“The last time, they gave us pills every four hours.” A tuft of bubbles dangled from the tip of her nose. “I want so much to forget.” She glanced at the razor blades. “Forget everything.”
“The prescription’s changed since then,” he said, fishing the vial from one of the pouches on his belt. “What have you taken tonight?”
“Nothing much,” she said, and her words were slurring now. “Six Valium and a couple of oxies. Couple glasses of wine.”
“We’ll fix you right up,” Scagnelli said.
“Will I forget everything again?”
“You betcha.” He twisted the lid from the vial and knelt beside the tub.
“Good, because I was starting to remember more stuff. That senator, the one who wants to run for president-”
“Burchfield.” She’d already forgotten. These Monkey House people were a mess.
Her glazed eyes were staring at the window, where a moth was thumping against the steamy glass. “I don’t know. Maybe I was in a movie with him or something.”
Bedtime for Bonzo. Every Republican president needs a monkey as a sidekick. It’s a wonder Clint Eastwood hasn’t run for the Oval Office yet. With a fucking orange monkey as VP.
“I’ll bet you two made a cute couple,” he said, shaking some pills into his hand. “A real Brangelina.”
“They said we’d forget everything,” Anita Molkesky said. “That it would all go away.”
“These will help,” he said, pushing a couple of the pills against her lips. She opened automatically and he shoved the rough leather finger of the glove in her mouth, forcing the pills against the back of her throat. Her eyes widened, and she had no choice but to swallow.
She raised a lethargic arm, smearing soap bubbles against his cheek. He fished a couple more tablets from the vial. The barbiturates contained a gram each, and one could be fatal. Even with the toxins already swirling in her bloodstream, she probably had built up quite a tolerance over the years. But someone of her weight, which he judged to be around 110, would never metabolize four grams.
She coughed and he was afraid she’d vomit, which would definitely taint her charisma. He pushed the pills against her mouth and this time she took them willingly, although her tongue acted numb and uncoordinated.
“Halcyon,” he said, squirreling the name away in his memory.
Sounds like something I should know more about, if I want to do my job right.
She was already on the ropes, sliding lower into the water, her head lolling. He was doing her a favor. The blade would have been messy and probably hurt a lot, even with all the painkillers coursing through her bloodstream. This way, she’d just drift off to a land where it was okay to kiss the guys.
He sat through two more songs by Fleetwood Mac, and he decided he didn’t like the band. Anita was right. Stevie Nicks was depressing as hell. Made you want to slash your wrists.
Anita snorted, and her breathing was uneven and shallow. Scagnelli carefully placed his gloved hand on top of her head and lowered her into the water. A few bubbles rose, creating more froth that veiled her angelic body. She gave a couple of spasms but didn’t splash him this time.
When they were done with one another, Scagnelli stood and picked up his clipboard. “We’ll have your phone working by tomorrow, Miss Molkesky,” he said. “You have yourself a good evening, and don’t hesitate to call if we can ever be of service.”
A quick search of the cottage revealed nothing significant, and her bedroom was disappointingly clean, without even a dildo under the bed. He’d been instructed to look for any strange pills or medications, but all she had were plenty of prescription meds. He took her cell phone just in case she’d stored any numbers or messages, but otherwise he left the place as he’d found it.
He let himself out and retraced his trek across the lawn. The moon was up, a curved scythe of white against the endless night. It looked sharp enough to slice a hole in the never-ending darkness and reveal whatever lay behind.
The other half of the story.
Scagnelli headed for his rental sedan and the next assignment. Unfortunately, the boss wanted Dr. Alexis Morgan alive. But a job was a job.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alexis fired up her home computer and scrolled through the data she’d compiled on her husband.
She’d induced Mark into intermittent brain scans to “test her equipment,” joking that she couldn’t have found a cuter guinea pig, and then buried the files in a different research project.
Of course, the vector machines had multiple backups of all images, logging time and subject as well as the operator of record. She’d carefully constructed fake records so that, on the books, Mark was listed as “Donnie Davis,” a student volunteer who was one of hundreds being examined for a benign analysis of brain-wave patterns before and after exposure to certain kinds of images.
The theory was that the stimulation would trigger heavier frontal-lobe activity than usual, although Alexis was pretty sure the effects of recreational drugs, collegiate hanky-panky, and the latest trending Twitter topic offered far more stimulation. But the experiment was the perfect smokescreen for her analysis of her husband’s head.
The only question now was whether someone else had cracked into his head.
The MRI revealed hundreds of slices, a series of images that tracked across the entire brain. In “Donnie’s” images, tiny lesions were identifiable as deposits of iron left by leaking blood. Such lesions were fairly common in older people and were associated with stroke, Alzheimer’s, or certain types of risk factors like high blood pressure and smoking. His anterior cingulate cortex, an area that processed rewards and punishments, displayed minimal activity, while his amygdala, the primal emotional center of the brain, appeared overstimulated.
Scans of her own brain, conducted by her graduate assistant Haleema, revealed no such damage. However, Alexis was convinced the lesions were caused by Mark’s exposure to Seethe, the designer rage drug developed by Sebastian Briggs. The brain was such a highly individualized and unknown organ that reactions would vary widely, and until she could compare images from David, Anita, Wendy, and Roland, the other Monkey House survivors, she was shooting in the dark.
The irony was that Mark had the least exposure of all of them, yet he’d suffered the most intense long-term effects. She suspected he’d built up no tolerance, the way the original subjects had. Which made him ripe territory for unlocking both Seethe and Halcyon and finally using them for good instead of evil.
Damn, Lex. There you go with that “evil” thing. Briggs wasn’t Satan. He was just another mad scientist trying to save the world.
Might be a cautionary tale in there for you. Maybe the world doesn’t need saving.
The real records and notes wouldn’t be safe in the lab. Burchfield would never let it go. And his holy-roller sidekick Wallace Forsyth, her old nemesis from the president’s bioethics council, wouldn’t abandon a divine mission once he’d heard the trumpet sound.
Her home office didn’t have fancy equipment, but it was relatively easy to keep secure. Unlike the neurosciences labs, no one else had access. Mark didn’t even have a key, though she let him nose around in it every once in a while to avoid arousing suspicion. Ever since he’d caught her hiding the Halcyon she’d stolen from the Monkey House, she’d made an effort to stay transparent.
Not that his mistrust had eased.
Outwardly, the room had all the trappings of the after-hours home office: a desk, computer, bookshelves, filing cabinet, and a bulletin board feathered with notes. It would withstand a search by Mark, the police, and possibly even national intelligence agencies. The biggest lesson she’d learned from Briggs was you stored as much of your information in your head as you could.
That was the one place into which, as far as she knew, no one would be able to hack.
She’d devised a code for her written research records, and while it could be cracked, she used a cross-referencing system that would yield only the
pieces but not how to put them together, like a Rubik’s Cube of chemical compounds.
The powerful computer, which mirrored many of the records from the lab, held nothing that would give away her search for a new Halcyon formula.
If Darrell Silver hadn’t been arrested, she would have cracked the puzzle by now. But failure and difficulty only made her more determined. Maybe even obsessed.
“I’ll save you, Mark,” she whispered, tracing through her notes once more.
A sudden knock caused her to bolt upright in her chair. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Mark had begun going to bed early since the headaches had started.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Who do you think? Why did you lock the door?”
She minimized the computer images and opened the door a crack. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“What’s going on in here?” He wore a tattered Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt and striped pajama pants, and his Glock was in his hand. He barely seemed aware of it as he scratched his thigh with the barrel.
“I’m working on that study I told you about,” she said, gauging his mood. “You know, the brain activity of college students.”
“Got any dirty pictures I can look at?” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Took four aspirin.”
“It’s not getting any better, is it?”
His eyes looked haunted, wrinkles of fatigue around them. “Sometimes I feel it like a pulse. Like a glowing wire up my spine.”
“Maybe we should see a specialist.” Alexis hated to even make the suggestion, because then Mark Morgan would be a public case and she’d lose control of his treatment. But Mark had even more reason than she to stay away from the machineries of modern health care.
“I worked for a drug company, remember? A shady, powerful company. For all I know, they want me comatose or dead. I wouldn’t take a prescription medicine if my life depended on it.”
Paranoia was one of the many special gifts of Seethe. In Alexis, it had manifested as an apparent primal rage, although she had little memory of the events in the Monkey House. Mark was deteriorating into delusion, and if his escalating violence blended with his suspicion, he’d be a danger not just to himself and Alexis but to everyone.
Especially Senator Daniel Burchfield, one of the frontrunners for the Republican presidential nomination, who’d also been exposed to Seethe.
“I’m done in here,” she said. “Let’s get ready for bed. Why don’t you put away your gun?”
He nodded vacantly, as if already forgetting their conversation had taken place. “I know what they took from the lab.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“My brain.”
His expression was so innocent that she almost got teary-eyed. With his tousled brown hair and bed clothes, he was like a child who’d been awakened by a disturbing dream. Except this nightmare kept on rolling around the clock.
She went to him and gave him a hug, careful not to confine his gun hand. “Your brain is right where it’s always been,” she said, though she suspected he might be right. “Behind that gorgeous face.”
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll get you a glass of water and see you in the bedroom, okay?”
He nodded again and shuffled down the hall. She locked the office door and went into the kitchen, feeling its stark stillness in her bones. The smell of fish lingered, and dishes were piled in the sink. On impulse, she drew the curtains closed and checked the door lock. Then she went to the refrigerator.
On the back of the middle shelf were four plastic bottles of water, still tethered by a six-pack ring. She removed the one that had been opened and drained a few ounces of it into a glass.
Darrell Silver had welcomed the challenge of working with a clandestine drug. He’d been her graduate assistant, clearly brilliant and clearly too unorthodox to last in the rigid discipline of biochemistry. He’d been expelled for manufacturing a potent contraband version of OxyContin, making a good living on the side selling the powerful painkiller made popular by the likes of Rush Limbaugh.
When she approached Silver, Alexis had stressed secrecy while also downplaying the drug’s intended efficacy. Silver had suspected it was a new class of recreational drug, and he’d probably even sampled some himself. But a casual thrill-seeker would never notice the subtle effects. Only repeated treatment made the memory loss evident, and Silver had plenty of easier ways to kill brain cells.
Seethe was a different story, but she’d never trust someone like Darrell Silver with it. She wouldn’t trust anyone but herself.
She carried the glass to the bedroom after watering it down. She didn’t know how long the sixty ounces of Halcyon formula would last, so she dispensed it sparingly. She didn’t know if Silver’s version was even in the ballpark, because she couldn’t risk sampling it herself.
Because if I started forgetting, all my work would be lost, and so would Mark.
She only hoped it wasn’t making his condition worse. But she had no other options.
Mark was half-asleep when she entered. The pistol was on the nightstand.
“Here, honey,” she said, sitting on the bed and stroking his cheek.
He took the glass and raised his head with effort, eyes shot through with red streaks. “When I get to be a cop, you know who I’m going to take down first?”
“That’s still a year or two away, honey.”
“The drug dealers, that’s who. These legal drugs are bad enough, but that stuff on the streets…kids killing kids, that’s what it is. Kids killing kids.”
“What’s sad is society’s need for escape, as if this world is a horrible place to spend your waking life,” she said.
“There’s only one escape.”
Alexis left that one alone, undressing as he took his illicit drug. Halcyon wasn’t technically illegal-the FDA review had quietly disappeared, as had any connection between CRO Pharmaceuticals and Burchfield, so it wasn’t even on the DEA’s radar, much less listed in the Physician’s Desk Reference.
She was glad to be rid of the crisp work clothes, and as she unfastened her bra, shyness overcame her. They hadn’t made love in several weeks, and she felt unattractive and awkward in the nude. She left her panties on as she slid into bed beside Mark, who’d downed the “water.”
“Maybe we need a vacation,” she said, snuggling against him. Despite his sluggishness of late, he was still in good shape and she was comforted by his strength.
“Camping,” he said. “Somewhere without computers. Where not even the goddamned cell phones can reach us. Much less a bunch of spy-movie rejects.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said.
She wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to kiss his cheek. She liked the roughness of his fresh stubble. She rubbed her nose against his earlobe.
He turned to her, smiling. “I’m feeling better. Much better.” He guided her hand along his chest down to his swelling erection. “This much better.”
“Somebody wants to play,” she murmured, trying to relax. However, uneasiness held her back, even as he stroked the under-side of her breast.
“Do you mind putting the gun away?” she said. “At least hide it in the drawer.”
“What if I need it?”
“The doors are locked.”
“But they have my brain.”
Alexis wondered if the lesions could lead to schizophrenia, or whether this was just another lingering symptom of Seethe. “We’re out of the Monkey House, honey.”
“We just escaped into a bigger Monkey House.”
The ember went out in her belly before it could be fanned into a flame. She released his erection and gave it a friendly pat. “We’re both exhausted,” she said. “Let’s save this for later.”
He didn’t argue as she turned out the light. They lay there in silence, and it felt like hours to Alexis before she drifted into a restless sleep as Mark twitched
beside her.
CHAPTER SIX
“What’s wrong, honey?” Wendy asked, propped up on pillows and flipping through a book of Gauguin prints.
Roland dropped the curtain. “It’s quiet outside.”
“We’re half a mile from the nearest neighbors and twenty miles from town,” she said. “We wanted quiet on purpose, remember?”
“Yeah, but it’s April. Where are all the crickets and night birds and critters? It’s like the pope’s funeral out there.”
“Everybody needs a break once in a while. Maybe God is taking the night off.”
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“You’ve been antsy since dinner. What’s wrong?”
He unbuttoned his shirt and stroked his belly. After he’d quit drinking, he’d lost about fifteen pounds, but lately a little fat had crept back. His dad had been chubby, a truck driver whose sedentary lifestyle led to a fatal heart attack on US-70 while hauling a trailer-load of culvert pipes. He’d steered to his right with his last breath, running off the road and avoiding a likely pileup that might have kept the coroner busy for weeks.
Or the last turn could have been a little of that infamous Doyle luck. Roland preferred the hero story, because it would have been the only positive act of Denny Doyle’s fear-ridden life. And fear was a chronic disease that people happily spread to others, especially their loved ones. For Roland, the infection had taken liquid form, a handy excuse to destroy himself and those around him. Especially Wendy.
But this new fear was a little unsettling, because it was one he didn’t think he could just pour down the sink or turn over to a higher power.
“Where do you go when it’s already as good as it gets?” he said. “You’re the hillbilly Bohemian and I’m the creative entrepreneur, and we’re here in the oldest pocket of dirt in the universe. But what’s the next level?”
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