Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

Which is what he was trying to tell Forsyth on the phone, but the man wasn’t used to having his orders questioned. Considering Forsyth was chief bottle washer and towel jockey for Senator Burchfield, such an arrogant attitude seemed a little excessive. But Forsyth had the two qualities guaranteed to fuel his self-righteousness: a career in politics and a fervent belief in Jesus Christ as the world’s only redeemer.

“Assuming I can pull it off, where I am supposed to stash him?” Scagnelli said.

“The place where you followed them would have done perfect,” Forsyth said. “But the Monkey House is ancient history now.”

Scagnelli made a mental note to dig around in that history a little more. He knew about Halcyon, since it had been registered for a clinical trial with the FDA to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. But no case outcomes had ever been recorded, and no patents were filed on the compound. All he’d uncovered so far was the same stuff everybody already knew.

“If we know Dr. Morgan has the Seethe formula, why do we need her husband?”

“Bait,” Forsyth said. “Dr. Morgan’s two weaknesses are pride and love.”

“Hell, that’s true of just about any woman, but I don’t see how we can crack her.”

“You’re like the city slicker who comes out to the farm to buy mule eggs,” Forsyth said. “I could sell you any old thing and call it ‘mule eggs,’ and you’d never know the difference. You ain’t the kind to ask questions.”

True enough. But I’ve never been this curious before. And I’ve never been this close to the White House before, either.

“Okay, just tell me where to dump him and it’s done.”

“Umstead Correctional in Butner. It was a center for young hooligans but it closed two years ago. Minimum security, no fence, no surveillance. You’ll find the warden’s brick house at the back of the property.”

“I assume it’s ready for occupancy.”

“All it needs is a guest. There’s food, entertainment, and a little bonus for you. The kind you like.”

“Mule eggs?”

“Let’s just say they’re little and white and make you kick up your heels.”

“Consider it done.”

“The key’s under the mat.”

“Of course.”

Forsyth rang off.

Scagnelli tossed his half-finished coffee in the trash and went to the parking lot. Before entering his rental sedan, he dropped his prepaid Tracfone on the ground and then stomped it with his foot. He then collected a few of the pieces, leaving some on the ground. That’s what he sometimes did with bodies, too. Spread them around to a lot of different places.

He reached the Morgans’ house in fifteen minutes. After Mark’s little rampage wore off, he’d dropped his wife at the neurosciences building. Apparently she had a lot of work to do on her Halcyon research, and Forsyth was content to let her finish before he swooped in for the harvest. Mark had driven the faux cop car home and it now sat in the driveway, facing the road like a real cop would park in case of an emergency call.

Scagnelli cruised the street, turned around in front of an ugly Tudor-style house with a “For Sale” sign in the yard, and rolled past his target once more. This neighborhood looked a little too upscale to pull the old “utility worker” trick, plus Scagnelli liked to vary his routines.

Dusk was approaching, and it was the time of weekday when late commuters would be pulling into the neighborhood. Even though the Morgan home was relatively isolated for such a densely populated area, Scagnelli didn’t think a simple drive-through club-and-run would work. Mark was armed, minimally trained, and on edge, a combination that could end in a firefight.

While Scagnelli was okay with that, Forsyth wanted the guy alive and was willing to pay for it.

Scagnelli wished he had a dog. Hook up a leash and that gave you purpose. A jogging suit or gym shorts would also work, but he hadn’t packed for such a cover and the shopping district was on the far side of town. He wanted to finish the job before the missus got home.

In the end, he decided on a combination of delivery boy and lost out-of-towner. The corner gas station had a restaurant attached called Papi’s Italiano, and despite sporting the green, white, and red color scheme of Italy, its menu was about as authentic as a can of Chef Boyardee. Scagnelli had them box up a plastic-looking cheese pizza sitting under a sun lamp, paid his twelve dollars, and took it to his car. He removed his jacket, undid the top buttons on his shirt, and mussed his hair. Then he drove back to the Morgan house with the food filling the car with its oily stench.

His rental sedan didn’t match the job, and he was fifteen years too old to be a stoner delivery boy, even in this economy, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. The best thing about the current Congress and its complete destruction of the American standard of living was that everyone was focused on their own misery.

Parking beside the fake cruiser, he hustled to the front door, whistling. The pizza was a prop with one purpose only, to buy that one second of surprise in which to gain entry. Even though the front door gave him the most exposure to scrutiny, it would be the only way to make a grand entry. He knocked twice and glanced impatiently at his watch, all while hefting the pizza box above his left shoulder. Then he rapped with the brass knocker.

“Pizza!” he called, just to get in the mood.

He expected Mark to peek out the window and then cautiously open the door to tell him he had the wrong house. Mark would likely be armed, but he wouldn’t want to show the gun because he couldn’t risk a police report. Scagnelli enjoyed working with people who also had a lot to hide. In a way, it put hunter and prey on equal footing.

So Plan A was to wait for him to open the door, go through the “Order a pizza?” and get the confused denial, look at the receipt, and come back with “Sir, is this 417 Tanglewood?” and then, when Mark’s suspicion gave way to the normal desire to be helpful, Scagnelli would shove the pizza box in his face, push him inside, and subdue him before Mark could wield his weapon.

But Plan A went mildly awry when Mark didn’t answer the door after the third set of knocks. Scagnelli kicked over to Plan B, which would be to try the door himself, then go through the same routine, acting stoned and goofy to counter Mark’s paranoia at least long enough to get the element of surprise.

But the sharp, hard jab against the back of his ribs announced Plan C.

A voice, presumably Mark’s, murmured close enough to chill his earlobe. “I’ve been expecting you. And so has this Glock.”

Damn. Looks like the guy’s cop training is paying off.

The visit to the Monkey House had jarred Alexis, and even though the old brick factory that loomed in her nightmares had been leveled, she could still smell the rot and rust of the interior despite being back in the antiseptic confines of her research lab. Odor was the most evocative sense because it had the most direct route to the brain, and the molecular memory had also carried the scent of blood. Whatever had happened that night, it still slept deep inside her.

But she didn’t dare wake it, because all that mattered was her mission. Silver’s formula wasn’t effective enough, and she had no hope of working with him to refine it. Alexis didn’t care that they-federal agents, drug-company spies, terrorists, they were all the same obstacles and enemies of science to her-were monitoring her research, and even if she unlocked Halcyon for them, all that mattered was that Mark had a chance.

Never mind that you lose your own chance.

She compared Mark’s files from the previous week with the latest she’d managed the day before her lab was raided and Haleema’s laptop was stolen. The lesions had made significant progress, the leaking fissures of blood leaving dark blotches on his MRI scans.