Free Extreme Measures by Michael Palmer Page B

Absolute, insane bullshit
, Eric wanted to holler. Instead he just shrugged.
    “Sure, I’m fine,” he said. “I … I had just prepared myself for a decision today one way or the other.”
    “Me too. I ran into Teagarden just yesterday, and she made it sound as if it was all over. I even had the feeling from things she said that you had gotten the job. I didn’t want to say so out there, but it’s the truth. Well, listen, I’m due back at the E.R., so I’ll see you later. It’s only another couple of weeks.” He punched Eric lightly on the arm. “You keep your nose clean now, ya hear?”
    “You too,” Eric said. “You never know when big brother—or big, big sister—may be watching.”
    Eric stood motionless as Marshall hurried off. The two of them had never spent any real time togetheroutside of the hospital. Now, as their time at WMH was nearing an end, he wished they had.
    Susan, the receptionist, was watching Eric as he approached.
    “How’d it go?” she asked.
    “It didn’t. Nothing happened.”
    “Well, committees are like that. I’ve taken minutes at some meetings, and you wouldn’t believe how little a group of M.D.’s can get done.”
    “You said it. Well, see you in a couple of weeks.”
    “Wait,” she said. “I have something for you.”
    She handed him a plain envelope. D R . E RIC N AJARIAN was printed on it in a meticulous hand. Eric’s knee-jerk reaction was that the envelope was a note from her, but he quickly realized from her expression that it was not.
    “A candy striper dropped this off for you a little while ago,” Susan said. “She was real cute, but a little too young for you, I think.”
    Eric was too distracted to pick up the woman’s cue. He fingered the envelope for a moment.
    “Thanks,” he mumbled, and headed off.
    “I’m here all day,” Susan said.
    Eric turned into the main corridor of the hospital, and then leaned against a wall and tore the envelope open. The note inside was printed in the same hand as was his name.
    W EAR THIS, AND WE WILL KNOW was all it said.
    Wedged in one corner of the envelope was something metallic.
    His fingers stiff and cold, Eric pulled out the object and held it so that no passerby could see. It was a stickpin bearing a black oval stone, possibly obsidian. Inlaid in the stone was a finely tooled gold caduceus.

APRIL 9
    “N ame?”
    “Laura Enders. I already told you that.”
    “No, ma’am. I have
your
name. I need the name of the guy who’s missing.”
    “Oh. It’s Scott Enders. But he’s also called himself Scott Shollander.”
    “A.k.a. Shollander,” the desk sergeant mumbled as he pecked out the name on his typewriter.
    Laura was just a few minutes into her session with the Boston policeman, but already she wished she could leave. Although he hadn’t introduced himself, his name tag read SGT. THOS . C AMPBELL . He was a red-faced, potbellied man, probably in his late fifties, obviously burnt out and totally unenthusiastic about his job. And the more she listened to her own answers to his questions, the more she knew there was no chance he would be of any help.
    “Last seen?”
    “Well, actually, I haven’t seen him for five months.”
    “Five … months …” the officer said as he typed. For all the inflection in his voice, he might have just written
five days
. His manner made it clear that over his years on the force, he had seen and heard everything—which was to say, he had seen and heard enough. “I guess it doesn’t make much difference what he was wearing when last seen,” he said.
    “No,” Laura said, her sarcasm ill-disguised. “I think you can leave that line blank.”
    Boston Police Headquarters was about as far from the clear, crisp beauty of Little Cayman as she could ever have imagined a place could be. The floor in the old building was filthy, and the dim lighting succeeded only in keeping the stains on the walls from being definable. But most unpleasant of all was the smell.