Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

"Richard Colson, Santa Barbara, California," he read, sadly looking from the sniffing face in the driver's license photo to the grotesquely grinning skull.

Chippy found a purse on the floor of the Jeep, and from the wallet inside they learned the name and face of Colson's wife.

"Nice-looking' couple," he said. "Any idea how they died?"

"None, except I don't think they were shot. How close are we to that Charity place?"

"Ten miles, m'be." Bernard slipped the wallets into his jacket pocket.

"Think you could keep this a secret for a while?" he asked.

"You police?"

"Private." He fished his ID from his wallet and flashed it, along with a hundred-dollar bill.

"That ain't necessary," Chippy said, pointing at the money. "I'll jes' take whacha owe for the flight an' keep quiet."

Bernard handed the bill over anyway.

"I promise these folks'fl get taken care of properly," he said."

I just don't want anybody at the hospital alerted yet until I get a look at what they're up to.

These two may- not be connected at all with what I'm looking for, but then again, they just might."

The two men stood in silence for a time, gazing down at the ghostly remains. Then they turned and headed back to the plane. As the engine roared to life, a scorpion crept out of the eye socket of Marilyn Colson's skull and scampered across to the safety of a nearby pile of rocks.

Except for a single tiny window built at eye level into the steel door, the room at the rear of Warehouse 18 was like a vault-a hollow cube of concrete, perhaps twelve feet on a side. In one corner of the room were a plastic bottle of water and an empty metal bucket, presumably for holding human waste, and along one wall was a stack of four quilted packing blankets.

For more than an hour Laura Enders had been alone in the room with her brother-or rather with what remained of his mind and body.

After whipping the two of them down with his pistol, and coolly murdering the hobo named Rocky, Lester Wheeler had driven through a side gate at the docks and then around to the front of the warehouse.

The huge hangarhke doors had opened for them without a signal, allowing Wheeler to drive straight down a long aisle between packing crates to the back room.

There, two men-whom Laura recognized from her close call on the docks with Eric-undid the manacles binding her to Scott and shoved her alone into the bleak cen.

Several times over the hour that followed she heard her brother's sickening screeches from somewhere in the warehouse. She pounded at the door, screaming until her hands and voice could do no more. Then she sank down on the foul-smelling blankets and cried. Finally, Scott was thrown in with her, moaning and barely conscious. His breathing was even more labored than before, and his face and hands were bloody.

When Laura knelt to tend to him, she realized that several of his fingernails had been torn Off.

Now, as she paced from one side of the narrow prison to the other, Scott slept, at times moaning, at times crying out softly like a child. She ached for his pain, for his crippled body and memory, and for the hopelessness of their situation. And she struggled to ignore the gruesome, fleeting wish that his breathing would simply stop.

Outside the small window she could see men working as if nothing were amiss. One of them drove a forklift, transferring crates from one section of the warehouse to another. Several others wandered by, laughing or talking or drinking beer. One of them actually looked over at her and smiled.

"Damn you," she muttered. "Damn you all to hell."

She tore off a piece of her shirt, dampened it, and gently wiped Scott's face. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He focused on her with an ease that surprised her.

"Have they hurt you?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Not yet. Did you tell them what they wanted to know?"

"I… I don't think so. Right now that videotape is keeping us alive."

"You do remember the tape then?"

"Yes. So much is still missing for me, but I do know that. The receiver's locked in that Aphrodite trailer, just as you said."

"And how much else do you remember?"

Scott winced as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Some little scenes or details clear as day. Most things not at all. I wish I could say I remember you, but I really don't. mire we close?"

Laura stroked his hair from his forehead.

"Yeah," she said hoarsely. "We were very close."

He pushed himself up until he was sitting, and leaned against the wall.

His eyes seemed to hold a remarkable power. If anything he seemed stronger than when she had found him in Rocky's lean-to.

"we've got to get out of here," he said.

"What?"

"That cop is either going to use drugs or he's going to do something to you in front of me. Whatever it is, we can't wait around to see."

"Scott, there are a bunch of men out there, and this place is like a fort. There's no chance."

He pushed himself to his feet, grimacing at the pain but refusing to cry out.

"There's always a chance," he said. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a thick cough.

Laura stood in front of him. "Can you move enough to do anything?"

"I made it this far, didn't I?"

Laura heard the new forcefulness in his voice, and knew that he had summoned it for her. He was still so lost and in such pain; they had taken nearly everything from him. And yet he seemed able to reach within himself for more.

"Scott, you know what you did for a living now, don't you?" she said.

He forced a thin smile and touched the clotted blood on her cheek.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I do." He peered out the window at the workmen. "Tell me, those big doors we drove through, did they open upward or to the side?"

"To the side, I think. Yes-yes, I'm sure of it. They folded open in sections on a track."

Scott glanced out the small window and then knelt by the door and studied the keyhole. Laura had to help him up.

"Bring that over," he said, motioning to the bucket. She did as he asked. "Do you have a belt on?"

She pulled off her belt, which was fairly wide and fastened with a metal buckle that had some heft. Scott tried undoing his own, but his clumsy hand and torn fingers made the task impossible. Laura undid it for him.

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"First we're going to get this door open."

"How?"

"I hope with that," he said, motioning to the metal bulb protector overhead. "There's a forklift out there.

We've got to get to it. If we do, I'll drive. Jut don't depend on me to Turn the key, okay?"

"O-okay. Scott, I don't know if I can do this."

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and said, "I think you can.

Here, hook these belts to each othet and then to the handle of the bucket. Then practice swinging it around in a way that will knock off that metal guard. The bulb'll probably shatter but that's okay. We'll have enough light. When that metal guard falls down, grab it." He peered out the window, following the progress of the forklift.

"Start practicing, and I'll tell you when. Spread these blankets out beneath you in case the bucket hits the floor."

Laura, set the blankets in place, dangled the bucket for a moment, and then began swinging it in front of her in increasing circles like a lariat. She found that if she held her arm at shoulder level, she could just reach the light without hitting the floor.

While she was practicing, Scott coughed and spat some bright-red blood onto the floor. Laura started to protest, but he waved her off.

"Please," he said, "we don't have much time before Wheeler gets back, and in this shape I don't think I can take him, even if he gives me the chance." He checked outside the window again. "Now. Do it now, and try to hit that thing hard. If the bulb breaks without that guard falling down, we may not have enough light to get at it."