Dr. O (34 page)

He knew he was too weak to move that night and that he needed more substantial green foods filled with carbohydrates to combat the awful porphyria that had gone into a second acute stage. He went in to the old woman and released her bonds, a shotgun in his hands now. He ordered her to cook a huge plate of vegetables for him while he ate sugar straight from the canister.

He ordered her to sit across from him while he ate. She was subdued, but her eyes burned into him with her hatred. He gorged himself like an athlete on a carbohydrate-loading diet, realizing that his escape from the area would be a true endurance struggle. But he was feeling better with each mouthful of the food. He even began to feel like killing the old woman.

He drank down the milk she had secured from the refrigerator. It had come from the farm and tasted unlike any he was used to, neither homogenized nor pasteurized. It seemed almost bitter.

He then told her to fill herself a glass of the milk.

She declined.

He insisted, lifting the gun.

She poured and sat the glass before her.

He told her he was a doctor, and that he was now going to give her a little something harmless to knock her out, and that when she awoke he would be gone, but that she would still have her life.

"Would you like that?"

"Yes... yes..."

"Here's the sedative," he told her, pouring in what was left of the carbolic acid.

She protested, saying, "That's not a sedative. That's from the vet, to clean wounds outa' the—"

"Christ, woman! I'm a doctor! I know what I'm talking about! So, it cleans small wounds. It can also be used to knock a person out. Now, drink it!"

She swallowed hard, lifted the glass.

"Drink it!" He pointed the gun.

She drank until the glass was half empty.

"More! All of it, all of it. Do as Dr. Ovierto says."

She hesitated but took it up and finished the milk laced with the carbolic acid.

"Now, you old horse, I'm just going to sit here and watch you die," he said, laughing uproariously.

Her eyes widened as she felt the first bite of the poison.

"Depresses the nerves," he said. "That's why it's such a good cleansing agent. Doesn't burn so badly if the nerves are deadened. But from inside? Christ, lady, it's about to stop your lungs from working—"

She lunged for him, but he simply backed off, pulling the shotgun out of her reach, laughing at her pain, "—and, as I was about to say..."

She climbed from the floor, grabbed a meat cleaver, and came for him.

"As I was about to say, it then stops the blood flow and—"

She collapsed at his feet, the meat cleaver spinning across the ancient linoleum floor.

"And you die," he finished.

But he wasn't finished with the body. He needed some of her blood, if he was to leave his message to Muro. He located and placed on one of her huge linen aprons, dug around for the cleaver she'd proposed using on him, and began to cut a hole in her for the ink he required. With the rich stuff in plentiful supply, he dabbled a finger into the bowl of it he had collected. And then he wrote his message.

He returned to the old man after he had cleaned himself up, going for the keys to his truck. He found them, along with clothes that fit him. He had also managed to find enough makeup in the woman's drawer to be of use to him. Finally, he had searched a storage shack for gasoline. He found two five-gallon drums. With what was already in the truck, it'd be enough to get him as far as a gas station that did not have his picture in the window.

But he knew the bodies would be discovered within twenty-four hours, that he'd have to ditch the truck and find another route out. He did this neatly enough, pulling the truck off the road, lifting out one of the now-empty gas cans, and walking along the side of the road for the next town, a place where he was told there was a bridge that went across to the American side. He had lifted Canadian money and wallet from the old man at the pig farm.

Another man in a light truck, a '79 Ford with a King cab that guzzled gas, pulled over to give him a lift. It was what he had been hoping for.

He dispatched the good Samaritan with a quick jab to the heart, hauled him out of the truck on the passenger side, and covered him over in the ditch. This man was closer to him in age, so he exchanged wallets with him to further confound the police. At the next town, he crossed the bridge that would take him into America, into Ogdensburg, New York. There were extra men at the toll booths —lawmen. He passed by the Canadian check without incident. When he got to the American checkpoint he saw that the police were checking everyone in earnest.

Cars were being detained, trunks were being popped. Ovierto pulled over into this area, parking the old, black Ford and ambling to the rest rooms. He saw the path out of this lot to the other side of the booths. He was close, but he must be careful.

From the rest room window he stared out at the lot, seeing it empty out, save for his truck and a car. He had seen two cars pull off with several people in each. But the last car seemed to belong to a single woman, traveling alone. He had seen her arguing with the crossing guard as he had sauntered into the rest room. He now saw her going out to her car, apparently cleared to go through.

He slipped back out the rear and went directly to the car, where the woman was just getting in. He shoved in hard atop her, pushing her over and putting the knife to her throat, slitting it, cutting off her screams and pushing her to the other side. He started up the ignition and backed out of the parking place calmly. He averted his face and made for the strip of pavement that led to the other side, where only a toll booth remained.

The man in the booth might see the woman. He found a coat in the rear and covered her with it. Paying the man required American currency, and he had to fish in her purse for this, complaining that his wife got to sleep while he got held up at customs. "Slept right through it. So, she can pay for the toll," he finished as he rifled her purse.

"Okay," said the booth attendant. "Enjoy your visit to America."

"You bet... you bet..."

Ogdensburg had a fairly large airport out of which passenger planes flew, but it would be crawling with cops. He wondered where a smaller airport could be found where he could get a helicopter or a small plane out. He needed a map of the area, and the first place he stopped was at a Texaco station, where he purchased a map while the body of the dead woman was still bleeding onto the carpet and seat of the car. He had parked it out of the way, but some asshole had come in after and pulled in beside him. The man got out and came straight for the station, paying no heed to the dead woman in the car beside him. Ovierto rushed back and saw the blood dripping from the bottom of the door.

It froze him for a moment. But then he nonchalantly returned to the pumps, got a few paper towels, wet them and went to work on the drips that the wind had hardened against the white exterior.

Back inside the car, he shoved the coat below the dead woman's head and throat to catch the blood. In his rearview mirror, he saw a man in another car pulling into the station. The man was waving at Ovierto's car as if he knew it from the license plate. Ovierto calmly lifted a hand, returned the wave, pulled out into traffic, and headed south on U.S. 34.

About eight miles out, on a dirt road, he got rid of the body, but anyone getting into the car or staring too long at the seat would see the blood. He studied the map he had bought, picked out a small airport, and went some twenty miles further south, where he saw the international sign for airport. He pulled in and found the guy in charge. He had seen no helicopters so he asked if he might rent a plane to take up for the afternoon.

He was told that he'd have to leave some ID and a Visa or MasterCard. Fortunately, MasterCard did a great business in Canada. He used the dead man's card and a twenty and a ten for the hours of flight in advance.

"You going to want to file a flight plan, Mr. Annnnnreeee?"

"I just thought I'd circle about the area... not going anywhere. Maybe check out the river, that sort of thing."

"Just don't go too far into Canada," said the slim flight instructor. "I mean those dudes get real pissed off if they pick you up on any of their radar. Figure you for a goddamned cargo of drugs. Trust me."

"Sure, no problem."

"Well, just bein' friendly. You aren't from around here. I know most of the flyers around here."

"I'm on vacation... with the wife... up here to visit the in-laws. Had to get away from that mob."

"Best place to hide," said the man with a smile. "Straight up."

"You got that right."

"Come on." He led him out to a battered old plane, but it had a full tank of petrol and from here he could be to Detroit before this fool realized that he had lost his plane.

Detroit wasn't his favorite city, but from Detroit he had been able to get to his safe retreat in the heartland.

But he hadn't long remained content in the old farmhouse in Missouri. Each hour that clicked by reminded him that Rjobyn Muro hadn't heard from him since Canada. So, he'd come to D.C. to find her at the grave site when he had learned of the burial plans for her friend. But Muro wasn't here.

He moved calmly from the cemetery gate so as to garner no undue attention. The streets were busy with milling tourists; a clutch of them were getting off a bus in front of him. He wandered into them for cover, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching him. Then he saw some men in an office window. They had high-powered lenses and they had been tracking him. He tried to remain calm. In his disguise, they had no way of knowing it was him. He wondered if Muro was with the surveillance team. But he could see no evidence of this.

He had to know of her whereabouts. He must know where to send his gifts.

As for Pythagoras, he had no further illusions of their ever parting with the secret of such power. So, he'd have to go on killing, and killing, and killing until one day he was killed. He saw no other end to it.

He had to get to a phone, find out where Muro was.

EPILOGUE

Boas hadn't made the bogus burial either. He had instead seen Muro off at Washington National Airport. He stood tall and decrepit all at once, as he waved her off.

In her seat, heading for Chicago, Robyn Muro thought about what Sam Boas had told her, and she wondered if it was the truth —as unbelievable as it was —or if it was meant to simply keep her from ever talking about Pythagoras again.

Sam had sworn it was the truth when he said, "That project has been a worse drain on the American economy than Star Wars, and has proved just as useless! Pythagoras was scrapped a year ago, but a handful of scientists, Oliguerri the worst of them, wouldn't let it go. They kept hammering at it and talking too much about it in the process."

"What are you saying, Sam? That Pythagoras still does not work, not even with what Oliguerri left?"

"Exactly... all a dream, Robyn, a foolhardy dream."

"A dream to heal people."

"That was Oliguerri's dream, Hogarth's and the others."

"But the Pentagon's dreams were a little skewed toward another kind of end?"

"Those Pentagon dreams are dead as well."

^You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Sam?"

"Not about this."

"What about Ovierto? He doesn't consider it dead, but maybe if you could somehow convince him. Go public with the botched project, the cost to the taxpayers, all of it... then perhaps."

"We've considered all of that. Problem is, and this I support with all that I know about Ovierto... the man doesn't really care about Pythagoras. He had created an idea of himself actually capable of putting it to work for him, but he's like a dog chasing a car. If he caught it, what would he do with it?"

"Then why not give it to him?"

"It would change nothing, don't you see?"

"He'd go on as he has been."

"Without stop."

"Is he right to blame Pythagoras on his own mental state?"

"Yes, there was an accident. Others lost their lives. He... he was considered at the time... lucky."

They had parted on that note, both of them witnesses to Dr. Maurice Ovierto's incredible "luck."

And though they had heard nothing from Ovierto in all this time, Robyn sensed that the silence would not long go undisturbed. She feared not knowing how or when he would come at her again. She feared she had not heard the last from him.

She planned a quick visit to Chicago, to set things right with Chief Noone and the department, put her life there in order, prepare for a move to D.C., where in a month she would become an FBI cadet. With her time in at the police academy, and the time she had logged on the force in Chicago, she had been assured that she would move up in the Agency quickly.

But she knew that "quickly" would not be soon enough, before Dr. O struck again.

EPILOGUE

Boas hadn't made the bogus burial either. He had instead seen Muro off at Washington National Airport. He stood tall and decrepit all at once, as he waved her off.