Chronic Fear (14 page)

Darrell Silver squinted against the midday sunlight like a mole whose tunnel had been ripped open by an earthquake.

He kept shrugging the shoulders of his jacket, as if he were uncomfortable with the fit. More likely, he’d never worn a jacket and tie in his life, at least outside of a courtroom. Forsyth would let him change into his work clothes soon, but first they had to endure a dog-and-pony show for the U.S. district attorney. They’d arranged to meet at Central Regional, with Burchfield pulling enough strings to not only gain Silver’s release but to have him declared mentally competent.

Forsyth was impressed by how much clout the threat of budget cuts could carry. His run in Congress had mostly been marked by growth and expansion, and the trough had overflowed. When everyone knew there was more than enough to go around, the fear factor couldn’t keep people in line.

“We guarantee his full cooperation,” said Silver’s attorney, a liberal young female named Ivanevski who’d been planning a defense on the outlandish premise that her client had been the victim of a government frame-up.

“We’ll review the charges,” the DA said. “It’s likely we can drop the interstate trafficking and conspiracy counts. But if the state chooses to indict, our hands are tied, you understand.”

“Understood,” the attorney said.

“What does that mean?” Silver asked. “Like, I’ll be on probation or something?”

The DA scowled at the recently released inmate. “If you so much as take one bong hit, I’ll have you back here in barbed-wire shackles.”

“Dude, no need to get all Judge Dredd on my ass,” Silver said. “You think I’m going to be doing much partying with
this
crowd?”

He waved his hands to indicate Forsyth, Scagnelli, and his attorney, who were also wearing suits, although Scagnelli’s was a bit rumpled and his tie was loose.

The DA was a silver-haired man who’d achieved his position during the Bush administration, largely with the support of then-Representative Burchfield.

“Don’t worry, Stan,” Forsyth said to the DA. “We’ll keep him in line.”

“You’d better. People tend to get emotional over these drug cases, and I don’t want to hear any rumors down at the country club.”

“Don’t forget, these alleged crimes were victimless,” Silver’s attorney said. “My client poses no danger to anyone.”

Forsyth glanced over to the glass entrance of the hospital, where Paula Redfern watched with crossed arms and concerned glare. She had been upset over losing one of her government-conspiracy patients, adamant that the lack of community-based modalities would jeopardize Silver’s rehabilitation efforts.

“Mr. Silver, please come this way,” Forsyth said. Scagnelli, who had shown fake FBI credentials, took Silver by the elbow and led him to the rental sedan.

The prosecutor and defense attorney looked at each other like chess players who’d just agreed to a draw. Forsyth said good-bye, waved to Dr. Redfern, and joined Silver in the rear of the vehicle.

As Scagnelli wheeled the sedan out of the parking lot, Forsyth asked Silver, “Did you happen to meet a patient named David Underwood?”

“Underwood?” Silver tapped his forehead as if trying to shake a memory loose. “Was he that guy with the god-awful singing?”

“That would be the fella, yes.”

“I heard he was a drug burnout.” Silver gave a vacant, goofy grin. “Not like that’s a bad thing, but some people just can’t handle a buzz, you know?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I still don’t know what’s going on. I’m sitting there like, ‘Well, do I masturbate or do I meditate?’ I mean, when you have all the time in the world, they both get a little old. Then here you guys come with this deal. The bitch of it is I don’t have anything to give you guys.”

“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Silver. Remember when I asked you about Alexis Morgan?”

The goofy grin tightened into a line, and Forsyth saw Scagnelli’s eyes staring back from the rearview mirror.

“You said you were synthesizing drugs for her,” Forsyth said.

“Just
one
drug, man,” Silver said. “Now you’re starting to sound like those feds, putting words in my mouth and making shit up.”

“Halcyon. Right?”

“That’s what she called it. Pretty cool name. The molecular structure was a little like roofies.”

“Roofies?” Forsyth asked.

“Rohypnol. Derivative of nitrazepam. It got a bad rap as a date-rape drug, but that story’s way overblown by the cops. You know how that goes. Scare tactics.”

“Yes, I do know how that goes,” Forsyth said. “Why does it have a ‘bad rap’?”

“Blows out your short-term memory while it sedates you. Slip it in your date’s beer, wham bam, thank you ma’am, and she wakes up sore and not remembering a thing. Well, that’s the urban legend, anyway.”

“Sounds…romantic. So how is Halcyon different?”

“An extra fluoride ring in the molecular structure. Freaky. Seems to kill the sedation factor and stretches out the amnesia. Probably some other heavy side effects but it would have to be tested. Say, where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there,” Scagnelli said over his shoulder.

“So you made some of this compound for Dr. Morgan?”

“We go way back. I had her for a few classes at UNC. Wait, do I need my lawyer for this?”

“You’re done with lawyers if you work with us,” Forsyth said. “Unless you’d rather spend the next two decades in a rubber room with David Underwood serenading you.”

Silver gave Forsyth an awkward slap on the thigh. “Hey, I’m your man. Whatever you need, I can fix you up. Downers, meth, weed, acid—”

“Dr. Morgan is the only one who knew what you were doing?”

“Yeah. I didn’t see any value as a recreational drug, but it was kinda weird, she coming to me and all, when she had that big, fancy lab and all those resources.”

“So you made it for her?”

“I fixed her up a six-pack. Liquid form, mostly water. It was weak as shit. I planned a second-gen batch, but…well, somebody dimed me out.”

Forsyth kept his face blank. After the CIA had connected Morgan and Silver, it had been a simple matter to fetch the DEA and from there to get the FBI involved. As a fringe benefit, Forsyth had also secured a decent supply of the seized drugs, which he’d used to keep Scagnelli happy. Silver was unaware that the man who’d “dimed him out” was sitting in the seat beside him.

“You have more of this drug?” Forsyth asked.

“Feds probably seized it, but I doubt they knew what it was.”

Forsyth squinted against the glaring afternoon sun and smiled like a patient, kindly uncle. “I reckon you’re a very talented chemist, Mr. Silver. I got some connections if you ever decide to go straight. And, just between you and me, with all these eyes on you, I’d go straight.”

“Like, a square job? Shit.”

“Of course, you’d need a haircut first.”

Silver fingered one of his dreadlocks. After a moment of reflection, he said, “What does it pay?”

“First things first. This drug you made for Dr. Morgan. Did you know what she was using it for?”

“A good dealer doesn’t ask questions. Give the people what they want, right? Keep them distracted and feeling good. Just like in politics. We’re sorta in the same biz, man, if you look at it that way.”

Forsyth mulled what it would take to control Silver and bring him onto the team. He’d have to stay off the official payroll because of the indictments, but the court documents hadn’t made any reference to Halcyon or Seethe. Of course, the drugs didn’t officially exist. And the arrest report hadn’t mentioned any unidentified or counterfeit drugs, either.

Which meant they were probably still on site, if Silver was telling the truth.

They’d find out soon enough.

Scagnelli made good time on I-40, an hour ahead of the rush-hour traffic that clogged the university belt on weekday evenings. Silver was looking out the window when Scagnelli exited the highway, and he exclaimed, “Hey, you going to Chapel Hill?”

“We’re
all
going to Chapel Hill,” Forsyth said. “Time for you to earn your freedom.”

For the next forty minutes, Silver entertained them with stories about his analyst at the hospital, a Portuguese named Rafael Rego who spoke very poor English. To make matters worse, Rego attempted to talk like Sigmund Freud, and Silver’s imitation of the man’s earnest inquisitions drew snickers from Scagnelli. Forsyth barely listened, reflecting on the different ways he could use Seethe, Halcyon, and a dark box of blackmail secrets to dominate the Burchfield Administration.

Where evil dwells, the Lord sends a servant.

They detoured around the UNC campus and entered the southern end of town, where rundown student apartments mixed with spotty commercial development and industrial lots. Soon they were pulling up to a concrete-block building whose white walls were mottled with mold. The former gas station featured large windows in the front bearing purple curtains, but the garage area had been sealed off with new cinder blocks that had never been painted. The raised concrete ovals where the pumps had once stood now contained Japanese maples, their burgundy leaves flapping in the spring breeze.

“Home on the range,” Silver said.

“It’s government property now,” Scagnelli said, still playing the role of an FBI agent. “It’s considered a drug asset and subject to seizure and forfeiture.”

“Shit, man! Nobody can just take away your property like that! Whatever happened to the Bill of Rights?”

“The court will decide whether it was used to facilitate drug trafficking or if it was purchased with illegal profits,” Scagnelli said. “I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting. You think a criminal trial takes forever, wait until you start dealing with these civil procedures.”

Silver turned to Forsyth with pleading eyes. “Man, this is my
pad
, man. I got a lot of memories here.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Forsyth said. “To relive a few memories. Do you have your cell phone, Scagnelli?”

Forsyth didn’t want any record of communication between his phone and Dr. Morgan’s, and Scagnelli’s rotating supply of prepaid, disposable cell phones offered the best way to contact her. As they escorted Silver toward his home and laboratory, Scagnelli produced a key they’d secured from the DA. A rusty pickup rumbled by, honking its horn, and Silver waved. The driver must have realized that Scagnelli and Forsyth weren’t typical drug customers, because the truck accelerated and burst down the street, setting off barking dogs next door.

“You guys are seriously bad for my rep,” Silver said.

“All it takes is a haircut,” Forsyth said.

Silver gave a desultory shake of his head that caused his dreadlocks to whip around his neck.

Scagnelli led the way as they entered the renovated living room, formerly the public end of the gas station where maps, soft drinks, and fan belts had once been sold. The aroma of grease, rubber, and mildew still lingered over the stench of forgotten garbage. The power was off, and Forsyth opened the curtains so they could see. Dust swirled as the sunlight revealed a ground-level living room with a ’57 Chevy chassis suspended from the ceiling by steel cables. A rope ladder descended from the open driver’s-side door. Scagnelli tugged on the ladder, causing the chassis to sway.

“My bedroom,” Silver said with a smirk. “Wore out the shocks with my lady friends so I had to float it.”

“I can see why,” Forsyth said. “You’re quite a charming young gentleman. What we called ‘Sugar Britches’ back in Kentucky.”

Silver squinted at Forsyth, perhaps wondering if he was making a homosexual come-on, but Forsyth waved him to the garage area, passing through a tiny kitchenette and dining area that might have been salvaged from an RV.

“Did you do all this?” Scagnelli asked, unable to hide his interest. Forsyth took it as a kind of peer respect among criminals. The main difference between Scagnelli and Silver was that Scagnelli would kill his own mom for a buck, while Silver would rather drop acid and fantasize about world peace.

“Most of it,” Silver said. “When you’re a spiritual entrepreneur, you got a lot of free time.”

The garage area was equally surprising, with Scagnelli switching on his long-handled police flashlight to augment the weak natural light. The garage was stocked almost like a real garage, with a bizarre array of pumps, belts, chains, and spare parts, but some animal hides were nailed to the walls, gray patches of bare skin showing here and there. Long wooden benches that looked like church pews were arranged across the floor, pointed toward a large-screen television. A mannequin in the corner was draped with a tattered American flag, and it held an empty bottle of whiskey in one stiff hand.

“Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” Forsyth said. One of the investigating agents had described the space, and the indictment had also mentioned Silver’s clandestine lab. The room wasn’t small, originally housing bays for two cars, but Silver had packed enough oddities to make it feel cramped.

The shag carpet was peeled back, revealing an opening in the floor where the second service bay would be. A thick piece of plywood was sitting off to the side. Silver hurried through the dim clutter, knelt and stuck his head down into the darkness. Scagnelli leaned over his shoulder and illuminated the space below.

“Bastards,” Silver said. “They took it all. Some of that was legit.”

“You know how it works,” Forsyth said. “The government seizes all evidence and assets and sorts it out later.”

As Silver descended via a metal ladder fixed to the wall, Forsyth stepped to the lip and looked past him to the refashioned service pit. Silver had applied his ingenuity by installing stainless-steel shelving and tables. Forsyth could imagine it full of flasks, trays, electron microscopes, computers, and gooseneck lamps. Silver settled into the metal office chair as if he were opening up shop again, the star of the show in the circle of Scagnelli’s spotlight.

“So this is where Halcyon and Seethe were reborn,” Forsyth said from above.

“Seethe?” Silver said.

“Dr. Morgan’s formula.”