The “friendly” phone call was beginning to sound like either an interrogation or a therapy session, and anger boiled in the base of Alexis’s brain. But she couldn’t respond to anger, because she was unsure how it might evolve.
“Anita always felt responsible for Susan’s death,” she said. “We all did. Even though it was an accident. I’ve always believed that was a breaking point for Anita, because she started abusing drugs after that. Which led to…other things.”
“I’ve read all her files, of course,” Dr. Todd said. “And this outcome was almost inevitable, as much as I hate to admit failure. But that’s my own ego speaking, as a therapist. We all think we have the answers.”
Alexis relaxed a little. The conversation wasn’t about Anita or the Monkey House at all. It was Dr. Todd’s attempt at closure.
“Maybe her fantasy of me as a murderer was about killing our friendship,” Alexis suggested. “The experiments put a strain on all of us. And it’s why I’ve become so dedicated to unlocking more of the mind’s mysteries. Not to minimize what you do, but as you must know, the brain is a complex biological organism that we’ve only begun to understand.”
“I agree, and we’re on the same team,” Dr. Todd said. “This time, we lost.”
Alexis nodded, then remembered she was on the phone. “Anita took herself out of the game.”
“I’m sure I will see you at the funeral.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
There was a pause. “Alexis?”
“Yes?”
“It’s okay to grieve, even if this isn’t a total shock.”
Shock? I’ll show you a shock, you bitch. Come into the Monkey House with me and we’ll see how science kicks your touchy-feely ass.
But she realized Dr. Todd was reacting to her composure in the face of the news. No trace of sorrow. Which wasn’t surprising. Leeches like Hannah Todd sucked at the misery and pain, grew rich on bankrupt souls, and sat on their thrones smug in the certainty that they always knew best.
If I could introduce you to Seethe, you’d find out what you’re hiding inside. It would shrink you down to the manipulative whore you’re dying to be if you only had the guts.
She was frightened by the surge of manic zeal, so she covered by saying, “It’s so hard to believe. It just hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Come see me if you need to,” Dr. Todd said. “Faculty members have priority on my schedule. And I get them all sooner or later.”
So will Seethe, bitch.
“Thank you, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “And thanks for letting me know. Good-bye.”
She clicked off and studied her husband’s damaged brain one more time, along with the time stamp and the false patient name of “Donnie Davis” in the corner. She didn’t want him to die like Anita had.
Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.
Anita might have wanted to kill herself, but not that way. Not yet.
She called her husband. She needed to warn him.
Seven rings. Eight. No answer.
Maybe Mark was the next one they couldn’t let live.
She shoved the MRI images into her satchel and hurried from the lab.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They were sitting on the porch as the first hush of dusk settled. The birds had found their roosts for the night, and the crickets had yet to take up their instruments. A tumble of clouds brushed the ridge tops, but white outflanked the gray and would likely bring no rain. The moist air was rich with a mix of green vegetation and humus, rebirth and decay dancing on the same ancient Appalachian dirt.
“Here’s what we know,” Gundersson said. “Somebody wants you both dead.”
“Nothing new about that,” Roland said.
Roland placed his revolver on the hand-carved table, where it would be easy to reach. He hoped his show of power would keep the agent in check until he figured out how to approach the situation. Of course, he’d also taken Gundersson’s weapon, which the agent had voluntarily surrendered as a ploy to gain trust. Not that Roland was ready to trust anyone, much less somebody claiming to be with the government.
“We know about the original Monkey House trials and Dr. Sebastian Briggs,” Gundersson said, sipping the iced herbal tea Wendy had served. “We’re not sure how it all ended, but we suspect that someone came away with Briggs’s formulas for Halcyon and Seethe. The files say they were destroyed in the industrial accident that claimed Briggs’s life, but it’s hard to imagine he’d have kept the details of something like that to himself.”
Wendy touched Roland’s arm and spoke before he had a chance. “We don’t remember anything,” she said to Gundersson. “That whole week was like a big blank.”
Roland studied his wife. As much as he wanted to believe her, he could never be sure she wasn’t simply covering her shame and regret. Not that she’d done much wrong, besides submitting to Briggs’s sexual games. It wasn’t like she’d killed anyone.
Not like him. And not like Alexis Morgan.
“Halcyon wipes out memories, so that’s not surprising,” Gundersson said. “And plenty of powerful people would love to have Halcyon just for that purpose.”
“You can’t trust something like that out in the world,” Roland said. “Sure, they dress it up as medicine, a way to treat veterans and accident victims and help them rejoin society. But every fucking evil masquerades as good, at least until it’s got a foothold.”
Politicians fall back on the words “the right thing to do” like I fall back on the Serenity Prayer. Grab a mantra you don’t have to explain.
“I agree, Roland, we need to move cautiously, but I also believe the U.S. government is the body that should make those decisions,” Gundersson said.
“You’ve been drinking the Washington Kool-Aid too long,” Roland said. “How can we trust your judgment?”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Wendy said. “We can’t help you. We already told you we don’t know anything.”
“You told me,” he said to Wendy before shifting his gaze to Roland. “But your husband hasn’t said anything about what happened that night in the Research Triangle Park.”
“Because I don’t know who you are,” Roland replied. “Sure, you can give me a blue ID card with ‘CIA’ stamped on it, and the name you give me conveniently matches the name on the card. And you’re the guy in the photo. But anybody can trick up an ID card.”
Like Briggs made me think I was David Underwood when he framed me for murder last year. Killing an innocent woman just to mess with my head. Worst of all, it worked.
And maybe you’ll sell me out to the cops for that crime. Then who’d watch out for Wendy?
“I gave you my gun,” Gundersson said. “And here’s another reason you can trust me. You received two e-mails the past two days that the CIA intercepted. One said, ‘Every four hours or else,’ and the other said, ‘Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.’ Right?”
“What’s he talking about, Ro?” Wendy said.
“Nothing,” he said, unable to come up with a satisfactory lie.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Those sound like threats. And you said ‘Every four hours’ was the name of a client’s book.”
“Don’t you remember what that means?” Roland asked her. After she shook her head, he said, “That’s how often we had to take Halcyon to keep from going crazy.”
Wendy’s lips pursed in anger. “I told you, I don’t remember anything.”
I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t, either, if I could help it. And if I was the enemy within, I’d be lying, too.
She must have read the accusation in his eyes. She pushed away from the table and went to the tipped-over easel, where she tried to restore the canvas Roland had shattered during his rampage.
“How do I know you didn’t send those e-mails?” Roland asked Gundersson.
“We hacked into your e-mail account, I’ll admit. But it was to protect you.”
“Every fucking evil masquerades as a good.”