Paranoia was one of the many special gifts of Seethe. In Alexis, it had manifested as an apparent primal rage, although she had little memory of the events in the Monkey House. Mark was deteriorating into delusion, and if his escalating violence blended with his suspicion, he’d be a danger not just to himself and Alexis but to everyone.
Especially Senator Daniel Burchfield, one of the frontrunners for the Republican presidential nomination, who’d also been exposed to Seethe.
“I’m done in here,” she said. “Let’s get ready for bed. Why don’t you put away your gun?”
He nodded vacantly, as if already forgetting their conversation had taken place. “I know what they took from the lab.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“My brain.”
His expression was so innocent that she almost got teary-eyed. With his tousled brown hair and bed clothes, he was like a child who’d been awakened by a disturbing dream. Except this nightmare kept on rolling around the clock.
She went to him and gave him a hug, careful not to confine his gun hand. “Your brain is right where it’s always been,” she said, though she suspected he might be right. “Behind that gorgeous face.”
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll get you a glass of water and see you in the bedroom, okay?”
He nodded again and shuffled down the hall. She locked the office door and went into the kitchen, feeling its stark stillness in her bones. The smell of fish lingered, and dishes were piled in the sink. On impulse, she drew the curtains closed and checked the door lock. Then she went to the refrigerator.
On the back of the middle shelf were four plastic bottles of water, still tethered by a six-pack ring. She removed the one that had been opened and drained a few ounces of it into a glass.
Darrell Silver had welcomed the challenge of working with a clandestine drug. He’d been her graduate assistant, clearly brilliant and clearly too unorthodox to last in the rigid discipline of biochemistry. He’d been expelled for manufacturing a potent contraband version of OxyContin, making a good living on the side selling the powerful painkiller made popular by the likes of Rush Limbaugh.
When she approached Silver, Alexis had stressed secrecy while also downplaying the drug’s intended efficacy. Silver had suspected it was a new class of recreational drug, and he’d probably even sampled some himself. But a casual thrill-seeker would never notice the subtle effects. Only repeated treatment made the memory loss evident, and Silver had plenty of easier ways to kill brain cells.
Seethe was a different story, but she’d never trust someone like Darrell Silver with it. She wouldn’t trust anyone but herself.
She carried the glass to the bedroom after watering it down. She didn’t know how long the sixty ounces of Halcyon formula would last, so she dispensed it sparingly. She didn’t know if Silver’s version was even in the ballpark, because she couldn’t risk sampling it herself.
Because if I started forgetting, all my work would be lost, and so would Mark.
She only hoped it wasn’t making his condition worse. But she had no other options.
Mark was half-asleep when she entered. The pistol was on the nightstand.
“Here, honey,” she said, sitting on the bed and stroking his cheek.
He took the glass and raised his head with effort, eyes shot through with red streaks. “When I get to be a cop, you know who I’m going to take down first?”
“That’s still a year or two away, honey.”
“The drug dealers, that’s who. These legal drugs are bad enough, but that stuff on the streets…kids killing kids, that’s what it is. Kids killing kids.”
“What’s sad is society’s need for escape, as if this world is a horrible place to spend your waking life,” she said.
“There’s only one escape.”
Alexis left that one alone, undressing as he took his illicit drug. Halcyon wasn’t technically illegal-the FDA review had quietly disappeared, as had any connection between CRO Pharmaceuticals and Burchfield, so it wasn’t even on the DEA’s radar, much less listed in the Physician’s Desk Reference.
She was glad to be rid of the crisp work clothes, and as she unfastened her bra, shyness overcame her. They hadn’t made love in several weeks, and she felt unattractive and awkward in the nude. She left her panties on as she slid into bed beside Mark, who’d downed the “water.”
“Maybe we need a vacation,” she said, snuggling against him. Despite his sluggishness of late, he was still in good shape and she was comforted by his strength.
“Camping,” he said. “Somewhere without computers. Where not even the goddamned cell phones can reach us. Much less a bunch of spy-movie rejects.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said.
She wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to kiss his cheek. She liked the roughness of his fresh stubble. She rubbed her nose against his earlobe.
He turned to her, smiling. “I’m feeling better. Much better.” He guided her hand along his chest down to his swelling erection. “This much better.”
“Somebody wants to play,” she murmured, trying to relax. However, uneasiness held her back, even as he stroked the under-side of her breast.
“Do you mind putting the gun away?” she said. “At least hide it in the drawer.”
“What if I need it?”
“The doors are locked.”
“But they have my brain.”
Alexis wondered if the lesions could lead to schizophrenia, or whether this was just another lingering symptom of Seethe. “We’re out of the Monkey House, honey.”
“We just escaped into a bigger Monkey House.”
The ember went out in her belly before it could be fanned into a flame. She released his erection and gave it a friendly pat. “We’re both exhausted,” she said. “Let’s save this for later.”
He didn’t argue as she turned out the light. They lay there in silence, and it felt like hours to Alexis before she drifted into a restless sleep as Mark twitched beside her.
CHAPTER SIX
“What’s wrong, honey?” Wendy asked, propped up on pillows and flipping through a book of Gauguin prints.
Roland dropped the curtain. “It’s quiet outside.”
“We’re half a mile from the nearest neighbors and twenty miles from town,” she said. “We wanted quiet on purpose, remember?”
“Yeah, but it’s April. Where are all the crickets and night birds and critters? It’s like the pope’s funeral out there.”
“Everybody needs a break once in a while. Maybe God is taking the night off.”
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“You’ve been antsy since dinner. What’s wrong?”
He unbuttoned his shirt and stroked his belly. After he’d quit drinking, he’d lost about fifteen pounds, but lately a little fat had crept back. His dad had been chubby, a truck driver whose sedentary lifestyle led to a fatal heart attack on US-70 while hauling a trailer-load of culvert pipes. He’d steered to his right with his last breath, running off the road and avoiding a likely pileup that might have kept the coroner busy for weeks.
Or the last turn could have been a little of that infamous Doyle luck. Roland preferred the hero story, because it would have been the only positive act of Denny Doyle’s fear-ridden life. And fear was a chronic disease that people happily spread to others, especially their loved ones. For Roland, the infection had taken liquid form, a handy excuse to destroy himself and those around him. Especially Wendy.
But this new fear was a little unsettling, because it was one he didn’t think he could just pour down the sink
