“Damn, honey. I thought we were past all that.”
“I thought you were going to kill him, and we need him.”
A sudden slew of bullets pierced the side window, shattering the glass and thwacking into the paneling above their heads. Wendy instinctively hunched over him.
“They’re shooting wild,” Gundersson said. “That means they’re losing patience.”
“Guess the floor is a good place to be,” Roland said.
“I love you,” Wendy whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’d do anything for you.”
“Love leaves you brainless.” He tried to smile but his face muscles were like barbed wire stitched into his skin.
“Listen, Roland,” Gundersson said. “I’ve got backup on the way. But we need to hold out for two hours.”
Gundersson made it sound like rescue would be a good thing. Which meant the backup could turn out to be the very people who’d started the whole hunt for Seethe and Halcyon. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Burchfield pulling the strings from a safe distance.
Someone shouted from the forest, and Roland recognized Mark’s voice. He had to strain to make out the words: “You okay in there?”
“Don’t answer,” Gundersson said. “Let them keep guessing.”
“But Mark’s on our side,” Wendy said. “He’s trying to save us.”
Gundersson hobbled up the stairs without speaking, and Roland heard his boots drum across the loft. He lifted one hand and motioned Wendy closer.
He whispered, “Gundersson wanted us all together. That’s why he had you call the Morgans.”
Wendy shook her head as if Roland was being a silly, silly boy. “We need to get our heads together on this. The four of us.”
“Where’s the painting?”
“Oh, so you’re finally interested in my art?”
“Yeah, the deeper meaning.”
“It’s over there.” She waved toward somewhere in the room.
Roland tried to turn in that direction but he was still too woozy. “Do you know what you’ve painted?”
“The Monkey House,” she said. “The same thing I’ve been painting for the past year.”
“You painted the formula for Seethe. If these bastards get that, they don’t need us alive anymore. Did you show Gundersson?”
“He saw it but didn’t make a big deal of it,” she said. “I’ve not exactly had my shit together here for the last couple of days.”
“Because Seethe is back. I don’t think it ever left.”
Wendy shook her head in denial. “No. They couldn’t get us here. That’s why we hid away, remember?”
“You can’t hide from what’s inside you.”
Gundersson yelled from upstairs. “I don’t see anything, but keep on eye on the back side of the cabin.”
Wendy crawled across the floor to the kitchen window as Roland rolled onto his side. He groaned as a wash of fresh hurt rolled over him, and he felt for the lump above his ear.
If my skull cracked, maybe the Seethe poured out. And maybe I’m all better now.
In the Monkey House, Mark had taught him that pain trumped rage, that pain brought clarity, that pain was the most basic human condition. Pain ruled the kingdom of the mind.
“Keep that pretty head down, Wendy,” he said, just before the glass erupted above her head and showered her with sparkling shards.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Scagnelli pulled up behind the car he recognized from the Morgans’ driveway.
He’d made good time, thanks to the two dumbass agents who’d stored the cabin’s address on the stolen laptop. He’d also learned a National Clandestine Service agent named Gundersson was monitoring the couple, but he didn’t have a way to check out whether Gundersson was in the loop. He’d lost reception since entering the mountains, one of the pitfalls of cheap, prepaid cell phones.
So, while he expected the Morgans, he was not expecting the black SUV that was either official government or else trying damned hard to imitate it.
Fucking CIA is making their play.
Both vehicles were empty, and he had no idea how far the hike up the rutted road was. He debated pulling around and driving on to the cabin, but the first gunshot stopped him. He killed the engine and pulled the Heckler amp; Koch from the passenger seat. He’d intended to use the sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun, clearing the cabin with just a few rounds, but if a battle had already started, he couldn’t count on close-range work.
Another shot came from the woods to the south, and he judged it to be from a couple hundred yards away, although the topography was tricky here, with ridges, rocky dells, and gullies pocked with thick undergrowth and high hardwood trees. He scanned the treetops just in case someone had the road under surveillance, and then checked the two vehicles. The front doors to the Morgans’ car were open, but he didn’t see anything of value and he didn’t have time to search.
The black SUV was locked, and its interior was empty except for some rolls of vinyl that could have been tents or body bags.
Someone was planning ahead.
Scagnelli smiled. Maybe the mess would take care of itself, or at least he could let someone do half the dirty work before he moved in to mop up.
But a flurry of shots inspired him to head for cover in the forest. Someone was using automatic weaponry, which meant professionals were taking care of business.
Getting the job done. I like that.
He stuck near the granite ledges that protruded from the ancient soil, choosing safety over speed, and nearly stumbled over the old man, who was sitting huddled in a gray, moss-covered cleft.
“Mr. Forsyth,” Scagnelli said. “Sorry about what happened in Chapel Hill. I guess I’m not the only one who underestimated Mark Morgan.”
Forsyth’s eyes glistened and he looked past Scagnelli to the gaps in the forest canopy. “Babylon has fallen, Mr. Scagnelli, and there’s an angel sitting on the sun. Do you see him?”
The white-haired man’s hands shook, and the tremors radiated throughout his body. One of the hands was clenched into a tight fist.
“Whatcha got there?” Scagnelli asked.
Another shot sounded, this one farther away. The battle was spread out, which meant its scope was larger than he would be able to handle with a submachine gun.
Forsyth didn’t react, so Scagnelli bent down and pried open the man’s fist.
Pills.
The vial was about a third full, but it was impossible to know how many pills it had originally contained. “What is it?” Scagnelli asked. “Doesn’t look like the speed you’ve been giving me.”
“It’s the seventh vial.”
“We’re not in church or in front of the cameras. Talk to me straight.”
The old man’s eyelids twitched spasmodically. “Satan owns the world, Scagnelli, and he won’t be vanquished in this season. Not while Seethe lives.”
“How many of these did you take?”
“It is done,” he rasped.
Forsyth slumped forward and Scagnelli caught him, gently pressing two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. The man’s pulse was weak, firing out of rhythm before galloping toward the next lull of heartbeats.
“So this is Seethe, huh?”
Forsyth didn’t answer, foam appearing around his lips.
“Damn, I’m tempted to try one myself, but you don’t make such a good advertisement for it,” Scagnelli said. He was turning away to head up the slope when the old man’s fingers wrapped talon-like around his wrist, nearly pulling him to the ground.
“Those…are…mine,” Forsyth wheezed. “We have a…purpose.”
Scagnelli didn’t want to waste a round and give away his position. Forsyth’s circulatory system couldn’t handle such a strain for much longer, anyway. This particular job was taking care of itself. Scagnelli bent back one of the wrinkled fingers until it snapped, and the vice-presidential candidate and former Congressman whimpered in pain but didn’t scream.
“Burchfield said to tell you you’re off the team,” Scagnelli said.
The old man’s eyes clarified and burned with such pure hatred that Scagnelli fought a surge of alarm. He had to break two more fingers before Forsyth let go, and then Scagnelli slunk away, expecting the crazed old man to scream or curse or damn his soul to the everlasting fire.