eyebrows. He was trim, in his mid thirties, and clean-shaven, and had blue eyes that showed no hint of intention. “You’re forgetting who you work for, Morgan.”
“Christ. You’re CRO?”
“Let’s just say we’re an ‘allied interest.’”
“What’s with the cloak-and-dagger shit? Why can’t you just text me like everyone else?”
“Because they’re watching. We have to put on a good show.”
“They? There’s another level above you guys?”
The eyes didn’t harden, but the tone did. “There’s a lot more riding on this than Senator Botox and his rumored run for the presidency. Word is that CRO is going to let a few crates of Halcyon slip through the cracks, up through Canada and over to our cave-dwelling friends in Afghanistan. It looks like the first extensive field trials are going to involve U.S. troops.”
“No way. CRO is as red, white, and blue as Uncle Sam’s Saturday beer.”
“The only flag CRO waves is green.”
A teenager wielding a backpack shuffled around the turn in the stairs above, either too stoned to find the elevator or else on a misguided bout of self-inflicted physical activity. Mark thought over this new information until the student passed.
“Why should I believe you?” Mark asked.
“Your wife told us.”
Mark balled his fists and approached the man. “She’s out of this. That’s the word from the top.”
The man didn’t draw back or stiffen from the threat. “You’re assuming there’s only one top.”
“Tell me where she is.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands, Morgan. In fact, there are some who think you’ll have to be moved out of the way after this is over. Even though you don’t know as much as you think you do, it’s still too much.”
“More cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Just tell me what you want and get out of my face.”
“We hear Briggs is developing a spinoff. A rage drug.”
“Never heard of it.” Mark wondered how well he’d hidden the lie.
The man gave a snort of laughter. “I thought we were beyond all that. I thought you were in a hurry.”
“What are you? CIA? FBI?”
“I’m with the good guys. We’re checking out Briggs, but we need an inside source at CRO to tie this together.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who would know what’s going on?”
The man looked him over as if deciding whether Mark would walk away breathing, or whether pain might elicit information. “Then maybe you better ask your wife about it.”
“I will. As soon as you tell me where she is.”
“We want to protect everyone.”
“None of you people give a damn about my wife, or any of the people in this. All you want is a piece of Halcyon.”
“Halcyon isn’t the real issue here. It’s the other stuff we want. The Seethe.”
“Seethe? What’s that?”
“Pray to God you never find out.” The man jogged away in an easy, rolling gait, now just another fitness freak putting in miles.
Mark was pretty sure Alexis wasn’t home, but he headed for the car anyway. He had something tucked away in the back of the closet shelf he might need.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Roland hit Chapel Hill at about four in the afternoon. The city had a population of 55,000, but its sprawling, wooded nature projected a small-town feel, which led many UNC graduates to stay in the area and often end up working at the university. Roland had wanted to leave after the marriage, but Wendy was reluctant to give up her career track in the art department.
It was just one of many conflicts that had led to their split, but Roland knew somewhere deep in his heart that the seeds of their ruin had been planted in the Monkey House.
Monkey House? Why the hell am I thinking of that?
He’d indulged in a Kurt Vonnegut binge in high school, just as he was discovering the mellow escapism of marijuana, and Vonnegut’s story “Welcome to Monkey House” had been one of those mind-altering leaps of consciousness.
The story was based on the old joke of mathematical probability that if you gave a monkey a typewriter and he began pecking at random, eventually he would reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. In Vonnegut’s rendition, the monkeys immediately began cranking out flawless manuscripts.
But he’d read the story a few years before he met Wendy, and there was no reason to link them now. Except for the inescapable realization that the entire world was a crazy primate zoo, and humans were little more than hairless monkeys, only with more murderous habits.
Sure, I read the Vonnegut story, but I wonder if David Underwood did.
He could feel the vial in his pocket, deliberately jammed by the seatbelt so he was constantly aware of its presence. He glanced at the dashboard clock. He was determined to skip the next dose, no matter how distorted his mind became, but he was nearly due.
As he hit the business district, he passed an ABC package store, and the gleaming rows of bottles beckoned him. He licked his lips. The vodka in there would be real.
Wendy.
Roland didn’t know why her name would be so clear when all else was fog, but he pictured her face and the craving fell away. He knew that was wrong, that he should seek a higher power instead, but it worked, so maybe that was the power he needed.
By the time he pulled into her apartment complex, his hands were shaking on the wheel and the car was weaving. He slowed and willed the sedan into an empty space, then pulled out the vial.
Should I take one now, or wait until I get inside? And what if she doesn’t let me in?
What if I’m David Underwood?
No. Can’t be. If I were David, I wouldn’t be wondering about it.
He had trouble getting out of the car and the Earth tilted on its axis, threatening to spill him on the pavement. It was like being drunk except he didn’t have any of the emotional numbness, the dumb rage, or the thirst for more pain.
A man riding a ten-speed swerved on the sidewalk to avoid him, shouting, “Hey, watch it!” before pedaling away. Roland had to fight an urge to chase the man, drag him from the bicycle, and beat him senseless.
Roland had only been to Wendy’s apartment three times. Once, he’d helped her move. The second time, they’d had a serious replay of the breakup, ending up reminiscing and engaging in awkward lovemaking before a final argument. The third time, he’d personally delivered the signed separation agreement.
They’d bumped into one another occasionally because they still shared some of the same haunts, and the awkwardness lingered, as if something had gone unsaid.
And now here he was, turning to the one person who had the least reason to help him. And he wasn’t even sure why he was there.
She answered on the third knock, but from behind the closed door and with suspicion. “Who is it?”
He hadn’t meant to scare her. He tapped gently this time. “It’s Roland.”
“Roland who?”
He fought off a rush of anger. “Come on, Wendy.”
“Who is this?”
He was about to punch the metal door in frustration, but he couldn’t afford to draw any attention. Someone might report his erratic behavior and then he’d be explaining himself to the cops while his brain was peeling itself
