Chronic fear f-2

by Scott Nicholson

  “They’ve got Mark,” Alexis said, not wanting to believe it but unwilling to imagine anything worse. Like suicide.

  “You have to come now,” Wendy said.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll know. The summer of green dresses.”

  Alexis was about to scream into the phone, tired of all the cryptic nonsense, but she couldn’t afford to surrender to rage. She had to be strong for her husband.

  “Summer of green dresses,” Alexis repeated back.

  “We have what you’re looking for,” Wendy said, her tone strangely flat, as if she’d rehearsed her lines and wanted to inject them with ambivalence.

  “I’m looking for Mark.” Alexis noticed the assault weapon, that cruel, multi-chambered rifle she’d been afraid to touch, propped behind Mark’s dusty bag of golf clubs. She didn’t know if its presence was a good sign or not.

  “What you’ve been looking for,” Wendy said. “Since the Monkey House.”

  “Anita’s dead.”

  “That’s…my God…it’s true. They’re after us.” There was no remorse. Wendy was a zombie, removed from it all, just the way she’d been that night The night that never happened.

  But the images came again, of the rusty tool in her hand, the wet, slippery grip, the sickening but satisfying thunk as she drove the tip of it into Susan Sharpe’s face “It was part of the experiment,” Alexis said, pleading defense to an unleveled accusation. “We only pretended to kill. So Sebastian could measure our response.”

  “Summer of green dresses.”

  Then Alexis was holding the dead phone to her ear, staring past the walls of her house to a night that she could never fully remember yet never fully escape.

  You didn’t kill Susan Sharpe eleven years ago. She died in a fall down the stairs. Everyone said so.

  And last year…she couldn’t have killed again. She wasn’t a killer. Mark would never tolerate a killer.

  She broke from the obsessive cycle by clinging to Wendy’s words. She’d only spoken to Wendy a few times since the Monkey House. Roland and Wendy had come over for dinner just before moving out of town, but they thought it was safest not to reveal their new location. Even back then, they were already sinking into mistrust and paranoia, with an unspoken agreement between the couples that they should distance themselves from one another.

  Alexis had been one of the bridesmaids at Roland and Wendy’s wedding eight years before. Susan’s death had been far enough in the past that they could all ignore it, and the couple was determined to live happily ever after, even though Roland’s drinking had already become impossible to ignore.

  The bridesmaids-Anita and Roland’s sister among them-had worn strapless dresses of emerald green. The ceremony had taken place on June 21, the solstice, and Roland had even joked that he was going to have to squeeze a lot of consummation into the shortest night of the year. He was well into the champagne before the wedding even began, and he didn’t slow down during the reception.

  At one point he’d thrown his arms around Anita and Alexis, hugging them close together, swaying with his full weight on them. “Shummer of green dreshes,” he’d shouted in his slushy, drunken joy.

  A lifetime ago. Frustration filled Alexis’s belly with heat. What did it mean?

  Then she remembered. During their last dinner, she and Wendy had been going through old photos while the guys talked libertarian politics. One of the photos was of the bridal party. “Summer of green dresses,” Wendy had said with a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia.

  The photos were stored in a trunk coffee table. Alexis shoved away the magazines and lifted the table lid, pulling out the top photo album. She’d not opened the trunk since their visit, since most of her photos had been digitally scanned. She flipped to the wedding photo and saw the plastic film had been peeled back and the corner folded. She slid her fingernail under the film and removed the photo, glancing at their younger, more innocent faces.

  She searched it for clues. She saw nothing to indicate the reason for Wendy’s veiled hints, unless the goal was to show how much they’d changed. Then she tilted the photo in the light and saw the raised creases on the surface, made by pressure from beneath.

  She turned it over. On its back was written an address. 161 Roby Snow Road, Creston NC. Beneath that, in Wendy’s artful but barely legible scrawl: Just in case.

  She couldn’t leave, not until she found Mark. But she wasn’t sure whether Wendy’s veiled invitation was for both of them. She’d said “We,” and Mark and Roland had never been close. Mark was from “after.” He wasn’t part of Sebastian Brigg’s original Halcyon trial like the rest of them, but it was unlikely they would have survived the Monkey House last year if not for his bravery.

  Some may have forgotten what he did, but others hadn’t.

  Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened?

  Most importantly of all, she hadn’t forgotten. At least, not completely. While that night was a psychotic rollercoaster of rage and pain, the inescapable result was that Mark had risked everything-his career, his sanity, and his life-to rescue her, and she would do the same for him.

  Alexis returned to the closet and grabbed the assault rifle. Mark had tried to teach her to shoot it, though she didn’t have the stomach for it. But she remembered his instructions, and the casual earnestness of his face as he’d spoken: “Just press the trigger as fast as you can.”

  She made sure the switch was on “Safe” before propping it by the door to her office. She retrieved her paper records with their coded notes, shoving them in a backpack with her laptop. The assault rifle had a canvas strap, so she shouldered it along with the backpack, then went to the kitchen, feeling like a soldier shipping out to the front.

  War of a different kind. The war between the ears.

  She collected the Halcyon-spiked bottles of water from the refrigerator and shoved them into the backpack. She was heading for the front door when she saw him sitting on the couch.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Darrell Silver squinted against the midday sunlight like a mole whose tunnel had been ripped open by an earthquake.

  He kept shrugging the shoulders of his jacket, as if he were uncomfortable with the fit. More likely, he’d never worn a jacket and tie in his life, at least outside of a courtroom. Forsyth would let him change into his work clothes soon, but first they had to endure a dog-and-pony show for the U.S. district attorney. They’d arranged to meet at Central Regional, with Burchfield pulling enough strings to not only gain Silver’s release but to have him declared mentally competent.

  Forsyth was impressed by how much clout the threat of budget cuts could carry. His run in Congress had mostly been marked by growth and expansion, and the trough had overflowed. When everyone knew there was more than enough to go around, the fear factor couldn’t keep people in line.

  “We guarantee his full cooperation,” said Silver’s attorney, a liberal young female named Ivanevski who’d been planning a defense on the outlandish premise that her client had been the victim of a government frame-up.

  “We’ll review the charges,” the DA said. “It’s likely we can drop the interstate trafficking and conspiracy counts. But if the state chooses to indict, our hands are tied, you understand.”

  “Understood,” the attorney said.

  “What does that mean?” Silver asked. “Like, I’ll be on probation or something?”

  The DA scowled at the recently released inmate. “If you so much as take one bong hit, I’ll have you back here in barbed-wire shackles.”

  “Dude, no need to get all Judge Dredd on my ass,” Silver said. “You think I’m going to be doing much partying with this crowd?”

  He waved his hands to indicate Forsyth, Scagnelli, and his attorney, who were also wearing suits, although Scagnelli’s was a bit rumpled and his tie was loose.

  The DA was a silver-haired man who’d achieved
his position during the Bush administration, largely with the support of then-Representative Burchfield.

  “Don’t worry, Stan,” Forsyth said to the DA. “We’ll keep him in line.”

  “You’d better. People tend to get emotional over these drug cases, and I don’t want to hear any rumors down at the country club.”

  “Don’t forget, these alleged crimes were victimless,” Silver’s attorney said. “My client poses no danger to anyone.”

  Forsyth glanced over to the glass entrance of the hospital, where Paula Redfern watched with crossed arms and concerned glare. She had been upset over losing one of her government-conspiracy patients, adamant that the lack of community-based modalities would jeopardize Silver’s rehabilitation efforts.

  “Mr. Silver, please come this way,” Forsyth said. Scagnelli, who had shown fake FBI credentials, took Silver by the elbow and led him to the rental sedan.

  The prosecutor and defense attorney looked at each other like chess players who’d just agreed to a draw. Forsyth said good-bye, waved to Dr. Redfern, and joined Silver in the rear of the vehicle.

  As Scagnelli wheeled the sedan out of the parking lot, Forsyth asked Silver, “Did you happen to meet a patient named David Underwood?”

  “Underwood?” Silver tapped his forehead as if trying to shake a memory loose. “Was he that guy with the god-awful singing?”

  “That would be the fella, yes.”

  “I heard he was a drug burnout.” Silver gave a vacant, goofy grin. “Not like that’s a bad thing, but some people just can’t handle a buzz, you know?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “I still don’t know what’s going on. I’m sitting there like, ‘Well, do I masturbate or do I meditate?’ I mean, when you have all the time in the world, they both get a little old. Then here you guys come with this deal. The bitch of it is I don’t have anything to give you guys.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Mr. Silver. Remember when I asked you about Alexis Morgan?”

  The goofy grin tightened into a line, and Forsyth saw Scagnelli’s eyes staring back from the rearview mirror.

  “You said you were synthesizing drugs for her,” Forsyth said.

  “Just one drug, man,” Silver said. “Now you’re starting to sound like those feds, putting words in my mouth and making shit up.”

  “Halcyon. Right?”

  “That’s what she called it. Pretty cool name. The molecular structure was a little like roofies.”

  “Roofies?” Forsyth asked.

  “Rohypnol. Derivative of nitrazepam. It got a bad rap as a date-rape drug, but that story’s way overblown by the cops. You know how that goes. Scare tactics.”

  “Yes, I do know how that goes,” Forsyth said. “Why does it have a ‘bad rap’?”

  “Blows out your short-term memory while it sedates you. Slip it in your date’s beer, wham bam, thank you ma’am, and she wakes up sore and not remembering a thing. Well, that’s the urban legend, anyway.”

  “Sounds…romantic. So how is Halcyon different?”

  “An extra fluoride ring in the molecular structure. Freaky. Seems to kill the sedation factor and stretches out the amnesia. Probably some other heavy side effects but it would have to be tested. Say, where are we going?”

  “You’ll know when we get there,” Scagnelli said over his shoulder.

  “So you made some of this compound for Dr. Morgan?”

  “We go way back. I had her for a few classes at UNC. Wait, do I need my lawyer for this?”

  “You’re done with lawyers if you work with us,” Forsyth said. “Unless you’d rather spend the next two decades in a rubber room with David Underwood serenading you.”

  Silver gave Forsyth an awkward slap on the thigh. “Hey, I’m your man. Whatever you need, I can fix you up. Downers, meth, weed, acid-”

  “Dr. Morgan is the only one who knew what you were doing?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t see any value as a recreational drug, but it was kinda weird, she coming to me and all, when she had that big, fancy lab and all those resources.”

  “So you made it for her?”

  “I fixed her up a six-pack. Liquid form, mostly water. It was weak as shit. I planned a second-gen batch, but…well, somebody dimed me out.”

  Forsyth kept his face blank. After the CIA had connected Morgan and Silver, it had been a simple matter to fetch the DEA and from there to get the FBI involved. As a fringe benefit, Forsyth had also secured a decent supply of the seized drugs, which he’d used to keep Scagnelli happy. Silver was unaware that the man who’d “dimed him out” was sitting in the seat beside him.

  “You have more of this drug?” Forsyth asked.

  “Feds probably seized it, but I doubt they knew what it was.”

  Forsyth squinted against the glaring afternoon sun and smiled like a patient, kindly uncle. “I reckon you’re a very talented chemist, Mr. Silver. I got some connections if you ever decide to go straight. And, just between you and me, with all these eyes on you, I’d go straight.”

  “Like, a square job? Shit.”

  “Of course, you’d need a haircut first.”

  Silver fingered one of his dreadlocks. After a moment of reflection, he said, “What does it pay?”

  “First things first. This drug you made for Dr. Morgan. Did you know what she was using it for?”

  “A good dealer doesn’t ask questions. Give the people what they want, right? Keep them distracted and feeling good. Just like in politics. We’re sorta in the same biz, man, if you look at it that way.”

  Forsyth mulled what it would take to control Silver and bring him onto the team. He’d have to stay off the official payroll because of the indictments, but the court documents hadn’t made any reference to Halcyon or Seethe. Of course, the drugs didn’t officially exist. And the arrest report hadn’t mentioned any unidentified or counterfeit drugs, either.

  Which meant they were probably still on site, if Silver was telling the truth.

  They’d find out soon enough.

  Scagnelli made good time on I-40, an hour ahead of the rush-hour traffic that clogged the university belt on weekday evenings. Silver was looking out the window when Scagnelli exited the highway, and he exclaimed, “Hey, you going to Chapel Hill?”

  “We’re all going to Chapel Hill,” Forsyth said. “Time for you to earn your freedom.”

  For the next forty minutes, Silver entertained them with stories about his analyst at the hospital, a Portuguese named Rafael Rego who spoke very poor English. To make matters worse, Rego attempted to talk like Sigmund Freud, and Silver’s imitation of the man’s earnest inquisitions drew snickers from Scagnelli. Forsyth barely listened, reflecting on the different ways he could use Seethe, Halcyon, and a dark box of blackmail secrets to dominate the Burchfield Administration.

  Where evil dwells, the Lord sends a servant.

  They detoured around the UNC campus and entered the southern end of town, where rundown student apartments mixed with spotty commercial development and industrial lots. Soon they were pulling up to a concrete-block building whose white walls were mottled with mold. The former gas station featured large windows in the front bearing purple curtains, but the garage area had been sealed off with new cinder blocks that had never been painted. The raised concrete ovals where the pumps had once stood now contained Japanese maples, their burgundy leaves flapping in the spring breeze.

  “Home on the range,” Silver said.

  “It’s government property now,” Scagnelli said, still playing the role of an FBI agent. “It’s considered a drug asset and subject to seizure and forfeiture.”

  “Shit, man! Nobody can just take away your property like that! Whatever happened to the Bill of Rights?”

  “The court will decide whether it was used to facilitate drug trafficking or if it was purchased with illegal profits,” Scagnelli said. “I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting. You think a criminal trial takes forever, wait until you start dealing with these civil proc
edures.”

  Silver turned to Forsyth with pleading eyes. “Man, this is my pad, man. I got a lot of memories here.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Forsyth said. “To relive a few memories. Do you have your cell phone, Scagnelli?”

  Forsyth didn’t want any record of communication between his phone and Dr. Morgan’s, and Scagnelli’s rotating supply of prepaid, disposable cell phones offered the best way to contact her. As they escorted Silver toward his home and laboratory, Scagnelli produced a key they’d secured from the DA. A rusty pickup rumbled by, honking its horn, and Silver waved. The driver must have realized that Scagnelli and Forsyth weren’t typical drug customers, because the truck accelerated and burst down the street, setting off barking dogs next door.

  “You guys are seriously bad for my rep,” Silver said.

  “All it takes is a haircut,” Forsyth said.

  Silver gave a desultory shake of his head that caused his dreadlocks to whip around his neck.

  Scagnelli led the way as they entered the renovated living room, formerly the public end of the gas station where maps, soft drinks, and fan belts had once been sold. The aroma of grease, rubber, and mildew still lingered over the stench of forgotten garbage. The power was off, and Forsyth opened the curtains so they could see. Dust swirled as the sunlight revealed a ground-level living room with a ’57 Chevy chassis suspended from the ceiling by steel cables. A rope ladder descended from the open driver’s-side door. Scagnelli tugged on the ladder, causing the chassis to sway.

  “My bedroom,” Silver said with a smirk. “Wore out the shocks with my lady friends so I had to float it.”

  “I can see why,” Forsyth said. “You’re quite a charming young gentleman. What we called ‘Sugar Britches’ back in Kentucky.”

  Silver squinted at Forsyth, perhaps wondering if he was making a homosexual come-on, but Forsyth waved him to the garage area, passing through a tiny kitchenette and dining area that might have been salvaged from an RV.

  “Did you do all this?” Scagnelli asked, unable to hide his interest. Forsyth took it as a kind of peer respect among criminals. The main difference between Scagnelli and Silver was that Scagnelli would kill his own mom for a buck, while Silver would rather drop acid and fantasize about world peace.