weekday evenings. Silver was looking out the window when Scagnelli exited the highway, and he exclaimed, “Hey, you going to Chapel Hill?”
“We’re all going to Chapel Hill,” Forsyth said. “Time for you to earn your freedom.”
For the next forty minutes, Silver entertained them with stories about his analyst at the hospital, a Portuguese named Rafael Rego who spoke very poor English. To make matters worse, Rego attempted to talk like Sigmund Freud, and Silver’s imitation of the man’s earnest inquisitions drew snickers from Scagnelli. Forsyth barely listened, reflecting on the different ways he could use Seethe, Halcyon, and a dark box of blackmail secrets to dominate the Burchfield Administration.
Where evil dwells, the Lord sends a servant.
They detoured around the UNC campus and entered the southern end of town, where rundown student apartments mixed with spotty commercial development and industrial lots. Soon they were pulling up to a concrete-block building whose white walls were mottled with mold. The former gas station featured large windows in the front bearing purple curtains, but the garage area had been sealed off with new cinder blocks that had never been painted. The raised concrete ovals where the pumps had once stood now contained Japanese maples, their burgundy leaves flapping in the spring breeze.
“Home on the range,” Silver said.
“It’s government property now,” Scagnelli said, still playing the role of an FBI agent. “It’s considered a drug asset and subject to seizure and forfeiture.”
“Shit, man! Nobody can just take away your property like that! Whatever happened to the Bill of Rights?”
“The court will decide whether it was used to facilitate drug trafficking or if it was purchased with illegal profits,” Scagnelli said. “I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting. You think a criminal trial takes forever, wait until you start dealing with these civil procedures.”
Silver turned to Forsyth with pleading eyes. “Man, this is my pad, man. I got a lot of memories here.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Forsyth said. “To relive a few memories. Do you have your cell phone, Scagnelli?”
Forsyth didn’t want any record of communication between his phone and Dr. Morgan’s, and Scagnelli’s rotating supply of prepaid, disposable cell phones offered the best way to contact her. As they escorted Silver toward his home and laboratory, Scagnelli produced a key they’d secured from the DA. A rusty pickup rumbled by, honking its horn, and Silver waved. The driver must have realized that Scagnelli and Forsyth weren’t typical drug customers, because the truck accelerated and burst down the street, setting off barking dogs next door.
“You guys are seriously bad for my rep,” Silver said.
“All it takes is a haircut,” Forsyth said.
Silver gave a desultory shake of his head that caused his dreadlocks to whip around his neck.
Scagnelli led the way as they entered the renovated living room, formerly the public end of the gas station where maps, soft drinks, and fan belts had once been sold. The aroma of grease, rubber, and mildew still lingered over the stench of forgotten garbage. The power was off, and Forsyth opened the curtains so they could see. Dust swirled as the sunlight revealed a ground-level living room with a ’57 Chevy chassis suspended from the ceiling by steel cables. A rope ladder descended from the open driver’s-side door. Scagnelli tugged on the ladder, causing the chassis to sway.
“My bedroom,” Silver said with a smirk. “Wore out the shocks with my lady friends so I had to float it.”
“I can see why,” Forsyth said. “You’re quite a charming young gentleman. What we called ‘Sugar Britches’ back in Kentucky.”
Silver squinted at Forsyth, perhaps wondering if he was making a homosexual come-on, but Forsyth waved him to the garage area, passing through a tiny kitchenette and dining area that might have been salvaged from an RV.
“Did you do all this?” Scagnelli asked, unable to hide his interest. Forsyth took it as a kind of peer respect among criminals. The main difference between Scagnelli and Silver was that Scagnelli would kill his own mom for a buck, while Silver would rather drop acid and fantasize about world peace.
“Most of it,” Silver said. “When you’re a spiritual entrepreneur, you got a lot of free time.”
The garage area was equally surprising, with Scagnelli switching on his long-handled police flashlight to augment the weak natural light. The garage was stocked almost like a real garage, with a bizarre array of pumps, belts, chains, and spare parts, but some animal hides were nailed to the walls, gray patches of bare skin showing here and there. Long wooden benches that looked like church pews were arranged across the floor, pointed toward a large-screen television. A mannequin in the corner was draped with a tattered American flag, and it held an empty bottle of whiskey in one stiff hand.
“Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” Forsyth said. One of the investigating agents had described the space, and the indictment had also mentioned Silver’s clandestine lab. The room wasn’t small, originally housing bays for two cars, but Silver had packed enough oddities to make it feel cramped.
The shag carpet was peeled back, revealing an opening in the floor where the second service bay would be. A thick piece of plywood was sitting off to the side. Silver hurried through the dim clutter, knelt and stuck his head down into the darkness. Scagnelli leaned over his shoulder and illuminated the space below.
“Bastards,” Silver said. “They took it all. Some of that was legit.”
“You know how it works,” Forsyth said. “The government seizes all evidence and assets and sorts it out later.”
As Silver descended via a metal ladder fixed to the wall, Forsyth stepped to the lip and looked past him to the refashioned service pit. Silver had applied his ingenuity by installing stainless-steel shelving and tables. Forsyth could imagine it full of flasks, trays, electron microscopes, computers, and gooseneck lamps. Silver settled into the metal office chair as if he were opening up shop again, the star of the show in the circle of Scagnelli’s spotlight.
“So this is where Halcyon and Seethe were reborn,” Forsyth said from above.
“Seethe?” Silver said.
“Dr. Morgan’s formula.”
“Bitchin’ name. I like it.”
“The good news is the drugs you were manufacturing for Dr. Morgan aren’t illegal,” Forsyth said.
“‘Alleged,’ dude. My lawyer said make sure the feds always use the word ‘alleged.’ Or did they take ‘innocent until proven guilty’ out of the Constitution while I was in the loony bin?”
Forsyth smiled. Darrell Silver was beginning to grow on him in a way. A spiritual entrepreneur. Maybe we’re not so different, after all.
“The bad news is that the drugs can’t ever exist, if you understand my meaning. They must remain our little secret.”
In the orb of Scagnelli’s spotlight, Silver’s eyes narrowed as if embracing the existential possibilities. “Heavy.”
Quietly to Scagnelli, Forsyth said, “Rig a recording device. Then call Dr. Morgan and invite her over. I want to get her and this knotty-headed hippie talking, to see how much they know.”
“What about her husband? The guy who don’t like cheese?”
“He’s itching to explode. Once he hears she’s been sneaking around behind his back, that’s one less corpse for you to deal with.”
“And then I deal with him?” Scagnelli squeezed his bony knuckles together in anticipation of revenge.
“No, I’ll handle this end. Silver’s already in my pocket. You have two CIA agents to put out of my misery. I don’t want the senator to find out we’ve been cutting in line at his all-you-can-eat buffet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Get out your scorecard, Chief,” Gundersson said into his Sectera Edge, a clumsier but better-firewalled version of a cell phone. Gundersson normally relied on the device for e-mails and text messages, but the security classification of the Sectera rated higher for audio communication.
