Find Virgil (A Novel of Revenge)

by Frank Freudberg

  Pratt stood up impatiently and began pacing again. “Go on.”

  “They’re hung up on the Midas and Benedict thing,” Rhoads said. “That’s all they want to talk about with me. All they have from Old Carolina is that three-page executive summary you or Trichina wrote. They think you whipped it up off the top of your head to pacify them.”

  “Essentially, that’s what I did,” said Pratt.

  “So, if you want them to give information to me, how about helping me out with something I can give to Franklin? Give them the project files. What could be so bad in them? Otherwise all I can do is follow them around.”

  Rhoads knew he had to remind Mary to get him the copies of the files. Pratt wasn’t going to hand them over.

  “Or work that shrink angle, the doctor in Philadelphia,” Pratt said.

  “I’m on top of that. She’s important.”

  Pratt sighed and sat down behind his desk.

  “I know this is difficult for you, T.R.,” said Pratt. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. And I’ve been remiss in telling you this, but whatever happens, you can write your own ticket here. Any kind of job you want, you name it. I’ve already instructed Anna Maria to see to it. But this is not a simple situation. You’ve been around long enough to know that there are always eight sides to every story. I’m convinced that wherever Benedict is, he has nothing to do with what’s happening. He couldn’t be involved in killing hundreds of innocent people. Benedict’s not a problem. But Midas? That’s a problem. It’s an embarrassment that could kick the legs out of our stock. The stock’s sliding deeper into the sewer every day. The whole industry is getting creamed. Rhoads, I’d give Virgil one hundred million dollars to surrender himself. But no matter what happens, we can’t afford to let the public know what Midas was.”

  Rhoads looked at Pratt. “Is it as embarrassing as having people puking blood onto the sidewalk while clutching a pack of Easy Lights every night on the six o’clock news?”

  “I’m going to confide in you, Rhoads. I’ve never told you what Midas was because, candidly, I didn’t know if I could trust you. Now I think I can. Midas was a rather ill-conceived project.”

  Rhoads sat up. He knew Pratt must be feeling especially desperate to confide in him. He knew it wouldn’t be all of the truth—especially about what had become of Benedict—but it would be something he could use. Once he read the documents Mary had copied, he’d know exactly what Pratt was trying to hide.

  “We thought better of it, late perhaps, but we did think better of it,” said Pratt. “That’s why I killed it. The idea was, broadly speaking, to study the relationship between nicotine doses in cigarettes and brand loyalty. You get the picture?”

  “Yes.” Rhoads got it. They were planning on upping the nicotine in their products beyond legal levels to ensure their customers would never be satisfied with another brand.

  “It was one thousand percent banned, we knew that. But we thought we’d develop the products and then figure out how to get them into the marketplace, legally. But things went awry before we got to that stage.”

  “So you’re talking legally embarrassing, as in Senate subcommittee investigation embarrassing.”

  Pratt sighed again. He looked weary, his bravado of minutes earlier dissipated. “Something like that.”

  “And that’s why Benedict… quit?”

  “Yeah. He got a major attack of Holier-Than-Thou-itis, which, if truth be told, had a lot to do with our decision to disband the Midas team.”

  Rhoads thought, And to eliminate Benedict, no doubt. He couldn’t wait to deliver Pratt to the FBI.

  “So why did Benedict take off?” Rhoads said.

  “Who knows why these PhDs do what they do? But it wasn’t to take a walk on the wild side as a freelance domestic terrorist. He didn’t have the nerve for something like what Virgil’s doing. He used to just about pee himself when he had to make a presentation to the Executive Committee.”

  “So what is it you want from me?” said Rhoads. “The FBI’s not sharing. They won’t as long as they think we’re holding out. I’ve been doing the only thing I can, which is try to get info from Franklin and take it a step further. But I haven’t had a chance. This shrink in Philadelphia has been the only decent thing I’ve developed.”

  “Of course, I know you’re doing your best. I’m going to send Franklin an expanded file on Midas. Now you know why I can’t give him everything, and I need you to stay in closer touch.”

  “Listen, Nick, all I know is that the FBI’s treading water. They’ve got a huge army of agents working all the physical evidence. But that’s useless. This guy is very smart. The cyanide is untraceable. When he calls, it’s always from someplace he can get away from. He’s obviously a master of disguise. And he’s patient as a cat at a rat hole.”

  Pratt brightened. “That’s why they’re so mesmerized by Benedict. They have nothing else going. They’ll catch him. The FBI usually does. Do you know what the arrest rate for bank robberies in this country is? It’s over ninety percent. They’ll find Virgil, so all we have to do is keep them from digging into Midas while they do it. It seems like they’re chasing the wrong leads. I need you to point them in the right direction.”

  “I don’t think you’re wrong, but if they’re that focused on Benedict, it would be a tremendous help if we could dig him up, wherever he is, and show him to the Feds and say, ‘Look, this guy’s a harmless nerd.’”

  “I know, I know,” said Pratt. “That’s what’s killing me. Let’s say we do find him. The last thing I need is some born-again humanitarian spilling his guts about private company business at a mass-media feeding frenzy.”

  “But people are dying, Nick, and that’ll make the feeding frenzy worse. Without Benedict, it’ll only get worse. You want two things—you want the FBI to catch the real killer, but you don’t want to give them enough to figure out Benedict isn’t the guy.”

  “Yeah,” Pratt said, grimacing. “That’s a problem.”

  63

  From the October 14 edition of the Daily Spirit, Punxsutawney, PA:

  “He Seemed Like a Nice Old Man”

  VIRGIL STRIKES LOCALLY

  PUNX’Y WAITRESS DIES

  Found a Pack of Camels on Table

  64

  Sunday, October 15

  The rain had stopped.

  Mary and Rhoads woke while it was still dark and quiet. They held each other and listened to the rain. A little after dawn, he kissed her goodbye and left. In his briefcase was a printout of all the Midas files, hundreds of pages of truth, the rarest commodity at Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc.

  “I have to read this stuff, but I’ll call you,” Rhoads said.

  The doorbell rang so soon after he left that Mary thought he had forgotten something.

  She looked through the peephole anyway, and in the fish-eye lens, she saw Anna Maria Trichina. She opened the door.

  “I know it’s early, but we have to talk,” Trichina said, stepping in. Mary tensed and blocked the way. She smelled alcohol and fear on Trichina.

  “First,” Trichina said, “my sincere sympathy. I didn’t know Anthony. But I know this. I’ve never lost anyone close to me. I don’t know how I’d handle it.”

  Saying nothing, Mary stepped back and let Trichina come in. Trichina continued. “So, for whatever it’s worth, I imagine it must be like a limb torn away. Unbearable.”

  Mary didn’t want to discuss her emotional state with Trichina, but felt she had to say something. “The second-guessing myself is what I have to get over. Anyway, I know that’s not why you came. Come on in, I have some coffee.”

  “I know this may seem inappropriate, considering… that you are in mourning, but…”

  “But?”

  Trichina dropped her voice to a whisper. “But we have to talk and it’d be safer in my car. I’ll explain. I’m sorry,
I know this is inconvenient. Plus, it’s cold. Throw something on.”

  I’m not going out now. Not with her, Mary thought.

  “Can’t we talk here? I have something on the stove and…”

  “Put something on and turn the stove off. We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Mary did not know how to say no. She just stood there and blinked defiantly.

  “Please,” Trichina said.

  A minute later, Mary found herself sitting in the passenger seat of Trichina’s Alfa Romeo. Trichina started the car.

  “Don’t look so nervous. We’re not going anywhere,” Trichina said. “Just around the corner. It’s just that your house may be bugged.”

  “My house?” Mary hesitated. “I think you better tell me what this is all about right now.”

  Trichina put the car in gear and drove a couple of blocks until she came to a playground adjacent to an elementary school. Mary glared the entire way. Trichina parked the car and lit a cigarette. Mary had to ask her to turn on the key so her window could be opened.

  “Sorry,” Trichina said, lowering the window. “I’ve been a bitch to you, Mary, I know. Don’t take it personally. I am a bitch. But if we don’t work together now, we may both wind up like your husband.”

  Mary had her head turned toward the window, avoiding the smoke. Her head snapped around to Trichina.

  “What in the hell are you saying?”

  Trichina looked Mary in the eye. “Mary. They murdered him. Whatever it looked like, it was a deliberate killing.”

  Mary shook her head and smiled, relieved. What a paranoid little fool you are, Anna Maria. So beautiful, so stupid.

  Like a patient grade-school teacher with a kid who keeps making the same mistake, Mary said, “Sorry Charlie. Anthony had emphysema. He lived way past the time they predicted. He couldn’t breathe, his heart worked too hard, it just stopped. What reason could anybody have had to kill him?”

  “Because of the copies of the Midas documents you sneaked. They must have thought Anthony would know where you put them. When he didn’t tell them… well …”

  Mary squirmed. Dread coursed through her. Her eyes filled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. You made a fake directory when no one was watching you, and then you erased it instead of the directory you were supposed to erase. Smart. You fooled me, but you don’t know Nick Pratt. He’s got everything covered.”

  Mary shook her head, refusing to believe Trichina. “Anthony died from complications of chronic pulmonary emphysema. That’s the certified cause of death. You’re trying to say that I’m responsible for Anthony’s death. I won’t listen to that. Take me home.”

  For a moment, Trichina didn’t say a word. “Mary, listen carefully. I’m being straight with you. You may not know it, but you’ve got a tiger by the tail.” She paused. “You’ve got two tigers by their tails. If you want to get out of this …”

  “Get out of what?”

  “… then you have to stop lying to me. You made your own copies of the Midas financials. They know that. How do you think I know all this? Pratt told me. He wants me to get them back from you. He told me I’m supposed to act like I’m in danger just like you. But the truth is, I am.” Trichina’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t know these men, Mary.”

  Trichina took hold of Mary’s wrist and unintentionally squeezed hard.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  Trichina saw what she had been doing and immediately let go.

  “Mary, listen. Pratt and his gang, they’re like bank robbers. The number one rule they teach bank teller trainees is, if you’re being robbed, don’t look at the gunmen’s faces. You avert your eyes. Don’t let them know you’ve seen their faces. If you can identify them, you have to assume they’re going to kill you because they can’t risk leaving any witnesses. Mary, we both have seen those documents. We’ve seen their faces. Now your husband is dead, and both our lives depend on what you do next. Where are the documents?”

  Mary’s mind reeled. Was any of this true? Was all of it true? Where was T.R.? He’d tell her what to do. It took her a full minute to be able to speak. She could barely get her words out louder than a whisper.

  “My copies are safe,” Mary said. “What happened to the copies you had me make for you?”

  “I deposited mine with an attorney who had instructions to use them should anything happen to me. But, again, the bastard Pratt found out. I imagine his man waved enough money in the lawyer’s face, and the lawyer sold me out.”

  This is unbelievable. She’s an actress, and she’s acting scared. She’s not in danger from Pratt, she’s working for him.

  Trichina grabbed Mary’s wrist again.

  “Stop it, damn you. Don’t play the dumb broad with me now,” she practically screamed in Mary’s ear. “You read between the lines of those documents. You’re no fool. You must know that Pratt gave T.R. two hundred thousand dollars to pay Benedict to keep his mouth shut about Midas, but something went wrong. Maybe Benedict threatened T.R. with the police or something. So T.R. killed Benedict, kept the money, and then told Pratt that Benedict was gone when he got there. Or something like that. Who knows? I’m piecing this together by myself. All I know is that if we can’t figure out how to use those documents to protect ourselves from Pratt and his jackboots, we’re both going to die.”

  Mary held up her hands in surrender. Her head was spinning. T.R. up to his neck in it? How could that be? This was too much for her, too fast. She trembled.

  “All right,” she said, sobbing. “All right. What do you propose we do?”

  65

  October 15

  Headline in La Suisse

  U.S. Terrorist Targets Geneva

  CYANIDE-LACED CIGARETTES

  SHIPPED TO DAVIDOFF

  “I Knew What They Were Straight Off,” Clerk Says

  66

  Trichina opened her door and admitted Pratt. He stepped across the threshold and swung the door closed behind him. His upper lip twitched. Trichina read fury, rage, resentment.

  “What’s the big idea, Anna Maria?” he said, working to control his voice. “You call my chauffeur and tell him that it’s for my own good to come here immediately. The one weekend you know my son’s back in the U.S. What’s the matter with you?”

  Trichina turned her back to him and walked into the dining room. She wore a short skirt, a bulky blue sweater and was barefoot. Yellowing flowers stood in a vase. “Then why are you here?”

  Pratt started to sputter.

  She cut him off. I have Mary running scared. Now let’s see if I can get Nick to blink.

  “Shut up, Nick. You sit down. You listen for a change.”

  He regarded her narrowly and sat down on the sofa. He knew her well enough to know this, whatever it was, wasn’t a bluff. Trichina retrieved her briefcase from the dining-room table, returned to the living room, and sat in a chair opposite Pratt.

  “From now on, Nick,” she said, opening her briefcase, “things are going to be a little different for me. I’ll be designing my own career path. We’re going to do things my way.”

  “Silly rabbit. What do you think you have?” In one compartment of his mind, Pratt was fantasizing about what he’d tell Valzmann to do to her.

  “Or I’ll put you in prison.”

  Pratt looked at her, saying nothing, his face blank.

  “I have all the evidence I need about Midas and the Benedict disappearance to convince a grand jury that you should be personally indicted for first degree murder. The evidence is safe. I don’t have to do a thing. Anything happens to me and the evidence will be sent where it will do the most damage. I know you got through to my lawyer Finch, but he wasn’t the only man on base. Sloppy of you, Nick. But then again, you suspected I had a backup or else I’d probably be at the bottom of some landfill with Be
nedict right now.”

  “First degree murder, Anna Maria,” Pratt said, controlling himself. “That’s a pretty dramatic claim.”

  He rose and turned his back to her. He didn’t want her to see his face. A vicious twitch materialized and clambered across his face beneath his flesh like a lizard on hot sand. Images of the bamboo tiger’s cage the Viet Cong kept him in flashed in his mind. The facial spasm moved from left to right. The skin above his right eye twitched uncontrollably as if someone had taken a pinch of the flesh and twisted it. His breath came in short bursts.

  What happened to his mouth was most terrifying of all. It snapped open wide and silent as if under the command of a dentist, held its pose, and then snapped back down again. Trichina heard the sound, but it didn’t register as tooth on tooth. She looked up to see his head shake from side to side three or four times with such force, so fast and hard, that she feared it might tear itself off and fall forward through the picture window.

  And as fast as it had begun, the massive twitch stopped, like a sudden cloudburst giving way to sun. Pratt gasped again, nostrils flaring. Trichina looked away. She did not want him to see her watching. His face now burned a brilliant crimson. He turned slowly and mechanically, like a mannequin on a revolving display. Unable to speak just yet, Nicholas Pratt concentrated all of his rage and focused it on the invisible spot he drew on the back of Anna Maria Trichina’s head.

  Frightened by the little scene out of The Exorcist, Trichina feigned composure by flipping through pages of a blue notebook she had taken from her briefcase. She wanted to take back control of this meeting.

  “No small talk, Nick. Exactly one week before you terminated Midas, you pushed through a post-allocation budget increase request for two hundred thousand dollars. Which you actually signed off on! Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Or would that be cocky, cocky, cocky? Didn’t Richard Nixon make the same mistake thinking no one would ever get to listen to those Oval Office tapes?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.