Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“I’ve never had much use for critics,” Wendy said, a slight resentment riding under the humor. “I’ve got something to say. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

Artists. God help ’em, because nobody else can.

When you loved somebody, you had to put up with a few idiosyncrasies. And Wendy certainly had to endure her share. After all, she was married to a murderer.

“You’d better clean up,” Roland said. “It’s getting dark. Sleep on it and I’ll bet you feel better.”

She gave him a sly look with her almond-shaped onyx eyes. “I’d planned to sleep on you.”

“That can be arranged.”

He glanced at his laptop screen. He’d had to leave his job selling display advertising, but many of the same skills translated to the Internet. The only difference was he had to think smaller. Which was a relief, actually.

Wendy wiped her brush and dipped it in a jar of soapy water to soak. She was in an acrylics phase, which put her in a better mood. Watercolors were too delicate and oils tended to go to mud when she vented her frustration and painted too rapidly.

She crossed the porch and stood over him. “Husband. Did you ever think we’d get back together again?”

He took her hands, although they still had flecks and smears of paint on them. “I knew it all along. We were meant to be together.”

“That’s what men say just before they kill their spouses in a jealous rage.”

He studied her face. Was she joking? Was she starting to remember? “No, sweetie. That’s ‘If I can’t have you, nobody can.’”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “Okay, you’re the expert in obsession.”

He stroked her hip and ran his fingers behind her. “If you were married to this, you’d be obsessive, too.”

“Dinner, and then we can play OCD in bed.”

“Tell you what. Let me fire off this e-mail and I’ll be right in.”

“Sure. And two more e-mails arrive before you shut down, and then you get to deal with those. The ever-expanding inbox of client obligation.”

“I promise. Really.”

She swatted him playfully with her rag. “So much for moving to the mountains to get away from it all.”

He tracked Wendy’s alluring rear as she crossed the covered porch and entered the screen door. Even after twelve years, he still liked the way she moved. My Tibetan tiger, he liked to call her. The tiger was also her sign of the Chinese zodiac, while her Western zodiac sign was Cancer. Both had claws.

He was eager to polish off the last e-mail. As a freelance graphic designer, he’d found a niche in e-book design and intuitively grasped the differences in marketing on a computer instead of a bookshelf. He’d also taught himself formatting, and although he wasn’t sure where the technology was headed, he’d been able to carve out a sustainable small business. Which was fortunate, because he considered himself pretty unemployable now.

Roland sent the sample file and was just about to close down when a new e-mail popped in. He winced and didn’t allow himself to read the subject line.

You promised her.

But it’s only one more little broken promise. What does it really matter on the scorecard of a marriage?

The subject line said: “Every four hrs or else.”

“What the fuck?” He didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud.

Spam. It had to be spam, a solicitation promising a Nigerian erection the size of a dictator’s bank account.

The sender was “No-reply@ncs. cia. us. gov.”

He knew he should log out immediately. Clicking could trigger a virus. Or exhume a past he’d nailed shut and painted black.

“Hon?” Wendy called from inside. He’d already used up the window of good grace, and as a committed mate, he didn’t like forcing kitchen chores on her.

Holding his breath, he opened the e-mail.

It said simply: “We have a job for you, David Underwood.”

“David Underwood” was the fake identity Briggs had foisted on Roland while tricking him back to Wendy and the Monkey House. It had turned out the real David was alive, although hopelessly traumatized, and Roland had burned the identification cards after their escape.

The e-mail looked contrived. Why would the CIA send out e-mails? He doubted they even used e-mail.

“Roland, these cucumbers don’t peel themselves,” Wendy said, with an edge of impatience.

“Just a sec.” He Googled the CIA site, wondering if the agency tracked the ISP of every citizen who browsed it. A quick scan revealed that NCS stood for “National Clandestine Service,” which engaged in a murky mission called “human intelligence.” Especially surreal was the description, “We are accountable to the U.S. president, Congress, and the American taxpayer.”

Yeah, sure you are. Except those three are on different sides in your little ideological war. And to think I helped fund your cheesy little website.

Hell, it’s getting so that cheating on taxes is the last pure act of patriotism.

But what would the CIA have to do with Seethe and Halcyon? The drugs were all stamped out. Mark and Alexis had made sure of that, despite Burchfield’s blubbering about “government property.” And Roland had personally put a bullet in Briggs’s hard drive, as well as his chest.

A browsing of the CIA site revealed no e-mail addresses. Any public contact had to issue through Cold War means like postal mail and telephone, aside from a handy form page where freedom-loving citizens could rat on their suspicious neighbors. Or just the neighbors they didn’t like.

“What are you looking at?”

It was Wendy. He’d been so engrossed that he hadn’t heard her come out on the porch. She stood behind him, and now he could smell her-paint, chamomile, and faint, sexy sweat.

Roland caught himself before he snapped the laptop closed. “Uh, researching for a client. She’s got a thriller thing going on, and I wanted to make sure this logo was right for her book cover.”

“Ro, your hand is shaking.”

He forced a chuckle. “Yeah. Blood sugar must be low. How about them cucumbers?”

He logged out of the program and shut down as Wendy nuzzled the back of his neck. She reached one arm around and slid it between his legs. “There’s the cool kind of cucumber, and then there’s the other kind.”

He stood abruptly, and the rocker knocked back against Wendy.

“Ow,” she said. “Boy, you sure know how to respond to fore-play.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” he said, squeezing the folded laptop as if it were a box of venomous snakes. “I’m a little wired right now.”

She knew that drill. His alcoholism had led to a painful separation, and if not for the divine intervention of the insane Dr. Briggs, they would likely still be apart. Of all the consequences stemming from the Monkey House, their reunion was the only positive outcome that Roland could see.

“Too much peace and serenity,” she said, glancing at her current work in progress sitting on the easel. “It can drive anybody nutty.”

“Let’s eat,” he said, taking her hand and giving her an apologetic kiss on the cheek. Before entering the cabin, he studied the woods.

Every four hours. We played that game already.

Now what?

Dominic Scagnelli had been watching her for days, but his favorite part was at sundown.

That was when Anita Molkesky took her long, luxuriant bubble baths, surrounded by candles. Since she’d given up porn stardom masquerading as “Anita Mann,” her cash flow had been a little tight, as evidenced by the financial records he’d cracked. She’d downgraded her cable package, pushed her two credit cards to the max, and traded her Corvette for a Jetta. She was overpaying for the little cottage, $1,200 a month, but it was located on the edge of a university town where the entire market was inflated.