university where Laurel worked. The form had been filled out by hand and the writing wasn’t exactly neat or clear, but as we all stared up at the screen, Laurel explained, “I don’t recall meeting her. I don’t believe I did.” She moved the cursor. “But as you see, I wasn’t the one who did her intake.”
“Nancy Pierce was a participant in your study?” I asked, a bit dumbfounded.
“No,” Laurel said. “She was a volunteer, but based on our criteria, she wasn’t chosen.”
Patrick stepped closer, looking up at the screen. “And Stephanie Moore did her intake.” It wasn’t a question but a confirmation. The evidence was in scrolling signatures high above. “What exactly was involved in the intake process and why wasn’t she selected?”
“Being as we were in the early stages of our clinical trials,” Laurel said, “in an effort to minimize extraneous variables, we had strict guidelines.”
“So a coked-out whore wasn’t your participant of choice?” Mason asked.
Laurel laid her hand on Mason’s arm. “Honey, I think you may have some resentment issues regarding your mother you need to work out. Let me know when you’re ready. I know a great counselor.” She turned to me and Patrick. “I don’t have Stephanie’s notes; they weren’t scanned. However, in the normal procedure, we did a medical history, including live births. We also ran blood tests and did a comprehensive psychological evaluation.”
“Stephanie had the credentials to do all of that?” I asked.
“We had a phlebotomy team to collect the blood samples. As for the psychological evaluation and medical history, they were simply forms with questions and answers. Stephanie as well as Russ’s assistant, Jennifer Skills, both worked to complete the forms. Then those of us more qualified, Russ, Eric Olsen, and I, would go through and analyze the answers. This process ensured that our decisions were based on uniformly taken information, not our impression of the volunteer.”
“I bet you paid your volunteers,” Mason said.
Laurel exhaled. “Yes, all volunteers received a stipend, and if a person was chosen, they received additional payments at different checkpoints throughout our trial.”
“This is big,” I said, “Stephanie met Nancy.” I looked at Mason. “You said you never mentioned Nancy on your military forms.” I pointed up at the screen. “This is the connection.”
“Stephanie died,” Laurel said.
“No,” Mason said as he crouched near Laurel’s knees and placed his large hand on her thigh. “We thought she did. The evidence was mounting up that she could be the brains behind Andrew Jettison’s brawn. And yet the fact that she was dead kept interrupting that theory. Earlier today we had a meeting in DC with someone from my old agency. He confirmed that Stephanie Morehead—her real last name—lived through the fire at the ranch.”
Laurel’s face paled. “How? The office was locked.”
“We don’t know the details. We’d been told they found a body in the office. What we weren’t told until today was that the body was not deceased. She suffered burns.”
“Like you?”
“From what Araneae and Lorna described,” Patrick began, “not as severe. One hand and one side of her neck and face were affected.”
“The office was locked tight and reinforced,” Mason said. “I had built it like a fucking fortress. The entire room was steel enforced. With the fire, I’d assume the temperature was too extreme to support life. Somehow, she was found. Maybe it was before the fire was out. We let the original report stand on its own and never questioned it.”
“What else did you learn?” Laurel asked. “You believe Stephanie is the one who took Araneae and Lorna. What about Ruby?”
“Jettison was involved, the man both Araneae and Lorna have called Jet,” Mason answered. “And Maples’s daughter also described both of them.”
“And,” I added, “we have unofficially identified Jettison regarding some problems we’ve been having here on the streets of Chicago.”
“What does Stephanie want?” Laurel asked.
“The man we spoke to believes she has two goals,” Mason began. “First, let me say, you being a decoy is out of the fucking question. We have more information now. We will take both of them down and track down any accomplices.”
“What are her goals?” Laurel repeated.
“She wants to find out how my memories returned.”
Laurel’s eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t want my formula or any other formula...she wants the antidote.” She sighed. “I had never thought of that.”
“Why don’t you go back upstairs?” Mason said, standing and gently tugging his wife from his chair. “Your information is helpful. Thank you.”