Warren Murphy: Market Force

"I am at a loss," Smith finally managed to say.

"Really." It was a statement, not a question. "Well, with luck we'll find him alive and ask him." The detective held out his hand for the paper. Smith surrendered it reluctantly. His mind reeled as he considered how Mark Howard might deal with being questioned by the police and what it could mean to Smith's covert organization.

"Wait a moment," Smith said abruptly. "What was the name of the doctor? The one killed?" Davic supplied him the name from a small notebook in his jacket pocket.

"Oh, my," Smith said quietly.

"What? Is something wrong with the doctor?" Smith looked up with worried eyes.

"A few months back he asked me about the sedatives that were being administered to that particular patient. He had wanted to cut the dosage back then. He was adamant, but I overruled him. I am afraid he might have used my absence to convince Mr. Howard to sign off on a change in the patient's treatment."

Of course it was nonsense. A hasty cover concocted on the spur of the moment.

One day months ago the doctor in question had indeed questioned Smith about the meds for the patient in the special wing, but he had not pressed the issue since then. The man had always done exemplary work at Folcroft. But the doctor was now dead, and Smith was willing to sacrifice the man's spotless reputation for the sake of Mark Howard. Not that he would hesitate to take harsh action against his young assistant if Howard had betrayed CURE. But that was a matter to be handled internally-away from prying eyes.

The detective seemed to accept Smith's story. "About this patient of yours," Davic said as he folded the chart and returned it to his pocket. "Just what's his story exactly? What he did to those people downstairs-" Davic shook his head "-I've never seen anything like it."

"He is a unique case," Smith explained. "He is a John Doe remanded to our custody by the federal prison system. There was some hope that we might be able to treat him. We couldn't. His brain is completely unable to regulate the release of certain chemicals in his body. As a result, he is able to display what would be seen as incredible physical feats. But this only lasts for short spurts. He was kept medicated for his own good. Like a subject who ingests PCP, he is oblivious to the damage he is causing himself. He will continue to push and push until he tears his body apart."

Lies piled on lies. Smith was amazed at how easily they came. Not that he could very well tell the truth. He was grateful that he'd had the foresight to concoct a cover for the patient in question years ago. A check of federal prison records would corroborate his story.

"It's not his body I'm worried about, Dr. Smith," Detective Davic said.

"I share your concern," Smith said. "Our John Doe is a special case. I advise against any physical confrontation with him. Bullets might not be enough to stop him. I'm sure you're aware of cases where police have had difficulty subduing men who were shot multiple times. I'm afraid this could happen here. Do you have tranquilizer guns?"

Davic thought the old man was joking. But there was nothing but deadly earnestness on that gray face. "No," the detective admitted.

"Get some. Try the local animal control. In the meantime you may use ours. There are two air dart handguns locked in a security locker in the basement. I will retrieve them for you. Also, I'm uncomfortable with many police in the building. I understand your need to search, and clearly you must be thorough given the circumstances, but the needs of this institution's other patients cannot be ignored. When you are finished looking, please remove your men at the earliest opportunity. Their presence will only alarm patients and visitors. Ultimately, I believe a search of the building is pointless. Offered his freedom after all this time, our Mr. Doe would not dawdle. It's my belief that he has already fled the grounds. And I would appreciate it if you removed the police cars and other vehicles from the drive at once. I could barely fit past them."

Detective Davic wasn't used to being given orders from a civilian. The way this Dr. Smith barked them out, it sounded as if he were used to being in command during times of crisis.

"I'll see what I can do," Davic offered cautiously. As the detective spoke, one of the phones on Smith's desk jangled to life. There were two phones, one black and one blue. They were both old rotary sets. None of the lights were lit on the black one.

Smith didn't look at the ringing blue phone. "Thank you, Detective," the Folcroft director said. He made not a move toward the telephone.

"Aren't you going to answer that, sir?"

"Yes," Smith said. The strained smile he plastered across his face made him look like a grimacing corpse. "Of course I am." Heart pounding, he picked up the blue phone's receiver. "Dr. Smith here," he said stiffly.

"Took you long enough," the voice on the other end of the line growled. "What, were you out frisking the nurses for swiping copier paper again?"

"Oh, hello," Smith said, scarcely hearing the caller's words. "Yes, that is fine. But I'm busy right now, Aunt Mildred. I'll have to call you back."

"Smitty, maybe you should drop the Aunt Mildred thing. At your age, any aunt you'd have would have to be a hundred million years old. Listen, we're done in Europe, but Chiun's acting screwier than usual. I need some busywork just to get a break from him. Gimme another assignment."

"That's wonderful news, Aunt Mildred," Smith replied. "Thank you for calling. But I really must go now. Give my regards to Uncle Martin."

He hung up the phone.

"I apologize for that," Smith said to Detective Davic. He held his unnatural smile. "You were saying?"

The instant Davic opened his mouth to speak, the blue phone began ringing once more.

Smith grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Are you on drugs?" demanded the caller angrily. Without saying a word, Smith pressed the phone to his gray vest. He felt the outline of the poison pill that he kept in his pocket press against his narrow chest.

"Forgive me," Smith said tightly, "but this is an important business call that I need to take. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

"Yes, sir," Davic said. The detective left the office, pulling the door tightly shut.

"I can't talk at the moment," Smith said into the phone. "There's a crisis here."

"Crisis shmisis," the voice on the phone dismissed. "Are you gonna give me another assignment, or do I have to scrape one up on my own? And believe me you wouldn't like that. I'm in an 'international incident' kind of mood."

Smith hesitated. This was one of only two men on Earth who might be able to help right now. On the other hand, with the police here, he might just invite more questions.

Smith booted up his computer. He found an active file at the very top of CURE's target list. Spitting out a few rapid commands, he hung up the phone.

Quickly shutting off his computer, he headed back out to find the detective. When he entered his secretary's office, he found Davic talking excitedly on a cell phone.

"I'll meet you out front," he was saying. He clicked off the phone, stuffing it in his pocket. "We found another body," Davic said to Smith. "Out in the woods near the north wall. They think it might be your assistant."

Mrs. Mikulka gasped. Pressing one hand to her open mouth, she fell back into her chair. She looked up at Smith with frightened, tear-filled eyes.

Standing next to her desk, the Folcroft director put an arthritic hand on her shoulder. He gave a comforting squeeze. It was a greater show of emotional support than he'd given her when her husband had passed away of a sudden heart attack eighteen years before.

"I am going with you," Smith insisted to Davic. It was clear by his tone that there would be no arguing.