Liquid Fear (10 page)

Reality.

It wasn’t a state of mind or an illusion of perception. It was nothing more than a shared and mutually accepted madness. An agreed-upon delusion kept the Earth fixed in the heavens and the trees knitted deeply into the soil.

And Briggs was no longer a fantasy. He had happened. The Monkey House had happened.

The Monkey House was real.

And she couldn’t let it show. No matter what, she had to maintain appearances. She was Dr. Alexis Morgan, respected neurochemist, not some trippy-dippy English professor.

“I’m fine,” she said, taking the books as she spied the knotted shoulders of the fullback bobbing above the crowd, hurrying away. From the concrete steps, the campus cop observed her behind frigid shades.

A fugue experience. Mind slip. Déjà vu of an event that couldn’t have happened.

Yet the warm glow of a pinprick emanated across her back, and she was afraid the dizziness would return. Before the cop could climb down the steps, before the trees could walk, before the injected venom could taint her bloodstream, she smiled in gratitude at Knit Cap Boy and hurried across the compound, toward the center of campus and the safe, familiar walls of her office.

Kleingarten smirked.

The university cop uniform had been easy to fake, and nobody looked at patches or badges. In fact, by changing from the blue shirt to a brown shirt, he could just as easily have passed for a member of the landscaping crew. He’d paid a little visit to Dr. Morgan’s office and the crowd in the hall had parted like a creek around a boulder. These college brats were so damned cool they couldn’t even acknowledge authority, much less respect it.

The day was warm and he enjoyed ogling the sweet young coeds, and probably a few were into men in uniforms. He might find out if he held his post long enough to draw them in. But despite all the budget cuts, a real university cop might show up and cause trouble.

Kleingarten could handle trouble, but part of the fun was in working outside the system. Any idiot could go out guns blazing, playing
Die Hard
and hoping for a sequel. It took real skill and genius to go completely undetected.

And he liked this little game Briggs was playing. Hell, he might have taken the job for half price.

Still, he had overhead, like the jock sidling his way, trying to blend in despite his letter jacket, spiked hair, and a steroid-bloated neck that made his head look like a ferret-covered bucket of rocks.

Kleingarten rolled his eyes to a secluded alcove that led to a basement entrance, indicating the jock should follow him.

The guy mouthed, “What?”

Fucking amateurs
. Kleingarten gave an impatient jerk of his thumb and turned away. After a moment, the jock followed.

“Did I do good?” he said.

“Sure, kid,” Kleingarten said, pulling the roll of unmarked bills from his pocket. They were bound by a rubber band. He should have tucked the money in the envelope, but this was part of the game, too.

“It won’t hurt her none, will it?” The jock was making an effort to be concerned, but compassion was a few too many rungs up the IQ ladder.

“Would your government do anything to harm one of its citizens?”

The jock shook his head, visibly stiffening as if looking for a flag to salute. He struggled to stuff the bills into the pocket of his too-tight jeans.

“What about…you know, the other stuff?”

“Of course.”

Kleingarten handed over the vial of anabolic steroids. “This should be good for six extra touchdowns and moving up a couple of rounds in the draft.”

“Sweet. You know how hard it is to get this stuff these days?”

“Hey, there’s always the Canadian Football League.”

The guy didn’t catch the humor. “Yeah, sure. So, are we done here?”

“That’s it. Easy as pie, just like I promised.”

A couple of students passed, and Kleingarten gave an exaggerated slap to the jock’s arm and guffawed for their benefit. “You kick State’s ass for us, okay?”

The jock nodded. “If Coach gives me the ball more.”

Kleingarten winked as the students moved on past to join the human stream. “Take enough of that, and he will. Now, how about that needle?”

“Right,” the guy said, as if he’d forgotten. He reached into the pocket of his letter jacket. “Ouch. Fuck.”

He pulled the needle out and looked at the little pinprick on the side of his thumb. “You
sure
this stuff is okay?”

“Safe as mother’s milk, my friend. And, remember, it’s a secret.”

“A matter of national security,” the jock recited, those magical words that allowed people the world over to get away with murder.

“Now get out of here and forget you ever saw me.”

The jock hunkered away and Kleingarten pretended to check the locks on the doors. Someone might be watching. These eggheads lived in their own oblivious little fantasy land, though, and considered their island immune from the ills of the real world.

They were worried about people taking the word “nigger” out of books and how many goddamned butterflies were dying in the rain forest. That stuff was too important for anyone to notice an anonymous rent-a-cop.

A cute coed walked by and gave him the once-over, and Kleingarten resisted the temptation to open the door for her. Instead, he just touched the bill of his cap in greeting. He didn’t smile too broadly or she might remember him.

As she entered, he followed, using his foot to hold the door open. He retrieved the backpack he’d tucked behind an air unit, and then went to the private faculty restroom that was little more than a closet. Those with extra college degrees couldn’t just shit in a stall like the rest of the crowd.

Kleingarten removed the uniform shirt and now wore only a “Go Heels” T-shirt featuring the horned head of a ram, the school mascot. He never could figure out why a school nicknamed “Tar Heels” used a ram, but he supposed you couldn’t just walk around at halftime holding up a black, splotchy Styrofoam foot.

He crammed the cop hat and blue shirt into the backpack and changed into scuffed loafers. He was mussing his hair when someone tried the handle and then knocked.

“Just a sec,” Kleingarten said, and then cut a fart so the room would smell authentic.

He flushed and exited, and a preppy dude in a sweater vest stood there tapping his foot like he had diarrhea. “All yours,” Kleingarten offered.

He went down the secluded hall with the backpack slung over his shoulder, just another middle-aged, nontraditional student working hard to improve his lot in life.

There was a chance the jock would talk, but it would have to be before he took his first injection. A 90 percent solution of calcium gluconate in the steroids would stress his heart to the bursting point.

And there was a chance a brilliant, astute medical examiner would detect the elevated calcium levels, assuming he or she had any reason to suspect anything but a case of steroid toxicity.

Kleingarten had already filed an anonymous tip that the star fullback was using illegal performance-enhancing substances. While the letter mailed to the UNC athletics department would likely be buried fast, and the one mailed to the NCAA would sit idle for months while policymakers figured out how to spin it, UNC’s conference rivals would probably wave their copies of the letter from the tops of their ivory towers and scream their self-righteous bullshit about fairness, as if anyone expected the world to be fair.

The jock might get his touchdowns first, and the autopsy might even raise suspicion.

But it was all part of the game.

And this game wasn’t fair.

Kleingarten exited the building and headed across the sidewalk, so nonchalant that he almost forgot to fake it.

Mark Morgan’s flight landed ten minutes behind schedule at Raleigh-Durham International. As the jet taxied to the terminal, the man in the seat beside Mark powered up his laptop computer and, despite the pilot’s admonition against using wireless devices, connected to the Internet.

As the man punched up his Yahoo home page, Mark found himself straining to browse the news headlines. Senator Burchfield’s national profile had been heating up, both on the rumors of a presidential run and his hard-line stance on defense spending. Of course, those two could be intimately entwined.

“Stock market’s down thirty points,” his seatmate said. “I thought the damned Democrats were supposed to turn things around.”

“Money’s bigger than politics,” Mark replied, though in his own experience the wealthy and the powerful fed side by side like hogs sucking at a bottomless trough.

Mark hadn’t been fully forthcoming with the senator and Wallace Forsyth. Though Briggs had indeed been engaged in unsupervised research without federal approval, he hadn’t confined his diabolic dabbling to memory suppression. Briggs’s fear drug had rolled through CRO’s internal rumor mill, but because such a drug wasn’t deemed commercially useful, no resources had been directed toward it. That didn’t mean Briggs didn’t have an intention for it. Mark didn’t trust Briggs any more than he trusted Burchfield. But for the time being, they all needed each other.

The cabin began emptying, and Mark waited a few minutes before retrieving his carry-on luggage. He was inside the terminal, heading for the front entrance and his ride, when two airport security guards flanked him.

In the era of shoe bombers and hijackers and TSA Nazis, Mark had given up his reasonable expectation of privacy, but most surprise searches occurred while passengers were boarding planes, not while debarking.

Both guards wore blue uniforms, stripped to short sleeves despite the air-conditioning. The taller one was armed, and Mark, who had traveled to many countries as a CRO executive, had seen his share of airport militia.

The shorter guard increased his pace and moved alongside Mark. The terminal was filled with the food-court odors of fried onion rings, hot dogs, and hazelnut coffee. The public-address system boomed a change of gate numbers, and a baby was crying in a waiting area.

Mark took a detour toward the restroom, though his bladder was tight and dry. Hopefully it would be crowded and he could blend in and escape scrutiny, or at least have witnesses for any shakedown. The guards continued toward the front exits, the taller one still trailing.

Mark stood at a urinal and unzipped, the suitcase propped behind him. Even with Burchfield on his side, other federal agents might have an interest both in Halcyon and Mark’s involvement in the health subcommittee’s deliberations. He didn’t think a public kidnapping was likely, but Burchfield’s political opponents might apply a little extra surveillance and pressure to flush out any subterfuge.

After standing at the urinal for two minutes, Mark washed his hands, taking his time. When he left the restroom, the two guards were nowhere in sight. An Asian man raced by, arms loaded with baggage. A mother with two small children in her lap read
USA Today
by a ticket counter. A teenage couple swayed to the rhythm of separate headphones, and Mark couldn’t tell which set was emitting a bass beat loud enough to be heard from twenty feet away.

He gripped the handle of his luggage and was joining the crowd again when the guards suddenly appeared, one at each elbow.

The tall guard took the suitcase while the other gripped Mark’s upper arm. “Has this bag been in your possession the entire time?” the tall guard asked.

“It’s never left my sight,” Mark said.

“Are you sure it’s yours?” the short guard said. His head resembled a thumb.

“Yes. It has my name on it, as well as stickers with numbers from other flights.”

“This way please,” the tall man said, nodding down the corridor toward a less-traveled area of the terminal.

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Routine baggage check.”

“It was cleared at Dulles when I boarded.”

“Please, sir. You wouldn’t want to make a scene, would you?”

Mark wondered if a scene might be required. The DEA, CID, FBI, CIA, and National Security Agency could all have an interest in Halcyon, or, more likely, the rage drug Briggs had discovered through the back door. Any of the agencies might want to hang a bull’s-eye on Burchfield, particularly if the president viewed him as a rival.

“Look, I can open this right here if you want,” Mark said. “Someone’s picking me up in a couple of minutes and you know how traffic is.”

Thumb finally spoke. He even sounded like a thumb. “National security.”

Mark sighed. No one could fight against those words. Best to go through the dog-and-pony show and let the puppet masters flex their strings.

They led Mark to a door as innocuous as that of a janitor’s closet. Mark entered to a brightly lit room containing nothing but a wooden table and a chair. Thumb planted the briefcase on the table. “Open it.”

Mark turned the serrated metal wheel of the lock until he’d dialed the proper combination and stepped back. “Please keep my papers in order,” he said.

Thumb grunted and opened the lid. The contents looked just as Mark had left them. He tried not to smile. He suspected Thumb wouldn’t trust a smile.

The tall guard removed his sunglasses and flashed gray eyes. “Mark Morgan.”

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

Thumb emitted a guttural noise that might have been satisfaction. He pulled an orange pill bottle from some hidden crevice. “Prescription?”

“Never seen it before,” Mark replied.

Thumb gave the bottle a shake. No rattle. Grimacing, he twisted the lid free and a piece of paper fluttered to the tabletop.

The tall guard picked it up and unfolded it. “‘This could have been ten years in jail,’” he read in a monotone.

“I don’t know where that came from,” Mark said.

“A joker, huh?”

“No joke.”

Thumb rummaged around a little more, checking every pocket and flap until he was satisfied.

“Ten years,” the tall guard said, handing the vial back to his partner, who dumped it in the briefcase and snapped the lid shut.

“I don’t know who you’re working for, but I didn’t put that there,” Mark said. He knew it wouldn’t have mattered, because the note was right. The bottle could just as easily have contained twenty grams of cocaine, TNT, or stolen jewelry.

“You might want to be a little more careful, then, and quit lying about letting a bag out of your sight.” The tall guard held out the briefcase, his eyes like winter clouds. “You might get yourself in trouble.”

Mark nodded and headed for the door. Even if there had been no bottle, the guards could have easily planted one. He wasn’t sure if the encounter had been a friendly reminder from Burchfield or a wry warning from his CRO superiors or even Briggs. With the stakes mounting, the players would be pushing their bets. He would be glad when Halcyon was out of his hands.

He straightened his tie and exited the room, joining the stream of travelers. He glanced at his watch and didn’t wipe the sweat from his brow until he had reached the far end of the terminal. He punched numbers on his cell phone. “Meet me out front,” he said.

The green sedan with the tinted windows was so modest that it drew attention. Mark glanced around, wondering which of the exhausted, sullen-faced travelers might be an agent of some sort. Then he slid into the passenger’s seat.

“You’re late,” Briggs said.

“The flight attendant insisted on a second bag of peanuts.”

Briggs navigated away from the curb, gaze fixed straight ahead. His eyes were onyx, large pupils ringed by deep brown. The hooked nose gave him the aspect of a bird of prey, and touches of gray hair at his temples suggested a professorial, distinguished demeanor.

“How’s the senator?” Briggs asked.

“Is the car clean?”

“You’ve been watching too many spy movies. I picked this up at Hertz. Cash, no reservation. Therefore, no bugs.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Mark said.

“Do I have the go-ahead for the experiments?”

“
Carte blanche
. Just don’t harm any innocent bystanders. A little collateral damage is okay, as long as it stays inside the building.”

Briggs twisted one corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Selective ethics, Mr. Morgan. Maybe there’s a career for you in politics after all this is over.”

“I work for CRO,” Mark said. “If there are fringe benefits like helping the human race, then fine. But don’t forget who’s boss.”

“A lesson we should all keep in mind.” Briggs merged off a ramp onto I-40, headed for Chapel Hill. “How’s your wife?”

Mark froze. “She’s out of this. That was the deal.”

“Relax. Just inquiring about a colleague, that’s all.”

“She told me about the original trials. What little she remembers. She thinks you’re a charlatan, or worse.”

Briggs cackled. “Alexis believed in the goal. You can’t treat people’s trauma until you know where the border lies. We all have different breaking points.”

“But you enjoyed breaking people, not putting them back together. That’s the difference. And that’s where Halcyon comes in.”

“What’s that saying? ‘You have to crack a few eggs to make a good omelet.’”

“Alexis said the trials were a failure.”

“The real failure was that she didn’t get any credit. She always wanted a breakthrough, and that could have been hers. Don’t you find she’s just a little bit bitter?”

Mark was annoyed, because he sensed some truth in the words. “She came out of it just fine. She’s resilient. But she thinks the other subjects might have suffered permanent damage.”

Briggs took his eyes from the teeming traffic to study Mark. “Anita Molkesky, David Underwood, Roland Doyle, and—”

“Wendy Leng?” Mark clutched the briefcase. “Handy that three of them are still in the Research Triangle.”

“We have to finish those trials.”

“They’re off the books. You know we can’t present any of those old results to the FDA. Stick with the new group, the aboveboard project.”

“But at least we know Halcyon works. All the subjects dealt with their fear and trauma and have gone on to productive lives.”

“‘Subjects’? They’re
people
, Doctor. Alexis had years of therapy to deal with those issues. They nearly ruined our marriage.”

“Halcyon would have eased those problems.”

“By erasing whatever happened in those trials. You seem to be the only one that remembers everything.”

“You make it sound so wrong.”

“We learn from our mistakes. Flight or fight. If you snip those wires, all you have is a puppet.”

Briggs turned up one corner of his mouth in what might have been a grin. “Ah, the military application. One of them, anyway.”

“Above my pay grade,” Mark said. “But this is the kind of stuff I don’t want to monkey around with.”

“Good choice of metaphor. The amygdala is the foundation of our evolutionary brain, the mysterious center over which all that complex gray matter blossoms. But give it the slightest bit of stimulation and you might as well be a caveman, whimpering in the dark as the beasties roar.”

Briggs veered off the interstate onto NC 15-501 and began winding along the wooded, gently bending road toward the university. “You know, Mark,” Briggs continued, “there’s a chance for Alexis to make her name in this after all. There’s enough credit to go around for everyone, and it could really advance her career. Grants, peer reviews, all those honorary degrees.”

“Forget it,” Mark said.

“Ah, the protective male. Why don’t you let her decide for herself?”

“I told you the deal,” Mark said. “We’ve already given you the others. That should be plenty.”

“I’m a mad scientist, remember? I won’t be happy until I accidentally destroy the world.”

“I’m not so sure it would be an accident. But there’s bigger stuff at stake than just the future of the world.”

“CRO’s stock value, I know. I hear shares are slipping while all this is cooking, but they’re poised to make a miraculous run after Halcyon is announced and the government invests. And I’m sure they give stock options in your pay grade, right?”

“I have my own motives. Just like everyone.”

They had passed the golf course and the turnoff to the Dean Dome, the cavernous gymnasium named for the venerable basketball coach Dean Smith. More university structures began appearing on the wooded lots, identifiable by their brick facades and large windows. They would reach the main campus within minutes.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to ask the next question, but he needed to know. It would reassure him that he still had some vestiges of a conscience and hadn’t become a complete sociopath. “How many more will you need for trials?”

“I’ve administered mild doses to half a dozen subjects,” Briggs said. “They think they’re in clinicals for a new anxiety treatment. That’s not on CRO’s dime, it’s through a CDC grant with a real professor heading it up. But that’s a cover. We need the original subjects because they’ve already been exposed to Halcyon. The pump is primed, so to speak.”

Mark didn’t want to think about the neurochemical time bomb ticking in his wife’s brain. Maybe sociopaths couldn’t truly love, but he was deeply passionate about her. He was slightly comforted by the notion that sociopaths wouldn’t have such a thought.

“So we stop at four? Leng, Underwood, Doyle, and Molkesky.”

“I love the old part of campus and all those brick sidewalks,” Briggs said. “Too bad they kicked me out. Once I restore my good name, maybe I’ll see about an adjunct position.”

“Four.”

Briggs pulled to the side of the narrow road, near an old stone amphitheater girded by oaks and maples. “Is four your limit, or is that a direct order from the senator?”

Mark slammed his fist against the dashboard hard enough to hurt. “That name stays out of this.”

“Ah, so you’re the satchel man, or whatever they call it in the movies.”

Mark opened the door. His wife’s office was half a mile away, and he would be a little late. But he had another stop to make first, one that was long overdue, and one he didn’t want Briggs to know about. “You’ll get your satchel soon enough.”