Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

Barber or check on the program. But the clinic was off limits to everyone else.

Pike handed his daily roster over to Barber and left to wait in the east end observation hut. In half an hour or so Barber would notify him by two-way that the patients were ready to return to their beds.

If there was a problem of any kind, Barber would signal him by radio or by a "panic button," which would sound an outside alarm. But in almost two years there had been no such emergency. or, Garrett Pike knew, would there be one tonight.

As far as he could tell, the Charity Project was functioning as close to perfection as any program-government or otherwise-that he had ever heard of.

Dr. James Barber sat on the edge of the waiting room desk, studying the records of the three men seated placidly before him. He was wearing a white clinic coat, dress shirt, string tie with turquoise clasp, and highly polished western boots. In the pockets of his clinic coat were a stethoscope, a reflex hammer, an ophthalmoscope, and a customized, bone-handled Beretta.25.

"Well, Bob," he said, "it looks like just a once-over and an injection for you tonight. No blood tests. Charlie, Dan-you two just stay put while I check over your friend here and give him his medicine."

The two patients with patches reading CHARLIE and DAN sewn on above their breast pockets, sat dutifully as the third man was led into a small examining room just off the waiting area. After donning rubber gloves, Barber checked the man's blood pressure and temperature, listened to his heart and lungs, and then checked his eyes, abdominal organs, reflexes, balance, and response to light pain and vibration.

"You're doing fine, Bob, just fine," he said. "Your memory seems to be shot, but otherwise there's not a hint of that viral encephalitis. I think we can consider you a cure. How does it feel to be part of medical history?"

Barber paused a beat for a response, but knew there would be none.

If he had chosen to start the Man's treatment earlier, there was every reason to belie that not nearly so much mentation would have been lost.

He made a note to confirm that theory on the next patient with equine encephalitis virus. But for now, the best he could do was to continue observation on the man and with time, perhaps, reduce his tranquilizers.

He stepped back, admiring his patient as if he were a hard-won tennis trophy. Another cure. Carditis, fulminant hepatitis, and now encephalitis; and promising results with two leukemias and one of the AIDS patients. Caduceus would be pleased, he thought. The Charity Project was well ahead of the timetable they had set. And of course, that also meant that one Dr. James Barber was closer than ever to the good things-the really good things-in life.

Barber took a filled syringe from the drawer beneath the examining table.

"Okay now, Bobby," he sang, "just lower your trousers for your shot."

"I… don't… want… to," the man said. Each word was forced.

"My, but you are a feisty one," Barber said.

"Maybe you still have some more recovery in you after all. But understand this, my friend: What you want or don't want doesn't matter here. we've told you that.

It's what you need that counts. And what you need right now is this shot. Now, just do as I say."

"I… don't… want… to," Bob mumbled again, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

"Right now!" Barber commanded.

Still mumbling, Bob undid his trousers and let them fall to his ankles.

He was wearing no underwear.

Barber clucked his tongue reprovingly.

"Bob, Bob, Bob. How many times do we have to tell You: We don't want our patients running around without their underwear. Nasty germs can get into places where they shouldn't and raise all kinds of havoc.

Is that clear, Bob?… I asked, is that clear?"

He slammed his fist on the desk.

Slowly, Bob nodded.

"Good," Barber said. He opened an alcohol swab.

"Now Turn around, Bob. This goes in the behind."

Bob hesitated, then mechanically did as he was asked.

"Oh, yes," Barber exclaimed, "I remember you now-the one with the rose tattoo. Anna Magnani, Burt Lancaster-I loved that movie. Well, Bob, whoever Mom, Dad, and Laurie are, I'm sure they'd be very proud of the sacrifice you're making. So here you go. Bend over and let's take another step toward your place in history-and mine on the Riviera."

Barber swabbed a spot just to the side of the tattoo, buried the needle to the hilt, and depressed the plunger.

The man named Bob reacted not at all.

Beacon Hill, largely pared down in the nineteenth century to fiR in the Back Bay, was overbuilt with brownstones and low apartment buildings set along a tangle of narrow streets and alleys. its varied blocks were home to many of Boston's elite, but also to transients and virtually every class in between. Even though Eric had a Beacon hill resident's sticker on His Cehca, the drive there from Watertown took considerably less time than it did to find a place to park.

"Do you go through this every time you bring your car home?" Laura asked.

"Parking is only half the fun," Eric said. "The other half is the excitement of wondering whether your car win still be there when you want to use it again." "That isn't much of a problem on Little Cayman.

There are only six cars and three pickups on the whole island."

"The lines to get resident parking stickers must be very short."

They found Thaddeus Bushnell's home with no difficulty. It was a run-down structure on the lower portion of the hill, the side farthest away from Eric's apartment. There were three floors in the old brownstone, but only one window on the first was lit.

"How're you holding up?" Eric asked, as he scanned the place.

"I'm upset, and bewildered as hell."

"You're certainly not the only one. I promise we're going to figure this madness out though."

"I know. It really helps to feel I'm not in this alone anymore.

Eric, I'm sorry if I keep harping back to this question, but are you sure about the tattoo?"

"Believe me, I wish I weren't. I'm not sure why, even, but the memory of it is very clear to me. Much clearer than Scott's-I mean, the patient's face."

"You don't have to watch your words with me.

Remember, I lived through my parents' death. I just can't believe this, that's all. When I left Cayman to begin looking for Scott, I purposely began preparing myself for the worst. But not something like this."

"Just hang in there a little longer."

For the briefest moment an E.K.G pattern flashed in Eric's thoughts-wide electrical complexes, spaced at eight-second intervals, gliding across an endless monitor screen.

The man was clinically dead, he told himself.

There was nothing more that should have been done.

He chased the pattern from his mind and rang the buzzer. They waited, and then he rang again.

"No one's home," Laura said.

Eric rang a third time, more persistently. They heard the sound of someone moving inside.

"What do you want?"

The voice was thick and raspy. "Dr. Bushnell?"

"What do you want?"

"Dr. Bushnell, my name is Dr. Eric Najarian. I'm a resident at White Memorial. We need to speak with you."

"Go away," the voice said.

"Dr. Bushnen, please. It's very important."

"Nothing involving me is very important. Go away."

They sensed the man beginning to retreat from the door. Eric, pressed the bell again.

"It involves the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home," Laura called out.

A few seconds of silence, and then the door opened a crack. An old man peered out over the safety chain. He was in his seventies at least, and was dressed in a robe and slippers. His silver hair was a disheveled mop. And even from several feet away, Eric could smell alcohol.