Cook,Robin - Mortal Fear.txt

by Mortal Fear (lit)

  with his legs. The pain in his hands was so intense that for an instant

  he thought he'd have to let go.

  Then, as suddenly as the nightmare began, it was over. Still spinning,

  the boat shot out onto relatively placid water. - The thundering noise

  of the rapids lessened. The sides of the river fell away, opening up a

  clear view to the starry sky. Inside the boat there was a half foot of

  icy water, but Jason realized the outboard was chugging as smoothly as

  if nothing had happened.

  With shaking hands, Jason straightened the boat and stopped its

  nauseating rotation. His fingers touched a button just inside the

  transom. He took a chance and pressed it; the water in the boat slowly

  receded.

  Jason kept his eye on the silhouettes of the bordering trees. Ahead, the

  river bent sharply to the left, and as they rounded the point, they

  finally saw lights. Jason steered to shore.

  As they approached, he could see several well-lit buildings, docks, and

  a number of rubber boats like their own. He was still afraid the killer

  might have driven down to intercept them, but he knew they had to land.

  Jason pulled alongside the second dock and cut the engine.

  "You. sure know how to entertain a girl," Carol said through chattering

  teeth.

  "I'm glad you still have your sense of humor," Jason said.

  "Don't count on it lasting much longer. I want. to know what in heaven's

  name is going on."

  Jason stood up stiffly, holding on to the dock. He helped Carol out of

  the boat, got out himself, and tied the line to a cleat. The sound of

  country music drifted from one of the buildings.

  "It must be a bar," said Jason. He took her hand "We have to get warm

  before we get pneumonia.' Jason led the way up the gravel path, but

  instead of going inside, he walked into the parking lot and began

  looking in the parked vehicles.

  "Hold on," said Carol with irritation. "What are you doing now?"

  "I'm looking for keys," Jason said. "We need a car.

  "I don't believe this," said Carol, throwing up her hands, "I thought we

  were going to get warm. I don't know about you, but I'm going in that

  restaurant." Without waiting for a response, she started for the

  entrance.

  Jason caught up to her and grabbed her arm. "I'm afraid he'll be

  back-the' man who was shooting at us.

  "Then we'll call the police," Carol said. She pulled out of Jason's

  grasp and entered the restaurant.

  The Hispanic was not in the restaurant, so, following Carol's

  suggestion, they called the police, who happened to be a local sheriff.

  The proprietor of the restaurant refused to believe that Jason and Carol

  had navigated Devil's Chute in the dark- "Nobody ain't done that

  before," he said. He found chef's smocks and oversized black and white

  checkered kitchen pants for them to change into, and a plastic garbage

  bag for their wet clothes.

  He also insisted they have steaming hot rum toddies, which finally

  stopped their shivering.

  "Jason, you've got to tell me what's going on," Carol insisted as they

  waited for the sheriff. They sat at a table across from a Wurlitzer

  jukebox playing fifties music.

  "I don't know for sure," Jason said. "But the man shooting at us was

  outside the restaurant where Alvin died. My guess is that Alvin was a

  victim of his own discovery, but if he hadn't died that night, the same

  man would have eventually killed him anyway. So Alvin was telling the

  truth when he said someone wanted him dead."

  "This doesn't sound real," Carol said, trying to smooth her hair, which

  was drying in tangled ringlets.

  "I know. Most conspiracies don't."

  "What about Hayes's discovery?"

  "I don't know for sure, but if my theory is right, it's almost too scary

  to contemplate. That's why I want to get back to Boston."

  Just then the door opened and the sheriff, Marvin Arnold, walked in. He

  was a mountain of a man dressed in a wrinkled brown uniform that sported

  more buckles and straps than Jason had ever seen. More important to

  Jason was the 357 Magnum strapped to Marvin's oversized left thigh. That

  was the kind of cannon Jason wished he'd had back at the Salmon Inn.

  Marvin had already heard about the commotion at the Salmon Inn, and had

  been there to check things out. What he hadn't heard about was any man

  with a gun, and no one had heard any gunshots. When Jason described what

  had happened, he could tell that Marvin regarded him with a good deal of

  skepticism. Marvin was surprised and impressed, however, when he heard

  that Jason and Carol had come down Devil's Chute by themselves in the

  dark.

  "Ain't a lot of people going to believe that," he said, shaking his

  massive head in admiration.

  Marvin drove Jason and Carol back to the Salmon Inn, where Jason was

  surprised to find out there was a question of charges being filed

  against him, holding him responsible for the damages in the dining room.

  No one had seen any gun. And even more shocking, no one remembered an

  olive-complex ioned man in a dark blue suit. But in the end, the

  management decided to drop the issue, saying they'd let their insurance

  take care of the damages. With that decided, Marvin tipped his hat,

  preparing to leave.

  "What about protection?" asked Jason.

  "From what?" asked Marvin. "Don't you think it is a little embarrassing

  that no one can corroborate your story? Listen, I think you people have

  caused enough trouble tonight. I think you should go up to your room and

  sleep this whole thing off."

  "We need protection," said Jason. He tried to sound authoritative. "What

  do we do if the killer returns?"

  "Look, friend, I can't sit here all night and hold your hand. I'm the

  only one on this shift and I got the whole damned county to keep my eye

  on. Lock yourself in your room and get some shut-eye."

  With a final nod toward the manager, Marvin lumbered out the front door.

  The manager in turn smiled condescendingly at Jason and went into his

  office.

  "This is unreal," Jason said with a mixture of fear and irritation. "I

  can't believe nobody noticed the Hispanic guy." He went to the public

  phone booth and looked up private detective agencies. He found several

  in Seattle, but when he dialed he just got their answering machines. He

  left his name and the hotel number, but he didn't have much hope of

  reaching someone that night.

  Emerging from the phone booth, he told Carol that they were leaving

  immediately. She followed him up the stairs.

  "It's nine-thirty at night," she protested, entering the room behind

  him.

  "I don't care. We're leaving as fast as we can. Get your things

  together."

  "Don't I have any say in the matter?"

  "Nope. It was your decision to stay tonight and your decision to call

  the helpful local police. Now it's my turn. We're leaving." I For a

  minute, Carol stood in the center of the room watching Jason pack, then

  she decided he probably had a point. Ten minutes later, changed into

  their o
wn clothes, they carried their luggage downstairs and checked,

  out.

  "I have to charge you for tonight," the man at the desk informed them.

  Jason didn't bother to argue. Instead, he asked the man if he'd bring

  their car around to the front entrance. He tipped him five dollars and

  the clerk was happy to oblige.

  Once in the car, Jason had hoped he'd feel less anxious and -less

  vulnerable. Neither was the case. As he pulled out of the hotel parking

  lot and started down the dark mountain road, he quickly recognized how

  isolated they were. Fifteen minutes later, in the rearview mirror, he

  saw headlights appear. At first Jason tried to ignore them, but then it

  became apparent that they were relentlessly gaining on them despite

  Jason's gradual acceleration. The terror Jason had felt earlier crept

  back. His palms began to perspire.

  "There's someone behind us," Jason said.

  Carol twisted in the front seat and looked out the back. They rounded a

  curve and the headlights disappeared. But on the next straightaway they

  reappeared. They were closer. Carol faced forward. "I told you we should

  have stayed."

  "That's helpful!" said Jason sarcastically.

  He inched the accelerator closer to the floor. They were already going

  well over sixty on the curvy road. He tightened his grip on the steering

  wheel, then looked up at the rearview mirror. The car was close, its

  lights like eyes of a monster. He tried to think of what he could do,

  but he could think of nothing other than trying to outrun the car behind

  them. They came to another curve. Jason turned the wheel. He saw Carol's

  mouth open in a silent scream. He could feel the car start to jackknife.

  He braked, and they skidded first to one side and then to the other.

  Carol grabbed the dash to steady herself. Jason felt his seat belt

  tighten.

  Fighting the car, Jason managed to keep it on'the road. Behind him the

  pursuing car gained considerably. Now it was directly behind, its

  headlights filling Jason's car with unearthly light. In a panic, Jason

  floored the accelerator, pulling his car out of its careening course.

  They shot forward down a small hill. But the car behind stayed right

  with them, hounding them like a hunting dog at the heels of a deer.

  Then to both Jason and Carol's bewilderment, their car filled with

  flashing red light. It took them a moment to realize that the light was

  coming from the top of the car behind them. When Jason recognized what

  it was, he slowed, watching in the rearview mirror. The car behind

  slowed proportion lately. Ahead, at a turnout, Jason pulled off the road

  and stopped. Sweat stood out in little droplets along his hairline. His

  arms were trembling from his death grip on the steering wheel. Behind

  them, the other car stopped as well, its flashing light illuminating the

  surtounding trees. In the rearview mirror, Jason saw the door open, and

  Marvin Arnold stepped out. He had the safety strap off his 357 Magnum.

  "Well, I'll be a pig's ass," he said, shining his flashlight into

  Jason's embartassed face. "It's lover boy."

  Furious, Jason shouted, "Why the hell didn't you turn on your blinker at

  the start?"

  "Wanted to catch me a speeder." Marvin chuckled. "Didn't know I was

  chasing my favorite lunatic."

  After an unsolicited lecture and a ticket for reckless driving, he let

  Jason and Carol continue. Jason was too angry to talk, and they drove in

  silence to the freeway, where Jason announced, "I think we should drive

  to Portland. God knows who may be waiting for us at the Seattle

  airport."

  "Fine by me," Carol said, much too tired to argue.

  They stopped for a couple hours' sleep at a motel near Portland, and at

  the first I ' ight of dawn, went on to the airport, where they boarded a

  flight to Chicago. From Chicago, they flew to Boston, touching down a little after

  five-thirty Saturday evening.

  In the cab in front of Carol's apartment, Jason suddenly laughed. "I

  wouldn't even know how to apologize for what I've put you through."

  Carol picked up her shoulder bag. "Well, at least it wasn't boring.

  Look, Jason, I don't mean to be sarcastic, or a nag, but please tell me

  what's going on."

  "As soon as I'm sure," Jason 'said. "I promise. Really. Just do me one

  favor. Stay put tonight. Hopefully, no one knows we're back, but all

  hell might break loose if and when they find out."

  "I don't plan on going anywhere, doctor." Carol sighed. "I've had it."

  Jason never even stopped at his apartment. As soon as Carol disappeared

  into her building, he told the cabdriver to drop him at his car and

  drove directly to GHP. He crossed immediately into the outpatient

  building. It was seven P. m. and the large waiting room was deserted.

  Jason went directly to his office, pulled off his jacket, and sat down

  at his computer terminal.

  -GHP had spent a fortune on their computer system and was proud of it.

  Each station accessed the large mainframe where all patient data was

  entered.

  Although the individual charts were still the best source of patient

  information, most of the material could be obtained from the computer.

  Best of all, the sophisticated machinery could scan the entire patient

  base of GHP and graphically display the data on the screen, analyzed in

  almost any way one could wish.

  Jason first called up the current survival curves. The graph that the

  computer drew was shaped like the steep slope of a mountain, starting

  high, then rounding and -falling off. The graph compared the survival

  rate of GHP users by age. As one might ex~ect, subscribers at the oldest

  end of the graph had the lowest survival rate. Over the past five years,

  although the median age of the GHP population had gradually increased,

  the survival curves stayed about the same.

  Next, Jason asked the computer to print monthby-month graphs for the

  last'half year. As he had feared, he saw the death rate rise for

  patients in their late fifties and early sixties, particularly during

  the last three months.

  A sudden crash made him jump from his seat, but when he looked out in

  the hall he saw it was just the cleaning service.

  Relieved, Jason returned to the computer. He wished he could separate

  the data on patients who had been given executive. physicals, but he

  couldn't figure out how to do it. Instead, he had to be content with

  crude death rates. These graphs compared the percentages of deaths

  associated with age.

  This time the curve went the other way. It started low, then as the age

  increased the percentage of deaths went up. But then Jason asked the

  computer to print out a series of such graphs over the previous several

  months, month by month. The results were striking, particularly over the

  last two months. The death curves rose sharply starting at age fifty.

  Jason sat at the computer terminal for another half hour, trying to coax

  the machine into separating out the executive physicals. What he

  expected he would see if he'd been able, was a rapid increase in death

  rates f
or people fifty an dover who had highrisk factors such as

  smoking, alcohol abuse, poor diets, and lack of exercise. But the data

  was not available. It had not been programmed to be extracted en masse.

  Jason would have to take each individual name and laboriously obtain the

  data himself, but he didn't have time to do that. Besides, the crude

  death-rate curves were enough to corroborate his suspicions. He now knew

  he was right. But there was one more way to prove it. With enormous

  unease, he left his office and returned to his car.

  Driving out the Riverway, Jason headed for Roslindale. The closer he

  got, the more nervous he became. He had no idea what he was about to

  confront, b ut he suspected it was not going to be pleasant. His

  destination was the Hartford School, the institution run by GHP for

  retarded children. If Alvin Hayes had been right about his own

  condition, he must have been right about his retarded son's.

  The Hartford School backed onto the Arnold Arboretum, an idyllic setting

  of graceful wooded hills, fields, and ponds. Jason turned into the

  parking lot, which was all but deserted, and stopped within fifty feet

  of the front entrance. The handsome, Colonialstyle building had a

  deceptively serene look that belied the personal family tragedies it

  housed. Severe retardation was a hard subject even for professionals to

  deal with. Jason vividly remembered examining some of the children on

  previous visits to the school. Physically many were perfectly formed,