“Let me show you what I’ve found, and you can decide for yourself,” Scagnelli said.
Burchfield tilted his head to invite Scagnelli deeper into the house. Two sets of stairs rose from the foyer, and the ceiling was fifteen feet high on the first floor. The walls were of dark wood, mahogany or some more exotic material that had probably dodged an import tax. An antique table bore a photo of Burchfield and his brainless-looking trophy wife, little wire baskets on each side filled with stinky potpourri.
Burchfield opened a door and ushered Scagnelli into a small office, shelves of books lining two sides. The room smelled of ink and furniture polish. An expensive collection of ceramic figurines lined the mantel of a gas-log hearth, representing notable historical figures such as Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln, and others that Scagnelli didn’t recognize. They were hand painted and their eyes seemed to track Scagnelli’s movements.
He wasted no time flopping the satchel onto a coffee table and spreading out the documents. In addition to the images of the brain scans, Scagnelli showed Burchfield copies of e-mails, decoded messages, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. A few of the memos were cryptically coded “per Burchfield directive.”
“I’m afraid you didn’t do a very good job of covering your tracks, sir,” Scagnelli concluded.
Burchfield, whose lips pursed increasingly tighter as Scagnelli presented the information, finally spoke. “None of this is mine,” he said.
“The CIA’s already been busted for running covert programs without telling Congress,” Scagnelli said.
“Of course. That assassination program in the Bush era was a little embarrassing for us all. Alleged assassination program, I mean.”
“This might be a rogue thing,” Scagnelli said. “But if you’re not the one who ordered the investigation into the Morgans, then somebody’s setting you up.”
Scagnelli didn’t tell him about the e-mail messages he’d sent to Roland Doyle, routing them through a dummied-up CIA address. Those didn’t have Burchfield’s fingerprints on them, but an outside observer would probably lump them into the same ball of wax.
“Of course we were monitoring the Morgans, and everyone else connected to Sebastian Briggs,” the senator said. “But it was a closed loop. Halcyon was buried by CRO, who wanted nothing to do with it anymore. And Seethe…”
“The rage drug,” Scagnelli said, to let Burchfield know he was already in the loop.
Burchfield nodded. “It doesn’t officially exist, either. Halcyon at least made it to clinical trials, but nobody knew about Seethe until last year.”
“Nobody except the seven subjects in the original trial,” Scagnelli said. “And only five are alive now.”
“I have a personal stake in this,” Burchfield said. “I feel responsible, and these drugs are a threat to national security.”
The senator really meant they were a threat to his presidential bid, but Scagnelli kept quiet, knowing silence might elicit more information than agreement could.
“Wendy Leng has been in contact with Dr. Morgan,” Scagnelli said. “They all could be getting back together, which means they’re planning something, like maybe going public.”
“That can’t happen.”
“I won’t let it happen, if you like.”
“And you tried Wallace’s BlackBerry?”
“No answer.”
“He wouldn’t go dark on his own, not at a critical time like this.”
“If I may be so bold, sir?”
Burchfield sat on the plush leather sofa. “Fire away. I can handle it. Hell, I’ve heard worse.”
“There are a few options. One, Mr. Forsyth voluntarily went with the Morgans, wherever they are going.”
“They could have kidnapped him and are going into hiding.”
“It’s a possibility, but Forsyth isn’t good for anything except insurance. If they wanted value, they would have kidnapped the drug maker, Darrell Silver. After all, Silver is the one who cracked Briggs’s Halcyon formula.”
“So Silver’s disappeared, too? Maybe the Morgans kidnapped them both.”
Scagnelli pulled the miniature digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “Audio proves that they left Silver there. No telling where he headed, but he was around at least half an hour after they took your friend, apparently uncovering stashes of drugs the feds missed.”
“So Wallace expected Mark to kill his wife? I know Mark is a little…unhinged.”
Scagnelli nodded. “From my understanding, Mark was the only one of the group who received his first Seethe exposure last year in the Monkey House. Besides, of course, you and Wallace Forsyth.”
“Damn it. I can hold my liquor. I’m the Charlie Sheen of DC. I haven’t noticed any ill effects.”
No, I’m sure sociopathy is immune to the effects of personality-altering drugs, because there is no humanity left to destroy. “Oh, I’m sure of that, sir. You’ve behaved calmly and rationally through it all. The liberal bloggers can’t lay a glove on you.”
Burchfield gave a stately jerk of his shoulders, standing erect as if a camera and a flag were nearby. “I’ll admit, Seethe can be quite effective, which is why it’s so dangerous.”
“And so useful,” Scagnelli said. “I also discovered your plans to funnel Seethe to the Pakistan border. Enough crazy people killing themselves on both sides of the border, it will escalate pretty quickly, especially if some American troops go down as collateral damage. A hawk like you, already sitting pretty on the defense committee, would be very appealing to the voters.”
“That’s dangerous talk, Mr. Scagnelli.”
Scagnelli was amused. Burchfield was just another cog in the machine, and even if he achieved the presidency, he’d be no more than a house servant for wealthy corporations and the finance sector. Much like Scagnelli was a slave to Burchfield and Forsyth. At least for the moment.
Power had a way of flip-flopping when one side possessed something the other side needed.
“You hired me for danger, Senator. And I’m not suggesting your plan is seditious. Hell, just between you and me, I like it. But it’s not you I’m worried about.”
“Wallace?”
Scagnelli gave a casual shrug. If Burchfield could play the role of world leader, why couldn’t Scagnelli pull off the innocent bystander part as a supporting actor? “He’s been going a little afield, sir. At first, I thought he had orders from you that he wasn’t relaying to me. But he worried me a little with that Book of Revelations stuff.”
“Wallace has always been fundamentalist. That’s no secret. And I’ve found him to be a sincere man of faith.”
Scagnelli tapped the documents on the coffee table. “But doesn’t it make you wonder? It looks to me like the evidence puts him on the road to Halcyon and Seethe while pointing all the fingers at you.”
“Wallace is loyal to me.”
“A man of God will always choose the higher calling.”
“No.” Burchfield removed his glasses and tapped them against his thigh. “Wallace has always been a man of sound principle. And before you suggest it, he didn’t suffer any lingering effects from Seethe, either.”
“It might be cumulative. After all, Mark Morgan didn’t turn into a rampaging, well-armed lunatic overnight. From what I’ve discovered, the others may have built a tolerance to Seethe, probably because the Halcyon suppressed it.”
“Seethe is unpredictable. That’s what makes it valuable.”
And that’s what makes it fun. Before this little adventure was over, Scagnelli planned on getting his hands on some Seethe. A guy never knew when dosing somebody into a murderous rage might be necessary, or at least entertaining.
“All I’m saying is Mr. Forsyth might not be his usual self,” Scagnelli said. “If he’s getting messages from God or whatever, then he’s going to have a different set of motivations.”
“Excuse me.” Burchfield picked up his own BlackBerry and dialed, then ordered the person on the other
end of the line to run a GPS search for Wallace’s BlackBerry. “Call me when you know.”
Turning back to Scagnelli, he said, “You mentioned other options?”
“Well, Mr. Forsyth had me kidnap Mark Morgan.”
“Kidnap? I didn’t order that!”
“I assumed it was to force Dr. Morgan to turn over the rest of her research records. But what if he wants to partner with them? Maybe even go public, too?”
Burchfield clenched his fist. “He’d never betray me like that. I am going to make him vice president.”
“Why settle for number two in the U.S. when you can be number one in heaven?”
“No way. No fucking way.” Burchfield stormed across the office. The windows were concealed by thick curtains, but Burchfield parted them to glance into the darkness. “Wallace, you son of a bitch.”
Rage. That’s an unhealthy emotion, Senator. Causes errors in judgment. Or maybe just allows us to give in to our true nature.
Scagnelli tossed some gasoline on the flames. “Of course, it’s equally possible that he partnered with Darrell Silver. Who cares about the monkeys when you can own the banana tree?”
Burchfield growled deep in his chest, and Scagnelli was grateful the man was currently his boss and not his enemy. That could change tomorrow, and probably would, when Scagnelli ended up with the formulas for both Seethe and Halcyon and decided Senator Daniel Burchfield was no longer a necessary evil.
“Nobody stabs me in the back,” Burchfield bellowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Nobody fucks with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nobody takes away what’s mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
Burchfield grabbed one of the figurines from the mantel, Thomas Jefferson if Scagnelli had to guess, and hurled it into the hearth. It cracked into a dozen pieces.
Let freedom ring.
Burchfield’s BlackBerry buzzed and he immediately relaxed, his face going placid. Scagnelli wondered if Seethe had maybe dug a deeper hole in the senator than he realized.
“Yes?” Burchfield said into the phone, listening for fifteen seconds before clicking off. He spoke to Scagnelli without turning. “They found Wallace’s phone in the weeds near Silver’s laboratory.”
Scagnelli decided to keep the kettle boiling. “He probably ditched it when he went with the Morgans. Didn’t want to be tracked.”
“And you said Wendy called Dr. Morgan?”
“My guess would be they’re planning a little reunion.”
“I don’t pay you for guesses. I pay you for results.”
Damn. You just about had my vote, but now you pull the plantation-owner crap. Oh well, I shouldn’t expect too much. He’s been snouting the trough for so long he can’t smell his own stink.
“I can give you the results you want,” Scagnelli promised. “Far more effectively than the CIA, the defense department, or the FBI.” He thumped the stolen documents. “I don’t leave paper trails or fingerprints, and I offer plausible deniability.”
He wanted to add that he’d already taken care of one problem for Burchfield: Anita Molkesky. Instead, he just said, “It’s possible they will be gathered in one place for the first time since the Monkey House.”
Burchfield connected the dots. “The first and last times.”
Scagnelli glanced around the room and mouthed, Is it bugged?
Burchfield spoke at his previous volume. “Everything stays here in this office.”
“In that case, you’re in luck. I’m having a half-off sale.”
Burchfield ticked the names off with his fingers. “Alexis…Mark Morgan…Roland Doyle…Wendy Leng…Wallace…that makes five.”
“‘Five’ rhymes with ‘no longer alive.’”
“There’s only one condition.”
“Only one?”
“Wallace failed me, but you won’t. Don’t kill them until you have Seethe and Halcyon.”
“You got it, Mr. President.” Scagnelli flashed a cheesy grin before heading for the door.
Who knows? Maybe he’ll choose me as his new running mate.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mark’s headache was getting worse.
Luckily, traffic thinned as they left the interstate and began the winding climb up into the mountains, but every sweep of oncoming headlights hit him like a sheet of battery acid laced with jalapeno. Closing his eyes didn’t help, and he couldn’t risk encasing his head in a jacket to muffle the external stimuli.
No, that’s just what they would want me to do. I have to stay awake.
Alexis glanced from the driver’s side once in a while, but Wallace Forsyth, who was in the passenger’s seat, hadn’t spoken in the past hour. In the seat behind them, Mark wondered if they’d devised some plot behind his back, perhaps to wait until he was asleep and take the gun away.
“You look bad, honey,” Alexis said to his reflection in the rearview. She was calm, but the greenish dashboard lights revealed the strain in her eyes.
“I am bad,” he said. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“Please take the Halcyon.”
“Right. Like I’d trust something cooked up by your hippie sidekick?”
“No, it’s not like that,” she said, and her pleading tone disgusted him.
Amazing how you could live with someone, sleep with someone, for years and then one day realize you didn’t know a thing about them. The stranger you loved was the strangest of all.
“What’s it like, then, Lex? What’s the latest reality you’re trying to pitch?”
She glanced at Forsyth. It was just a glance, and though Mark could only see the back of her head and a faint flick of her eyes in the mirror, he knew.
“You haven’t been the same since the Monkey House,” she said. “The Seethe exposure has been eating away at you. The rage, the headaches, the paranoia. I know it’s hard for you to see from the inside, but it’s happening.”
“Oh, yes. Nice sales pitch. Such sincerity. And you want me to see a shrink, right? Get help just like Anita did.” He leaned forward, letting the barrel of his Glock rest on top of the front seat. “But we know what happened to Anita, right?”
“She was different.”
Mark punched the gun against the seat, causing Forsyth to jerk a little. “Of course she was. Because she wasn’t lucky enough to be under the care of Dr. Alexis Morgan. The only one besides the dear dead Sebastian Briggs who is an expert on Seethe and Halcyon.”
“We’ve never had Seethe.”
“Why should I believe you? You lied to me about hiding Halcyon, you never told me you developed it, and you lied to me about the CIA stealing your research.”
Forsyth finally spoke. “She didn’t know we were after it.”
Mark laughed, and the air rushing up from his abdomen was sour and painful. “You’ve probably been working with her since the bioethics council. But it’s all going to fall apart soon. The two of you have been planning this little reunion for quite a while, I’m sure. But I’m crashing the fucking party.”
Alexis slowed the car, and Mark noticed they’d entered the rural foothills, the two-lane highway flanked by tall hardwoods, an occasional farmhouse dotting the side of the road. Mark had spent summer vacations in these mountains as a child, swimming on Watauga Lake, riding the Tweetsie Railroad steam train, and hiking on Grandfather Mountain. In the night, the destination took on a foreboding aspect, as if all the secrets of the Appalachian Mountains had grown deeper with no one looking.
“How much farther?” Mark asked.
“Maybe two hours. It’s beside the Unegama National Wilderness Area.”
So Roland and Wendy had found a hollow hidden deep in the land of legend. That made sense, considering they had played hide-and-seek in the Monkey House so well. And they would be waiting, because all of them had a hand in it. Sure, his wife was the one who’d been dosing him with Seethe, but they were all watching, waiting, eager for him to crack.
But I’m n
ot going to crack. I’m the only one who remembers, and if I’m gone, they win, Burchfield wins, CRO wins, and Seethe wins. I can’t let that happen.
Mark shoved Forsyth’s shoulder. “So, what do you think of the doctor’s theory? If Seethe is causing us to lose it, why are you so rational?”
“I draw my strength from the Lord,” Forsyth said, evenly and quietly, barely audible over the hum of the tires on asphalt.
“If you’ve got a direct line to God, then tell me this: why would He turn Seethe loose on the world?”
“It was prophecy.” Forsyth continued staring straight ahead, not giving in to the exhaustion that probably haunted his old bones. “‘And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth.’”
“Falling back on the Bible. The coward’s way out.”
“I can’t judge your soul, Mark. But that day is coming.”
“So, what do you think, honey?” Mark said to Alexis. “Could Seethe be the cause of his religious delusions?”
“Seethe creates individualized responses, based on unique brain chemistry—”
“Shut up and give me the vial.”
“Are you going to dump it?”
“After what happened in the Monkey House, I’d say you’re the last person who should be dispensing little pills.”
“What you said happened…it didn’t happen.”
“You killed him, Lex. You bashed his brains in with a hunk of metal. I saw it. Hell, I see it almost every time I close my eyes.”
She shook her head. Forsyth reached across the front seat and touched her arm, a conspiratorial motion that caused rage to ripple up Mark’s spine.
“Forgive him, for he knows not what he does,” Forsyth said.
Mark put the tip of the barrel against the top of his wife’s spine. “Give me the vial.”
She slowed the car, fished it from her pocket, and held it up. He snatched it away and flicked on the dome light. He shook it once, like a maraca, and struggled with the lid.
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