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.”
Damn. Looks like the guy’s cop training is paying off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The visit to the Monkey House had jarred Alexis, and even though the old brick factory that loomed in her nightmares had been leveled, she could still smell the rot and rust of the interior despite being back in the antiseptic confines of her research lab. Odor was the most evocative sense because it had the most direct route to the brain, and the molecular memory had also carried the scent of blood. Whatever had happened that night, it still slept deep inside her.
But she didn’t dare wake it, because all that mattered was her mission. Silver’s formula wasn’t effective enough, and she had no hope of working with him to refine it. Alexis didn’t care that they—federal agents, drug-company spies, terrorists, they were all the same obstacles and enemies of science to her—were monitoring her research, and even if she unlocked Halcyon for them, all that mattered was that Mark had a chance.
Never mind that you lose your own chance.
She compared Mark’s files from the previous week with the latest she’d managed the day before her lab was raided and Haleema’s laptop was stolen. The lesions had made significant progress, the leaking fissures of blood leaving dark blotches on his MRI scans.
It’s almost as if his brain is attacking itself. Committing suicide. Destroying parts of itself it doesn’t like.
And she fought memories of her own, hooked and reeled from the depths of her subconscious by the return to the Monkey House. The antiseptic cleanser used in the lab was common to all university buildings, and its penetrating aroma swept her back to graduate school, when she’d been excited to become Sebastian Briggs’s assistant and engage in exploring the mind’s vast frontiers. Their first clinical trial had ended with Susan Sharpe’s death, but that had been an accident. Last year, when Sebastian Briggs had lured the five survivors back, they had undergone…what?
The images came in a syncopated rush: Mark’s battered face, the oily-mold odor, the front of her own blouse wet and warm with blood, Anita naked and wild-eyed, Briggs lying dead on the stained concrete floor, the steel tool in her hand heavy and powerful, the primal power surging through her—
No. That wasn’t the way it happened.
She’d never remember, because Halcyon wouldn’t let her.
She wouldn’t let herself.
The only evidence she had of those events was the scars on Mark’s mouth and her arm and the one Halcyon pill she’d concealed before Mark made her destroy the remaining stock. She almost wished Sebastian Briggs was still alive, because he might be the only one who could save her husband.
No. Halcyon is yours now. You’ve sacrificed too much to turn back now.
No, it wasn’t completely hers. Darrell Silver knew, as well. Along with whomever the geeky drug fiend might have told.
Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it, worried that it was Mark with an emergency. Instead, she was met with a vaguely familiar female voice. “Dr. Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Hannah Todd. Anita’s therapist.”
Dr. Todd had an office on the seventh floor, and it was odd for her to call since they often bumped into one another in the hall. Alexis suppressed the alarms in her head. “Is something wrong?”
There was a pause. “Haven’t you heard?”
“What? Is this about Anita?”
The therapist’s voice stayed cool and professional, almost aloof. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Anita committed suicide yesterday.”
Something rolled over and kicked inside Alexis’s chest. “That’s impossible,” she heard herself saying, although it was not only possible, it had always been just a matter of time. “I just talked to her a few days ago and she seemed fine.”
“She is—was—a rapid-cycler manic depressive,” Dr. Todd said. “Her mood could go from heaven to hell in a heartbeat.”
“What happened?” Meaning, Which method did she choose this time? The final time, the method that worked?
“She overdosed on several kinds of drugs, mostly depressants,” Dr. Todd said. “The ME determined she fell asleep in the bathtub, no foul play, but he wouldn’t rule it accidental because she had razor blades lying on the edge of the tub, and several empty bottles of pills. She intended to go, one way or another.”
“But she’s intended before and…” Alexis recognized the foolishness of her own argument. And her survivor’s guilt hit. She hadn’t warned Anita when the man on the phone had threatened her and the two men raided her lab. She’d selfishly assumed they were after her Halcyon research, not the Monkey House subjects.
But how could those ever be separated now? The drug Sebastian Briggs had developed to help traumatized war veterans had mutated into a virulent cancer of an idea that infected everyone it touched.
“I thought you already knew,” Dr. Todd said. “She considered you one of her closest friends.”
Proof of just how isolated she’d become. “We’ve been a little out of touch lately,” Alexis said, feeling defensive. “I’ve been busy with an important research project, and my husband isn’t well.”
“No
one’s blaming you. If anyone, I should blame myself, but I know better. I thought we were making progress, even if she disliked the antipsychotic drugs I prescribed.”
Alexis glanced at the most recent scan of Mark’s brain and wondered if similar damage had occurred in Anita’s brain. She’d been so obsessed with curing her husband that she hadn’t considered the rest of them. Or herself.
“But there was something strange she said to me in our last session,” Dr. Todd said. “Since she listed you as a legally responsible person, I can break my confidentiality if it might help someone else.”
“Anita said lots of things. She lived a life of fantasy, after all.”
“True, but this was odd. Anita said someone called her and said, ‘Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.’ She couldn’t identify the voice.”
Alexis tensed. “I thought you said the ME suspected no foul play.”
“Well, it’s not something I’d ordinarily report, given her long history of suicidal tendencies. But I wondered if she might have said anything to you about it.”
“No.” Deception got easier with practice, and Alexis recognized that her own risk-reward center might be scrambled by Seethe and Halcyon. “She was always saying crazy things like that—sorry, I know ‘crazy’ isn’t kosher anymore.”
“She was also sharing an elaborate fantasy about the Monkey House, a place in her past where she’d committed shameful acts. Of course, I took that to be a metaphor for her career in pornography.”
“I’d agree with that diagnosis, Doctor,” Alexis said, remaining aloof, embracing the numbing sadness and shock.
“I just thought you ought to know that she mentioned you in connection with the fantasy. In her version, you were a murderer.”
The metal piece of machinery, my hand warm and slippery, the tip plowing into meat and bone…
“We were in a couple of psychology experiments together,” Alexis said. “We were simulating fear response.”
“Yes, the Susan Sharpe tragedy. I remember reading about that, although Anita wouldn’t share it. And you were assisting Sebastian Briggs at the time, correct?”
The “friendly” phone call was beginning to sound like either an interrogation or a therapy session, and anger boiled in the base of Alexis’s brain. But she couldn’t respond to anger, because she was unsure how it might evolve.
“Anita always felt responsible for Susan’s death,” she said. “We all did. Even though it was an accident. I’ve always believed that was a breaking point for Anita, because she started abusing drugs after that. Which led to…other things.”
“I’ve read all her files, of course,” Dr. Todd said. “And this outcome was almost inevitable, as much as I hate to admit failure. But that’s my own ego speaking, as a therapist. We all think we have the answers.”
Alexis relaxed a little. The conversation wasn’t about Anita or the Monkey House at all. It was Dr. Todd’s attempt at closure.
“Maybe her fantasy of me as a murderer was about killing our friendship,” Alexis suggested. “The experiments put a strain on all of us. And it’s why I’ve become so dedicated to unlocking more of the mind’s mysteries. Not to minimize what you do, but as you must know, the brain is a complex biological organism that we’ve only begun to understand.”
“I agree, and we’re on the same team,” Dr. Todd said. “This time, we lost.”
Alexis nodded, then remembered she was on the phone. “Anita took herself out of the game.”
“I’m sure I will see you at the funeral.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
There was a pause. “Alexis?”
“Yes?”
“It’s okay to grieve, even if this isn’t a total shock.”
Shock? I’ll show you a shock, you bitch. Come into the Monkey House with me and we’ll see how science kicks your touchy-feely ass.
But she realized Dr. Todd was reacting to her composure in the face of the news. No trace of sorrow. Which wasn’t surprising. Leeches like Hannah Todd sucked at the misery and pain, grew rich on bankrupt souls, and sat on their thrones smug in the certainty that they always knew best.
If I could introduce you to Seethe, you’d find out what you’re hiding inside. It would shrink you down to the manipulative whore you’re dying to be if you only had the guts.
She was frightened by the surge of manic zeal, so she covered by saying, “It’s so hard to believe. It just hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Come see me if you need to,” Dr. Todd said. “Faculty members have priority on my schedule. And I get them all sooner or later.”
So will Seethe, bitch.
“Thank you, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “And thanks for letting me know. Good-bye.”
She clicked off and studied her husband’s damaged brain one more time, along with the time stamp and the false patient name of “Donnie Davis” in the corner. She didn’t want him to die like Anita had.
Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.
Anita might have wanted to kill herself, but not that way. Not yet.
She called her husband. She needed to warn him.
Seven rings. Eight. No answer.
Maybe Mark was the next one they couldn’t let live.
She shoved the MRI images into her satchel and hurried from the lab.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They were sitting on the porch as the first hush of dusk settled. The birds had found their roosts for the night, and the crickets had yet to take up their instruments. A tumble of clouds brushed the ridge tops, but white outflanked the gray and would likely bring no rain. The moist air was rich with a mix of green vegetation and humus, rebirth and decay dancing on the same ancient Appalachian dirt.
“Here’s what we know,” Gundersson said. “Somebody wants you both dead.”
“Nothing new about that,” Roland said.
Roland placed his revolver on the hand-carved table, where it would be easy to reach. He hoped his show of power would keep the agent in check until he figured out how to approach the situation. Of course, he’d also taken Gundersson’s weapon, which the agent had voluntarily surrendered as a ploy to gain trust. Not that Roland was ready to trust anyone, much less somebody claiming to be with the government.
“We know about the original Monkey House trials and Dr. Sebastian Briggs,” Gundersson said, sipping the iced herbal tea Wendy had served. “We’re not sure how it all ended, but we suspect that someone came away with Briggs’s formulas for Halcyon and Seethe. The files say they were destroyed in the industrial accident that claimed Briggs’s life, but it’s hard to imagine he’d have kept the details of something like that to himself.”
Wendy touched Roland’s arm and spoke before he had a chance. “We don’t remember anything,” she said to Gundersson. “That whole week was like a big blank.”
Roland studied his wife. As much as he wanted to believe her, he could never be sure she wasn’t simply covering her shame and regret. Not that she’d done much wrong, besides submitting to Briggs’s sexual games. It wasn’t like she’d killed anyone.
Not like him. And not like Alexis Morgan.
“Halcyon wipes out memories, so that’s not surprising,” Gundersson said. “And plenty of powerful people would love to have Halcyon just for that purpose.”
“You can’t trust something like that out in the world,” Roland said. “Sure, they dress it up as medicine, a way to treat veterans and accident victims and help them rejoin society. But every fucking evil masquerades as good, at least until it’s got a foothold.”
Politicians fall back on the words “the right thing to do” like I fall back on the Serenity Prayer. Grab a mantra you don’t have to explain.
“I agree, Roland, we need to move cautiously, but I also believe the U.S. government is the body that should make those decisions,” Gundersson said.
“You’ve been drinking the Washington Kool-Aid too long,” Roland said. “How can we
trust your judgment?”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Wendy said. “We can’t help you. We already told you we don’t know anything.”
“You told me,” he said to Wendy before shifting his gaze to Roland. “But your husband hasn’t said anything about what happened that night in the Research Triangle Park.”
“Because I don’t know who you are,” Roland replied. “Sure, you can give me a blue ID card with ‘CIA’ stamped on it, and the name you give me conveniently matches the name on the card. And you’re the guy in the photo. But anybody can trick up an ID card.”
Like Briggs made me think I was David Underwood when he framed me for murder last year. Killing an innocent woman just to mess with my head. Worst of all, it worked.
And maybe you’ll sell me out to the cops for that crime. Then who’d watch out for Wendy?
“I gave you my gun,” Gundersson said. “And here’s another reason you can trust me. You received two e-mails the past two days that the CIA intercepted. One said, ‘Every four hours or else,’ and the other said, ‘Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.’ Right?”
“What’s he talking about, Ro?” Wendy said.
“Nothing,” he said, unable to come up with a satisfactory lie.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Those sound like threats. And you said ‘Every four hours’ was the name of a client’s book.”
“Don’t you remember what that means?” Roland asked her. After she shook her head, he said, “That’s how often we had to take Halcyon to keep from going crazy.”
Wendy’s lips pursed in anger. “I told you, I don’t remember anything.”
I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t, either, if I could help it. And if I was the enemy within, I’d be lying, too.
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