Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (19 page)

“Thank you, no, Sheila. I really should be going. I'm glad you're home.”

Sheila fell into a chair and laughed. “Home,” she said. “I never thought I'd see it again.”

She closed her eyes, a serene smile on her face. Darrow was about to leave when she realized that Sheila had slipped into the sort of reverie she'd witnessed when first meeting her.

“Sheila?” she said.

Sheila opened her eyes and looked about, a startled expression on her face.

“Sheila?” Darrow repeated.

Sheila's stare was vacant as she looked at Darrow. A crooked sneer crossed her face and she said in a low voice, “You can go now.”

Darrow was taken aback at the change. One minute Sheila had been happy at being home, watering her plants and offering refreshments. Now Darrow was faced with a different person.

“All right,” Darrow said, “I'll go. Enjoy being home, Sheila.”

This person who'd replaced Sheila said, “So long. We're fine now.”

“We're?”

Sheila closed her eyes and leaned back. Darrow took a final look before leaving the house, getting in her car, and driving away, totally confused. The thought that kept running through her mind was,
Maybe Dr. Nicholas Tatum was right.

*   *   *

Although this was a day that Tatum had set aside to see private patients, he'd canceled his morning appointments in the hope that he could accompany Darrow and Sheila from jail. When Darrow had rejected his offer, it was too late to reschedule, so Tatum used the morning to work out and to catch up on paperwork. Had he had a free afternoon, he would have gone out to Potomac Airfield and put in an hour's flight time in his Micco aerobatic plane. That would have cleared his mind of what dominated his thinking since awakening that morning—Sheila Klaus. Mac Smith had been right. There
was
more to her release than a decision by the U.S. attorney's office that they possessed insufficient evidence to hold her. What was most troubling was the thought that Sheila was now alone, on her own, and capable of being controlled and manipulated by those who had captured her mind in the first instance.

He and Cindy Simmons had made a date for dinner that night. Cindy was in a celebratory mood because she'd learned that afternoon that she would be receiving a promotion accompanied by a raise. Tatum wasn't in the mood for a fancy restaurant and suggested they order in from a local Chinese take-out place. Cindy's pout put an end to that plan, and they called and lucked into a last-minute reservation at her favorite restaurant, the Oval Room on Connecticut Avenue, across from the White House. Although she denied it, Tatum knew that Cindy not only liked the food and service, she also enjoyed seeing members of D.C.'s political power elite at other tables, congressmen and congresswomen, cabinet members, and occasionally a Supreme Court justice. She was, as he playfully put it, a closet political junkie, and when she wasn't working at the hospital, her TV was perpetually tuned to C-SPAN.

It turned out to be a special night at the Oval Room. When they arrived, they were met at the door by Secret Service agents who had their names on a clipboard and who asked for picture IDs. Cindy's purse was examined, and Tatum received a cursory pat down, far less intrusive than being felt up at airports.

“What's going on? Tatum asked.

“A special guest,” an agent replied tersely.

That special guest turned out to be presidential candidate George Mortinson, Tricia, and ranking members of the boards of the Washington Opera and the Washington Symphony and their spouses. True to form, Mortinson had chosen the Oval Room at the last minute, and the agents, as well as the restaurant's management and staff, had to scurry to prepare. Secret Service agents had visited the restaurant late that afternoon and given it a thorough going over. Mortinson disliked that his appearances inconvenienced people but accepted it as a necessary evil.

Tatum was glad that he'd worn a sport jacket that night.

“How exciting,” Cindy said as they were seated at a table with crisp white linen and red leather armchairs. It was obvious from the way the room was set up that Mortinson and his party would be seated as far from other diners as possible.

“Do you think he'd give me an autograph?” Cindy asked after they had ordered drinks.

“Don't you dare,” was Tatum's response.

“Why not? He wants every vote he can get. Anyway, you know I'm a fan and hope he wins in November.”

Tatum shared her political views. The thought of Allan Swayze being returned for a second term was anathema to both of them.

Cindy ordered what she usually did when there—which wasn't often because of its prices—spice-salted free-range chicken. Tatum chose seared salmon. Salads for both. The bottle of white wine Tatum picked was uncorked and poured.

“Here's to you and your promotion,” Tatum said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. “And here's to your patient getting out of jail.”

Tatum had told Cindy about Sheila's unexpected freedom while she dressed for their evening out. She, of course, thought it was good news.

“Yeah, it is,” he'd agreed, “but I'm afraid of what will happen to her now that she's on her own.”

Although he'd told Cindy every aspect of his theory about Sheila's brainwashing at the Lightpath Clinic, she didn't necessarily share his concerns. Manipulating someone to kill another person through mind control and hypnosis simply didn't play for her. That was science fiction, the stuff of Hollywood's imaginative screenwriters.

“What could happen to her now that she's free?” Cindy asked as their salads were served.

“I don't know,” was Tatum's honest reply. “She's an incredibly malleable individual, Cindy, which puts her at risk if she falls into the wrong hands.”

He continued to express his fears until Cindy said, “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Tatum said, taking her hand in his. “Sorry. I get consumed by something and—”

The arrival of Mortinson and party brought all conversation in the room to a halt. Flanked by two agents, Mortinson led the way, stopping at tables to chat and to shake hands.

“He's so personable,” Cindy said to Tatum.

“He's a politician,” Tatum said.

“So is Swayze, but can you imagine him glad-handing people the way Mortinson does?”

Their table was situated away from the path Mortinson took, and Tatum sensed that Cindy was disappointed to not have been able to shake the candidate's hand. Like most people in the restaurant, they found themselves constantly looking over at Mortinson's table and trying to catch snippets of conversation. Over coffee and a shared brioche soufflé with maple and banana, Tatum mentioned that Mackensie Smith was a friend of the Mortinsons.

“Think he'd mind if I used his name?”

Before Tatum could respond, Cindy got up, adjusted her dress, and made her way across the room in Mortinson's direction. An agent stopped her just short of the table. Cindy said something to him. He scowled, turned, and relayed a message to Mortinson, who stood, smiled, and extended his hand to Cindy. She'd taken the dessert menu with her and handed it to the candidate. He turned and said something to his wife, which resulted in her pulling something from a large envelope and handing it to him. Mortinson signed it, shook Cindy's hand again, and she returned to Tatum carrying a signed 8-by-10 color photograph. She beamed.

“A good day for you,” Tatum said. “A promotion and raise, and now an autographed picture.”

“He's so nice,” she said.

“He seems to be,” Tatum replied.

The Mortinson party was still there when Tatum and Cindy left. Tatum was staying the night at her apartment; he kept a basic set of clothes and toiletries there for such occasions. They were in pajamas and watching a taping of the House of Representatives on C-SPAN when Cindy said, “I could have killed him.”

“Killed who?”

“Mortinson. I could have pulled out a gun and shot him.”

“They frisked us when we arrived, Cindy. They went through your purse.”

“But I could have carried a concealed weapon under my dress.”

“I guess so.”

“People like him are so vulnerable no matter how much security there is.”

“I'm glad you didn't. Shoot him, that is.”

They turned off the TV and got into bed.

“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” she said, nuzzling his neck.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he said.

After making love, they turned off the light, and Cindy quickly fell asleep.

Tatum lay awake for a long time, two visions dominating his mind.

There was the vision of Cindy pointing a gun at Mortinson and pulling the trigger.

And there was the vision of Sheila Klaus behind the wheel of a white Buick and running down Mark Sedgwick. As concerned as he was about her, he was also keenly aware that she had, in fact, murdered someone.

It was that final realization, and the visual that accompanied it, that stayed with him until sleep reluctantly came.

 

CHAPTER

26

SAN FRANCISCO

Iskander Itani's fists flew so fast that they were a blur.

He pummeled the light punching bag that Sheldon Borger had had installed in his basement gym while Borger, Peter Puhlman, and Jake Gibbons looked on.

“He's fast,” Gibbons said.

“He certainly is,” agreed Borger.

“What about the headaches?” Gibbons asked.

“He hasn't had one since he's been staying here,” said Borger.

“You still want me to sign him to a management contract?” Gibbons asked.

“Yes,” Borger replied, knowing that it would be a worthless piece of paper from which Itani would never be able to benefit. “I want to keep him positive for the short time I have left with him.”

Itani stopped assailing the bag.

“You're looking good,” Gibbons said in his gruff, raspy voice.

“I feel good,” Itani said, toweling perspiration from his face and neck.

“The doc here says that your headaches have been cured.”

“I don't like the word ‘cured,'” Borger said, “but they are under control, under
Iskander's
control. Isn't that right, Iskander?”

The young man nodded. “I will take a shower,” he said.

Borger and Puhlman watched Itani and Gibbons leave the gym and head upstairs.

“How are the sessions going?” Puhlman asked.

“Extremely well,” Borger said. “In all my years of practice, he's the best subject I've ever seen.”

What he said was true, although there had been many others whose ability to enter trance and to be controlled through hypnosis came close. Sheila Klaus topped that list.

But there was a distinct difference between Sheila and Itani.

With Sheila it was necessary to enhance her second personality, Carla Rasmussen. As superb a hypnotic subject as Sheila was, she was not an individual who could easily be convinced to hurt another person. She wasn't filled with the sort of anger that consumed Itani.

But Carla, who'd emerged during Sheila's difficult childhood to fight her battles and right the wrongs done to her, was naturally combative.

Itani didn't need a second personality. His rage and his feelings of deprivation and betrayal were all-consuming, very much at his core. Without the necessity of dealing with an emerging second personality, Borger was free to work directly with Iskander to build upon what was already present, a young man with a murderous rage festering inside.

Borger excused himself and went to his study, where he'd lately been spending most of his time. He'd established a three-a-day schedule of sessions with Itani, some of which exhausted him. His subject harbored more inner rage than Borger had realized from their early times together, and on a few occasions he thought Itani might lash out at him physically. It hadn't happened, but those incidents only further convinced Borger that once the Itani project was completed, he would sever his relationship with the CIA.

He didn't regret the path he'd chosen to take with the agency. He had proved to himself and to his benefactors that the human mind could be controlled with the right subjects and when guided by a skilled physician. It would be nice if his successes could be heralded to the world, but he knew that was impossible. Perhaps one day when history was written.

He'd lived a rich, satisfying life. All you had to do was look at this magnificent home on Nob Hill, check out his fleet of expensive cars in the four-car garage, his wardrobe, homes in other places, and the beautiful women who'd shared his bed.

He was also buoyed by knowing that his work would be put to good, positive use. So much of medicine and research was theoretical, with little or no practical application. What good was coming up with a breakthrough if it wasn't applied? Although he wasn't particularly political—he considered all politicians to be weak-kneed and concerned only with hanging on to their bases of power—he did care about his country. He'd watched it disintegrate into what he considered a third-world Socialist shell of its former self, a welfare state in which the drive to succeed had been thwarted by a succession of presidents and Congresses that stood idly by and let it happen. He'd originally viewed Allan Swayze as someone who would put the brakes on the decline and was bitterly disappointed with the current president's inefficient bumbling. Still, this occupant of the White House was far better than George Mortinson. To Borger, Mortinson was the epitome of weakness, a handsome, glad-handing phony who would enable the continuing deterioration of what was once the world's superpower.

Something had to be done to stop him, and Sheldon Borger had proved that he was the one to do it.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.

“Come in.”