by Kathy Reichs
I poured water from a Brita pitcher in the fridge. My personal crusade. I refuse to contribute to the 50 million plastic bottles discarded in the U.S. daily.
“The Montreal portion of the program, dubbed MKUltra subproject 68, was run by a Scottish-born doctor named Donald Ewen Cameron. The experiments were called mind-control studies. To my thinking, it was torture disguised as medical research.”
I finished drinking and began moving around the room, stowing produce in bins, cans in cabinets.
“I was a kid when this all came out,” Ryan continued. “The media latched on to the LSD angle, but apparently barbiturates and amphetamines were also in the mix. Patients were subjected to prolonged periods of sensory deprivation and induced sleep. Cameron believed in what he called repatterning and remothering the human mind.”
“What the flip does that mean?”
“Cameron thought mental illness resulted from learning incorrect ways of responding to the world. That these learned responses created brain pathways that led to repetitive abnormal behaviors. And of course, Mommy was to blame. I’m not a psychologist, but it sounds like a load of crap to me.”
“At best.” Finger-hooking my tee away from my chest. Thanks to the glorious AC, the damp cotton felt like cold, wet tissue pasted to my skin.
“Electroshock was used to depattern a patient. Not the usual three times weekly but twice daily. This was supposed to break all incorrect neural pathways caused by poor mothering.”
“Sounds like brainwashing.” I began to shiver. Maybe the cold. Maybe not.
“Indeed.”
I clicked to speaker, set down the phone, and peeled the damp shirt up and over my head. In the effort, I must have let out a grunt.
“What are you doing?”
“My top was sweaty, so I took it off.”
“Can you shoot me a selfie?”
“No.”
“Your bra must also be wet.”
“How did this so-called treatment work?”
“Is it that little black lacy number?”
“Ryan.” Faux stern. “Jesus, we’re talking about torture.”
“Right. To prepare for depatterning, a patient was put into a state of drug-induced sleep, usually for a period of ten days. After that, the electroshock therapy lasted for about two weeks. Some patients also required more extreme forms of sensory deprivation.”
“Jesus.”
“Cameron wanted his subjects to lose all sense of space and time, of feeling. If they couldn’t walk or feed themselves, or became incontinent, that was acceptable.”
I was too revolted to speak.
“After depatterning came the process of psychic driving, or repatterning. Patients were forced to listen to recorded messages, some positive, some negative, about their life or personality. Get this. The messages could be repeated up to half a million times.”
“Sounds barbaric.”
“That’s being kind.”
Appalled silence hummed across the Atlantic. Then Ryan resumed.
“The McGill experiments were part of the larger MKUltra project led by Sidney Gottlieb.”
“Gottlieb was CIA?” Stowing dried pasta and corn flakes on a pantry shelf.
“Yes. In 1963, the CIA compiled its findings into a manual called the KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. It came to define the agency’s interrogation methods and training programs.”
“A torture manual.” Ignoring a subtle Pssst from my id.
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“It’s readily available. Let me read you one passage from the instructions given to CIA interrogators: ‘Results produced only after weeks or months of imprisonment in an ordinary cell can be duplicated in hours or days in a cell which has no light, which is soundproofed, in which odors are eliminated, et cetera.’ ”
“Sounds like something out of A Clockwork Orange.”
“Except we’re talking recent history. Following 9/11, Bush’s secretary of defense, Donald Rumsfeld, approved the use of isolation facilities for up to thirty days.”
“The celebrated War on Terror.” Detergent went under the sink.
“Still cold?” Ryan asked.
“A little. But it beats the inferno outside.”
“Are your nipples—”
“I’ve made progress with the faceless man.” Settling at the table.
“Lay it on me.”
I summarized my outing to Cleveland County with Slidell. The code leading to the Hyundai at Art’s Affordable Garage. The duffel in the trunk. The notebook with its references to the Estonia disaster. The confrontation and subsequent outraged call from Margot Heavner. Skipping the reference to Jahaan Cole, I explained the indented printing and Mittie Peppers’s recovery of the phone numbers, one of them mine. I shared my recollection of the man at Sharon Hall the night of my migraine nightmare, my suspicion that he’d been the faceless man, and my belief that he’d called me shortly before his death.
Ryan was so quiet I feared we’d been disconnected.
“You still there?”
“I’m listening.”
I told him about Lizzie Griesser’s phenotype composite. About Dr. Yuriev at Sparkling Waters. About my conversations with E. Desai, Asia Barrow, Ms. Ramos, and Duncan Keesing. That, based on the sketch, all four had ID’d the faceless man as Felix Vodyanov, one of the names in the Hyundai notebook. I described the antiseptic apartment and the strangely secure property in Cleveland County.
By the time I finished, thirty minutes had passed.
Ryan took time digesting what I’d said. Then, “I assume Slidell ran this guy Vodyanov through the system.”
“Reluctantly. He found zip.”
“Really? Nothing at all?”
“Nada. I tried several internet search engines. Same result.”
“Vodyanov talked at the ashram about the sinking of the Estonia.”
“To Asia Barrow. She’s convinced he was a spy.”
“Because … ?”
“In her opinion, he had way too much inside information.”
“The landlady thought Vodyanov was terrified.”
“Ms. Ramos. She said he feared the government was trying to kill him.”
“The neighbor believed he was crazy.”
“Duncan Keesing. I suspect he suffers from PTSD.”
“Keesing said Vodyanov discussed MKUltra?”
“Among other things. I’ve got notes that I’ll look into when we hang up.”
“After you change undies.”
“You’re perverted.”
“You love it.”
I pictured eyes blue enough to laser your skin. I did love it. But right then, I wanted to keep Ryan focused.
“Have you been in contact with Slidell recently?” I asked.
“No. Why?”
“When I first asked for his help, he acted all Skinny. Now he seems to be coming on board.”
“Wanting to stick it to Heavner?”
“Partly.”
“You need to brief her on what you’ve found.”
“I will. Anyway, Slidell’s newfound zeal doesn’t stem solely from his distaste for Heavner.”
“Oh?”
“A nine-year-old girl named Jahaan Cole vanished here in Charlotte in 2013. Slidell worked the case but never got a solve. You know how that irks him.”
“I’m not sure ‘irk’ is a strong enough verb.”
“Right. Anyway, along with the two phone numbers, the QD analysis revealed a third line of indented writing. A coded reference to Cole.”
I felt the familiar clench in my gut when he asked, “You’re sure?”
“We think so.”
“Slidell suspects Vodyanov could be involved in the kid’s disappearance?”
“He’s reopened the file.”
“Based on a one-line scribble.” No one does neutral like Ryan.
“Slidell doesn’t know yet, but there may be more. Keesing said Vodyanov told him ab
out experiments involving kids.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“He said he refused to listen.”
“He also said Vodyanov was nuts.”
“He did. But this is what really disturbs me. Keesing said he witnessed a car entering the fenced property late one night. A child’s face was pressed to the rear window. Keesing said the kid looked terrified.”
“It’s not much.”
“Asia Barrow said she once let Vodyanov use her laptop.”
“Isn’t that forbid—”
“Yes. But she did it anyway. Afterward, the browser history indicated visits to two kinds of sites. Those reporting missing kids and those featuring child porn.”
“You’re thinking Vodyanov was a pedophile?”
“I’m not sure what I’m thinking.”
“It’s worth looking into.” Brief hesitation. “Assuming you’re feeling up to it.”
“Don’t go there, Ryan. I’ll outlive you.”
* * *
After showering and pulling on a dry tee and shorts, I quickly ate a ham sandwich, got my Mac, and climbed to the new study. The exposed wires reminded me about my truant workers. I phoned the electrician. No answer. Of course not. I left a message. Same routine with the painter.
Then it was a laptop afternoon.
First, I wrote a long email to Margot Heavner outlining all I’d done and explaining that the faceless man was Felix Vodyanov. Kept it cordial and professional. Exaggerated just a titch Slidell’s role in my undertakings.
Then I began with the other terms Keesing had mentioned. And learned the following.
The Philadelphia Experiment was an alleged military test carried out by the U.S. Navy at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard in 1943. The destroyer escort USS Eldridge (DE-173) was supposedly rendered invisible, or “cloaked to enemy devices.” The Navy maintains that no such experiment ever took place, and the story is generally considered a hoax.
The Montauk Project was an alleged series of secret U.S. government programs conducted at Camp Hero or Montauk Air Force Station at Montauk, Long Island. The purpose of the research was to develop psychological warfare techniques, including time travel.
The Star Gate Project was the code name for a secret U.S. Army unit established in 1978 at Fort Meade, Maryland, by the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and a California contractor named SRI International. In 1991, Star Gate and its precursor and sister projects were consolidated and renamed the Stargate Project. Research focused primarily on the potential for psychic phenomena in military and domestic applications—on remote viewing, the ability to see events and sites or to acquire information from great distances. The Stargate Project was terminated and declassified in 1995 after a CIA report concluded that its findings were never useful in any intelligence operation. Though never cited, the Stargate Project inspired the 2004 book and 2009 film The Men Who Stare at Goats.
After researching the Philadelphia, Montauk, and Stargate programs, I probed a bit deeper into MKUltra. As I typed, and looped, and read, particles of a theory started to swirl in my brain.
Using a keyword modifier, I tried the term vaccine, then SARS.
The particles began to congeal.
I tried the same modifier paired with Estonia.
By the time I logged off, my screen was a rectangle of light in a room gone dark.
The theory was fully formed.
16
The idea ricocheted inside my skull like a puck in a rink.
Mind going ninety, I checked more angles. Then, braced for a tirade, I phoned Slidell. Was shocked when he actually picked up.
“I see you’re living the life on a Saturday night.” Beating Skinny to his own nongreeting game.
“And you’re not out tripping the light fantastic, being as you’re burning up my phone right now.”
“I’m working.”
“I’ll send your name up for a commendation. Oh, wait. You’re not a cop.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Me and Verlene are catching a flick. Some horseshit about two people hate each other but fall in love with email.” Muffled sound, as though the phone were pressed to his chest. Then he was back. “This better be good.”
“Have you made any progress on Jahaan Cole?”
“You called to ask me that?”
Taking his response as a negative, “While you’ve been tied up with the Cole file, I talked to some folks.”
“Didn’t I tell you to—”
Poking right into the bubble of bluster, I laid down a variation of the briefing I’d given Ryan. Barrow. Ramos. The puzzling fenced acreage minutes from Art’s Affordable Garage and the creek where Vodyanov’s body was found.
“I went back out there today.”
“What? Where?”
“Cleveland County. Scoped out the property, then talked to a neighbor.”
“You just got into your car and—”
“Duncan Keesing. A war-damaged Vietnam vet living in a trailer just up the road.”
The change in Slidell’s breathing cued me to his level of ire.
“A bit odd, but you’d like the guy.”
“Son of a freaking bitch!” A hair below outrage.
“Here’s why I’m calling. Vodyanov’s life coach at the ashram thought he was a spy. He told his landlady the government was out to get him. I doubt it was either.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“No cloak-and-dagger. No fatwa. Vodyanov was into conspiracy theories.”
“Conspiracy theories.” Patronizing.
“The stuff’s all over the internet. The sinking of the Estonia was intentional. Vaccination causes autism. Fluoridated water is a pinko plot. Governments are implanting citizens with RFID chips. The earth is flat. The QAnon nutballs believe in a deep state that’s working to undermine the president. There’s a world of cockamamie crap out there.”
“You’re saying this mondo beyondo bullshit is what got your boy killed?”
“I’m not sure anything actually got him killed. Have you talked to Margot Heavner?”
“Don’t plan to.”
“I wrote an email explaining the Vodyanov ID on the faceless man. Haven’t heard back. So we still don’t know the official cause of death.”
I waited out a pause that felt like a month, certain Slidell would wet-blanket my theory big-time. He didn’t.
“Vodyanov looked at child porn and visited sites listing missing kids. Wrote Jahaan Cole’s name in his notebook. Drove a scared kid through his gate in the middle of the night.”
Slidell has many faults. He’s uncouth, judgmental, and short-tempered. But when focused, his mind chews through data like a buzz saw through pine. His summation nailed it.
“So this shitbird was a perv,” he went on. “Don’t suppose you know who owns that property?”
“No.”
Slidell digested that for a few seconds. Then, more to himself than to me, “No judge will issue a warrant based on hearsay.”
“We could—” I started.
“There’s no ‘we.’ ” Snapped. “You will sit tight while I do some digging.”
I rolled my eyes. Pointless, since Slidell couldn’t see me.
“I’m serious. If this guy’s dirty for Cole, maybe others, I want this done by the book.”
“May I continue with my computer?” Chilly.
“Nothing else until you hear back from me. Comprendo?”
“Perhaps if you speak with a bit more condescension,” I said.
Dead air.
It’s a sick feeling being an exile, unable to go home.
* * *
The phone rang again at eight. I was stepping from the shower, reeking of fake citron and ginger. Bathing twice in one day? Not for cleanliness or hygiene. Churning with anxiety, agitation, and frustration, every nerve in my body was going berserk. I thought drugstore herbals and hot water might reboot the system.
Eager to answer, hoping Slidell
had gotten a name from some tax roll or deed registration, I skidded and nearly ass-planted on the tile.
It was Mama. She and Sinitch had argued, and her mood wasn’t cheery.
“The man refuses to take a position on anything.”
“Don’t you two have a pact to never discuss politics?” One-handed wrapping my hair in a towel.
“I’m talking about our nuptials. Venue? Theme? Lord in heaven, he won’t even weigh in on a destination. Doesn’t he grasp that a wedding takes months of planning?”
I was with Sinitch on this one. Didn’t say it.
“You sound out of breath, sweet pea. Are you OK?”
“Mama, stop.”
“You need to be mindful—”
“The doctor said I may have had this aneurysm from birth. It’s unerupted and now packed with tiny platinum coils.”
“I’m just—”
“Mama. My arteries are not conspiring to drown me in my own blood.”
“So why the headaches?”
“We will figure that out. How about we discuss your chemo? How are you feeling?”
Exasperated sniff. “What are you doing?”
“I just finished showering.” And just started the day’s second seminude phone conversation.
“Would you prefer to call me back? It’s nothing that can’t wait.” Meaning I want to talk now.
“Sure, Mama.”
Fifteen minutes later, dried and lotioned, I dialed. She picked up instantly.
“Feeling reborn?”
“Definitely.”
“This heat is absolutely beastly.” Ice clinked against glass. “I hope you’re not leaving your nice cool house.”
“Mmm.”
“Did you use that lovely Chantecaille energizing cream I gave you for Christmas?”
“Yes. Thanks again.” I had no idea what I’d slapped on. “So what’s the issue with the wedding?”
“Oh, that. It’s nothing. Sinitch is a man, and they do have their ways.”
The past quarter hour had obviously involved Southern Comfort.
“And we girls have ours.” She laughed, a lilting chirp, like a kite lifting on a sudden breeze. “Tomorrow I’m preparing an Italian feast for him.”
Mama isn’t a good cook. When Harry and I were kids, she’d hit the stove now and then. Her sauce always tasted like bright red nothing, her salads like wilted green nothing. But we loved when she tried. It meant she was in a sunny place, as she called her good days. Or that her meds were properly balanced, and she was taking them.
