Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  “Take a break,” he said to the uniformed policeman. “I’ll go down with him. I’ll call you up here in half an hour and tell you what’s what.”

  With the nurse on one side of the gurney and Dickinson on the other, Harry was wheeled to the elevator. The monitor between his feet silently charted out his heartbeats. Facing cardiac surgery, he felt detached, surreal, and very mortal. But in truth, he had felt that way most of the time since the night he walked back onto Alexander 9 with a milk shake for Evie. The gurney was pushed onto the elevator by the man from the cath lab. Dickinson and the nurse squeezed in alongside it. There was a second set of doors beyond Harry’s feet, opposite the one through which they had entered. Harry heard the doors behind him glide closed. He heard a key being inserted in the control panel so that their trip could be made with no stops.

  “Hey,” the nurse said, “what are you doing? The cath lab’s on the eighth floor, not the subbasement.”

  At that moment, her expression turned to terror. Dickinson, looking with wide-eyed surprise at the old man from the cath lab, was fumbling inside his coat for his gun when Harry heard the soft spit of a silenced revolver from just beside his ear. The nurse spun 180 degrees, slammed into the metal door, and dropped. Dickinson, clearly beaten, lowered his hand in a gesture of surrender. The silenced revolver spit again and created an instant hole in the white shirt over his left breast. For two horrible seconds he stared at the wound. A halo of crimson appeared around the hole. He looked up at Harry, his expression a mix of astonishment and utter dismay. Then his eyes rolled up and without a word, he crumpled to the floor.

  Harry was too shocked and horrified to speak. The heart rate on the screen between his feet was one seventy. He expected any moment to see the beating stop entirely.

  “I told you you should have killed me when you had the chance,” Anton Perchek said dispassionately. “Now, you must get ready for your great escape.”

  The elevator stopped at the subbasement, but Perchek kept the doors from opening.

  “You’ll never make it,” Harry said.

  “I made it this far, didn’t I?” Perchek boasted. “A brief stop for some things at my Manhattan apartment, and I arrived here to begin preparation just a few hours after you did. They couldn’t have chosen a better hospital for my purposes. I have several different excellent ID badges from here. And having handled a number of cases here for The Roundtable, I know my way around the place pretty well.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “So, then, Doctor. We must get a move on. I have a laundry hamper waiting just outside the door. It’s Saturday so the laundry is almost deserted. A little IV Pentothal for you and we should be able to roll right past the pressing machines and out of this place.”

  “Why don’t you just kill me?” Harry asked.

  The Doctor circled around the gurney so that Harry could see the loathing in his eyes … and the glee.

  “Oh, Harry, the idea is not to kill you,” he said. “The idea is to have you beg me to kill you.”

  Harry cast about for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. There was not going to be any abduction and torture. It was going to end for them right here, right now. He fixed on the Door Open button near his right foot. The laundry was through the door behind him. Something, possibly an equipment supply room or the power plant, had to be on the other side of this one. If he could just get there, he had a chance. At the very least, Perchek would have to decide whether to pursue him or flee.

  The sling was loose enough to allow some movement. Shielded by the sheet, he slid his right hand across his body. The pain in his shoulder grew more intense with every millimeter, but he ignored it. Finally, his fingers closed on the only weapon he could think of—the one-and-a-half-inch needle in his IV hookup. Carefully, he eased it free from the infusion port and shifted it to his left hand.

  Perchek released the door behind Harry’s head.

  “There’s our hamper, right where I left it,” he said, setting the silenced revolver down as he pulled the gurney out far enough to drop the side rail. “Now, just the right amount of Pentothal and—”

  At that moment, the nurse crumpled on the floor moaned loudly. Perchek turned.

  Now! Harry screamed to himself.

  He gripped the needle tightly and drove it to the hilt in the soft spot just below The Doctor’s right ear. Perchek bellowed with pain and surprise, and reeled backward, pawing the spot. Harry pushed himself off the stretcher and swung backhand as hard as he could, connecting with Perchek’s left cheek and sending him sprawling to the concrete floor next to the hamper. Then he whirled and hit Door Open on the panel just above where Albert Dickinson lay. He could sense Perchek stumbling to his feet as the other set of elevator doors glided open. Head down, Harry raced across a small, enclosed waiting area, burst through a set of swinging doors, and charged straight into hell.

  He was on a long cement walk in the cavernous hospital power plant. The temperature was over one hundred, and the noise level was deafening—machinery whirring and rumbling above the constant churning of circulating water. Harry pulled off his sling and threw it aside as he ran awkwardly away from the elevator, expecting at any moment to be shot in the back. To his right was a safety railing, and fifteen feet below that was the massive turbine—a gray monolith, rising out of a concrete slab. The pulsating, high-energy drone it emitted bludgeoned Harry’s chest like a heavyweight’s fist.

  To his left, reaching seventy feet toward a grimy, glasspaneled ceiling, were the boilers—foreboding giants, radiating heat and energy. Thirty yards straight ahead and up a short staircase was the glass-enclosed control booth. Inside, his back to Harry, a large man in a tan jumpsuit and yellow hard hat was watching TV.

  “Help!” Harry screamed. “Help me!”

  His cry was swallowed by the noise. He stumbled on, sweat already cascading down his face and stinging his eyes. The unremitting pulsations from the turbine were making him intensely nauseous. He glanced back just as a bullet ricocheted off the steel column by his ear. Perchek had crawled over the gurney and now knelt at the head of the corridor, taking aim once more. Harry dove onto his belly, sending pain screaming from his shoulder and throughout his chest. The bullet missed by inches, stinging his cheek with concrete spray. Fifty feet ahead of him were the stairs to the control room, which he now realized had to be soundproof. Fifty feet. He could even make out the McDonald’s bag on the counter by the television. But unless the engineer in the hard hat turned around and spotted him, the booth might as well have been on the moon. There was no way he could reach it before Perchek reached him.

  Then, to his right, just a dozen or so feet away, he noticed the stairway down to the turbine floor. He scrambled forward on his left hand and knees. His right arm would bear no weight at all. The heat was intense, the air heavy and stagnant. The pain in his chest was unremitting. He half tumbled down the steel steps, scrambled across the concrete, and took cover behind the massive turbine. Ground zero. The droning vibration cut through his body like a chain saw.

  Fifteen feet above him, on the corridor from the elevator, Perchek leaned over the metal railing, searching. Staying on to kill him was a foolish choice, but clearly The Doctor’s pride and hatred had triumphed over logic.

  Crouching behind the turbine, Harry circled, trying to keep out of Perchek’s line of sight. Behind him was another safety railing, and beyond that another drop-off to a lower level. The entire windowless, three-tiered power plant was as vast as a cathedral. He could hear water flowing below—probably being pumped in from the river to cool the steam from the boilers after it had passed through the turbine. Harry wondered if the conduit returning water to the river was large enough to carry a man out.

  Perchek had already moved over to cover the stairs up to the corridor. The stairs down to the lowest level were virtually a continuation of those. There was no chance Harry could make it either way. He continued inching to his left, trying to keep the hideous turbine bet
ween him and The Doctor. But at that moment, Perchek spotted him. Harry fell back as the revolver again spit flame. A piece of pipe directly over his head split open. With a freight train roar, steam under immense pressure spewed out, instantly flooding the whole area and billowing thirty feet upward to the ceiling. The temperature rose rapidly. The hot, wet air was painful to breathe. Hell.

  Harry knew he was cut off from either staircase. But now, the swirling cloud of steam had completely engulfed the turbine. He pushed through the dense mist on his belly and slipped beneath the safety rail. The twelve- or thirteen-foot drop to the lowest level looked like a hundred. But there was no choice. Painfully, clinging to the rail with his one good hand, he lowered himself over the edge. He hung there for a moment, then dropped to the concrete floor, rolling gracelessly as he hit. Pain shot up from his feet through his chest, taking his breath away. It was several frightening seconds before he realized that he could still move.

  He was at the very bottom of the hospital now. Beneath the concrete floor were the water tunnels, crawl space, and earth. The massive pedestal supporting the turbine extended upward from the ground, through the floor of the level Harry had just left. Ahead of him, flush with the concrete, was a steel grate. Harry crawled over and inspected it. It was four feet by three, placed to allow access into a concrete tunnel, which was about eight feet across. At the base of the tunnel, five feet below where Harry knelt, a stream flowed rapidly, discharging spent coolant water from the power plant to the river. Beside him, a control post with four buttons permitted the water to be stopped to service the system in either direction: Open Inflow, Close Inflow, Open Outflow, and Close Outflow. The prospect of trying to escape through the tunnel to the river was not appealing, but it was rapidly becoming his only option. With the drill-like pain in his chest getting even worse, it was possible he couldn’t make it anyway.

  On the turbine floor above him, steam continued hissing out. Perchek was up there somewhere, undoubtedly guarding the stairway, Harry’s only way out. But now, he realized, The Doctor had another problem. Soon, dropping steam pressure had to set off an alarm. The engineer in the control room would have to look down and see what was going on. Any sane man would flee right now.

  But Anton Perchek was hardly sane.

  Harry tried the grate. It was heavy, but movable. With two good arms, it would have been rather easy. He kept glancing up at the stairs, expecting any moment to see Perchek step down from the cloud. The dreadful ache beneath his breastbone shot up into his jaws and ears. Inch by agonizing inch, he slid the grate aside. He estimated the rushing water below to be three feet deep. Not much cushion. He was weak, dizzy, and drenched with sweat—probably having a full-blown coronary. There was little chance he could survive dropping into the pitch-black tunnel to follow the outflow to the river. It would be better to try and hide behind the turbine pedestal. Any minute, someone had to come down.

  He crawled over to the concrete base of the pedestal just as Perchek stepped out of the billowing steam and down the stairs. Harry crouched low, out of sight at least for the moment. Beside him was a rolling metal cart, loaded with tools. He tried hefting a hammer with his left hand. It was a worthy weapon, but he doubted he would be able to use it effectively. Still, it was something. Perchek scanned the area and peered into the tunnel. The open grate was a giveaway that Harry had been there. But it was also a source of confusion for Perchek. He had to make a decision.

  Harry gripped the hammer and watched as The Doctor crouched by the opening, debating whether or not to jump in. The pain in Harry’s chest was making it hard to breathe and even harder to concentrate. Then Perchek stood and turned away from the grate, again searching the room. Harry cursed softly. He had to do something—maybe attack, maybe try to sneak back up the stairs. Again, Perchek knelt and peered into the tunnel.

  Suddenly, before he fully realized what he was doing, Harry was on his feet, charging toward The Doctor with every ounce of strength he had left, leaning on the tool cart as he pushed it ahead of him. The hissing steam and machinery rumble covered the sound of the wheels. Perchek sensed something and turned, but too late. The cart slammed into his shoulder, sending him over the edge and splashing into the water below. Harry collapsed to the concrete, gasping and perilously close to unconsciousness. Below him, he could see The Doctor on his hands and knees, groping in the black water for his gun.

  Harry forced himself to move. He knelt beside the grate and, with agonizing slowness, pushed it back in position. Perchek looked up as the grate clanged into place. For the first time, Harry thought he could see panic on the man’s face. Then he remembered the control panel. If he could close the outflow, the water would deepen and the gun would be harder to find. Anything that would buy even a little time was worth trying. With great effort he rolled over, reached up, and pushed the button. From somewhere beneath him came the vibration of gears engaging. He slumped facedown to the concrete floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe. The lights dimmed. The intense noise began to fade.

  Time passed, A minute? An hour?

  Then suddenly, the grate by Harry’s face began to move. He opened his eyes and through a gray haze saw Perchek’s fingers wrapped around the metal, thrusting upward in short bursts again and again. With the outflow closed, the rising water had floated him upward. His leverage was poor, but he was easily powerful enough to move the grate aside. In just a few seconds he would be out. Battling the darkness and the pain, Harry forced himself to one elbow. Then, with agonizing slowness, he toppled over onto his back, across the grate. Unable to move, he lay there, arms spread, as Perchek’s fingers tore frantically at his scalp and his neck, and pulled at his shirt.

  “Corbett, get off! Get off!”

  “Go … to … hell.…”

  “Corbett.…”

  The Doctor’s panicked words were cut off. His movements grew more feeble.

  Harry felt the soothing coolness of water welling up around him, flowing out over the floor. The fingers clutching the metal beneath his head slipped away. Minutes passed. The water continued rising around him, now touching his neck, now his ears.

  All at once, the cacophony of machines and steam stopped.

  Dead, Harry thought. At last, I’m dead.… But so is Perchek, Ray.… So is The Doctor.…

  A hand gently shook his shoulder. He peered up through the haze. The engineer knelt beside him—yellow hard hat, kind brown eyes behind protective glasses.…

  “Are you crazy being down here like this, fella?” he said. “Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t get yourself killed.”

  EPILOGUE

  September 2

  The block print on the single day calendar directly opposite his bed was the first thing Harry saw when he opened his eyes. September 2nd, Corbett Curse Plus One. He had been awake sometime earlier and remembered being spoken to by nurses and doctors just before they took him off the ventilator. But he recalled little else except that he had had surgery. He was going to be a cardiac patient for the rest of his life, perhaps even a cardiac cripple. But at least he had a rest of his life.

  He was back in an ICU room, though not the one he had been in before. He had on an oxygen mask and was hooked up with the usual array of lines, wires, and tubes. But he felt remarkably well. Dr. Carole Zane was standing at his bedside.

  “Take a deep breath, Dr. Corbett,” she said. “You must take deep breaths.”

  Harry had cared for enough of his patients after their coronary bypass surgeries to know that for two or three days, the pain from the sternum being split and wired back together was intense. Still, deep lung-clearing breaths were essential. He did as his doctor asked. There was a sharp jab in his left side, but no discomfort in his sternum. None at all. He moved his legs. There was no pain in either of them. One of them had to have been operated on to remove the vein for his bypass. He ran his hand over the inside of his thighs. No bandages. Then he touched his chest. The skin over his sternum was shaved, but intact.

  �
�What’s going on?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bypass—how did you do it without an incision here?”

  She looked at him curiously, then understood.

  “Dr. Corbett, I’m afraid we might have gone a little too heavy on the anesthesia and pain meds. I’ve told you what happened several times. You didn’t have a bypass. And if your coronary arteriograms are any indication, you never will. Don’t you remember seeing them?”

  Harry shook his head. Carole Zane smiled her patient smile and turned to someone else in the room. Suddenly Maura appeared beside her. She had a blackened left eye and small bandages by her brow and on her cheek. But she still looked radiant.

  “Hi, Doc,” she said. “Remember me?”

  “Hey, I think so. The one who saved my life in the Winnebago, right? I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Discharged early this morning. Ten stitches, but not much else. Harry, you didn’t have a bypass operation. There’s nothing wrong with your heart. Nothing at all.”

  He stared up at her, confused.

  “I don’t understand. The pain, the EKG—”

  She held up a clear plastic baggie. Inside was a reddish brown spike, four inches long.

  “They took this out of you, Harry,” she said. “It’s bamboo, so it never showed up on any X rays. It’s been deep in your back since the war, gradually working its way forward. The point was right up against the back side of your heart.”

  “Once we saw the perfectly normal arteriograms we did a CT scan,” Carole Zane explained. “And there it was. Taking it out was relatively easy.”

  “So much for the curse,” Maura said.

  “Except that being terminally dumb is a curse, too. So I still have one to worry about.”

  “I spoke with your brother and with mine, too. Tom’s at Atwater’s place right now, and so is your lawyer. Tom says they’ve found a whole roomful of stuff from The Roundtable, including tapes and financial records.”