Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  “Sure. Lunch sounds great. And you said around 11:50?”

  “Right,” she replied. “Park in the visitor lot, and come in when you get here. We can walk over. It’s less than two blocks.”

  “Got it,” I replied. “This thing that came up with Laura? It’s not going to be a problem for your project, is it?”

  “Just the opposite. We went over all my questions, and I think we have it wrapped up.”

  “That’s outstanding,” I replied, seeing an opening for a somewhat corny quip. “After all, you need to do everything you can to hurry her along.”

  There was a pause, followed by a tentative, “I’m not sure I want to know, but why’s that?”

  “Because I want her to freeze my brain now. My life can’t get any better.”

  Nicole groaned. “That’s incredibly sappy … but really sweet. Thanks. And to think what you’d be sacrificing for me.”

  “Sacrificing?”

  “Yeah. Stopping your brain development for a month probably takes six months off your life.”

  “Really?” I said, amazed by the statistic. “Her treatment is that hard on the body?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Nicole said quickly. “It’s not stress from the treatment reducing life span. It’s just rapid growth of the body while brain development is paused. The body matures at about six times its regular rate, or at least, that’s Laura’s estimate for preemies.”

  “Interesting,” I said slowly. “I wonder if the age when the treatment is applied determines the speed of growth. After all, babies are developing fast. Maybe the treatment just lets that pattern continue. So, if she applied it to me, maybe my body would age at its current rate.”

  Nicole laughed. I suppose some might be offended by her reaction, but I wasn’t. In fact, it was comforting that in her eyes, my obsessive ruminations about scientific phenomena were amusing or ideally, endearing. I’d dated a few women who held a very different opinion. One even told me I’d never have a serious girlfriend until I got “… my f’ing head out of the books”.

  “That’s why I was hoping the three of us could get together over lunch,” Nicole said after a moment. “Laura and the researcher in you could have finished the talk we started over dinner. But I guess I better get back to work. See you a bit before noon.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  As I hung up the phone, an uneasy feeling started creeping into the corners of my mind. Something wasn’t right. I replayed the conversation, coming back to the fact that Greenwood had been in Nicole’s apartment before the dinner. Besides Agent Marte wanting to know how Greenwood had found her way around, Agent Clements had also asked who knew about the dinner invitation. Obviously, Greenwood knew. And with knowledge of Nicole’s apartment, she could have even orchestrated the shot if she was working with the Crusaders. But if Conroy working with them rested on an untenable premise—that the Crusaders could facilitate medical advancement through murder—then this reasoning failed for the same reason. In fact, if that premise wasn’t bogus, anyone in medicine might be working with the Crusaders … even Nicole.

  Suddenly, the whole logic seemed absurd, and I told myself to push it from my thoughts. But as is often the case, my gut didn’t listen. The nagging doubt remained, waiting for an insight that would give it meaning.

  8:52 AM – The Holyfield Farm

  “Mr. Holyfield?” Rebecca asked when a grizzled, elderly man in overalls, house slippers, and blue work shirt answered her knock. She was standing on the porch of a white, frame farmhouse along with Clements.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I got one. Probably two.”

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m FBI Special Agent Rebecca Marte, and this is my partner, Senior Special Agent Gus Clements. I called about meeting you this morning.”

  “Yeah, OK, sure,” Holyfield said slowly. “I’m Joe, it’s just ….” The man’s voice trailed off, one bushy, white eyebrow rising. “Girls in the FBI?”

  “The first female agent was hired in 1922,” replied Rebecca, knowing the date by heart.

  Holyfield rubbed a hand over the gray stubble on his chin, his head slowly shaking. “Pretty little thing like you, missy? Thought sure you were one of those door-to-door sales ladies. Don’t see ‘em much anymore. Course, at four bits for a plastic, sandwich box? What dang fool would pay that?” He harrumphed, his hand back at his chin.

  Rebecca glanced at Clements, wondering when there had been door-to-door salespeople in this area and when a sandwich container was just 50 cents. The 1970s? Earlier? She wasn’t even certain four bits was 50 cents, but that seemed right.

  “That kind of business was never very efficient, Mr. Holyfield. A lot of it probably gets conducted over the Internet these days.” With the reply, she realized she’d strayed far from the topic of her interview. Perhaps Clements had been right. Maybe she should have planned her questions.

  “It’s Joe,” said Holyfield. “Like I said.”

  “Right, sorry, Joe,” replied Rebecca.

  “Anyway, missy, don’t know about that Internet,” continued Holyfield. “Never had much use for it. But where’s my manners. Come in, take a load off.”

  The interview wouldn’t take long, and Rebecca considered declining the man’s offer. But Holyfield, although apparently fit for his age, looked like he needed to “take a load off” as well. “Thanks,” she said.

  There were two doors into the house from the front porch. Rebecca had knocked at the one that appeared to be the main entry, and Holyfield had appeared there. But now, he closed the door behind him and walked to the second door. The trio entered a mudroom, which for once, served a purpose that fit the name. Two pairs of dirty boots lined a wall, a light jacket hanging above them. To their side was a bench, another pair of shoes peeking out from under it.

  Holyfield led the way through another door into a cramped, dark kitchen. He turned on the lights, revealing a décor that had seen a woman’s touch long ago and a man’s inattention since. But though old and faded, the space was clean and tidy. The smell of bleach with an overtone of bacon floated in the air.

  “Coffee?” Holyfield asked, waving a hand at a pot sitting on the stove.

  “None for me, thanks,” replied Rebecca.

  Clements paused before saying, “Since it’s already made, I’ll take a cup. Thank you.”

  Holyfield walked to a cabinet and removed two cups. “Sit,” he said, waving his hand at a small, oak table and two chairs. He went to the stove, poured, and handed one of the cups to Clements.

  “I’ll stand,” said Clements.

  “I got more chairs,” said Holyfield. Without asking if that fact affected the agent’s decision, he retrieved a wooden, folding chair from a closet. Opened, it effectively blocked the only path through the room to the living space beyond. When Holyfield turned his back to close the closet door, Clements shrugged and sat.

  “I want to ask you a few questions about the text message you sent Dr. Laura Greenwood a week ago,” Rebecca said when everyone was settled. “You remember that message?”

  “Reckon I do,” the old man replied, taking a sip from his cup.

  Rebecca paused until she realized he was finished. “What did you text her about?”

  “Some dang fool sittin’ at her gate, blarin’ his car horn. Thought about callin’ the Sheriff, but the doc said I should let her know if something’s goin’ on at her place.” A sound that was a cross between a chuckle and a snort came from his throat. “Bet you think I was surprised by a lady doctor next door, but I had me one of them … well, been a long time now. Not like a lady FBI agent.” He still sounded a bit skeptical.

  “What happened then?” asked Rebecca. “After you sent the message?”

  “The honkin’ stopped.”

  “How long after you sent it?” asked Rebecca.

  Holyfield looked off to the corner of the kitchen, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Couple of minutes, I reckon, missy.”

  “And t
hen the car drove off?”

  “Nope. Left the dang car right there in the drive. Saw it there the next morning.”

  “What did it look like?” asked Clements. He sipped his coffee as the old man thought.

  “Gray … maybe light blue. Too far to be sure. Later, it disappeared. Never saw who took it. Maybe the doc had it hauled off.”

  “So, you text Dr. Greenwood often about problems at her place?” asked Rebecca.

  Holyfield fished a chunky-looking cell phone with large keys from a pocket. “Got me … this here … phone … three years ago,” he said, each break in his statement corresponding to another hunt and peck on the built-in keyboard. “Texted her four times,” he said, holding the device toward Rebecca.

  “It looks like there are a few more than four texts there.”

  Holyfield turned the phone back around to stare at it, then handed it to the agent. “Them other three is to my sis. She never answered, but she’s old. Probably never figured it out.”

  “I see,” Rebecca said, after studying the display and realizing that she was looking at his texts for the last three years—all seven of them. “Did you see anyone around the house that evening, before dark?”

  “Nope. Wouldn’t. There’s trees all round it.”

  “Did you see anyone around the car before it disappeared the next morning?”

  Holyfield looked at the FBI agent for a moment. “See these ears?” He waved a hand at one side of his head. “Pert near as big as Obama’s. Can’t say I voted for the man but got his ears. I hear everything. But as for seeing anything smaller than a car at the doc’s drive?” He shook his head. “Can’t say I would.”

  “So, ever hear anything over that way?” asked Clements.

  Holyfield shrugged. “Not much. Bit of shoutin’ once in a while.”

  “Like someone’s angry?” asked Clements.

  “Naw, not like that. More like kids playin’. But mostly, it’s quiet.”

  “Children?” said Rebecca. “You can hear children over a half-mile away?”

  “Didn’t say that, missy. Said it was something like that. And, yeah, get out here away from the city, you hear a lot at night. Hell, I had a cousin in from Chicago once. Said she couldn’t sleep ‘cause of the bullfrogs. And that pond’s a further piece than the doc’s. More coffee?”

  Clements stared at his cup. “If you have enough to top it off?” Holyfield nodded and retrieved the pot.

  “Your coffee’s really good, Joe. What’s the secret?”

  “Don’t know it’s a secret.” Holyfield returned the pot to the stove. “Just don’t let it boil hard, and I add eggshells. Learned that in the Navy.”

  “Eggshells? In with the grounds?” Holyfield nodded. “Well, it’s good. Strong, but not bitter.”

  The agents spent a few more minutes repeating some of their questions, both to make sure they had understood and that Holyfield would give the same account twice. He did, and without fail, he ended or started each statement with “like I said.” Satisfied they had gleaned all they could, Clements and Rebecca thanked the man and returned to their car.

  “So, Agent Missy. What do you think?”

  Rebecca scowled, more for effect than for feeling. “Not my favorite nickname, so let’s not bring it back to the office.” Clements chuckled.

  “I think this makes Joe’s message seem even fishier,” continued Rebecca. “Someone is laying on the horn until he texts? And then, it stops almost immediately? That’s quite the coincidence. But I’ve got no idea why the car would sit there all night.”

  “Me either,” said Clements. He started his car and pulled back onto the road. “So, you’re thinking Greenwood might be involved?”

  “Well,” Rebecca replied slowly, “the text sounds like it could be some sort of signal. Add that to the possibility that the shot at Veles’s apartment was staged, and the whole thing looks pretty suspicious. Still, if the murder attempt is a distraction, it bothers me that Greenwood made it so complex. I mean, she could have just excused herself at dinner to return a call and not rely on Joe to message her.”

  “Maybe that was the backup,” replied Clements. “It’s pretty common for people to elaborate on their lies. The detail makes them seem more real, more believable, but it also increases the chance we find an inconsistency. And on that front, we need to get a list of the calls Greenwood made around the time of the shot. She would have texted the driver or the honking would have continued. Of course, she could have had a prepaid cellphone that’s long gone now, but you should check.”

  “I’ll get it started as soon as we get back. So, we’re really thinking that Greenwood, a medical researcher, might be attacking medicine with her Crusader friends?”

  “I’m entertaining that possibility.” After a pause, he added. “With others, and before you ask, I don’t know why she’d do that. But if we can verify her involvement, we’ll find the motive.”

  They had completed the half-mile drive to Greenwood’s farm, and Clements pulled over. Across the road, a metal pipe extended from the ground next to her driveway. A speaker and keypad were mounted on top. Beyond them, a massive, black metal gate hung between two limestone columns. There was a camera perched conspicuously on top of one of them. A dense growth of evergreen trees flanked the gate and lined the driveway beyond. Looking through the bars of the gate, the road turned after about twenty yards, creating the impression that the entrance protected a vast forest beyond.

  Even though it was warm, and warmer still since the car had stopped, Clements rolled up his window, turned to Rebecca, and spoke softly. “Notice anything unusual about the camera?”

  Rebecca leaned over so she could see out of Clements’s window better. “The way it’s aimed?”

  “That and the shields around the lens,” said Clements. “They’re used to cut down on glare, but they make it obvious that the camera’s focused on the drive. So, if you wanted to avoid it, you’d just come in low, from either side. You could get to the gate without ever being seen. But when you get there, the other camera, down the drive a bit, gets you.”

  “Where?” Rebecca asked, bending over again. “Oh, I see it—on the left, almost in the trees.”

  “Right,” said Clements. “There’re probably some motion detectors, too, but I have to admit, I don’t see them.”

  A tone came from Clements’s phone indicating he had received an encrypted email. It was followed closely by the same sound from Rebecca’s. She read the subject line. “Your message about new data on Conroy?” she asked.

  “Yep,” replied Clements. The two agents read in silence. After a while, Clements mumbled, “Didn’t see this coming.”

  “I suppose Hawkins broadcasting this to everyone means he thinks it’s true,” said Rebecca. “I mean, a doctor’s report from ten years ago saying Conroy was diagnosed as terminally ill and then nothing? I guess he could have treated himself. And if this is right ….” Rebecca paused, trying to check all the connections among the facts and conjectures running through her mind. She glanced at Clements, but he was waiting, probably to give her a chance to run everything to ground.

  “Then, Conroy may have participated in his own execution, which implies the Crusaders support his agenda or he supports theirs. And since Conroy’s record goes back dozens of years, it’s probably the former. Basically, the Crusader attacks are pro-medicine at heart. And if that’s the case, then the chances that Greenwood is playing the same game are also better.”

  Rebecca looked at Clements, waiting for his reaction. “It’s a brutal way to get sympathy for medical research, but yeah, I’d have to agree.”

  “Are all cases like this?” asked Rebecca.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the way the number of leads is exploding. What was it, three days ago and we had virtually nothing?” Rebecca replied. “Now, we have a preacher and his wife who may be housing, feeding, maybe even funding the Crusaders. We have a realtor and possibly his catering girlfriend who may be ha
ndling them or just throwing cash their way. Then, there’s a researcher who may have disguised her involvement by faking an attack. And now, the martyr, Conroy.” She massaged her forehead with a hand, her brow knitted despite the effort to the contrary.

  “It’ll come together,” replied Clements. “And somehow, I have a feeling we’re getting close to that breakthrough on this one. Shall we see if we can drop in on Dr. Greenwood for a friendly chat?”

  “You don’t need to get back to St. Louis?” asked Rebecca. “If Conroy was a Crusader, then it should be easier to find out how Constance got into his rally. He’s got to be the guy on the inside.”

  “There’ll be people all over that lead already. No, let’s check this out while we’re here.”

  “I’m with you, partner,” replied Rebecca.

  Clements crossed the road, pulled up next to the keypad/speaker, and rolled down his window. He pressed a button, producing a tone. No response. He tried again with the same result. “Hello,” he called loudly toward the box. Nothing. He backed out of the drive and closed his window again. “Well, dang, as Joe would put it. No one’s home. Back to St. Louis?”

  “Yeah, guess so,” said Rebecca. “I’ll start on Greenwood’s calls as soon as we get back. But who knows, maybe we’ll round up the Crusaders tomorrow when we raid the Church of the Rock.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” said Clements, as he put the car in gear.

  9:31 AM – The Crusaders’ Compound

  The woman raised her head from the prayer for their mid-morning snack. Every eye around the table—all eight pairs of them—studied her face with anticipation, eager for food after a full morning of physical training. “Well, go ahead, children. Eat up,” she said. It was all the encouragement they needed as they tore into the muffin and banana on their plates. That was, all except Prudence. The woman looked at her charge, sadness coming to her eyes.

  After a moment, she took the banana from her own plate and started peeling it. “It’s a great day, children,” she said. The eight pairs of eyes came to her face again, although the motion of their hands to their mouths never paused. “We have the nation’s attention. And yet, I know their memory is fleeting, so today, we strike again. Nothing as dramatic as Monday but a reminder of our resolve.”