Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

"That's very sad," Eric murmured, "and very terming." He had not the least doubt that what he was hearing was true. He gazed across at the broken old man, and then reached out and held one bony hand in his.

"I am very sorry for what has befallen you, sir", he said. 'And I am very grateful that you would share your story with me."

"As you might guess," Anna said, "my uncle served the houngan's purpose well. The beast has met little resistance since then. The merchants pay, and the children buy his drugs. And we have no more idea who he is now than we did when he first appeared on the scene."

At once fascinated and fearful, Eric tried to create a scenario whereby Scott Enders and Loretta Leone would have been intentionally poisoned.

Both were street people Perhaps they had seen something, or learned of something, that threatened the priest and his operation.

"Anna, is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"Anything at all?"

"Perhaps," she said, after thinking over his request. "Perhaps there is. Dunn's payment demands have been increasing steadily. Once again there is a small group who is willing to stand up to him, if they can. I am part of that group, Eric. We have begun meeting.secretly to try and form a plan, but we are still frightened-very frightened.

Dunn is as ruthless and sadistic as a man can be. He has many spies and informants, and may already know us. But we do not know him.

We have no one to strike at, and no support from outside our community.

And worst of all, he has the terror of the coup poudre.

"Talk to people, Eric. See if you can get some of your doctor friends or, better still, someone in the police Department interested in this."

She wrote a number down and handed it to him. "Please be careful, and do not return to this store without calling me."

Eric glanced at his watch. It was twenty of eleven.

"I need to think about all this, Anna," he said.

"Then I'll call — you."

"Whatever you decide to do or not do will be understood," she promised.

"Uncle, you can go upstairs now."

They waited until Titus Mennilard had shuffled off, and then they left his shop. Sproul Court was deserted and totally silent, save for the faint rumble of traffic from the thoroughfare several blocks away.

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" Eric asked.

"No, thanks. I don't live too far from here, and I need the air."

"That was a terrifying story your uncle just told."

"I hope you believe it."

"How could I not?"

"And I hope you will find a way to help us. I sensed in the library that you were the sort of man who might. That is the real reason I chose to share this with you."

Anna looked at him in a way that made his mouth go dry; "I 4 call you," he managed. "At least I can promise you-" Eric's words were cut short by a hand clasped tightly over his mouth from behind. His head was pulled back and a long, razorlike stiletto was set against his throat.

At virtually the same instant, a tall black man pulled Anna back by the hair and slipped the broad blade of a hunting knife beneath her chin.

"Not a word," he ordered. "Not a fucking word or you're both dead."

Eric's heart, driven by a sudden flood of adrenal e, in began pounding mercjlessly- The powerful hand across his mouth pulled even more tightly. Eric felt his lip split. Then he felt the dagger break skin.

"Please," he rasped.

"Shut up!"

Eric sensed blood beginning to trickle down his chest. He tried to look over at Anna, but the hand held him too tightly. Then, without lowering their knives, the two men half-dragged, half-shoved them several doors down the street to the only storefront on the block that was boarded up.

I.So," the man holding Anna said in a rich Island accent, "word has it that you are interested in challenging the power of the spirits and their priest, and the coup poudre. Why, my beautiful friend, perhaps you are about to get that chance."

In response to a tap from the man's boot, the solid wooden door opened, and Eric and Anna Delacroix were shoved rudely onto the floor inside.

Not in his worst nightmares had Eric conjured a situation more terrifying than the hell he was living through this night. He and Anna Delacroix were gagged, their arms and ankles lashed to their chairs in a room heavy with incense and glowing with the flickering light of several dozen candles. Two decapitated chickens, hanging from a rafter, dripped blood onto the floor between their feet, forcing them to keep their knees spread apart to avoid being soiled. Around the dingy room hung bones some of them human-sized-fluid-filled glass jars containing the bodies of toads and snakes, and carelessly tied bunches of what appeared to be dried weeds and wild flowers. On two sides of the room, surrounded by candles, were bizarre altars, each featuring a cluster of a dozen or more cheap plastic or ceramic figurines-statuettes of women and cowboys, clowns and madonnas, cupids and dogs. Resting on a dish at the center of each cluster was the head of a recently slaughtered chicken.

The two men who had captured them at knife point had changed into loose blood-red robes, smeared white greasepaint around their eyes, and now knelt across from each other, hammering out rhythms on broad hand-hewn drums. Every two minutes or so, they paused to smoke what smelled like hashish from a dual-throated hookah.

With the gag pulled tightly between his teeth, Eric had to struggle just to breathe. His torn lower lip was throbbing, was his right elbow, which had slammed against the floor when he was thrown down.

Beside him, Anna Delacroix stared stoically ahead, unwilling to give the men the pleasure of seeing her fear. Initially, after the two of them had been secured to their chairs, the men had teased her-touching her face and breasts and making lewd remarks. After a time, though, her silent, contemptuous glare seemed to spoil their sport. ten minutes had elapsed since they were tied down. The two men, for all their gestures and-threats, had done little else, and seemed to be biding their time-waiting for something or someone. Suddenly, without any obvious signal, they stopped pounding on their drums. The taller one stood before them.

"The, Holy One, the Voice of the Spirits, approaches,' he said.

"I shall remove the bonds around your mouths, but only if you promise that not a word will be spoken by either of you unless asked for by the Holy One. Do I have that promise?"

Eric nodded, but Anna continued to stare straight ahead.

"Do I?" the man yelled at her.

Still she would not respond. Eric's gag was removed, hers left in place. He ran his tongue over the slice in his lip. He tested the tightness of the clothesline that was pinning his arms to the chair.

Without help, he knew there was not a chance of freeing himself, not in a thousand years. He began calming himself, forcing himself to concentrate on the situation. It was a process he had used hundreds of times in the E.R. over the years, but there he was always in control.

The pounding in his ears and the spasms in his belly refused to abate.

He glanced over at Anna. She remained quiet, but below the fetters on her wrists, her fists were tight and bloodless. Despite his promise of silence, Eric could not contain his fear.

"Please," he said. "Please listen to me."

The tall man stood, poised to replace Eric's gag.

Then he stopped as the door to the back room opened and a man stepped out. Actually, Eric realized, it was impossible to know for certain the new arrival's gender or, for that matter, his race. He wore a flowing, hooded white robe, gloves, and an intensely frightening fullfaced mask with a death's-head painted on it.

But even more terrifying than the priest's appearance was the large ceramic bowl cradled in his left arm. Using a heavy wooden pesde, he continued to grind down something in the bowl as he glided to a chair facing them and sat. Eric knew what that bowl contained.