Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

They walked down a row of slate benches covered with thousands of dollars'worth of idle equipment and incubators, and entered Darden's spacious office overlooking the Charles.

"I prefer this space to my office in the department of medicine," he explained.

"I can see why."

"Looking down on the passing scene has such a calming effect, don't you think?" He gazed out at the river for a moment, then turned back to Eric. "So, now we must talk some voodoo."

"Do you know it well?"

Darden smiled enigmatically.

"Does anybody? I suppose there are those who would consider me something of an expert. Although I left Haiti as a child, I have a small clinic in Port-auprince, and much family in the city of Cap-Haitien on the north coast. My wife and daughter and I return' there frequently."

"And do you believe there are zombies?"

"In Haiti, I do. I have no doubt whatsoever. Certain people, usually those who have committed some sort of offense against their fellows, are found guilty by a people's court, usually presided over by a houngan-a priest. The offenders learn that they have been condemned to a living death. So strong are their beliefs in the Haitian way and in the powers of the houngan that they are quite literally powerless to stem their fate. They are caused, in some way, to cgme in contact with a coup poudre-a mystical powder. Soon after, they fall into a helpless trancelike state, are buried for a time, and then are brought back to this world, usually in a state of diminished mental and physical capacity."

And the zombi poison, this coup poudre?"

Darden shook his head.

"I believe in hypnosis and the power of the mind," he said. "I believe that those who believe, in the very fiber of their being, that they are cursed to die can make themselves do so; and those who believe they are to lie in the state of the undead can also do so. I have seen men told under hypnotic trance that they are to be touched with a hot poker, and then raise a blister at the site where they are grazed by a pencil eraser.

I have seen yogis sealed in caskets for many hours without apparent adverse effects. But as for a poison that can accomplish the transformation from living being to zombi, I'm afraid not."

"So you see all this as psychologically based-a cultural phenomenon, and not something biochemical?"

"Tetrodotoxin is an awesomely toxic substance.

Highly trained Japanese chefs can prepare fugu dishes with a far from lethal dose. But there is no way a houngan, grinding fish in an earthen bowl or tin can, then applying the substance to a victim's skin, can approach the line of death without consistently going over it.

Perhaps he might augment the strength of his hypnotic suggestion with a bit of biochemical tingle, but not with anything like what you are suggesting! There is no controllable metabolic toxin, so There is no true zombi poison. It is as simple as that."

"Are there any studies you know of reviewing the cardiovascular effects of tetrodotoxin poisoning?"

"Ah, your E.K.GS. I would suggest that if you sit down with one of our cardiology friends, you will learn that this pattern is not at all uncommon in terminal hearts. We just don't bother to take the tracing all that often."

"Perhaps," Eric said.

'You don't sound convinced."

"There's a lot at stake. Beginning with Reed Marshall's career."

"Well, I can only tell you what I can tell you. A few years ago a Harvard ethnobotanist created a stir surrounding tetrodotoxin and zombies. Since then there has been a flood of letters and articles refuting his claims."

"That's what Dr. Blunt said."

"You spoke with him, then?"

"Yes.

"And he concurred with what I have told you?"

"Yes, he did-."

"Then when will enough be enough for you?"

Eric stood and gathered his notes.

"Not just yet," he said.

"I assure you, Eric, in this area there is a sharp drop-off around here after Dr. Blunt and myself."

"Well, sir, I have a free evening and my county Library card.

If nothing else, maybe I can close that drop-off a bit."

"Maybe you can at that," Haven Darden said, looking at him thoughtfully.

"Maybe you can."

From the day Eric first set foot in the county Medical Library, the airy, regal structure with its wide circular stairways and glassed study carrels had been a special retreat for him.

Whether he was working deep in the stacks, or in the silent coccoon of a carrel, hours often passed like minutes. At one stretch, while researching a particularly interesting case, he had been the last to leave the place so many nights that one librarian had called him an "academic barfly." It was early evening. Eric spread his notes on a reading table near the card catalogue and began to work his way through the file caras containing the extensive bibliography he had drawn up.

The approach, which would save time and trips into the stacks, was one he had worked out over his years of study in the place. He noted down the library number and location of the volumes he would need, while Organizing his cards by stack section.

The Indian Journal of Medical Research Toxicon… Caribbean Quarterly … Many of the references were so obscure that only a facility like the county in a city the size of Boston could house or quickly borrow them. Eric started with aconite and then amanita. The filtered light of day yielded to the fluorescence of the library as he worked his way through various sections of the stacks, lugging armloads of musty volumes back to his worktable. Within two hours he had read enough to eliminate both toxins as likely possibilities. Only the reference cards pertaining toteotoxin remained.

Pharmacologic Reviews… Kyusha University Medical News…

Ethnopharmacology… Stretching the stiffness from his neck, Eric began the final phase of his search. Within half an hour he was sitting on the edge of his table, bewildered. Many of the volumes in his bibliography-far more than half-were missing from the stacks.

With memories of the missing specimens of Loretta Leone still fresh in his mind, he checked with a librarian and assured himself that none of the volumes could be taken out of the library.

They had either been stolen, misplaced in the stacks, or were in use somewhere in the library.

Theft, Eric was told, while certainly a problem, was less of one in the county than at many other libraries. So together, he and the librarian rechecked the stacks and then began working their way toward each other from opposite sides of the building, checking each table and study carrel. In just a few minutes the young librarian, much relieved, hurried over to him. The volumes, every one of them, were in use.

She pointed across the library to a worktable that was set apart from the others. Along the edge of the table, stacks of bound journals formed a wall, obscuring the person using them from view.

Eric thanked the librarian, made his way past the card catalogues and tables, and peered over the wall of books. A black woman, her jet hair pulled back in a tight bun, was taking notes on an article in the Journal of Tropical Diseases. Eric waited a few seconds to be noticed, then cleared his throat. The woman finished writing a sentence before she looked up.

She was in her early or mid-twenties, and was absolutely stunning.

Her wide dark eyes graced a face that was as smooth, as perfectly shaped and sensual, as any he had ever seen; and her ornate gold earrings and agate necklace, quite possibly picked off a vendor's tray on Boylston Street or Harvard Square, looked priceless on her.

"Hi," Eric managed. "I've been searching for YOU."

"For me?"

Her expression was less open than it might have been, and beneath her remarkable beauty Eric sensed an intensity that made him a bit uneasy.