Asylum Read online

  I wanted the one who signed his paycheck.

  Oblivious to my thoughts, the voice on the other end of the line continued. “Mrs. LeDuc, I think it would be helpful if we could meet.”

  “Okay,” I said as casually as I could. I was remembering what he looked like, the distinguished air about him, the intelligent eyes. I’d thought him attractive, as I recalled. “I can come to your office.” In my limited experience with attorneys—though heaven knows the experience is not as limited as I’d prefer—they always want to meet in their offices. More billable hours, no doubt.

  “That wouldn’t be possible, unfortunately. We’re having some construction done.” My mind was still remembering our two previous brief encounters. Shining silver hair, excellent taste in clothes, he’d even winked at me. An elegant man, amused and amusing. “You’re located in the Old City, right? I can come to you. Say, seven o’clock?”

  “Tonight?” I wasn’t liking that at all. Too sudden; who knew if I’d be able to confer with the elusive Julian twice in one day? What did one say, anyway? Excuse me, but did your company hire a killer to torture and rape these women who were going to expose its horrific past? How was that for an opener?

  “Yes, I think it’s best if we discuss this right away,” he was saying briskly. “Always important to clear up any misunderstandings before they go further. These things can take on a life of their own, especially when the public gets hold of them—well, you know that better than anybody, I’m preaching to the public relations choir, aren’t I?” A pause. “And we wouldn’t want to have to bring a lawsuit against the city for anything.”

  Misunderstandings. Right. That’s what’s going on here. And the not-so-veiled threat of legal retribution. Then I thought of the mayor and what shade of puce he’d turn if he had any idea this conversation was taking place. Yeah, better get it over with.

  I remembered how I’d felt when Dr. MacDougal had me trapped in the office; I didn’t need a repeat performance of that particular experience. No empty offices and no echoing corridors, thank you very much. “I’ll meet you in front of the basilica on Saint-Sulpice,” I said, finally decisive.

  A long pause. “I was thinking perhaps some privacy might be best—considering the delicate nature of our topic of conversation,” he said.

  “Mr. Carrigan—that’s your name, right?—I have to say that I don’t really care what you were hoping for.” I was thinking fast, wondering where Julian was and whether I could get him to meet with us. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to a lecture from one of Lansbury’s attorneys. He’d already revealed the card he was going to play: he was going to threaten me with litigation around what he no doubt thought of as wild accusations, and having the police present—even in the seemingly innocuous form of Julian Fletcher—might just take the edge off.

  “There’s an organ recital at the basilica at six,” I said; it’s useful to be the publicity director and know about all the events in town. “I’ll be attending, and can meet you afterward. Or tomorrow, during the day.” Let’s see just how desperate he is to get together.

  He surprised me. “Very well,” he replied calmly. “In front of the basilica at seven. Until then, Mrs. LeDuc.”

  I had a hollow feeling in my stomach that didn’t go away even with an orange-chocolate Aero bar, my usual first line of attack against hunger or anxiety. I called Julian and—surprise, surprise—got his voice mail. “Ici Martine. We rattled their cage, Julian. I’m meeting that lawyer I told you about from Lansbury right after the concert in the Old City tonight. Robert Carrigan, that’s the name I couldn’t remember. It would be great if you could come along. Call me back!”

  I called Ivan. “Hey, handsome. Want to go to the organ recital at the basilica with me?” I didn’t know why I was dreading this meeting so much, but I was, which meant that as far as I was concerned, the more, the merrier.

  “At six? I can’t, sorry, sweetie. I have some VIPs to coddle here.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I hesitated, then added, “I’m meeting someone from Lansbury right after the concert,” I said.

  “That’s good, babe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying hard to banish the fear that wasn’t going away. “Yes, of course it is.” I forced a laugh. “Maybe this will all be over by tonight.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Are you okay? Really?”

  “Yes,” I said, unconsciously straightening my back. “Yes, of course I am. I’ll see you at home.”

  “Be careful, babe.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Bye, Ivan. Love you.”

  It was going to be, I thought, a very long afternoon.

  And so that winter was all about the lists. The names—many of them people I didn’t know—that I researched dutifully, going through file folders to learn whether there was someone, somewhere, who might actually care if they lived or died.

  Just as Bobby had made his choice, I made mine then, too, choosing without conscious choice, doing the only thing that seemed remotely right in the circumstances. I went through list after list, and when I came across the name of someone I knew, I made up a family: a distant cousin, a neighbor, a married brother, and watched, my heart hammering in my chest, as the sister crossed that name off her own list.

  Consulted, Jean-Loup agreed that there were bodies. “Not every day, mind,” he said. “I don’t think they actually want them to die. But they’re tryin’ things out. The ones that die, they’re the mistakes.”

  “Where do they go?”

  He shrugged, indifferent. “Graveyard by the piggery.”

  “I didn’t see a graveyard by the piggery,” said Marie-Rose.

  “Stones are only there for the nuns,” Jean-Loup said. “The rest, they just dig holes and put ’em in. On top of each other, on account of not using too much space. Babies, sometimes.”

  “Babies!” I was appalled. “What are babies doing here?”

  “Gabrielle,” he said and shook his head, “what’s anybody doing here?”

  An unanswerable question, if ever there were one. Some of us were safe, and some of us weren’t, and the line between the two was as fragile as the gossamer threads of a spider’s web.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The concert was interminable.

  It shouldn’t have been: the guest organist was a well-known musician from Paris and an extremely skilled performer; he knew exactly what to do with the massive pipes and pedals of the basilica’s majestic organ, and he did it well. But my mind wasn’t on the music.

  I had to stop myself from checking the time on my smartphone every five minutes. I fidgeted. I smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in my skirt. I scratched phantom itches. I slipped my feet in and out of my ballet flats. I even sighed out loud.

  It was probably the first time I’d ever been in the basilica and not felt something otherworldly. I told Ivan once that it seemed to me you couldn’t go into that place and come out not believing in God, which he of course found both inaccurate and fanciful. It’s a cathedral like many other cathedrals, especially European ones, with vaulted ceilings and myriad candles burning at the side chapels flanking the nave; but once you look at the front of the church, your breath is taken away. The reredos—the decorative facing behind the altar— is tremendously large, soaring up almost into the sky, and filled with images, statuary, stained glass, telling intricate stories; and, behind it, the wall and lights are all blue, a brilliant blue, the blue of Our Lady’s garments, she to whom the basilica is dedicated. It’s exceptionally beautiful, and exceptionally moving.

  I was sitting, gazing up at that calm crystal beauty and feeling awash in music, all the while my stomach was tightening in dread. Were things really going to be resolved tonight? Would Julian show up? Was I—and, by extension, the city of Montréal—about to get sued? What was I thinking here?

  All in all, I was relieved when it was time to stand and applaud the Frenchman.

  I walked briskly down one of the side aisles toward the exit, people
around me standing, stretching, reaching for their light autumn jackets and sweaters, holding their programs, talking to each other, easing back from the world of creative soaring music and into the prosaic pedestrian decisions about where to have dinner and whether they should take a walk first and what they all thought of the concert. I passed them quickly, smiling and nodding to people I knew. I always try to make an appearance at as many of these events as I can, for professional reasons, but tonight of all nights I didn’t want to get trapped into a lengthy conversation.

  The flood of people released from the basilica flowed around me, chattering and laughing, as I stood out on the plaza in front, looking around for Robert Carrigan. When it came down to it, I wasn’t altogether sure I’d recognize him out of context, and I was left with a general sense of his appearance, not anything particularly notable. There were several men hanging about in front of the basilica who actually could have been him.

  It didn’t really matter, as he would recognize me, no doubt. I’m not famous, but I’m accessible via websites and brochures, many of which include photos; and I had no doubt that any attorney worth his salt would already have a full dossier on me. He’d find me, even if he didn’t remember what I looked like.

  Or not. Maybe he hadn’t made it. Maybe we could do this tomorrow, in my office, with Julian and lots of people around and he’d say no, you’re wrong, here’s proof that what happened back then had nothing to do with Lansbury Pharmaceuticals …

  Yeah, that would be the day.

  I checked my messages on my smartphone. I checked the time. I called Julian again and again got no answer. I straightened my sweater, smoothed my skirt. I thought about when I’d last brushed my teeth. I wondered when the kids were getting their report cards. I decided I’d go over to l’Aubanerie on Avenue du Mont-Royal sometime this week and buy that dress I’d been looking at for a while.

  The crowd around me thinned to a trickle.

  I fished out a loonie—our dollar coin—from my pocket and gave it to the street musician gamely trying to make a little money out of the departing concertgoers. He thanked me, as he does every day when I give him something. We each pretend that we don’t know each other. He’s a janitor in my office when he isn’t playing flute for the tourists.

  I checked my phone: seven-ten. Okay. He wasn’t coming.

  I turned away, back toward the church doors, thinking that I’d go in and sit for a few minutes while they were finishing tidying up for the night, and figure out my next move. It’s a great place for praying, the basilica, but sometimes an even greater place for thinking.

  I was just reaching for the door when his voice stopped me. “Madame LeDuc.”

  Something jumped in my chest and I turned quickly. Now that I saw him, I did remember: the smooth gray hair, the clear cool eyes. He was dressed tonight in unmemorable clothes; maybe he did that to be unnoticed. But I’d noticed him, down the steps from the front of the basilica, reading a map.

  He’d been there the whole time I’d been waiting. I wondered why.

  “Mr. Carrigan,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t squeaking. Somehow squeaking didn’t seem to go with the level of gravitas I wanted to project.

  He inclined his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Of course he’d meant to startle me. “Then why did you?”

  “Best,” he said, taking my elbow, “if we could wait until there were fewer people about. We’re discussing something confidential, after all.”

  Normally a man’s hand on my elbow isn’t something I’d even notice, but for all of that, there was something unmistakably creepy about his touch and I pulled my arm away. “A problem that could have been taken care of if we’d met in your office, as I suggested,” I snapped. “Or mine.” I’d kind of liked the idea that he wasn’t going to show, and now I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture or a lawsuit threat.

  I was thinking, quite honestly and most longingly, of dinner.

  Robert Carrigan seemed unaffected by my tone. “It’s always best to be as clear as possible, as quickly as possible,” he said smoothly. “Shall we walk?”

  “Fine.”

  We walked downhill, toward the waterfront, the cobbled streets slowly emptying as people decided on restaurants for dinner, lights from open doors and windows cascading out onto the uneven cobblestones, the clink of silverware and glasses, the occasional laugh. The sounds of my city.

  I glanced at the Lansbury attorney. There was something about him, something that didn’t quite fit … “May I see your identification?” I asked suddenly. I haven’t had much experience with lawyers but it seemed that the ones I had met were forever handing out business cards.

  He looked amused, stopped, and pulled a wallet from his pocket. I didn’t say anything, just scrutinized his provincial identity card and his driver’s license, both of which confirmed he was indeed Robert Carrigan. His employee card for Lansbury Pharmaceuticals sealed the deal. “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure, of course.” We’d reached the Rue de la Commune; and across the street was the waterfront. I half expected him to head that way, as it offered benches, tables and chairs, opportunities for a quiet conversation apart from the bustle of the cafés and restaurants on the Rue Saint-Paul. Instead, his hand again at my elbow, we turned right, passing the souvenir stores, the ice-cream shops, the cafés, all of which spilled onto the sidewalk with tables and postcard stands and guests. “We need to talk about MK-Ultra,” he said smoothly.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We do.”

  We looked like any other couple, strolling in the crisp evening air. His tone was pleasant, too, just another fellow remarking on the day. “You realize, of course, that all of Lansbury Pharmaceuticals’ participation in the project was completely within the bounds of the law.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said tartly. Okay, so I was being sarcastic with a lawyer about the law. Just get it over with, I found myself thinking. Just tell me you’ll sue, and see how fast I back down.

  He didn’t go there. He didn’t do anything I’d expected him to. “The goals of MK-Ultra,” he said, looking down at the sidewalk and not at me, “included investigating a knockout pill that could surreptitiously be administered in drinks, food, cigarettes, or even work as an aerosol. This pill would be safe to use, provide a maximum of amnesia, and be suitable for use by agents on an ad-hoc basis.”

  He paused, but I didn’t say anything; I had no idea how to respond. Why the hell was he telling me this? I was fascinated. I was appalled. I was beginning to get a little scared. “MK-Ultra’s brief also included investigating substances that would render the induction of hypnosis easier, or otherwise enhance its usefulness; substances that increase one’s ability to withstand privation, torture, and coercion during interrogation and so-called brainwashing, and substances that would produce amnesia for events preceding and during their use.”

  I had gotten my breathing under control now, and decided that the best defense was a quick offense. “It sounds like a shopping list for Lansbury Pharmaceuticals. Every day is Christmas when you’re funded and supported by the CIA, isn’t it?”

  We crossed at the Place Royal and turned, again at Robert Carrigan’s indication, back up the hill on Saint Francis Xavier. “Lansbury Pharmaceuticals was assured in writing that any use of these substances in experimentation was done with the full consent of the subjects involved,” he said carefully.

  “Oh, really?” I’d forgotten to be afraid. “And where did the orphans at Cité de Saint-Jean-de-Dieu sign their names, Mr. Carrigan? The children, I’m talking children, do you have their consent forms on file?”

  He was staring at me. “What do you know about the children?” His voice was hoarse.

  “I know they were put in asylums without being crazy,” I said. “I know there was a connection between the Allan and some of the asylums. I know there were people in town this spring and summer looking into what had happened, maybe pulling up evidence.”

  �
��You don’t know,” he said, and his voice had changed. “You don’t know anything about the children.”

  I frowned. What was this about? “They were tortured,” I said. It seemed as good an answer as any.

  “It was not as bad as people think,” he said. “Not for everybody.”

  He was really losing me now. “I don’t think you can forgo all responsibility because some poor souls actually survived!” I exclaimed.

  He shook his head, slowly at first then more vigorously, as if he was more than disagreeing, as if he were shaking off memories. We started walking again. “Lansbury Pharmaceuticals had no knowledge that our products were used in conjunction with anyone other than a consenting adult,” he said, and his voice was back the way it had been before, the way it was supposed to be: brisk, clipped, professional. As if that other conversation hadn’t happened at all.

  “Well,” I said, going out on a very thin limb, “what if I told you there’s been proof uncovered that indicates otherwise?”

  We were back on Rue Notre-Dame, coming up again on the basilica from the other side. The area in front of it was now completely deserted except for the pigeons, busily scrabbling about for the infinitesimal bits of ice cream cone or bread or cookies left by tourists.

  “I would respond,” said Robert Carrigan carefully, “by asking you precisely what proof you’re referring to. Claims are easy to make, Mrs. LeDuc. In my experience, they’re harder to substantiate.”

  That’s what they had, I thought. It came to me then, suddenly, all in one piece, the way some artists claim that visions come to them, the way some musicians see the whole of a symphony before composing a note. The whole picture, clean and clear and as crisp as the autumn air around me.

  That’s what they had. One of the dead women, maybe more than one of them, hadn’t just put the pieces together the way that Julian and I had. They had found proof, the proof that would nail Lansbury Pharmaceuticals to the wall and cost the company millions of dollars in reparations. They could substantiate the claims. They could prove that Lansbury knew the subjects weren’t consenting and still they supplied the drugs. The chlorpromazine. The thioridazine. The LSD. What this horrible man was referring to as the “product.”