palmer

  "What horse?" Laura asked.

  She supported Scott's arm with one hand, although she was encouraged to see that, as he had promised, he could stand quite well on his own.

  "Mrs. Gideon's horse," Scott said with no emotion. "I've got to find Mrs. Gideon's horse."

  "Our Mrs. Gideon?" Laura asked incredulously.

  Marjorie Gideon, a feisty spinster who wore cowboy boots and Wranglers at age seventy-five, had owned the farm nearest to their parents' small spread in Missouri. She was also reputed to be one of the wealthiest people in the county. As far as Laura knew, she had died years before.

  "I don't know," Scott said.

  "Scott, where did you come here from?"

  "I don't know," he answered haltingly. "I was in a town in the desert.... I saw the beams and found the way to get beneath them.... Eddie Garcia picked me up and brought me to Cleveland."

  "Utah!" Laura said. "Scott, you were in Utah, weren't you?"

  "I ... don't ... know." He shook his head in frustration, as if trying to clear the mist from his mind. "I've got to find Mrs. Gideon's horse."

  Laura struggled to understand. Marjorie Gideon had owned several horses, and had been happy to let Scott and Laura go riding in exchange for mucking out the stalls. But that had been so many years ago.

  "Scott, tell me something," Laura asked suddenly, trying to keep Rocky from hearing, "does the horse have anything to do with a tape--a videotape?"

  Scott looked at her impassively.

  "Maybe," he said. "Maybe it does."

  "Think, Scott. You've got to think what it means." She studied her brother's face but knew he was nowhere near putting his thoughts together. "Don't worry about it right now. I have a car and a man to help. We'll get you to a hospital. Everything's going to be all right."

  Laura turned toward the top of the hill. There was still no sign of Lester Wheeler. She raised her hand, just in case, but at that instant she realized the gesture was unnecessary. Wheeler had somehow made his way around and was approaching them along the fence from the Bow Street side.

  "Captain Wheeler," she called, "come quickly. It is Scott, but he's hurt. He's hurt badly."

  "Well, then," the policeman said, "we'll just have to get him some help."

  He was just ten feet away when Laura sensed a change in her brother. The muscles in his arms tightened, and his body seemed to tense. His hollow eyes were riveted on the policeman.

  "Scott, are you all right?" she asked.

  The moments that followed were a slow-motion nightmare.

  With a guttural cry, Scott pulled free of her and lunged at Wheeler, his arm sweeping down in an awkward karate stroke aimed at the man's neck. The attack was too slow and far too weak. Wheeler, who seemed prepared for the onslaught, parried the blow easily with one hand while he pulled his other hand from beneath his jacket. Laura saw the gun and recognized the long silencer attached to it at the same moment Wheeler slashed the barrel across Scott's face, sending him sprawling to the wet ground.

  "Don't!" Laura screamed, charging the man.

  Wheeler whipped her across the cheek with the back of his gun hand. The tip of the silencer gashed her skin, and she spun down almost on top of Scott.

  "Hey, just one minute there," Rocky DiNucci said, bringing his hands up in a semblance of his boxing stance.

  Without hesitation the policeman pointed the ugly silencer at the hobo's mid-chest and fired. There was a soft pop and a puff of smoke from the muzzle. Rocky flew backward as if kicked by a mule, slammed against the lean-to, and collapsed beneath a heap of plywood, scrap metal, and canvas.

  Wheeler whirled, and in seconds had handcuffed Laura and Scott together and pulled them to their feet.

  "Move!" he growled. "And not a word. Not a fucking word."

  Without a glance at the man he had just killed, he shoved his two prisoners down along the chain-link fence to his cruiser.

  Heedless of the throbbing wound on her cheek, Laura pressed the sleeve of her jacket against the gash on Scott's face. Their handcuffs still in place, they were in the rear of the unmarked cruiser, heading through the back streets of East Boston toward the harbor. Scott was awake and responsive, but his breathing was even more labored, and twice he had coughed up small amounts of blood.

  "Please," Laura begged through the metal mesh. "Can't you see he's dying? We've got to get him some help.... Dammit, what kind of monster are you?"

  Lester Wheeler did not respond. He eased the cruiser through the narrow streets and onto the road that paralleled the docks.

  Laura recognized the area. Just a week before, she and Eric had parked in a spot not far from where they were.

  "How are you doing?" she whispered.

  Scott's bloodied lips pulled back in something of a smile.

  "He's one of them," he rasped. "The men in the tape."

  "You remember that?" "Yes."

  "And do you know who I am now?"

  Scott looked at her, but shook his head.

  "No," he said flatly.

  "That's okay, Scott. It's okay."

  He let her reach across and squeeze him gently. Suddenly she stopped and leaned forward, staring through the screen and out the windshield. Ahead of them was the lot where she and Eric had parked. She recognized the rusting tractor trailers resting on piles of railroad ties. It was the trailer nearest them that had caught her eye. Painted on its side was the depiction of a Greek goddess, and enclosing the painting, in large red script, were the words APHRODITE MOVING AND STORAGE. Aphrodite! Marjorie Gideon's favorite horse.

  Laura brought her lips close to her brother's ear.

  "Scott, look," she whispered. "That trailer. That's where the tape is, isn't it?"

  Almost imperceptibly, Scott Enders nodded.

  It wasn't supposed to have happened like this, Eric thought as he searched once more through Bernard Nelson's apartment for a note or some sort of explanation as to why Laura had left and where she had gone. He was supposed to have returned to her in triumph, having not only solved much of the mystery of Caduceus, but also quite likely having identified the death's-head priest as well. Then, after toasting their success with what little remained of Laura's wine, they were to formulate a plan for breaking down Haven Darden. And finally, they were to set about doing whatever was necessary to implement that plan.

  Desperately, Eric flipped through every magazine he could find, lifted every vase and dish, and even looked in the oven, searching for some sort of clue. Fueling his urgency was the faint but definite odor of cigarette smoke, which had hit him the moment he entered the place. Unless Laura had a smoking habit she had never shared with him--and given her concern with fitness and health, that possibility seemed remote--someone else had been in the apartment.

  He checked in with Dave Subarsky, who had returned to his office, but Dave had heard nothing from her either. Subarsky promised to remain at his desk until one of them had word from her. Calls to Eric's apartment and Bernard Nelson's office were no more fruitful. Finally he phoned the Carlisle, but the unctuous desk clerk, who had been on duty only since nine, had nothing at all to offer. Eric left a message with the man for Laura to contact him at the apartment or through Dave Subarsky. Then he climbed to the loft and lay down--to wait, and to think.

  Through a thin spatter of rain he gazed across Storrow Drive at the Charles and at Cambridge beyond. Laura was out there somewhere, he reasoned, and she was almost certainly in trouble. What other conclusion could be drawn from the cigarette smoke and the absence of any note from her?

  Was it Scott's tape that had gotten her into difficulty? Or perhaps Haven Darden had decided to use her as insurance against Eric's getting any closer to Caduceus. One scenario flowed into another in his mind, each one more disturbing and frightening than the last.

  Fueled by anger and helplessness, Eric began to focus on Darden: the one variable he might yet be able to control, the one person he still might be able to take by surprise. The timing was not what he would ha
ve chosen, and the idea that began to take shape was rough, but there was no way he could just sit around and wait to hear from her. In minutes, he felt ready to act.

  His call to White Memorial was quickly put through to the medical chief. There was trouble, serious trouble at the hospital, he told Darden--trouble involving Sara Teagarden and a clandestine society called Caduceus. Darden coolly responded that the only trouble at White Memorial of which he was aware involved a resident named Najarian.

  Eric stressed his innocence and begged for Darden's forbearance. He said enough, just enough, he hoped, to whet the man's interest without making him suspicious. Tetrodotoxin was being used at White Memorial, and patients were being harmed. He had proof of that now--irrefutable proof. Several people involved with the secret society had already died violently. He had proof of that as well.

  Gradually, but oh so skillfully, Darden suspended his facade of cynicism and doubt and expressed a mild curiosity to learn more. His hand clenched on the receiver, Eric suggested meeting at Darden's lab at four, at which time he promised to present proof of every allegation. In response to Eric's concern about being seen in the hospital, Darden gave his assurance that no one else would be around.

  "Eric, you have generated a great deal of ill will around this hospital in an amazingly short time," Darden said. "I am trusting that what you have to say to me will be the truth, supported not by your speculation but by hard facts. Please do not give me any reason to join those who have closed ranks against you."

  "You have my word on it," Eric said. "By the time I'm done, you will believe me. I promise you that."

  Eric waited until Darden had hung up before slamming the receiver down.

  "Sleazy, smug bastard," he said.

  He paced the apartment, marking time in case Laura called, and trying to sort out his approach now that Haven Darden had taken the hook. Assuming the man honored his promise to have his lab deserted by four--and with that assumption Eric felt reasonably safe--there remained only one more detail to see to: a weapon.

  By three, Eric had conceived of a solution to that problem as well.

  He left the apartment and walked quickly to where his Celica was parked. He had a full hour left, but with traffic beginning to build, it would be at least a ten- or fifteen-minute drive to and from the Metropolitan Hospital of Boston.

  Bernard Nelson tightened his seat belt for the fourth time since takeoff, and silently prayed that the huevos rancheros he had been foolish enough to have for breakfast would find some sort of quiet resting place within his body.

  The Cessna 172 was patched in places with duct tape, but its owner and pilot, a man named Chippy, seemed interested enough in his own survival to dispel the most strident of Nelson's misgivings. It would have helped, Bernard acknowledged, if he had a better idea of what they were looking for in the craggy desert west of Moab. But what he did know was that the late Donald Devine had made any number of trips to Moab, and had filled up twice in the area almost every time. The man had to have driven somewhere.

  He also knew, from an hour's experience, that asking the laconic residents and gas station attendants of the town if they had seen a hearse cruising off into the desert was not the quickest way to make friends or gain confidences.

  "How much fuel do we have left, Chippy?" he asked.

  "Another hour, m'be," the pilot said. "How far we go on't 'pends on the wind."

  Chippy was a dark, weathered man in his fifties--Indian or part Indian, Bernard guessed. He flew with effortless confidence, and spoke in a patois that was, at times, almost unintelligible. It seemed as if he left out almost as many syllables as he pronounced. Bernard checked the detailed map he had bought in town.

  "In that case," he said, "let's fly to Hanksville, and then over to St. Joseph. Can we do that?"

  "We can. Ain't nothin' t' either place, though."

  "That's okay. Try to stay around three hundred feet if you can."

  "It'd help if ya knew whachas lookin' for."

  "I know it would." Bernard thought for a time, then decided to chance adding one more name to the list of those who thought him crazy. "Chippy, someone's been driving out here at least once a month. From what I can tell, he was driving a hearse. I'm trying to figure out where he was going, and what he was up to."

  The pilot, who seemed unsurprised by the revelation, drummed his fingers on the control wheel. Then he put on his earphones and motioned for Bernard to do the same.

  "Moab, this's Cessna Two One Papa Delta," he said into his radio. "D'ya copy? Repeat, this's Two One Papa Delta callin' Moab Air."

  "We hear you, Chippy," a voice crackled.

  "Morton, put Marianne on, will ya?" He turned to Bernard. "Jes' had me a thought," he said.

  "Hi, Chippy, it's Marianne."

  "Say, beau'ful, how's it goin'?"

  "You coming back soon?"

  " 'Nother hour, m'be. We're out here 'bout twenty miles north of Hanksville. Do you 'member a ways back tellin' me 'bout some ghost town near here?"

  "That'd be Charity. It ain't no ghost town, though. It's a hospital of some sort now. A mental hospital, if you can believe that. Set up, oh, two or three years ago. But the head doctor there sent a notice around forbiddin' any overflights."

  Bernard nodded quickly.

  "Jes' wondrin', thassall," Chippy said. "Where 'bouts is't anyway?"

  "Twenty or twenty-five miles west of St. Joe's. Don't you cause no trouble, now, Chippy Smith. For all I know they're listening to us right now."

  "Hey, do I cause trouble? Well, we'll jes' be swin gin' by Hanksville an' back. See you in a hour. Papa Delta out."

  "Can you find it, Chippy?" Nelson asked.

  "I kin try."

  Bernard gazed down at the vast, rugged terrain, rocky and barren of all but the simplest vegetation, yet in its way serenely beautiful. Of primary interest to him, though, were the dirt roads and tire tracks that from time to time skimmed past.

  They had flown northwest for twenty minutes when Bernard caught the flash of sunlight off something metal or glass.

  "Chippy, there, over there," he said. "Did you see it?"

  The pilot nodded and banked to the east. It took another five minutes of circling before they spotted the Jeep, which was largely covered with dust and almost completely hidden from the air by a rocky overhang. Smith dipped down to 120 feet and made a second pass. Beside the vehicle was an elongated mound of dirt. Protruding from the mound were what looked like shoes and pieces of clothing.

  "Can you set us down?" Bernard asked.

  "If I do, the takeoff's gonna use up our tourin' fuel."

  "Can we still get back to Moab?"

  "Pro'bly."

  "Go for it."

  Smith shrugged and pulled back up to 200 feet. Minutes later, he dropped down over what might have been a roadway or dried-up creek bed, and neatly set the Cessna down in a cloud of dust and pebbles.

  "You're a hell of a pilot," Bernard said.

  Chippy smiled. "I try," he said.

  They located the Jeep with little difficulty. Its canvas roof was intact, although covered with half an inch of fine sand. Together, they walked around to the mound they had seen. Two skeletons, locked in each other's arms, lay in the shadow of the vehicle. Their tattered sneakers and the bleached white stalks of their legs protruded obscenely from beneath the covering dust.

  "You can wait over there for me if you want," Bernard said. "I'm going to try and figure out who they are."

  "Ain't much that upsets me," Chippy Smith said.

  They used a rag from the Jeep to brush the dust away from the bodies. The flesh had largely rotted or been eaten away from the two skulls, but from the ragged clothing, jewelry, and what hair and gristle remained, they were able to determine that what they were seeing had once been man and woman.

  Bernard knelt beside the two forms and caught a whiff of the fading scent of death. He noticed the bulge of a wallet in the jeans of one of them, and reached for it. The pocket f
ell open at his touch.

  "Richard Colson, Santa Barbara, California," he read, sadly looking from the smiling face in the driver's license photo to the grotesquely grinning skull.

  Chippy found a purse on the floor of the Jeep, and from the wallet inside they learned the name and face of Colson's wife.

  "Nice-lookin' couple," he said. "Any idea how they died?"

  "None, except I don't think they were shot. How close are we to that Charity place?"

  "Ten miles, m'be."

  Bernard slipped the wallets into his jacket pocket.

  "Think you could keep this a secret for a while?" he asked.

  "You police?"

  "Private." He fished his ID from his wallet and flashed it, along with a hundred-dollar bill.

  "That ain't necessary," Chippy said, pointing at the money. "I'll jes' take whacha owe for the flight an' keep quiet."

  Bernard handed the bill over anyway.

  "I promise these folks'll get taken care of properly, " he said. "I just don't want anybody at the hospital alerted yet until I get a look at what they're up to. These two may not be connected at all with what I'm looking for, but then again, they just might."

  The two men stood in silence for a time, gazing down at the ghostly remains. Then they turned and headed back to the plane. As the engine roared to life, a scorpion crept out of the eye socket of Marilyn Colson's skull and scampered across to the safety of a nearby pile of rocks.

  Except for a single tiny window built at eye level into the steel door, the room at the rear of Warehouse 18 was like a vault--a hollow cube of concrete, perhaps twelve feet on a side. In one corner of the room were a plastic bottle of water and an empty metal bucket, presumably for holding human waste, and along one wall was a stack of four quilted packing blankets.

  For more than an hour Laura Enders had been alone in the room with her brother--or rather with what remained of his mind and body.

  After whipping the two of them down with his pistol, and coolly murdering the hobo named Rocky, Lester Wheeler had driven through a side gate at the docks and then around to the front of the warehouse. The huge hangarlike doors had opened for them without a signal, allowing Wheeler to drive straight down a long aisle between packing crates to the back room. There, two men--whom Laura recognized from her close call on the docks with Eric--undid the manacles binding her to Scott and shoved her alone into the bleak cell.