Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

"Where are they?" David asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"He has tattooed ropes around both wrists," the second clerk said. "It's like he was all tied up."

The first clerk laughed again, only harder.

David smiled. He didn't get the humor, but he wanted to be polite. At least he'd found out Clyde had tattoos where they could be damaged in a struggle.

"He's also got a tattoo on his upper arm," the first clerk said. "And more on his chest."

David thanked the clerks and left the store. He walked around the side of the building and spotted the door to the stairs. For a brief instant he thought about trying the door, but then he decided against it. He owed Angela that much.

Returning to his car, David climbed in behind the wheel and checked the time. He still had twenty minutes before his meeting with Sherwood: time for one more address. The next closest was Van Slyke's.

In just a few minutes David turned onto Van Slyke's lane. He slowed down to check the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for Van Slyke's. Suddenly, David jammed on the brakes. He'd come abreast of a green truck that looked a lot like Calhoun's.

Backing up, David parked the Volvo directly behind the truck. It had a sticker on the back bumper that read: "This Vehicle Climbed Mount Washington." It had to be Calhoun's.

David got out of his car and peered into the truck's cab. A moldy cup of coffee was sitting on the open glove compartment door. The ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts. David recognized the upholstery and the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. The truck was definitely Calhoun's.

David straightened up and looked across the street. There was no mailbox in front of the house, but from where he was standing, he could see the address painted on the riser of the porch stairs. It was 66 Apple Tree Lane, Van Slyke's address.

David crossed the street for a closer look. The house was badly in need of paint and repair. It was even hard to be sure what color it had originally been. It looked gray but there was a greenish cast to it suggesting it had once been pale olive.

There were no signs of life. It hardly looked like the house was lived in except for the indentation of tire tracks in the gravel of the driveway.

David hiked back to the garage and peered inside. It was empty.

David then returned to the front of the house. After checking to see that no one was observing him from the street, he tried the door. It was unlocked and it opened with a simple turn of the knob. He pushed it open slowly; the rusty hinges groaned.

Ready to flee at the slightest provocation, David peered inside. What furniture he could see was covered with dust and cobwebs. Taking a deep breath, David called out to determine if anybody was home.

If there was, no one answered. He strained to hear, but the house was silent.

Fighting an urge to flee, David forced himself to step over the threshold. The silence of the house enveloped him like a cloak. His heart was racing. He didn't want to be there, but he had to find out about Calhoun.

David called out again, but again no one answered. He was about to call out a third time when the door behind him slammed shut. David nearly passed out from fright. Experiencing an irrational fear that the door had somehow locked, he frantically re-opened it. He propped it open with a dusty umbrella stand. He did not want to feel enclosed in the building.

After composing himself as best he could, David made a tour of the first floor. He moved quickly from one dirty room to the next until he got to the kitchen. There he stopped. On the table was an ashtray. In it was the butt of an Antonio y Cleopatra cigar. Just beyond the table was an open door leading down to the cellar.

David approached the doorway and looked down into utter darkness. Beside the doorway was a light switch. David tried it. An anemic glow filtered up the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, David started down. He stopped midway and let his eyes sweep around the cluttered basement. It was filled with old furniture, boxes, a steamer trunk, and a hodgepodge of tools and junk. David noticed that the floor was dirt just as it was in his house, although near the furnace there was a slab of concrete.

David continued down the stairs, then went over to the concrete. Bending down, he examined it closely. The slab was still dark with dampness. He put his hand on it to be sure. David shuddered. He straightened up and ran for the stairs. As far as he was concerned, he'd seen enough to go to the police. Only he wasn't going to bother with the local police. He planned to call the state police directly. Reaching the top of the stairs, David stopped in his tracks. He heard the sound of car tires in the gravel of the driveway. A car had pulled in beside the house.

For a second David froze, not knowing what to do. He had little time to decide; the next thing he knew, he heard the car door open, then slam shut, then footsteps in the gravel.

David panicked. He pulled the door to the cellar shut and quickly descended the stairs. He was confident there'd be another way out of the basement, some sort of back stairs leading directly out.

At the rear of the basement were several doors. David lost no time weaving his way to them. The first one had an open hasp. As quietly as possible, he pulled it open. Beyond was a root cellar illuminated by a single low-watt bulb.

Hearing footsteps above, David quickly went to the second door. He gave the knob a tug, but the door wouldn't budge. He exerted more strength. At last, it creaked open. It moved stiffly, as if it hadn't been opened for years.

Beyond the door was what David had been looking for: a flight of concrete steps leading up to angled hatch-like doors. David closed the door to the basement behind him. He was now in darkness save for a sliver of light coming from between the two nearly horizontal doors above him.

David scrambled up the stairs and crouched just beneath the doors. He stopped to listen. He heard nothing. He put his hands on the doors and pushed. He was able to raise the doors half an inch, but no more; they were padlocked from outside.

Letting the doors down quietly, David tried to keep himself calm. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He knew he was trapped. His only hope was that he'd go undiscovered. But the next thing he heard was the door to the cellar crashing open followed by heavy footfalls on the cellar steps.

David squatted in the darkness and held his breath.

The footfalls drew nearer, then the door to his hideaway was yanked open. David found himself staring into the frenzied face of Werner Van Slyke.

Van Slyke appeared to be in a worse panic than David. He looked and acted as if he'd just taken an overwhelming dose of speed. His eyelids were drawn back, causing his unblinking eyes to bulge from their sockets. His pupils were so dilated he seemed to have no irises. Drops of perspiration were beaded on his forehead. His whole body was trembling, particularly his arms. In his right hand he clutched a pistol which he pointed at David's face.

For a few moments neither of them moved. David frantically tried to think of a plausible reason for his presence, but he couldn't think of a thing. All he could think about was the dancing barrel of the gun pointed at him. With Van Slyke's trembling growing worse by the minute, David was afraid the gun might go off accidentally.

David realized that Van Slyke was in the grip of an acute anxiety attack, probably triggered by his discovery of David hiding in his home. Remembering the man's psychiatric history, David thought there was a good chance Van Slyke was psychotic that very moment.

David thought about mentioning Calhoun's truck as a way of explaining his presence, but he quickly decided against it. Who knew what had transpired between Van Slyke and the private investigator? Mention of Calhoun might only exacerbate Van Slyke's psychotic state.