by Polly Iyer
“Whatever. Spilled milk and all that. But you survived, and so did he. Pursuing you further would have called attention to the whole ugly mess. By then, if you knew, either the details were lost to your injury or to Dr. Scanlon’s excellent work.
“Oh, we watched you. I must say, you rallied. I’d hoped you might find life unbearable and end it all, but I must admit a measure of admiration, Abigael. You’ve made the best of a grim situation and risen to the challenge.”
Mrs. Gentry walked the room, her heels clicking on the wood floors, the incendiary envelope slapping in her hand.
“Unfortunately, Stewart was another story. Of course, he was so obviously psychotic, trying him for murder was out of the question. I called in quite a few markers to keep him under control, Dr. Scanlon’s medication notwithstanding.”
The urge to scream started in the pit of Abby’s stomach and percolated upward, but she regained her composure. The bitch wouldn’t goad her into losing her cool again. If she had any chance of survival, she needed to keep her wits. “Which medication do you mean? Receptormine or the drug that provoked him to kill his daughter and is slowly killing him?”
“The drug was still in the experimental stage. Poor Macy was an unavoidable glitch.”
The death of her child an unavoidable glitch? Abby wanted to crumple to the ground in despair. She remembered the advice she gave to Stewart: Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.
Mrs. Gentry continued. “With a combination of drugs and other improvised procedures, Dr. Scanlon kept Stewart under control for eight years, until his keepers grew slack. One never could turn one’s back on Stewart for very long. He always did the unexpected.” She approached Abby’s chair. “Except when it came to you.
“Oh, dear, you’re pale. A glass of water for my daughter-in-law, Mr. Collyer.”
Abby tried hard to hold her emotions in check, but the reference to her daughter’s death followed by being Carlotta Gentry’s daughter-in-law made her feel faint. The woman had never acknowledged her as anything other than a low-class interloper, and now, eight years divorced, she referred to Abby as part of her family. What irony.
Collyer put a glass in her hand. She wanted the water but wouldn’t chance drinking it. She shook her head and held it out. Collyer took it. Sounds alerted her to other people in the room. “Who else is here?”
“Very good, my dear. I didn’t hear a thing, but I guess what they say about the blind is true. And he was so quiet, weren’t you, Stewart, my love?”
At the mention of Stewart’s name, Mrs. Gentry’s plan crystallized. A repeat performance. Only now Stewart was a wanted man, obsessed with finishing the act that had captivated the country eight years before. With the incriminating evidence in his mother’s hand, this time he would succeed. But Abby still held the gin card. And she’d hold it as long as possible before slapping it down on the table.
“You should see him, poor dear.”
“You won’t get away with this, you know. My friends will figure out where I am. They’ll find this place.”
“You mean your deaf lover and his deviant buddy? They’ll never find you. Anyone who knows about this building wouldn’t dare talk. You see, they fear for their families. We’re no different from those in their former countries. Clever, don’t you think?”
Abby remembered saying those same words about Valentina Kozov. Maybe the reluctant chemist would come forward when this was all over, but only if Luke and Norm Archer collected enough evidence on the Black Widow to put her away and make the Russian feel safe enough to testify. If she was still alive.
“Someone will talk, Mrs. Gentry, if only for self-preservation.” The woman snorted. “To satisfy my curiosity, why are those papers so important that you’d sacrifice your son? I assume it had something to do with why you murdered your husband.”
“Murder is such a harsh word, but no harm telling you now.”
Because I won’t be around to repeat it. Carlotta Gentry got up and poured liquid into a glass, then dragged her chair closer to Abby and sat down. Abby smelled the sweet, gag-inducing perfume she always wore.
“Let me give you some background, Abigael. The Gentry name is as revered in the South as the Kennedy name is in New England. What isn’t known is the profligate ways each generation contributed to the demise of their fortune: gambling, hedonism, bad investments, and let’s not forget the headline-making and very costly divorces. By the time I met Martin, his name was all that remained.
“My father worked hard to amass his fortune. We lived in a gated mansion and I went to the best schools money could buy. But Boston society wanted nothing to do with Anthony Serrano, an old-world junkman as far as they were concerned, no matter how many millions he accumulated. And rumors of mob associations never helped our ascent up the social ladder.”
Abby heard the sting of rejection in the woman’s voice even after all the years, detecting a crack in her self-confident façade.
“My marriage to Martin Gentry changed all that by giving him what his family had squandered—his inheritance—and by giving my father what had eluded him—respectability. We all got what we wanted, didn’t we?”
Abby didn’t answer.
“We showed everyone. Boston’s elite now bow to Anthony Serrano, and the Charlestonians genuflect to me.”
Carlotta Serrano Gentry waited her whole life to explain herself, and Abby served as the perfect confidant. She’d know it all and take the story to the grave.
“The Gentry-Serrano Foundation was my brainchild,” she continued, “and I cultivated it like a botanist cultivates a rare orchid. You can’t imagine the thrill of seeing my father’s name hyphenated with Gentry and associated with one of the most philanthropic organizations in the world. Martin stayed in the background and rarely got involved. Then certain events piqued his interest and he delved deeper. He didn’t like what he found. I couldn’t let him destroy the foundation or what my father worked for his whole life, and that’s what he threatened to do.
“You see, deep down—or maybe not so deep—Martin resented the Serrano money. He resented that this upstart dealer in trash saved the mighty Gentrys from financial ruin by bargaining off his daughter. Not that I minded. Martin was handsome and charismatic. He swept me off my feet because his father told him to, and I loved every minute of it.”
Mrs. Gentry paused. Abby didn’t move.
“I’m sure you recall, Abigael, I’m not what one would describe as a raving beauty, but Martin made me feel like one. Even when I knew he came to my bed from another’s, I didn’t care. When we were together, he made me feel like I was the only person in his world.”
She stopped her monologue. Abby wondered if she was finished.
“Sorry. The thought of Martin, so virile and handsome, caused a momentary lapse of concentration. He was brilliant, his business sense innovative. Being a lawyer, he knew all the angles to entice people into backing his ventures, especially contributing to the foundation. He did that to make me happy. A small price to pay.
“Then he told me about a proposed development on an island off the Georgia coast. His interest in the mental health field evolved from a desire to help a favorite cousin stricken with schizophrenia at an early age. Others in his family also succumbed to the illness. He wanted to create a facility that included a hospital for research. He deemed it a worthy project for a government-funded grant. His project would have been perfect for his own foundation to fund, but the conflict of interest would have been obvious. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure nothing in the Gentry-Serrano Foundation’s history stood in the way.
“Martin used his considerable charm and power to bring investors to the table. While organizing the necessary application to apply for the grant, and without my knowledge, he conducted a private audit of his own foundation—a detail I didn’t foresee. After all, his name appeared on the masthead; he had every right.” She sighed. “I only wish he’d consulted me.”
“And what did he find, Mrs. Gentry?”<
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“Millions of the foundation’s money funneled from Synthetec into the research laboratory of Dr. Sylvan Crock, a.k.a. Dr. Herbert Scanlon. Pharmaceutical research is expensive, but not that expensive. The accountant turned the papers over to Martin, and he didn’t like the bottom line. Really, my dear. I would have thought you’d have figured it out. It’s always about money.”
Mrs. Gentry must have seen the surprise on Abby’s face.
“Oh, yes. Doctors Scanlon and Crock are one and the same. Considering his memorable appearance, he conducted his work behind the scenes. We couldn’t let people make the connection. We hired chemists and biologists from other countries to do the research.”
“Nothing surprises me any more. But let me guess. While Synthetec developed a second-generation of Receptormine, the offshoot lab in this building developed the drug that induced psychotic episodes in your son.”
“That wasn’t the original purpose, but it worked out that way. We hoped to entice Stewart into telling us where he’d hidden the papers, but he wouldn’t budge.”
Abby reeled. “So you destroyed your own son.”
She drew a deep breath. “A Hobson’s choice, Abigael. It was either save me and all I’ve worked for, or save me and all I’ve worked for. You see, don’t you?” Pausing, she said, “No, of course not. How could you?”
“And you distributed the drug through your father’s network?”
Mrs. Gentry got up, filled her water glass again, and took a long swallow. “Ah, you always were a smart girl, Abigael. Maybe that’s why I never liked you.”
As if I didn’t know. “Why get involved in a crime of such magnitude when you and your father had achieved everything you always wanted?”
“Good question. My father gave me everything. I love him without equal to this day. When he started out, he never intended to do anything illegal, but life’s opportunities can be too tempting to ignore. I’ve used the lure myself, many times. It’s amazing how one will compromise everything they’ve ever believed in for money. Then, one thing led to another. A natural progression, you might say.
“The profit in drugs is enormous. Especially a drug like the one Herbert’s staff formulated. There’s nothing like it in the marketplace, with the best and longest-lasting psychedelic high imaginable. One might think addictive drugs are bigger moneymakers, and maybe they are, but they exclude a large part of the population. Too many people fear them. But thrill junkies keep coming back for more of ours. College students, white collars, even housewives.”
She stopped and Abby heard her swallow more water. She wished she hadn’t refused the glass before. Her mouth was desert dry.
“I love money, but I’m not motivated just for its sake. Money equals power, and I do so love power, Abigael. It enables me to control this city, because when you lure people into compromise, you own them. I own this city, and I own most of the people who count. I wouldn’t let Martin Gentry’s self-righteous ways ruin that, no matter how much I loved him.”
This confession was worse than Abby had imagined. “So you…you killed him.”
“A tragic accident. His plane crashed shortly after takeoff. Pilot error. No one ever discovered the true cause of the accident. Mr. Collyer is quite clever, aren’t you, my dear?”
A grunt of affirmation came from Collyer’s position.
“I miss Martin, truly I do. He was great fun. But I was furious with him. I’ve had spasmodic twinges of guilt, but I eventually got past them.”
“My god,” Abby said in a long exhalation of breath.
The woman is insane, justifying murder in the same way one justifies spending too much for a piece of jewelry. Abby had to keep her talking.
“The accountant had the report,” she said. “Why did your husband give it to Stewart?”
“I’ve cultivated many friendships here. Made it my business to do so. Even Martin’s personal lawyer is my close friend. Martin questioned whether Sam Davidson could be bought. He couldn’t, but he could be persuaded. After that, he became a loose end, which is why he’s no longer with us. Stewart was the one person Martin trusted. After Martin died, Stewart opened the envelope. He came to the house to ask for an explanation, hoping I’d promise to do the right thing and stop diverting the foundation’s money for illicit purposes. Unfortunately, he overheard a snippet of conversation between Mr. Collyer and me about the plane crash. Upset can’t describe his reaction. We discussed it at length. I denied everything, of course, saying he misinterpreted what he’d heard.” Mrs. Gentry paused. “Then during his rant, he told me about the envelope.”
Abby listened, overwhelmed with a sadness toward Stewart she wouldn’t have believed possible. Oh, Stewart, why did you do that?
Mrs. Gentry continued the confession as if she were talking to a priest, although she sought no absolution. “Martin’s letter and the report would have ruined us. I should have humored Stewart until I found out where the papers were, but he was in no mood to be humored. Mr. Collyer subdued him and we called Dr. Scanlon.”
Although the room was warm, Abby’s hands were like ice. A part of her wanted this to be over, but she needed to hear the remainder of Mrs. Gentry’s memoir. “So you drugged him.”
“Hmm, not right away. Remember, those darn papers. Sam Davidson…donated his copies, but Stewart wasn’t as forthcoming, even under hypnosis. He’d have exposed everything. But how could I kill my own son? My flesh and blood? I couldn’t.
“Not until I had those papers.
“Stewart eventually became manageable. Until he wasn’t. Then you know what happened.”
“Yes, I know.” I can’t let her finish now. “What kind of doctor betrays his oath and destroys the mind of a perfectly healthy man?”
Mrs. Gentry got up, circled the room, her shoes charting her course. “Fuck the oath, my dear. Herbert waded into it up to his snowy white hair. I made him a major stockholder in Synthetec Pharmaceuticals, with a place on the board of directors. Money, status, and power. The trifecta. Who could resist? Besides, our renowned doctor is the psychiatric equivalent of Dr. Mengele. He finds all the research and mind control fascinating. He practiced on other patients beside Stewart. In fact, there’s a special section in this building where Herbert treats people no one will ever miss. He’s running around the building now, checking on them.”
These admissions were worse than Abby imagined. Other innocent people traumatized in the psychiatric care of a madman. Could she keep the conversation going long enough for Luke to find her? “How did you persuade prison officials to move Stewart from the prison psychiatric facility into Scanlon’s private hospital?”
“You’re so naïve, my dear. Control, remember? Politicians are particularly vulnerable to blackmail. Almost every one has something to hide. My father has many keys to their skeletal closets, even a thousand miles away. One doesn’t succeed in the recycling and waste business without a few, how shall I say, connections? A bribe, a misplaced word, the hint of impropriety can destroy a political career.”
“Did the Gentrys realize they’d made a pact with the devil when they sold themselves?”
“Of course they did. Do you think the Gentry family made their money without getting their hands dirty? How do you think they acquired so much land before they lost it? Using their influence to raise the tax structure, they bought up property owned by poor blacks for a song because they couldn’t afford to live there. Oh, and moonshine. Martin’s grandfather made millions during prohibition, very much like his New England counterpart. Everyone’s a devil where money is concerned.”
“Seems you controlled everyone but Stewart.”
“The buildup of hallucinogens in his system had a highly toxic effect. He heard voices and had visions. Herbert planted some of them—your alleged affair, for instance—but Stewart became aggressive and out of control. Herbert tried Receptormine and other anti-psychotics, but my son didn’t respond. We let nature take its course. It worked to our advantage until the shooting incident. An
d Macy, of course. An unfortunate mistake.”
“Yes, Macy.” Abby swallowed her anger. Her daughter’s death an unfortunate mistake, a glitch. And she would bump into things for the rest of her life because another glitch allowed her to live. Then she realized the rest of her life wouldn’t be long enough to make Mrs. Gentry’s disclosures public. “Now what? How will you explain my death? Another tragedy?”
“Stewart found you and finished what he started eight years ago. We tried to prevent the impending catastrophe but arrived too late.”
“And Luke McCallister?” Abby asked.
“Your pitiful deaf lover? The perfect provocation. When Stewart found out about him, that was all the incentive he needed.”
What could Abby say to prolong the inevitable? “Too many people know about Stewart and the last two months. They know about the break-ins, the messages, and about your hatchet man. Are you going to kill all of them?”
“You have no proof of anything. No one has even seen Mr. Collyer except you.” Mrs. Gentry paused. “Let me rephrase that.”
“No need. I get the picture,” Abby said.
“Ha! Glad to see there’s someone here who hasn’t lost her sense of humor. Not that you’ll need it where you’re going. All the loose ends will be tied up. Stewart escaped from a mental hospital. He’s delusional, capable of anything, Doctors will attest to that, even your doctor friend. Prove otherwise, my dear. Oh, but sorry, you won’t be here, will you?”
Carlotta Gentry’s plan sounded despicably plausible. It wouldn’t work, but she’d make a damn good case. And I won’t be around to refute it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Know Nothing
Norm Archer got out of his car in front of Synthetec’s brick and glass building and approached Luke’s side of the car. “The building’s locked. I found no other pharmaceutical labs in the area, not that they’d advertise an illegal one. I couldn’t find Valentina Kozov either. The IRS has no record of her working in the United States. In fact, immigration has no record of a Dr. Valentina Kozov entering the country.”
