She shrank back as if it were the badge of a U.S. Immigration Service agent. She glanced from the office below back to the money. “I want no trouble.”
“Neither do I, but I don’t want to meet my wife at the airport smelling like a pig.”
“The desk finds out, I have trouble.”
“My wife can be trouble, too. Mucho bad.”
The maid hesitated, as if calculating the risk and mentally converting the dollars to pesos. “You hurry?”
“Five minutes, I promise.”
Roland was sickened by the look in the woman’s eyes and was ashamed how cheaply she could be led into conspiracy. But he was quite possibly a murderer, and bribery was several notches down the moral scale.
She took the bill and secured it in her pocket. Roland wondered if, when the police interrogated her, she would tell them about the money. He figured its DNA and fingerprint evidence would never enter a courtroom. He only hoped she had a green card, for her sake.
“Five minutes?” she asked, glancing at the office again and the omnipotent front desk that was hidden behind its tinted glass.
“Cross my heart,” he said, declining to complete the last half of the promise. He closed the door, found that sweat had stained the underarms of his shirt, and wondered if five minutes would be enough.
Even if he mustered the will to touch the body, the maid would find it whether it was tucked in the closet or hidden under the bed. He considered turning on the taps in the bathtub and locking the door, letting the maid assume he was showering. That might buy him an extra half an hour.
But minutes meant nothing in the face of eternity. In recovery from alcoholism, Roland had practiced principles of rigorous honesty and self-examination, including a core commitment to purposely harm no one.
Somewhere in the space of maybe three days, he had not only traveled five hundred miles but had lost his identity. Or maybe he hadn’t lost his identity at all, but found it.
If I’m David Underwood, who the fuck was Roland Doyle?
As he gathered his belongings and wiped down the telephone with the sock, he realized the police would be looking for David Underwood, not Roland Doyle. The world believed David had rented this room, and the police would put out an All Points Bulletin not for Roland, but for his spontaneous alter ego.
Despite the roiling of his gut and his hop-scotching pulse, he found comfort in the idea that David would be the fall guy. The latest contestant to suit up and show up for the Blame Game.
The car keys jingled in Roland’s jacket pocket. He pulled out the orange plastic vial and gave it a shake as he held it up for inspection. It contained maybe eight pills. A plain white label bore bold print that read simply, “D. Underwood. Take one every 4 hrs. or else.”
Or else what?
LSD? A kick-ass barbiturate? Diazepam?
And, the bigger question, how many of them had he taken? Enough to blot out a murder?
He shoved the vial back in his pocket. Two minutes until the maid returned.
Run now, sort it out later.
That’s what drunks and cowards did.
That’s what Roland Doyle had always done.
Familiarity gave him comfort.
A drink would offer even more comfort.
He slipped his bare feet into his Oxfords, gathered his laptop and satchel, and took a final look at the bathroom. Hand in sock, he twisted the door handle, exited the room, and hurried along the balcony, hoping that bastard David had left him the right car key.
The outside surroundings were urban, but rounded hills and a river bordered the low buildings, a series of steel bridges glistening in the morning sun. The air smelled of coal smoke and chemicals. He recognized the city now as definitely Cincinnati, its Revolutionary War roots giving way to redevelopment, the arts, and young corporate professionals.
And the occasional surprise corpse.
He picked out the car and slid behind the seat.
Sitting on the dash in front of the speedometer was a handwritten note. It said, “Or else you’ll remember.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The chair recognizes Dr. Morgan. Alexis?”
The chairman of the President’s Council on Bioethics, Dr. Michael Mulroney, had an irritating habit of referring to all committee members, and those providing testimony, by their formal titles. Except for the women.
No doubt he assumed it was part of his Texas charm and he probably wasn’t even aware of it. But Alexis had noted, even in a cutting-edge field where women had credentials equal to men’s, a sly sexism still existed. And the Good Ol’ Boy network drew even tighter the closer she got to the Capitol Building.
She gave no sign of her feelings, though. “Thank you, Dr. Mulroney. This seems to be more of a moral issue than a scientific issue. From what I’ve heard here, we tend to view social anxiety as a welcome trait. Indeed, as an essential survival mechanism. When the monkeys came down from the trees, we couldn’t instantly trust all the other monkeys—some wanted to steal our food or our mates, and maybe even kill us to protect their territory or eliminate competition. Fear was not necessarily a bad thing.”
She could always count on Wallace Forsyth, a wispy-haired former U.S. representative from Kentucky, to stir himself any time she used a monkey metaphor, and she had taken to using at least one per session just to keep the old codger awake. As the token Christian Coalition appointee to the President’s Council, Forsyth made it his mission to frame every issue as a war on religion.
Specifically, his religion, which to him was the only one.
Alexis was privately a Taoist of no fixed beliefs and was willing to throw anything at the wall and see what stuck. But she took an agnostic approach in professional matters. Her work was complicated enough as it was.
Crossing thin ice is even more dangerous if you believe you can walk on water.
“Mrs. Morgan”—Forsyth refused to call her “Doctor,” as if he resented the fact that she had neglected to wear an apron and serve up coffee for the committee—“we all respect your behavioral research, and I’m sure we’ve all bought your book. I’m still on page eight but I’m enjoying it so far.”
The chamber erupted in uneasy laughter. All’s Well That Ends Well had been released four years ago, and though it had received brief attention in pop psychology circles, it had gone out of print within a year.
Since most of the committee members had published books, Forsyth’s veiled jab went directly to their own egos—scholarly tomes had notoriously low print runs, and unless you were featured on Oprah, Dr. Phil, or one of the network morning shows, the fruits of your loving labor ended up buried in the eBay graveyard.
Alexis managed her most winning smile, having learned that in the political world, the best response was often the exact opposite of your true feelings.
“Then I envy you the pleasure of discovery,” she said. “But many of the points in my book have already been covered in this session. The core question is not whether we can make people feel better about themselves, but whether we should.”
“If this was just a question of physical illness, there wouldn’t be no debate,” Forsyth drawled. “If a brain tumor was causing somebody to misbehave, we’d cull it out like a rotten apple in a bushel basket. But if somebody’s misbehaving all on their own, because God made them that way, would we really want to be messing in that?”
To his credit, Forsyth refrained from referring to the brain as “God’s domain,” as he’d done during his first few months on the committee.
“Mr. Forsyth, the deeper question is just who we are,” Alexis continued, noticing Mulroney had opened his mouth to interject. “If our thoughts are nothing more than a series of electrical impulses, and our actions are nothing more than responses to those impulses, then you could argue we have no self-control at all. And whether you couch it in physical or spiritual terms, it comes down to chemistry versus individual will.”
Mulroney leaned toward his microphone in an overt gesture
of control, perhaps sensing Forsyth was about to shift the discussion toward God’s will trumping the will of man. And especially the will of woman.
“You’ve given us much food for thought, Alexis, and now it’s time for some food for the belly,” Mulroney said, tapping his gavel. “We’ll reconvene at one thirty.”
Alexis busied herself sliding documents in her briefcase. Dr. Rita Wynn of Harvard patted her on the shoulder in passing, as if to congratulate her for fighting off the lions. Forsyth wiped his bald spot and gave his American eagle glare. She smiled in response and hurriedly left the conference room.
Nine of the fourteen people in there are doctors, and I wouldn’t trust so much as an aspirin from any of them.
The meeting was a two-day affair at the Crown Plaza Hotel, and while many of the council members gathered in the hotel cafeteria, where the brave would take a glass of wine with their Alfredo pasta, Alexis caught the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, company stepped inside.
“Hi, honey,” Mark said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You were out late last night.”
“Damned Senator Burchfield,” he said. “He’s got a hammer-lock on the health care committee. We did everything but juggle and dance for him.”
Alexis reached past Mark and pressed the button for the fourth floor. In the first year of their marriage, she would have taken the opportunity not only to rub her breasts against him, but maybe even hit the “Stop” button for thirty seconds of frantic foreplay.
The honeymoon five years over, now she looked forward to sitting on the bed, removing her high heels, and maybe coaxing him into a foot rub.
“So what’s Senator Botox up to these days, besides keeping widows from getting cheap Canadian prescription drugs?” Burchfield had earned his nickname during his transition from congressman to senator, when the wrinkles in his forehead miraculously vanished and the gray in his hair had been reduced to two distinguished patches near his temples.
“He’s been fast-tracking a lot of experimental drugs, leaning on the Food and Drug Administration to discreetly lift a few bans. That could be good for us, but it could also be good for our competitors. When we’re gambling with supply and demand, one jackass like Burchfield can cut us out of the game while the cards are being dealt.”
“You’ll have him eating out of your hand before the weekend’s over.”
“I’d rather be eating out of your hand,” he said. “And other places.”
Mark Morgan, junior vice president of CRO Pharmaceuticals, was a smooth talker who had come up through the marketing department, and his science background was limited to a few undergrad biology classes in which he’d eked out a C. Luckily, he’d met his future bride there, the straight-A grad student.
That was all fine with Alexis. She battled wits with enough eggheads as a researcher and professor at the University of North Carolina, so after hours she preferred the company of a guy whose interests included sex, swimming, and televised sports, though not necessarily always in that order.
And he looked dynamite both in and out of a suit.
“Maybe you’ll get your chance,” she said. “I have a whole hour for lunch.”
“Quickie?” He kissed beneath her earlobe and blew against the moistness, causing her to shiver. “How’s the meeting going?”
Adopting a Southern accent, she mocked, “Dr. Forsyth thinks I’m the darlin’ little flag-bearer for the Antichrist.”
“He’s a close friend of the president. Even though he got smeared in the election, he’s still got clout. I told you, that’s just the way this town works.”
“I can’t wait to get back to Chapel Hill myself.”
The elevator dinged open, and Mark took her briefcase, leading her down the hall. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay over.”
Alexis gave a fake pout. “I thought we were flying back tonight.”
“You are. The council should wrap up by dinner. I’m going to be tied up lobbying the health committee. They’re working on some make-or-break bills for the next session, and we’ve got to whisper in their ears the whole time or the idiots will forget who put them in office.”
“You make it sound so noble.”
Alexis swiped the room key in the slot, and Mark brushed past her and went into the bathroom. As his urine drilled into the toilet bowl, he raised his voice and said, “There are two bottom lines, honey. One is helping people, and the other is helping the company. If we can’t get our drugs out there, then people will suffer.”
“Please. I’ve heard enough of that from the council.”
Mark sat beside her on the bed. He’d left his fly unzipped. “Poor baby. Want me to get you a tranquilizer?”
“Hell, no. With CRO’s markup, it would probably run me ten bucks.”
“I know a guy with the company,” he said, kicking off his shoes and crawling behind her to rub her shoulders. She relaxed and let her head hang forward, wishing she could let down her hair and undress.
Mark’s strong hands kneaded the back of her neck, eliciting a sigh. They hadn’t made love since the previous weekend, and though statistically it was considered normal for ardor to decline during the early thirties, Alexis considered sex a foundation of good mental health.
The Centers for Disease Control should set a recommended minimum daily adult requirement of at least one orgasm.
“Hmm, if you gave Senator Botox this kind of treatment, he’d hand you the pen and let you write your own legislation,” Alexis said with a purr.
He scooted against her until the hard heat between his legs pressed against her back through her blouse. “Yeah, but think of the rumors. People already believe Congress is in bed with the pharmaceutical companies.”
“If they only knew,” she said, yielding as his hands slipped from her shoulders and around to her breasts. Her nipples hardened even before his fingers reached them. A classic case of conditioning.
“That feels good, honey,” she said, and now his breath played along the nape of her neck and his lips sought the vulnerable flesh where her scalp met her spine.
He slid his hand inside her bra, stroking the underside of one breast while his thumb teased her nipple. His other hand skillfully released the buttons of her blouse, his fingertips trailing along her belly as he did so.
She reached behind him and fished inside his pants, heat radiating as his erection filled her hand. “You’re fast.”
She raised her hips from the bed so he could hike up her skirt. He stroked the outside of her cotton panties. She was already moist, a little embarrassed at her own sluttishness.
“Forsyth would demand an exorcism if he knew you were wearing garter hose,” Mark said, easing aside an elastic leg band and stroking the soft hairs beneath the fabric.
She licked her fingers and felt along Mark’s length until she reached the soft, sensitive skin beneath the head. “Don’t screw up my fantasy.”
“I’m only screwing one thing,” he said, slipping a gentle finger inside her and smearing her juices up to her clitoris. He rubbed in steady, teasing circles until it swelled, and then he caressed the underside in counterpoint to her manipulation of his penis.
She writhed, pressing back against him, debating whether to turn but reluctant to break the electric flow from his fingers to her vagina. Maybe if she lifted up slightly, he could slide into her from behind and—
The page buzzer was like the shriek of a bomb siren.
Mark stopped the movement of his hands. “Damn,” he whispered.
“Damn? Everything’s still in the right place, isn’t it?”
“I shouldn’t have started this,” Mark said, slipping his hand from her panties and reaching toward his jacket on the bed. “I’ve got cocktails with some FDA suits in half an hour, and with traffic like it is—”
Alexis groaned, still holding him in her hand. “‘Work before play’ is for responsible grown-ups, not us.”
“We wouldn’t have time for t
he full monty, anyway. You’ve got the council meeting this afternoon.”
“And I’m going to have to sit through it with moist panties.”
“Well, leave them at home.” Mark adopted a light tone, trying to minimize her disappointment. “Maybe give Forsyth a peep show like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Torture him with all the delights of heaven and hell.”
Alexis squeezed his fading erection as a farewell and reminder. “Or maybe give him the first one of these he’s had since the Eisenhower administration.”
“You packed the vibrator, didn’t you?”
“No. With airport security like it is, I didn’t want TSA to charge me with smuggling torpedoes. Besides, that’s a placebo effect. I need a dose of the real thing.”
He rolled off the bed, tucked himself back into his fly as best he could, and adjusted his necktie. She pointed at the jutting tent of his pants. “You going to catch a cab like that?”
“I’ll picture the president’s wife. That ought to stifle it.” He gave her a spousal peck on the cheek. “Tomorrow night, I promise. We’ll go for a double.”
“Big promise.”
As Mark brushed his teeth, Alexis rummaged in her luggage and found a granola bar, choking it down with one of the hotel’s eight-dollar bottles of spring water. Good thing the federal government offered a generous per diem, or she couldn’t afford to serve on the bioethics council.
Mark’s salary was in the low six figures, but she still insisted on keeping their expenses separate when possible. Even though she understood the male’s traditional role as provider, she was enough of a feminist to keep gender issues neutral in her own marriage.
Man smart, woman smarter. Acting like the weaker sex.
And my sex is feeling pretty damned wobbly right about now.
She got one more kiss out of Mark before she returned to the bioethics committee and more debate about the use of psychopharmacology to make people happier, more productive, and better socially adjusted.
Liquid Fear Page 5
