Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“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.