Pillar of Fire

by R. R. Irvine

  “What about you and your sheep?” Traveler asked.

  “I know the water holes. Otherwise I wouldn’t risk it.”

  “You should have called me sooner,” Martin said.

  Biscari winced. “The sheriff told me he’d have them back before the sun set. When that didn’t happen, I knew it was already too late. What I want now is to find what’s left of the boy and bury him. If I don’t, Miriam will never forgive me. That’s why I’m moving the sheep. Chances are I can’t find him out there, but I’ve got to try. All my life I’ve gone with the sheep. Now they come with me.”

  “What can we do?” Traveler asked.

  “Find out why he ran off.”

  Even without a reason, Traveler felt certain the clinic was legally responsible. Martin must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “You might be better off hiring yourself a lawyer.”

  “Martin,” Biscari said softly, “we go back a long time, since the day you kept me out of jail. I couldn’t pay you back then, you wouldn’t have taken it. I can pay now, though, whatever you and your son ask.”

  “We’ll talk to them at the clinic,” Martin said. “No charge.”

  Traveler groaned at the thought of the government red tape ahead.

  “I won’t take charity,” Biscari said.

  “Then we’ll settle for one of those jackrabbit stews of yours,” Martin said. “Where can we get in touch with you?”

  “I’ll keep heading east, like I said. I’ll water near the Echo Canyon reservoir, then cross over into Utah somewhere north of Uvada. There’s good water near there, not that I think Petey could have made it that far. From there . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll keep going east until I run out of range.”

  “That ought to be somewhere near Fire Creek, shouldn’t it?”

  Biscari shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll get that far, not in this kind of weather.”

  6

  THE ECHO Canyon Clinic was ten miles northeast of Pioche, Nevada, in a bleak stretch of desert. To get there, Traveler and Martin swung off Highway 93 just beyond what looked like a small government housing project, and onto a two-lane black-topped road that showed no numerical designation of its own. From there to the clinic, they didn’t pass so much as an outhouse. The last five hundred yards had a posted speed limit of five miles an hour, enforced by six-inch speed bumps.

  Two ten-foot chain-link fences, one inside the other, provided a security perimeter for the clinic’s main building, a two-story cinder-block square the size of a Kmart.

  “The fences are new, Petain told me,” Martin said, “since the boys ran off.”

  Traveler negotiated the last bump before coming to a halt next to a guardhouse the size of a tollbooth. The man who emerged wore a tan uniform and a pistol belt. A radiation badge hung from his shirt pocket.

  “We called ahead,” Traveler told him.

  Five minutes later they were given badges of their own and escorted into the office of the clinic’s administrator, Dr. Harold Grant, who was on the phone.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he mouthed, waving them into a pair of leather chairs that faced his desk.

  His office was large by government standards, and appointed with thick wall-to-wall carpeting and a large cherrywood desk whose highly polished surface contained half a dozen framed photographs, all angled to be visible only to his visitors. The faces in the photos looked happy and carefree from a distance. Up close, the features of Down syndrome were apparent.

  Grant’s gray suit coat hung next to the door with a radiation badge clipped to the lapel. Another badge hung from his shirt pocket.

  Into the phone he said, “It’s not funny, Emerson. I’m tired of you people in research thinking you can get away with murder. Your specimens are to go straight to the laboratory and never be delivered here. Repeat, never, no matter how big a laugh you think it is.”

  He paused for a moment, listening. “No you don’t. I heard what you did to my predecessor. An animal lover, wasn’t he, a bleeding heart for every one of your pretended mistakes that mysteriously showed up in his office. Well, you missed the mark with me. I don’t care how fuzzy they are, I’m not getting attached. As for your latest delivery, he can sit here until he starves for all I care.”

  Grant swiveled his chair to stare at something in the corner of his office, beyond Traveler’s line of sight. “He’s been here since yesterday. And no, I’m not feeding him, and I’m not naming him either.”

  He faced forward again, listening and getting red in the face. “I don’t give a damn if your area is secure and off limits. In one hour, I’m sending my secretary to dump him outside your door.”

  Grant rolled his eyes for Traveler’s benefit. “If she can’t get past the check point, I’ll do it myself.”

  Traveler tilted his chair far enough to see a wire mesh cat carrier sitting on a pile of newspapers in the corner of the office. The cat inside, a calico with badly matted fur, lay curled in a ball, breathing heavily and watching Traveler with frightened eyes. There was no sign of a water bowl or food, RADIATION PROTOCOL was stamped on the side of the carrier in red letters.

  “If that doesn’t work, Emerson, I’ll dump him in the desert myself. And don’t start talking about cruelty to animals, not after what you people do to them in that lab of yours.”

  Martin stood up to take a look at the cat for himself.

  “I’m starting the clock now,” Grant said. “You have one hour.”

  He hung up and shook his head apologetically. “You’d think scientists would have better things to do than behave like children. If it weren’t for bottom-liners like myself, this place would fall apart, I swear.”

  A pitiful meow punctuated his remark.

  He swung around and gingerly kicked the cat carrier. “You see what I have to put up with all day.”

  Traveler forced a smile. “Exactly what are they doing to the animals in that lab you were talking about?”

  Grant spread his hands. “I don’t like it either. But we’re talking cancer research here. If a few animals have to die to save human lives, well . . .” He shrugged.

  “I don’t understand,” Martin said. “What does animal research have to do with retarded children?”

  “That’s government funding for you. They have this facility out here in the middle of nowhere and they don’t like to waste it. So they set aside one wing for mental health. Of course, we do a lot more than research here. We also treat cancer patients.”

  Martin leaned forward, shaking his head. “How do you treat children like Petey Biscari?”

  Grant picked up a manila folder, the only item of business on his desk. “I see by my records that Petain Biscari is the sole relative listed, so what is your interest?”

  “We’re friends,” Martin said.

  “Professional investigators,” Traveler added, “like I told your secretary on the phone.”

  Grant shrugged. “The authorities tell me that survival in our desert around here is an impossibility after such a long time.”

  “Mr. Biscari needs to bury his son,” Martin said.

  “He refused our offer of crisis counseling.”

  “Tell me,” Traveler said. “How many patients Petey’s age do you have here?”

  “This may sound unbelievable, but I don’t know. We do government work at this facility, you understand, and much of what goes on is classified. Even as clinic administrator, I’m not allowed full access, as you could hear on the phone.”

  “Why would the treatment of mentally disabled children be classified?”

  “Research is expensive, Mr. Traveler. The companies producing some of our experimental drugs want to protect their investment.”

  “Hold it,” Martin said. “Mr. Biscari told me his son was being retrained to take care of himself. Drugs were never mentioned.”

  Grant shook his head impatiently. “Our retraining program is done in conjunction with drug therapy. It’s clearly outlined to all our parents
when they enroll their children with us. They have to sign a waiver.” He opened the folder, removed the top document from a half-inch stack, and pushed it across the desk toward Martin. Passages had been highlighted in yellow in advance.

  “What kind of drugs were being used on Petey?”

  “I wouldn’t know, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. That’s the rules. Everything’s in our disclosure statement. I tell each and every parent who comes in my office, read everything carefully. Most of them don’t, I’m afraid. Obviously, you two haven’t read it either.”

  Traveler forced a smile. “Are we talking radiation therapy?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Why the radiation badges, then?

  “You must understand,” Grant said. “Children like Petey are a terrible burden on their parents. They never grow up, really. Everything has to be done for them. In public they can be embarrassing. So it’s perfectly understandable that parents should feel a sense of relief when they turn responsibility for these youngsters over to us. A great many of them don’t even come back to visit, sad as that may seem.”

  “Petain Biscari trusted you,” Martin said.

  “I don’t know him personally, of course. But as I said, we did offer counseling. Eventually, there may be some kind of compensation forthcoming, though it’s not my place to make that kind of commitment. Certainly, we’ve taken elaborate precautions since the two boys wandered off.”

  “You mean the fences?”

  Grant nodded. “Your client should take comfort from that.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Traveler said. “Petey told his father he didn’t like it here at the clinic. We want to know why.”

  “He got the best of care, I can assure you of that.”

  “We’d like to see that for ourselves.”

  “Only immediate relatives are allowed that privilege.”

  “Then how about an interview with the boy’s doctor?”

  “A Dr. Ottinger,” Martin added.

  “I’m sorry. He’s left us. Talking to anyone else is out of the question.”

  Grant rose, walked to the door, and opened it. “We don’t give out personnel information.”

  Traveler looked around him. Everything, Grant included, was anonymous government issue. No doubt that was necessary when dealing with laboratory animals, human or not. There was no way to win against such people or their bureaucracy. But Traveler still had to do something. One life, he decided, would be better than nothing. He moved around the desk and picked up the cat carrier. “Did the calico sign a consent form?”

  “Don’t force me to call security.”

  Traveler crossed the room and poked a finger against Grant’s chest. “There’s no winning against people like you. God knows what you’re doing to the children in here. I’d take them out of here if I could.”

  “That cat’s government property,” Grant said.

  Traveler smiled. “You don’t want to see me again, but you will if you try to stop me saving at least one life in this damn place. It’s not much, I grant you. But it’s better than doing nothing at all.”

  Grant stepped around Traveler and picked up the phone on his desk.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Martin told him. “When my son gets mad, I can’t control him. You can see how big he is. You wouldn’t believe the damage he could do before help arrives.”

  Grant cradled the phone. “You’ll never get past the gate.”

  Martin shook his head. “If I were you, I wouldn’t call after we’re gone. You see, we find people for a living, no matter where they hide.” He smiled. “Have a nice day.”

  7

  TRAVELER HELD his breath all the way to the car, expecting alarm bells to go off at any moment. At the gate, the guard didn’t even look up from his magazine as he waved them through.

  “I’ll be damned,” Martin said when they were back on the highway. “We got away with the bluff.”

  “I wasn’t bluffing,” Traveler said.

  Martin squinted at him, then at the cat carrier in the back seat. The calico, more wild-eyed than ever, was emptying his bladder.

  “Switch the air conditioner to maximum and drive like hell,” Martin said. “Our friend back there needs water and something to eat. Dogs and cats can’t sweat like we do, so this kind of heat can kill them fast.”

  When they reached the highway and turned toward town, Traveler said, “What the hell was going through Biscari’s mind, leaving a kid in a place like that?”

  “Whatever it was, it can’t compare with what’s going through his head now.”

  As soon as they reached Pioche, they negotiated all-day parking in the service bay at a Texaco station, plus cat-carrier space in the air-conditioned office. The mechanic on duty also threw in information free of charge, confirmation of what Traveler already suspected, that most of the married workers from the clinic lived in the government housing outside both Pioche’s city limit and its legal jurisdiction.

  Traveler raided a news rack, stocking up on newspaper to line the carrier. After that, he and Martin bought two Styrofoam ice chests at a grocery store, one for cat food, water, and soft drinks, the other filled to the brim with ice bags for emergency cooling in case the Jeep’s air conditioner died on the way to Fire Creek. They also picked up a plastic box and a bag of kitty litter.

  Once everything was stowed in the office next to the cat, who had gone through two saucers of water and half a can of food, Martin sat down to study the local phone book.

  “There’s a veterinarian listed,” he said. “What do you think? Should we take Brigham for a checkup?”

  “How do you know his name’s Brigham?”

  “Because he’s got more lives than Brigham Young had wives.”

  Traveler shook his head. “He looks perky enough to me.”

  “Let’s find ourselves a beauty parlor, then.” Martin went back to the phone book. “Here we go. Marcia’s Salon Elegant. When we get there, I’ll do the talking. You look far too threatening.”

  Ten minutes inside the beauty parlor got Martin an invitation to dinner from a local widow, and the name Janet Ottinger, with an address in the government housing project.

  Ms. Ottinger, as she insisted on being called, had that tanned, sinewy intensity of someone obsessed with physical fitness. Her white tennis outfit, shorts and revealing pullover, showed the results of years of hard work.

  When they told her they were detectives looking for her husband, she smiled like a lottery winner and invited them inside.

  “As of next month,” she announced as soon as they were seated in her air-conditioned living room, “thanks to the divorce laws here in Nevada, Ms. Ottinger will disappear forever. That’s when I say ‘I do,’ and become Mrs. Sheppard. After that, the name Ottinger will never be mentioned again, not by me anyway.”

  Traveler nodded sympathetically. Bitter divorces were an investigator’s best friend, with only the slightest prompting needed to start the venom flowing.

  “Where can we find your ex-husband?” Martin said. “We want to talk to him about one of his patients at the clinic.”

  “He’s gone crazy,” she said. “He ran off, away from me, a perfectly good job, and a good salary.”

  She looked around the austerely furnished room, whose only extravagance was an enormous television set. “This may not be the greatest place to live but the rent is practically nothing. In another year, two at the most, we would have had enough money saved up to move to California. But no, Jack couldn’t wait. He up and disappeared.”

  “Why?” Martin asked gently.

  She wet her lips. “Like I said, he went crazy. One day he comes home from the clinic and says, ‘I’ve been hearing voices.’ ‘What kind?’ I said, thinking it was the beginning of some kind of joke. You know what he said then? ‘It’s my conscience I’m hearing.’ ”

  She paused to tuck her legs under her. “As soon as I heard that, I knew he’d lost one of his patients, probably one of the yo
unger ones. Every time that happened, he got depressed. I always did the best I could to help. I took him to bed, if you know what I mean, but talk was all he wanted. ‘Two boys,’ he said. ‘I can’t face the parents. I can’t lie anymore.’ ”

  “What did he mean by that?” Traveler said.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” She hugged herself. “If you ask me, being dead is better than being retarded like those people. I told Jack the same thing that night he was going on about that damned conscience of his. I thought he was going to hit me when I said it. The next thing I knew, the bastard walked out and never came back.”

  “Do you know where he went?

  She shrugged. “I didn’t give a damn.”

  “What can you tell us about the clinic?” Martin asked.

  “When we came here, we had to sign all sorts of documents, swearing to keep quiet. I could go to jail if I said anything.”

  “What about your future husband, does he work there?”

  “Another doctor? Forget it. They think they’re gods. Mark has his own TV repair business. These days that’s as good as being a doctor or a plumber.”

  She nodded at her large-screen set. “I met him when he made a house call. Thank God, I won’t be paying his repair prices anymore.”

  “Is there anyone else in town we can talk to about the clinic?” Martin said.

  “I’ve told you all I can.” She unfolded her legs, smiling at Traveler’s admiration of them. “Mark thinks he’s lucky to get me, and he’s right.”

  She walked them outside into the blazing desert sunlight. Halfway to the curb, she stopped to say, “Jack told me never to say anything I’d be sorry for inside the house. He thought the security people from the clinic had hidden microphones in the walls. I wouldn’t put it past them to spy on what people got up to in their bedrooms, though with Jack and me that wasn’t much for a long time. Anyway, you talk to John and Clea Whitlock. They moved to Pioche to be near their son while he was being treated at the clinic. He and another boy ran away and died in the desert. Just don’t tell anyone you got their names from me.”