So Plan A was to wait for him to open the door, go through the “Order a pizza?” and get the confused denial, look at the receipt, and come back with “Sir, is this 417 Tanglewood?” and then, when Mark’s suspicion gave way to the normal desire to be helpful, Scagnelli would shove the pizza box in his face, push him inside, and subdue him before Mark could wield his weapon.
But Plan A went mildly awry when Mark didn’t answer the door after the third set of knocks. Scagnelli kicked over to Plan B, which would be to try the door himself, then go through the same routine, acting stoned and goofy to counter Mark’s paranoia at least long enough to get the element of surprise.
But the sharp, hard jab against the back of his ribs announced Plan C.
A voice, presumably Mark’s, murmured close enough to chill his earlobe. “I’ve been expecting you. And so has this Glock.”
Damn. Looks like the guy’s cop training is paying off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The visit to the Monkey House had jarred Alexis, and even though the old brick factory that loomed in her nightmares had been leveled, she could still smell the rot and rust of the interior despite being back in the antiseptic confines of her research lab. Odor was the most evocative sense because it had the most direct route to the brain, and the molecular memory had also carried the scent of blood. Whatever had happened that night, it still slept deep inside her.
But she didn’t dare wake it, because all that mattered was her mission. Silver’s formula wasn’t effective enough, and she had no hope of working with him to refine it. Alexis didn’t care that they-federal agents, drug-company spies, terrorists, they were all the same obstacles and enemies of science to her-were monitoring her research, and even if she unlocked Halcyon for them, all that mattered was that Mark had a chance.
Never mind that you lose your own chance.
She compared Mark’s files from the previous week with the latest she’d managed the day before her lab was raided and Haleema’s laptop was stolen. The lesions had made significant progress, the leaking fissures of blood leaving dark blotches on his MRI scans.
It’s almost as if his brain is attacking itself. Committing suicide. Destroying parts of itself it doesn’t like.
And she fought memories of her own, hooked and reeled from the depths of her subconscious by the return to the Monkey House. The antiseptic cleanser used in the lab was common to all university buildings, and its penetrating aroma swept her back to graduate school, when she’d been excited to become Sebastian Briggs’s assistant and engage in exploring the mind’s vast frontiers. Their first clinical trial had ended with Susan Sharpe’s death, but that had been an accident. Last year, when Sebastian Briggs had lured the five survivors back, they had undergone…what?
The images came in a syncopated rush: Mark’s battered face, the oily-mold odor, the front of her own blouse wet and warm with blood, Anita naked and wild-eyed, Briggs lying dead on the stained concrete floor, the steel tool in her hand heavy and powerful, the primal power surging through her No. That wasn’t the way it happened.
She’d never remember, because Halcyon wouldn’t let her.
She wouldn’t let herself.
The only evidence she had of those events was the scars on Mark’s mouth and her arm and the one Halcyon pill she’d concealed before Mark made her destroy the remaining stock. She almost wished Sebastian Briggs was still alive, because he might be the only one who could save her husband.
No. Halcyon is yours now. You’ve sacrificed too much to turn back now.
No, it wasn’t completely hers. Darrell Silver knew, as well. Along with whomever the geeky drug fiend might have told.
Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it, worried that it was Mark with an emergency. Instead, she was met with a vaguely familiar female voice. “Dr. Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Hannah Todd. Anita’s therapist.”
Dr. Todd had an office on the seventh floor, and it was odd for her to call since they often bumped into one another in the hall. Alexis suppressed the alarms in her head. “Is something wrong?”
There was a pause. “Haven’t you heard?”
“What? Is this about Anita?”
The therapist’s voice stayed cool and professional, almost aloof. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Anita committed suicide yesterday.”
Something rolled over and kicked inside Alexis’s chest. “That’s impossible,” she heard herself saying, although it was not only possible, it had always been just a matter of time. “I just talked to her a few days ago and she seemed fine.”
“She is-was-a rapid-cycler manic depressive,” Dr. Todd said. “Her mood could go from heaven to hell in a heartbeat.”
“What happened?” Meaning, Which method did she choose this time? The final time, the method that worked?
“She overdosed on several kinds of drugs, mostly depressants,” Dr. Todd said. “The ME determined she fell asleep in the bathtub, no foul play, but he wouldn’t rule it accidental because she had razor blades lying on the edge of the tub, and several empty bottles of pills. She intended to go, one way or another.”
“But she’s intended before and…” Alexis recognized the foolishness of her own argument. And her survivor’s guilt hit. She hadn’t warned Anita when the man on the phone had threatened her and the two men raided her lab. She’d selfishly assumed they were after her Halcyon research, not the Monkey House subjects.
But how could those ever be separated now? The drug Sebastian Briggs had developed to help traumatized war veterans had mutated into a virulent cancer of an idea that infected everyone it touched.
“I thought you already knew,” Dr. Todd said. “She considered you one of her closest friends.”
Proof of just how isolated she’d become. “We’ve been a little out of touch lately,” Alexis said, feeling defensive. “I’ve been busy with an important research project, and my husband isn’t well.”
“No one’s blaming you. If anyone, I should blame myself, but I know better. I thought we were making progress, even if she disliked the antipsychotic drugs I prescribed.”
Alexis glanced at the most recent scan of Mark’s brain and wondered if similar damage had occurred in Anita’s brain. She’d been so obsessed with curing her husband that she hadn’t considered the rest of them. Or herself.
“But there was something strange she said to me in our last session,” Dr. Todd said. “Since she listed you as a legally responsible person, I can break my confidentiality if it might help someone else.”
“Anita said lots of things. She lived a life of fantasy, after all.”
“True, but this was odd. Anita said someone called her and said, ‘Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.’ She couldn’t identify the voice.”
Alexis tensed. “I thought you said the ME suspected no foul play.”
“Well, it’s not something I’d ordinarily report, given her long history of suicidal tendencies. But I wondered if she might have said anything to you about it.”
“No.” Deception got easier with practice, and Alexis recognized that her own risk-reward center might be scrambled by Seethe and Halcyon. “She was always saying crazy things like that-sorry, I know ‘crazy’ isn’t kosher anymore.”
“She was also sharing an elaborate fantasy about the Monkey House, a place in her past where she’d committed shameful acts. Of course, I took that to be a metaphor for her career in pornography.”
“I’d agree with that diagnosis, Doctor,” Alexis said, remaining aloof, embracing the numbing sadness and shock.
“I just thought you ought to know that she mentioned you in connection with the fantasy. In her version, you were a murderer.”
The metal piece of machinery, my hand warm and slippery, the tip plowing into meat and bone…
“We were in a couple of psychology experiments together,” Alexis said. “We were simulating fear response.”
“Yes, the Susan Sharpe tragedy. I remember reading about that, although Anita wouldn’t share it. And you were assisting Sebastian Briggs at the time, correct?”