Liquid fear f-1

by Scott Nicholson

  Alexis felt herself nodding, although it was the motion of a marionette directed by high, unseen strings. “It was an accident.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m fifteen minutes past due. Better take my medicine. Or else.”

  Wendy’s phone rang in the living room. They both looked at her, restrained on the bed. The trials had barely begun and already she looked a manic wreck.

  She might be the next Susan, Alexis thought, relishing a shiver of triumph. Not me.

  “Should we answer it?” Roland asked her.

  She was pleased at the deference. Despite his male strength and suppressed anger, she was the acknowledged leader. The graduate assistant all over again. The responsible one. She only hoped she could do a better job this time.

  “Sure,” she heard herself say. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  “And each other.”

  She let that one pass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “We lost our man,” Burchfield said, closing his cell phone. “So much for eyes on the ground.”

  “What happened?” Wallace Forsyth said, only half-listening. He’d been staring off at the tip of the Washington Monument in the distance, wondering why no terrorist had ever targeted it.

  They were on their way along Pennsylvania Avenue to a caucus meeting, and since Forsyth was not yet a registered lobbyist, he was free to wield his influence as he wished.

  He was a little old for a cabinet position, but if Burchfield took the White House, Forsyth wouldn’t mind an advisory role. Somebody had to keep an eye on the Supreme Court, after all.

  “He touched base after shaking down Mark Morgan, said he was heading for reconnaissance of the Monkey House posing as a jogger,” Burchfield said. “It must have gone bad. Either that, or he got some goods and jumped ship.”

  Forsyth snapped alert. “You mean, he stole Halcyon?”

  Burchfield nodded. “You never served on the health committee, but these companies run high-stakes con games on each other all the time. That’s why there’s so much pressure to beat everybody else to a patent, because usually everybody’s neck and neck. There are more spies in the corporate world than in the world of political espionage.”

  “Your own staff member would double-cross you like that?”

  “Sure, if the price was right. And he’s not just on my payroll, he’s officially on the books as a CIA consultant. We’re not the only ones who work both sides of the fence. It’s a pain in the ass, but we’re all grazing the same pasture.”

  Wallace grunted. “That’s what’s wrong with Washington these days. You can’t even buy loyalty anymore.”

  Burchfield thumbed his phone, clicking out a text message. “Riordan probably had some loyalty that ran deeper than a dollar. These agents sometimes forget which side of the fence they’re on.”

  “What would he do with Halcyon if he had it?”

  “The CIA would hustle it over to whichever company they’re in bed with this time. CelQuest, Genesis Laboratories, BTDM, could be any one of the majors. They crack the compound and roll it into whatever they are already doing, so it looks like a new discovery. No proof that the formula was stolen, because it’s a new formula.”

  “You don’t sound too worried about it.”

  “Riordan will be easy to find. When a donkey breaks out of its pen, it usually stands around just beyond the fence, not understanding it’s now free. The fence is what defines him, no matter which side he’s on. Riordan will jump back through the same old hoops again and he’ll turn up before you know it.”

  “And the other option?”

  Burchfield concentrated on his text, hit “Send,” and looked at Forsyth for the first time since they’d left his Georgetown condo. “That would be the one I’m worried about. It means Briggs is on the ball and won’t be so easy to maneuver. He knows what his drugs can do…and that this is a legacy-maker.”

  “I thought this Briggs fellow was damaged goods. He doesn’t have any career.”

  “That’s why he’s dangerous. He has nothing to lose. And Riordan is a desk jockey, a corporate snoop, not a muscle guy. His cover might have been blown, and he wouldn’t have been prepared for violence. Maybe we’re all underestimating Briggs and CRO.”

  “I thought Mark Morgan was in your pocket,” Forsyth said. “That gives you CRO.”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t give me Briggs. If the CIA is in on the rage drug, the lid may blow off the volcano.”

  “Dear Sweet Lord Almighty,” Forsyth said, instantly grasping the implications. A part of him had thought Burchfield’s Afghanistan plan was a little pie-in-the-sky, but maybe other people were having similar ideas, only with different targets and agendas.

  “We need this before any other agencies get their hands on it,” Burchfield said. “I just don’t think we can trust anybody to do the right thing anymore.”

  The gleaming dome of the Capitol Building loomed ahead, and despite the traffic, Winston was making good time. Dark limousines slid through the tide like sharks skimming through schools of lower members of the food chain.

  “How many other people do you have on the job?” Forsyth asked. He didn’t think Burchfield would trust a lone operative on something this important, though every additional person involved meant a doubling of the risk factor.

  “One more, but he’s working through CRO. He flushed Roland Doyle back to the Triangle, just to make sure he didn’t take a detour.”

  “You said half a dozen were tied up in this. How come Briggs needs all of them?”

  “Everybody reacts differently. Briggs needs to understand the range of reactions if we want any degree of predictability. And I don’t want to let this stuff loose in Al-Qaeda country until I know what’s in Pandora’s box.”

  “Hardly seems American, dosing our own boys with this stuff.”

  “Think of the greater good, Wallace. Afghanistan will blame Pakistan, and India has to do something. China’s sitting up there waiting. Of course, Israel will stick its bulldog face in the mess. If we’re lucky, we’ve got Muslims killing Hindus and Buddhists killing atheists, and Uncle Sam rides in like the cavalry.”

  “It sounds like the revelations,” Forsyth said. “Wars, pestilence, famine, and one horned beast on the seat of power.”

  “Damn, Wallace, I’m almost starting to believe you’re sincere. But don’t say that stuff in public. People will label you a wacko and I need you for the presidential run.”

  Forsyth gritted his dentures. He’d originally backed Burchfield because Burchfield had promised to allow churches to receive federal funds for charitable purposes, which Forsyth felt was the next step toward getting school prayer before the Supreme Court.

  Burchfield hinted that a couple of the more liberal justices were due for some ill health that would force them to step down. Forsyth knew from his own political background that timing was everything when it came to paradigm shifts, and wise use of these potions could help shape the next administration. And in a world weakened by war, that administration could be very influential indeed.

  And if Burchfield saw a more prominent role for Christianity in government, such a push was sorely needed. When the angels poured out the seven vials of God’s wrath upon the world, the Lord would need foot soldiers, not just a white horse and a sword and the strong arm of righteousness.

  Burchfield pressed the “Call” button on the back of the driver’s seat. Winston’s voice came through a tinny speaker. “Yes, sir?”

  “Change of itinerary,” Burchfield ordered. “We’re heading south on I-95.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “South?” Forsyth asked.

  “North Carolina’s a five-hour drive. We take a plane, everyone will know we’re coming. This way, it’s like a surprise party.”

  Forsyth wasn’t sure he liked Burchfield’s grin. But he found himself curious about these mysterious drugs that corrupted people’s minds and eroded their will. When Burchfield had exhausted its military an
d corporate applications, perhaps it could have a place in Forsyth’s arsenal for the bigger battleground.

  After all, Armageddon was also a matter of timing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Help me, hurry, we’re in the factory where we killed Susan.”

  Roland stared at the dead cell phone, contemplating several reactions. He wanted to hurl the phone against the wall, but he no longer trusted his instinct. And a small part of him wanted to race into the bedroom and pummel Wendy with his fists. Not for any particular reason he could think of, but just because she was the latest contestant in the Blame Game.

  “What was that all about?” Alexis said. She was visibly nervous, picking at her fingernails.

  “They have Anita. They’re waiting in the Monkey House.”

  Alexis sat down hard. “That place wasn’t real!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Roland said, and she looked at him, blue eyes wide. He realized his hands were clenched into trembling fists and he immediately opened them, cool air enveloping his sweating fingers.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s happening.”

  Alexis pointed to the three pill bottles on the coffee table. “Take your Halcyon. This could get ugly fast.”

  “I’m afraid to take it,” he said. “I don’t even know what the hell it is.”

  “You’re on Seethe, Roland.”

  “Seethe?” The word rang a distant alarm in Roland’s head, but it was in a mental vault he didn’t want to enter.

  “The trigger. The drug that stimulates fear response. Seethe shocks the amygdala and floods the nervous system with neurochemicals.”

  He couldn’t avoid sarcasm. “Thanks, Doctor. Maybe you were sleeping with Briggs, too.”

  She was angry, but Roland didn’t care. If she had a hand in all this, maybe she should have been the one to die instead of Susan. But maybe it wasn’t too late to set things right.

  “Look, I was just a young researcher fascinated by the potential. I didn’t know what was going on. It all appeared so…legitimate.”

  “Since you’re the only one who remembers Seethe, what exactly does this shit do and how can I get it out of my head?”

  Alexis rubbed her mouth, face twisted in concentration as she struggled to remember. “He had an injected form back then, but it needed an amplifier. That’s why the trials were set up to shock us, to see how far over the edge we would go.”

  “And then he’d give us Halcyon to float us back from la-la land without remembering a thing?”

  Alexis nodded. She bit her thumbnail, tearing off a ragged piece. She spat it out and said, “Halcyon is temporary, but Seethe is permanent.”

  Roland thought of all his drunken blackouts and wondered what acts he might have committed. He could have been Seething all along and never even known it. “You mean this shit’s been sleeping in our brains for ten years?”

  “Briggs has probably been planning this for a long time, and he finally found the backers to help him pull it off.”

  “Who are these ‘backers’?”

  “I don’t know, but they must have deep resources if they can move us around like chess pieces.”

  Roland picked up the closest vial and read: “D. Underwood.”

  “What if I got the wrong pills?” Roland said.

  What if I killed that woman in Cincinnati? I know I’m capable. Because I helped do it to Susan.

  “You need to take it now, Roland,” Alexis said.

  “Or else I’ll remember?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It could get ugly. And we don’t know what we’ll turn into, what we might become…”

  Or what we already are. Like maybe both of us are murderers and we don’t know it.

  “We better tell Wendy,” he said.

  “And then we find Anita.”

  “No. Goddamn it, can’t you see that’s just what he wants? All his little monkeys back in their cages?”

  “We have to stop him.”

  “Yeah.” Roland glanced at the door as if expecting arrest just for thinking about it. “The cops are out of it, because we all have normal, happy lives now. Well, except me. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “I need to call Mark.”

  “Mark?”

  “My husband.”

  “Damn. I forgot.”

  “He’s with CRO Pharmaceuticals and they have connections. Maybe we can-”

  “What did you say?” The red rage was simmering at the edges of his vision again, like sheets of rain building to a hurricane.

  “Mark can help us.”

  “CRO,” he said, half to himself. “Those initials were in Cincinnati.”

  “Cincinnati? What’s in Cincinnati?”

  “The last person I killed.”

  She came at him then, her fingernails raised like the talons of a wildcat. “We’re not killers, goddamn it. Shut up.”

  Wendy’s muffled voice grunted from the bedroom doorway, and she awkwardly ran toward them, hands bound behind her. Her shin hit the coffee table, knocking over the remaining two bottles, and she lowered her head and charged toward Roland like a missile. He fought an urge to drive his knee up into her face.

  Instead, he stepped to the side and gave a small shove to her shoulder that sent her sprawling on the carpet. As she rolled over, Alexis jumped him, clinging to his back.

  “Get off,” he yelled, bucking and flinging her toward the couch. She fell a little short and slammed into the armrest. She spat out a whoof and rolled away, curling into a ball.

  Roland backed into a corner and crouched. Now he knew how a caged tiger felt when those maniacs with their whips and chairs closed in.

  But he wasn’t going down without taking a piece of He looked down at the orange bottle, which he’d gripped so tightly that the plastic was cracked.

  Take one every 4 hrs. or else.

  “It’s the Seethe,” he whispered.

  Then, aloud, so the two women could hear him. “It’s the Seethe!”

  A neighbor banged on the wall, the urban demand for “Quiet, goddamn it,” and Roland focused on the throbbing spot where Alexis had banged the back of his head.

  The pain helped him calm down. He was clammy, sweating, and hyperventilating, but he’d beaten the Seethe this time.

  This time.

  He gobbled down his pill and went to untie Wendy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sebastian Briggs was annoyed at the unwanted complication, and he was beginning to resent the hefty henchman CRO had hired for him. Kleingarten had been innovative in dosing and then inducing emotional trauma in the four subjects. But now Kleingarten had outlived his usefulness. The murder of the intruder had been the turning point.

  Kleingarten stood outside over the intruder’s body as if it were a bag of garbage waiting for disposal. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “The creek,” Briggs said. “There’s a concrete drain on the far end of the property. Stuff him in there and make some crows and raccoons happy.”

  “He might be a Fed. And somebody’s going to notice when he doesn’t check in.”

  “That’s not your concern, Mr. Drummond,” Briggs said, maintaining the pretense of the false identity.

  “Sure, it is. Your bosses hired me to protect their interests, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “My guests will be arriving soon, and we can’t afford any unwanted attention.”

  Kleingarten nudged the corpse with his foot. “That’s why I’m taking care of business.”

  Briggs gave an absent nod. He might as well have been talking to the brick wall of the Monkey House. He surveyed the forest that surrounded the facility. The pines had grown taller and thicker since the original trials, and tangles of vines gave the property a wild, unkempt appearance.

  And just as the vegetation had run its natural course, Seethe had slowly infiltrated his subjects, twisting and growing.

  Of course, the human brain was a complicated organ, and he hadn’t b
een as skilled and experienced ten years ago when he’d planted the chemical time bombs. Each subject could present a unique set of symptoms. But that was part of the fun, too.

  Even experimental failure added to the canon of knowledge, so failure was a different type of success. Not that he expected either CRO or Senator Burchfield to be happy with that explanation, nor the increasing cast of characters that were sniffing around at the rumors.

  “Okay,” Briggs said. “Once you dispose of the body, we’re done for a while.”

  “I don’t know. You can manage the two women, probably, but this Roland guy seems a little unhinged.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have your final payment, and CRO will send your bonus once Halcyon is approved.”

  “You’re forgetting something.”

  Briggs was growing impatient. “What’s that?”

  “I know where this place is,” Kleingarten said, eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure what’s going on in there, except you’re fucking with some people’s heads, and I don’t really care. But I don’t think the major players are just going to let me walk away.”

  “Ah, so you need some sort of insurance policy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Briggs pondered the possibility of keeping Kleingarten around. It was a little after four in the afternoon, and if he’d calculated correctly, then Roland, Wendy, and Alexis should be able to find the Monkey House by dusk, about the same time they would deplete their Halcyon.

  He preferred to work alone, but David Underwood had already gone wild once, and the one reliable clinical outcome of Seethe was that it achieved unexpected results. Anything might happen.

  “How about this, Mr. Drummond? I have a nice payoff coming from my employers. You stay on as my personal bodyguard and I will pay you double.”

  “On top of the CRO money?”

  “You want insurance. I have the Halcyon formula. And as long as I have Halcyon, I’m safe. But I’m only safe as long as everyone involved knows that. So I need you to tell our bosses.”

  Kleingarten nodded, eyes shifting as if he were processing that information. “I get it, Doc. You want me to give a report on you, tell CRO you have the formula in your head, something like that? So word gets around?”