Extreme Measures (6 page)

“That’s it,” he said. “Thank you all. Norma, I want to get back in with that other Priority One. Can you take over and call the medical examiner about this guy?”

“No problem,” the supervisor said.

“Also see what you can do about finding a next of kin. I’ll talk to whoever it is, if you want.”

Eric turned and hurried from the room without waiting for a reply. He wanted to be with his save for as long as possible before the cardiac team took the man away.

Norma Cullinet assisted one of the nurses in
removing the derelict’s IV and endotracheal tube. Then she wheeled the sheet-covered body out of the room.

You needn’t worry about a next of kin, Dr. Najarian
, she was thinking.
You see, I know for a fact that there isn’t any
.

APRIL 8

E
ntering the crosswind leg of its landing sequence, the Delta 727 banked sharply, giving Laura Enders an expansive view of Washington, D.C. She had been there once as a ten-year-old, on the only trip she and Scott had ever taken with their parents, and had returned to their Missouri farm determined to become someone of importance. Now, she pressed her forehead against the Plexiglas window and tried to remember exactly what it was she had wanted to be.

Her flight from Little Cayman Island via Grand Cayman and Miami had been uneventful, but the few days preceding it—the phone calls, the trips to the bank on the main island, the search for someone to replace her at work—had ranged from hectic to frantic. For nearly three years she had been the scuba diving instructor and guide at the Charles Bay Club, the only resort on the tiny Caribbean paradise. It was an experience that had transformed her. But now—at least until she found Scott—it was over.

When she had first arrived at the club as a guest, she was pale, hollow-eyed, emotionally drained, and physically flabby. It took just ten days of vacation there for her to decide not to return for her fifth year of teaching special education at Montgomery High School. Now, at thirty, she was in the best shape of her life—tanned and solid. Her psyche, too, had responded to the peaceful magic of the Caribbean. And in part at Scott’s urging, she had sent off a couple of inquiry letters to graduate schools in the States.

But now, all her plans were on hold. After years of nearly weekly postcards and at least once-a-month calls from her brother, more than six weeks had passed without a word from him. She had waited to act, perhaps longer than she should have; she reasoned that his globe-hopping job, setting up communications networks for a company in Virginia, could well have sent him to some inaccessible place. But now that April 3 had come and gone, and Delta had assured her that Scott had not canceled his longstanding reservation for arriving in the Caribbean on that date, there was no way she could remain passive.

Her isolation on Little Cayman had been self-imposed. But a byproduct of that exile, of her commitment to learning who Laura Enders was before allowing herself to choose another career or to fall in love again, was that Scott was all she had.

He was twenty-two and she fourteen, when a kid, high on pills and beer, had jumped a median strip and snuffed out the lives of their parents. Until that day, she and her brother had never formed any real bond or friendship. Nevertheless, Scott had refused the offer of distant cousins to have her move to Kansas City and had instead taken a hardship discharge from the Special Forces and returned home. The next eight years of his life, including Laura’s four years at the university, had been focused on her.

An accident … a prolonged vacation in some out-of-the-way spot … a romance … a screw-up in the
mails … For perhaps the hundredth time Laura ticked through possible explanations for Scott’s failure to contact her. None of them eased her foreboding.

It had been more than five months since his last vacation on Little Cayman, and it was on the final afternoon of that visit that they had made arrangements for his April 3 return. Then they had taken the club’s small skiff and motored around Southwest Point to dive the sheer coral wall at Bloody Bay. The images from that day were still as clear in Laura’s mind as the water in which they dived. It was a double-tank, decompression dive to 120 feet. The day was sparkling and warm, the visibility 200 feet or more. A pair of enormous eagle rays had glided by, near enough to be stroked. Soon after, a dozen or more curious dolphins knifed past and then returned again and again, tumbling and spinning through the crystal sea. It was as close to a perfect dive as Laura ever expected to have.

The next morning Scott had flown back home to D.C. And soon after, his usual weekly postcards began arriving—this time from Boston.

“… Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign in preparation for our landing at Dulles International Airport. Please be sure that all carry-on baggage is securely stowed beneath your seat or in an overhead compartment, that your tray tables are locked, and that your seat-backs are in their full upright position.…”

The businessman who had spent the first half hour of the flight trying to impress Laura with his attainments smiled over at her from the aisle seat and winked. Laura managed a thin smile and nod in return. During three years of working at a resort, she had been forced to hone her skills at being open and friendly to men without encouraging them in the least. But this day she was far too worried to be cordial.

Despite their frequent contact, she realized now that Scott had shared surprisingly little of his life with her. He knew movies and music, played chess well
enough to beat her without paying much attention, and read voraciously in a number of areas. He occasionally spoke of royalty he had dealt with in various countries, but had a self-effacing way about him that warned against being impressed by anything he said or did. He was a whiz with computers—or so he had said. And except for a brief stab at marriage, he had apparently lived a life as solitary as her own.

He had a post office box in D.C. and a phone number that invariably was picked up by an answering service. Laura would not even have known the name of the company he worked for—Communigistics International, someplace in Virginia—had he not mentioned it once in passing.

As the 727 glided over the runway, Laura felt a knot of apprehension tighten in her gut. There was so little for her to go on. Almost certainly she was overreacting. Scott had probably left Boston weeks before, and was now on the Riviera, sipping cappuccino with a beautiful model. Maybe she should just take the return flight to Cayman and wait things out for another month or so. Make some more calls.

But in truth Laura knew there would be no turning back, and no calls. As it was, she had had to beg the operator to search harder for the number of a company called Communigistics, in Virginia, before the woman finally came up with one in the town of Laurel. Laura’s call was routed to the person in charge of personnel, who was far less helpful, denying that anyone named Enders had ever worked there. In fact, when Laura pressed matters the woman had actually become rude, and finally as much as hung up on her. Laura had tried a second time, and a third, but her attempts to be connected with someone other than the personnel director were stonewalled. Now, she decided, Communigistics International would find her someone else to talk with, or deal with an all-night sit-in at their offices.

The cab ride to Laurel cost sixty dollars, ten of
which was spent trying to find Communigistics. After stopping twice for directions, the cabbie at last turned into an industrial park, drove past several nondescript gray marble buildings, and pulled to a stop before one that was indistinguishable from the others except for the number 300 on a small sign in front. Then he offered to wait.

“I may be a while,” Laura said.

“I got a meter.”

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s twenty. If that gets used up, it’s okay for you to take off.”

A week’s budget just for cabfare. Laura could see that some of her perspectives were about to undergo a change. The world beyond Little Cayman clearly viewed money differently than she did.

Even though the woman in the Communigistics personnel office had denied that Scott worked there, Laura felt certain of what he had told her. It seemed strange now, entering Scott’s world without his knowing—it was like looking through his closet. She crossed the sterile foyer to the directory of offices. Communigistics was on the fourth floor. She tried to imagine her brother dressed in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase through the brass-rimmed doors and across to the bank of elevators. The image did not fit with the easygoing, independent man who dived with her on Little Cayman, and who cared so much about natural beauty and the nature of things. It was easier to imagine Scott as a professor someplace, or perhaps a foreign correspondent.

Communigistics International occupied the entire floor. A trim receptionist was typing behind a huge, solid-front desk with the name of the company emblazoned in gold across it.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Laura began. “I don’t know what department he works in, but his name’s Enders. Scott Enders.”

The woman checked her directory.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t have anyone listed here by that name.”

“And you don’t know him?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Laura fished in her purse and brought out a photograph. It was a picture the club manager had taken of Laura and her brother, dressed in wet suits, getting ready to dive the wall at Bloody Bay.

“This is Scott,” she said. “It’s about five months old.”

The woman shrugged and smiled politely.

“How long have you worked here?” Laura asked.

“A year. Longer now.”

“And you’ve never seen this man?”

“I’m sorry.”

“This is crazy. I know he works here. He … he’s on the road a lot. Perhaps—”

She was interrupted by the phone. The receptionist answered it, transferred the call, and then turned back to her.

“Can I help you with anything else?”

“Yes. Can I please see your personnel director? I think her name is Bullock.”

“That’s right. Anne Bullock. She’s gone for the day.”

“Well, who’s here?”

“Pardon?”

The woman glanced pointedly at the work in her typewriter.

“Look,” Laura said, wrestling to maintain her composure, “I want to see whoever is in charge here.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not—”

“Please. I’ve come a long way. I’m trying to be polite about all of this, but I will not leave until I’ve spoken to someone who might know about my brother.”

“What seems to be the problem, Alicia?”

Startled, both women turned.

A man, tall and balding, perhaps in his early fifties, stood ten feet away.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Laura said quickly. “His name’s Scott Enders, and he works here. Only—”

“I tried telling her that no one by that name—”

“Please,” Laura cut in. “Please let me finish. This is my brother.” She handed over the photograph. “It was taken about six months ago at the club where I work.”

“And where’s that?” the man said, studying the photo.

“Little Cayman Island in the Caribbean. I’m a diving instructor at a resort there.”

“I’ve always wanted to dive. You must love it.”

“I do. Now, about my brother.”

“Why don’t you come on down to my office, Miss …”

“Enders. Same name as my brother. Laura Enders.”

“Well, I’m Neil Harten,” the man said. “I’m vice-president here.” He extended his hand, which was large and warm. “Alicia, this woman’s brother did work for us once, but I believe he left before you arrived. However,” he added, looking pointedly at Laura, “he called himself Scott Shollander then, not Scott Enders. Now, if you’d like to come down to my office, I’ll be happy to tell you what I know of him.”

On the way to his office, Neil Harten stopped at the locked personnel office and retrieved the file on the man he had known as Scott Shollander. He poured Laura a cup of coffee, then settled in behind his desk. His office was fairly large, but not opulent. Certificates from a number of chambers of commerce, service organizations, and business bureaus were spotted on the walls, along with framed advertisements for various Communigistics programs and equipment.