by Polly Iyer
Jeff touched Luke’s arm to get his attention. “I bet everyone who worked in the secret lab entered this country illegally.”
Luke shifted to Norm. “How did Matt find her?”
“Matt had his ways. He wouldn’t be opposed to standing in front of the Synthetec lab and interviewing people as they came out. Subtlety escaped him. Those tactics cost him his life.”
“What about the head of the Synthetec lab?”
“Heidel? I’ve talked to him before, but he disavowed knowledge of anything illegal and said he knew nothing about falsifying data on Receptormine’s trials. Matt’s investigation proves that’s a lie, but without verification from his original source we have nothing on paper, and they have everything substantiating their findings.”
“Where’s Heidel now?” Luke asked.
“Out of the country on vacation.”
“How convenient.”
“I interviewed almost everyone who worked there after Matt’s accident,” Norm said. “No one admitted anything. In these days and times, no one wants to lose their job.”
“Matt said a Dr. Sylvan Crock headed the secret lab. Anyone get in touch with him?” Luke asked.
“A ghost. He headed it, but no one’s ever seen him, and there’s no record of him either. Probably a phony name.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Jeff asked. “How can these people get away with this shit?”
“We have to find the first chemist Matt talked to.” Luke said. “The one from Synthetec.”
“I have men interviewing everyone at Synthetec associated with the Receptormine trials. We’ll get someone to talk once they know they’re facing criminal charges.”
“What criminal charges?” Luke asked. “Falsifying scientific data is difficult to prove. So many variables enter into forming the results that both sides can make a case for their findings. At best, you’ll get them for a fine. Hardly a threat to challenge a bullet in the brain.”
“How about obstruction of justice, and I think if I’m very creative, I can add attempted murder. Matt Devon’s murder. That ought to shake someone out of his amnesia.”
“Might work,” Luke said, “but we don’t have time. Damn. We arrive in Charleston before Collyer, or whoever has Abby, and we can’t use the advantage to get a jump.”
Norm’s phone rang. One of his men tracked down Dr. Haywood Barnette, Matt Devon’s first source. Norm smiled. “Let’s get going.”
* * * * *
Barnette was one of those lockjaw speakers: lips tight, mouth barely open. Luke had a hard time reading him, but he got enough.
“I signed a confidentiality agreement. I’ll lose my job…” Barnette twisted his hands, obviously upset he’d been forced to admit he was Matt’s source. “I spoke to Devon…wrote the story, everyone…was suspect. I need this job. I’ve…wife and four kids.”
“You won’t be able to pay for their college if you’re in jail,” Norm said.
“For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“How does accessory to murder sound?”
Norm was stretching it, Luke knew, but from the shock on Barnette’s face, the threat drew the necessary reaction.
Barnette panicked, waved his arms in denial. He must have raised his voice because his mouth opened and Luke understood every word. “Murder. No way. I don’t know anything about murder. I only knew that Heidel falsified the trials on Receptormine.”
“But you knew about Valentina Kozov and the secret lab.”
Barnette pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his sweaty brow and the back of his neck. He returned to his closed mouth way of speaking.
“I knew Dr. Kozov before she came to this country. I met her at a conference in Zurich years ago, but I didn’t know she was in the States until long after. She’s a brilliant neurochemist. I had heard rumors about a secret lab, and when I ran into Dr. Kozov, I learned the truth.”
“Which was?”
Barnette took his time, as if he were weighing his options. Luke was frustrated as hell. He wanted to pry the man’s mouth open, but he didn’t want to stop the conversation. After a few starts and stops, Barnette spoke at length. Luke caught experimental drugs, plant extracts, hallucinogenic effects, attack the nervous system. Distributing on the street.
“How did she get into the country?” Luke asked, watching carefully.
“Dr. Kozov spoke out against laboratory practices…in Russia…misusing her processes. …prison as an enemy of the state. Delicate negotiations…between Russia and United States… We didn’t want to get involved. …refused her political asylum. I surmised Crock…arranged for her to enter illegally. …mouth shut for fear of being deported.”
Luke felt like his head would explode. He missed a good part of the conversation but got enough to understand what Barnette was saying.
“You knew all this and kept quiet?” Norm asked.
“I couldn’t get involved. I’ve never…Crock. …introduced Dr. Kozov to Matt Devon. …exposed Crock and the secret lab…the development and distribution of the drugs. …got him killed…what’s happened to her. …don’t want to be next.”
Luke was furious. “What the hell happened to doing what’s ethically right? You knew they were producing illegal drugs for the streets. You’re no better than the people behind this.”
Norm put his hand on Luke’s arm. Luke took the hint and shut up.
“Do you know where Dr. Kozov is, Dr. Barnette?” Norm asked.
“No, I already told you that.”
“Do you know where the lab is?”
Barnette looked away.
“Lives are at stake here, Dr. Barnette,” Luke said, breaking his momentary silence. “At least six people are dead because of what’s going on in that lab, and three more are missing. Do you want to be responsible for their deaths?”
Luke sensed the scientist’s internal conflict while he decided what to say.
“It’s somewhere near the bridge in a building with an underground garage. I never knew exactly where.” He searched the faces staring at him. “I didn’t want to.” Barnette pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you think Dr. Kozov is okay?”
Luke couldn’t focus any more. No one’s lips said anything he understood. Fear for Abby spun everything out of control. He left Barnette’s house to wait in the car.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
* * * * *
Collyer remained quiet throughout Mrs. Gentry’s revelations. Abby wondered if she missed his leaving the room. Then he spoke and her skin crawled.
“We can’t do this here. The police will know we’ve moved the body. We have to make it look spontaneous. Like Stewart killed her during a psychotic episode.”
They were planning her murder as if they were talking about going to a church supper. So technical. What kind of people were these? Stupid question. She already knew the answer to that. An occasional guttural groan came from her right. What had they done to Stewart? How much more could he endure before his brain exploded?
“I don’t want drugs in her system,” Mrs. Gentry said. “Nothing that can be traced back to Synthetec either. She must be untouched when he kills her.”
“I heard that,” Herbert Scanlon grunted when he entered the room.
“Do you understand, Herbert? I know how tempted you are, but she’s off limits.”
Now’s the time to play my final card! “There’s another copy of Davidson’s audit.” Not a sound followed, except Stewart’s ragged breath.
Gin!
“You’re lying,” Mrs. Gentry said.
Abby liked the tone of her response—suspicion, a touch of fear. “Apparently the set of papers you got from the accountant before you killed him wasn’t his only copy. Devon found another set. He was a reporter. Reporters make copies as well as accountants.”
“I turned that place inside out, Mrs. Gentry,” Collyer said. “There was nothing there. I’d stake my life on it.”
Abby heard an uncharacteris
tic defensiveness in Collyer’s tone. Someone was criticizing his expertise, and he didn’t like it.
“Not a good way of putting it, Mr. Collyer,” Mrs. Gentry responded. “If there are other copies of this audit, then everything we’ve done for the last eight years has been for nothing. I doubt my father would be happy if somehow you missed retrieving any duplicates.”
The memory of Mrs. Gentry’s pinched face filled Abby’s dark world, and she recoiled.
“No, he wouldn’t be happy at all.”
“She’s bluffing,” Collyer charged. “She’s a shrink. That’s what they do. Play games with your head. I’ll get the truth out of her.”
“I said no. I don’t want a scratch on her. Understand?”
Carlotta Gentry’s cold tone struck fear in Abby. If Collyer moved her and Stewart, Luke and Norm might not find them in time. She needed to put a kink in their plans. Something to prolong the time.
“You fucked up, Graeme,” she taunted. “Bet you didn’t check the wine bottles in Matt’s cooler. They were right in front of you. A blind woman could find them. I thought you were a professional, but you’re just another dumb thug with shit for brains.”
The quick, powerful blow to Abby’s face knocked her off the chair and sent her sprawling onto the floor. She had prepared herself, expected retaliation, but the vicious strike still surprised her. A small measure of satisfaction dulled the pain as she realized her provocation worked. As much as he thinks he’s above being goaded, men like him are predictable when their manhood is challenged. All it takes is the right twist of the knife.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Mrs. Gentry snapped.
A warm trickle of blood seeped into Abby’s throat, unleashing an unpleasant metallic taste. She smiled. Did he see her laughing at him? She wanted him to see. “So, you’re not beyond insult, are you, Graeme?” She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. She hoped blood covered her clothes.
Collyer hovered over her, his anger defined by short, panting breaths. “What the fuck are you smiling at?”
She crawled to her knees, unsure of her position.
“Move back, Mr. Collyer,” Mrs. Gentry said.
The old lady hadn’t wanted a scratch on her. So much for that. She heard Collyer move away, his anger still apparent in his staccato breaths.
Abby tried to regain her balance. The ringing in her ears obliterated the sound of his footsteps coming toward her, but she felt his vibration in the floor. Mrs. Gentry yelled in an attempt to stop him, but Graeme Collyer wasn’t about to give in to the demands of his boss or anyone else. The powerful thrust of his foot connected under Abby’s rib cage as she started to rise, lifting her off the floor. She fell backward and collapsed, pain shooting through her midsection.
At that moment, Stewart’s guttural drone turned into a high-pitched yowl and he screamed in an otherworldly voice. “Nooo. Don’t hurt my Abby.”
Dazed, her nose and throat filling with blood, she heard and felt the struggle nearby.
“Do something, Herbert,” Mrs. Gentry pleaded. “Stewart’s strangling him. Mr. Collyer can’t breathe.”
“Wha…what do you want me to do? I could get myself killed.”
Collyer’s attack on Abby awakened the sleeping giant inside Stewart, prodding him to break free of the lethargy that bound him. He must have attacked Collyer from behind—Stewart wouldn’t stand a chance in a frontal assault—because sounds of coughing and choking emanated from the big man.
Abby knew Collyer’s massive size from his hold on her and the height of his voice. The Stewart she knew, although tall and lanky and a mass of sinewy muscle, had spent the last eight years in a drugged haze where food meant little. From the touch of his hand, he didn’t seem much more than a bony remnant, no threat to a professional killer. Nevertheless, she heard the South African gasping for breath.
Carlotta Gentry alternated between shrieking Collyer’s name and Stewart’s, but Stewart’s grunts indicated he was holding on, strangling, squeezing, his mother’s pleas lost in his addled brain.
“Stop this! Stop this now! Oh, my God, Mr. Collyer’s face is turning blue. Herbert, help him.”
Abby’s elation that Stewart might actually subdue Collyer fizzled when she heard Collyer suck in enough air to regain his wind, then the crunching of bones. Stewart expelled a series of grunts and sputters, as he gasped for the same air he took from his adversary moments before. The sound of his body crumpling to the floor sent Abby’s hopes—her life—tumbling down with him.
Tears welled in her eyes. Stewart gave all he had, marshaling his depleted body for one last surge to save her, to give back part of the life he had stolen.
“No, Mr. Collyer,” Mrs. Gentry cried. “Don’t shoot him. It’ll spoil everything.”
Abby turned around. “No, don’t do it,” she screamed. “Don’t, please.”
“I’m touched,” Collyer said, pushing Abby to the ground. “But I’ve had enough of this lunatic.”
Stewart’s words echoed in the sudden stillness of the room. “Finally,” he said. “Peace.” As he took his last pained breath before the blast of the gun shattered the silence, he uttered, “I will love you in the hereafter, Abby. Forgive me.”
Abby’s head rattled. Stewart’s lament echoed in her ears. Then, the sharp crack of the gun harkened back eight years, to other gunshots, to other smothered lives. Abby screamed. “No, no, Stewart.” She crawled toward where she heard his last words, touched his shoes, and felt her way up his body. “I forgive you. I forgive you, Stewart.”
“This is breaking my heart. Get up.” Collyer yanked Abby upright.
“Oh, Stewart, my beautiful son,” Mrs. Gentry cried. “You fool, what have you done? You’ve killed my son.”
Collyer clutched Abby by the arm, digging his fingers into the soft flesh. “You killed your son eight years ago, Mrs. Gentry, the minute you authorized filling him full of drugs. Too late to cry over it now. Pull yourself together. We have things to do.”
Mrs. Gentry sighed. Abby heard her brush the wrinkles from her clothes. Then, as if a director yelled CUT, her tone changed.
“Of course you’re right. I’ll mourn later.”
Herbert Scanlon emerged from his silence in panic. “I didn’t sign on for murder, Carlotta. Drugs are one thing—medical research to further healing—but murder is something else.”
Mrs. Gentry’s haughty manner returned, erasing the feigned compassion of moments before. “If you think your research hasn’t been responsible for any deaths, Herbert, you have been deluding yourself. Do you know what some people do in the throes of psychedelic drugs? You haven’t made a peep all these years while using Stewart and the others as guinea pigs for your medical experiments. Why now have you grown a conscience?”
“This is different,” he sputtered. “This is outright murder. I have to draw the line somewhere.”
“What’s done is done. There’s no going back.” Then Mrs. Gentry screeched in Abby’s direction. “I told you I didn’t want a mark on Abigael, Mr. Collyer. Look at her. Nose and blouse all bloody. What were you thinking?” Then her tone changed once more, and the familiar ice-cold delivery knifed through Abby’s shoulder blades. “Clean her up.”
Collyer laughed. “I don’t think so, Mrs. Gentry. Our plans have changed. Dr. Gallant will die right here in this building next to your son. Their bodies will be identified from dental records, because they’ll be nothing but charcoal after this place goes up.”
The room went quiet and stayed that way until Mrs. Gentry spoke. “Yes, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Brilliant, Mr. Collyer. Brilliant.”
“You can’t send this place up in flames,” Scanlon said. “There are people here, sick people. And attendants. Plus years of my research. You can’t.”
“Oh, stop it, Herbert. Labs can be rebuilt.”
Other people in the building? Abby had forced Collyer to hit her, setting him on the path to mass murder. What had she done?
“I don
’t have time for this,” Collyer said. “Doctor Scanlon, remove the bullet from Stewart’s body.”
“What? I’ll do no such thing.”
“Yes, you will, or I’ll put another one just like it into you. Then I’ll remove both of them. This place will go up like a bonfire. Stewart couldn’t very well rig the place to blow with a bullet in him, now could he? ”
“Do it, Herbert,” Mrs. Gentry ordered.
Scanlon groaned. The sound of rubber gloves snapped in place. No one spoke.
“I suggest you and this sniveling, bleached doctor pet of yours get the hell out of here, Mrs. Gentry, because we’re about to have a major Fourth of July pyrotechnic display.”
Abby could almost hear Mrs. Gentry thinking as she paced. “Ingenious, Collyer. It’ll tie up all the loose ends. No lab. No drugs. No proof. I’ll have to improvise if the papers ever come to light. Martin finagled the foundation’s money. Who could refute that? I was shocked to find out, and when I did, I made it right immediately. My accountant will verify that. I was only protecting the good name of my dead husband and a foundation that has helped so many people lead better lives. I might get a slap on the wrist, but that’s all.”
The woman was mad—cold and calculating as she stood over the body of her dead son. Abby wanted to scream, to lash out, but she couldn’t give in to emotions now. She had to stay strong. “You could have done that from the beginning without destroying your son in the process.”
“Water under the bridge and all that, Abigael. Poor Stewart. He was always my favorite. So much like his father.”
Abby wiped the clotting blood from her nose, glad to be spared the image of Stewart’s blood-soaked body. She listened to this modern-day Medea talk about her dead son and wondered how any mother could be so heartless.
“Gather whatever papers you need, Herbert. He has time, doesn’t he, Mr. Collyer?”
“Half an hour, max. And I suggest you leave your patients where they are. We don’t want any witnesses.”
“Mr. Collyer is right. Those patients will implicate you as soon as they get out. They know what you look like.”