“Did you want to see him personally?” Dr. Redfern asked, eager to please.
“No,” he said, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch. “Is Darrell Silver available?”
Redfern’s mood darkened a little. “Of course. Federal inmates under treatment place a particularly heavy burden on a facility like ours, as you can imagine.”
Add another million to that funding request, Doctor. Maybe we should put you on Daniel’s staff. You would make a mighty fine health secretary and I’d bet you’d say whatever it took to make the administration look good.
And being pretty don’t hurt a bit.
“I understand Silver’s been charged with drug manufacturing and conspiracy,” he said.
“This way.” Redfern led him down the hall and around a bend, passing rooms in which involuntary patients spent their time until the next dose, meal, or change of underwear.
Alone with nothing but their thoughts. Satan has truly been loosed for a season and his millennium is coming up.
Forsyth’s Pentecostal upbringing had softened a little in the face of political realities, melding into a more palatable fundamentalism as he became entrenched in Congress. Extremes of every kind tended to get blunted by the forge and hammer of the corporations, lobbyists, and party leaders.
Still, he felt Armageddon was near—not in the literal sense of a climactic battle in the Middle East, but in a general erosion of the human spirit. Where others saw Satan’s armies attacking from the field, Forsyth believed Satan delivered destruction from the inside out.
Just like those drugs, Seethe and Halcyon, did.
Forsyth wondered if that was more than a coincidence.
Redfern was blithely enumerating all the funding challenges in the face of rising costs and the threat that national health care posed. Forsyth mumbled assurances that one of Burchfield’s top priorities was to revise the landmark legislation, although they all knew that entitlements were nearly impossible to take away once people got used to them.
Soon they came to a thicker door with a security camera and keypad. After Redfern logged in and was identified, they were buzzed into an antechamber where an armed and uniformed guard staffed a desk, surrounded by security monitors and alarm systems. Both of them had to sign another log, and then they entered a second door.
The rooms on this floor were a cross between prison cells and hospital rooms. Another armed guard patrolled the hallway, a tall, sunburnt man who greeted Redfern by name and gave Forsyth a sideways grin.
“Tell Senator Burchfield I’m voting for him,” the guard said. “I’ve voted for him in every election since he ran for the State House, and I’m not about to stop now.”
“I’ll do that,” Forsyth said. “And thank you for your vital service here. Is Mr. Silver ready?”
“In interrogation like you requested.”
Redfern beamed in satisfaction at the show of efficiency. The guard led the way to the room as Redfern explained, “Usually lawyers meet their clients here, and if the inmates are deemed competent, they are sometimes asked questions by investigators.”
Forsyth didn’t want to ask who did the “deeming,” but he was sure the taxpayers were footing the bill for some egghead to write big words that added up to either “Nuts” or “Probably guilty.”
Darrell Silver was seated at a table, shackled to a steel bar that was welded to the table’s edge. He appeared calm and was relatively clean, although Forsyth was surprised the man was allowed to keep his beard and unhealthy-looking dreadlocks. He could have passed for a street musician if not for the orange scrubs and his spasmodically twitching right eyelid.
“Where’s my lawyer?” Silver asked.
“It’s okay, Mr. Silver,” Redfern said. “We’re not interrogating you. Mr. Forsyth is touring our facilities. He’s a member of the president’s bioethics council.”
“Are you being treated well, Mr. Silver?” Forsyth asked, sitting at the table across from him. Redfern joined him while the guard waited at the end of the room.
“Not too bad. They have some awesome drugs in here,” Silver said.
“I understand you worked with Dr. Alexis Morgan,” Forsyth said, watching the way Silver’s eyes narrowed like those of a cornered animal’s. “She served with us on the council for a while.”
“Yeah, I did some research for her.”
“What were y’all working on?”
“I thought you weren’t going to ask any questions.”
Forsyth held up a palm and smiled. “Just making conversation, Mr. Silver. No need to go getting riled up.”
“Well, if you ask me, she ought to be the one in here, not me.”
“Is that so?”
Dr. Redfern gave Forsyth a sympathetic look, as if Silver had just revealed his own paranoid delusions. “Mr. Silver also believes he’s involved in a secret government conspiracy,” Dr. Redfern said.
“Sounds like a contagious idea,” Forsyth said, staring fully into Silver’s eyes. “What did Dr. Morgan do that was so terrible?”
“She did it. She gave me the formula, asked me to cook it up for her.”
“A formula? Some secret government drug?” Forsyth gave Redfern a surreptitious wink.
“Yeah. She called it Halcyon. It’s supposed to make you forget stuff. I played with it, put my own spin on it. That’s my style.”
Dr. Redfern cut in, speaking as if the inmate wasn’t present. “Mr. Silver has a record of illegal drug manufacturing. LSD, meth-amphetamine, OxyContin. His diagnosis states chronic drug use has damaged his perceptions of reality.”
“You call it ‘damaged,’ I call it ‘superduperfied,’” Silver said, swinging his dreadlocks in his exuberance. “What’s in a name, right? I mean, if they called MDMA ‘Funny Puppy’ instead of ‘Mad Dog,’ everybody would be taking it. It’s all about marketing, man.”
Forsyth ruminated while Silver finished his rant, and then said, “Do you think you could recreate this Halcyon?”
“No prob, dude.”
“You have a vast range of experience, Mr. Silver,” Forsyth said. “I think we can work something out.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “You think I don’t know what’s going on here?”
“What?” Forsyth asked.
“You guys are in on it. This Halcyon stuff. She said I had to be careful because important people were watching. People all the way up to the top.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Forsyth said. “If people in the government have secret drugs, then they can take away anybody’s rights at any time by making you think a certain way. By changing your mind. Why, they can even make you crazy, right?”
Silver’s eyes narrowed again, as if he was figuring Forsyth’s angle. “I tried some of that stuff. I can’t remember what it was like.”
Dr. Redfern’s face furrowed in deep concern and solemn sorrow. Forsyth was sure she’d refined that look in a mirror.
“Did Dr. Morgan ever mention a drug called Seethe?” Forsyth said.
“No, but it sounds cool,” Silver said. “Upper?”
“It doesn’t exist,” he replied. “But we got reason to think Dr. Morgan may be under a bit of…strain. As you can likely appreciate, her previous post as a presidential advisor means her actions reflect on all of us. If she needs help, she deserves the finest treatment and…” Forsyth turned to Dr. Redfern. “What did you call that?”
“Continuum of care,” she said, pleased to contribute.
“She didn’t talk about Seethe, but she did seem a little freaked out,” Silver said. “I offered her some weed to help her chill, but she said she didn’t do drugs.” He gave a sudden bark of laughter. “Doesn’t do drugs. Now that’s what I call crazy, man.”
“Thank you for the information. Mr. Silver,” Forsyth said, rising from his chair. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with the federal prosecutors.”
“But this wasn’t an interrogation, right? If it was, I’d have had a lawyer and stuff, right?
” As they retreated, he raised his voice to yell at their backs. “Unless my lawyer’s in on it, too.”
After the guard let them out, Dr. Redfern said, “We have more secret government drug conspiracies per square foot than any facility in the country, it seems.”
Forsyth gave an understanding smile, one full of paternal concern and a veiled promise of support. “Just between you and me, I think it’s the aliens and their little mind-scrambling ray guns.”
Dr. Redfern granted him a coy and unprofessional titter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Roland checked the entire cabin, which wasn’t large, but he had to be careful not to arouse Wendy’s suspicions. The cabin was basically one open floor with a loft bedroom. While Wendy collected painting supplies for her afternoon session, Roland searched under the bed and the tiny closet.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been in the cabin. It didn’t make sense, because they hadn’t been anywhere except for their usual afternoon walk. They would have heard a car on the long gravel driveway, and the remote rural area held little attraction for burglars and thieves.
His laptop was on the table where he’d left it, and they didn’t have a television or other items easily pawned for cash. And they certainly didn’t have any money or jewelry.
The gun.
He jogged toward the loft stairs, nearly slamming into Wendy at the landing.
“Hey!” she said, gathering her paints in her arms.
He ran to the bedside table, cursing himself for letting down his guard. He should have been carrying the gun on the walk. However close or far away, somebody was watching them. And they could be very close.
“What are you freaking out about?” Wendy called from below.
“Shh,” he hissed, sliding open the table drawer. And there it was.
He pulled out the gun as Wendy joined him in the loft. “Did you see the fox?”
“Yeah.” He hurried back down to the open door and gazed into the woods, feeling a little stupid. A breeze played through the leaves, making a sound like faint laughter.
After a moment, he sensed Wendy behind him. “Maybe you should practice with that thing,” she said. “You’re not going to get many more chances.”
She nudged past him and he made room for her, looking at the .38 revolver. As she spread her paint tubes around the easel, he glanced back at the table.
The laptop.
It was still there, but was it in the exact same position he’d left it? He tried to recall his last online activity. He’d been working on some lettering for a proposal. That had been before lunch.
Roland opened the laptop and powered it from its sleep. The Photoshop file came up, just as he’d last saved it. He knew the hard drive contained fingerprints of all commands the computer had ever performed, but such a search was well beyond his technical skills.
He looked at the USB ports on the side. Someone could have slipped a zip drive in and quickly downloaded his files.
But why? Maybe Wendy’s right. You’re getting paranoid.
But the e-mails were real. Even if it was the aftereffects of Seethe that were making him paranoid, that didn’t change the fact that someone knew about the Monkey House. And probably that he was a murderer.
National Clandestine Service, Burchfield, the enemy within.
God, grant me the serenity to—
Ah, fuck it.
He went out on the porch, the gun concealed in his pocket. Wendy made graceful strokes with her brush, powerful and confident gashes of dark red. She was in one of her moods.
Maybe it was guilt, subconsciously revealing itself in the figure huddled in a dark corner.
“Wendy?”
“Just a minute,” she said in that distracted, annoyed manner of the self-absorbed artist. She’d changed her style, slapping out lines and curls in a type of calligraphy. She worked until she was satisfied with the red, then she dabbed her brush in a jar of water.
She turned and put an impatient hand on her hip, the brush dripping onto the porch. “I hate it when you interrupt me.”
“This is important.”
“So is this.” She stabbed the brush toward the painting. “I’m getting close, I can feel it. What I’m trying to say.”
“I know what you’re looking for in there.”
She laughed. “You’re not going to start that stuff about conspiracies, are you?”
He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her awake, describe how the drugs slept inside her like a pair of evil twins, one committing dark deeds and the other enabling. But his few attempts at honesty had ended with his feeling slightly unhinged, like a drunk emerging from a blackout in total denial of all the accompanying sins.
“No,” he said. “I was just wondering what you were painting.”
“What I’m always painting,” she said. “The monkey we left behind.”
“I see that. Can I ask you something?”
Wendy made a pantomime of looking around to see if he might be talking to anyone else. “Just between you and me?”
“Yeah. I got an e-mail yesterday. And another one this morning.”
“You get lots of e-mails.”
“The first said, ‘Every four hours or else.’” He watched her face to see if her expression was any different this time.
“I know. That book cover you’re working on.” She appeared bemused but slightly annoyed at having her work interrupted.
He tried the next one on her. “‘Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.’”
“Is that from the book, too?”
Wendy was genuinely confused. Roland relaxed a little, willing to let her off the hook. Of all the survivors of the Monkey House, she was the most detached and innocent. Alexis had explained the drugs caused individualized reactions, not surprising considering Briggs had been scrambling with a big chemical spatula, but even Alexis didn’t seem to remember the real effects of Seethe and Halcyon.
Roland sure as hell did. Because he could still feel them inside his skull, fighting for control. Seethe commanded him to wipe that naïve look off his wife’s face forever, because the mask disguised all her hideous, carnal behavior. Halcyon kneaded his memories like Play-Doh until he was no longer sure exactly which sins she’d committed.
He wondered if his alcoholism had created a special response to the two drugs. He often thought of his alcoholism as a living entity, a shadow creature lurking inside him and compelling him toward self-destruction. His addictive nature might have opened up inviting paths, and just as an alcoholic was one drink away from a lifelong binge, lying might be keeping the drugs active inside him.
Maybe it was time for a little honesty.
“It’s from the Monkey House, honey,” he said. “That night in the Research Triangle when I killed Sebastian Briggs.”
She grinned as if he were joking. “You couldn’t kill a fly.”
“Somebody thinks we know something,” he said. “That we remember.”
“Well, they’re wasting their time.”
“I think they’re after us.”
“Are you okay, Ro? You’re looking a little pale.”
He felt a little shaky, but he refused to believe the chemicals in his head were changing him and causing delusions. Compared to a decade of heavy drinking, this was even scarier, because with drinking, you could always stop one day at time. But this—this tap stayed wide open forever, gushing barrels and barrels of its poison.
“I’m sorry, honey. I tried sparing you from it.” He staggered toward her, his arms wide. She stepped back from his embrace.
“Whatever it is, we can face it together.” Awareness flashed across her face. “Oh, God. You started drinking again, didn’t you?”
He shook his head. It was natural for her to assume the worst, because with a drunk like him, the worst was just a matter of time.
He reached for her as she withdrew. “They’ve
been sending me e-mails, and I think somebody was in the house while we were gone. You told them, didn’t you?”
“Stay back,” Wendy said, holding up her brush like a weapon. “Alexis said this might happen.”
“Have you been talking to her?”
Wendy’s eyes gave a furtive flick left and right, looking for the correct lie. “She’s been…coaching me. About how we could make it through this.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” He could feel the cords tighten in his neck as the sudden rage swept through him.
“Look at you,” she wailed. “You’re a goddamned time bomb. How am I supposed to tell you anything?”
He stopped, two feet away. She was pinned against the porch railing beside the easel. “You’re one to talk about trust,” he said, hissing the last word like an accusation.
“You said you loved me the way I was.”
“The only fucking lie worth telling.” The anger was a live, palpable force, a red entity invading his limbs. He panted as his pulse accelerated. He was dizzy, high, disoriented to all except that one bitching, conniving face in front of him.
The courage to change the things I can…
Her eyes widened in fear, her small mouth an O of shock and disappointment.
Roland had one last fleeting thought—it’s not me, it’s the Seethe, it’s always the Seethe—but just as whiskey trumped reason every single time, his self-righteous fury infected him with the obsessive fever of revenge.
“Alexis was right,” Wendy said.
That’s not what I want to hear, honey. What I want to hear is that you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean to make me murder for you. I want you to apologize for being a slut, even if you can’t help it.
He thrust his hand toward her face, meaning to grab her hair and twist until she submitted, but she was faster. She scooped up the jar of rinse water and splashed it toward him, and the dark gray liquid slapped him in the face like a rag. She shoved past, knocking over the easel as she fled.
Roland wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and let out a bellow of anger. Eyes stinging, he kicked at the painting, and the toe of his leather boot went through the huddled monkey on the canvas.
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