Hard fall, p.9
Hard Fall, page 9
part #5 of Jon Reznick Series
He was overprotective to a fault. Lauren teased him about it. But that was his job. That was the deal. A father looked after his flesh and blood no matter what.
He thought back to when he had sent her away to boarding school. He missed her like crazy when she wasn’t around. But his work dictated when he had to leave town. And with no mother, Reznick thought it was the only way to give her a great education without having the day-to-day worry. He had thought about sending her to New York to be with Elisabeth’s parents. But they had already done more than enough to help her as she grew up. He wanted her to be independent. Or as independent as she could be. He remembered the first letter she had written home telling him how homesick she was. She wanted to come back to Rockland. She missed her friends in her hometown. His heart had sunk. He wanted her to be happy. But he had written back explaining how much he loved her, but that without Mom to help out, he needed her to be looked after. It took her months to overcome her homesickness. But eventually, after making friends in the school, the pain of separation began to abate. Her letters started to talk increasingly about what she was doing at school that week. The trips to museums. The sports. Lacrosse. Tennis. She threw herself into life at the school. When he saw her next, during Thanksgiving, she was no longer that frightened little girl, afraid of her own shadow. She seemed more relaxed with herself. More self-assured. As the years rolled on, Reznick couldn’t help seeing she was more and more like her mother. The way she rolled her eyes if he suggested something. The way she smiled. The way she curled her hair behind her ears. The mannerisms were all there.
He was tempted to call her, but since he was waiting on a call, it might be better to speak to her later.
The minutes dragged as he waited for the hacker to get back to him. Reznick ordered another coffee refill and some pancakes with maple syrup. He felt famished despite the sandwich and fries.
He wolfed the food down in minutes.
Fifteen minutes later, his cell rang.
“Yeah, any luck?” Reznick said.
“I tried everything I had at my disposal and I didn’t see any phone registered to Wittenden. That doesn’t mean the phone wasn’t registered by someone else or bought by someone else.”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t worry, man. All is not lost. You’re dealing with the best in the business.”
“What’ve you got?”
“His wife has a cell phone, and I’ve remotely activated it.”
“Interesting.”
“And it’s picked up the wireless signals of their Wi-Fi router and a cell phone that isn’t hers. It was registered by a company called Twenty-One Consultancy in McLean, Virginia. Formed three years ago. Can’t find anything else. No tax returns or anything.”
Reznick thought it sounded like a CIA special project, especially as the company was based in the town of McLean.
“Interesting. What else have you found?”
“The cell phone and the provider. And I hacked into the provider and got an itemized billing of every call he’s made from the phone. Also the geolocation of where he’s been.”
“Now that is interesting. Can you message me that information? Encrypted of course.”
“Who is this guy, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Just a person of interest.”
The hacker gave a throaty laugh. “Don’t tell me any more, man.”
“Bill me and you’ll have your money when I get a moment.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
The hacker ended the call.
Reznick paid the check, left a nice tip, and headed out into the night.
Twenty-Three
Reznick checked in to a nearby hotel for the night, showered, and put on a fresh set of clothes. He got himself a Coke from the minibar, pulled out his cell phone, and began examining where and when Gittinger’s phone had been used.
He scanned the long list of locations.
Gittinger was a man of fixed habits: a two-mile drive from his gated community in Ithaca to the Wittenden Institute. He left his house at 5:30 a.m. every day and returned at 7 p.m., apart from today, when he had arrived home an hour late. Otherwise, he was as regular as clockwork.
Reznick scanned the list, until he saw a visit to DC three weeks earlier. The location? A CIA satellite office adjacent to Langley.
The more Reznick looked at the timeline and the locations, the more he was struck by the regularity. Nothing changed. Two visits in six months to the CIA office. The rest of the time, Gittinger headed to or from work. Nothing was allowed to intrude on his world.
The problem was there was no chink in Gittinger’s armor that Reznick could see.
He lay back on his bed and thought of Jerry White across town, deep in the bowels of Wittenden. He closed his eyes and imagined Jerry shut off from everyone, undergoing some shit-crazy experiments devised sixty years earlier as a method of torture. A guy who had laid his life on the line for his country. And who now was being treated like a guinea pig.
And for what?
What was the purpose?
Was it just for the military to observe how far they could push psychologically fragile soldiers? Was that what this was about?
The problem was he didn’t have proof of this happening. All he had were assertions from a reporter who was clearly paranoid. And a priest who claimed his sister had witnessed what was going on inside.
It was just their word.
But Reznick’s gut told him that both these men weren’t lying. That Gittinger had visited a CIA office twice in the last six months confirmed their stories. Gittinger was indeed heading up a program, a top-secret classified program.
Houlihan had shown him details. That was pretty compelling.
Reznick headed out to his rental car. He drove across town to the Wittenden Institute. It was only three minutes away, according to the GPS.
He negotiated the quiet downtown streets and headed to a tiny town a couple of miles away. On the outskirts, he saw for the first time the floodlights of Wittenden.
Twenty-Four
Reznick peered through binoculars as the employees arrived. He watched as security guards scanned their ID badges. He glanced in his rearview mirror as an SUV pulled up right behind him. The front passenger door opened and out stepped a familiar-looking figure.
Reznick put down the binoculars. He saw it was Laurence Cray, director of security at the Wittenden Institute. Out of the back seat, two other rather imposing guys stepped out, both carrying batons.
A sharp knock at his window.
Reznick opened it.
“Jon, how are you this morning?”
“I’m well. How are you, Laurence?”
Cray leaned into his window. “Do you mind me asking you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What are you doing here?”
Reznick smiled. “Just looking around.”
“You’re a long way from home, Jon.”
Reznick glanced in his side mirror as one of the security guards spoke into a walkie-talkie. He wondered if they were calling in the license plate. “Guess so. Nice town.”
“Do you mind me asking exactly what you’re hoping to achieve, Jon?”
Reznick got out of his car and eyeballed Cray. “I want to see my friend.”
“I’m sorry, but as we explained before, this is not an option just now. We don’t have an open-door policy. And I don’t think it will be looked on very favorably you just turning up outside, knowing full well you can’t visit.”
“When I spoke to Dr. MacDonald, she seemed a reasonable person.”
Cray sighed. “She is a reasonable person, Jon.”
“Can I speak to her?”
Cray winced and looked off toward the workers arriving for the shift. He turned to face Reznick. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Look, I’ve got her number on my cell phone. Why don’t you explain to her that I’m outside and want to speak to her?”
Cray shook his head. “You’re killing me, you know that?”
“Let her know I’m here. Let her decide.”
“Do you think I’m making this up? We have a very strict policy for a good reason. The rehabilitation of our patients is our top priority.”
“I don’t want to disturb the workings of the hospital. I just want an opportunity to speak to Dr. MacDonald.”
Cray shrugged and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He turned away and spoke into it. “Dr. MacDonald, very sorry to bother you, we have Mr. Jon Reznick . . . Yes, that one. Mr. Reznick has been observing the entrance of the hospital. He wants to see his friend Jerry White.” He nodded as he listened to her answer. “I’ve explained that, but now he says he wants to speak to you.” He nodded. “Are you OK with that?” He nodded. “Will you require us there?” He cleared his throat. “Very well, I’ll pass that on.” Cray ended the call and turned to face Reznick. “Guess you’re in luck.”
Reznick said nothing.
“East Green Street. Ithaca Coffee Company. She can see you there in thirty minutes.”
Twenty-Five
The coffee shop was deserted apart from Dr. Eileen MacDonald, who was speaking into her cell phone in a corner, sipping her coffee.
Reznick walked in, ordered a latte, and sat down beside her.
MacDonald gave a cold smile. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon. Gotta go.” She ended the call. “You’re up early this morning, Mr. Reznick.”
“Appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“I’m surprised at you, Mr. Reznick.”
“How do you mean?”
“You don’t strike me as a stupid man.”
Reznick said nothing.
“For the life of me, I do not understand what on earth you thought you’d achieve by turning up like this.”
“I’m concerned about Jerry.”
“And that’s to be applauded. I’m delighted you care about him so much. But you’ve got to understand, by taking time out of my schedule, I’m not attending to the care of another patient. So while I fully understand your desire to see your friend, your actions put us in a difficult position.”
Reznick gulped some of the frothy latte. He contemplated revealing a little of what he knew. He wondered if he should show his hand. “I’m at a loss to understand the obsession with secrecy. What is that all about?”
“We don’t see it as secrecy. We see it as creating a culture for our patients which is free from outside influence, be it relatives, albeit well-meaning ones, or friends, who may resurrect negative feelings.”
“I’ve been asking a few people about Wittenden.”
MacDonald flushed. “And?”
“It appears to be operating almost as a law unto itself.”
“Is that what people are saying?”
“No, that’s what I’m saying. The people I’ve spoken to have very definite views on what goes on inside Wittenden. And I would not be exaggerating to say they believe that psychological torture is being pursued on highly vulnerable patients, all veterans suffering from PTSD. I’m interested in what you have to say about that.”
MacDonald sipped her coffee but stayed quiet.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
“We are a pioneering institute, and whatever people say about us, for whatever reason, it’s just not true. We view what we do as intensive therapy. And we have seen the majority of our patients make great strides.”
“Why do you think people would say such things then? Are they making it up?”
“People don’t like what they don’t understand. Disaffected former staff are something we have to contend with, like any organization.”
Reznick sighed and leaned closer. “I just want to know that my friend is OK. If I can see him and see that he’s being cared for, then that’s all I need.”
“I think you’re being somewhat disingenuous, Mr. Reznick. I don’t think even getting a personal tour of the hospital would change your fixed mind-set on what we do at Wittenden. And that’s perfectly fine. But I think you have to understand that we operate to the highest possible standards. Ethical standards. I wouldn’t operate in a hospital that wasn’t humane, caring, and working for the betterment of the patients.”
Reznick stayed silent, allowing her to talk.
“I want to help. And I’d hoped that by meeting you face-to-face you would see that we are reasonable people. Professional people. I take pride in the work I do. And I ensure that Jerry and all my other patients are looked after and given the appropriate psychological support in addition to the rehabilitation therapies we offer.”
“Can I ask you a question, Dr. MacDonald?”
She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Go right ahead.”
“It’s no ordinary hospital, is it?”
“No, we’re not. We are an extraordinary hospital. Pioneering fantastic new treatments for some of our most damaged veterans.”
“Can you tell me how many have undergone treatment at the Wittenden Institute and been integrated back into society?”
“We have numerous success stories.”
“So how many?”
MacDonald sighed. “I’m sorry, but I think I have been quite open with you.”
“Is that it? Is the discussion over?”
“Mr. Reznick, I’d appreciate if you didn’t use that tone of voice. Now, I’ve been patient. But I’ve got a very busy day ahead.”
“So when will I be able to see Jerry?”
MacDonald stared at him. “I know who you are and what you’ve been involved in. But you are close to crossing the line.”
“And what line is that?”
MacDonald picked up her bag and briefcase and got to her feet. “I’d strongly advise you to leave town and let us get on with our work undisturbed.”
“Strongly advise? And if I don’t?”
“Let’s not find out.”
Reznick returned to his hotel room, showered, and changed. Over the rest of the day, he contemplated his next step. He wondered if he should cut his losses and leave, head home. That would be the best thing for a quiet life. And he liked his quiet life. He liked his own space. His own way of doing things. He didn’t like to get caught up in things that weren’t strictly his business.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t just turn and walk away. He knew there was something wrong with the Institute. And everything he’d heard from the journalist and the priest, plus the evasiveness of Dr. MacDonald, pointed to a facility with a lot to hide.
The knee-jerk reaction would be to make a move and get inside. He knew that would not only be complicated but also need a hell of a lot of thought. One thing he’d learned in Delta was the need for first-class intelligence. No use just turning up and hoping some firepower would suffice. It required brains. And time. But that wasn’t something Jerry had the luxury of.
Reznick lay back down on the bed and felt himself drifting away. The exhaustion and lack of sleep was finally catching up with him, even with the Dexedrine in his system. He felt himself floating downstream on a dark river. Tiny stars in an inky black sky.
One a.m.—he must have nodded off. He awoke in darkness, his cell phone vibrating in his shirt pocket.
“I might have something for you.” The hacker.
“What?”
“I don’t know if it’s anything crucial.”
“Go on.”
“I’m monitoring everything that’s happening on the cell phone you asked me to get into.”
“And?”
“Ten minutes ago, the guy who has the phone had a meeting in his office with a Dr. MacDonald. That name mean anything to you?”
“Sure. What was discussed?”
“They mentioned moving a guy.”
“What guy?”
“I wrote his name down . . . Jerry.”
“You kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“What other details?”
“They’re going to move him tomorrow night.”
“Got a time?”
“Not so far.”
Reznick ended the call, headed to the bathroom, and splashed water on his face to wake himself up. He began to pace his dark room. Moving Jerry tomorrow? Where to? And why? Was this a move to the second hospital? Was this some sort of endgame for them? What did they have in store for Jerry?
“Fuck.” He clenched his fists, getting angrier and angrier. The reassurance and warm words from Dr. MacDonald had just been a smoke screen. He needed to figure out a plan. And fast. Whatever the consequences.
Reznick’s mind began to race. He got his binoculars, crouched down behind the blinds, and peered through the wooden slats. Farther down the street, he noticed two men in a black SUV, lights off.
One of them was Cray.
Twenty-Six
It was a sleepless night for Reznick as he tried to figure out the best way to rescue Jerry. He had begun to formulate a plan. A plan that involved getting himself noticed. He checked the bedside clock, which said 5:09 a.m. He needed them to know he was not disappearing.
He cracked the blinds. No vehicle there. He put on sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, and pulled on his socks and running shoes. He did some stretching exercises for a few minutes. Then he headed out into a cold, crisp morning, his breath turning to vapor under the streetlights.
He headed through the eerily quiet Ithaca streets, only a handful of cars driving around.
He felt his heart rate hiking up a notch as the adrenaline began to flow. He ran in the direction of a sign pointing to Cass Park. He was getting his bearings. He was on the western shore of Cayuga Lake. He picked up his pace. The first tinges of a tangerine dawn washed over the upstate sky.
Reznick ran farther on the trail, feeling himself getting stronger and sharper. He began to think of Jerry again. His plight. He crossed over the trail, which led to Stewart Park on the eastern shore.
He felt the blood flowing as he contemplated what moves he could make. He knew he was seriously restricted. But one thing he was sure of was that being here in Ithaca had allowed him to be seen, and in turn the people at the Institute had had to react to him. And it was that reaction, or any future reaction, he was counting on to open up an opportunity for him.
