CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“Okay,” I said when we got into the car. “Did you forget to tell me that Edgar Chandler owns a pharmaceutical company? Or that it’s where you believe Evans went to work after he quit the CIA?”
He peeled from the curb. I twisted to peer into the night.
“I don’t see the cops, Gabriel. You can slow down.”
“I’m hardly concerned about the police. Chandler didn’t call them. I’m sure he did phone someone, but likely only to say to send reinforcements if he didn’t check back within the hour.”
“So why’d we leave?”
“Because I’d accomplished what I came for.”
“Dare I ask what that was? Because apparently I wasn’t privy to the grand plan.”
“I didn’t tell you about Chandler because I wanted to confront him myself. I’m better suited to such tactics.”
“If you mean physical intimidation, I’ll agree that’s your thing, not mine. But if you’d told me your reasoning, I’d have let you handle him.”
A pause, then a nod, as if this possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“You’re going to be so glad when this is over and you can fly solo again, aren’t you?”
He made a noise, impossible to make out, but which I’m sure meant “Hell, yes.”
“On the topic of partnerships,” he said after a moment. “Thank you for covering me with Chandler. Almost allowing Anderson to get the drop on me was an inexcusable error. Had you not been there, I might have had quite a hole through me. Your reflexes are excellent.”
“Too many Dirty Harry movies. At least I didn’t dare him to make my day. So, what exactly did we just accomplish?”
“I confirmed, by his reaction, my suspicion about the drug company. I had no evidence on that.”
“So Evans quits the CIA, using his son’s birth as an excuse, and covertly works for Chandler’s drug company. Why the secrecy? What do they manufacture?”
“Nothing you could find on the shelves of your local pharmacy. Bryson Pharmaceutical is an export business. Their primary clients are foreign regimes with civil rights laws far laxer than ours.”
“Continuing the work from MKULTRA, not for the greater good but for profit.”
“Far more sensible, don’t you think?”
I shook my head and settled in for the long trip to Cainsville.
• • •
The problem with MKULTRA—well, there were lots of problems, morally and ethically—but from a practical standpoint, the problem was that after all that expense and all the risks taken and all the lives altered, the CIA never did achieve its goals. Perhaps there is a lesson in its failure—a testament to the human mind that should come as a relief to anyone who ever worries about things like brainwashing and mind control. In the end, their scientists discovered there was no way to influence human behavior in a reliable fashion.
There were those who believed the answers were still out there, that as many liberties as the CIA took, it was still hamstrung by basic ethics. Had Chandler and Evans seen hints of a breakthrough in their work with MKULTRA? A breakthrough they could better pursue from the private sector? Where they might be able to develop and sell products in countries unfettered by the restrictions of testing and using such products on American citizens?
“So what’s the next step?” I asked as we reached the highway.
“To get some sleep. If I recall correctly, your apartment has a sofa.”
“It does.”
“Then I’ll ask you to allow me to stay there tonight, not simply for convenience, but because we have revealed ourselves to Chandler. We didn’t identify ourselves, but I suspect he has the means to discover who we are.”
“Fine by me. I have tomorrow off, too.”
• • •
Apparently my sofa turned into a bed. I’d heard of such things, but never seen the marvel of engineering for myself.
“I think the cat likes you,” I said as I brought my backup sheets into the living room and found Gabriel sitting on the pulled-out sofa, locking gazes with the cat.
“Come on,” I said. “Back to bed, TC.”
One brow lifted. “I thought you weren’t naming him.”
“I didn’t. TC. The Cat. It’s an acronym.”
His lips twitched. “I see.” He pulled a .45 from the back of his waistband, then tucked it under the couch.
“You swiped Chandler’s gun?” I said.
“No, I merely failed to return it.”
I laughed, said good night, and headed to my room.
Before I got into bed, I checked under the mattress, just as I had the night before. I didn’t expect to see anything, but I couldn’t go to sleep until I checked. When I saw a piece of folded paper beside the bed, I practically dove to snatch it up.
It was the note Ricky had given me earlier today, his number written on what looked like lecture notes. I started to ball up the page to throw it out. Then I stopped and flipped it over. The biker. The MBA student. Two halves of the whole. His parents were hardly serial killers, but I felt some inkling of kinship there. He’d grown up in gang life. He could escape it if he wanted. He was handsome, charming, obviously intelligent. Yet I didn’t get the feeling his MBA was an escape route. He was getting it to secure his position as gang leader. That interested me. He interested me.
I fingered the page for another minute, considering. Then I folded it neatly, put it in my wallet, and got ready for bed.