Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

There was trouble, serious trouble at the hospital he told Darden-trouble involving Sara Teagarden and a clandestine society called Caduceus. Darden coopy responded that the only trouble at White Memorial of which he was aware involved a resident named Najarian.

Eric stressed his innocence and begged for Darden's forbearance.

He said enough, just enough, he hoped, to whet the man's interest without making him suspicious. Tetrodotoxin was being used at white Memorial, and patients were being harmed. He had proof of that now-irrefutable proof. Several people involved with the secret society had already died violently. He had proof of that as well.

Gradually, but oh so skillfully, Darden suspended his facade of cynicism and doubt and expressed a mild curiosity to learn more. His hand clenched on the receiver, Eric suggested meeting at Darden's lab at four, at which time he promised to present proof of every allegation.

In response to Eric's concern about being seen in the hospital, Darden gave his assurance that no one else would be around.

"Eric, you have generated a great deal of ill will around this hospital in an amazingly short time," Darden said. "I am trusting that what you have to say to me will be the truth, supported not by your speculation but by hard facts. Please do not give me any reason to join those who have closed ranks against you."

"You have my word on it," Eric said. "By the time I'm done, you will believe me. I promise you that."

Eric waited until Darden had hung up before slamming the receiver down.

"Sleazy, smug bastard," he said.

He paced the apartment, marking time in case Laura called, and trying to sort out his approach now that Haven Darden had taken the hook. Assuming the man honored his promise to have his lab deserted by four-and with that assumption Eric felt reasonably safe-there remained only one more detail to see to: a weapon.

By three, Eric had conceived of a solution to that problem as well.

He left the apartment and walked quickly to where his Cefica was parked.

He had a full hour left, but with traffic beginning to build, it would be at least a ten- or fifteen-minute drive to and from the Metropolitan Hospital of Boston.

Bernard Nelson tightened his seat belt for the fourth time stnce takeoff, and silently prayed that the huevos rancheros he had been foolish enough to have for breakfast would find some sort of quiet resting place within his body.

The Cessna 172 was patched in places with duct tape, but its owner and pilot, a man named Chippy, seemed interested enough in his own survival to dispel the most strident of Nelson's misgivings. It would have helped, Bernard acknowledged, if he had a better idea of what they were looking for in the craggy desert west of Moab. But what he did know was that the late Donald Doe had made any number of trips to Moab, and had filled up twice in the area almost every time.

The man had to have driven somewhere.

He also knew, from an hour's experience, that asking the laconic residents and gas station attendants of the town if they had seen a hearse cruising off into the desert was not the quickest way to make friends or gain confidences.

"How much fuel do we have left, Chippy?" he asked.

"Another hour, m'be," the pilot said. "How far we go on't'pends on the wind."

Chippy was a dark, weathered man in his fiftiesIndian or part Indian, Bernard guessed. He flew with effortless confidence, and spoke in a patois that was, at times, almost unintelligible. It seemed as if he left out almost as many syllables as he pronounced. Bernard checked the detailed map he had bought in town.

"In that case," he said, "let's fly to Hanksville, and then over to St.

Joseph. Can we do that?"

"we can. Ain't nothin't' either place, though."

"That's okay. Try to stay around three hundred feet if you can."

"It'd help if ya knew whachas looking' for."

"I know it would." Bernard thought for a time, then decided to chance adding one more name to the list of those who thought him crazy.

"Chippy, someone's been driving out here at least once a month.

From what I can tell, he was driving a hearse. I'm trying to figure out where he was going, and what he was up to."

The pilot, who seemed unsurprised by the revelation, drummed his fingers on the control wheel.

Then he put on his earphones and motioned for Bernard to do the same.

"Moab, this's Cessna Two One Papa Delta," he said into his radio.

"D'ya copy? Repeat, this's Two One Papa Delta calm' Moab Air."

"We hear you, Chippy," a voice crackled.

"Morton, put Marianne on, will ya?" He turned to Bernard. "Jes'had me a thought," he said.

"Hi, Chippy, it's Marianne."

"Say, beautiful, how's it going'?"

"You coming back soon?"

" 'Nother hour, m'be. We're out here 'bout twenty miles north of Hanksville. Do you 'member a ways back tellin' me 'bout some ghost town near here?"

"That'd be Charity. It ain't no ghost town, though.

It's a hospital of some sort now. A mental hospital, if you can believe that. Set up, oh, two or three years ago. But the head doctor there sent a notice around forbiddin' any overflights."

Bema.Td nodded quickly.

"Jes' wonderin', thassall," Chippy gaid. "Who'bouts is't anyway?"

"Twenty or twenty-five miles west of St. Joe's.

Don't you cause no trouble, now, Chippy Smith. For all I know they're listening to us right now."

"Hey, do I cause trouble? Well, we'll jes' be swingin' by Hanksville an' back. See you in a hour.

Papa Delta out."

"Can you find it, Chippy?" Nelson asked.

"I kin try."

Bernard gazed down at the vast, ruiz ed terrain, rocky and barren of all but the simplest vegetation, yet in its way serenely beautiful. Of primary interest to him, though, were the dirt roads and tire tracks that from time to time skimmed past.

They had flown northwest for twenty minutes when Bernard caught the flash of sunlight off something metal or glass.

"Chippy, there, over there," he said. "Did you see it?"

The pilot nodded and banked to the east. It took another five minutes of circling before they spotted the Jeep, which was largely covered with dust and from the air by a rocky to 120 feet and made a was an elongated moun(of dirt. Protruding from the mound were what looked like shoes and pieces of clothing.

"Can you set us down?" Bernard asked.

"If I do, the takeoff's gonna use up our remaining fuel."

"Can we still get back to Moab?"

"Pro'bly."

"Go for it."

Smith shrug ed and pulled back up to 200 feet.

Minutes later, he dropped down over what might have been a roadway or dried-up creek bed, and neatly set the Cessna down in a cloud of dust and pebbles.

"You're a hell of a pilot," Bernard said.

Chippy smiled. "I try," he said.

They located the Jeep with little difficulty. Its canvas roof was intact, although covered with half an inch of fine sand. Together, they walked around to the mound they had seen. TWo skeletons, locked in each other's arms, lay in the shadow of the vehicle. Their tattered sneakers and the bleached white stalks of their legs protruded obscenely from beneath the covering dust.

"You can wait over there for me if you want," Bernard said. "I'm going to try and figure out who they are."

"Ain't much that upsets me," Chippy Smith said.

They used a rag from the Jeep to brush the dust away from the bodies.

The flesh had largely rotted or been eaten away from the two skulls, but from the ragged clothing, jewelry, and what hair and gristle remained, they were able to determine that what they were seeing had once been man and woman.

Bernard knelt beside the two forms and caught a whiff of the fading scent of death. He noticed the bulge of a wallet in the jeans of one of them, and reached for it. The pocket fell open at his touch.