Chronic Fear (21 page)

Mark had always wondered about that phrase “seeing red.”

Red was the color of blood and passion and fire, the strongest impulses of the human mind, the devil’s color. But this red that consumed him was beyond the mind, seeping from some hidden ancestral fountain. He felt simultaneously more and less human, a stack of stupid clay sparked to life by a lurid puppet master.

Slinking through the woods at dawn had stirred primal hunting instincts, and as he approached the gunfire, his anxiety and excitement grew. Common sense should be begging him to flee, but he knew sense had been burned out of him more than a year ago. He’d entered law-enforcement training partly out of a desire to protect Alexis from the unknown future, but the deeper truth was he craved the adrenaline high of that night in the Monkey House, the cat-and-mouse game of survival, and the simplest challenge of defeating pain, madness, and death itself.

Now the fucking monkey is locked and loaded.

The last gunshot had been a good hundred yards to the north, where lush oak trees dotted the ridge, so he felt relatively secure. But maybe the seeping, creeping redness had already clouded his judgment, because when he came around the moss-mottled stand of granite boulders to discover a man in a green jumpsuit, turned away and holding a blunt rifle, his first instinct wasn’t to question the man, or yell “Police! Drop your weapon!” like that old bastard Frady Cat had taught him.

No, the red filled him up and
became
him, and the Glock was up and working,
pah pah pah
, just like he was shooting at a cardboard cutout on the range.

The man jerked in surprise, his sunglasses dropping away to reveal eyes turned up to heaven. Then he squealed and slumped to the ground, the rifle tumbling away into last winter’s leaves.

The redness swelled until it burst from his lungs, and when he heard the triumphant roar echo off the rocks and trees, he mistook it for some rampaging wild animal. But the raw pain in his throat made him realize he’d been the one releasing that inhuman noise.

And just as suddenly, the red dimmed, and he was standing over the warm corpse, realizing he’d given away his position to the other gunmen.

And killed a man. Oh, yes, Mark, you certainly diddle-diddly-did. And don’t even pretend you have any remorse. Because you loved it. This is how you were made, and the rest was just for show.

The cabin was below, and Roland’s white Jeep was parked nearby, on the uneven, scruffy lawn. From this vantage point, the gunman could have picked off anyone running from the cabin to the Jeep. They were probably holed up inside, if they were lucky. Mark called to them while taking cover between two thick hardwoods.

There was no answer at first, and Mark knew he couldn’t stay in one place. He didn’t know how many gunmen there were, but the origins of the shots suggested at least two.

He backpedaled and checked the pockets of the dead man’s jumpsuit, finding a two-way radio, a fancy cell phone of a brand he didn’t recognize, and nothing else but a clip of bullets for the rifle. This guy had come outfitted for only one purpose.

The victim’s face was white with the shock of death. Three glistening brownish-red dots pocked his rib cage, in the section where the center circle would be on a cardboard target. Frady would be pleased.

You don’t know who this is or who he’s with.

Mark laughed, like the chattering of some exotic, displaced bird.
And the same could be said of you, Officer Morgan.

Mark glanced at the fallen rifle. It was an automatic weapon of the sort restricted to military and security agencies—or anybody working the wrong side of the street with decent connections and cash.

Mark was tempted by the MP5, but decided he’d be better off with the weapon he was trained to use. He scuttled across the leafy slope, working his way toward the opposite ridge where he’d heard the most recent shot.

Mark was glad he’d left Alexis in the car. Because, once in a while, a man just got in the mood to kill.

Wallace Forsyth wasn’t bothered by the rifle pointed at his face.

“Your heart ain’t in it,” Forsyth said.

“What?” She had her gun on him but was staring out the front window, straining forward as if anticipating the sound of the next shot.

“The gun. You wouldn’t kill me.”

Her face twisted as if annoyed at the distraction. “I’m quite capable, Mr. Forsyth.”

“You killed a man in the Monkey House. But you’re no murderer. That was Seethe working through you. The devil.”

“My husband’s out there with bullets flying around, and you’re
preaching
? Don’t push it.”

“We’ve changed, Dr. Morgan. All of us. For some, it’s been slow. But look at your husband. Did you see his face when he left the car? Something evil’s took hold of him.”

She shook her head, but Forsyth could see the doubt and concern weighing on her. Sweat glistened above her eyebrows, and her bright blue eyes were as gray as a troubled sea before a storm.

“He was happy,” Forsyth continued. “Like a kid running down to the drugstore for a soda pop and a comic book.”

“What are you talking about?”

“These pills.” He shook the vial he’d been clutching since Mark had entered the woods. “All they do is release what’s already inside us. They let us be who we really are. And we’re all the devil’s tool.”

She lowered the rifle until it was resting on her knee. It must have been heavy. Forsyth probably could have snatched it from her, or at least grabbed the barrel and forced it in another direction, but he saw no need. He could defeat her with the truth.

The gospel according to Wallace Forsyth.

“I thought I could control it,” Alexis said. “I could use it to help people.”

“We will be judged by our works, and those not found in the Book of Life will be cast into the lake of fire.”

“You said we’ve changed. But I haven’t.”

He could see the doubt in her eyes. But the Lord taught mercy. “None of them understand what all this is about. We can do this, Dr. Morgan. We can save the world.”

“What about the senator?”

“Daniel was a good man. But in the past year, his heart’s been eaten up with rot and war. He’s become dangerous.”

“Like you and your apocalyptic talk?”

Forsyth balanced the approaching lie against the higher purpose. “Daniel is seeking power for himself.”

“And you serve a higher power, right?”

Forsyth smiled again. “I’ve changed, too.”

Another shot rang out, this one more distant, and Alexis’s fingers clenched on the rifle. She shifted in her seat, barely listening to him.

“We can do this,” he repeated. “We have Seethe now. And you can develop it, refine it. The world doesn’t need to know about Sebastian Briggs. Seethe can be all yours.”

She was thinking about it, her tongue protruding slightly. Forsyth had guessed right. She had changed. The deep craving inside her was stronger than she realized, and her ambition owned her. She wasn’t willing to admit she had killed, but she was capable of killing.

Oh, yes, she would kill for Seethe.

Forsyth twisted the lid from the vial. “We can produce millions of these,” he said.

He shook one out and held his palm toward her. “Become more like yourself, Dr. Morgan. No need to hold back any longer. We’re miles and miles from the world of morals and rules and civilization. Nobody to witness but God.”

She leaned away from him, pressing against the driver’s-side door as if he were pushing a serpent at her. He was patient, though.

“Seethe lets you be who you are running from,” Forsyth said. He moved his palm to his mouth and partook of the fiery dragon. The devil worked in this world, but God’s promise was one of ultimate victory, though the battles might be painful. “Become who you are.”

As his teeth crunched into the pill and he swallowed the bitter chemicals, another shot rang out, closer, and Alexis spun, the barrel of the AR-15 knocking the vial to the floor and scattering pills across the carpet.

“Mark,” she whispered, opening her door.

“We don’t need him,” Forsyth said, already feeling the self-righteous rage course through his spirit. All of God’s warriors were justified in their actions, no matter how bloodthirsty.

“I do,” she said. “And you can go to hell.”

Alexis reached over the seat, grabbed her backpack, and jogged into the woods. After a moment, Forsyth stooped and began collecting the pills from the floorboard.

Roland’s head felt like a lump of liver mush shot through with Louisiana hot sauce.

His cheek was pressed against sticky linoleum and his body was so heavy, he wondered if he’d ever move his limbs again. Voices came to him as if through a wall of water.

As he sucked for breath, he let his memory rewind, because he wasn’t sure where he was, how he’d gotten here, or why his skull throbbed like a giant broken tooth.

Wendy’s voice came to him first, and he made out the word “painting.”

Roland opened his eyes, and the morning light hurled spears of electric torture deep inside him.

“Roland?” Wendy was closer now, talking softly, which was good, because the voices had been clanging his eardrums like a plumber beating a cast-iron sewer pipe.

He tried to speak but all he managed was an
urrrk
, which was just as well because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

“Sorry,” she said as her shadow loomed over him. “You had a gun.”

Another piece of the soggy jigsaw puzzle slid into place and Roland remembered the secret-agent guy who’d been hanging around. Whose side was he on? Whose side was
Wendy
on?

“No buh,” he said, a strand of drool trailing out and linking his mouth to the floor.

“No bullets,” said the man in the cabin. “The revolver’s empty.”

Of course it was. Roland didn’t trust himself. He’d heard that crazy people never questioned the rightness of their bizarre beliefs, but he wasn’t sure about that. And when he’d caught himself plotting to kill Mark, Alexis, and Wendy, he knew that was exactly the kind of thing Seethe would tell him to do.

The only way to prove Seethe didn’t make you crazy is to not do crazy shit.

But the philosophical debate worsened his headache, and Wendy was gently stroking his hair, so he focused on her fingers and away from the hot, orange-red center of pain.

“One of them’s down,” the man said, and Roland remembered his name was Gundersson. Or at least that was his fake secret-agent cover story.

“Mark’s here,” Wendy said to him. “We’re surrounded by men with rifles.”

“Am I shot?” Aside from his sodden head, he actually felt okay.

“No, I…I hit you.”

“Damn, honey. I thought we were past all that.”

“I thought you were going to kill him, and we need him.”

A sudden slew of bullets pierced the side window, shattering the glass and
thwacking
into the paneling above their heads. Wendy instinctively hunched over him.

“They’re shooting wild,” Gundersson said. “That means they’re losing patience.”

“Guess the floor is a good place to be,” Roland said.

“I love you,” Wendy whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’d do anything for you.”

“Love leaves you brainless.” He tried to smile but his face muscles were like barbed wire stitched into his skin.

“Listen, Roland,” Gundersson said. “I’ve got backup on the way. But we need to hold out for two hours.”

Gundersson made it sound like rescue would be a
good
thing. Which meant the backup could turn out to be the very people who’d started the whole hunt for Seethe and Halcyon. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Burchfield pulling the strings from a safe distance.

Someone shouted from the forest, and Roland recognized Mark’s voice. He had to strain to make out the words: “You okay in there?”

“Don’t answer,” Gundersson said. “Let them keep guessing.”

“But Mark’s on our side,” Wendy said. “He’s trying to save us.”

Gundersson hobbled up the stairs without speaking, and Roland heard his boots drum across the loft. He lifted one hand and motioned Wendy closer.

He whispered, “Gundersson wanted us all together. That’s why he had you call the Morgans.”

Wendy shook her head as if Roland was being a silly, silly boy. “We need to get our heads together on this. The four of us.”

“Where’s the painting?”

“Oh, so you’re finally interested in my art?”

“Yeah, the deeper meaning.”

“It’s over there.” She waved toward somewhere in the room.

Roland tried to turn in that direction but he was still too woozy. “Do you know what you’ve painted?”

“The Monkey House,” she said. “The same thing I’ve been painting for the past year.”

“You painted the formula for Seethe. If these bastards get that, they don’t need us alive anymore. Did you show Gundersson?”

“He saw it but didn’t make a big deal of it,” she said. “I’ve not exactly had my shit together here for the last couple of days.”

“Because Seethe is back. I don’t think it ever left.”

Wendy shook her head in denial. “No. They couldn’t get us here. That’s why we hid away, remember?”

“You can’t hide from what’s inside you.”

Gundersson yelled from upstairs. “I don’t see anything, but keep on eye on the back side of the cabin.”

Wendy crawled across the floor to the kitchen window as Roland rolled onto his side. He groaned as a wash of fresh hurt rolled over him, and he felt for the lump above his ear.

If my skull cracked, maybe the Seethe poured out. And maybe I’m all better now.

In the Monkey House, Mark had taught him that pain trumped rage, that pain brought clarity, that pain was the most basic human condition. Pain ruled the kingdom of the mind.

“Keep that pretty head down, Wendy,” he said, just before the glass erupted above her head and showered her with sparkling shards.