Mirror Image (25 page)
Peter Clarkson had a pretty nice swing. Even before the ball vanished into the darkness, you could tell it would cover a lot of distance before falling into the tree-shrouded valley below.
The driving range was on the crest of a hill that overlooked the faded business district of Verona. Even from this height you could see the steel-gray surface of the Allegheny River, implacably flowing beside the rust-pitted railroad tracks that ran alongside it. Only the mournful hum of a late-night bus idling at a corner rose up from the lonely streets.
Clarkson stepped back from the tee. Powerful arc lamps overhead created a bright pool of light a dozen feet in any direction, beyond which the night was black and cold. Except for Clarkson, the small driving range was deserted.
“Nice shot,” I said, stepping into the circle of light. “But I think it was starting to slice.”
My feet sank into the worn green felt, its permanent tees spaced like buttons along the thin strip.
Clarkson pivoted, startled. “Jesus! What the hell are
you
doing up here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” I took another step closer. “I knew you and Wingfield were back in town. Your secretary said you planned to come by here after a business dinner.”
“Yeah? First thing in the morning, I fire her ass.”
He found his grip on the club and took a practice swing. “Piece of shit club. The kid behind the counter said it was the best they had.”
“Well, you’ll have to take it up with him later. I just gave him a fifty to go get himself a pizza.”
“Now why the hell would you do that?” he said. Eyes cold and green as brackish water.
“I thought it’d be better if we spoke in private.”
He pointed his club at me. “Maybe that wasn’t so smart. For you.”
“Easy, Peter. Don’t make me take that thing away from you.”
“Look, what the fuck do you want? I don’t have all night. Sheila’s waiting in the car for me. In the lot.”
“I know. I saw her. She doesn’t mind just sitting there, alone, while you work on your game?”
“I guess not. She’s in her own world half the time, anyway.”
He swung the club around like a pointer, its arc taking in the sloping valley, and the glittering lights from the river.
“Guy at the Burgoyne recommended this place,” he said easily. “Oakmont’s just down there. Beyond those trees.”
“I know. They’ve played the U.S. Open there twice. Arnold Palmer used to hit practice drives from exactly where you’re standing. Only without the slice.”
He stared at me for a moment, then started to walk away. “Look, this is bullshit. I’m not gonna—”
Without thinking, I reached and caught hold of his shoulder, spun him around. He was too off-balance to connect with the club, and his swing just fanned the air as I ducked beneath it. I managed to grab his wrist, then hook my thumb around his and pull it back.
He gasped, stunned. The golf club clattered to the ground. I picked it up.
Clarkson back-stepped in a crouch, holding his thumb with his other hand. “You son-of-a-bitch.”
“Not compared to you. Co-conspirator in a murder. Then there’s the sex with your sister. Your
blind
sister. Maybe we should start there.”
Flexing his injured hand, Clarkson stood straighter. Gave me a thin smile. “Listen, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Like hell. I know what kind of man Miles Wingfield is. I learned in Banford about the fire that conveniently destroyed the court records concerning his children. And I’m damn sure that a genetic scientist named Terry Mavis didn’t die of an accidental drug overdose.” I paused. “Of course,
you’d
know more about that than I would.”
“You’re bluffing. You don’t have shit.” But Clarkson’s face had turned wary. Eyes like a cornered animal’s.
I had to do this just right. He was a dozen years my junior. If he decided to make a run for it, I was screwed.
“We know you started working for Wingfield after he moved to California,” I went on carefully. “Some kind of school intern program.”
“So?”
“I mean, I thought
Wingfield
was a sick bastard. But you’re right up there. That’s why you two made such a good match. Especially when you found out about his…special needs. Tell me, how much did he pay you to let him join the sex between you and Sheila?”
Clarkson’s lips barely moved. “More than you’ll ever see in your life, asshole.”
Something had shifted in him. His eyes were resolute points. He’d made a decision.
I saw it too late. The moist night air pricked my throat as I took a sharp breath. He’d taken a small handgun out of his jacket pocket.
I knew what I was supposed to say. The code word. But I said something else instead.
“When did it start between you and Sheila? Was it when your parents were killed?”
He raised the gun and pointed it at my chest. “Go on. Let’s talk. Doesn’t much matter now. And lose the club.”
I dropped the club to the ground. Kept my voice level.
“Poor Sheila. Blind since birth, then losing her parents…Desperate, she turned to the only family she had left, her big brother…” I raised my eyebrows. “How old was she? Nine, ten?”
“Eleven.” He held the gun easily now. In control. “But she developed early. Hell, I used to get boners just watching her take a shower…” A brief, salacious smile.
“Then Wingfield brings you into his world,” I said. “The money. The parties. All in exchange for letting him orchestrate the sex between you and Sheila.”
Clarkson’s eyes shone. A strange, narcissistic pride emanated from him. The trickster, revealed. Boastful.
“And Sheila,” I continued. “She went along with all of it, because of you. She loves you. You’re her whole world. The only real world she knows.”
“Blah, blah, blah…Now you’re boring me, Doc.” His forefinger stroked the gun’s trigger.
“Until you and she got too old for Wingfield,” I quickly went on. “And his interest started to wane. What were you by then, seventeen, eighteen…?”
“Yeah. Something like that. I knew he was looking around for somebody else…other sibs. Younger. But he had bigger problems at the time…”
“Terry Mavis?”
I risked a glance at the gun. No chance for a grab at it. He stood just out of reach, not letting anything we were saying distract him. Not yet, anyway.
“Young Dr. Mavis…Man, for a science geek, that guy could
party
. But everybody said he was brilliant. And Wingfield was his biggest fan. Spent millions on Mavis’ research for a drug with milder side effects than Thorazine or Haldol. The new ‘magic bullet’ for psychotic patients. It was called Adnorfex. Only one problem…”
“It didn’t work.”
“Nope. The doc tried to explain it to me once. The genetic material he’d worked with had developed a mutated nucleus or some shit. He said it trip-wired the brain’s receptor caps, making them even
more
receptive to…what the hell was it?—”
“Neurotransmitters,” I said flatly. “From what you’re describing, it’d be like punching
more
holes in a sieve, so that the neurotransmitters flooded the patient’s brain. Similar to an LSD flashback, activating regions most sensitive to delusions. Sudden, terrifying delusions.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Terry said it was like giving LSD to a psychotic.”
Now I understood what had happened to Richie Ellner.
And
to Noah. And God knew how many others throughout the country.
“No wonder Wingfield was freaking out,” I said. “After all that time and money, Terry Mavis had handed him a big load of nothing.”
Clarkson laughed. “Oh, yeah. But the buzz had grown too huge around Adnorfex. Investors were beating down the doors to get in on it. Wingfield had sunk almost everything he had into its development. Things were coming to a head.”
“And all your data was shit.”
“Grade-A shit. And when it comes to FDA approval for a new drug, clinical trials make or break you. So Wingfield pulled every string he had to put Adnorfex on the fast-track for FDA approval. But to do that—”
“He had to rig the clinical data,” I said.
“He pressured Mavis big-time. And the boy genius was so strung out and in debt, he had no choice. So he went along with it. Until he was about to testify before the FDA Review Board. Suddenly he got an attack of conscience. He said he was going to reveal that the clinical trials had been rigged. That we’d seen severe negative reactions in test subjects using the new drug.”
“So Terry Mavis had to go.”
He grew sullen, uneasy. Tightened his grip on the gun.
I took a guess. “Now I understand why you’re still working for Wingfield. He forced you to help him kill Terry Mavis. Made you an accomplice in staging the overdose.”
“Don’t be so smug.” Clarkson roused himself with anger. “Look what bein’ such a smart-ass got you. Alone on a hill looking down the barrel of a gun…”
He sniffed loudly. “Besides, I was already in too deep. I knew about the rigged data. If Mavis
did
testify before the Board,
I’d
be fucked too.”
“But not as fucked as you were by helping kill Mavis. Because then Wingfield had a lock on you forever.”
I paused. “As for Sheila…I guess she stayed because she loves you. Because she has nowhere else to go. Maybe because, after all that’s happened, she still thinks her safety lies with you.”
“
Shut up!
I don’t wanna talk about Sheila, okay?” Clarkson stepped forward, thrust the gun barrel at my face. “
Okay?
”
I felt the gun pressed against my brow, and willed myself to breathe. Too late for code words now.
“No more talk. Instead, I think I’ll just blow you away. Right now. How about that?
Right now.
”
He cocked the hammer.
I closed my eyes and thought about Barbara. Her last moment on earth. Had it felt like this?
Clarkson’s gun-hand began to tremble. He blinked, forehead beaded with sweat.
“But that wouldn’t be smart.” He lowered the gun and stepped back. “And I’ve gotta be smart.”
I felt a long breath leave my body. Struggled against a rising panic, my heart pounding like a hammer.
“It’s gotta look like an accident,” he was saying. “I did it before, with Terry Mavis. I can do it with you.”
“Maybe.” Keep him talking. Just a bit more. I just needed a little more.
“But you haven’t finished the story.” I forced myself to stay focused. “Mavis is dead. Adnorfex gets okayed, distributed. Wingfield gets rich. Everything’s great. Until…”
“Until what, Doc?” Clarkson scratched his cheek with the gun barrel. “You’re so fucking smart, you tell me.”
“My guess is, a few months after Adnorfex’s release, abnormal side effects start getting reported by hospitals and clinics.”
“Right again. But you gotta admire Wingfield’s balls. Through UniHealth, one of his companies, he starts buying up the hospitals and clinics where these cases were being reported. He even pays off the patients’ families—Not that this is anything new. Hell, Warner-Lambert did the same thing when diabetics started croaking from using Rezulin.”
“Is that why UniHealth bought up Ten Oaks? I saw the picture of you shaking hands with Bert Garman.”
“Yeah, that was taken when we closed the deal. Funny thing is, we hadn’t heard any negative reports from Ten Oaks. Not yet, anyway. Still, it’s the most profitable clinic in the state, and Wingfield wanted it under the UniHealth roof.” He winked. “Business
is
business.”
I had to ask. “Did Bert Garman know about the problems with Adnorfex?”
“Hell, no. All he cared about was getting rich. Stock options for the clinic’s board of directors was part of the deal, and he had the biggest share.” He laughed. “But talk about pussy-whipped…I met the wife. A cast-iron bitch with a worse habit than Terry Mavis. Poor bastard.”
I considered all this as Clarkson rocked on his heels, brandishing the gun.
“But even Wingfield must have realized he couldn’t keep buying off trouble,” I said carefully. “Not with reports about the drug’s side effects growing. He loses everything if the news gets out.”
“That’s right.” Clarkson made a beckoning motion with his free hand, as though to a slow student. “So…?”
I took a breath. “So he comes up with a plan. By merging with Cochran International, Wingfield can use them to distribute Adnorfex world-wide. In markets far less rigidly monitored and regulated. If he moves fast enough, he can still make a fortune before having to halt production of the drug.”
But Clarkson didn’t seem to be listening anymore. His look at me had become bored, disengaged.
“Sorry. Wasn’t paying much attention there at the end.”
I watched as the glimmer of an idea rose in his eyes.
“You know,” he said, “I was just thinking. Helluva drop from up here, eh?”
He feigned a horrified look at the edge of the green felt. And the dark sweep of nothingness beyond.
“I mean, way up here. In the dark. A guy loses his balance. Falls. It could happen, right?” He shrugged. “What do you think, Doc? Feel like taking the plunge?”
“Not without a fight,” I said evenly. “Besides, what are you going to tell Sheila after I’m found dead? That you had nothing to do with
that
, either?”
“Fuck Sheila!” Vehement. Bitter. “I
told
you, I don’t wanna talk about her.”
I held his gaze. “I forgot.”
He closed his eyes. “God, I’m so sick of it…Sick of
her.
She’s so—man, she was born blind in more ways than one, if ya know what I mean.”
Then he gave a thick, violent laugh, and strode toward me again. Something more than rage burned on his cheeks. Something deeper. Inchoate.
Then it came. Loud, harsh, a torrent of words.
“You wanna know the God’s truth?
I’m sick of fucking her!
I’ve been sick of it for a long time. Christ, I’ve cheated on her for years. Right under her fucking nose. Stupid blind bitch…”
“Yeah, you’re some man,” I said coolly.
He steadied the gun. “And you’re a
dead
one.”
Clarkson nodded toward the lip of the green. Beyond was a six-inch strip of gravel, then a bottomless drop to the valley below.
“Move,” he said.
“Peter! No!!”
A choked female voice echoed, making us both turn.
There, stepping awkwardly out from under the foliage of some young oaks, was Sheila. With her hesitant gait rippling the folds of her simple cotton dress, she seemed like a ghost emerging from the edge of the woods.
“Sheila!” Clarkson stepped back, almost stumbling, but clutching tight to the gun. He pointed it surely in my direction.
Haltingly, hands groping to feel along stems and shoots, she made her way onto the driving range, not a half-dozen feet from her brother.
“I was worried when you didn’t come back to the car,” she said, eyes staring at the space between Clarkson and me. “I thought I heard your voice…and someone else’s…so I just followed them.”
She seemed waif-like, fragile. But more than that. It was as though something within her was…unraveling.
“You
heard
us…?” Clarkson swallowed hard, glancing from Sheila to me, then back again. “How much—?”
It was then that I really saw Sheila for the first time, and cursed my own blindness. Her trembling hands. The anxiety pinching the edges of her blank eyes. The supreme effort it was taking merely to keep herself intact.
I understood suddenly the psychic cost of the smooth demeanor she displayed that night in Wingfield’s hotel suite. The feigned self-assurance. The porcelain-like facade masking an unbearable agitation, anguish.
“Dr. Rinaldi is here with you, isn’t he?” She lowered her eyes, veiled by her rich auburn hair. “I recognized his voice. You’re planning to
kill
him…”
Her own voice a wisp. Disturbingly child-like.
“Listen, Sheila, you don’t know what’s going on. This prick can hurt me…hurt
us
…”
“Oh, Peter. Please. There has to be another way…”
She drew toward him and clutched his arms. Desperate. Confused. Clarkson moaned, an intimate sound, and embraced her with his free arm, kissing her neck. The gun, in his other hand, was pressed between them.
“Oh baby,” he said smoothly, in a voice I’d never heard from him before. Lover. Protector.
“I love you, Peter,” she whispered, the shine of tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry…”
Then, before I could move a muscle, the gun went off, the sound echoing off the trees. Clarkson’s arm fell from her shoulder as he staggered back, clutching his chest. Blood spread through his splayed fingers.
Sheila, openly sobbing now, held the gun in her small white hand. With a final gasp, Clarkson sprawled onto his back on the cold ground. His legs twitched spasmodically.
She sank to her knees next to her dying brother.
As I moved toward her, Sheila’s face came up, stern with purpose. She held the gun tight against her temple.
“No, Doctor!” She knelt stiffly, as a postulant might, unseeing eyes focused on the horizon.
I froze, as the night around us filled with the sounds of slamming car doors, heavy footsteps and harsh voices. Bobbing flashlights flickering against the shadowed trees.
I turned, shooting a warning look to Polk, Lowrey and the uniformed cops converging on the scene.
“Tell them to stay back,” Sheila said. “Please.”
As Polk motioned to the others to keep their distance, I looked past the circle of uniforms to see Casey just coming up, bundling a heavy parka around her shoulders.
We exchanged looks. This would not end well.
“Sheila.” I risked a step.
Her face shone under the lights. “I lied to Peter. I’m afraid I heard more than I let on. Much more. You both have such strong voices. So male. So sure.”
Grazing her ear with the gun barrel.
“Sheila, please,” I said. “Let me take the gun.”
She smiled. “When I’m done with it.” She drew in a breath. “The air’s sweet up here. I imagine there’s a wonderful view, too. I always appreciate a nice view.”
She pulled the trigger.
