"And these three hundred and forty dead folks?"
"This agency that never existed recruited and sanctioned Dr. Bittman a few years ago to conduct an experiment on some New Age cult flakes who were holed up down in the Brazilian rain forest. One day the cult's guru decided to instruct all of his followers to off themselves and that is what every last one of the idiots proceeded to do. Three hundred and forty men, women, and a handful of kids."
"Jesus."
"Enough to make Jesus weep. It was easy enough to shut down the Brazilian end. The cult had previously instructed its members to sever all social and family ties before going south. Of course that was the CIA covering its butt. There was a scattering of missing persons reports here and there in the States, but no one ever drew the threads together and, sure as hell, no one ever tied it to the U.S. government. The agency that never existed was dissolved. Heads rolled. But that was hushed up too. I'm confident, by the way, that Bittman's authorization did not come from the CIA or anywhere near White House level. The agency conducting the experiment was a maverick outfit deep down."
"So what happened to Bittman?"
"He was paid off with a humongous sum of the taxpayers' money and told to go far, far away and never come back."
"Simple as that?"
"More or less. Hell, what were they supposed to do with him? I mean, from their point of view, what would you do?
Admit that tax dollars funded a loopy mind control experiment that went haywire and left three hundred and forty people as wormbait?"
"I'm amazed they were able to contain something that big."
"Bittman cooperated totally, since it was his bright idea in the first place to 'experiment' on cult members without the cult knowing about it. He messed with their leader's head, used some sort of radical mind drug that taps through normal intellectual and moral restraints. The leader snapped, ordered everyone to kill themselves, and it was over. Bittman was supposed to have had the leader under control. If the thing had surfaced, Bittman would have been drawn and quartered in public and no doubt would have taken the administration down with him."
The trucker at the next phone completed his call, and was immediately replaced by Robin again dialing her number.
Mike was trying with difficulty to absorb the overload of information he was hearing. "You said they paid Bittman off. They kept track of him, right?"
"They tried to. The earth seems to have opened up and swallowed the good doctor shortly after the deal was cut and the check cleared; enough money for Bittman to live several lifetimes in splendor. You could say Dr. Bittman retired rich. Thing is, he didn't retire. I accessed central CIA computers and made a search. Here's what I came up with. About ten months ago, Bittman showed up in El Paso trying to recruit professional mercenaries based there, to provide security for what he called an 'experiment' at an undisclosed location. Claimed he was sanctioned by a secret government agency. The FBI has the merc community down there pretty well wired. They put Bittman under surveillance."
"Put him under surveillance? Why didn't they jump him?"
"They intended to terminate. But because of the sensitive nature of those dead folks down in Brazil, the CIA stepped in and pulled rank with a reason for the FBI to stall. That provided a window for Bittman to pull another vanishing act before the Agency hit team arrived. Bittman appears to be hung up on making his name in science. Sees himself as a Nobel contender. Claims his work can benefit mankind, though I suspect those in Brazil might disagree if they could speak. The deal in El Paso suggests that he hasn't gotten any less insane. He is considered extremely dangerous."
At the next phone, Robin emitted a squeal. She stood clutching the receiver with both hands. Her eyes, wide with excitement, connected with Mike's. She was nodding vigorously as she listened to the receiver.
Mike said, "Look, Gil, things are breaking fast. I've got to run. So the important thing is that Charlie Flagg called Bittman."
"More than once, to the number Bittman had under an assumed name before the FBI tumbled to him in El Paso."
"Any idea on how they first connected?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Before he moved to Devil Creek, Flagg and his wife owned a bed-and-breakfast in the Ozarks. The marriage fell apart after their last kid left for college. Midlife stuff. Charlie moved to Devil Creek and bought that weekly paper for a song from an old-timer who'd been trying to sell out for a year. A few months later the calls to Bittman show up on his bill."
"Care to interpret?"
"I'd say Bittman or one of his people made the initial contact with Flagg in Devil Creek. Flagg didn't come in with a lot of money. He had to take a loan to buy the paper. He'd fit the profile Bittman was looking for. The Doc would want someone on the inside. A local guy running a newspaper would be ideal. They gave Flagg time to think it over and after he did, he called Bittman in El Paso to sign on."
Next to Mike, Robin hung up her telephone and rapidly fumbled another coin into the slot and redialed. He found his attention sidetracked. Paul must have left a message. She was calling back to listen again.
He said, "Gil, I've got to go. Bottom line me."
"Okay, here it is. For my money, Bittman is your man. And if he is looming around there, he's got himself some professional muscle for back up, sure as hell. We're talking paramilitary. So watch your ass."
Robin stood as she had before, clutching the receiver with both hands, clasping it tightly to her ear, concentrating on every word and nuance she heard.
"Bittman also happens to be an electronics genius. He's most likely got the town wired if it's small enough. He's found a spot on high ground for a listening post where no one is likely to find him."
"I'm going to find him. What about that ex-husband?"
"Name is Jeff Lovechio. Businessman, successful but shady, says here. Plenty of reports to the Better Business Bureau but nothing that's landed him in court so far. I hacked into his phone records. An eight-year-old could have done it, Mikey."
"So next time I'll get an eight-year-old. Right now, Gil, I'm talking to you."
"All right. I'll dispense with the levity," said Gilman. "He placed those calls to Robin Curtis from his business phone in Chicago. Not the brightest bulb on the chandelier. Likes the ladies and the white go-powder too much is the scuttlebutt, but that's just preliminary. You want more?"
"What I want is to put some hurt on this guy," said Mike in a chilly voice. "I don't like what he did to a woman I care about, scaring her with those calls. And I want to keep him distracted."
"Distracted from what?" Gil's frown was as audible across the connection as his smile had been.
"I'm not sure," said Mike, "but I'd consider it a favor."
Gilman sighed. "You don't have to remind me. When I needed you, you were there. Consider it done, Mike. I can cause this boy Jeff a world of pain and he'll never know where it came from. He'll think the gods of slicksterism have all turned against him to tear him down. That what you want?"
Mike thought of the fright those calls had instilled in Robin. "That should do," he said.
"I'll start by taking his credit off at the knees. Our boy Jeff is about to enter the Valley of Feces big time."
"Thanks, Gil. I owe you."
This time it was Mike who disconnected. Robin terminated her connection by depressing the telephone's bar, then handed her receiver to Mike.
"It's Paul! We have to find him. Listen."
She fed in another coin and punched the number, watching him with keen, excited eyes.
He listened. It didn't sound like Paul at first, and it wasn't just the answering machine recording across the line that altered the boy's voice. There was desperation and pain, and weariness bordering on physical and emotional collapse.
"Mom, it's me. Are you home?" The boy's words tumbled in a torrent. "Mom, something terrible happened. Jared . . . he's dead, Mom. So is Mr. Flagg. They were killed by men who looked like soldiers. They . . . shot me. Don't worry! It hurts, bu
t it's not serious. A bullet grazed me and burned my side, is all. I'm okay. I spent the night on the mountain. Mom, I'm calling from a cabin somewhere near town. I can see power lines on the edge of the property. I can see down to that landing strip at the edge of town. But I don't know exactly where I am. There's a driveway that goes down to a dirt road, but there's no name on the house and no number on the telephone. I don't know where I am. Mom, when you hear this— No, wait. Wait! I see them. The men from last night. They've seen the cabin. They're coming this way. I've got to go, Mom. I'm going to hide. I love you! I'm sorry I made you worry."
The connection clicked, replaced by the humming of the dial tone. Mike replaced the receiver.
Robin's eyes gleamed. She was out of breath. "What should we do?"
"We'd better contact Chief Saunders. He'll know where Paul was calling from."
"No," she said. "We can't go to the police, not if what you think is true about everything being connected."
"It's true. A crazy scientist named Horace Bittman is using Devil Creek for a mind control experiment."
"Crazy scientist? Mind control experiment?"
"I know it sounds nuts. I'll fill you in on the way back to town." He clasped his fingers through hers. Hand in hand, they hurried toward the Jeep. The parking lot of the restaurant was nearly full. The new day had begun.
"About Saunders," said Mike. "I'd like to think we could trust the Chief of Police."
"Michael, I don't think we should trust anyone but each other. You didn't think we could trust Charlie Flagg, and now he's dead. Dead." Her eyes caught his, flickering with uncertainty. "I don't understand any of this."
"Paul and Jared somehow stumbled onto Charlie getting his payoff for selling out the town."
"Aren't we putting a lot of faith in what your friend told you?"
"It's faith well-placed. If you believe anything, believe that."
She made an impatient flutter gesture with both hands. "All right all right all right! I've told you how I feel about you. Mike, I do trust you and I'll trust your mysterioso telephone friend. But I won't trust anyone else."
"Robin, if we don't go to the authorities, we're going to need someone else to help us find the cabin Paul was calling from."
She considered this as they boarded the Jeep. The morning smelled clean and fresh after the nighttime rain. Sunlight made the wet slickness of the parking lot asphalt shine like polished glass.
She said, "I guess that means we do need to bring one more person into the circle, doesn't it?"
"That's what it means. We need someone who knows the area, fast."
"Is there someone we can trust?"
Mike thought of Joe Youngfeather. "There is. But it may not be easy to get him to help us."
Robin gave him the kind of icy glare he hadn't seen since his last Clint Eastwood movie.
"I'll make it easy. My child is on that mountain. He's been shot." Her voice trembled. "And with everything that's happened to him, that tough little guy of mine apologizes for making me worry. Let's go."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As soon as Paul hung up the telephone, which was next to a window, he drew away from the window, hoping that the cabin's windows continued to reflect the sunlight as they had when he'd approached the cabin. If that was the case, the advancing men would not have seen him.
Upon finding no one home, the first thing he'd done was to break a windowpane at the side of the cabin. He'd reached in, unlatched the window and raised it, then climbed inside. It was painful, causing him to groan aloud. The cabin was paneled in pine, with throw rugs and comfy-looking furniture and a musty, unused feel. He'd found the bathroom and looked inside the medicine cabinet, hoping to find antiseptic or at least aspirin. The shelves were bare. He'd returned to the living room and the telephone. Picking up the phone, he'd given a nervous, happy laugh when he heard the dial tone. He dialed, heard his home phone ringing, and the connection was made. His heart had dropped when he heard the message his mother had left on their answering machine: "Paul, honey, I'm out trying to find you. I'll be checking this machine every twenty minutes. Tell me where you are, honey, so Mike and I can come and get you. I love you, Paul." She hardly sounded like herself. She spoke fast. She sounded terrible. When he heard the beep, Paul had left his message on the answering machine. It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd been shot and each word increased the pain in his side. Then he forgot about the pain and everything else when he saw the four men emerging from the trees into the clearing.
The three who wore camouflage fatigues were advancing on the cabin. The fourth was the wiry thin man wearing glasses who had worn a doctor's white smock yesterday at the van. This morning he wore a fore-and-aft billed cloth cap that made him look like Sherlock Holmes. He remained stationary, observing. The others—two with rifles, the blond-haired man gripping a pistol—were advancing fast.
Paul exited the living room through a curved archway, searching desperately, frantically, for a place to hide. Would they keep on going? Would they pass the cabin? The snow had melted around the cabin, so he hadn't left any tracks leading directly to it. But that was nothing but wishful thinking, he knew. Naturally they'd search the cabin. He raced to the back door and glanced out. A sun deck overlooked the gravel parking area and driveway. The ground beyond dropped away, a steep, rocky incline. But he would never make it that far, much less to the driveway. They'd see him for sure. He had to hide here, somewhere inside the cabin.
A clothes closet between the living room and the kitchen held nothing more than a pair of ancient, battered cowboy boots tossed into the corner. No place to hide there. Next was the upstairs bedroom. He painfully hobbled as fast as he could up the stairs. There was a bed and a dresser and pegs on the walls for hanging clothes. He started hobbling back down the stairs. He would try to make it to the back door. He would hide beneath the sun deck. Maybe they wouldn't look there.
As his foot touched the bottom stair, he heard the front door open. He stopped where he was, hunching at the foot of the short flight of narrow stairs. Holding his breath, listening.
They hadn't forced the door. Men like these used passkeys to open any lock. They entered the cabin. Another man stepped onto the sun deck. Of course. They had seen the broken window. But they couldn't be absolutely certain that he was still in here. If he could find someplace to hide inside, they'd continue on down the mountain in search of him. The back door opened and the man from the sun deck came inside.
There was no more time. Within seconds, they would meet in the center of the cabin, at the bottom of these stairs where he now crouched.
He retraced his way back upstairs. He pressed himself flat against the bare floorboards beneath the bed. The bedspread draped over the sides of the king size bed, nearly touched the floor. The world under the bed was stuffy with a thick layer of dust and dust balls. His sinuses ached. He wanted to sneeze. Paul pinched his nose, breathing through his mouth. The pain of the wound had returned with a vengeance. The world underneath the bed began to waver and grow dim.
Footfalls ascended the stairs. Came to a stop in the bedroom doorway. Floorboards creaked, every sound magnified beneath the bed. Boots walked across the floor, toward the bed, halting next to it the toes of the boots inches from his face. Then the lower part of the bedspread was suddenly whipped back and he was face to face with one of the men, one of those armed with a rifle. The man was kneeling down to look under the bed, the bedspread held in one hand, the rifle gripped in the other.
Paul opened his mouth to scream because he knew he was going to die.
The man quietly extended a black gloved hand, his index finger touching Paul's lips before he could make a sound. The moment held, suspended for what seemed like an eternity. Then the gloved finger left Paul's lips. The man shook his head to indicate that Paul should not make any sound. Puzzled, Paul nodded.
The man let the bedspread drop back into place. The dust and the stuffy closeness reclaimed the universe beneath the
bed.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Jeep flew along the straight stretches of the highway, becoming airborne during those occasional, brief moments when Mike would take a dip in the road without slowing. Even with the seat belt securing her, the gravitational pull as Mike took the curves at high speed compelled Robin to grip the roll bar with one hand and the dashboard with her other. She had confidence in his driving abilities. He handled the road and the speed seemingly without effort. They encountered little traffic.
As he drove, Mike told her in detail what he'd learned from his friend over the telephone. He sounded like some friend, this man Mike did not name or identify; another piece to the enigma of the guy. And what Mike told her was incredible. But she believed it. She believed every unbelievable bit of it about a mad scientist using Devil Creek for a mind control experiment.
"They dosed selected people in the community without those people knowing it," Mike said. "Highly-visible members of the community. Important in one way or another. Then Bittman observed how the drugged ones reacted, and the ripple effect of their actions on the collective psyche of the community. That's what his 'study' is all about. There are holes to fill in, for sure, but I'll bet that whatever drug they used won't show up in an autopsy; a drug that affects everyone differently, depending on what's buried deep inside their psyche."
She nodded, picking up the thread of thought as she'd agreed to. "That's why Bobby Caldwell went berserk and killed those people and himself? That's what turned someone else into a serial killer?"
"That's what I think. And I don't believe in coincidence. I think Mrs. Lufkin was dosed with the drug, too."
Night Wind Page 19