Kelley Armstrong - Omens

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.

Gabriel opened the living room window, then closed it again and double-checked the lock. He could have sworn he’d felt a draft coming through earlier, but it seemed fine. He checked the other window. Same thing.

Still, he wasn’t satisfied. Olivia’s apartment was only three floors up. Easy to scale and break in. He’d done it himself many times, when he’d been younger and much smaller.

She should get a security system. She’d say she couldn’t afford it, but he could call in favors, get one for not much more than she’d paid for the gun. He just needed to persuade her that the added security was necessary.

Was it? There were few places safer than Cainsville, if you were the right kind of person. That’s what his aunt always said. As for what exactly constituted “the right kind,” she was vague on that. It seemed unlikely that Rose would qualify. Even less that he would. But they did. Now Olivia did, too, which should mean she was safe, but…

He checked the front door for the third time since she’d gone to bed. It was locked. He knew that. So what was he checking for? He had no idea, only that he felt unsettled. As if something was amiss, and the only way he knew how to deal with that was to keep prowling and listening and checking.

He’d said earlier that he’d feel guilty if something happened to her. He shouldn’t—participating in this investigation was entirely her choice. Yet he felt responsible for her and it left him … unsettled.

Of course, he had a very good reason for protecting her. A monetary incentive. At the thought, though, he found himself walking faster, pacing the living room, a tickle of something dangerously close to guilt prodding him on. It was like the damned cookies. He hadn’t done anything wrong. So why was it bothering him?

It didn’t help that the cat kept staring at him.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he murmured as he lowered himself to the armchair.

The cat, surprisingly, did not respond. Gabriel let out a low growl and leaned back. The cat leapt onto the coffee table, sitting right in front of him, staring.

He stared back. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about this. James Morgan was the fool who’d made the offer. Look after Olivia. Keep her safe. Which is exactly what Gabriel would have done anyway—she was his client—so there was nothing wrong with accepting money for it.

Morgan had come to him, simmering with the kind of shallow, manufactured fury that can only be expressed by someone who’s never had any reason to be truly furious about anything. He’d read Lores’s article. Clearly Gabriel was taking advantage of his innocent, befuddled fiancée. Gabriel had told him the truth and opined that Morgan should really allow Olivia to pursue this investigation. That she needed answers, and if he truly cared about her, he’d step back and not interfere.

He’d fully expected Morgan to explode. In Olivia, James Morgan would see only a suitable wife. He didn’t truly understand her. He certainly didn’t love her. Yet Morgan had called a day later and agreed to stay away. He asked only two things of Gabriel, which he would pay for, of course. One, that he look after her. Two, that he lobby on Morgan’s behalf, which meant pushing Morgan’s suit and telling her that James was there, waiting, whenever she wished to speak to him.

Gabriel had ignored the second part. He wasn’t a matchmaking service. He hadn’t actually refused the task, but he wouldn’t accept payment for it. That was only fair.

So he was taking money for protecting her, yet he wasn’t only protecting her because he was taking money for it. Therefore, there was nothing to feel guilty about. Except for the small matter that he and Olivia had that very morning resolved a similar issue over Lores.

If she found out about this…

Damn it, why did she need to be so unreasonable? She’d helped him hide a body, for God’s sake. She understood necessity. She understood that ethics were in most cases a burden that could be reasonably ignored in pursuit of necessity. She should understand that there was nothing wrong with accepting money for doing something that needed to be done, like getting unbiased media coverage for her or protecting her from harm.

But it wasn’t the fact that he’d made the deal with Lores that upset her. It was that he hadn’t told her. A silly distinction. Why should she need to know?

Because it was a sign of respect.

He wanted to finish this investigation with Olivia. He might even want to continue their working relationship beyond that. It was still a nascent idea, born when she’d joked earlier that he’d be happy to be rid of her. He wouldn’t be.