Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Entering Saint George Sound, he took a bearing off the light, heading to a point of land east of the lighthouse where his charts indicated the mouth of the Carrabelle River debouched into the gulf. God, it was a relief to see that lighthouse blinking away, steady as a rock, through the howling murk. But with the change of heading the sea was now almost broadside, pitching the boat from side to side and occasionally shoving it askew, the gray water sweeping across the enclosed bows and slopping over the gunwales. The cockpit floor was awash in seawater on its way out the scuppers. The VHF was still broadcasting tornado warnings to the north. If they could only get in the damn river and out of this brutal sea, they’d be safe. Or safer, at least.

Finally, he espied what looked like the broad mouth of the river, the lights of the town casting an eerie glow through the shifting rainsqualls. Squinting and peering, he made out the blinking lights of the channel buoys. As they entered the mouth of the river, the steep swells vanished into windblown chop and spume, easily cut through by the big boat. He wondered what people on shore must think as they watched the running lights of his speedboat heading up the river. Then he realized he didn’t need to wonder: they’d surely think he was crazy. And maybe he was crazy. He should never have let this woman talk him into something so insane.

As if responding to his thoughts, Constance spoke: “Speed up.”

He throttled up a little, ignoring the “no wake” zone. The wind was lashing the water so hard that it was all foamy and white, with no distinct surface. But no more awful swell, at least. He pushed on, the lights of the town passing on either side of him now. Going under the Davis Island bridge, he went through the great S-curve to where the water divided into the New River and the Crooked River.

Now the VHF channel went from general tornado warnings to the specific: an emergency broadcast of probable tornadoes spotted by radar in the region of Tate’s Hell State Forest — precisely where they were headed.

“Did you hear that?” Constance asked.

“Yes,” said Perelman. “There’s nothing we can do now — except turn around, of course.”

“We’re not turning around.”

“Then we pray that we don’t run into it.”

“I don’t pray,” she said.

“Well,” he replied, annoyed, “I sure as hell do, and I hope you won’t mind if I indulge.”

She said nothing, just stared straight ahead, her face illuminated from beneath by the red light of the chartplotter.

They had now left the town behind and were winding their way up the Crooked River, which quickly lived up to its name, carrying them around one deep horseshoe bend after another. The channel markers disappeared and he continued to navigate by chartplotter, glad the boat drew only twenty-four inches. Despite the storm, they were not making bad time up the channel, but Perelman’s relief was starting to be overshadowed by the thought of what would happen when they reached the facility. Fighting the sea for the past few hours had pushed that out of his mind.

“When we get there,” he said, “we’re just going to scope out the situation and call in the cavalry. We can’t handle this by ourselves.”

“I’ve already explained why that is a poor idea. We can’t trust anyone. The investigation has been compromised... and we don’t know how, why, or by whom. It would take too long to collect, organize, and mount your charge of the light brigade. Pendergast may be at risk of death already, but he will surely die if they see that coming.”

Perelman felt a rising exasperation. “So what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know what your plan is,” she said. “ My plan is to go in there, neutralize the people who kidnapped Pendergast, and bring him out.”

He really was dealing with a psychopath. “With what weapon, may I ask?”

She removed what appeared to be an ornate, antique stiletto from the pocket of her leggings and showed it to him.

“You’re out of your mind.” He checked the chartplotter and saw they were nearing their destination, the old sugar plant on the river. At that moment, the wind suddenly and shockingly increased, the trees on either side of the river lashing about in all directions. Simultaneously, he heard and felt a strange vibration in the air.

Son of a bitch.

As the boat swung around yet another deep bend, lights appeared — a pier and dock along the riverbank, with a loading crane and a launch. And rising behind the trees was an unsettling sight: a grim guard tower with roaming spotlights and the buildings of an industrial complex. It was so much bigger than he’d imagined. They were in deep, way deep, and this was something neither one of them could possibly handle.

But his attention was torn away by a dramatic rising scream of wind coming out of the blackness, upstream of the starboard side. He stared in horror. Something began to resolve from the howling murk: a thrashing mass of blackness against blackness, a sinuous form whipping and writhing this way and that as it advanced on them. It chewed through the trees on the far bank, reducing them to whirling splinters.

Perelman immediately swung the boat around, hoping to outrun it, gunning the engine. But the river channel was narrow and the boat’s turning radius too large, and he ran aground on the muck about ten yards from the embankment.

“Out! Out of the boat!”

Even as he cried, the tornado moved out over the river and blossomed a dirty brown as it sucked up water, its sound changing from a high-pitched scream to something monstrously deeper. Encountering the water caused it to swerve away from them, barreling directly into the docks and blowing them up like a bomb, sparks arcing through the night as the power poles went down. Perelman felt the heavy boat beneath him move in an impossible way. He clutched the wheel as they spun about, the windscreen being plucked off the hull like a child’s toy and disappearing into the roaring tumult. Perelman seized Constance and pulled her out of the boat and into the muck.

The waterspout was almost on top of them, whirling so fast now that it looked like static on a television set. Perelman’s ears popped excruciatingly as he grasped Constance tighter and hauled her through the mucky shallows, trying to reach the shelter of trees along the embankment. And then the roaring, shrieking column was on top of them, and his body was wrenched away, spinning, utterly helpless, before all went black.

“I am familiar with Project MK-Ultra,” Pendergast said. “In fact, I’d begun to wonder if this wasn’t a continuation of it, in some form or other. But if we’re going to converse, could you kindly ask the doctor to remove that needle?”

The general turned. “Dr. Smith, please remove the needle for the time being.”

With a faint look of disappointment, the doctor extracted the needle from the IV injection port and stepped back. Gladstone felt a flood of relief. Her senses were heightened in the extreme; she could hear the storm faintly, still raging outside, along with the whisper of the HVAC and the ticking of a clock somewhere. The IV in her arm throbbed. There were no windows in the lab, only a long, horizontal mirror high along one wall.

“The idea behind MK-Ultra,” the general continued, “was to seek ways to manipulate an individual’s mental state — mind control, if you will — using drugs and behavior modification techniques. It was primarily meant as a battlefield weapon, employed to confuse or disable an enemy, or as a tool for interrogation. It was launched in 1953 and officially shut down in 1973, after some lily-livered government bureaucrats got cold feet.” He shook his head with a mixture of dismay and disgust.