Chronic Fear (5 page)

“What’s wrong, honey?” Wendy asked, propped up on pillows and flipping through a book of Gauguin prints.

Roland dropped the curtain. “It’s quiet outside.”

“We’re half a mile from the nearest neighbors and twenty miles from town,” she said. “We wanted quiet on purpose, remember?”

“Yeah, but it’s April. Where are all the crickets and night birds and critters? It’s like the pope’s funeral out there.”

“Everybody needs a break once in a while. Maybe God is taking the night off.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“You’ve been antsy since dinner. What’s wrong?”

He unbuttoned his shirt and stroked his belly. After he’d quit drinking, he’d lost about fifteen pounds, but lately a little fat had crept back. His dad had been chubby, a truck driver whose sedentary lifestyle led to a fatal heart attack on US-70 while hauling a trailer-load of culvert pipes. He’d steered to his right with his last breath, running off the road and avoiding a likely pileup that might have kept the coroner busy for weeks.

Or the last turn could have been a little of that infamous Doyle luck. Roland preferred the hero story, because it would have been the only positive act of Denny Doyle’s fear-ridden life. And fear was a chronic disease that people happily spread to others, especially their loved ones. For Roland, the infection had taken liquid form, a handy excuse to destroy himself and those around him. Especially Wendy.

But this new fear was a little unsettling, because it was one he didn’t think he could just pour down the sink or turn over to a higher power.

“Where do you go when it’s already as good as it gets?” he said. “You’re the hillbilly Bohemian and I’m the creative entrepreneur, and we’re here in the oldest pocket of dirt in the universe. But what’s the next level?”

“Maybe there’s no next level,” she said. “Maybe when you get to heaven, it’s okay to stay there.”

He finished undressing and climbed into bed. He didn’t think heaven could exist on the same planet that once contained the Monkey House, and where now the hellish past refused to leave them alone. But Wendy’s memory of those events was mercifully erased, and Roland had to carry that cross alone.

Well, with the help of his higher power. But the higher power was the one that had built the cross in the first place.

“Do you miss teaching at the university?” he asked.

She closed the art book and set it aside. “That was a different life, honey. I like this one better.”

He couldn’t help probing a little, though he didn’t really see any upside to jogging her memory. “Heard from Alexis lately?”

“She IMed me a few months back,” Wendy said. “Mark’s having some physical ailments but nothing serious.”

Yeah, I’ll bet. Getting your brains scrambled in a blender and then shoved back inside your skull is no big deal.

“Maybe we ought to invite them up for a few days,” he said. “I’m sure they’d love to get away from the big city for a while.”

“Chapel Hill isn’t that big. Besides, where would we put them? You got a one-bedroom cabin on purpose, to make sure children weren’t an option anytime soon.”

“A small cabin is something we can pay off in five years,” he said. “In this economy, I don’t want to be tied down to a redneck Taj Mahal.”

“So quit complaining about the silence,” she said, turning to him and shoving the pillows until their faces were inches apart.

“Yeah,” he said. “So shut up and kiss me.”

Their lips brushed, and the electricity went through Roland’s body. As much as the notion repulsed him, he’d come to accept that the Seethe had charged his libido. Wendy could send him from zero to sixty faster than a Maserati.

And he had a handy excuse whenever a new paranoia arose. When somebody else was in control, that made the consequences somebody else’s fault.

Every four hours or else. Sounds like a good prescription for a happy marriage.

Her breath teased across his cheek and she licked his neck, then blew on it, sending shivers down his spine. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt and peeled it up, brushing her belly with the back of his hand until he came to the valley between her small, pert breasts. He ran one thumb over to tease a nipple, pleased to feel it stiffen and push back.

“I love you, Roland,” she whispered.

Damn. I fall for that line every single time. But who doesn’t?

“So shut up and turn off the light,” he whispered back.

He didn’t mind doing it with the lights on, but he felt the need to hide a little. Honesty was not only the foundation of his sobriety, it was the foundation of a good relationship. But sometimes honesty just meant shutting up, especially when a mysterious e-mail hinted at a best-forgotten past.

Roland had her shirt off by the time she reached the lamp, and he curled behind her to pin his erection between her buns. He stroked there a moment, running his hands over her front, his face buried in her thick, luxuriant hair. He didn’t know whether her Tibetan genetics gave it that faintly musky aroma, but it always evoked strong memories of past pleasure.

Right now, all he cared about was the present, and pleasure yet to come.

He nuzzled the back of her neck in that special spot, then gave a playful nip to her earlobe. She pushed gently back against him, undulating so her vagina moved against his rigid length. He swept his hands underneath her breasts, gently, rubbing up to the nipples and circling in a soft rhythm.

Her body was like a warm instrument beneath his hands, and he worked his fingers in harmony, teasing her nipples. When he could stand it no longer, he rose and maneuvered over her until he could apply his tongue. She moaned and gave him her breast, and he sucked like he was drawing juice from a peach.

He resisted the urge to bite, as the sickness rode in with his lust. Their sex had darkened in the past year, becoming uncertain, explosive, and fraught with veiled violence. And part of him loved it. Loved it very goddamned much.

As she pinched his nipple, he went to full hardness, and in response he bit her nipple, careful to tuck his lip under his upper teeth. She grunted and pulled away, planting her tongue deep in his mouth, and they parried for a moment in a swap of hot saliva.

Wendy came up for air first, turning so that she was under him, then sucked hard on his nipple until it swelled to a painful point. When he could stand it no longer, she gave him teeth and he gasped, then she gave him more than he could stand.

His hand played down her hips and stroked the smooth insides of her thighs, moving into her downy thatch of hair, which was already moist. He cupped his palm over her heat, kneading gently for a moment before sliding a fingertip to her clitoris. He brought the juice to his lips and smeared, then she licked away the remnants, sharing her taste with him.

She rubbed the head of his penis, where a jewel of dew had already formed, and they repeated the fluid game on her lips before sharing a tender kiss, the calm before the storm.

“I love you,” he said, sliding his tongue down her neck and chest as his hands cupped her behind. He probed his tongue into her belly button and gave a few playful pokes before heading further down, where her scent was already consuming his senses. His nose rode the length of her cleft, and he marveled at the soft texture that was so much like a flower’s swollen and honeyed petals.

She purred and pressed his head forward, and he fought her for only a moment before yielding and letting his lips tug the soft folds into his mouth, where he alternately nibbled and licked until his chin was soaked with her juice. Her clitoris was swollen and he ran his tongue underneath it, lifting up hard before easing the pressure and taunting the tiny bud of sensitive flesh with delicate nudges.

Again he felt a compulsion to hurt her, to squeeze the tender flesh and hear her squeal in pain. But he recognized the urge and was able to beat it, backing off enough to vary his motion, silently cursing the contamination in his brain that had screwed up his thoughts until he barely knew love from hate. And he loved her. Loved her.

He repeated until she came, the fluids gushing in the sudden deluge that always caught him by surprise, though her trembling had heralded it. She moaned as the second release came, and he realized he’d have to change the sheets. But he’d promised her that he’d gladly change the sheets every day if he had to and never complain about such a wondrous gift as female ejaculation, even if it had only entered their sex lives after the Monkey House.

Seethe had opened something inside of her as well, an untapped reservoir, and he tried not to think about it. It was bad for his ego, and made him wonder what else she had bottled up.

Every four hours or else.

The e-mail swam before him and he fought off the memory, wanting nothing to distract him from one of his favorite moments, the feel of his wife’s powerless and uninhibited pulsing.

Fuck you, whoever you are. You’re not allowed in here. This is private.

Taking advantage of her spread legs, he wiggled up and ran his erection along her leg, annoyed that he’d softened a little at the memory of the message. He wasn’t David Underwood. He was Roland Doyle, and he was married to Wendy Leng, the woman he was about to penetrate or die trying.

Wendy had other ideas, though, and she shoved him hard on the shoulder, pushing until he rolled and she had him pinned on his back. She leaned over and gave him a breast and he took it as she rubbed her slick bottom against him. With the weak moon coming through the curtains, he could only see her dim outline, but her face was as clear to him as anything in this life.

And her dark eyes were full of love, sacrifice, vulnerability, exposure, surrender, and conquest as she reached down with one hand and guided him inside.

“Ah, yesssss,” she said as he hit home, and she slid along the turgid length until he was almost buried inside. She pulled up agonizingly slowly and then repeated the descent, squeezing her vaginal muscles to massage him as she made the mad ride back down. When she was close to bottoming out, she wriggled and quivered until she took the last inch, releasing another gush that wet his testicles.

I’m going to have to wash the comforter, too. Awesome.

He was momentarily distracted by the image of blood gushing out of her, binding them where their flesh met, the ultimate proof of love. He pushed the vision away. Because he still loved her.

Don’t I?

She worked up and down, then swayed side to side to make sure he touched every secret part of her, the tips of her hair feathering against his face. He grabbed her hips as the need took him, and he thrust as he shoved down on her waist. A wet slapping filled the bedroom—

Sebastian Briggs fucking her in the Monkey House
—

His jealousy and rage made a perverse transition into sexual energy, and he felt himself swell even more.

“Yes,” she urged. “Drill me hard.”

Which was odd, since she was the one driving the train, but who was he to argue with such a command? He assisted her frantic pummeling, the friction increasing. And then the change occurred, the one recurring hiccup to his innocent desire.

The lust merged into fear and rage and he clutched her hair, not hard enough to hurt, not yet—he still loved her—though he wanted badly to yank until her neck snapped back.

The madness came back as strongly as it had in the Monkey House, when he’d killed Sebastian Briggs. He’d told himself it was self-defense, an involuntary reaction, but honesty was a hard, hot edge of a knife that pressed against the thin fabric of every deception.

He’d killed Briggs because Briggs had seduced Wendy.

Even though she had no recollection of her surrender—however involuntary—he couldn’t bury it, and the only way he could defeat it each time was to become a little like the monster Briggs had wanted him to be.

As he plunged upward, his hips slapping against her moist bottom, he curled his hand into a claw and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her shoulders down.

And she responded with her own inner sickness, exploding yet again, and this time he joined her, the fervid volcano of his demented passion driving deep into her soft and hidden self.

As they relaxed, grinding together to squeeze out the last drops of joy and shame, Roland couldn’t help but feel that Briggs was getting the last laugh from the safe comfort of the grave.

“I thought we’d buried them,” Senator Daniel Burchfield said. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, brushing some of the powder from his cheek. “Goddamned makeup. I want to look smooth, not like the corpse of a French mime.”

Wallace Forsyth looked around the small dressing room. He didn’t trust these cable news outlets. They were in the business of catching people with their pants down, looking for the gaffes that would feed the cycle until the next natural disaster, shooting spree, or Lindsay Lohan arrest.

“Is the room clean?” Forsyth asked.

“Abernethy went over it himself. But you don’t need a bug to eavesdrop, Wallace. We’ve got stuff that can pick up a conversation through the carpet if necessary.”

Forsyth looked down at the floor, which was covered in shiny vinyl. The tip of one leather Oxford was scuffed and he rubbed it against his pants leg. “You say ‘we’ like you know who is on whose side.”

“Everybody’s on my side,” Burchfield said. “Some of them just don’t know it yet.”

Satisfied with his reflection, Burchfield turned to face Forsyth. “We did everything we promised,” he said. “We leveled the Monkey House, sold that ‘limited contamination’ story in the press, hid the bodies, and pretty much let everybody else go on with their lives.”

“Even though they might snitch you out?”

“You’ve been reading too many spy novels, Wallace. Most people aren’t looking for intrigue or danger. Most people are scared as crap that they’re going to be noticed. Then they’d have to act like their job is vital, that they don’t cheat on their taxes, and that they know all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance.”

“Have you ever considered, Daniel, that you’re far too cynical to be the president of the United States of America?”

“Yes, I’ve considered it. But they say if you scratch a cynic, you find a frustrated idealist. And, I confess, I am idealistic. I love this country. I still think we’re the best in the world, and that we have a sacred duty to shape the future.”

“‘Sacred duty’? Sounds like you’re starting to cater to my crowd.” Forsyth smiled inwardly.

“Don’t worry, Wallace. Federal support of religious non-profit groups is a done deal. And it won’t even be a fight. I’ve already got a nod from the House leader.”

“You’re assuming the Republicans will control the House next year?”

“Change is in the air. Change is always in the air during troubled times.”

“Some would say your actions have helped make them troubled.” Forsyth knew the devil’s hand was involved, but Burchfield wasn’t as true of a believer as he played it in public.

“Look, I didn’t start any wars. The people wanted them. We have a moral imperative. Where governments are corrupt and people are oppressed, we lend our might. That’s been true since the Monroe Doctrine.”

“Only when it serves our corporate friends.”

“Don’t make me use up all my best material right before an interview, Wallace. Right now, we need to tie up this Halcyon thing before the primary. That’s all we need, to let one of the neo-cons catch wind of it, or that goddamned Utah governor.”

“He’ll carry his home state, but as long as you bring up the word ‘Mormon’ in every press conference, the Internet bloggers will do the job for you.”

Burchfield, who stood a good four inches taller than Forsyth, slapped the wispy-haired man on the back. “You’ve been catching up to the Digital Age,” he boomed, with the boyish grin that guaranteed him an extra 10 percent among women voters. “Good man. Before you know it, you’ll be running your own Facebook page.”

There was a knock at the door, and a woman’s muffled voice came from beyond it. “Five minutes, Senator.”

Burchfield adjusted his tie again and nodded at Forsyth to continue. The senator had been in bed with Big Tobacco before the historic settlement had gutted that lobby’s power, and then he’d eased over into Big Drugs without a hiccup. As senior member of the Senate health committee, he’d exploited killing and healing with equal success.

Now Burchfield had said the one word that had been on both their minds since receiving the same text message earlier in the day:
Halcyon.

“Our boys have Dr. Morgan under surveillance, but we don’t see her conjuring up anything,” Forsyth said. “Her current research project might as well be June bugs in a jar, as far as we can tell.”

“You think she backed off Halcyon completely?”

“She didn’t get on the president’s council by being a dummy. She knows we got eyes on her.”

“And Mark Morgan?” Burchfield’s face darkened with the memory of betrayal. Mark Morgan had been a staunch ally in the pharmaceutical game, but he’d chosen his wife over his career, and then added insult to injury by refusing Burchfield’s offer to join the campaign team. And now, unaccountably, he was training to be a cop.

“I checked on his performance at Durham Tech,” Forsyth said. “Solid Bs, mediocre marksmanship, generally well-liked by his teachers but considered town-cop material at best. He won’t be enrolling at Quantico any time soon.”

“And that Underwood guy is still locked away in the loony bin?”

“They’ve got him juiced on so many drugs, he can’t tell daffodils from dandelions. You don’t have to worry about him talking none.”

“The other two, the art teacher and the drunk?”

“They moved up to the North Carolina mountains and turned into hillbillies.” Forsyth was getting a headache from Burchfield’s cologne and hair gel. “They do some of that Internet stuff but it’s all above board, nickel-and-dime web business. All art and no politics.”

Burchfield chuckled. “Well, that takes care of them. They’ll be on food stamps before Election Day. In today’s America, you either buy in, sell out, or get on the gravy train. Free thinkers learn the hard meaning of ‘free’ sooner or later.”

“We’re monitoring them anyway. E-mails, phone calls, we’re even scanning some of their postal mail.”

“Spoken like a true paranoid patriot.”

The knock came again. “Three minutes.”

Burchfield looked at the door as if speculating on the chances of a romantic rendezvous with the young production assistant. Burchfield had gotten married six months before, enlisting a charming and guileless former debutante he’d dated at NC State. The wedding fulfilled the voters’ need for perceived stability in their leaders, although it had done nothing to dampen Burchfield’s lascivious nature.

Which brought them to the last survivor of the Monkey House trials: Anita Molkesky, known during her porn career as “Anita Mann.”

“And the one that died?” the senator asked, reaching for the glass of water on the makeup table.

“Nothing surfaced,” Forsyth said. “As far as the world knows, she was just another messed-up kid with a drug problem. The only wonder is it took her so long to OD.”

“And she wasn’t…helped?” Burchfield searched his friend’s eyes.

Forsyth kept his face as stolid and stony as he had while practicing law in Clay County, Kentucky, moving from divorce court to civil litigation before making a successful run for district attorney. From there, he’d risen quickly through the party ranks and, with his drawling brand of hellfire and brimstone mixed with down-home values, he settled into eight consecutive terms in the U.S. House before the last Democratic sweep had dumped him to the curb.

Burchfield had kept him close as an advisor, since Forsyth knew all the snake handlers in the capital, as well as most of the snakes. But some things, even Forsyth didn’t have the stomach for.

“Our people weren’t involved,” he said. “As far as I know.”

Burchfield looked off in the distance, perhaps fondly recalling his disgusting behavior on that long-ago night, when he’d rutted sinfully with Anita while under the influence of Seethe. If he ever needed a reminder, Forsyth had stashed away a video recording, the one Burchfield had assumed was destroyed with the rest of the facility.

“Collateral damage is sometimes necessary,” Burchfield said. “But we need to nail that down and make sure the autopsy shows no foul play. Primary season is when those little rumors start percolating. And I have a few hand grenades of my own, but I need to lay out some landmines and tear gas first.”

“The Monkey House is ancient history, Daniel,” Forsyth said. “Hell, I barely even remember it, and I was
there
.”

“But somebody remembers besides the CIA. And we better find out who it is, before Fox News and MSNBC and that goddamned Diane Sawyer get wind of it.”

“We got a saying back in East Kentucky. It goes, ‘If you don’t stir in the outhouse, it don’t stink so much.’”

“If we could fit that on a bumper sticker, we’d have this thing won already,” Burchfield said.

The knock came again.

“I know, two minutes!” Burchfield shouted. CNN had tight live programming, as did all the cable news networks, and Burchfield’s swing through Atlanta had allowed him a chance to drop in on the Centers for Disease Control. In addition to providing a great photo op of a somber Senator Daniel Burchfield talking with medical researchers, he’d been able to buttonhole a few of them and inquire about any breakthroughs in drugs treating post-traumatic stress disorder.

While the inquiries sounded like those of a leader concerned about the country’s combat veterans, it was also a chance to see if Sebastian Briggs’s experimental compounds had somehow entered the black market and made an end run back into the system.

Since Forsyth wasn’t officially a candidate for anything, he didn’t have to campaign, and thus could devote time and energy to working behind the scenes and tracking potential threats.

But it also meant retrofitting the past, making sure Burchfield was spotless, no matter how much whitewash it took. And some of that wash might be red if necessary.

“Scagnelli’s snooping around the NSA, FBI, CIA, the usual,” Forsyth said. “I’d say you have about eighty percent support there, which means nobody’s likely to knock your legs out from under you. But there might be a rogue agent somewhere, somebody who wants to freelance on the side.”

“Be sure to check out Scagnelli, too,” Burchfield said, straightening his tie for the third time. “He’s an opportunist just like the rest of us. He might have learned something and decided to turn it into a lottery ticket.”

“He learned that your last consultant died from a sudden heart attack,” Forsyth said. “But that may not work again, because Scagnelli ain’t got a heart.”

“Whoever is behind it, before we take them out, I need to know one thing.” Burchfield’s face grew serious, and even the Botox regimen couldn’t diminish the hard wrinkles around his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Whether or not Seethe and Halcyon still exist. I’m not even sure they were real.”

“They’re real. Those drugs have changed you.”

“How?”

“You’re more intense now. It goes over as passion. And I think you can ride that to the White House if you can keep a lid on it.”

“I am in control.” Burchfield brushed past him and opened the door, where the pretty production assistant was waiting to outfit him with a wireless, clip-on microphone. He grinned boyishly as she attached it to his breast pocket.

“Be careful, I’m ticklish,” he said.

“Bet you say that to all the voters.”

“Only the pretty ones.”

She blushed and finished the job, giving him an extra pat to make sure the wire was completed concealed. Burchfield’s smile stayed with him as he was escorted before the bright lights and cameras.

Forsyth watched from the wings in admiration as Burchfield masterfully fielded questions about his foreign policy, budget plan, and the all-important controversy over whether the Tea Party was going to fracture the Republicans and create an opening for a third-party candidate.

When Burchfield deftly dodged questions about a potential running mate, it was Forsyth’s turn to smile.

Seethe and Halcyon changed both of us, Daniel.