"Hey, wait a minute," Eddie said. "I'm just hauling beef.
There's nothing of any-"
"We know what you have," the man said. "Now just get out or you're dead."
Eddie turned to his passenger.
"Bob," he said evenly, "we're being hijacked. Just open your door and do what these fuckers say. Without this rig and this load, I'm busted, but I don't know what the fuck else we can do, goddam it."
Slowly, the two of them opened their doors and dropped to the pavement.
The man who had stopped them, clearly the leader of the three, motioned them together and then pointed to an alley between buildings.
"In there," he ordered. "Do as I say and neither of you gets hurt."
"Hey, look," one of the others said. "This guy's a gimp. What are you, some kind of war hero?"
Scott merely looked at him.
"Do what the man says, Bob," Eddie whispered.
"Hey guys, please. This rig's all I have."
"In the alley," the man barked.
For Eddie Garcia, the half-minute or so that followed was little more than a blur. It began with Bob bending over, ostensibly to tie his shoe. Suddenly, and with vicious force, he swung his arm backhand, catching one of the hijackers across the throat, and dropping him like a stone. In virtually the same motion, he whipped his good leg around, sweeping the second man to the ground and stunning him with a glancing right, palm up under his chin. The shotgun clattered to the pavement, but the man, not immobilized, lashed out with his feet, knocking Bob over.
The leader of the group, a beat slow to react, was raising his revolver when Eddie kicked him in the groin. The man doubled over as Eddie kicked him again, catching him on the upper arm and sending him sprawling.
To Garcia's left, the first man hit was stumbling to his feet while the second had grabbed Bob by the throat and was beginning to pummel him. In that instant, Eddie saw the look on his passenger's face. It was an expression he would never forget as long as he lived-not one of panic or rage or fear, and certainly not the blank stare he had grown so used to over the miles. Rather, Bob appeared almost serene, removed from what was happening to him, oblivious to the pain. He seemed to be completely ignoring the man on top of him in order to focus in on something else.
Before Eddie realized what was happening, Bob had reached out with his good leg and swept the shotgun several feet in his direction.
Eddie dived for it, rolling over and over again as he fumbled to cock it.
One hijacker had already started to run.
The second, realizing what had happened, shoved Bob aside, kicked him hard in the ribs, and was racing toward the alley as Garcia fired.
The shot seemed to hit him, but after staggering a step, he barreled on.
Moments later, he disappeared into the alley. By the time Eddie brought the shotgun around, the man he had kicked was up and sprinting away. He leveled and fired, but the hijacker was already well out of range.
In seconds, the street was quiet again.
Shaken and gasping for breath, Eddie stumbled to his feet. Bob was on his knees, holding his left side.
"You okay, Bob?" Garcia asked.
Scott coughed and felt the seating Crunch of broken bone in his chest.
He had had fractured ribs before, he knew. But when? And how.
"I'm okay," he managed.
Garcia helped him to his feet.
"You sure?" he asked. "You want to go to a hospital?"
The word brought a barrage of images to Scott's mind, none of them pleasant.
"No," he said hoarsely. "No hospital."
Eddie Garcia stopped back a pace and looked at him.
"I've never seen anyone move like that," he said.
"Who are you?"
Scott looked at him sadly and shook his head.
"I don't know,Eddie. I don't know anything. I didn't even plan on attacking those guys. It just happened." He coughed again, and had to forget the pain to keep from passing out.
"I'm takin' you to a fuckin' hospital" Garcia insisted.
Scott shook his head. "I've got to get to East Boston," he said.
"It's important."
"For what?"
"I… I don't know."
"Mrs. Gideon's horse?"
"Something. I don't know what."
Garcia opened his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollall the money he had but ten.
"Here," he said. "The Buckeye people owe me big bucks for this run.
Thanks to you I'm gonna collect.
Can you make it back into the cab?"
"I can make it," Scott said, wincing with each step.
"We'll find the bus terminal then." Garcia kept shaking his head in amazement as he started up the rig. "I don't believe what I just saw you do. With your hand and your leg like that. I just don't believe it."
Fifteen minutes later they stood outside the darkened Greyhound terminal.
"You sure you don't want to just stay with me for a while?"
Garcia asked. "We can do my Cinci-Phoenix run together, and then maybe get you to a doctor find out why you can't remember nothin'."
"I'll be okay," Scott said.
"well, here. This is a number you can call in Utah. It's my mother.
She always knows where to find me. If you ever need anything, anything at all, just call."
"Thanks."
"I owe you, Bob. I owe you big-time."
"No, you don't."
Behind them, the lights of the terminal flicked on. Moments later the doors were opened. Eddie Garcia wondered if there was something else-anything else-he could do. Finally, he simply shrugged, held the man's hand for a time, and then walked away.
When he reached his rig, he turned back. Bob was still standing there, rail-thin and rumpled, and badly needing both a shave and a bath, Looking at the shape he was in, Garcia simply could not fathom what he had seen him do.
"You sure you know what's what in there, Bob?" he called out.
"Boston bus. I know."
"Well, I hope you find yourself, my friend, and that woman's horse, too.
I really do."
The man, in obvious pain, managed something of a smile.
"I hope so, too, Eddie," he said, with no animation whatever. "I hope so too."
Garcia hauled himself up behind the wheel.
When he glanced back, his passenger was gone.
The pathology unit at White Memorial was a fluorescently lit, windowless place located in the basement and much of the subbasement of the main building. It had been newly decorated with a mix of Marimekko cloth wall hangings and artificial Plants which Eric found not the least appealing. Although it was not yet eight in the morning, the day shifts in chemistry, hematology blood bank, cytology, and histology were in the swing. Wearing scrubs and his clinic coat, Eric passed by each section on his way to the cubicle that housed the hospital's toxicological unit.
It amazed him that even after five years, there were still so many mite Memorial employees whose work he depended on day after day, case after case, yet whom he didn't know.
Although he was operating on precious little sleep, he felt charged and invigorated-excited not only for the discoveries he hoped the day ahead would hold, but by the magic of the night just past.
He and Laura had, at last, become lovers in every physical sense.
They made love on her bed and in the shower, on the easy chair by her television, even on the carpet. They loved each other in the frantic, gtoping way of teenagers, and in.the prolonged, imaginative, gently touching way of old friends.
And finally, toward dawn, they slept, wrapped in each other's arms, both sensing their lives beginning to join.
The White Memorial toxicologist, a man named Ivor Blunt, could not have been more aptly named. A crusty veteran of nearly thirty years at his craft, Blunt had earned a reputation as much for his eccentricities as for his brilliance. His primary area of research involved the chemical dissection and adaptatio
n of snake venom, and rumor had it that he kept more than one hundred different species of poisonous reptiles in a single huge solarium in his house.
Blunt was still smarting at having "not been invited to get involved" in the Loretta Leone case, as he phrased it to Eric. The toxicologist had been reluctant even to see him about the case. Eric persisted, though, and was finally granted a fifteen-minute appointment.
It was his plan to break from his E.R. shift long enough to see Blunt and later Haven Darden, and then to leave for the county Library as early as possible.
Meanwhile, Laura would file a complaint against Donald Devine and the Gates of Heaven, and also report on the threatening phone call she had received.
Whether she told the police about the shooting in East Boston would depend on how much credence they seemed to be giving her story.
Blunt's office was set at the far end of the corridor from the autopsy suite. The door, with IVOR T. L. BLUNT, PHD. painted in black on opaque glass, was ajar Just a crack. As Eric was about to knock, he heard the toxicologist's raspy voice from within.
"Come on, you pig-headed rascal," Blunt was exclaiming. "It's under the chair. Under the chair!"
Uncertain, Eric held back from knocking for a few seconds, and then gently tapped on the wooden margin of the door. The door creaked open an inch.
"No!" Blunt shouted.
Eric could hear him race for the door at the moment a brown mouse darted out, over Eric's shoes, and down the corridor.
"Damn," Blunt said.
There was a scuffling behind the door. Finally, it was opened.
Blunt, looking every bit the mad professor with a frayed tweed sportcoat, disheveled gray hair, and. Coke-bottle glasses, stood in the doorway with five or six feet of python draped over his shoulders.
"That was breakfast for Dr. Livingston here," he said, without the faintest trace of humor.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean-" From somewhere down the hall came a shriek, then another.
"I know, I know," Blunt growled. "Save your apologies for those women out there. As if I didn't have enough problems around here."
He lowered the snake into a large wire-mesh cage and motioned Eric to a seat. The office had the cluttered, active disarray of an academician's retreat. A 'huge periodic table of the elements covered one wall, and excellent African safari photos another. The rest of the space was crammed with books and journals.
Above Blunt's desk was a sign that read: IF IT LOOKS LIKE A DUCK, AND WALKS LIKE A DUCK, AND QUACKS LIKE A DUCK, COOK IT.
"Thank you for seeing me," Eric said.
"I'm a professor. I'm supposed to see you, so I'm seeing you."
"I wanted to ask your opinion about a problem."
"That Leone woman?"
"Yes, sir."
Eric laid out his sets of E.K.Gs and, as quickly as he could, reviewed the theories he had developed and the research he had done the night before. ivor Blunt listened quietly, although he continually tapped his fingertips together as if to say, "Get to the end, please, because I already know the question and the answer."
"Here," Eric concluded, "are the three toxins I came up with as possible agents in these cases. I wanted to know what you thought of any theories, and also whether you could detect these substances in Loretta Leone's blood."
Blunt studied the list for a bit.
"Amanita, aconite, tetrodotoxin," he murmured.
"Nice stuff, nice stuff. Well, sir, the answers to your questions are: no, no, no, and yes, yes, yes."
"Pardon?"
"No, I don't believe any of these three drugs can cause the kind of picture you describe, and yes, I could detect any of them if they were there and I knew what I was looking for."
"But what about those accounts of simulated death in tetrodotoxin poisoning?"
"Scientific Swiss cheese."
"What?"
"Far too anecdotal. No blood sample testing, no levels, that sort of thing. These are big-league toxins, Doctor, I'll grant you that.
And nanogram for nanogram, tetrodotoxin may be the nastiest and most fascinating of them all. But I don't see it slowing metabolism enough to fool a competent doctor with modern diagnostic tools."
Two competent doctors with modern tools were fooled, Eric wanted to say.
But the toxicologist seemed impatient and anxious to get on with his day.
"I understand," Eric said. "One last question: If I were to obtain some of the Leone woman's blood, would you test it for me?"
"Completely off the record, I might. As I told you before, the medical examiner has not chosen to involve me in this case. The word I received was that he suspected incompetence on the part of a certain physician, but had absolutely no SUSpicion of foul play. I think he's dropped the matter altogether."
"Thank you, Dr. Blunt," Eric said, backing from the office.
"Thank you so much for doing this for me."
" Just tell these women out there that mouse was your fault, " Blunt said.
Eric left the office and went directly to the autopsy suite. He began with the secretary and, over the next half hour, worked his way through the technicians, the residents, and finally the director of anatomic pathology. There was no physical evidence whatever that Loretta Leone had ever been autopsied: no dictation (the medical examiner's office must have the tape, he was told), no body, no blood, and no tissue samples, either in formalin or in wax blocks awaiting sectioning and s9.
He tried calling Dr. Roderick Coreoran, but was told by the medical examiner's office that Corcoran was on vacation for two weeks.
The M. E. who was covenng him had no information on the case, although she was certain that any tissue or blood samples that had been taken would still be at White Memorial.
Totally dismayed, Eric pressed on, interrupting one person after another to help him search through samples of frozen blood and bottled organs.
Everyone he dealt with named someone else as probably responsible for the material he wanted. Finally, as he stood by the department secretary's desk trying to make an appointment to see the chief, he was paged to the E.R. to help deal with a mounting backlog at the triage desk.
As he left the office, a well-groomed man in his twenties who had been sitting in the waiting area stepped into the hallway and called to him.
"Excuse me, Dr. Najarian, but I was waiting to speak with Dr. Pollard, and I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with his secretary.
You're interested in Loretta Leone's autopsy?"
"That's right," Eric said, assuming the man was a resident. "Why, can you help me?"
"That depends on what you're looking for."
"What I'm looking for are some tissue or blood samples," he said.
"And you can't find any?"
"Nothing. People at the M.E."s office think they're here.
"That's strange," the man said.
"Par for the course, I would say." Eric glanced at his watch.
"Listen, I've got to get upstairs. Maybe I can check with you on this later, Where will you be in, say, an hour or two?"
"Probably at.my paper."
"What?"
"I work for the Herald. My name's call Loonies."
Loomis reached out his hand but Eric ignored the gesture.
"Why didn't you say who you were in the first place?" he asked.
Loomis smiled.
"You never asked me," he said. "Now, if it's possible, I'd like to talk to you in more detail about these missing specimens."
"Go to hell," Eric said.
He turned and hurried off down the corridor.
It was after nine before Laura forced herself out of bed and into the shower. For years she had listened to men tell her how beautiful she was, but Eric Najarian was the first to make her feel that way.
She felt reluctant to dress-to end the night that had brought so much pleasure to both of them. Finally she chose an outfit of Slacks and a light pullover-that she felt would not make any particular kind of imp
ression on the police, and headed off.
She was crossing the lobby when the desk clerk motioned her over.
"Excuse me, Miss Enders," he said, "but you have a visitor. He's been waiting quite a while. I told him You probably wouldn't mind his waiting, but he wanted to wait." He gestured toward the front windows, where a uniformed policeman stood watching the passing scene.
His expression gave no indication that such a visitor was anything but commonplace at the Carlisle.
The Officer turned as Laura approached him. He was a young man somewhere between twelve and twenty was Laura's impression. His hat seemed a size too big, and she smiled at the fleeting thought that his service revolver might be something his parents gave him for Christmas.
"I'm Laura Enders " she said. "You're waiting to see me?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Officer MaYer- Captain Wheeler asked me to pick you up and bring you down to headquarters to meet with him. Something about your brother.
':Have they found him?", I don't know, ma'am. I was just asked to pick you up."
Laura wished he would stop calling her ma'am.
She followed him to the patrol car, which was parked out front.
"Is Captain Wheeler involved with missing persons?"
"Yes and no, ma'am," Mayer said. "He's a captain.
He's involved with anything he wants to. be.
"But if your brother's missing, and Captain Wheeler's interested, I would think you have a good chance of finding him."
"Wheeler's that good?"
"The best, I'd say. Certainly the toughest."
"That's nice to hear. It's a coincidence your being here. I Was just on my way to Station Four to file a complaint against a funeral Parlor owner."
"Sure, ma'am."
Laura saw amusement flicker across the young man's face and sensed that she might be in for a long day.
Over the short ride to police headquarters, Laura learned what she could about the man who had sent for her. Wheeler was, according to Officer Mayer, a man who had come up through the ranks and earned his reputation primarily with vice and narcotics. Not too long ago there had been an organized demonstration of protest by a number of uniformed officers when he was passed over for the commissioner's job.
Wheeler's office was located on the third floor of the building Laura had visited on her first day in the city. As the patrolman led her to the elevator, she spotted Sergeant Thomas Campbell taking a statement of some sort from an elderly black woman, and looking every bit as indifferent to her story as he had been to Laura's. As she stepped into the elevator she silently prayed that the encounter with Wheeler would amount to something more than just another set of forms.
Extreme Measures Page 20
