Extreme Measures (48 page)

The game was on.

The drive from Moab along unmarked dirt tracks took Bernard Nelson nearly three hours in his Land Rover.
Before college, Nelson had spent six years in the marines, most of those with a wilderness survival unit. Once, during his training at Camp Pendleton, he had been flown far out in the Mojave Desert by helicopter, and set loose by himself with enough rations and water for two days. The trip back to civilization had taken five days, but the things he had learned about survival and about himself had proven well worth the danger. He was sure the skills he had stored away were still there.

After finding the bodies of Richard and Marilyn Colson, he and Chippy Smith had flown to within distant sight of Charity. Following their return to Moab, Smith had drawn up a remarkably detailed map, including sketches of various distinctive rock formations and arroyos. Now, according to Bernard’s compass and watch, he was close enough to go on foot. His safety net was Chippy, who had promised to fly out with help if twenty-four hours passed without word from him.

In addition to warm clothing, water, fuel, and some food, Bernard had brought along his Smith & Wesson and a new Nikon with a telephoto lens. With luck, he could get close enough to the town to take pictures without ever having to go in.

It was midafternoon by the time he found a large overhang beneath which he parked his Land Rover and prepared his gear. He slid his wallet and those of the Colsons beneath the front seat, and made his way toward the line of hills shielding Charity.

Near the top of the hill he crouched down and moved forward on his hands and knees. He believed he had followed the pilot’s map to the letter, but there was always the chance something had gone wrong. Flattening out even more, he held his breath and peered over the crest. Below him, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was the town.

Using his telephoto, Nelson could make out several people working in a remarkably robust cornfield.
The village beyond seemed neat and well maintained. Staying low, he dropped into a dry creek bed, and worked his way down. At the edge of the field he knelt and watched as three men in work clothes trudged in slow silence back and forth from the tall stalks to a wheelbarrow, loading it one ear of com at a time.

Through his lens Bernard studied the men’s faces, each of which bore the expressionless mask of heavy tranquilizing medication. Fearing he was too close to chance the noise of a shutter, he crawled along the dusty margin of the field and crouched down in a gully not twenty feet from the rear of the first structure. The air was still and hot, the town eerily silent. Carefully, Nelson withdrew his revolver and released the safety. At that instant he heard a soft scraping noise behind him. He whirled to see the butt of a shotgun flashing down from the dazzling blue sky. It connected solidly just above his right ear. His teeth snapped together and pain exploded through his head. Then, amidst an overwhelming flood of nausea, he toppled face first onto the dry ground.

By the time his consciousness began to return, Bernard was face up in a wheelbarrow, awash in his own vomit. His head was tilted backward, giving him a view of a man’s groin. His fingers scraped along the dirt roadway as they moved ahead.

“Don’t move,” the man warned.

Nelson choked briefly on some food and stomach acid, and closed his eyes against the overwhelming nausea. His spine, pressed against the metal rim of the wheelbarow, felt as if it were about to snap in two.

“I’m not a threat to anyone,” he heard himself say.

“Shut up!”

“Please, listen to me.”

The dirt changed to pavement. Nelson opened his eyes a crack. He was being wheeled along a walkway,
through a gate in a chain-metal fence, and up to a low cinder-block building.

“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 askin’,” 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 doin’ 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.”

“Am 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 to 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 Nelson’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 came up with was the sense that he was confronting a fanatic with an enormous ego. It was not much of a card to play, but unfortunately it was the only one he held.

“Your man Pike called you Doctor,” he said. “Is that a sham, too, like the hospital story?”

“M.D., Ph.D., as a matter of fact,” Barber said proudly. “There, I did my bit. Now, who are you really? Who sent you?”

“Bernard Nelson
is
my name. I’m from Boston. I’m working for the sister of the man on that flier.”