Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  It had been about thirty minutes since he left the party through the back door, ostensibly to get a scorecard from his golf bag in the garage. He grabbed the card, which he had set by the garage door, then cut around to the side of the house to dislodge the washing machine hose. His setup worked even better than he expected. One tug on the heavy twine had pulled the hose free, and the twine had slipped off so that he was able to pull it through the basement window. Now, there were about ten minutes left before he would “discover” the disaster.

  He made his way through the guests, trading stories, laughing at jokes, and doing a fairly effective job of getting drunk. It was strange knowing when the exact moment of one’s death was going to occur. What if he had known from the very beginning? Would he have done anything differently? The question was rhetorical. He would always have joined The Roundtable as he understood it to be. And the moment he entered his first Roundtable meeting, he was one of them. From then on, nothing he did would change a thing.

  He had said goodbye to each of the kids in his own way and had managed half-decent sex with Nancy before tension overwhelmed him. Now, he stood in the kitchen and glanced over at the drawer where he had placed the flashlights. Just a few more minutes. Suddenly, he realized the phone was ringing. His first thought was that something had happened to one of the kids. He snatched it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Kevin Loomis?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Harry. Harry Corbett. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. We’re having a party here, though. I really can’t talk.”

  “That’s okay. You can just listen. I won’t take long. The murder they want me for, the surgeon … ?”

  “Yes.”

  From the doorway, Nancy asked with body language if the call was anything for her to be concerned with. Kevin shook his head.

  “It’s Atwater, Kevin,” Harry went on. “Doug Atwater from Manhattan Health. He’s the knight behind the killings, behind that Dr. Perchek I told you about.”

  “I suspected as much. Atwater’s Galahad, the knight in charge of security. I saw him earlier today on the news.”

  “The others in your group may have participated, but I believe he’s the mastermind. We’re going after him and Perchek right now.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Kevin, I’m calling to beg you to see this thing through. If we get them, we’re going to need you to testify against them. If we fail, all those patients at risk are going to need you even more.”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kevin said. “Of course I’m going to see this through. I wish you luck tonight. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Kevin, please be strong. You have too much to lose. We all do.”

  Kevin set the receiver down without replying. Damn Corbett. He didn’t even have any kids. He turned on the sink water, which was now little more than a trickle.

  “Hey, Fred,” he called to one of the two men he had selected, “we’ve got no water pressure all of a sudden. What do you think?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Guess we ought to check the basement,” he said.

  Kevin allowed him to open the basement door and try the light.

  “Bulb’s out,” the man said. “Or else the power down there’s dead.”

  From below, they could clearly hear the sound of gushing water. Kevin handed him a flashlight and then called over Reverend Pete Peterson and handed him one as well. His pulse was beginning to race.

  “It looks like the great flood down there,” he said. “Unfortunately, my waders are right in the middle of it. You guys hang on the stairway and follow me with your lights. I’ll see what I can see.”

  It was about to happen, Kevin was thinking. It felt strange, so strange that his whole life had come down to these few moments.

  He led the two men down to the basement and stepped into a foot and a half of water. “It’s the washing machine hose,” he called out from the blackness. “It’s snapped off. Keep your lights on it.”

  All those things in life that had seemed so damn important at the time … all meaningless …

  “Just be careful,” Peterson said.

  Kevin jammed the hose back onto its housing.

  “See,” he said, “no problem. No problem at all.”

  What I’m doing is right. Best for Nancy. Best for the kids. Best for everyone. God, forgive me.…

  Sir Tristram, Knight of The Roundtable, took a single deep breath and then set his hand down on the back of the dryer. His body stiffened. Sparks shot from his legs at the waterline. His heart went into immediate standstill. The muscles in his hand, in a viselike spasm, tightened around the frayed wire. He had been dead fox fifteen seconds by the time the weight of his body pulled him free of the wire and allowed him to drop into the water.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Green Dolphin Street.”

  They were still a ways from Atwater’s mansion when Harry began hearing the tune in his head. He tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel and bobbed his head to the bass line.

  “What are you doing?” Santana asked.

  “Listening to music. It’s a tune that pops into my brain when I’m keyed up. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m tense until I hear it.”

  Santana studied him. From within the black greasepaint, his eyes were glowing discs of pearl.

  “Keep listening,” he said finally.

  They drove toward the Hudson until they found the narrow, winding roadway that paralleled the Palisades. Harry cut the headlights and slowed down. There were no cars on either side, moving or parked. The houses, each overlooking the Hudson from a majestic height, were widely spaced and nestled in the woods a good distance from the road. Through the rain and the gloom, it was impossible to make out much more than lights from any of them.

  “You still think you know where we are?” Santana asked.

  “I’m not as certain as I was a little while ago,” Harry said, peering through the Winnebago windshield, which was being squeegeed by wiper blades as big as hockey sticks. “Maybe that’s why the damn tune in my head keeps getting louder.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop listening. How’re you even going to know we’re there?”

  “I’m looking for that wall I told you about. That stone wall.”

  At almost the moment he said the word, they saw it—fieldstone set in cement, two feet thick, running along the road as far as they could see. To their right, a six-foot-high chain-link fence extended from the wall toward the cliffs. Harry pulled as far off the road as he could, cut the engine, and gestured toward the fence.

  “I would guess there’s another one like this on the other side, and then the cliffs in the back. So the place is completely enclosed.”

  “A big corral,” Santana said. “What better place for a gunfight?”

  Peering down the road, they could just make out the main gate, perhaps fifty yards away. Santana used a hooded flashlight and set out their equipment, which included a snub-nosed revolver and the silenced semiautomatic that Harry knew had killed the gunman in the park. In addition, there was rope, adhesive tape, switchblade knives, wire cutters, wire, Swiss Army knives, powerful flashlights, and several boxes of ammunition. Santana handed Harry the revolver and some bullets.

  “The safety’s here,” he said. “Flip it off after you load it. Then just point and shoot.”

  “Just point and shoot,” Harry echoed. “The ultimate Kodak moment.”

  “Load up your rucksack and be ready.”

  Santana took the binoculars and the rifle, switched off the interior lights of the RV, then opened the door and slipped out. Harry watched, impressed, as the former DEA undercover agent moved quickly and silently to the wall and scaled it in a heartbeat. He lay flattened on the top, scanning the property. Then, after a few minutes, he was back.

  “The house is pretty well lit and not that far away. I can actually see into some of the windows. There’s one guard in a l
ittle house by the gate. I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “Any dogs?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Shouldn’t we have brought some big T-bone steaks just in case?”

  “You mean like they do in the movies?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Harry, any attack dog that’s worth its salt knows the difference between the kind of meat that just lies there and the kind of fresh meat it gets to hunt down and kill. We see a dog, we shoot it. That’s too simple for the movies, but it’s damn efficient. Now, here’s what I think we should do. I’m going back up on the wall, about halfway down. When I flash one time, call the house and demand to speak with Maura. That way we’ll know for certain she’s there. Hopefully I’ll see her through one of the windows. If not, we’ll just have to get close enough to figure out where she is. If I flash twice, come along. Three times, there’s trouble of some kind. In that case, hop up on the wall right over here, and be ready to use that gun. Lock the doors and leave the key wedged under the right rear tire. Questions?”

  “None.”

  “You ready?”

  “I am. Ray, I guess there is one thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Please don’t take this wrong. I’ve got a score to settle with these people too. A big score. I just want to remind you to … to keep your cool.”

  Santana’s response was not what Harry expected. He glared at him in an unsettling, frightening way. The tic by his eye and at the corner of his mouth, intensified.

  “Okay, you asked, now you listen,” he snapped. “I’ve lived in pain every second of every minute of every hour of every fucking day since that bastard shot that stuff into my body. Seven years. The only peace I ever got during that time was when I was able to imagine what it was like for him in that filthy Mexican prison. Now he’s up there in that mansion along with the bastard who set me up to be tortured. Don’t you tell me to keep my cool.”

  Harry felt himself recoil from the man’s fury. It took some time for him to regain his composure. Finally, he reached out and rested his hand on Santana’s arm.

  “Sorry, Ray,” he said. “We’ll get them. I promise you we will.”

  Santana left and quickly flattened himself against the wall. The rain had let up considerably, and the gate was easier to see. Harry peered at it for a second or two. When he looked back, Santana was again atop the wall. A moment later, his light flashed once. Harry checked the time, 9:08, and dialed the number Atwater had given him. Atwater answered on the second ring.

  “Dr. Mingus?” Atwater said.

  “It is.”

  “Tell me again what you have for me.”

  “I want proof that Maura’s okay.”

  “Tell me what you have.”

  “Santana is staying at a rooming house in Spanish Harlem. I’ll tell you the address and the name he’s using when you let Maura leave.”

  “How did he find me up here?”

  “Perchek left a thumbprint in Evie’s room. Someone at the bureau told Santana. He’s pledged the guy to secrecy. No one else knows about it except him and me—not even the crime guy who lifted the print in the first place.”

  “How’ll I prove you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Doug, I don’t give a shit about you, what you prove or don’t prove. Every cop in New York is looking for me. Once I have Maura, I’m out of here. That’s all I care about. Now, where is she?”

  “Who have you been in touch with on The Roundtable?”

  “Two men. Jim Stallings is one. Now he’s dead. The other one I’ll name as soon as I speak to Maura. He’s told me all the other names.”

  “Give me one.”

  “Someone named Loomis. I can’t remember his first name, but I have it written down.”

  “He’s not the other one you’ve spoken to?”

  “No. Now, no more delay. I can’t stay here that long.”

  “Call this number back in exactly five minutes.”

  Harry hung up and waited in the dark. Up ahead, he could barely make out the shadow that was Santana, pressed on the top of the wall. The rain had all but stopped now. The country air wafting through the open passenger-side door was scrubbed and sweet. The songs of peepers and crickets filled the heavy silence. Harry ran his fingers over the greasepaint coating the backs of his hands.

  9:13. Harry picked up the receiver and hit redial.

  “All right,” Atwater said as soon as he heard Harry’s voice. “You have thirty seconds. I’m standing right next to her, listening on a portable phone. Don’t upset me.”

  “Hello?”

  “Maura, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “Harry. I’ve been so worried about you. I’m all right. They … they made me drink bourbon. I fought it, but they made me. Then they gave that up and shot me with some drug to make me tell them where you were. But I couldn’t tell them what I didn’t know.”

  Her voice sounded strained, but strong.

  “Maura, just be tough. I have everything we need to get us out of the country.”

  There was the briefest hesitation, then she quickly covered up her confusion.

  “I didn’t think you could pull it all together so quickly,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  Her extension clicked off.

  “Okay, Harry. Call this number again in five more minutes and we deal.”

  “Make it half an hour. I can’t stay where I am any longer.”

  “Who’s the other man on The Roundtable you’ve spoken to?”

  “Harper. Pat Harper. Northeast Life and Casualty.”

  Kevin Loomis had said the man’s name just once, but it had been easy for Harry to remember. A girl named Pat Harper had been his first crush in junior high. Dropping Harper’s name now was perfect. If Harry didn’t make it through this night, at least Loomis would be safe from reprisal.

  “Okay. Thirty minutes,” Atwater said.

  Harry listened to the dial tone and tried to imagine what was transpiring behind the wall. For two minutes, there was only blackness up ahead. Then Santana’s light flashed twice. It was time.

  Harry slipped on the rucksack and snapped the revolver into a holster on his belt. Keeping low, he flattened himself against the wall and moved along it until he reached Santana, who was standing on the road side.

  “They’re not keeping her in the house,” he whispered. “Someone, I think it was Garvey, left by a side door and walked north. In a minute or so, he came back with her. Then they went back again and Garvey returned alone. Now, he’s back in the house.”

  “Where to first?”

  “The guard by the gate. If there’s going to be any shooting, try and let me do it. My gun doesn’t make any noise.”

  “I remember.”

  Santana set the rifle by the wall.

  “It looks like it’s all going to be close-in work,” he said. “Maybe I can get a refund for this.”

  The fieldstones offered easy purchase for scaling the wall. Together, they reached the top, lowered themselves halfway down the other side, and dropped to the sodden ground. Harry found himself anticipating pain in his chest before he hit. In fact, he did experience a brief jab, though not nearly as bad as when he jumped the backyard fence in Fort Lee. If this was as bad as it got tonight, he could handle it easily.

  Guns drawn, they inched up on the small gatehouse. There was a dark, four-door sedan parked beside it. Through the small side window of the house, they could see the guard talking on the phone.

  “If this is a check-in call, we’re in luck,” Santana whispered. “One less thing to go wrong. Have some two-inch adhesive tape ready.”

  He motioned Harry to the far side of the gatehouse door, then tapped lightly on it once and flattened himself against the wall. The door opened cautiously. Gun drawn, the guard stepped out. Harry hadn’t time to fully appreciate Santana’s moves before it was over. Ray brought his pistol down sharply on the man’s wrist. The guard’s hand went limp and the gun dropped as
if it had suddenly become electrified. Before he could even cry out, Ray was on him, a hand tightly across his mouth, his leg around the back of his calf. The takedown was quick and silent. Ray came down straddling the man’s chest with the muzzle of his silenced revolver jammed between his teeth.

  “Not a sound!” Ray growled. “Understand?”

  The man nodded. Keeping the silencer in his mouth, Ray rolled him onto his side and motioned Harry to tie his hands behind him. Then he again rolled him to his back. He pulled his gun out and pressed it under the guard’s jaw.

  “Okay, where’s the girl?”

  The man stared up at Ray’s blackened face. Harry could see him assessing the benefits and dangers of trying to lie. The internal debate lasted only seconds.

  “Guest house … down a path to the left …”

  “Is Perchek with her?”

  The mention of The Doctor’s name brought a flash of fear to the guard’s eyes. He hesitated, then nodded.

  “How many men?” Ray waited for a response, and then set the silencer muzzle squarely on the man’s left eye. “How many?”

  “One with P-Perchek in the cottage,” he stammered. “Two in the house.”

  “Plus Garvey?”

  “Who?”

  “Atwater.”

  “Yes. Two plus him.”

  “Put a bandana in his mouth and tape it in tightly,” Santana whispered to Harry. “Wrap the tape all the way around his head twice. Then tie his ankles.”

  Harry did so efficiently, and together they dragged the man ten yards to a tree and tied him there. Santana checked inside the gatehouse.

  “The gate release is right inside the door,” he said. “The door beside the gate is unlocked.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about twenty minutes. Let’s go get her.”

  They stayed close to the wall, which met the chain-link fence on the far side of the property in a copse of low shrubs. Up the hill and to their right was the main house, with lights shining through every window and spots illuminating the front walk. Fifty yards or more to the left of the main house, shining through a small woods, were more lights.