issue. Roland let the phone ring seven times, just for luck, before he gave up.
No one had moved from the car, though a large, hand-painted sign by the road said “Self Serve Only.”
Could be anybody. Or it could be him.
Now why did I think that? And who is “him”?
Roland wondered if this was how schizophrenics thought just before they slid into an episode. Just clued in enough to know they weren’t thinking quite right, but unable to escape their own buggy thoughts. He headed for his rental car, determined to be casual, though his legs wanted to break into a run.
He was sweating and lightheaded by the time he slid behind the wheel. He’d be in Chapel Hill at about the time he’d have to make a decision about the last pill. First he’d find Wendy, and maybe they could call their friend, the chemistry professor. He knew the professor’s name but couldn’t summon it. All he remembered was her glittering blue eyes, a beauty mark on one side of her chin, and sweeping auburn hair.
And someone else.
Susan? Was that her name?
He pulled onto the road, driving carefully, afraid of weaving and drawing police attention. He couldn’t afford to get arrested, not like this. He’d only been driving a couple of minutes, five miles under the speed limit, when the dark Lexus gunned past him on the left.
Guess they had enough gas after all. Must not have been THEM, whoever they are.
But it could have been. He could run from a murder scene, but he couldn’t run from whatever had happened ten years ago, and he couldn’t hide from himself. Whoever he was.
He tried to concentrate on Wendy, because she reminded him he was Roland. As long as he had her, he couldn’t turn into David Underwood.
He had met her as an undergrad in Wilson Library, literally bumping into her at the DVD archive, a popular destination of budget-minded students. She was looking for anything zany and breezy and he’d had a craving for a big-bug science-fiction movie.
They’d been one of those cases of “opposites attract,” which they both should have taken as a warning, but the attraction hit hard and they never had a chance. The Tibetan artist and the Rocky Mount trailer-trash boy trying to make good.
It sounded like a quirky rom-com. Both struggling financially, they’d found ways to improvise, including showing up at artist’s receptions to scarf down cheese and grapes, and they’d also sold their own plasma. Then they’d accepted that offer to serve in the experiment.
The experiment. Me, Wendy, that professor. Wasn’t there some more people?
He had a headache so he went back to picturing Wendy, standing in the brilliance of a sun-splashed room, painting naked, breasts swaying sensually as she danced with the brush.
Then his vision shifted to what she was painting-Susan after what they’d done to her-and he nearly drove off the road.
He popped open the vial with one hand and swallowed the pill even though it went down like a bone.
God, please don’t make me see that again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Eshelman School of Pharmacy was one of UNC’s education and research wings, part of a complex that had grown over the years to connect the university with Memorial Hospital.
Mark had taken a few classes there to augment his business degree, because even as a teen he’d understood where the money of the future would be flowing. That was where he’d met Alexis, who was already working on her doctorate.
Now, entering the brick building, he saw how little the building had changed-the same uncomfortable benches, waxy potted plants, and somber portraits of past benefactors. That stood in stark contrast to how much he’d changed in the interim. He’d worked so hard to showcase his maturity to Alexis that he wondered if that was when he’d first become an actor and his life a role scripted by others.
He knocked on Dr. Ayanadi’s lab door, even though he’d called ahead to make the appointment. The doctor opened the door, smiling and extending a brown hand. His jet-black hair was cut in a bowl shape, and his thick glasses were held in place by hairy ears. “Mark Morgan, my successful pupil.”
“I only got a C, remember?”
“Yes, yes, but you’ve gone on to bigger things. Most of my C students are pushing lunch carts in the hospital.”
“I married well,” Mark said.
“That you did. And how is Dr. Morgan?”
I wish I knew. “She’s busy with the bioethics council. You know how much she hates politics, but somebody’s got to fight for what’s right.”
Ayanadi nodded. “But you didn’t come here for a philosophical discussion. You sound worried.”
Mark glanced around the small lab. Most major research was conducted off campus, in the RTP, but tenured faculty like Ayanadi were given personal-sized labs, mostly to support journal publication and justify grant requests. Ayanadi, though, had a modern electron microscope and gleaming gear that Mark didn’t recognize, which clashed with the chipped counters and 1950s-era sink.
“What do you know about Sebastian Briggs?”
Ayanadi’s dark eyes narrowed. “We don’t like to speak of him around here. That could have been bad for all of us.”
“It might be bad for all of us now.”
“Mark, I appreciate CRO’s contributions to our research, but we always must keep the business and the personal separate. We can be friends but a researcher avoids the appearance of favoritism.”
“I’m not here for CRO. I’m here for my wife.”
Ayanadi glanced wistfully at the papers and computer near his microscope, as if he’d rather be lost in routine. He sighed and said, “As you know, Briggs was something of a maverick. Early on, his flamboyance was…tolerated, because he brought in grants and published a few significant articles at a young age.”
“I’ve read the records,” Mark said. “I need to know what’s under them, the stuff that got cut out.”
“Even now, we must avoid that. Surely your wife told you more than I could.”
“She doesn’t remember. It seems like nobody remembers. It’s either the biggest case of collective amnesia since the Holocaust or somebody’s hiding something.”
Ayanadi moved around Mark and closed the door. “Very well. I will tell you the rumors, but I must warn you, I have no evidence to support any of this, and you know how much that repels me as a scientist.”
“I promise, Doctor, I won’t dispute any of your conclusions. I have some of my own that nobody would believe.”
“Briggs received doctorates in both psychology and neurobiology. We don’t get many of the softer sciences in this building.”
“Softer skulls” is what you mean. The touchy-feely doesn’t go well with the numbers racket. “He was running experiments.”
“You’ve seen the records. He used student volunteers, and while it’s not unusual to use students in the early trials of drug testing, Briggs apparently conducted what one might call a ‘bait and switch.’”
“Pretending he was testing one drug on paper while he was actually running something else?”
“Yes. Hardly uncommon, sadly, in the history of therapeutic drugs. Our branch has been just as complicit in some of the horrors of modern psychiatry, such as insulin shock therapy and the designer drugs of the fifties and sixties. And it’s likely Briggs would have gotten away with it if not for Susan Sharpe. But I imagine your wife has told you about her?”
Mark was about to nod out of habit but realized he would get more information by acting ignorant. He’d never heard of Susan Sharpe. “She doesn’t like to talk about that.”
“We still aren’t sure what happened, but we’ve pieced together a trial with six participants. Your wife, of course, was both a participant and Briggs’s graduate assistant. Though who knows whether her participation was
