You don’t know about the piece named Darrell Silver.
“Dr. Morgan learned a lot from Sebastian Briggs,” Forsyth said. “And she learned that you can’t trust nobody, especially when you’re in the business of scrambling people’s brains.”
“I want it,” Burchfield said. “And I want them buried.” He stared out the window. “I should have dealt with all this last year. That industrial accident could have just as easily claimed half a dozen more lives.”
“‘The quality of mercy ain’t strained, it drops like the gentle rain from heaven.’”
“Shakespeare? I didn’t know you could quote from anything but the Bible.”
Forsyth actually was quoting Barney Fife from an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, but he let it go. Someone like Burchfield valued book smarts over real-world wisdom, and it was one of his weaknesses. But Forsyth was cunning enough to exaggerate his slow drawl and backwoods upbringing, because it always led people to underestimate him, especially his opponents.
And Burchfield might be one of them soon enough.
“Scagnelli’s one of the best,” Forsyth said. “And he won’t talk once it’s over.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He couldn’t. But he’d given the consultant enough amphetamines from the labs of Darrell Silver that Scagnelli would gobble just about anything Forsyth handed him.
“I’ve known Scagnelli since his DEA days,” Forsyth said. “He can play both sides of the fence as good as anybody.”
“Okay. Keep him close. Everybody who gets near this stuff seems to want a piece of it.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“And if this new Seethe works as good as the stuff Briggs made…” Burchfield trailed off, apparently casting about for dim memories of the Monkey House calamity. Forsyth’s own memories of that night were of a lurid encounter with Satan, a vision that fully convinced Forsyth that the final days were upon them. Satan not only walked the Earth, but he was drawing ever closer to the nation’s capital.
“Dr. Morgan is quite talented, Daniel,” Forsyth said. “And she’s also smart enough to know we’re watching. That’s why she’s kept her guinea pig close to home.”
“Mark?”
“That would explain a lot. He used to have a lot of sense. We had high hopes for that boy, despite him having an uppity liberal for a wife. But if she’s been feeding him that monkey juice, it’s no wonder he cracked.”
“You don’t think she’d do that to the man she loves, do you?”
“No. Only the one she married.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Seethe. If ever the devil was put into a pill, that’s what he would look like. There ain’t no morals with that stuff, and that’s why the world better not get a hold of it.”
“Wallace, I respect the hell out of you, but sometimes you’re just a little too holier than thou. You don’t have to frame everything as a moral issue.”
“Well, somebody better. The only place the government’s able to use the word God anymore is on money.”
Forsyth was loyal enough to deliver Burchfield a powerful weapon for his Oval Office arsenal, but he wanted to ensure his own place in the administration first. And he wanted collateral in case Burchfield backed off his plan to start a war in Pakistan, igniting the tinderbox of Afghanistan and Iran, opening the door to massive U.S. military involvement and God’s final battle. That’s why he’d triggered the CIA investigation into the Morgans while making it appear Burchfield had started the inquiry.
“If Dr. Morgan has Seethe, how do we get it without killing everybody in sight?” Burchfield asked. “And what do we do with her afterwards?”
“There won’t be any ‘afterwards’ this time,” Forsyth said. “Scagnelli will make sure of that.”
Alexis Morgan had been his philosophical adversary on the president’s bioethics council, defending the benefits of what she considered “humane neurochemistry” to treat mental conditions. Forsyth saw the brain as God’s domain, the seat of reason and choice, and its sole purpose was in making the decision to believe in that which had created it.
Intelligence existed to manifest temptation. Logic existed to lead humans to faith.
And God had shaped Wallace, guided him toward this destiny, and the president’s council seemed like a distant dream on a long-forgotten night. Wallace had a role to serve, and he’d been placed in the perfect position to fulfill the prophecies.
After all, revelations weren’t an option if God put them right into your head.
Which is where Dr. Morgan had it all wrong. Believing in God was not only natural, it was the highest purpose of brain function, whether that brain had evolved from monkeys or whether it had sprung full-blown into the world.
But she’d answer for that, for she’d never repent of her sorceries.
“You’ve got a campaign to worry about,” Forsyth said to Burchfield. “Leave Seethe and Halcyon to me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alexis figured she’d better just play along.
The pistol was in the seat between them, but she ignored it. Mark was in the gray T-shirt and baggy athletic pants he called his “Dirty Harry warm-ups,” and he wiped at his forehead as if cobwebs had collected there. He focused his gaze on the road ahead with an intensity that alarmed her.
“Class end early?” she asked.
“I was on call.”
“Is that part of the training?”
“Everything’s part of the training, honey.”
Even his voice was slightly off, a clipped monotone that he might have used if talking to himself. She glanced at the mock police radio that had been installed below the dash. Wires had been ripped from it and the handset was lying in the floorboard in three pieces.
“Nice of them to let you take the car home,” she said.
“We’re not going home.”
She glanced at him, but he didn’t blink. “I have to be back in the lab this afternoon.”
“They’ve been watching the house.”
“We don’t know that, Mark. We have a lot of research that corporate spies would love to get their greedy little paws on. I think the lab raid was about something else, not Seethe.”
“It’s always about Seethe.”
They had crossed Franklin and Rosemary streets and were heading into the suburban outskirts of Chapel Hill, where Colonial-style homes were tucked behind fences beneath old oaks and towering pines. They passed a county patrol car coming from the other direction, but it didn’t slow, much less follow them.
“Where are you going?” Alexis asked.
Mark’s hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles were white, and he looked at her for the first time since he’d insisted she get in the car. “You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Where it all started.”
A second surge of panic rolled through her. A hundred stories and images fought for attention, but they were like broken strips of film reassembled at random: the original Monkey House trials, where she’d been nothing but a diligent graduate assistant; the trials themselves; and one bloody and battered face-had she been part of that?
No. Remember it the way it happened. You were Briggs’s assistant and that woman fell down the stairs and struck her head. A tragic accident and nothing more.
But the fresher waves of memories were harder to fend off. The events of a year ago had been carefully reconstructed, both externally and internally, and they stirred beneath a gently roiling surface. If Mark took her back
