Several times over the hour that followed she heard her brother's sickening screeches from somewhere in the warehouse. She pounded at the door, screaming until her hands and voice could do no more. Then she sank down on the foul-smelling blankets and cried. Finally, Scott was thrown in with her, moaning and barely conscious. His breathing was even more labored than before, and his face and hands were bloody. When Laura knelt to tend to him, she realized that several of his fingernails had been torn off.
Now, as she paced from one side of the narrow prison to the other, Scott slept, at times moaning, at times crying out softly like a child. She ached for his pain, for his crippled body and memory, and for the hopelessness of their situation. And she struggled to ignore the gruesome, fleeting wish that his breathing would simply stop.
Outside the small window she could see men working as if nothing were amiss. One of them drove a forklift, transferring crates from one section of the huge warehouse to another. Several others wandered by, laughing or talking or drinking beer. One of them actually looked over at her and smiled.
"Damn you," she muttered. "Damn you all to hell."
She tore off a piece of her shirt, dampened it, and gently wiped Scott's face. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He focused on her with an ease that surprised her.
"Have they hurt you?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Not yet. Did you tell them what they wanted to know?"
"I ... I don't think so. Right now that videotape is keeping us alive."
"You do remember the tape then?"
"Yes. So much is still missing for me, but I do know that. The receiver's locked in that Aphrodite trailer, just as you said."
"And how much else do you remember?"
Scott winced as he propped himself up on one elbow.
"Some little scenes or details clear as day. Most things not at all. I wish I could say I remember you, but I really don't. Were we close?"
Laura stroked his hair from his forehead.
"Yeah," she said hoarsely. "We were very close."
"I'm glad."
He pushed himself up until he was sitting, and leaned against the wall. His eyes seemed to hold a remarkable power. If anything he seemed stronger than when she had found him in Rocky's lean-to.
"We've got to get out of here," he said.
"What?"
"That cop is either going to use drugs or he's going to do something to you in front of me. Whatever it is, we can't wait around to see."
"Scott, there are a bunch of men out there, and this place is like a fort. There's no chance."
He pushed himself to his feet, grimacing at the pain but refusing to cry out.
"There's always a chance," he said. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a thick cough.
Laura stood in front of him. "Can you move enough to do anything?"
"I made it this far, didn't I?"
Laura heard the new forcefulness in his voice, and knew that he had summoned it for her. He was still so lost and in such pain; they had taken nearly everything from him. And yet he seemed able to reach within himself for more.
"Scott, you know what you did for a living now, don't you?" she said.
He forced a thin smile and touched the clotted blood on her cheek.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I do." He peered out the window at the workmen. "Tell me, those big doors we drove through, did they open upward or to the side?"
"To the side, I think. Yes--yes, I'm sure of it. They folded open in sections on a track."
Scott glanced out the small window and then knelt by the door and studied the keyhole. Laura had to help him up.
"Bring that over," he said, motioning to the bucket. She did as he asked. "Do you have a belt on?"
She pulled off her belt, which was fairly wide and fastened with a metal buckle that had some heft. Scott tried undoing his own, but his clumsy hand and torn fingers made the task impossible. Laura undid it for him.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
"First we're going to get this door open."
"How?"
"I hope with that," he said, motioning to the metal bulb protector overhead. "There's a forklift out there. We've got to get to it. If we do, I'll drive. Just don't depend on me to turn the key, okay?"
"O-okay. Scott, I don't know if I can do this."
He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and said, "I think you can. Here, hook these belts to each other and then to the handle of the bucket. Then practice swinging it around in a way that will knock off that metal guard. The bulb'll probably shatter but that's okay. We'll have enough light. When that metal guard falls down, grab it." He peered out the window, following the progress of the forklift. "Start practicing, and I'll tell you when. Spread these blankets out beneath you in case the bucket hits the floor."
Laura set the blankets in place, dangled the bucket for a moment, and then began swinging it in front of her in increasing circles like a lariat. She found that if she held her arm at shoulder level, she could just reach the light without hitting the floor. While she was practicing, Scott coughed and spat some bright-red blood onto the floor. Laura started to protest, but he waved her off.
"Please," he said, "we don't have much time before Wheeler gets back, and in this shape I don't think I can take him, even if he gives me the chance," He checked outside the window again. "Now. Do it now, and try to hit that thing hard. If the bulb breaks without that guard falling down, we may not have enough light to get at it."
Laura started with a few slow arcs. Then she began whirling the bucket around, increasing the speed and the length of the belts each time.
"That's it, that's it," Scott said. The bucket grazed the metal. "Keep going. Keep going."
Laura's upper arms and shoulders began to cramp. Her smooth swings became weaker and more erratic.
"Don't stop," he urged. "Find the strength. Come on, you can do it."
She bit into her lower lip and grasped the belt tightly with both hands, increasing the speed of her swings. Her arms quickly grew numb and heavy. The cramps worsened. Then, at the moment when she felt she had to stop, the bucket slammed against the metal guard, popping it free, and sending it clattering against the wall. The bulb sheared off, spraying small shards of glass across the room. Laura let the bucket drop soundlessly onto the blankets, and then raced over and retrieved the protector.
"That was good," Scott said, pausing between words to breathe. "That was real good." He studied the metal piece by the light of the window. "Stamp on this as hard as you can. I need a piece of it about this long."
Laura set the guard on the concrete floor and stamped it flat. The welds holding the stiff wire broke apart, yielding several pieces of the length Scott had indicated. She snapped one off and passed it over. He studied it briefly and then handed it back. With Scott directing her, she pinned the metal beneath the lip of the bucket and bent two right angles into it, and a loop handle at one end.
"Now put it in the keyhole with this end down and turn it slowly until you feel it catch."
Laura knelt by the door as Scott kept watch.
"I don't feel anything," she said.
"Push it in farther. Use both hands to hold it, and use that little handle you built."
"I can't feel anyth--Wait, wait a second."
The makeshift key turned half an inch.
"Keep going. Keep going. I think you've got it."
There was a muffled click from inside the door. Laura released the wire and sank back on her hands, smiling up at her brother.
"Nice job," he said, opening the door a fraction of inch. "There's a crowbar resting on some cases over there. I need it. You're going to carry that bucket. You may have to hit someone hard with it. Can you do that?"
Laura glanced over at his hands.
"I can do it," she said.
She stood up and moved beside him. Carefully, he eased the door open. The area around them was deserted.
"The lift is somewhere down there," he w
hispered, gesturing with his head. "We'll go straight across to where that crowbar is and work from there."
Laura's heart was pounding in her ears as they slipped out the door, closing it behind them, and stepped quickly across the narrow aisle. Scott, who had looked fairly solid while leaning against the wall, stumbled and pitched heavily against the crates.
"You okay?" she asked.
He slipped the crowbar free and hefted it gingerly in his one functioning hand.
"Better now," he said.
From somewhere to their right they could hear voices. Staying flat against the cases, they worked their way toward the sound. At one point they passed not ten yards from a pair of workmen without being seen. Scott moved painfully, at times dragging his left leg. Even in the shadows Laura could see the pallor of his face and the flecks of drying blood that dotted his lips and chin.
The voices were close now--very close. Scott peered around the corner of a stack of crates and held up two fingers.
"I'm going for the forklift," he whispered. "Head straight for the man in the cap, and use that bucket." He pointed to a spot just behind his ear. Then he reached up with his crippled hand and gently touched her face. "Ready?"
She put her arm around him and, for a moment, held him close.
"Ready," she said.
They broke around the corner and headed straight for the two men. One, a heavyset black man, was seated on the forklift. The other, wearing a woolen cap, was several feet closer. He turned at the sound of their approach and was fumbling beneath his jacket when Laura swung the galvanized metal bucket with all her strength, connecting solidly with the side of his face. He cried out and fell heavily, pawing futilely at the gush of blood from just beneath his ear.
The man on the forklift had no chance at all. Scott lunged across the seat, thrusting the beveled edge of the crowbar upward through the soft tissue beneath his jaw, and then on through the bone of his palate. The man slumped forward before toppling off the seat and onto the concrete floor. Scott fell back with the effort, but just as quickly Laura had him back on his feet. She helped him onto the seat, took her place beside him, and turned the key. The fork-lift's electric engine whirred to life at the moment they heard the cries and footsteps of approaching men.
Scott spun the lift to the right, heading at full speed across the aisle by their cell, and then left into the corridor leading straight to the huge front doors. Laura glanced over her shoulder just as several men rounded the corner behind them.
"Stay low!" Scott yelled, crouching behind the wheel.
The forklift sped ahead toward the doors as several shots were fired.
"Not there, asshole!" someone screamed. "Those are the goddam ammo crates!"
His warning was punctuated by a rumbling from within one of the crates. Suddenly the entire wall exploded, showering the forklift with debris. Another explosion followed, and then another. The warehouse instantly filled with hot black smoke. Scott hunched over the wheel, staring intently ahead.
"Well, I'll be damned," Laura heard him say. "They were here. They were here all the time."
She glanced over and saw him actually smiling. They were less than twenty feet from the door. Behind them, the exploding maelstrom continued. Then, directly ahead of them, Lester Wheeler stepped into view, his pistol ready.
"Get down and hang on!" Scott ordered.
The sound of Wheeler's rapid volley of shots was lost in the explosions, but bullets clanged off the forklift. An instant after the last shot, they slammed against the warehouse doors at top speed. The two central panels flew apart, ripped free of their supports, and crashed to the pavement. Black smoke billowed out from the gaping opening, and moments later, Lester Wheeler raced through.
"Stay down!" Scott demanded, looking back over his shoulder at the scene.
At that instant his head snapped oddly to his left, and he pitched forward onto the wheel. The forklift swerved right, then left. Laura steadied the wheel with one hand as she pulled her brother free with the other. His body was limp, although his foot remained pressed on the accelerator. Then Laura saw the hole--a small black rent in his forehead just above his right eye. A trickle of blood had already begun to seep from the margins of the wound. Beneath the hole, Scott's eyes were glazed and unseeing.
"No!" she screamed. "God, no!"
The forklift had skidded past an oil-drum pyramid and out onto the long pier. Scott was totally lifeless except for his hands, which still clutched the wheel, and his foot, which held fast on the accelerator. Behind them, with the rumble of a hundred freight trains, Warehouse 18 blew apart.
Still steadying the wheel, Laura looked back. A fireball of pitch-black smoke was rising from the destruction. Lester Wheeler, who had stumbled during the blast, was scrambling to his feet.
"You bastard!" Laura screamed. "You goddam fucking bastard!"
Wheeler stopped, leveled his gun at her, and fired at the moment the forklift careened off the end of the pier. Scott's body lolled off the seat as the heavy machine yawed in the air and plummeted the fifteen feet to the harbor. It landed on its side, nose first, hurling Laura ahead as if she were shot from a cannon. She skimmed several feet across the surface, then hit the chilly water with dizzying force.
Laura felt herself sinking beneath the weight of her sodden clothes, but the icy chill almost instantly cleared her head and she struggled back to the surface. Scott was nowhere to be seen. Above her, Lester Wheeler appeared at the end of the pier, fixed his weapon on her once again, and fired. She ducked back beneath the surface as first one bullet, then another, skimmed past her face.
She had instinctively taken a decent breath, and now she desperately forced herself to calm down and concentrate. She was about four feet below the surface, and was being maintained in almost perfect buoyancy against the salt water by her clothes. This was her world, she realized, her element. Above her was the man who had just murdered her brother.
When it seemed he had nothing left, Scott had reached inside and found enough to save her. Now she had to do the same for herself. She had to move, then breathe, then move again. If she could just hold out and fight the cold, she could beat him. She could beat him!
Ignoring the overwhelming chill and the air hunger burning in her chest, Laura forced herself down another two feet and kicked back toward the pier.
Not yet, she screamed to herself as she pulled ahead. Not yet, not yet, not yet!
Water seeped down her nose and into her lungs. Still, eyes closed, she swam.
Finally, with her head pounding and her chest screaming for air, she kicked to the surface.
The dozen buildings of Metropolitan Hospital of Boston filled most of two blocks between the South End and Roxbury sections of the city. In the days before Medicare and Medicaid, it was the busiest of all the Boston hospitals, at times running as many as five hundred patients a day through its emergency room. Now, with a progressive drain to many newer facilities, its patient load had dropped off, and two of its three medical school affiliations had pulled out. Still, with its location near the poorest section of the city, there were plenty of severe trauma cases and medical crises.
With the E.R. at White Memorial inaccessible to him, Eric had chosen to use the frantic pace of Metro to provide him with a weapon he could use to break down Haven Darden. The ride there took fifteen minutes--precisely the same amount of time it took him to find a place to park. He set the material taken from Donald Devine's safe on the floor of the Celica, and entered the hospital through the main entrance.
The key to moving unnoticed about any hospital, Eric knew, was simply to look and act as if one knew precisely what one was doing. He also knew that the bigger and busier the facility, the less precise one had to be. His first stop was in the house officers' quarters, located on the fifth floor of a crumbling red brick building named for a nineteenth-century surgeon, and probably built not long after his death.
About half the doors on the floor were unlocked. There was nothin
g of use in the first two rooms he checked. Opening another door, he had actually stepped inside before realizing that a nurse and resident were on the narrow bed locked in flagrante delicto, their uniforms in a heap on the floor. The couple glimpsed him just as he was slipping back out the door, pulled a sheet over their heads, and giggled.
In the next room he tried, Eric found what he needed. He undressed there and emerged wearing someone's discarded surgical scrubs and a white clinic coat. Next, he headed to the E.R., praying that the place would not be in any sort of lull. A trio of ambulances unloading at the emergency bay told him his luck was holding.
He crossed the waiting room and entered the treatment area. Every room, it seemed, was in action. A nurse hurried past, taking no notice of him. A second nurse smiled at him as she entered the room of a new trauma victim. Purposefully, he continued down the busy corridor and into the med room, which was deserted. In less than a minute he was out. His hand was buried in his clinic coat pocket, concealing a filled 10cc syringe, hooked to a 11/2-inch-long, 22-gauge needle. Then, casually, he strolled from the emergency room back to the house officers' building to change.
The game was on.
The drive from Moab along unmarked dirt tracks took Bernard Nelson nearly three hours in his Land Rover. Before college, Nelson had spent six years in the marines, most of those with a wilderness survival unit. Once, during his training at Camp Pendleton, he had been flown far out in the Mojave Desert by helicopter, and set loose by himself with enough rations and water for two days. The trip back to civilization had taken five days, but the things he had learned about survival and about himself had proven well worth the danger. He was sure the skills he had stored away were still there.
After finding the bodies of Richard and Marilyn Colson, he and Chippy Smith had flown to within distant sight of Charity. Following their return to Moab, Smith had drawn up a remarkably detailed map, including sketches of various distinctive rock formations and arroyos. Now, according to Bernard's compass and watch, he was close enough to go on foot. His safety net was Chippy, who had promised to fly out with help if twenty-four hours passed without word from him.
Extreme Measures (1991) Page 32
