Extreme Measures (31 page)

“I do.”

“All right. I’ll look into that. Meanwhile, if you’re going to stay in Boston, I’d like you to keep me aware of any developments such as that note. But let me say this: If I were you, I’d catch the next plane back to your island. Some very bad people think you know where that tape is. And if they’re who I think they are, they don’t stop until they have what they want. Things could get real ugly.”

Laura did not respond right away. She stared down at the floor, biting her lower lip as an enormous sadness settled in her breast. The confusion and uncertainty had lifted, but in their place was a heavy gloom. She had no remaining doubt that Scott was dead. Nor did she question how he had died. Clearly, the derelict disguise he had adopted was part of his
undercover work, and equally clearly, the escape from his captors had led to his death—perhaps from exposure, perhaps from internal injuries.

Eric’s theories about a poison no longer made much sense. The similarities between Scott’s cardiogram and that of Reed Marshall’s patient were, in fact, coincidental. Now, as far as she was concerned, there remained only the side issue of Donald Devine and exactly what he was doing with bodies. And at best, Captain Lester Wheeler seemed only passingly interested in that situation.

She promised her full cooperation, thanked the policeman for his help, and left, vowing that, if nothing else, she would see her battle with the Gates of Heaven through to the end.

L
aura left Police Headquarters and wandered along Tremont Street toward the Common. She had no particular destination in mind, and no particular desire other than to walk until her legs ached too much to continue. She thought about her parents, and actually smiled at the notion of their reaction had they lived to learn what calling their son had finally chosen. At one point they had pushed Scott into the local 4H Club and insisted that he begin grooming himself for farming.

She skirted the Common and wandered past the Combat Zone to Chinatown. On a whim she stopped at a phone booth and tried calling Eric at White Memorial. She hung up when the operator asked for an additional deposit while she was still on hold. There would be plenty of time to fill him in later that night.

She crossed the turnpike on Harrison Avenue and drifted away from the downtown area. She felt drained, deflated. Her search for Scott was, to all intents, over. What remained was no more than the thankless struggle
to expose what had been done with his body. It helped her to think naively and romantically of what he actually did in his job—of the lives he had saved by intercepting drug shipments; of the assassins he had eliminated.

A group of youths, sitting on an outside stairway, whistled and made a number of lewd requests. Laura was not even aware of them. She glanced over at her reflection in a shop window. Scott had accomplished so much in his life, made such a difference. She had spent years struggling just to connect with herself. Perhaps it was time she explored
her
capabilities, her capacity for helping others. There were a number of excellent physical therapy programs in Massachusetts. If by some miracle Eric managed to stay on at White Memorial, they could continue their relationship while she went to school.

She noticed a cluttered secondhand store across the street and cut diagonally across toward it. The roar of the accelerating car engine was no more than the faintest background noise to her until she caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye. By the time she sensed danger, the chance to react properly had passed.

“Laura, watch out!”

The shout—a man’s voice from somewhere behind her—only further confused her and kept her from effective action. She was frozen, dead center in the intersection. The car, a large black domestic model, was bearing down on her with terrifying speed, lining her up for impact with the very center of the grill. She turned to run, but the driver needed only a minuscule adjustment to keep her locked between the headlights. Her last thought was the totally irrational impulse to avoid the impact by jumping up and over the hood. Before she could do anything, though, she was hit—not by the car but from behind. A pair of hands shoved her viciously in the small of her back, sending her sprawling to the pavement, away from the
auto’s path. She whirled as she fell, landing heavily on her shoulder at the instant the speeding car hit the man who had pushed her. His body careened upward off the hood, hit the roof line just above the windshield, and sailed a dozen or more feet in the air. It landed with a sickening, lifeless thud as the dark sedan screeched off down the street.

Gasping for breath, mindless of the scrapes on her legs and elbows, Laura scrambled across the road on her hands and knees. The man, lying on his back, was shattered. A pool of blood expanded obscenely from beneath his head, which was bent at a grotesque angle to his neck. Bubbling crimson rivulets trickled from each ear.

Laura battled an intense dizziness and nausea as people rushed at her from all directions. It was then that she realized the man lying there—the man who had called her by name before giving up his life for hers—was wearing a tan windbreaker.

“Lie down.” “No, leave her be.” “Are you all right?” “Did anyone call an ambulance?” “Shit, look at this guy.” “Did anyone get a license number?” “Look, man, I know dead, and this guy is dead.” “Don’t move, dear. Everything’s going to be all right.” “Hey, look, man, this guy’s packin’. See, he’s got a piece in his waistband.”

“I’m all right,” Laura heard herself say. “Please help him if you can. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

“Lady, no one’s gonna help that dude except a priest.”

Laura glanced over at the gun in the dead man’s belt, and knew that it was he who had fought off the attackers on the East Boston docks. Over the protests of several people, she forced herself to her feet. Gingerly, she tested her arms and legs.

“Please, leave me alone. Just leave me alone,” she begged.

She knelt by the man’s body, and after finding no pulse, checked his jeans for a wallet. The thin billfold
she withdrew from his right front pocket identified him as Roger Ansell of Ocala, Florida. Laura knew the identification was false. She studied his pallid face.

“You knew Scott, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You’ve been trying to help me find him all along.”

Gently she reached up and closed his eyes In the distance she could hear the wailing of sirens. She stood and walked slowly through the crowd, which was now a circle at least ten deep. Far down the street she could see the flashing lights of an approaching patrol car. The last thing she wanted was any kind of publicity. Unobtrusively, she worked her way around the mob; no one seemed to realize that she was the one involved in the accident. Then she slipped away down a side street, through an alley, and hailed a cab.

She ordered the cabbie just to drive, and leaned back in the seat, trying desperately to sort out what had happened and why. She wanted so to believe that the hit-and-run driver was some sort of madman, someone insane on alcohol or pills. But no amount of reasoning could convince her of that. Someone wanted her dead—someone who had been following her at the same time as had Roger Ansell. Surely whoever it was knew where she was staying. Did they know about Eric as well?

She stopped at a phone and once again called White Memorial. This time she was told that Eric had signed out and could not be reached for the rest of the day. She had the cabbie drive for another twenty-five minutes, then ordered him back down Harrison Avenue. A patrol car, parked on one corner near the accident scene, suggested there was still perhaps some questioning going on. But otherwise the street seemed as normal to her as the horrible events that had occurred there seemed dreamlike.

After considering and then rejecting several possibilities, Laura paid the driver off on Boylston Street and mounted the grimy stairs to Bernard Nelson’s office. Thirty minutes later she was seated beside the
detective in his Volvo wagon, on the way to his South Shore home. Nelson chewed on his cigar stub as she brought him day by day through her stay in Boston.

“You’ve come far, child,” Nelson said, “and in a very short time. I don’t impress easily, but you have impressed me. Say, listen, I’ve been considering taking on an apprentice. Perhaps you’d be interested in applying for the position?”

“I’ll consider it,” Laura said, uncertain of the seriousness of the offer.

“So,” Nelson said, “what do you want to do about all this?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t see that there’s much to be gained from going back to Captain Wheeler.”

“Neither do I. At least there’s no big rush.”

“I guess it’s worth calling that man Harten in Virginia.”

“Maybe. But I wouldn’t expect him to admit anything. That’s the way those people operate. My guess is he’s the one responsible for sending that note to you. I would bet he was using you as bait to flush out whoever had killed your brother. The man who died back there was probably assigned to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Expediency is the name of their game—especially when one of their people is missing or dead.”

“So what’s left?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I certainly find this Devine character intriguing. I’d like a chance to visit his establishment.”

“What makes you think he’d talk to you?”

“Who said anything about talking to him?”

“You mean break in?”

“Hey, easy with those terms. We call it searching for the truth.” He nodded modestly. “It’s sort of my specialty.”

“May I come?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. But considering that you
might sign on as my apprentice, I suppose I could work you in.”

“When?”

“As soon as I’m certain he’s not home. Maggie will clean up those scrapes of yours and fatten you up with some of her lasagna. Then, after dinner, we’ll give Devine a call. If necessary, we’ll send him off to pick up a body somewhere in the suburbs.”

“Your usual fee?”

“Actually,” Nelson said, swinging off Route 3 onto the exit ramp, “searching for the truth runs a bit higher.”

Haven Darden’s office and laboratory filled most of the fifth floor of the Proctor Research Building. Eric found the medical chief hunched over a microscope. A white-coated technician was at work nearby, but otherwise the huge space was deserted.

Darden glanced up at him, nodded a greeting, and then returned his attention to the scope.

“This is pig work,” he said. “I could train a high-schooler to do it.… Unfortunately, I couldn’t pay him. So here I sit.”

“Money’s tight.”

“I should say.” Darden made a few final notes and then pushed himself away. “So, it would appear that Dr. Marshall has placed himself into some sort of treatment facility, and out of the running for the E.R. position. I would say things look very good for you.”

“I’m not counting on anything. I have reason to believe that certain people in this hospital will do whatever they must, to see that I’m out of this place as quickly as possible.”

“Would you like to expand on that?”

“Soon. Soon I would very much like to do just that. But right now I have more pressing matters on my mind.”

“Such as?”

“Such as getting Reed Marshall well and back at his job.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“Well, from what I understand, Dr. Marshall has made one hell of an error.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Explain.”

Eric leaned against the slate edge of the laboratory bench.

“Dr. Darden, I’ve come up here because I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about tetrodotoxin.”

Darden’s dark eyes smiled. “So, it’s zombies you’re after, is it?” he said.

Eric set the EKGs on the counter.

“This one is from the woman Reed pronounced dead, and this is from a man I pronounced dead in February.”

“I assume
he
did not subsequently awaken?”

“Actually, I can’t tell you for sure. His body’s disappeared.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been able to trace the man’s body to a funeral home near here, but I have reason to believe the mortician is into some sort of illegal diversion of bodies.”