Extreme Measures

The phone had rung three times before the sound intruded on Eric's thoughts. He glanced at the clock radio. Six-fifteen. The call could only be trouble. His father had retired from his maintenance job after his second heart attack. His younger brother George, a dropout from high school, had already served two brief jail terms. "Hello?" "Please listen, and listen carefully, Dr. Najarian." The voice, probably a man's, was monotonal and distorted. A vibration machine, Eric thought--the sort held against the neck by a patient whose larynx had been removed. On one level, he felt certain the call was a prank. On another, much more primal level, he found the bizarre, emotionless tone chilling. "Who is this?" "We are Caduceus, your brothers and sisters in medicine. We care about the things you care about. We care about you." "Dammit, who are you?" The chill grew more intense. This was no prank. "In the days soon to come, we may call on you for help." "What kind of help?" "Do as we ask, and the rewards will be great--for you and for the patients you care for so well." "Rewards? Would you please--" "Our work is of the utmost importance, and we need you. We can also help you. There is a position in your emergency service. That position can be yours." For the first time since the phone had rung, Eric felt some lessening of his tension. "You're full of shit," he said. "The committee has already made its choice. They're announcing it this aftemoon." "When we contact you," the voice went on, as if he had not spoken, "you may be asked to administer a certain treatment to a patient in a manner that is unfamiliar to you. Trust us, do as we ask, speak of this conversation to no one, and you will have what you wish." "That's nonsense. I told you, the committee has already made its--" The dial tone cut him short. The Proctor Building, a thirty-year-old, ten-story monument to the monolithic architecture of the late fifties, held most of the research labs at White Memorial. The biochemistry unit filled the eighth and ninth floors. At one time, laboratory space--especially at WMH--had been at a premium. Now, Eric noted as he wandered off the elevator and down the dimly lit corridor, several of the labs were deserted. It was nearly nine-thirty. Following the bizarre phone call earlier that morning, he had gone for a prolonged walk along the Charles, over the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge, and then back by the Museum of Science. Part of him still clung to the hope that the eerie call was part of some elaborate spoof. But he knew otherwise. Caduceus. The staff and twin serpents symbolizing medicine. He had looked up the word, hoping that some aspect of its definition might give him insight. All he had learned was that in mythology, the staff was borne by Hermes, the wing-footed messenger of the gods, patron of travelers and rogues, conductor of the dead to Hades, known for his invention and cunning. How it had come to signify the healing arts, he had not yet learned. Throughout the walk, just over four miles, he had played and replayed the brief conversation in his mind. It simply made no sense. Administer a treatment in a manner unfamiliar...What sort of treatment? To what end? How could Caduceus promise him the E.R. appointment when that decision had already been made? He had entered the hospital though a side entrance and stopped by the speech pathology lab. The speech therapist, a bright, enthusiastic woman, was pleased to demonstrate for him the voice device known as an artificial electrolarynx. Pressed tightly against a "sweet spot" beneath the jaw, it transmitted impulses from the mouth and worked whether its user had a functioniMichael Palmer is the author of 'Extreme Measures', published 1991 under ISBN 9780553072631 and ISBN 0553072633.