The photos were stored in a trunk coffee table. Alexis shoved away the magazines and lifted the table lid, pulling out the top photo album. She’d not opened the trunk since their visit, since most of her photos had been digitally scanned. She flipped to the wedding photo and saw the plastic film had been peeled back and the corner folded. She slid her fingernail under the film and removed the photo, glancing at their younger, more innocent faces.
She searched it for clues. She saw nothing to indicate the reason for Wendy’s veiled hints, unless the goal was to show how much they’d changed. Then she tilted the photo in the light and saw the raised creases on the surface, made by pressure from beneath.
She turned it over. On its back was written an address. 161 Roby Snow Road, Creston NC. Beneath that, in Wendy’s artful but barely legible scrawclass="underline" Just in case.
She couldn’t leave, not until she found Mark. But she wasn’t sure whether Wendy’s veiled invitation was for both of them. She’d said “We,” and Mark and Roland had never been close. Mark was from “after.” He wasn’t part of Sebastian Brigg’s original Halcyon trial like the rest of them, but it was unlikely they would have survived the Monkey House last year if not for his bravery.
Some may have forgotten what he did, but others hadn’t.
Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened?
Most importantly of all, she hadn’t forgotten. At least, not completely. While that night was a psychotic rollercoaster of rage and pain, the inescapable result was that Mark had risked everything-his career, his sanity, and his life-to rescue her, and she would do the same for him.
Alexis returned to the closet and grabbed the assault rifle. Mark had tried to teach her to shoot it, though she didn’t have the stomach for it. But she remembered his instructions, and the casual earnestness of his face as he’d spoken: “Just press the trigger as fast as you can.”
She made sure the switch was on “Safe” before propping it by the door to her office. She retrieved her paper records with their coded notes, shoving them in a backpack with her laptop. The assault rifle had a canvas strap, so she shouldered it along with the backpack, then went to the kitchen, feeling like a soldier shipping out to the front.
War of a different kind. The war between the ears.
She collected the Halcyon-spiked bottles of water from the refrigerator and shoved them into the backpack. She was heading for the front door when she saw him sitting on the couch.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Darrell Silver squinted against the midday sunlight like a mole whose tunnel had been ripped open by an earthquake.
He kept shrugging the shoulders of his jacket, as if he were uncomfortable with the fit. More likely, he’d never worn a jacket and tie in his life, at least outside of a courtroom. Forsyth would let him change into his work clothes soon, but first they had to endure a dog-and-pony show for the U.S. district attorney. They’d arranged to meet at Central Regional, with Burchfield pulling enough strings to not only gain Silver’s release but to have him declared mentally competent.
Forsyth was impressed by how much clout the threat of budget cuts could carry. His run in Congress had mostly been marked by growth and expansion, and the trough had overflowed. When everyone knew there was more than enough to go around, the fear factor couldn’t keep people in line.
“We guarantee his full cooperation,” said Silver’s attorney, a liberal young female named Ivanevski who’d been planning a defense on the outlandish premise that her client had been the victim of a government frame-up.
“We’ll review the charges,” the DA said. “It’s likely we can drop the interstate trafficking and conspiracy counts. But if the state chooses to indict, our hands are tied, you understand.”
“Understood,” the attorney said.
“What does that mean?” Silver asked. “Like, I’ll be on probation or something?”
The DA scowled at the recently released inmate. “If you so much as take one bong hit, I’ll have you back here in barbed-wire shackles.”
“Dude, no need to get all Judge Dredd on my ass,” Silver said. “You think I’m going to be doing much partying with this crowd?”
He waved his hands to indicate Forsyth, Scagnelli, and his attorney, who were also wearing suits, although Scagnelli’s was a bit rumpled and his tie was loose.
The DA was a silver-haired man who’d achieved his position during the Bush administration, largely with the support of then-Representative Burchfield.
“Don’t worry, Stan,” Forsyth said to the DA. “We’ll keep him in line.”
“You’d better. People tend to get emotional over these drug cases, and I don’t want to hear any rumors down at the country club.”
“Don’t forget, these alleged crimes were victimless,” Silver’s attorney said. “My client poses no danger to anyone.”
Forsyth glanced over to the glass entrance of the hospital, where Paula Redfern watched with crossed arms and concerned glare. She had been upset over losing one of her government-conspiracy patients, adamant that the lack of community-based modalities would jeopardize Silver’s rehabilitation efforts.
“Mr. Silver, please come this way,” Forsyth said. Scagnelli, who had shown fake FBI credentials, took Silver by the elbow and led him to the rental sedan.
The prosecutor and defense attorney looked at each other like chess players who’d just agreed to a draw. Forsyth said good-bye, waved to Dr. Redfern, and joined Silver in the rear of the vehicle.
As Scagnelli wheeled the sedan out of the parking lot, Forsyth asked Silver, “Did you happen to meet a patient named David Underwood?”
“Underwood?” Silver tapped his forehead as if trying to shake a memory loose. “Was he that guy with the god-awful singing?”
“That would be the fella, yes.”
“I heard he was a drug burnout.” Silver gave a vacant, goofy grin. “Not like that’s a bad thing, but some people just can’t handle a buzz, you know?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I still don’t know what’s going on. I’m sitting there like, ‘Well, do I masturbate or do I meditate?’ I mean, when you have all the time in the world, they both get a little old. Then here you guys come with this deal. The bitch of it is I don’t have anything to give you guys.”
“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Silver. Remember when I asked you about Alexis Morgan?”
The goofy grin tightened into a line, and Forsyth saw Scagnelli’s eyes staring back from the rearview mirror.
“You said you were synthesizing drugs for her,” Forsyth said.
“Just one drug, man,” Silver said. “Now you’re starting to sound like those feds, putting words in my mouth and making shit up.”
“Halcyon. Right?”
“That’s what she called it. Pretty cool name. The molecular structure was a little like roofies.”
“Roofies?” Forsyth asked.
“Rohypnol. Derivative of nitrazepam. It got a bad rap as a date-rape drug, but that story’s way overblown by the cops. You know how that goes. Scare tactics.”
“Yes, I do know how that goes,” Forsyth said. “Why does it have a ‘bad rap’?”
“Blows out your short-term memory while it sedates you. Slip it in your date’s beer, wham bam, thank you ma’am, and she wakes up sore and not remembering a thing. Well, that’s the urban legend, anyway.”
“Sounds…romantic. So how is Halcyon different?”
“An extra fluoride ring in the molecular structure. Freaky. Seems to kill the sedation factor and stretches out the amnesia. Probably some other heavy side effects but it would have to be tested. Say, where are we going?”
“You’ll know when we get there,” Scagnelli said over his shoulder.