He stood as still as a statue, and that was more unnerving than his previous pacing. She leaned forward on the sofa, the backpack resting against her legs. She thought of Wendy’s address scribbled on the back of the photograph. Their mountain cabin might as well be another planet.
“I never worked on Seethe,” she said. “In the original trials, I didn’t even know what it was. Sebastian Briggs tricked me just like he did the others. We didn’t know we’d been exposed to it.”
He wiped his chin with his Glock. He’d carried the gun for so long it had become just another appendage, a part of him.
“The worst part is that I can’t kill you,” he said. “I still need you.”
“Don’t you see? You’d never say something like that if you weren’t Seething.” She was talking fast, looking for a way out, but all the lies had chased her into a corner of the labyrinth she’d built.
He pointed the gun at her. “Where are you hiding it?”
“I don’t have it,” she said. She considered telling him about the Halcyon in the water bottles, but that would just prove she was a liar. If only she could remember all that had happened in the Monkey House, especially at the last, when she was collecting the pills. Had she somehow gotten Seethe from Briggs and didn’t remember it?
And couldn’t Seethe have worked inside her like a possessive demon, driving her to propagate it and spread it across the world? Didn’t Seethe want to live, just like any organism? And wouldn’t it do whatever it took to survive?
No. It’s just a molecular compound. It’s not alive in any real sense.
His gun hand was steadier than she’d seen it in days. “You hid the Halcyon after I thought it was all destroyed. I can’t see you passing up your chance to change the world. You and Briggs had that in common.”
“I swear,” she whispered.
Then her cell rang and she flinched against the sudden noise, expecting Mark to pull the trigger. It rang four times, neither of them moving. Mark finally waved to her purse with the pistol.
“Get it,” he said. “Might be one of your friends.” He said the last word with a sneer.
Alexis dug into her purse and came out with the phone. The caller ID was blocked. “Hello?”
“Dr. Morgan.”
No. It couldn’t be. Darrell Silver’s in…
Darrell Silver was in federal custody. That meant the U.S. government. And the government meant all bets were off.
“Mr. Silver,” she said, trying to keep it on a formal footing. Maybe she could fool Mark into thinking it was a business call.
“I’ve got something for you.”
Mark approached her, obviously wanting to listen in. She was tempted to terminate the call, but she had to find out. Silver had hinted he’d been refining the Halcyon, and if he’d synthesized a better version before being arrested, she needed to know. It might save Mark.
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” she said, feigning calm. “Can we talk tomorrow? Maybe call me at my office?”
Mark was at the phone now, and she rushed out, “Okay, then. Fine. Bye,” before clicking off.
“Who is ‘Mr. Silver’?” Mark asked. “One of your secret government friends?”
“He’s a former student who is doing some graduate research. We worked on some brain imaging together.”
The phone rang again. Their eyes met. Mark smiled. He didn’t even have to issue the command.
“Hu-hello?” Alexis said.
Mark put his ear near the phone. Alexis tried to pull away but he grabbed her by the hair and held her in place.
“Dr. Morgan,” Darrell Silver said. “I have something for you.”
“Tomorrow, like I said,” Alexis said, but she couldn’t keep her composure. The charade didn’t sell, because Mark mouthed, “What?”
“You need to come pick up your groceries,” Silver said, using the code name they’d developed for phone conversations to avoid mentioning Halcyon.
Mark jabbed the gun into her ribs. A small yelp burst from her lips before she could suppress it.
“What was that, Dr. Morgan?” Silver said.
“Is it…is it what we talked about last month?”
“Yes. The groceries have been delivered. Tonight.”
Mark’s lips pursed and curled as if he had all the proof he needed of her duplicity. He cupped a hand around the phone and whispered in her ear. “Tell him we’ll be there right away.”
He twisted the barrel of the gun deeper into her flesh as a motivator.
“Are you in the same place?” she asked after Mark removed his hand.
A bitter laugh came from the speaker. She couldn’t tell if he was stoned, but knowing Silver, it was likely. “Home sweet home,” he said. “Home on the range.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“Nothing. Some guy I met used to sing that all the time. Gets in your head, know what I mean?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said.
“Come alone, like usual.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“‘Like usual’?” Mark said after she hung up. “So, this is a habit.”
She looked at the gun, which he’d forgotten to keep pointing. He smelled metallic, as if the corrosion in his brain had leaked out through his pores. Mark’s grin made the scar on his lip stretch.
“I did it all for you,” she said.
“That’s what they all say.” He motioned her to the door with the gun. “Let’s roll.”
She reached for the backpack, but he snatched it away from her and slung it over his shoulder with the assault rifle. He looked through her purse, evidently finding nothing suspicious.
He gave her the car keys and then the purse. “I’m in no condition to drive.”
She didn’t argue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Scagnelli loved this kind of job, even if he’d rather be taking out the Cheese Guy.
The two CIA agents who had raided Dr. Morgan’s lab were relatively fresh-faced. Or, at least, clean-shaven. They’d finished off their food at Bella Bistro on Franklin Street, each with pasta dishes, a plate of sloppy bruschetta between them. They were drinking a deep burgundy wine that probably cost ten bucks a glass.
They were dark-skinned, and besides the alcohol consumption, they could easily be taken for Middle Easterners. Azim, the one on the left, had been an overseas operative until he’d been made, at which point he’d been reassigned to the States. Of course, his stereotypical appearance aroused suspicion and thus he could only work in major metropolitan areas where his ethnicity wouldn’t raise red flags.
Fortunately for him-at least up until tonight, when his fortune would go bad-Chapel Hill was one of the most international communities in the world.
Adrianus, the Greek sitting opposite, was also dark-skinned, and his radiant black hair and eyes also marked him as a foreigner. Scagnelli had actually met Adrianus once and had taken an instant dislike. Maybe it was genetic memory, dating all the way back to the Roman Empire, but Scagnelli had privately hung the nickname “Goatbreeder” on him.
Goatbreeder and Baby bin Laden symbolized all that was wrong with the nation’s security forces. It was part of the reason Scagnelli had abandoned agency work. He wasn’t a racist, naturally, but he saw the inherent flaw in using foreigners to preserve domestic policy.
“More water, sir,” the waiter said. He was a college kid with sleepy eyes who carried himself with a sense of insouciant entitlement.
Scagnelli felt like dashing the remaining half of his water in the kid’s face, but that most definitely would draw
