Michael Palmer - Fatal

"What's wrong with Rake?"

"He's… sick. Some kinda cancer or somethin' in his back, they said. He kin barely walk, an' he cain't ride his bike at all."

"Show me on you, Becky. Show me where Rake's cancer is."

Becky hesitated, then turned and pointed to her lower back.

"I gotta go now. Thanks for helpin' Samuel."

"Becky, get Bass," Matt said desperately. "Tell him I'm ready to talk. I'm ready to tell him everything."

"You ain't a doctor?"

"I am. Now, please, get him."

"I'm sorry," he heard her say as the door closed.

Matt sensed the woman hurrying away. He should have been harder on her. If she didn't agree to help him, he should have threatened to tell Bass that she had. Stupid. Frustrated, he whipped his manacled hand up with such force that a slice of skin peeled back from his wrist. He barely noticed the pain.

"Bass, I'll talk," he called out, certain his voice hadn't carried past the walls. "Let's make a deal. Come on."

Nothing.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more, before the door opened again. Two bikers, both in black, but neither needing to dress tough in order to look tough, strode in and pulled him roughly to his feet. One of the men — shaved head; broad, flat nose; tattooed neck — unlocked the handcuff on the pipe and secured it to his own wrist.

Thank God, Matt thought. But then, as they led him outside, another, far more ominous thought came to mind. The bikers were making no attempt to conceal their compound from him. In all likelihood, no matter what he did or said, he was a dead man. Scattered in the dense woods, well hidden from above, were ten wooden structures of various sizes. The largest, looking something like an Indian longhouse, had smoke curling from two chimneys. Above the chimneys a broad metal roof, suspended from the trees, diffused the smoke, which carried a distinctive, chemical odor. Opium, Matt guessed. No way they were going to let him go having seen this.

The two men led him across a dirt and pine needle courtyard to a modestly sized rough-hewn house with a small, low front porch. Bass was inside, standing by a bed in what might have once been a living room. Lying on his side on the bed, knees drawn up, was a man so like Bass in appearance that Matt guessed they were twins. A husky woman, her face deeply pocked from burnt-out acne, sat in a wooden rocker in one corner of the room, breast-feeding an unkempt infant who looked as if it might be battling the same germ as Samuel. Rake, pale and sweating, was obviously ill and in pain.

"This here's my brother, Rake," Bass said as the bald one unlocked Matt's manacle. "He's been sick for a couple a weeks with like a cancer on his back. If you're really a doctor, fix him up. If you ain't, I'm gonna put yer eyes out, for starters."

"You're going to kill me anyway," Matt said.

The moment he spoke the words, he knew they were a mistake. Moving like a cobra strike, Bass snatched him by the shirt again, this time lifting his toes clear of the floor.

"Don't fuck with me," he rasped. "And don't fuck with my brother neither."

"Okay, okay. Put me down."

Praying his instincts about Rake's problem were correct, Matt walked around the bed and drew down the sheet. It was as he'd suspected, a gigantic abscess of a congenital remnant, known as a pilonidal cyst, located directly over the tailbone just above the crack between Rake's enormous buttocks. Partially obscuring the abscess, which was six inches from top to bottom and almost certainly down to bone, was a large, geometric tattoo that looked like something drawn with a Spirograph.

"I can fix this," Matt said.

"Ain't no one can fix cancer," one of the bikers said.

"Shut up," Bass snapped.

"This isn't cancer," Matt replied. "It's infection. I need to open it up and wash the pus out. You have anything like a bathtub here? I mean one with hot water. It's got to be big enough for him to fit into."

"Tub's back there," Bass said. "We kin get plenty a hot water from… we got it."

"And soap, like the kind you wash dishes with."

Bass looked over at the nursing mother, who nodded.

"We got that," he said.

"And some rags, a lot of them — the cleaner the better."

Another look, another nod, this time in the direction of the kitchen. One of the bikers went in there and returned quickly with a small armload of rags. He set them where Matt indicated at the foot of the bed.

"Okay, I need a knife — a sharp one."

In an instant, all three bikers had produced blades from nearly invisible sheaths, the smallest of which was half a foot or better.

"Pick one an' don't do nothin' stupid," Bass warned.

Matt chose the smallest knife and hefted it in his hand, examining the point at the same time.

"Finally, I need some hot, soapy water," he said. "Half a pail."

Bass grunted something, and in a minute, the bald biker had left, returned, and set a bucket half filled with sudsy water at Matt's feet.

"Tell him this is going to hurt like hell," Matt said. "A little while after I'm done, much of the pain he's been having should go away."

"You hear that?"

"Tell him to do whatever the fuck he has to," Rake groaned.

Given what awaited within Rake's infected pilonidal cyst, there was no sense in bothering to sterilize the knife or his skin. Matt wrapped a cloth around the blade and held it in place about an inch from the tip.

"Okay, Rake. Ready… and… now!"

He thrust the knife straight in and pulled it straight down through the tattoo, almost two inches. Rake hissed through clenched teeth, but made no other sound. Bloody, foul-smelling pus, under tremendous pressure, spewed from the wound. Much of it hit the cloth surrounding the blade. Some of it actually spattered Matt.

"Soon as he can move, get him into the tub of hot, soapy water," Matt ordered, cleaning the wound out as best he could and rinsing his hands in the bucket of water. "It might sting, but it'll help a lot. Does anybody here have any antibiotics? Now that the infection is open, they might help."

"You're a shitty liar," Bass said. "Becky already told me what you did with Samuel."

Obviously anticipating the need, he tossed over the pillowcase of purloined medications, and Matt selected out the most powerful of them.

"Two of these four times today," he said, wondering if being caught in this particular lie was a minus or a plus, "then one four times a day. He really should be seen at a hospital, but even if you don't take him, this cavity should heal from the inside over two weeks, three tops. Send someone to a store for ten or twelve bottles of peroxide and some gauze bandages. You can wash out the hole with the peroxide and then pack it with the gauze." He glanced down at his unprotected hands and added, "Get a few boxes of rubber gloves, too."

He hesitated, carefully choosing the words to make a sort of deal with Bass. Before he could speak, though, without a word of thanks or warning, Bass motioned with a jerk of his head, and Matt was unceremoniously pulled, almost dragged, from the house and returned to the shed.

"Wait a minute," he complained as Shaved Head locked his cuff back onto the copper pipe. "Wait one fucking minute. I just saved that man's life. No questions asked. Listen, I need to get out of here. My friends are going to die if I don't. Tell Bass I won't ever say anything to anyone about having been here. I promise." The bikers were already headed out. "Stop! This isn't fair! I saved your friend's life!" He was railing at the inside of the closed door. "Goddamn it."

Matt kicked the wall and made yet another fruitless attempt to pull the pipe free. No chance. He was as good as dead. If they let him live, it would only be to care for the cavity he had created in Rake's back.

"You bastards!" he yelled. "Ungrateful bastards!"