CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mark had always wondered about that phrase “seeing red.”
Red was the color of blood and passion and fire, the strongest impulses of the human mind, the devil’s color. But this red that consumed him was beyond the mind, seeping from some hidden ancestral fountain. He felt simultaneously more and less human, a stack of stupid clay sparked to life by a lurid puppet master.
Slinking through the woods at dawn had stirred primal hunting instincts, and as he approached the gunfire, his anxiety and excitement grew. Common sense should be begging him to flee, but he knew sense had been burned out of him more than a year ago. He’d entered law-enforcement training partly out of a desire to protect Alexis from the unknown future, but the deeper truth was he craved the adrenaline high of that night in the Monkey House, the cat-and-mouse game of survival, and the simplest challenge of defeating pain, madness, and death itself.
Now the fucking monkey is locked and loaded.
The last gunshot had been a good hundred yards to the north, where lush oak trees dotted the ridge, so he felt relatively secure. But maybe the seeping, creeping redness had already clouded his judgment, because when he came around the moss-mottled stand of granite boulders to discover a man in a green jumpsuit, turned away and holding a blunt rifle, his first instinct wasn’t to question the man, or yell “Police! Drop your weapon!” like that old bastard Frady Cat had taught him.
No, the red filled him up and became him, and the Glock was up and working, pah pah pah, just like he was shooting at a cardboard cutout on the range.
The man jerked in surprise, his sunglasses dropping away to reveal eyes turned up to heaven. Then he squealed and slumped to the ground, the rifle tumbling away into last winter’s leaves.
The redness swelled until it burst from his lungs, and when he heard the triumphant roar echo off the rocks and trees, he mistook it for some rampaging wild animal. But the raw pain in his throat made him realize he’d been the one releasing that inhuman noise.
And just as suddenly, the red dimmed, and he was standing over the warm corpse, realizing he’d given away his position to the other gunmen.
And killed a man. Oh, yes, Mark, you certainly diddle-diddly-did. And don’t even pretend you have any remorse. Because you loved it. This is how you were made, and the rest was just for show.
The cabin was below, and Roland’s white Jeep was parked nearby, on the uneven, scruffy lawn. From this vantage point, the gunman could have picked off anyone running from the cabin to the Jeep. They were probably holed up inside, if they were lucky. Mark called to them while taking cover between two thick hardwoods.
There was no answer at first, and Mark knew he couldn’t stay in one place. He didn’t know how many gunmen there were, but the origins of the shots suggested at least two.
He backpedaled and checked the pockets of the dead man’s jumpsuit, finding a two-way radio, a fancy cell phone of a brand he didn’t recognize, and nothing else but a clip of bullets for the rifle. This guy had come outfitted for only one purpose.
The victim’s face was white with the shock of death. Three glistening brownish-red dots pocked his rib cage, in the section where the center circle would be on a cardboard target. Frady would be pleased.
You don’t know who this is or who he’s with.
Mark laughed, like the chattering of some exotic, displaced bird. And the same could be said of you, Officer Morgan.
Mark glanced at the fallen rifle. It was an automatic weapon of the sort restricted to military and security agencies-or anybody working the wrong side of the street with decent connections and cash.
Mark was tempted by the MP5, but decided he’d be better off with the weapon he was trained to use. He scuttled across the leafy slope, working his way toward the opposite ridge where he’d heard the most recent shot.
Mark was glad he’d left Alexis in the car. Because, once in a while, a man just got in the mood to kill.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wallace Forsyth wasn’t bothered by the rifle pointed at his face.
“Your heart ain’t in it,” Forsyth said.
“What?” She had her gun on him but was staring out the front window, straining forward as if anticipating the sound of the next shot.
“The gun. You wouldn’t kill me.”
Her face twisted as if annoyed at the distraction. “I’m quite capable, Mr. Forsyth.”
“You killed a man in the Monkey House. But you’re no murderer. That was Seethe working through you. The devil.”
“My husband’s out there with bullets flying around, and you’re preaching? Don’t push it.”
“We’ve changed, Dr. Morgan. All of us. For some, it’s been slow. But look at your husband. Did you see his face when he left the car? Something evil’s took hold of him.”
She shook her head, but Forsyth could see the doubt and concern weighing on her. Sweat glistened above her eyebrows, and her bright blue eyes were as gray as a troubled sea before a storm.
“He was happy,” Forsyth continued. “Like a kid running down to the drugstore for a soda pop and a comic book.”
“What are you talking about?”
“These pills.” He shook the vial he’d been clutching since Mark had entered the woods. “All they do is release what’s already inside us. They let us be who we really are. And we’re all the devil’s tool.”
She lowered the rifle until it was resting on her knee. It must have been heavy. Forsyth probably could have snatched it from her, or at least grabbed the barrel and forced it in another direction, but he saw no need. He could defeat her with the truth.
The gospel according to Wallace Forsyth.
“I thought I could control it,” Alexis said. “I could use it to help people.”
“We will be judged by our works, and those not found in the Book of Life will be cast into the lake of fire.”
“You said we’ve changed. But I haven’t.”
He could see the doubt in her eyes. But the Lord taught mercy. “None of them understand what all this is about. We can do this, Dr. Morgan. We can save the world.”
“What about the senator?”
“Daniel was a good man. But in the past year, his heart’s been eaten up with rot and war. He’s become dangerous.”
“Like you and your apocalyptic talk?”
Forsyth balanced the approaching lie against the higher purpose. “Daniel is seeking power for himself.”
“And you serve a higher power, right?”
Forsyth smiled again. “I’ve changed, too.”
Another shot rang out, this one more distant, and Alexis’s fingers clenched on the rifle. She shifted in her seat, barely listening to him.
“We can do this,” he repeated. “We have Seethe now. And you can develop it, refine it. The world doesn’t need to know about Sebastian Briggs. Seethe can be all yours.”
She was thinking about it, her tongue protruding slightly. Forsyth had guessed right. She had changed. The deep craving inside her was stronger than she realized, and her ambition owned her. She wasn’t willing to admit she had killed, but she was capable of killing.
Oh, yes, she would kill for Seethe.
Forsyth twisted the lid from the vial. “We can produce millions of these,” he said.
He shook one out and held his palm toward her. “Become more like yourself, Dr. Morgan. No need to hold back any longer. We’re miles and miles from the world of morals and rules and civilization. Nobody to witness but
