The Devil's Elixir

38

We landed at Hooper Heliport at five thirty, took the elevator down to the street, and got straight into a Bureau Suburban that was waiting for us. Our destination was only five miles out. As we drove north toward the hills, the agent riding shotgun briefed us on the clinic.

“The place was founded about twenty years ago by Ursula Marshall, on an endowment. It’s got twenty beds. Day center caters to another ten. The patients don’t pay a dime, and the waiting list runs over two hundred. Ursula’s daughter was a runaway. Died of an overdose at nineteen. Ursula’s dad owned a big slice of Washington State at one point, and Ursula was an only child. This is one of the things she used her inheritance for.”

I asked, “And Frye is there full-time?”

“He runs the place, apparently. Does a bit of everything, including counseling. The place tends to cater to ex-military personnel.”

“Love the soldier, hate the war,” Munro said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

He obviously hadn’t changed his stance since the last time we worked together, his stance being that the war isn’t over till every single enemy combatant is dead, whether it’s the wars in the Gulf, the War on Terror, or the War on Drugs. At this point, as long as he didn’t rile Pennebaker, I didn’t really care what he thought.

We left Griffin Avenue and climbed deeper into the Monterey Hills. The views were breathtaking, the houses few and far between. If you wanted somewhere secluded but still within reach of a city, the area was perfect. The last place recovering addicts needed to be was in the middle of downtown with all the treacherous distractions and lethal delights on offer.

The clinic was a sprawling three-floor building, hacienda style. A handful of palm trees edged the property on two sides, and a steeply sloping lawn ran down to the road. We climbed out of the Suburban and walked up to the main entrance. The door was open. We stepped into an atrium that was dominated by several tall indoor cacti. To the left was a common room filled with armchairs and sofas. To the right was a huge open-plan kitchen with a mess-style table dead center and running the room’s entire length. At the rear was a wide wooden staircase.

A young woman dressed in a T-shirt and faded jeans and sporting a long blonde ponytail walked down the stairs toward us.

“Hi. Can I help you?” She tucked her bangs behind her left ear. I bet the soldiers melted when she did that.

“We’re looking for Matthew Frye.”

She turned back up the stairs and called out.

“Matt? There’s some people here to speak to you.”

She turned back to face us and I immediately recognized the glint in her eye. She and Matthew were an item.

“This about Donaldson?” she asked.

“No, why?”

She waived it aside with a shrug. “One of our patients. He’s suing the army for compensation. Lost an arm in Afghanistan, got addicted to painkillers, but they didn’t cut it, so he switched to heroin. Failed a mandatory drug test and was fired. Didn’t work for three years. He’s been here three months, been clean for six weeks.”

This story certainly wasn’t going to change Pennebaker’s mind about anything. If Frye was indeed Pennebaker. But they do say that in time you tend to find yourself where your environment echoes your beliefs.

Our conversation was halted by a tall, wiry man descending the stairs.

“You guys from the Military Review Board?” he scoffed. “Not surprised you’re not in uniform. Probably never seen a day’s action in your lives.”

He came to a stop in front of us. He looked surprisingly like the photo of Frye. But it was definitely Pennebaker.

Munro couldn’t let his dig go by unchallenged. “We’ve seen action. Plenty of it. Just not in BDUs.”

Pennebaker cast a more analytical eye across the pair of us. I could see him revising his opinion, deciding whether he could take both of us if he were so inclined.

Munro took a couple of steps toward the door in case Pennebaker decided to charge for the exit.

The agent who had driven us out there would already be covering the rear. And the local FBI car was parked a couple of hundred yards down the street.

For a moment, Pennebaker rocked back onto the balls of both feet and tensed his limbs—the instinctive reaction of a soldier—then he relaxed his entire body and cocked his head to one side.

“You know who I am. Good for you.”

I walked toward the common room and sat down, and gestured for Pennebaker to join me. “Come on. Sit. We need to talk. It’s about the club.”

He took a deep, annoyed breath, then followed suit and grabbed a chair facing me. Munro joined us but stayed on his feet.

“I’ve got nothing to say about that. I’m out. Been out for years. End of story.”

There was no guilt or paranoia or rage on display. His words were calm and assured. Whatever path Pennebaker was on had turned potentially self-destructive feelings into confidence and what appeared to be a strong sense of self-worth.

“In fact, why should I talk to you guys at all?”

I thought of mentioning that the last time I looked, identity fraud was a criminal offense and we could make his life miserable because of it. Instead, I took out my phone and showed him a photo of his mutilated ex-brother-in-arms.

“I don’t think Walker’s gonna mind you talking to us.”

Pennebaker gazed at it, unblinking. His stomach had got stronger, too.

“In fact, given what they did to him,” I added, “I’m pretty sure he’d want you to talk to us.”