Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

She pushed back from the table. Her jeans and loose beige sweater failed to hide a figure that was at once slender and full-breasted.

"Actually, what I've been searching for are these," he said, gesturing to the volumes and wondering if the sudden dryness in his mouth and thickness in his lips and tongue were noticeable in his speech.

The woman eyed him curiously for a moment and then said simply, "Take whichever ones you want. Just bring them back when you're done."

"Thanks, I appreciate that." Eric tucked several of the books in one arm and the woman returned to her notes. "Are you a med student?" he asked, reluctant to leave.

"PhD" she said without looking up.

"Oh."

He waited for more, then shrugged and turned away.

"I'm sorry," he heard her say. "I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just under a lot of pressure to get this work done."

"I understand," he said, turning back. "Is your thesis in toxicology?"

"Sort of " She ran her finger absently down one pile of volumes.

"I'm in the department of anthropology at B.U. My work is on the use of pharmacoactive substances in the religious rites of certain Third World countries." Well, you're incredibly beautiful. Eric stopped himself at the last instant from saying the words. He would hardly have been the first to say them-the urge to do so was almost knee-jerk.

"Well, thanks for sharing these," he said instead.

"I'll bring them back for an exchange when I'm done.

Are you going to be here long?"

"Probably until closing."

"See you later then."

Once again Eric had to force himself to Turn away from her. He was very happily in the process of falling in love with Laura Enders, but he suspected that no man, however committed, would have reacted differently.

Over the hour that followed he made two more trips to the woman's table to exchange books. With each visit he learned a bit more about her. Her name was Anna Delacroix. She had finished her required course work at Boston University, and was just beginning the writing phase of a thesis probing the connection between certain African and New 'Abrld cultures as manifest through their ritual use of psychoactive drugs. She had traveled extensively, first through Europe and Asia as a high-fashion model, and later, on her own, through Africa and the Caribbean basin.

Eric's initial impression of her intensity was, it seemed, quite on the mark.

"The life you've led sounds exciting," he remarked as he made his third exchange of journals.

"I have seen many things on my travels that you simply would not believe," she said, with no particular emphasis.

"Such as?"

Fascinated now, Eric circled to her side of the table.

Anna Delacroix stopped what she was doing and eyed him as she had when they first met, perhaps deciding whether he was someone worth sharing such stories with. Then she said simply, "I have seen a man fly."

By this time Eric knew far better than to be flip with her. And there was nothing in her manner, her voice, or the almost mystical glow in her eyes to encourage him otherwise.

"Tell me about it, please," he said.

"Are you really interested?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Sit then. Do you know of the country Gabon?" she asked.

Her focus was now locked on his face, and whether unsettled by her beauty or the deep commitment in her eyes, Eric had trouble holding her gaze.

"I know it's in Africa," he said.

"West Africa, actually. On the coast. I heard Of a priest in the central highlands of that country who could levitate himself, and I sought him out."

"You traveled alone to these places?"

"When necessary. I assure you, Dr. Eric, I can take very good care of myself I found the village, and grew to know the man. We spoke for hours each night.

Still, it was nearly two weeks before he would show me what he could do.

One evening, just after sunset, while there was still much light in — the sky, he climbed to the top of a tower made of bamboo.

The topmost platform of the tower was, I was told, nearly thirty meters-ninety feet-high. For several minutes the priest stood right on the edge of the platform, his arms stretched straight out like wings.

From where I sat he was a black crucifix against the deepest blue sky you could imagine. It was an incredible, incredible sight.

Then he simply leaned forward and floated free of the platform.

Eric tried to remain expressionless, but he knew she could read the incredulity in his eyes.

"In answer to the questions you are too polite to ask," she went on,

"no, I did not take anything at all, and yes, he did, although he wouldn't tell me what. It took perhaps ten minutes for him to drift to the ground. it could have been much longer. I was so mesmerized by what I was witnessing that I lost all track of time."

" tricks?"

She shook her head. "No tricks," she said. "At least not the kind you mean."

"Photos?"

"He wouldn't allow it. And frankly, I had no desire to take them. it was neither his wish nor mine that I go out and convince the world of what he could do.

He knew, his people knew, and I knew, and that was quite enough."

"Well, now-I know," Eric said.

"Yes, but you don't believe it. It's written all over your face."

"Not that long ago, you would have been right. I wouldn't have believed your account. But what you see in me now is astonishment, mixed perhaps with skepticism, not disbelief. I'm a good doctor, Anna, and yet, I'm here plowing through these volumes because of a growing belief that both I and a friend of mine, who is also a fine physician, have each recently pronounced patients dead in our hospital who were, in fact, very much alive."

The woman glanced at the volumes. Then she nodded and smiled knowingly, as if the pieces of a puzzle had fallen in place.

"Tetrodotoxin," she said, almost reverently.

"Exactly. Do you know much about it?"

"I do. For one thing, it will most likely be a full chapter in my thesis, if not more. And for another, some of my roots are Haitian-my father, I have been told, though I never knew him, was born there."

"Do you believe the drug has the power to slow metabolism without stopping it? To take a body to the line of death without crossing over?"

"Do you?"

"I… I don't know what to believe.

Once again Anna Delacroix's eyes held fire.

"The drug can do what you ask… and more," she said.

Eric felt her energy, her heat. He ran the edge of his hand across the sweat on his forehead.

"How do you know?" he asked hoarsely. "Is there proof? Proof a scientist could not refute?"

For more than a minute she said nothing. Eric studied her exquisite face, her perfect mouth, and silently prayed that she would at least share with him what she knew.

Finally she took one of her file cards, carefully printed an address on it, and passed it to him.

"This place is in Allston," she said. "Can you find it?"

He glanced at the card. "I can find it."

"Ten o'clock tonight, then. Come alone and meet me there, Dr. Eric, and you shall have your proof."

She stood. "Perhaps when this night is over, you will know in your heart that there are those who can fly… and those who can die without dying."

She turned quickly, picked up her notes and her jacket, and moments later was gone.

Shielded by a new-moon darkness, Laura and Bernard Nelson made their way from the alley where he had parked, down several more alleys, and finally across the street to the entrance of the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home. For two hours they had placed periodic calls to the mortuary, each time reaching only Donald Devine's answering machine.

Finally, Nelson had shrugged and said simply, "I guess we go."

The detective carried with him a small black medical bag, containing what he called his "tools of truth"-two powerful-penlights, various Exacto knives, screwdrivers, tape, a crowbar, pliers, a voltage meter and battery-powered soldering iron, wire, suction cups, a ring of keys and other odly cut pieces of metal… and one Littman Cardiosonic stethoscope.