All the Light There Is

by Anise Eden

  Chapter Eight

  Our grand tour proved to be eye opening. Skeet showed us the rest of the lodge, which was bigger than it appeared from the outside. In addition to the two sizeable residential wings, the sitting room and hallways, and the dining room, there was a recreation room with a pool table and video games; a living room with seating for twenty and a large screen for viewing movies; an office for general use, with computers, fax machines, scanners, and copiers; and a room filled entirely with decoys of various wildfowl. There was also a trophy room that housed awards lodge members had won in various sporting contests. As we walked around, we kept running into people, all of them on a first-name basis with Skeet. Mercier was a busy place, even in the off-season.

  There were also several nicely appointed offices and meeting rooms, but the most interesting was an enormous, round conference room with a domed roof. There was a circular table in the middle that could seat at least twenty people comfortably. It was one of the few rooms with no nature-themed decorations; rather, world maps and paper and coin currencies from all over the globe were framed and hung on the dark wood walls. The room had no windows, and the floor was made of a synthetic material that muffled the sound of our footsteps. Skeet explained that was where the lodge owners gathered, and where special guests could hold meetings. He said that Mercier had become a favorite place for politicians and other D.C. heavyweights to bring important visitors from around the world to showcase the best of American sporting life and spend some informal time in a relaxed atmosphere—but they still had to attend to business on occasion.

  That led Ben to ask about security. Skeet said that since many of their guests were high-profile individuals with safety and privacy concerns, Mercier was under armed guard 24/7, and the property was surrounded by a twelve-foot fence with motion sensor-activated cameras. Apparently, ninety-five percent of the time, the sensors were set off by wildlife, and the other five percent of the time, it was kids out exploring or young couples looking for someplace private. Even a front gate would draw too much attention to the property, which was why we hadn’t seen one. But the security guards had been told to expect us; if they hadn’t, Skeet explained, upon our arrival, a roadblock would have suddenly appeared. He was of the opinion that they didn’t need nearly that much security, especially since most people didn’t even know Mercier was there. But the guests expected it, he said, so they provided it.

  Then Skeet took us down an elevator to the space below the round conference room. It turned out to be another round room of the same proportions, but with a lower, flat ceiling. The floor was covered with exercise mats, and the room smelled vaguely of candle wax and incense. Against the walls were stacks of folding chairs, and metal shelves holding all manner of things, from books to blankets to boxes. Skeet said the room was called “The Sanctuary,” a dedicated space where his paranormal research subjects could practice using their gifts together. He said the MacGregor Group was welcome to use the space while we were there. We thanked him for the offer.

  After touring the lodge, we were treated to a sumptuous lunch featuring the fresh catch of the day. Then we were loaded into a Jeep and taken around the rest of the property by the head groundskeeper, Owen. He was a local botanist who had jumped at the chance to work at Mercier once he heard how serious they were about nature conservation efforts. The hunting was done sustainably in cooperation with area authorities, and the lodge members had committed early on to doing what they could to preserve indigenous flora and fauna, and to keep the waterways in good shape. Mercier had a few small orchards and fields, as well, where they organically farmed their own corn and other vegetables to serve in the dining room. They also established a Mercier Cove Trust that contributed a substantial amount of money annually to help farmers, watermen, and hunters maintain local ecosystems. The more I learned from Owen, the better I felt about being a part-owner of the place. My spirits began to lift.

  It was a pleasure to be outdoors. Mercier was located on the Delmarva Peninsula, where my mother had grown up. The familiar, perfectly flat landscape was covered with pine trees, fields of tall grasses, and hedgerows, and streaked with creeks and streams. It was like being back near Lewes, Delaware, where Ardis still lived. My whole body softened, relaxing in a way it hadn’t for years, and I realized I felt at home in this landscape in a way that I didn’t anywhere else.

  Owen took us to every attraction on the grounds, and there were so many that I lost track. All of the buildings were of the same Adirondack-style construction as the lodge, with the exception of an ordinary-looking barn where they kept things like riding mowers and maintenance equipment. There were several guest cabins, a clubhouse with a spa, an indoor shooting range, and a smaller hunting lodge stocked with all types of bright orange clothing, overshoes, guns, and several coffeemakers. He also took us through the boathouse, which stored kayaks and canoes along with equipment for the boats they kept docked at the pier. Finally, he showed Ben the garage, so we could see for ourselves that the Jag was safe and well cared for.

  With an hour before dinner, I was ready to head back, but Owen wanted to show us more of the hunting amenities. Ben was clearly interested, so I went along. Owen took us out to some deer stands, duck blinds, and what turned out to be my favorite stop—the kennel, which was home to the hunting dogs. The “kennel” turned out to be a small cottage with a loft and a few dog runs built inside the front door. The hunting guides were a young married couple, the Selbys. The dogs, who lived as the Selbys’ pets, appeared to be models of good health, happy and content. There had been four dogs—two black Labradors and two Brittany spaniels—until about six weeks prior, when Stella, one of the elegant brown-and-white spaniels, had given birth to two puppies.

  Fortunately, the puppies were awake when we arrived. I could have spent the rest of the week right there, absorbing their playful, sweet energy. Owen handed us one each—I got the girl, and Ben the boy. As though she’d intuited exactly what I needed, my puppy just curled up in my arms and snuggled, letting me pet her and tell her how beautiful she was, and what fun she was going to have with Stella and the other dogs.

  Meanwhile, before my eyes, Ben transformed. Every tense muscle relaxed and every worry line was erased as Ben rolled around in a pile of shredded newspaper, play-wrestling his delighted puppy and letting it beat him time after time. With a permanent grin on his face, Ben let the puppy bite his fingers, then wailed softly when the puppy made little threatening growling noises. The puppy looked so proud of itself, its tail wagging nonstop.

  Every time I thought I couldn’t fall any harder for Ben… My heart felt as light as the beams of sun coming in through the window blinds. I thought about how much Ben had loved Tank, the Rottweiler his Marine Corps unit had worked with for a time. Ben’s Marine nickname, “Rottie,” came from their apparent similarities, and Ben was so fond of Tank that he’d gotten a big tattoo of the dog’s likeness on his hip. I wondered if Tank was still in active duty. If so, I hoped he was living a happy life with other Marines who loved him as much as Ben had.

  On the ride back to the lodge, Owen chatted away about Mercier’s history, but all I wanted was to be close to Ben. I leaned over and pressed my head against his chest, twining his fingers in mine and listening to his heartbeat. Ben wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me close as we drove over the rough ground. I closed my eyes and pictured him playing with the puppy, and for a few moments, all was right with the world.

  After our adventures, we both showered before what turned out to be an elaborate dinner in the dining room with Skeet. We shared our admiration for the property with him, and he rewarded us by telling humorous “tall tales” of hunting and fishing feats that had taken place at Mercier. Skeet was a good storyteller, and after thirty years at the lodge, he had plenty of material. I noticed that he steered clear of stories about my father, presumably wanting to keep the conversation light. But I was there to get answers, and dinner seemed like the perfect time.

  The wa
iter came by to clear away what was left of our appetizers. I took advantage of a pause in the conversation to ask, “Did my father spend a lot of time here?”

  Skeet shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, no, actually. Before his last trip here, I don’t think he’d been to Mercier in over twenty years. He was very dedicated to his work at NIMH; he practically lived there, in fact. Rarely took a break.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what caused the falling out between you two?” In response to the look of surprise on his face, I added, “Ardis told me.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Skeet said, then took a deep drink of his gin and tonic. “Not long after your mother left Joe, he and I had a professional disagreement. We were unable to reach a resolution. We found a way to keep working together as colleagues, but unfortunately, our friendship never fully recovered.”

  “Your professional disagreement. Did it have to do with my mother? Ardis told me that she left my father because of something to do with your research.”

  Skeet appeared to age ten years, his face lined with fatigue and regret. “The two were related, yes. Your mother didn’t like some of our research methods. After she left, Joe began to question them, as well. I was confident in our methodology and tried to defend it, but Joe just couldn’t make peace with certain aspects. We decided to solve the problem by separating our roles a bit more. I took over the hands-on research in the lab, while Joe wrote all of our papers, took care of the administrative needs, wrote grant proposals—that sort of thing.”

  My body suddenly went cold. I wrapped my arms around myself. “What kind of research methods did my mother find objectionable?”

  “It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—in our field, that is.” Skeet waved his hand dismissively. “But to a regular person, some of what we did might have appeared a bit odd. And we often fear what we do not understand.”

  That didn’t sound like my mother. When something seemed strange to her, she always wanted to learn more, not run away. “I’m surprised to hear that,” I said. “My mother was usually pretty open-minded. Was there something specific that worried her?”

  I peered at Skeet with intense focus, like I was looking into a microscope. He cleared his throat. “Well, like many people, she was a bit disturbed by our use of sensory deprivation and operant conditioning, and she found it off-putting that we used electric shocks as part of our punishment/reward system—even though the voltage was tiny, perfectly harmless. Everything we did was one hundred percent safe.”

  Safe or not, I doubted electric shocks could be considered harmless. However, I also didn’t think they would have terrified my mother to the point that she would deprive me of a father. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. “That’s what made her leave Joe?”

  Skeet shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Well, partly. That, and some of the pharmaceuticals we were experimenting with.”

  “Pharmaceuticals?” Ben asked, sounding casual. “Psychedelics, perhaps? I know a lot of paranormal researchers were using them around that time.”

  Skeet’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m impressed. Most people believe that research ended in the 1970s.”

  “I had access to some of the studies in the Marine Corps while I was getting my Ph.D.,” Ben said. “Some of the results looked very promising.”

  Did Ben suspect drugs might be causing the problems he’d seen in Skeet’s research subjects? If he did, he was doing a good job of disguising any feelings of concern. I guessed he was trying to put Skeet at ease so he would confide in us.

  That strategy seemed to work, at least partially. “Quite promising. And yes, we used psychedelics in some of our research.” Skeet turned to me. “Now that we’re talking about it, I seem to recall that was where your mother drew the line. She had a very rigid outlook when it came to the use of drugs, even for legitimate research purposes.”

  I was working hard to conceal how disturbed I was by Skeet’s nonchalance. Electric shocks, sensory deprivation, and psychedelic drugs? I was skeptical about all of those research methods—and who knew what else they’d done that he wasn’t telling us about. “Yeah, she took a pretty hard line. She watched drugs destroy the lives of some of her family members and close friends.”

  “Joe explained that to me after the fact,” Skeet said. “I just wish I’d known it at the time, and I wish she’d given me a chance to explain. I’m sure I could have reassured her. But by the time she and Joe had separated, it was too late. Rhona didn’t want anything more to do with us.”

  Ben placed his hand over mine on the table. “I’m sure having Cate changed the way she saw things, too.”

  “Of course it did.” Skeet smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rhona had strong, protective maternal instincts. And as far as she was concerned, the sun rose and set over you, Cate.”

  There was another break in the conversation as the waiter delivered the soup course. Skeet had ordered us the ultimate comfort food: luxurious lumps of backfin crabmeat suspended in a thick cream base. The mood at the table lifted.

  After we finished our soup, Ben found my hand on my lap and held it. “Skeet, it sounds like you were doing some pretty groundbreaking research,” he said. “Can you tell us more about it?”

  “It was groundbreaking,” Skeet said, appearing pleased with that description. “We made some fascinating discoveries about how different psychedelic drugs can enhance paranormal gifts.”

  So the drugs were used to try to pump up sensitives’ abilities. The concept of using mind-altering substances as some sort of paranormal steroids sounded creepy to me. It was becoming clearer by the minute that Ben was right to be worried about Skeet’s research subjects.

  Skeet continued, “In fact, I’d love nothing more than to share our results with you, but only people involved in our work are privy to that information—which is one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you about the personal project I’m working on. Of course, Harris will insist that everyone sign nondisclosure agreements first,” Skeet said, smiling apologetically. “He’s a real stickler for things like that.”

  So Skeet wasn’t going to reveal anything more unless or until we officially joined his inner circle. “No problem,” Ben said. “I sympathize, being a bit of a stickler, myself. We look forward to hearing more about your work.”

  “Wonderful! It’s a plan, then. This calls for a drink.” Skeet energetically waved over a waiter. “Can I get a round of drinks, here? Cate, Ben? What can I get you?”

  “Just water for me,” I said. “Still in training mode.”

  “Oh, right. Austerity for you! Ben, what’ll you have?”

  “Ginger ale,” he replied. “In solidarity with Cate.”

  “Hah! Very well.” Skeet flagged down the waiter. “Water for the lady, ginger ale for the gentleman, and another gin and tonic for me.”

  While we waited for our drinks to arrive, I slipped in another question. “Skeet, I was wondering, if my father had stayed away from Mercier for so long, what made him decide to come that last time?”

  Skeet’s expression took on a nostalgic glow. “He came to prepare to meet you, actually. You were about to turn twenty-five. It was all he could talk about. And it was important to him that when you met, he had something to give you—something concrete to show that he’d been thinking about you and planning for your future all these years. He came to Mercier to familiarize himself with your inheritance portfolio so he’d have up-do-date information to share with you. Once he got here, he was pleased to see what we’d done with the place. He even talked about getting more involved, especially with the environmental efforts. And as a young man, Joe was an avid outdoorsman; he enjoyed hunting and fishing as much as the rest of us. That’s why he got involved in Mercier to begin with.”

  “Right,” I barely managed to whisper. So it was my fault that my father was dead. If he hadn’t been preparing to meet me, he wouldn’t have come out to Mercier, and he wouldn’t have gone hunting…
>
  Ben seemed to sense where my mind was going. He placed his hand gently over mine, which was white-knuckled, clutching the napkin in my lap, and whispered one word: “Don’t.”

  I guess if anyone knew about battling irrational guilt, it was Ben. I nodded and tried to smile as the waiter delivered our drinks. Then I downed half of my water in one go.

  Our empty soup bowls were whisked away and replaced with platters of lobster stuffed with crab imperial. We took a few bites and expressed our admiration for the cuisine.

  “Skeet, is there anything you can tell us about this personal project of yours—prior to our signing nondisclosure agreements, that is?” Ben asked after a sip of ginger ale.

  Skeet smiled. “Sure, I can tell you a few things. I think you’ll find it interesting. My project is all about the double kheir.”

  I nearly choked on a piece of lobster.

  “I didn’t realize that was an area of interest for you,” Ben said calmly.

  “Oh, yes!” Skeet leaned toward us as his enthusiasm ticked up a notch. “It’s the hottest area of research right now, for those of us who are in the know. Not at NIMH, of course. Our activities there are limited by the needs of our stakeholders and the rigors involved in obtaining government approval. I can just imagine the reaction if we asked Congress for a grant to investigate the spiritual origins of paranormal abilities.” Skeet chuckled. “No. In order to pursue more esoteric subjects, I had to establish a private project. It’s headquartered here at the lodge, and all of the funding comes from Mercier, so we have complete control—and freedom.”

  “That’s an attractive arrangement,” I said. My previous conversation with Skeet about his research at NIMH had left me with the impression that he chafed under governmental restrictions.

  He nodded. “A unique opportunity, certainly. Since you have a double kheir and Dr. MacGregor is involved in the Smithsonian study, I thought you might be interested in joining us.”