Scott Nicholson - Liquid fear

After Briggs withdrew the needle, the monkey man let out a final whimper and relaxed. Kleingarten also relaxed, although he was ready to pounce on the monkey man if he moved.

But Kleingarten’s 210 pounds would smash the guy, who probably weighed 120 pounds soaking wet. His ribs showed and his hair was nearly solid white, which had helped fuel the illusion that he’d been an albino monkey.

“Lot of strength for an old guy,” Kleingarten said, voice casual despite his hammering heart. He didn’t want the egghead to know he’d been rattled.

“He’s not so old,” Briggs said. “He’s only thirty.”

Kleingarten released the limp, shivering man and studied the doctor with a newfound interest. Briggs’s straight career had been derailed because he didn’t play by the rules, and Kleingarten could respect that.

Hell, he himself had been a security guard making ten bucks an hour until he realized once they let you inside with the keys, the place was yours.

CRO was another story. Corporations like that were nothing but smoke and mirrors, and on paper they looked legit, with their executives hanging around the White House and running charities to help ghetto kids buy shoes endorsed by basketball stars.

But Kleingarten’s digging suggested they were in deep with the military and national security organizations, people not necessarily allied with the White House. One thing for sure, CRO probably didn’t want Briggs to make the front page for running some sort of Nazi funny farm.

Which meant Kleingarten might have to double dip and see if CRO would pay him to keep an eye on Briggs as well as follow orders from Briggs.

“Your bosses know about this?” he asked.

“This is the part the bosses wouldn’t have the stomach for,” Briggs said. “And they wouldn’t understand it, anyway. Because they think they’re the bosses.”

Kleingarten surveyed the far end of the building, where closets and storage units had been added sometime after the factory had closed. “How many other monkeys do you have back there?”

“David is our only guest at the moment,” Briggs said. “But we hope to have more visitors soon.”

“The ones I’ve been sending invitations to?”

Briggs gave a distant smile. “We have plenty of room.”

“You’re not one of those Looney Tunes types, are you?”

“I work for a better tomorrow,” Briggs said. “Now, help me get him up.”

Kleingarten hesitated. He’d already gone outside the job description to chase the thing he’d thought was a monkey, and here was the doc expecting him to haul cargo. What next, a shoeshine?

Briggs must have read his mind. “Don’t worry, Mr. Drummond, there’s a bonus in it for you,” Briggs said, still using the false name Kleingarten had given him.

Apparently the doc wasn’t as shrewd about background checks as he was about his research. Another reason to worry about him.

“He’s not contagious, is he?” Kleingarten said.

“His disease is internal and self-inflicted, poor man.” There was no irony in Briggs’s tone. “Hopefully our research can one day help him return to society and lead a productive life.”

They stooped and lifted the naked man, who was half-conscious, eyelids fluttering. They walked him to the rear of the facility, and as they drew closer, Kleingarten saw the series of rooms were rigged with surveillance gear and outfitted like hospital rooms, with small observation windows in the heavy steel doors. The sterile, brightly lit environs were a stark contrast to the murky, dusty factory floor.

Somebody had spent more big money back here, which meant they expected big payback.

That was something Kleingarten could wrap his head around.

“Here we go, David,” Briggs said as they came to the last door on the right. The door was ajar and Briggs nudged it open. The walls were covered with images of eyes, hundreds, maybe thousands, every color, shape, and size. Some were artistic, others clipped from magazines, a few blown up to monstrous proportions.

Just entering the room made Kleingarten woozy. If this poor guy was staying here as a “guest,” it was no wonder he’d gone monkey-shit mad.

Kleingarten let Briggs finish the job of leading David to a small metal cot covered with clean linens. Aside from the wall art, the room was mostly bare, with the exception of some video monitors and speakers secured in the upper corners of the room, enclosed behind metal grates. A stainless-steel toilet and sink were bolted in place, like in a prison cell, except there was no mirror above the sink. The walls were covered in a thick white vinyl material, bradded into place, and it would take a sledgehammer to bust through.

Glints in small recesses revealed camera lenses, and the hundred-square-foot room stank of new carpet and chemicals. Kleingarten imagined the white background made a pretty good projection screen, and here and there were smears of blood, as if David had tried to beat and scratch the images away.

“Nothing to fear, David,” Briggs said, sitting the man on the cot. “You’re home.”

David emerged from his catatonic state long enough to smile. “Home, home on the range,” he spoke-sang, about as musically as a manhole cover grating across pavement. The tortured melody was made even more haunting by the echo in the building.

“That’s right, David,” Briggs said. “Home on the range.”

The doc exited the room, closing the door behind him, and a wave of relief washed over Kleingarten. He’d killed a few people in his day, old-fashioned, honest, hands-on killing, but he’d never been this unnerved.

“Aren’t you going to lock it?” Kleingarten asked.

“That would defeat the purpose of the experiment,” Briggs said. “They have to want to be here.”

“And it doesn’t have anything to do with that joy juice we’re sticking in people?”

Briggs sighed and stared off into the distance, as if envisioning a better future for everyone, where people danced in meadows and ate fruit and didn’t worry about the beasties roaring in the night or inside their own heads. “Surrender is the first step to victory.”

Kleingarten was going to have to conduct a little more research on this guy. He doubted if CRO knew what they’d turned loose.

The game had changed a lot in the fifteen years since Kleingarten had taken the field. In the old days, power was power. You got hit, you hit back harder.

In this crazy-assed twenty-first century, though, knowledge was power, and if Kleingarten learned more about what was going on than anyone else involved, he might make this his retirement project. He hadn’t really enjoyed cutting up that whore in Cincinnati. The thrill was gone, and when the focus faded, a fatal mistake was sure to follow.

Yes, it was time to get out. A few more paydays and then maybe a rice plantation in Thailand, or a little cottage on the beach in Puerto Rico, or whatever the hell they did in Madagascar.

He followed Briggs back to the ape-cage office, and Curious George told him he’d wasted half an hour in the lab. Briggs slid open a desk drawer, and Kleingarten saw a recent color photograph of Wendy Leng.

So, you’re hung up on her? Good. It’s about time you showed me something I could use.

Briggs touched the photo tenderly for a moment, then nudged it aside and withdrew some documents and maps.

Smart egghead. If you sent out e-mails or phone calls, anybody could be listening.

CRO wouldn’t get its hands dirty but wouldn’t have any problem keeping an eye and ear on the doc from the safety of a computer somewhere.

That was one of the tricks of the Information Age. You didn’t always have to outsmart people. Sometimes you could out-dumb them.