“The other two, the art teacher and the drunk?”
“They moved up to the North Carolina mountains and turned into hillbillies.” Forsyth was getting a headache from Burchfield’s cologne and hair gel. “They do some of that Internet stuff but it’s all above board, nickel-and-dime web business. All art and no politics.”
Burchfield chuckled. “Well, that takes care of them. They’ll be on food stamps before Election Day. In today’s America, you either buy in, sell out, or get on the gravy train. Free thinkers learn the hard meaning of ‘free’ sooner or later.”
“We’re monitoring them anyway. E-mails, phone calls, we’re even scanning some of their postal mail.”
“Spoken like a true paranoid patriot.”
The knock came again. “Three minutes.”
Burchfield looked at the door as if speculating on the chances of a romantic rendezvous with the young production assistant. Burchfield had gotten married six months before, enlisting a charming and guileless former debutante he’d dated at NC State. The wedding fulfilled the voters’ need for perceived stability in their leaders, although it had done nothing to dampen Burchfield’s lascivious nature.
Which brought them to the last survivor of the Monkey House trials: Anita Molkesky, known during her porn career as “Anita Mann.”
“And the one that died?” the senator asked, reaching for the glass of water on the makeup table.
“Nothing surfaced,” Forsyth said. “As far as the world knows, she was just another messed-up kid with a drug problem. The only wonder is it took her so long to OD.”
“And she wasn’t…helped?” Burchfield searched his friend’s eyes.
Forsyth kept his face as stolid and stony as he had while practicing law in Clay County, Kentucky, moving from divorce court to civil litigation before making a successful run for district attorney. From there, he’d risen quickly through the party ranks and, with his drawling brand of hellfire and brimstone mixed with down-home values, he settled into eight consecutive terms in the U.S. House before the last Democratic sweep had dumped him to the curb.
Burchfield had kept him close as an advisor, since Forsyth knew all the snake handlers in the capital, as well as most of the snakes. But some things, even Forsyth didn’t have the stomach for.
“Our people weren’t involved,” he said. “As far as I know.”
Burchfield looked off in the distance, perhaps fondly recalling his disgusting behavior on that long-ago night, when he’d rutted sinfully with Anita while under the influence of Seethe. If he ever needed a reminder, Forsyth had stashed away a video recording, the one Burchfield had assumed was destroyed with the rest of the facility.
“Collateral damage is sometimes necessary,” Burchfield said. “But we need to nail that down and make sure the autopsy shows no foul play. Primary season is when those little rumors start percolating. And I have a few hand grenades of my own, but I need to lay out some landmines and tear gas first.”
“The Monkey House is ancient history, Daniel,” Forsyth said. “Hell, I barely even remember it, and I was there.”
“But somebody remembers besides the CIA. And we better find out who it is, before Fox News and MSNBC and that goddamned Diane Sawyer get wind of it.”
“We got a saying back in East Kentucky. It goes, ‘If you don’t stir in the outhouse, it don’t stink so much.’”
“If we could fit that on a bumper sticker, we’d have this thing won already,” Burchfield said.
The knock came again.
“I know, two minutes!” Burchfield shouted. CNN had tight live programming, as did all the cable news networks, and Burchfield’s swing through Atlanta had allowed him a chance to drop in on the Centers for Disease Control. In addition to providing a great photo op of a somber Senator Daniel Burchfield talking with medical researchers, he’d been able to buttonhole a few of them and inquire about any breakthroughs in drugs treating post-traumatic stress disorder.
While the inquiries sounded like those of a leader concerned about the country’s combat veterans, it was also a chance to see if Sebastian Briggs’s experimental compounds had somehow entered the black market and made an end run back into the system.
Since Forsyth wasn’t officially a candidate for anything, he didn’t have to campaign, and thus could devote time and energy to working behind the scenes and tracking potential threats.
But it also meant retrofitting the past, making sure Burchfield was spotless, no matter how much whitewash it took. And some of that wash might be red if necessary.
“Scagnelli’s snooping around the NSA, FBI, CIA, the usual,” Forsyth said. “I’d say you have about eighty percent support there, which means nobody’s likely to knock your legs out from under you. But there might be a rogue agent somewhere, somebody who wants to freelance on the side.”
“Be sure to check out Scagnelli, too,” Burchfield said, straightening his tie for the third time. “He’s an opportunist just like the rest of us. He might have learned something and decided to turn it into a lottery ticket.”
“He learned that your last consultant died from a sudden heart attack,” Forsyth said. “But that may not work again, because Scagnelli ain’t got a heart.”
“Whoever is behind it, before we take them out, I need to know one thing.” Burchfield’s face grew serious, and even the Botox regimen couldn’t diminish the hard wrinkles around his eyes.
“What’s that?”
“Whether or not Seethe and Halcyon still exist. I’m not even sure they were real.”
“They’re real. Those drugs have changed you.”
“How?”
“You’re more intense now. It goes over as passion. And I think you can ride that to the White House if you can keep a lid on it.”
“I am in control.” Burchfield brushed past him and opened the door, where the pretty production assistant was waiting to outfit him with a wireless, clip-on microphone. He grinned boyishly as she attached it to his breast pocket.
“Be careful, I’m ticklish,” he said.
“Bet you say that to all the voters.”
“Only the pretty ones.”
She blushed and finished the job, giving him an extra pat to make sure the wire was completed concealed. Burchfield’s smile stayed with him as he was escorted before the bright lights and cameras.
Forsyth watched from the wings in admiration as Burchfield masterfully fielded questions about his foreign policy, budget plan, and the all-important controversy over whether the Tea Party was going to fracture the Republicans and create an opening for a third-party candidate.
When Burchfield deftly dodged questions about a potential running mate, it was Forsyth’s turn to smile.
Seethe and Halcyon changed both of us, Daniel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Dr. Morgan?”
Alexis looked up from the computer, where X-rays of Mark’s brain were scattered across the screen. Even though the images were filed under a pseudonym, she was careful to intersperse images of other volunteer subjects so anyone cracking into the vector machines wouldn’t notice an obsession with any one case.
But she instinctively minimized the window anyway, leaving up images of four other brains.
“What is it, Haleema?” she asked her graduate assistant.
“Have you seen my laptop? I left it here yesterday when I had an appointment with my advisor.”
Alexis flashed to the memory of the two men who’d raided the lab. She’d conducted another search that morning and hadn’t noticed anything out of place or missing. She’d settled on the story that the men were after drugs, which made pharmacies and medical facilities popular targets for addicted, desperate crooks. Lying to herself had become easier with practice, and denial was one of the most basic survival mechanisms.
