Garrison Pryor was having a bad day, but then he’d been having bad days ever since some concerned Maine citizens had taken it into their heads to contract out the killing of the private detective named Charlie Parker. The result was not only the annihilation of those citizens, the destruction of half their town, and the continued survival of Parker, but also the unleashing of a greater storm of retribution by Parker’s allies – or more accurately, the use of the attack, by elements within the Federal Bureau of Investigation, as an excuse to squeeze the Backers.
Pryor Investments, one of the Backers’ main instruments in the search for the Buried God, immediately found itself targeted by the FBI’s Economic Crimes Unit – and if Pryor Investments was being targeted, that meant Garrison Pryor himself was being targeted. As a consequence, Pryor was currently under indictment for a range of crimes including falsification of financial information, late trading, securities fraud, wire fraud, and conspiracy. At least some of the charges were spurious at best, but calling ‘bullshit’ wouldn’t stand up as a defense in federal court. The scandal had forced Pryor to step aside temporarily as chairman of his own company, although he ensured the board issued a statement expressing its confidence in him before he did so. Admittedly, he had to draft the statement himself, and force it on the board by pointing out to its members that his problems were their problems, and their support was not only requested but also demanded.
Yet to Pryor’s relief, and the surprise of his lawyers, the FBI had made him stew for a couple of months, requesting the pleasure of his company for repeated interviews but otherwise permitting him to remain at liberty on minimal bail, and so far showed no signs of moving to arraignment. His passport had been confiscated, and he was under orders from the court not to leave the Commonwealth of Massachusetts without notice, but these were the sole restrictions. True, truckloads of documents had been removed from the company’s offices, and its computers seized, but a great many federal agents would have to spend thousands of man-hours working their way through the company’s records before they found evidence of even modest improprieties, and then only infractions common to the financial services industry and therefore unworthy of anything harsher than a slap on the wrist, and a fine that could be paid from petty cash. This caused Pryor to wonder if the whole affair might not simply have been a fishing expedition on the part of the feds, based on the mistaken belief that Pryor would buckle and try to cut a deal by naming names in an effort to avoid trial.
But in recent weeks disturbing rumors had begun to filter down to Pryor through his lawyers, whispers that Pryor was supplying information on his co-conspirators to the FBI, and pointing agents toward named individuals about whom the feds should be concerned. Pryor denied everything, but arrests followed, which seemed to give the lie to his protestations. The board, under instruction from its own lawyers, immediately cut off all contact with him, and his access to the company’s systems and records was suspended. More worryingly, the Backers isolated him entirely, and this ostracism was mirrored by the actions of the larger financial community. Suddenly Garrison Pryor was a man without friends. He could no longer even secure reservations at his favorite restaurants, and memberships of three clubs had been revoked.
He knew what the feds were doing, of course. Similar strategies were regularly pursued in business. Stories were carefully seeded about the inefficacy of a certain product, the declining health of a long-serving company president, safety issues with a pioneering new drug, all to affect share prices or hamper the competition. The substance of the assertions was irrelevant. Once out in the world, they took on the appearance of truth. No amount of denial could entirely undo the damage caused.
Now Pryor found himself compelled to rebut allegations of complicity where there was none, and by doing so reinforced the effect of the lie; and pressured into attempting to disprove something that could not be disproved because no empirical evidence of its reality had ever been offered to begin with. Even his latest girlfriend had ceased taking his calls. The only people who did sound happy to hear from him were his lawyers, because he was paying them by the hour for conversation. Sometimes the price was worth it just for some civil discourse.
Pryor had money. The lawyers’ fees were eating into his funds, but he was in no danger of penury, not by some distance. But what good was money when a man couldn’t eat where he wished, travel when he desired, socialize with those whom he once called friends? What good was money without influence? His life was in limbo. He was doing nothing with his days, yet had to take pills to help him sleep. Despite his awareness of the strategies being used to pressure him, he could not deny their effectiveness. Why should he protect those who had lost faith in him so quickly? Why not simply make an approach to the feds and offer to tell them what he knew of the Backers in return for a new life far from here?
Because I would be exchanging one form of restriction for another. I could never sit with my back to a door. I would never be able to close my eyes at night without armed men to guard me. I would always be fearful, and they would find me in the end.
Pryor entered his apartment building. The doorman was absent, but the mailroom behind the reception desk was open, and music played softly from inside. Pryor was content not to have to exchange pleasantries, even in his current state of isolation. The feds had searched his apartment thoroughly as part of the investigation, and his name had been in the papers, so the doormen knew of his troubles, just like everyone else on the block. They looked at him differently now, and their greetings were offered reluctantly, when they came at all.
He took the elevator to the sixth floor. No one joined him, which was a further mercy. He shifted his bag of groceries as he reached for his key. The contents didn’t amount to much, nutritionally speaking, but he took his consolations where he could. He still retained membership of his health club, but he was too well known there to be able to concentrate on exercise, and so had put on ten pounds since the start of the investigation. His suits no longer fit as comfortably as before, but this was a minor inconvenience since he no longer had any reason to wear them.
How had the FBI targeted those whom it was investigating and arresting? This was the question that troubled Pryor as the feds continued to spread their net. Despite what the Backers believed, the names had not come from him. It was possible someone else was leaking information, but the targets were so random – politicians, clergy, police, government employees, business executives – that the source could only be an individual with knowledge of the Backers’ entire network. And the targets were deeply embedded. Some had been compromised, or had allied themselves willingly to the cause, decades before. None was a recent convert.
An old list of conspirators, then. The old list. It was believed to have been lost or destroyed, but what if this was untrue? What if someone had found it and shared its contents with the FBI? Yet if that were the case, surely the feds would have moved against everyone on it? Why this picking and choosing of unconnected individuals, other than as part of an ongoing effort to turn the screws on Pryor himself? Could someone be feeding selected names from the list to the FBI while retaining possession of the actual document? Who might that be?
The name came to him as he opened the door. Why had he not considered it before? Because he had been too absorbed in his own problems, too mired in self-pity. Now, at last, he was beginning to think clearly.