Bellow studied his phone with a deepening frown.

“One piece of trivia, and I don’t know if it signifies anything: the Redlick Group attracts a disproportionate number of ex-intelligence personnel. CIA, NASA, FBI, DoD. The occasional disgruntled Treasury agent or disenfranchised police detective. A few of the candidates are homegrown, western New York stock. The rest aren’t.”

“In-house security? Corporate espionage?” I said.

“We don’t track them and they don’t advertise.”

“As far as the case is concerned, I can only go on what I have. Which amounts to a disinterested police report, semi-hysterical family testimony including the hunches of the most corrupt ex-cop in New York, and the cryptic behavior of local fetishists and their creepy patron.” I paused to let my colleagues process. “Does your scuttlebutt pipeline lead you to suspect there’s something to Mama Pruitt’s claim her son’s death warrants an investigation?”

“No,” Bellow said. “A minute ago, I’m chilling with a glass of above-average OJ, convinced the young brother ate a few too many ingredients, was overcome with melancholy, and took a permanent vacation. Occam’s razor says look at the available evidence and Occam is seldom wrong. The ME wasn’t stellar. Corporations fast-talk and appear sneaky by default. Sprinkle in Mama’s tears, and presto—instant conspiracy.” He tipped his cup and found it empty.

“A faultless assessment,” I said.

■■■

We were out in the cold, deciding how to proceed. Bellow shifted from foot to foot in obvious discomfort.

“Isaiah, that business in the Redlick house. The unusual things you experienced.” He struggled to find the right phrasing. “It’s dangerous. And the professional community doesn’t understand it fully.”

I wanted to mention, but didn’t, how my nightmares were somewhat tangentially congruent with unfolding events, if not prophetic. The dream imagery of Sean Pruitt in a Mare uniform; Whiro’s mention of kaleidoscopes. This is how the subconscious does its job—it filters a million disparate details like a sourdough panning for gold. The inner mind occasionally speaks with the mystical authority of an oracle.

“Easy, there. I don’t buy into hoodoo. Ventriloquism, sleight of hand, yes. Elaborate mind games, yes.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m getting at,” he said. “Your disorientation and the illusory sounds . . . Someone, maybe your old man, affiliated with the clandestine elements would be more qualified. I’ve had a peek at classified files moldering in locked basement cells. Toe-curling.”

Lionel, slumped against a mailbox, raised his hand.

“Amigo, the CIA and the KGB didn’t spend hundreds of millions of Cold War dollars on research into mind control, remote viewing, psychokinesis, and the rest for shits and giggles.”

“Borderline swamp-dweller hoodoo territory,” I said. “No offense, boys. Brainwashing requires a drawn-out process.”

“A pro can mindfuck you in short order,” Lionel said.

“Coleridge is right,” Bellow said. “Suggestion is a short-term possibility. Deep conditioning is labor and time intensive. Depends on a person’s nascent susceptibility, receptiveness, whether he’s suffered psychological trauma—”

“Thanks, Agent Bellow,” I said. “If I start clucking like a chicken, I’ll seek assistance. Tell me again what you’re doing here?”