Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

"COmmunigistics," Laura said.

"Pardon?"

"NOthing- I just think I know who he worked for."

"Perhaps you do. well, this Past winter your brother was working undercover on loan to us. He was trying to break a drug-smuggling ring operating through the port in Easc Boston. It's our belief that he filmed a very big deal involving some people we've been trying to nail for a long time."

"A videotape?" Laura could feel puzzle pieces dropping into place.

"Exactly," Wheeler said, "We believe that Scott was taken somehow, and-I'm sorry to say it this way-perhaps even tortured."

"It's an occupational hazard your brother lived with.

"This is all so hard for me to believe."

"If it was easy for you to believe," Wheeler said, "then your brother wouldn't have been very effective at what he did."

"I understand. Go on."

"Our sources have convinced us that, whatever they put Scott through, he didn't crack. In fact, he nearly escaped."

"Do you know for certain that he's dead?"

"If you mean do we have his body, the answer is no. He probably drowned in Boston Harbor."

"He may not have," Laura said.

She recounted Eric's resuscitative attempts on the derelict, and their subsequent visits to the Gates of Heaven.

"When your man picked me up, I was actually on my way here to file a complaint against Donald Devine," she concluded.

"Interesting," Wheeler said. "Very interesting.

Miss Enders, I'm not sure what to make of your story about this Devine, but I can't begin to tell you how badly we want that tape."

"I… I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Your brother never communicated with you, however innocently?"

"Never. Except for an occasional phone call, these postcards are all I've ever gotten." She handed him the small stack of cards from Boston.

"There's one other thing I haven't told you yet," she said when Wheeler had finished scanning the postcards. "The day before yesterday, Eric and I received a message to check the East Boston docks for news of my brother." She handed him the note and described the events that followed.

"Do you have any idea who saved you?" Wheeler asked.

"I was hoping you might know."

The policeman shook his head.

"Obviously the Feds are playing their own game here," he said.

"They probably sent you as a way of speeding things up.

Perhaps they knew that Scott had been working around this warehouse.

The man who Saved your bacon had probably been following You. Miss Enders, excuse me for pressing, but this is so important- You have no inkling whats over of where your brother might have hidden the video receiver?"

"Absolutely-none."

"Well then," Wheeler said, "suppose we leave things at this: As soon as I have time, I'll see what explanations your friend Mr, Devine has regarding this whole business with that body. You really think it was your brother?"

"I do."

"All right. I'll look into that. Mean while, if you're going to stay in Boston, I'd like you to keep me aware of any developments such as that note. But let me say this: If I were you, I'd catch the next plane back to your island. Some very bad people think you know where that tape is. And if they're who I think they are, they don't stop until they have what they want. Things could get real ugly."

Laura did not respond right away. She stared down at the floor, biting her lower lip as an enormous sadness settled in her breast. The confusion and uncertainty had lifted, but in their place was a heavy gloom. She had no remaining doubt that Scott was dead. Nor did she question how he had died.

Clearly, the derelict disguise he had adopted was part of his undercover work, and equally clearly, the escape from his captors had led to his death-perhaps from exposure, perhaps from internal injuries.

Eric's theories about a poison no longer made much sense. The similarities between Scott's cardiogram and that of Reed Marshall's patient were, in fact, coincidental. Now, as far as she was concerned, there remained only the side issue of Donald Devine and exactly what he was doing with bodies. And at best, Captain Lester Wheeler seemed only passingly interested in that situation.

She promised her full cooperation, thanked the policeman for his help, and left, vowing that, if nothing else, she would see her battle with the Gates of Heaven through to the end.

Laura left Police Headquarters and wandered along Tremont Street toward the Common. She had no particular destination in mind, and no particular desire other than to walk until her legs ached too much to continue. She thought about her parents, and actually smiled at the notion of their reaction had they arrived to learn what profession their son had finally chosen. At one point they had pushed Scott into the local 4H Club and insisted that he begin grooming himself for farming.

She skirted the Common and wandered past the Combat Zone to Chinatown- On a whim she stopped at a phone booth and tried calling Eric at White Memorial. She hung up when the operator asked for an additional deposit while she was still on hold. There would be plenty of time to fill him in later that night.

She crossed the turnpike on Harrison Avenue and drifted away from the downtown area. She felt drained, deflated. Her search for Scott was, to all intents, over.

What remained was no more than the thankless struggle to expose what had been done with his body. it helped her to think naively and romantically of what he actually did in his job, the lives he had saved by intercepting drug shipments; of the assassins he had eliminated.

A group of youths, sitting on an outside stairway, whistled and made a number of lewd requests. Laura was not even aware of them. She glanced over at her reflection in a shop window. Scott had accomplished so much in his life, made such a difference. She had spent years struggling just to connect with herself.

Perhaps it was time she explored her capabilities, her capacity for helping others. There were a number of excellent physical therapy programs in Massachusetts. If by some miracle Eric managed to stay on at White Memorial, they could continue their relationship while she went to school.

She noticed a cluttered secondhand store across the street and cut diagonally across toward it. The roar of the accelerating car engine was no more than the faintest background noise to her until she caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye. By the time she sensed danger, the chance to react properly had passed.

"Laura, watch out!"

The shout-a man's voice from somewhere behind her-only further confused her and kept her from effective action. She was frozen, dead center in the intersection. The car, a large black domestic model, was bearing down on her with terrifying speed, lining her up for impact with the very center of the grill. She turned to run, but the driver needed only a minuscule adjustment to keep her locked between the headlights. Her last thought was the totally irrational impulse to avoid the impact by jumping up and over the hood. Before she could do anything, though, she was hit-not by the car but from behind. A pair of hands shoved her viciously in the small of her back, sending her sprawling to the pavement, away from the auto's path he whirled as she fell, landing heavily on — her shoulder at the instant the speeding car hit the man who had pushed her. His body careened upward off the hood, hit the roof line just above the windshield, and sailed a dozen or more feet in the air. It landed with a sickening, lifeless thud as the dark sedan screeched off down the street.

Gasping for breath, mindless of the scrapes on her legs and elbows, Laura scrambled across the road on her hands and knees. The man, lying on his back, was shattered. A pool of blood expanded obscenely from beneath his head, which was bent at a grotesque angle to his neck.