by Kathy Reichs
“We don’t do intros here, you understand what I’m saying? People come, people go, everyone they keep to themselves. I speak with your guy a couple of times. Heard him now and again through the door.”
Meaning she’d eavesdropped. As she had with me. I didn’t say it. “Was he speaking on a phone?”
“Hell if I know. Could be he had someone in there. I don’t provide chaperone service, if you catch my meanin’. What I can say is sometimes he talked foreign.”
“What language?”
“Not English or Spanish.”
“Can you recall anything he said?”
Blank stare.
“When he spoke English.”
“Mostly he’d whine about needing security. Like this place is Guantánamo or something.” A scrawny finger came up. “But wait. One thing stuck with me. Once, he said his life would soon be over.”
“When was that?”
“Six, maybe seven months ago.” The digits spread, palm facing me. “That’s all I know. I didn’t ask no follow-up.”
“Did you ever see him with anyone?”
Ramos shook her head no. “No shocker. The guy was scared shitless.”
“Why?”
The Revlon eyes crimped in disdain. “He believed the government was trying to get him.”
“The U.S. government?”
“Coulda been the Bosnians for all I know.”
“He actually said that?”
“Yeah. In his blubberin’ about privacy. I mostly didn’t listen.”
“He seemed genuinely afraid?”
“Terrified. Look, I got a window needs unjamming before this storm hits. Otherwise, I’ll be spending my night moppin’.”
“Thank you, Ms. Ramos. You’ve been helpful.”
“So, what? I can go ahead and rent out the room?”
“I’d hold off a bit longer.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“I understand the inconvenience. I’m sure the wait list is longer than my arm.”
Ramos flipped me a heartfelt bird.
The storm broke as I was sprinting to my car. The downpour was everything the clouds had promised.
Drenched, I wheeped the locks and threw myself behind the wheel. While palming rain from my face and hair, I glanced through the passenger window at 2307.
Above a Marvel poster featuring Doctor Strange, I could see Ramos backlit in a second-floor window. She was talking on a mobile phone. As I watched, her eyes came around in my direction. She stared. Continued speaking.
Paranoia?
Or was she discussing me?
13
FRIDAY, JULY 6–SATURDAY, JULY 7
The downpour was so fierce I pulled into the Wendy’s at the Eastway Drive intersection. Figured I’d wait for the storm to let up, then grab a Dave’s Double meal before heading to the annex. Others had done the same. The occupants of those vehicles looked like woolly ghosts through the wall of rain and the fog-clouded windows.
With drops pounding the roof and hood like stampeding hooves, I turned on the interior light and reached for the small pile of clothing I’d dumped beside me, still puzzled. Vodyanov had taken everything of a personal nature. Why leave garments in the closet? Had he planned to return? Forgotten them due to a hurried departure? Decided he no longer wanted them?
Once home, I’d do a thorough search, but to pass the time, I dug latex gloves and a compact LED penlight from my shoulder bag. First, I checked the pockets of the shirt and pants, remembering Hawkins’s score at the autopsy. Found nothing. I noted that all labels had been removed.
Next, I stretched the trench coat full length across the passenger seat and onto my lap. I’d used it as a makeshift umbrella during my sprint from 2307, and it now felt heavy and damp.
The fabric was gabardine, styled in the fashion made popular by the British military during World War II—double-breasted with a wide collar, epaulettes, raglan sleeves, a gun flap, and a top-stitched belt outfitted with D-rings. The design looked familiar though somehow foreign. Again, I looked for labels. All were gone.
I ran a palm over the coat. Felt no lumps or bulges. A quick inventory revealed five pockets. Two on each side by the hip, one interior and one exterior. One on the inside at the breast.
Lightning sparked, then darkness snapped back. My eyes flew up.
Beyond my windshield, the world was swallowed in a green-gray opacity as dense as the sea. Across the shiny black pavement, a shimmering rectangle I knew to be the restaurant. A nanosecond, then thunder boomed.
Aided by the penlight’s powerful little beam, I searched the coat’s breast pocket. Seeing zip, I slid a hand inside. Felt nothing.
I moved on to the back-to-back right hip pockets. The one on the outside held only lint and small particles of what might have been gravel or coarse sand. The one on the inside was totally empty.
I shifted to the left pair. Spotted zilch in the outer pocket, was probing its counterpart when, deep down, the bright little oval cast an odd shadow. Peering closer, I detected an irregularity in the base of the pocket, a rip roughly two inches long. In the blackness beyond, a pale flash caught in the beam.
As I stared, the rooftop stampede dropped in intensity. I glanced around. The world was reemerging. Get my burger and fries and head home? Turn the coat over to Slidell for an official police examination?
No way. The wild lightning had nothing on the adrenaline jolting my nerves. I needed to know if something had wriggled through that torn seam.
Barely breathing, I inserted and gently seesawed a finger. Eventually, the gap was large enough to shine my light through.
Three items winked white, caught in the rough fibers of the lining. Using a thumb and a fingertip, I teased them free and laid them on the damp gabardine.
Paper scraps, one wadded, two folded together.
Ever so gingerly, I opened and inspected each.
* * *
Slidell finally phoned at ten fifty-five. Before he could launch into his tirade, I described what I’d discovered on one of the folded papers. And during my subsequent cyber-looping. He listened, anger grudgingly yielding to curiosity.
“You’re sure it’s BRES?”
“Yes. And I found info online. Brown and Root Energy Services. There wasn’t much, but one site reported that following the Estonia sinking, the official divers hired to work the ferry were employed by Rockwater. Rockwater is a subsidiary of BRES. The divers had to sign lifetime contracts requiring secrecy about what they did at the wreckage.”
“That don’t—”
“According to more than one site, Rockwater wasn’t the low bidder for the job.”
“Meaning maybe the fix was in.”
“If it’s true. And if it is, who knows the significance? If any.”
“But this interested your guy, Vodyanov.” A pause as Slidell considered the ramifications. “So what’s this other mojo?”
“MKUltra was written below the acronym BRES.”
“Sounds like some kinda candyass detox swill.”
“It’s an abbreviation of a code name for a CIA mind-control program.” I knew this because of my many years working in Montreal. The hush-hush dirty secret of McGill University and the Royal Victoria Hospital still cropped up in occasional conversations.
“Gimme a break.”
“Under Project MKUltra, experiments were done on human subjects in order to develop more effective interrogation and torture techniques.”
“We’re talking volunteers, right?”
“Unwitting U.S. and Canadian citizens.”
“Go on.” All levity had vanished from Slidell’s tone.
“The CIA sought to manipulate the mental state of subjects by secretly administering drugs and other chemicals, especially LSD. They also used hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, verbal and sexual abuse, and various forms of torture. Have you seen the TV show Stranger Things?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“We’
re talking ancient history, right?”
“The program began in the early 1950s, was officially halted in 1973.”
“You’re shitting me.”
I summarized what I’d learned, using notes I’d taken from various websites.
“MKUltra was organized through the Scientific Intelligence Division of the CIA and coordinated with the Special Operations Division of the U.S. Army’s Chemical Corps. The program consisted of some one hundred forty-nine subprojects that the CIA contracted out to universities, research foundations, hospitals, prisons, pharmaceutical companies, places like that.”
I struggled a moment to decipher my own writing.
“Research was done at eighty institutions, including forty-four colleges and universities. One hundred eighty-five private researchers participated.” Cherry-picking facts. “The program operated using front organizations, although top officials at some institutions were aware of the CIA’s involvement.”
“Wait. Slow down. You’re saying the government was into mind control?”
“I’m not saying. According to the U.S. Supreme Court, the program was tasked with, and I quote, ‘the research and development of chemical, biological, and radiological materials capable of employment in clandestine operations to control human behavior.’ Unquote.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Not to mention illegal. Reasons the program was finally shut down.”
“So why was Vodyanov poking at that?”
Having no response, I briefed Slidell on my visit with Asia Barrow.
“Barrow thinks your vic was a spy?” Not the harangue I expected for going solo to Mooresville.
“Yes.”
Buoyed by Slidell’s uncharacteristically calm demeanor, I described my visit to Vodyanov’s apartment and outlined my conversation with Ramos. I’d already explained the coat with the booty in the lining.
“So this landlady says your vic told someone he’d soon be dead. And that he was terrified the government was trying to put him down?”
“Yes.”
Empty air while we both chewed on that.
“What’s on the other scraps?” Slidell spoke first.
“One’s a crumpled paper that’s very thin and badly crinkled. There are black markings, but if that’s ink, it’s too faded and smudged to make anything out.”
“Another job for Mittie Peppers.”
“Good idea. The third appears to be a list of codes or shorthand. Mostly letters and numbers.”
“Like JCOLE1013.”
“Yes.” And no.
“Any idea what they mean?”
“None.”
A moment as we both contemplated the same grim possibility. Other kids? Neither of us voiced the thought.
I hesitated, unsure. Decided to chance it, now that I was certain the man had been real. “Can I get your take on something?”
Silence, not encouraging, not discouraging.
I told Slidell about the trench-coated prowler on the grounds at Sharon Hall.
“You’re convinced it was your faceless vic, Vodyanov.” More statement than question.
“I am.”
“That he was watching you.”
“We know he dialed my mobile the week before he died.”
“Or someone with access to his phone.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get the scraps and shoot them up to QD first thing Monday. In the meantime, buy some shoes, hit the spa, do lunch with the girls.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t go rogue-ass cowboy on me over the weekend.”
I hated the thought of losing so much time. And I hated Slidell acting bossy and paternal. But the long day had my mind moving like sludge, and disparate thoughts were now taking forever to connect. An oncoming migraine? I focused on focusing. Nope. No rogue-ass blood misbehaving in my brain. Or eyes. My vision was crystal-clear.
“Spas are good,” I said, noncommittal.
After disconnecting, I trudged upstairs and dropped into bed.
The last sound to register was the mantel clock announcing midnight with twelve soft bongs.
* * *
I popped awake at five fifteen. The annex was dark and still. Birdie was gone.
I knew I’d been dreaming, but no memories lingered. Only the unsettling sense that somewhere out there, someone was watching me. A feeling so intense I got up and crossed to the window.
The grounds of Sharon Hall were silent and empty. No crouching silhouettes, no unfamiliar shapes. Just multilayered shadows, shifting now and then in a light breeze.
Paranoia again? A nightmare hangover?
I returned to bed and forced myself to relax, muscle group by muscle group. Did one of those counting mantras in my head. Punched the pillow, turned it to the smooth side, turned it back again. Kicked free the covers and sheets. Thought about dolphins. Sea turtles. Willed sleep to come.
Images of Vodyanov kept playing on the backs of my tightly closed lids. Faceless at Buffalo Creek. Cold and lifeless on a gurney in the morgue. Trench-coated at my home.
Vodyanov had been at Sharon Hall. I was convinced of it now. The prowler wasn’t a nocturnal illusion generated by my migraine-stressed neurons.
When the window started going translucent, I gave up. The clock said 6:10.
I shrugged into shorts and a tee, pulled my hair into a pony, and laced on my Nikes. Right out the door, I knew running was a bad idea.
Contrary to my expectations, the storm had been powerless in breaking the grip of the heat. Just past dawn, and the porch thermometer was already registering 84°F. Due to the rain, the air felt hothouse muggy.
Forty minutes of pushing, then I returned to the annex, exhausted, flushed, and sweaty. After a long shower, I made coffee and cinnamon toast and settled at the table. The exercise helped some, but I still felt restless and tense. I considered turning on CNN as a distraction. Decided talking heads debating the mess in Washington were the last thing I needed.
As I ate, my eyes landed on the clothing I’d dumped by the sink. On the cutting board on which I’d spread the scraps to dry.
Would squinting at paper qualify as rogue-ass cowboying? What the hell. I had nothing else to do.
I got up, washed buttery crumbs from my hands, and carried the board to the table. Then I retrieved a hand magnifier from the guest room/study, the penlight from my purse.
First, I checked both sides of the BRES/MKUltra note. Saw no other writing. No telltale hint suggesting the provenience of the scrap. Looked like part of a blank page torn from a notebook.
Next, I skimmed the codes. RABUK19-smear-3. DALIHP2580. UATNOM1793.
I wondered. Was that Vodyanov’s MO? Jot cryptic reminders, clear to himself but obscure to others? Code for the location of a vehicle? A missing child? A secret government operation?
Had Vodyanov shoved the reminders into the coat pocket, planning to discard them later? Had the scraps worked their way through the torn seam and become lost? Was he unaware of their fate? Had he simply forgotten them?
I snapped a few pics with my iPhone. The screen went black, seconds later came back on. I checked to see if the images had been properly saved. Found they hadn’t. Cursing, I repeated the exercise. This time, the shots were there. Definitely time for a visit to the Apple Store.
I was pouring more coffee, the last thing I needed, when Birdie strolled into the kitchen. An appraising glance, then he padded to me and began loop-rubbing my ankles. I filled his dish and returned to the table.
Though still creased and faded, and now stuck to the board, the third scrap had improved somewhat overnight. The paper was much thinner than the BRES or code scraps, almost translucent. But the black marks now looked ordered, the patterning intentional. Like printing.
I flicked the button on the penlight, picked up and maneuvered the magnifier. The black smudges and dots sharpened.
“Yes!” Shouted with such feeling that Birdie coiled for action.
The scrap appeared
to be part of a delivery receipt. The smudges and dots were definitely ink, perhaps made by carbon paper. Under magnification, they organized into a blurry address and a partial name. The last letters of the name were ov.
Securing the light in position with a folded place mat, I grabbed a pen. Then I raised and lowered the lens, scribbling digits and letters as they came into focus.
In less than five minutes, I had a few versions, depending on my take on one letter and one digit. Obvious fact. The address was not that of the Charlotte building owned by Ms. Ramos.
But I was familiar with the zip code.
Excited fingers clumsy on the keyboard, I entered my first interpretation into Google Earth. Got an error message suggesting I try again.
I did. Twice.
On my third attempt, Mother Earth rotated, and the screen zoomed in. I switched to street view. Saw a rural two-lane. Woodland. A property enclosed by chain-link fencing.
Pay dirt.
14
I’m lousy with auditory cues—names, verbal instructions, lyrics. But give me a visual—a map, a crime scene, a face, a photo—and my mind logs data with uncanny precision.
I recognized the layout right away. The rural highways with spurs shooting into farms and cul-de-sacs. The shoulder-straggling homes and mom-and-pop businesses.
When given the correct address, Google Earth had swooped me to a view of heavily wooded acreage enclosed in chain-link fencing. By zooming in, I could see a driveway leading from the blacktop, via a gate, to a clearing surrounding a humpy rock formation. Not far from the hump, a small, ramshackle building. I remembered my reaction upon first stumbling across the property. Why bother with a fence?
I was rolling by eight. Didn’t bother phoning Slidell. It was Saturday morning. My nerves weren’t up to one of his harangues. Besides, this was strictly a scouting mission.
I followed the same route Slidell had taken. West out of Charlotte, a dip below the border, then back up to Cleveland County, North Carolina.
This time, my navigation system wove me through a tangle of meandering side roads off NC-198. Not far from Art’s Affordable Garage and Buffalo Creek. Not close to anything but the occasional frog, deer, or squirrel. Feral hog?
