Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

"Please let me up," he said.

"Get up yourself," the man barked.

He dropped the handles and stepped back. Nelson tried rolling to one side, but the wheelbarrow instantly tipped over, pitching him heavily onto his chest. Waves of dizziness and nausea washed over him once again.

"Can I get up?" he asked.

"Do it slowly-" Nelson propped himself on one elbow.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone," he said.

"I know. That's why you're carrying this."

The man waved Bernard's gun in front of the detective's face. He was tall and angular, probably in his early thirties, and he had on cowboy boots, jeans, and two shirts-a black T and an unbuttoned flannel with the sleeves cut off. Stepping away, he slid his shotgun out from beneath his belt.

"You don't need that," Nelson said, sitting up gingerly.

"I'll decide what I need and don't need. Get in there.

He motioned to the nearby doorway. Bernard stumbled to his feet, went inside, and sank heavily onto a metal folding chair. The place, sparsely furnished and undecorated, smelled like a hospital.

"What is this?" he asked.

"I'll do the asking'," the man said.

The moment his vision had cleared, Nelson had begun sizing up his captor. His first instinct told him the man was not in any position of authority. Now he felt fairly certain of it.

"My name's Nelson, Bernard Nelson," he said, rubbing at the expanding egg behind his ear. "You surely know how to hit a man, Mr…?"

"Pike. Garrett Pike." He tossed over a towel and let Nelson wipe himself off. "What're you doing here?"

"I want to speak to whoever's in charge."

Pike checked his watch. "You'll get your chance in just a little bit," he said.

"Do you have some ice I can put on this?"

"You don't need no ice. I barely touched you."

"Some touch," Nelson said. "What is this place, anyhow?"

"What does it smell like?"

"A hospital."

"Then that's what it is. Now what are you doing' here?"

Bernard continued sizing up the man and liked what he saw.

Garrett'Pike was slow, but he wasn't dumb. Nor, Nelson decided, was he any great threat.

"I'm looking for someone, a man," he said. "Can I reach in my pocket?"

"Slowly."

Bernard pulled out the flier with Scott Enders's picture, and handed it over.

"This man."

Garrett Pike did not respond, but Bernard could see recognition spark in his eyes and he knew his search was over.

"Never seen him before," Pike said.

"You're a lousy liar, Mr. Pike, but I like that in a man,"

Pike seemed flustered by his candor. He glanced at the door, as if hoping his boss would appear and relieve him of this responsibility.

He settled down in a chair across from Nelson.

"Suppose we just wait 'n let you answer to Dr. Barber.

"He's in charge?"

"Uh-huh."

"Tell me, Garrett," Bernard said, anxious to take the offensive before Dr. Barber or anyone else arrived, "do you really think this is a hospital?"

"I know it is."

"Then what are you doing holding this man here, who just happens to be a government agent who disappeared in Boston several months ago?"

"You're out of your mind.".. I?"

"This place is for the criminally insane. If he was here-which he ain't-it'd be because he's a danger to society. And your being here with this gun tells me you were trying to bust one of our patients out."

Nelson shook his head sadly.

"Garrett, Garrett," he said. "Have they really taken you in that badly?"

"You just shut up."

Pike checked his watch once again. Nelson felt desperate to win the man over before anyone else showed up. He thought about the gruesome discovery he and Chippy Smith had made. He was grasping at straws, but still…

"Listen," he said, "do the names Richard or Marilyn Colson mean anything to you?"

There was a moment of telltale hesitation before Pike said, "No.

Why?"

Sensing the man's confusion, Bernard bored in.

"I found their bodies out in the desert, that's why.

"You kill'em?"

"I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. I think they stumbled on this place and you killed them-took them out in the desert and shot 'em both dead."

"I never heard of them."

"Pike, listen to me. My Land Rover's parked'just over those hills there. Right behind the cornfield. the Colsons' wallets are under the front seat along with my ID. I'm a private detective from Boston.

Tomorrow morning, whether I show up in Moab or not, this place'll be crawling with cops. Believe that. Help me now, and I promise you'll get a break."

"I don't believe a word you've-" Pike was cut short by the sound of car doors slamming. A minute later two men entered the room.

Bernard managed one last furtive look at Pike, but the guard just turned away.

"Dr. Barber," Pike said, "I'm glad you're back. I found this guy spyin'on the town, takin'pictures. He says his name's Bernard Nelson, and he claims to be a private detective from Boston. He had this on him."

He handed over Bernard's gun. He hesitated for a beat, and then reached into his pocket. "He says he's here looking for this guy."

Barber scanned the flier, then clucked disapprovingly.

"We've been expecting occasional attempts to break our patients out of here," he said, "but nothing as crude as this. Good job, Garrett. You can expect a double-sized bonus in your next check."

Pike looked as if he were about to say something.

Then he simply nodded and walked out.

"Take him in the back, John," Barber ordered.

"Use the straitjacket."

The man named John, a full-blooded Indian from his appearance, pulled Nelson to his feet and shoved him rudely down the hallway into a two-bed infirmary.

There, Nelson's legs were bound together and his arms forced into the sleeves of a canvas straitjacket that barely fit over his middle.

Barber followed them into the room.

"That's good, John," he said. "Don't go too far."

The Indian grunted a reply, and left.

"So then," Barber said, "what have we here? An old fat man who carries a gun and a poster and claims to be a detective. But instead he goes and gets himself caught by a bohunk with the IQ of a rabbit."

"It's over for you, Barber," Nelson said evenly.

"I'm not the only one who knows what's going on here." Barber looked around.

"Then where are they all?" he asked. He paced about the room for a time, then sat down on the bed nearest Bernard's chair. "So then, suppose we start with the basics. Bernard Nelson: that really your name?"

"No," Nelson said. "It's Thumb; first name, Tom."

Nelson's initial read of the man was not encouraging. There was nothing in his eyes but a flat, sadistic coldness. As if verifying the impression, Barber stepped forward and with one pudgy hand squeezed Nielson's cheeks tightly against his teeth.

"Don't fuck with me," he said, pulling Bernard's face up. "I've given a good chunk of my life to this project, and I expect to spend the rest of it enjoying the rewards. So you better believe me when I say that I don't have the least hesitation in causing pain to someone like you who wants to make trouble for US.

Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Bernard waited until Barber had released his grip.

"Look, how about we trade?" he said. "You tell me what the hell is going on here, and I'll tell you how many dozens of people will show up here if I haven't returned to Moab by tomorrow:"

"You're bluffing, my fat friend. I can see it all over your face. If anyone besides you was interested in this place, they would have been out here with you today.

And as for the folks in Moab, they know this place is a hospital for the criminally insane, and they don't care to know anything more."

Nelson searched desperately for a soft spot in the man. All he could come up with was the sense that he was confronting a fanatic with an enormous ego.