“Buddhist,” the tiny man piped in his country twang. “One of them Jewish Buddhists. Says he’s got a heavy karmic burden.” He paused. “You watch A&E?”

Adrienne smiled, nodded.

“Then you know what I’m talking about. That boy’s got some shit to come to terms with.” The other men laughed.

“Pardon my French,” the man continued, “but I guess he’s trying to square it—” He tapped himself on the temple. “—up here.”

Quarry Road was gravel, puddled from a recent rain. It passed through terrain that was heavily wooded, the trunks of the slender, immature trees black with moisture. They jounced up an incline, the sharp winter sun flickering on and off through the thin tree trunks. McBride turned the Dodge into the drive and a moment later, drew the car to a halt next to a battered white pickup. In the clearing stood a simple log house. Beyond it at a distance of a hundred yards or so was a large structure that looked like a greenhouse. To the right, a fenced-in pasture held half a dozen llamas. They trotted toward Adrienne and McBride as the two of them walked from the car toward the house. And then beyond them, toward the center of the pasture, they saw Sidney Shapiro—engaged in the slow, graceful movements McBride recognized as Tai Chi.

Despite the cold, Shapiro was bare chested, wearing only a pair of grey sweat pants. He appeared to be barefoot. He moved with great concentration and composure. Adrienne looked at McBride and raised her eyebrows, but neither of them spoke. After a minute or two, the llamas lost interest in them and resumed grazing—some of them venturing quite close to Shapiro, who seemed oblivious. The old man was thin, but with a stringy muscularity, and a full, thick shock of black hair. He looked agile and strong for a man in his seventies, extending one leg out with excruciating slowness until it was straight and parallel to the ground, then gracefully lowering the limb while turning in a painstaking and unhurried spiral. It was like watching a ballet dancer in extreme slow motion and McBride felt hypnotized by the fluidity of Shapiro’s movements. For a moment, the sun poked out from behind the clouds and lit up the pasture like a stage, and McBride saw with something of a shock that if the man’s body belied his age, his face did not. It was all bone, skeletal beneath the thin, stretched skin.

Shapiro finished his exercise with head tilted back, legs astride, both hands outstretched and upraised to the sky. He held this position for about thirty seconds, then gracefully brought his arms down and began to walk toward them, picking his way carefully through the field, stopping to stroke the neck of each llama. He let himself out through the metal gate, refastened it, and only then looked at them.

“Hello.”

“Hi… Doctor Shapiro?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Lew McBride. This is Adrienne Cope.”

“What can I do for you?” he asked, swinging his focus from McBride to Adrienne and then back again. He seemed very composed, McBride thought, for a man with a “heavy karmic burden.”

“Well, uhhh… I was hoping we could talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was hoping we could talk about… “ Duran wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Your work,” Adrienne said.

“My work?” Shapiro turned to her. His eyes were coal-black, and glittering. “I’m retired.”

“The work you used to do. MkUltra.”

Shapiro frowned, and his eyes took on an irritated glint. “Are you reporters?”

They shook their heads.

“Because I told the young man on the telephone that I’m not interested in appearing in any other documentaries. I didn’t find the first experience all that rewarding.” He looked up at the sky, then back to McBride. “Although as a form of penance, few things could be more… fulfilling… than seeing one’s life reduced to sound bites interspersed with ads for a liposuction clinic.” He shook his head. “It’s not an act of contrition I intend to repeat.”

“That isn’t why we’re here,” Adrienne said.

“Oh?” Shapiro looked from one to the other. “Then why are you here?”

“My sister and… Mr. McBride… were victims.”

Shapiro gave her a skeptical look. “I don’t think so,” he told her. “That was a very long time ago.” He gave an apologetic chuckle. “If you think you’re a victim of mind control—”

“Not me,” Adrienne said. “My sister—”

“Then I’d suggest that you tell her to turn off her television set—and the ‘mind control’ will go away. That’s my advice.”

“I can’t tell her anything,” Adrienne replied. “She’s dead.”

Shapiro blanched. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “Look,” he told her, “this is a wholly discredited field. The territory was abandoned decades ago.”

“Was it really?” McBride asked.

Shapiro ignored the skepticism. “It was supposed to be the next frontier. And maybe it was. We thought the benefits of going into outer space, putting men on the moon, would be trivial compared to what we might find… “ He tapped his head. “… in here.” Then he looked at Adrienne, and shook his head ruefully. “We called it ‘inner space.’“ He sighed. “But that was a very long time ago and, while I don’t know how old your sister was, this young man would have been a toddler.” He smiled a smile that never quite rose to his eyes. “And contrary to what you may have heard, we didn’t experiment on children. So… “ He turned to leave.

“Can we show you something?” Adrienne asked.

Shapiro turned back to her.

“Then—if you want—we’ll leave,” Adrienne promised.

“Deal,” Shapiro replied.

Adrienne dug into her purse until she found the Polaroid snapshot of the implant. Wordlessly, she handed it to Shapiro.

Who, farsighted, held it at arm’s length, squinting with skepticism. But, soon, his face went slack, and he looked up. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“A neurosurgeon took it out of me,” McBride told him. “Less than a week ago.”

Shapiro’s eyes returned to the photograph, which he studied for a long while. Finally, he gave a little shake of his head and, handing the snapshot back to Adrienne, said, “Come on in.”

At a gesture from Shapiro, they removed their shoes. The interior of his cabin was a minimalist masterpiece. Tatami mats on scrubbed pine floors, walls so white they seemed to have been whitewashed. A green enamel woodstove stood at one end of the room, which was furnished entirely by a low table made of pine and half a dozen cushions. An ikebana arrangement—consisting of a single white orchid and two arching blades of long, dried grass—rested on the table.

Shapiro placed the snapshot beside the flower arrangement. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the cushions. A few minutes later, he emerged from behind a shoji screen with a tray that held a squat, gunmetal teapot and three tiny cups. Setting the tray on the table, he subsided into a sitting position, and poured the tea. McBride realized that since he and Adrienne had entered the house, neither of them had spoken a word.

Shapiro blew vigorously across the surface of his tea, took a sip, and set the cup aside. Then he picked up the photograph of the implant, held it in the light, and examined it. Finally, he shook his head and said, “My legacy… “ His mouth spread in a grimace.

Adrienne inclined her head toward the snapshot. “What would this thing do to a person?” she asked. “Exactly.”

Shapiro shrugged. “‘Exactly’? I don’t know. I’d have to take it apart—in a lab—and even then… there’s been a lot of water under the bridge.”

“But—”

“If you want to learn what this does, or what it might do, you’re going to have to do a lot of reading. Starting with Delgado.”

“Who’s ‘Delgado’?” Adrienne asked.

“The Times ran a front-page story on him more than thirty years ago,” Shapiro replied. “I think he was at Yale.” He paused, and sipped his tea. “There was a picture of him—standing in the bull ring with a transmitter—the bull right in front of him, pawing the ground. Tremendous showmanship!”