Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“Goddamned childproof caps.”

Finally, he popped it open. Forsyth had turned and was looking over the seat at him. Alexis kept glancing in the rearview.

Mark rolled a few pills into the palm of his hand. They were larger than the Briggs concoction, unmarked, with no hard coating. They were plain white and looked as if they would crumble if he squeezed them.

As a drug-company executive, he hadn’t spent much time on the production end, but pills with such shoddy development were considered counterfeits. They were dangerous primarily because pills might cost only pennies to make, but drug companies claimed they need huge markups to offset the cost of research. Companies like CRO feared only one thing-cheap and plentiful drugs that did the job. Luckily, Congressional members like Burchfield were only too happy to adopt protectionist policies while slipping campaign contributions into their war chests.

But the politics of greed were far removed from this simple choice before him. Did he trust his wife, or did he believe what his admittedly confused mind was telling him?

He rolled down the window, and the moist rush of the mountain air filled the car. He could fling the pills into the ditch and be done with them, at least until Darrell Silver cooked up another batch.

But he’d already tried to push Halcyon out of his life. He seemed intricately bound to it, a junkie who even in abstinence was defined by his habit.

If Alexis had dosed him with Seethe, wasn’t Halcyon the only alternative besides madness?

“I love you, Mark,” Alexis said.

What’s behind door number three?

As far as he could tell, he loved her in return.

And if he could think clearly, maybe he could rediscover what love meant.

And wasn’t that worth a little risk?

He slipped one of the pills into his mouth.

Roland’s first impulse was to destroy the painting.

But even if he doused it with kerosene and torched it, the inherent truth wouldn’t go away. Somehow, Briggs had used Wendy as a living data bank, burying the molecular compound in her memory. If he destroyed this one, it might turn up on scratch paper, the dry-erase board on the fridge, or on a chalkboard somewhere.

The doc was smart. He knew computers weren’t safe, not with all these federal agencies watching. Maybe he knew they’d eventually take it from him before he was ready. And, sick as it was, he wanted Seethe to live on.

But knowledge was power.

Gundersson had made a big deal out of protecting them, promising to spread false information that would move them off the radar. Maybe their chances were better if Roland handled the negotiations himself, played one side against the other, or maybe even took the drug public.

Roland didn’t understand the symbols and structure of the diagram, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t his job to mash molecules together. His job was to keep his wife safe and to secure their future. Apparently running to the remote Blue Ridge Mountains wasn’t far enough. They might have to go overseas, maybe to Tibet.

You trade a painting for two tickets to anywhere. And they’ll just let you fly off into the sunset. Right. You really ARE mindfucked.

Wendy had gone back to bed, but Roland was restless, sitting on the porch and nursing a cold cup of coffee. Dawn pinked the ridges on the eastern horizon, the first birds calling from deep in the woods. The revolver was on the table, but now it seemed ridiculous. Gundersson was right. He was a lousy shot.

An engine roared somewhere down in the distant valley, someone climbing the steep, winding grade. The road turned to gravel near the wilderness area, at which point traffic was limited to the occasional logging truck or maintenance crew.

They’re coming.

Gundersson said bringing them together would give them a fighting chance, allow them to hone their cover stories and make it easier for him to provide protection. But it also made them easy targets for Gundersson’s betrayal.

Roland pocketed his revolver. Gundersson wasn’t the only possible chink in the armor. Alexis Morgan was a Briggs protege, and Mark had been employed by the pharmaceutical company that funded the Monkey House trials. He couldn’t fully trust either of them.

And that brought him to Wendy.

She might still harbor some sort of twisted loyalty to Briggs. After all, he’d entrusted her to carry the Seethe formula, even if she wasn’t fully aware of what she’d done.

No. You love her. You went through hell for her. And if she turns out to be the devil, at least you made your choice with your heart instead of your head. Because you never COULD trust your head, could you?

He checked the bullets in the revolver. It held six. 38 caliber rounds. If he went to his fallback plan, and his aim was accurate, he’d have two bullets left. The one destined for his temple probably wouldn’t miss.

But before he cleaned Seethe and Halcyon from the face of the Earth and tore down the Monkey House once and for all, heads had to be counted. If anyone else knew about it, then their deaths would be wasted.

Roland gave a gruff laugh. David Underwood would survive. David, the most broken of them all, would carry the secret of Seethe’s grim potential.

Kurr-rrrack-uhh.

The morning stillness was shattered by the reverberating gunshot, and its abruptness caused Roland to drop his pistol. He scrambled down to the rough pine boards of the porch, reaching under his chair for the weapon.

He found it and squatted, pointing it over the porch railing in the direction of the shot. After a minute, Gundersson came out of the woods, wearing a camo vest. A dark tuft dangled from his right hand to about the level of his knee.

Without a word of greeting, Gundersson kept walking until he reached the porch. He flipped the object onto Roland’s chair. The foxtail still bled from the upper end where Gundersson had cut it off.

“Nice piece of tail,” Gundersson said.

“Are you one for symbolism?” Roland said.

“Not unless it fits what I need to know.”

“The fox is a creature of the afterlife, a sly messenger who guides people between worlds.”

“So, I guess that means one of us is going to die?”

“We’re all going to die. It’s just a question of when.”

The door swung open and Wendy came out in her bathrobe. She looked from Roland to Gundersson, as if searching them both for bloodshed. “I heard a shot.”

“Roland missed, but I didn’t,” Gundersson said. She looked down at the foxtail lying between them. “Your chickens are safe now.”

“Lex and Mark are coming up the road,” Roland said to her, ignoring Gundersson. “You’d better get dressed.”

She went back inside. Roland picked up his revolver and rested it in his lap. Talk about your symbolism. Let’s see who’s got the biggest barrel.

“Here’s how we need to play this,” Gundersson said.

“Wait a second. There’s not going to be any ‘play’ here. Lex and Mark are our friends. We’re fellow survivors.”

Gundersson dropped his voice. “You know it doesn’t work that way. If too many people know, then the information is worthless.”

“Alexis knows more about Seethe and Halcyon than anyone alive.”

“But Mark’s a liability. According to my field director, he has too many suspicious connections. CRO Pharmaceuticals, Senator Daniel Burchfield, and a new cover story as a law-enforcement trainee.”

Roland pondered letting Gundersson do the killing. And maybe while Gundersson was busy with Mark, Roland could put a bullet in the agent’s back. Alexis wouldn’t be too difficult to kill. All he had to do was picture her as the depraved savage in the Monkey House, holding a bloody tool as she stood over her victim.