Chapter 47
CHAMBERS LOOKED UP AT the clock and sighed.
Quarter to seven. Almost the entire floor was deserted save for the night staff.
Thank God Estevez had left for the day. He’d only popped his head in twice, while Chambers was either typing or else on the phone.
Pendergast had been absent both times. The SOC had frowned but left without a word.
The fact was, Pendergast had been absent—period.
In the daily reports Estevez had demanded, Chambers had been forced to be a little vague with the personal pronouns he used.
He felt bad about not backing his partner in the earlier meeting and was now trying, against his own better judgment, to cover his ass—which annoyed him no end.
Still, that blond-haired, black-suited enigma was a grown man, and beyond goosing the daily reports, Chambers wasn’t going to nursemaid him anymore.
He’d left a note for Pendergast to meet each evening to compare progress.
And if Pendergast ignored the warnings and kept running around on a fool’s errand—well, that was his lookout. Chambers had done all he could.
Except Pendergast hadn’t shown the first night.
The only thing that mollified Chambers slightly was the thin police report he’d found on his desk this morning, left for him by Pendergast only God knew when.
It was a police report from Pearlington, its subject a man who lived on Bali Road who had recently been heard several times threatening violence.
His son had disappeared a month ago and the father blamed “those meth cookers down by the river” using “that big old kitchen to cook their shit.” He had also rambled on about psycho killers and cartel gangs that liked to cut people into pieces.
Clipped to the folder was an expensive sheet of monogrammed notepaper, containing a single large question mark, drawn with a flourish.
Chambers wondered what Pendergast could possibly see in this missing person case that connected with Wickman, but at least the guy was doing something.
His musings were suddenly interrupted when the figure of Pendergast appeared in the doorway.
Chambers sat forward at his desk. “Damn it, Pendergast, where the hell have you been?”
“I’m quite well, thank you for asking.” He sat down and put the leather case he’d been carrying on his desk.
Almost an hour late. “Well, let’s get to it,” Chambers said. “I started the last meeting. Why don’t you start this one by bringing me up to speed on your progress?”
“I was hoping for that opportunity. You see, I’ve hit—what is the expression?—pay dirt.”
Chambers sat back again and folded his arms. He hoped to hell this was going to be good.
“I’ve uncovered what Dr. Telligren was so obviously trying to keep secret,” Pendergast announced.
So he was still at that old game. “Pendergast, you listen to me—”
“You asked me to go first,” Pendergast interrupted.
“Please allow me the opportunity to finish. I promise to be brief. You see, I have uncovered a series of graduate courses whose aim was to use medical techniques to not only detect but also enhance PSI abilities. Not only were the course catalogs that listed these removed—as you know—but all information on the courses themselves was deliberately expunged from the university’s records.
I checked with our friend in the registrar’s office, and she could find no evidence of any of these courses having existed—none at all. ”
It sounded like the bastard had been spending all his time back at Tulane. Chambers looked at him, feeling a strange combination of annoyance and weary indifference.
“How is this relevant?”
Instead of answering, Pendergast reached into his leather case, pulled out half a dozen catalogs, and passed three of them over to Chambers.
The titles were all similar: Tulane University, Graduate School of the Sciences Curriculum.
Each volume covered a single semester: fall 1985; spring 1986; fall 1986.
“So if these were expunged,” he demanded, “where did you get them?”
“Old course catalogs and syllabi are a common thing for professors to keep.”
“Some professor gave you these?”
“Certainly not. Going around asking professors for old course catalogs would only arouse curiosity and gossip. I… appropriated them.”
“What the fuck? Did I just hear you say you stole these?”
“It took me a total of three insertions to find what I needed.”
“‘Insertions’? Burglaries, more like!”
Pendergast shrugged.
Chambers picked up the catalogs and flung them across the room at Pendergast. “Fuck you and your euphemisms—this is stolen property! You can’t use them as evidence, jerkoff. All you can do is get us cashiered!”
Pendergast nimbly snatched the three volumes flying in midair and restored them to the table. “I don’t plan to use them as evidence.”
“You still haven’t explained how this is relevant!” Chambers found his mind going blank. This messing around of Pendergast’s wasn’t as bad as he feared—it was worse.
Pendergast spoke smoothly. “Agent Chambers, please: just listen to the names of these courses.” He leafed through the books to pages he had bookmarked.
“Neuroelectrical Stimulation of Precognitive Receptors, Neuroanatomy of PSI Limbic Structures, Surgical Interventions in PSI Medial Temporal Regions, Studies in DMILS Feasibility—DMILS being an acronym for ‘direct mental interactions with living systems.’ These are not about investigating PSI activity: these are about enhancing PSI activity through surgical and electrical intervention. And look—” Pendergast pointed at a paragraph in one of the catalogs—“each class description is followed by an asterisk, viz.: Please consult Dr. Telligren, Head of the Biopsychical Research Laboratory, for eligibility. And do you see here? There’s a notice from Dr. Telligren, calling for volunteers as experimental subjects. ”
And he put the catalogs down on his desk with something like triumph.
There was a silence that was ultimately broken by Chambers. “Good for you,” he said. “I’ll bake you a cake. You’ve illegally seized inadmissible evidence of no relevance while chasing a wild goose.”
Pendergast fell silent.
“You’ve been wasting your time.”
“Apparently you’re not interested in considering who those volunteers might have been—or, for that matter, what the results of the experiments were.
” Pendergast gathered up the catalogs, face unreadable, and put them back in the leather pack.
“So, Agent Chambers: perhaps it is your turn to relate what progress you have made since last we met.”
Chambers rubbed his jaw. “You know what? It’s late. I’m tired, and I’m going home. Any further discussion of this case with you tonight would be a waste of breath. So would you mind tossing me my jacket? And for the love of God, don’t break into any more houses.”
And he reached out his hand.