Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

"It's a good job, Arem, believe me. A very good job. How long a wait is there for a table?"

"For you? None." Bozian turned to a small table in the corner where two old men were sipping raki and talking. "Hey, Tomas, Peter, up!" he called out.

"You two have been chattehng long enough. The doctor here is hungry, and so is his beautiful friend the diver."

The old men exchanged a few sentences in Armenian and then drained their glasses and stood up.

In minutes the table had been cleaned and reset for two.

"That's some service," Laura said as they settled into their seats.

"it was you who got them to get up, not Arem or me."

Me.

"They talked it over, and decided that even though you were an odar, you were pretty enough to make way for."

"An odar?"

"That's any woman who isn't Armenian," Eric said.

They ordered dolma and yalanchee-stuffed grape leaves and stuffed cabbage-and chicken with pilaf. By the time their first course arrived, two couples of cousins had stopped by the table for introductions.

Laura heard the word odar several times as they spoke to Eric in Armenian.

"You're a celebrity," she said when they finally had some time alone.

'Nomlty might be a better word."

"I understand. This isn't anything I'm too proud of, but when I was in college I entered and won a beauty pageant. Miss Bain Hocks or something like that. For a time I was a celebrity. Everyone made a fuss over me. I didn't like it very much.

"Well, by now I'm used to it here in Watertown," Eric said. "gut all the attention I get has been really hard on my younger brother."

"There's just the two of you?"

"Uh-huh.-'George dropped out of high school.

He's been in trouble with drugs and alcohol ever since.

"That's terrible. Is he okay now?"

Eric shook his head.

"Are you two close?"

He thought for a time.

"No. Not really," he said. "We're just too different, I guess.

Our parents always held me up to him as an example of how he should-be, and eventually he came to resent everything about me."

"Things can always change, you know."

"Maybe they will some day. I don't think about it much anymore, but hearing you talk about the relationship you have with your brother made me sad that George and I don't get along better."

"I owe a lot to Scott," Laura said.

"Do you want to tell me about him?"

Two glasses of raki arrived at their table as Laura recounted some of the background of her life, and the events leading to her decision to leave Little Cayman.

She took a sip of the clear, oily liqueur, and sputtered.

"You actually drink this?" Her eyes began to water.

"Unless we can put it to better use, like lubricating tractors.

Tell me something. Do you have any evidence, besides the postcards, that indicates your brother's in Boston?"

Laura shook her head.

"Nothing, except… You're probably going to think this is stupid, but several times since I left Cayman, I've felt this really intense closeness to him.

Once was in Virginia at the company he used to work for; once was two nights ago, while I was walking across Boston Common; and once was when you and I met in the emergency room. That time was the strongest of all."

"Are you prone to that kind of experience?"

"Psychic, you mean? Not really. Never that I know of. The feelings are so hard to describe, and they never last long-a minute, two or three at the most. But they're very real, and they help me know I'm doing the right thing."

"I'd like to help you search for him," Eric said. "I could take over canvassing the hospitals."

"That would be wonderful."

"You know, when I called you yesterday I actually thought I might have some information. The picture of Scott on your poster got a rise from one of our nurses."

Laura stiffened. "What kind of a rise?" she asked.

Eric motioned calm with his hands.

"It didn't pan out," he said. "Back in February, I tried but failed to resuscitate a derelict who was found face down in the snow in an alley.

One of the nurses who worked with me that night-her name's Tern Dillard-thought Scott's picture reminded her of the guy.

"A derelict? That doesn't make any sense. Scott earned a really good salary. Besides, I don't ever remember seeing him drink more than a beer or two."

"I told you, the guy wasn't him."

"How do you know'?"

"I know because I went to the funeral home where the body was taken, and saw the identification papers drawn up by the medical examiner, the death certificate, and the order for cremation. He turned out to be a guy from Illinois named Thomas Jordan."

Only then did Laura sink back in her chair.

"Thanks for going to all that trouble," she said. "I… I'm relieved it wasn't him."

"Me too. Believe me." Eric flashed on Thomas Jordan's E.K.G tracing, and on the heart rhythm he had chosen to discount. You don't know how relieved, he thought. "Listen, Laura, if your brother's in Boston, we'll find him. You said the police weren't any help.

Have you considered a private detective?"

Laura told him about her session with Bernard Nelson.

"Did he tell you what to put on your flier?" Eric asked when she had finished.

"As a matter of-fact, he did. Why?"

"Actually, I think the poster is okay, but I wish you had put a few more things on it."

"Like what?"

"Like special interests-sports he played, — distinctive hobbies or habits he might have had."

"I… I told you, he didn't share that much of his life with me — especially over the past few years."

"Was he gay?"

I mean, I don't really know."

"I understand. How about any distinguishing marks-scars or tattoos?"

"No scars that I remember, but he did have a tattoo."

"Well, that's the sort of thing you might add to the poster if you do a second printing. A tattoo, huh.

Somehow that doesn't exactly jibe with the image you've given me of your brother."

Laura smiled wistfully.

"He got it when he was fifteen," she said. "Our parents were very strict, and Scott was sort of… not really wild, but independent-very independent.

Once, after a big blowup, he ran away and hitchhiked to St. Louis for three days. They were absolutely frantic while he was gone.

Anyhow, when he came back, he had a tattoo. He had it done way up on his hip so our parents wouldn't see it when he had a bathing suit on.

The one time he showed it to me, he threatened to cut off all my hair if I ever said anything to them. It was seven or eight more years before they died, and I don't think they ever found out. Isn't that funny?…

Eric?"

Eric had propped his forehead on the heel of his hand, and was staring down at his plate. Slowly, he looked up at her. His eyes were cold and hollow.

"The tattoo," he said hoarsely. "What was it of?"

"Roses. Why?"

"Three roses."

"That's right." She looked at him strangely.

"With writing underneath each one."

Now Laura paled.

"Mom, Dad, and Laurie," she said. "Eric, what's going on?"

Eric ran his fingers through his hair.

"It doesn't make sense," he said.

"What? Please, Eric, what?"

"That derelict, Thomas Jordan. He had that tattoo.

I'm sure of it."

They left the restaurant without finishing dinner, and walked in numb silence through Watertown Square and down along the Charles River.

Overhead, through the hazy reflected glow of the city, flecks of stars dotted the spring sky. Laura slipped her hand into the crook of Eric's arm and pulled him close to her.

"You're really certain?" she asked finally.

"I see a lot of tattoos, many on people I would never have expected to have one. They interest me, so I remember a fair number of them anyhow.

And that one was unique because of where it was, and also because it was beautifully done. It struck me at the time because, frankly, there wasn't anything else the least bit appealing about the man who had it."