“I know you’re in there!” Roland shouted, just now entering the woods, apparently moving a little more slowly than she was.
Is he talking to me? Shit, if he saw me “Wendy!” Roland sounded more angry than concerned.
Ah, a lover’s spat. With firearms.
Through a gnarled web of exposed roots, he watched Wendy jog along the trail, lithe and graceful but gasping for air. She was dressed in her stained painter’s frock, a psychedelic camouflage that would hide her in a Phish concert but not here in the Blue Ridge forest. Then she was gone, and Gundersson lifted himself from the bone-chilling water.
Roland had stopped yelling for Wendy, so Gundersson couldn’t place his location. The bracing water had numbed his ankle a little, so he hobbled onto the opposite bank and found refuge in the scrub. He considered drawing his weapon, but that wouldn’t fit his cover story.
After a full minute, he got curious and wriggled like a snake until he could peer through the low willows. Some wild mint crushed beneath him, mixing with the fecund, earthy aroma of the creek. He gingerly pushed a blackberry vine aside and saw Roland scanning the spot where Gundersson had tended his ankle. After a moment, Roland bent down and picked up something from the ground.
Gundersson felt his pants pocket. Shit.
He’d placed three tiny wireless microphones in the cabin, but the place was so small he hadn’t needed the fourth. And it must have worked out of his pocket while he was rolling around in pain.
So much for getting answers the easy way.
“Wendy!” Roland shouted again, the anger leaving his voice. “I found something.”
After a moment, he added, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Wow. If you actually have to say those words, it’s not a good sign.
Judging by the awkward bulge in Roland’s pocket, he would probably hurt if he had to. And he wasn’t hunting foxes this time.
“Wendy!” Roland called again. “It’s not you. It’s them.”
Gundersson ground his teeth together. On the bright side, at least Wendy was unlikely to find his camp. He’d have to scuttle the mission, and Harding would be an unhappy camper as well, but at least he’d avoided disaster.
All he had to do was wait it out, then limp half a mile through the woods and collect his gear, and “I know,” Wendy called.
From right behind him.
Gundersson rolled up on his side and considered going for his gun. She was unarmed, standing above him with flared nostrils and darkly intense eyes. She wasn’t menacing, given her small stature, but she was crouched and tense as if ready to explode. He wondered if she knew jiu jitsu or karate, and figured that was probably racist, because she was more American than Asian.
He decided to wait on the gun until Roland decided for him.
“Over here,” Wendy called to Roland.
As Roland splashed through the creek, Gundersson managed a smile. “I hope I wasn’t trespassing,” he said to Wendy.
“I hope you weren’t, either. My husband is a little paranoid.”
Gundersson started to agree, but then remembered his cover story. He adjusted his tone to sound casual and a little rural. “I’m a travel writer, doing a piece on backwoods hiking for Appalachian Today. I followed this trail up from Buffalo Bald,” he added, remembering a colorful name from the map. “Twisted my ankle and fell in the creek.”
“Where’s your camera?” Wendy said.
It was in his watch, but he couldn’t tell her that. “I just take notes,” he said. “They send the photographer separately. I can’t even take a mug shot without getting my thumb in the way.”
He tried a disarming smile but her oval face was hard as jade. Roland crashed through the shrubs along the creek bank and gave Wendy a glance before looking down at Gundersson.
“I was just telling your wife here-”
Roland gave him a hard kick in the ribs that drove out both his words and his breath. He raised a hand to ward off the next blow, examining Roland’s posture.
I’d lay four-to-one odds I’ll get my gun out before he does. But then I’d have to kill her, too.
“Who owns you?” Roland said.
“Excuse me?” Gundersson wheezed, giving diplomacy one last feeble attempt. “A magazine, like I told your wife.”
“He said he’s a travel writer,” Wendy said.
“No notebook, no camera, no laptop?” Roland said. “Unless you have a zip drive in your pocket. Do you have a zip drive?”
Gundersson was relieved that Roland hadn’t fished for his gun. He decided he had only one chance to buy some time and maybe even complete the mission.
He sat up, brushing blackberry blossoms from his arms. “Okay,” he said. “Would you believe me if I told you I was a federal agent?”
“Great,” Wendy said. “Tell the most unbelievable lie possible.”
Shell game. Half the truth.
“I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency,” he said, looking directly into Roland’s eyes and not blinking. “We know you’ve been targeted by the National Clandestine Service. And we’re conducting an internal investigation to find out why.”
“What’s he talking about, Ro?” Wendy said.
Roland raised his hand to quiet her, a big change from a minute ago when he’d seemed intent on brutalizing her. But she’d calmed down as well, as if learning to ride out his wild mood swings. He handed her the tiny microphone he’d found.
“Yeah, we got some e-mails,” Roland said. “It made references to the Monkey House trials. If you’re really a fed, you probably know about those.”
Gundersson nodded. He couldn’t believe he was winning Roland’s trust so easily. Uncle Sam might save a few bucks on ammunition today.
“Yeah,” Gundersson said. “Can you keep a secret?”
“That’s our full-time job,” Roland said, with a bitter laugh. Wendy eased over to her husband’s side and gripped his arm in loyalty, as if she’d already forgiven his homicidal rage.
Jesus. I’m glad I’ve never been in love. Talk about shell games.
Gundersson thought about standing, but he didn’t trust his ankle and Roland would consider him less threatening if he maintained an inferior position. But he also wondered if copperheads or water moccasins might be sliding through the weeds and rotten leaves.
“The NCS thinks you guys have the drug Dr. Briggs was testing on you. I’m not supposed to tell you this but…”
Gundersson licked his lips. Neither Roland’s nor Wendy’s faces expressed eagerness. But neither did they show fear. If half the stuff in the file was true, they had faced down more torments than a normal person would undergo in Dante’s nine circles of hell.
He continued. “Somebody in the NCS wants you dead.”
“Yeah, I got the memo,” Roland said, drawing a confused look from Wendy.
“They said it was all destroyed in the fire,” Wendy said. “And we don’t remember anything anyway. The other drug, Halcyon, wiped it all away. At least, that’s how Alexis explained it.”
She said it with such hope, with such a fervent desire to believe the trials had never happened, that Gundersson almost regretted having to drag it all out again. Roland must have worked hard to protect her, but his instability was a lingering effect of the drug exposure.
Another reason why half the truth could get us all killed, including me.
“Look,” Gundersson said. “My job is to keep an eye on you so the NCS doesn’t get what they want.”
Roland’s hand crawled to his pocket, where he cupped the outline of the gun like a teen jock flaunting his package. “And you expect us to believe the U.S. government is interested in protecting the rights and the lives of ordinary American citizens?”
Gundersson saw that brand of bullshit wouldn’t fly. So he decided on another half-truth. “If I find Seethe, then I take it back to Washington, the heat follows me, and you guys live the rest of your lives out of the spotlight,” he said. “Once it’s not a secret-at leas
t, not your secret-there’s nothing the NCS needs to take from you.”
“And no need to kill us to keep us quiet.”
“Maybe you need to talk to Alexis,” Wendy said. “She said somebody’s been watching her.”
Gundersson’s heart skipped a beat. Fuck. I knew there were free agents working the case, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the CIA wanted a piece of the action, but maybe somebody’s closer than Harding told me. In which case, I can’t even trust my own people.
“Hush, honey,” Roland said, the supportive husband again. “Let him talk.”
“Can I get up first?” Gundersson said.
Roland took out his revolver and pointed it at Gundersson’s chest. “As long as you can do it without making me nervous.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dominic Scagnelli took a sip of his Pike Place Roast and glanced around the Starbucks. The shop was redolent of scorched beans, old newsprint, and a faint chocolate odor that lay over it all like fudge sauce. At the table across from him slouched a Japanese chick with a purple Mohawk, obligatory painful-looking nose ring, and a stained white wifebeater that clearly revealed she was braless.
Is it a “wifebeater” when a woman is wearing it, or do they call it a “tank top”?
The way America was headed, she very well could have a wife, and she very well could be beating her like rented mule. He was tired of Chapel Hill and its post-grads with no job prospects and a deep fear of leaving such a haven of the chronically hip. He was ready for a change of scenery.
Still, he didn’t like Forsyth’s new plan.
Killing was easy and usually led to a lackluster, by-the-numbers investigation. Murder was so common that unsolved cases didn’t seem to bother anyone except the victim’s family. And once those tears dried up, or fresher tears erupted, the media packed their tents and hit the next freak show.
Plus, Scagnelli had ways of eliminating people that left no fingerprints. Anita Molkesky’s death had probably been discovered by now, but it hadn’t raised any public alarm. For all their prurience, the media had an unwritten code of not covering suicides, their one bit of false morality disguised as sensitivity to the feelings of the survivors. Since her death was unattended-as far as investigators knew-the ME would be called in for an examination, but given Anita’s history and the copious amounts of drugs in her system, it would be a simple matter of documenting a foregone conclusion.
Scagnelli wouldn’t take the same route with Mark Morgan. If he had his way, he’d go with an automobile mishap of some kind. After Mark’s little exhibition in his law-enforcement class, his reckless behavior created the perfect cover story. Hell, even a self-inflicted gunshot wound would have done the job.
But kidnapping was complicated compared to murder.
For one thing, a corpse was easy to handle. But a living person tended to kick, scream, and generally make a fuss. Corpses could show up eventually, particularly if they had been processed with care, but kidnapping victims had to stay hidden. Corpses inevitably brought closure to the cops, the press, and the justice system, but a kidnapping stayed an open book that commanded attention and effort.
Plus, if he was going to kidnap somebody, he’d rather do Dr. Alexis Morgan. Not that he ever played around on the job, but all things being equal, if he had to drug, bind, and wrestle somebody, he’d just as soon have a pretty victim with soft curves. Mark probably stank of the kind of cologne they marketed in Sports Illustrated, and he’d try some macho, psycho shit like he’d pulled on the driving course.
Which is what he was trying to tell Forsyth on the phone, but the man wasn’t used to having his orders questioned. Considering Forsyth was chief bottle washer and towel jockey for Senator Burchfield, such an arrogant attitude seemed a little excessive. But Forsyth had the two qualities guaranteed to fuel his self-righteousness: a career in politics and a fervent belief in Jesus Christ as the world’s only redeemer.
“Assuming I can pull it off, where I am supposed to stash him?” Scagnelli said.
“The place where you followed them would have done perfect,” Forsyth said. “But the Monkey House is ancient history now.”
Scagnelli made a mental note to dig around in that history a little more. He knew about Halcyon, since it had been registered for a clinical trial with the FDA to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. But no case outcomes had ever been recorded, and no patents were filed on the compound. All he’d uncovered so far was the same stuff everybody already knew.
“If we know Dr. Morgan has the Seethe formula, why do we need her husband?”
“Bait,” Forsyth said. “Dr. Morgan’s two weaknesses are pride and love.”
“Hell, that’s true of just about any woman, but I don’t see how we can crack her.”
“You’re like the city slicker who comes out to the farm to buy mule eggs,” Forsyth said. “I could sell you any old thing and call it ‘mule eggs,’ and you’d never know the difference. You ain’t the kind to ask questions.”
True enough. But I’ve never been this curious before. And I’ve never been this close to the White House before, either.
“Okay, just tell me where to dump him and it’s done.”
“Umstead Correctional in Butner. It was a center for young hooligans but it closed two years ago. Minimum security, no fence, no surveillance. You’ll find the warden’s brick house at the back of the property.”
“I assume it’s ready for occupancy.”
“All it needs is a guest. There’s food, entertainment, and a little bonus for you. The kind you like.”
“Mule eggs?”
“Let’s just say they’re little and white and make you kick up your heels.”
“Consider it done.”
“The key’s under the mat.”
“Of course.”
Forsyth rang off.
Scagnelli tossed his half-finished coffee in the trash and went to the parking lot. Before entering his rental sedan, he dropped his prepaid Tracfone on the ground and then stomped it with his foot. He then collected a few of the pieces, leaving some on the ground. That’s what he sometimes did with bodies, too. Spread them around to a lot of different places.
He reached the Morgans’ house in fifteen minutes. After Mark’s little rampage wore off, he’d dropped his wife at the neurosciences building. Apparently she had a lot of work to do on her Halcyon research, and Forsyth was content to let her finish before he swooped in for the harvest. Mark had driven the faux cop car home and it now sat in the driveway, facing the road like a real cop would park in case of an emergency call.
Scagnelli cruised the street, turned around in front of an ugly Tudor-style house with a “For Sale” sign in the yard, and rolled past his target once more. This neighborhood looked a little too upscale to pull the old “utility worker” trick, plus Scagnelli liked to vary his routines.
Dusk was approaching, and it was the time of weekday when late commuters would be pulling into the neighborhood. Even though the Morgan home was relatively isolated for such a densely populated area, Scagnelli didn’t think a simple drive-through club-and-run would work. Mark was armed, minimally trained, and on edge, a combination that could end in a firefight.
While Scagnelli was okay with that, Forsyth wanted the guy alive and was willing to pay for it.
Scagnelli wished he had a dog. Hook up a leash and that gave you purpose. A jogging suit or gym shorts would also work, but he hadn’t packed for such a cover and the shopping district was on the far side of town. He wanted to finish the job before the missus got home.
In the end, he decided on a combination of delivery boy and lost out-of-towner. The corner gas station had a restaurant attached called Papi’s Italiano, and despite sporting the green, white, and red color scheme of Italy, its menu was about as authentic as a can of Chef Boyardee. Scagnelli had them box up a plastic-looking cheese pizza sitting under a sun lamp, paid his twelve dollars, and took it to his car. He removed his jacket, undid the top buttons on his shirt, and
mussed his hair. Then he drove back to the Morgan house with the food filling the car with its oily stench.
His rental sedan didn’t match the job, and he was fifteen years too old to be a stoner delivery boy, even in this economy, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. The best thing about the current Congress and its complete destruction of the American standard of living was that everyone was focused on their own misery.
Parking beside the fake cruiser, he hustled to the front door, whistling. The pizza was a prop with one purpose only, to buy that one second of surprise in which to gain entry. Even though the front door gave him the most exposure to scrutiny, it would be the only way to make a grand entry. He knocked twice and glanced impatiently at his watch, all while hefting the pizza box above his left shoulder. Then he rapped with the brass knocker.
“Pizza!” he called, just to get in the mood.
He expected Mark to peek out the window and then cautiously open the door to tell him he had the wrong house. Mark would likely be armed, but he wouldn’t want to show the gun because he couldn’t risk a police report. Scagnelli enjoyed working with people who also had a lot to hide. In a way, it put hunter and prey on equal footing.
So Plan A was to wait for him to open the door, go through the “Order a pizza?” and get the confused denial, look at the receipt, and come back with “Sir, is this 417 Tanglewood?” and then, when Mark’s suspicion gave way to the normal desire to be helpful, Scagnelli would shove the pizza box in his face, push him inside, and subdue him before Mark could wield his weapon.
But Plan A went mildly awry when Mark didn’t answer the door after the third set of knocks. Scagnelli kicked over to Plan B, which would be to try the door himself, then go through the same routine, acting stoned and goofy to counter Mark’s paranoia at least long enough to get the element of surprise.
But the sharp, hard jab against the back of his ribs announced Plan C.
A voice, presumably Mark’s, murmured close enough to chill his earlobe. “I’ve been expecting you. And so has this Glock.”
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