Liquid fear f-1 Page 8

  “Fine. Get in.”

  The door opened as the driver carried Mark’s bag to the trunk and loaded it. Mark settled into the spacious rear compartment. Senator Daniel Burchfield, the Republican from North Carolina, moved into the middle of the brown leather seat.

  “You know Wallace Forsyth, don’t you?” the senator said.

  “Yes,” Mark said, reaching across the senator’s abdomen to shake Forsyth’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

  “That wife of yours is some kind of hell-raiser, Morgan,” Forsyth said. “And I mean that with all due respect.”

  “She keeps my hands full,” Mark said.

  Forsyth’s skin was cadaverous and cool, as if he’d been dipped in a thin layer of wax, and his cologne was overpowering. “Well, you need to rein her in a little,” Forsyth drawled in his rough, Kentucky-inflected voice. “She’s got the bioethics council chasing its tail. You ever seen what happens when a dog chases its tail?”

  “Afraid not, sir.”

  “Well, it either catches it, or it drops over dead. I don’t know which one will come first with this bunch. The president put too many liberals on the council, for one thing.”

  “Now, now,” Burchfield said. “You really mean he put too many atheists on it.”

  Forsyth harrumphed as if he saw no difference in the two. “A good scientist can work God into anything. Especially if it makes better people.”

  “Save it for the council, Wallace,” Burchfield said. “We’re all on the same page here. Right, Mark?”

  “Right.”

  A pane of soundproof glass separated the driver’s compartment from the rear. Winston settled behind the wheel and negotiated a turn between the hotel shuttle vans.

  Mark had planned to take a taxi. Alexis had left the previous evening, and Mark had an extra stop on his itinerary. He didn’t feel he could trouble a U.S. senator to make a pit stop, however. He decided to get to business.

  “We can give the FDA-”

  Forsyth held up a chapped palm. “Is the car clean?” he asked Burchfield.

  Mark didn’t comprehend the remark. The interior still had that acrid chemical scent of new upholstery.

  Burchfield nodded. “Secret Service swept it.”

  “You trust the Service?”

  “You know me better than that. I had my own people go over it after that, in case the NSA wants a piece. Defense has been sniffing around, too.”

  Mark finally understood they were talking about bugs. He’d never considered that a senator’s car might be bugged, especially by the very federal agencies whose budgets passed through one of Burchfield’s other committees.

  “Okay,” Forsyth said with a crooked grin. “Now that Mr. Morgan knows we’re not playing matchstick poker here.”

  “The subcommittee on health care is meeting Thursday,” Burchfield said.

  “They moved it up a week?” Mark asked. Congress usually moved at glacial speed on legislative matters.

  “I had to call in some favors. There’s a certain blowhard Democrat who is scheduled to be in Afghanistan this week, and I wouldn’t mind if he misses a few votes. One thing you can count on in the current political environment-no politician dares cancel a photo op in Afghanistan.”

  The limousine merged into afternoon traffic, took an exit, and was soon on the freeway headed for Dulles International. Mark looked out at passengers in nearby cars, who stared back at the dark glass and no doubt tried to guess what type of important person was shielded from their view.

  He’d noticed the same phenomenon in Los Angeles, where stargazers imagined Tom Cruise or Sandra Bullock behind every tinted windshield.

  Only in New York did people not give a damn one way or another, as long as you weren’t cutting them off in traffic. In that case, it wouldn’t matter whether you were a pope or a polar bear, you’d be in for a horn blast and a middle finger.

  “Where are we on Halcyon?” Burchfield asked.

  “We’ve got our best people on it,” Mark said.

  “How long have the trials been going on? FDA doesn’t like to fast-track. It’s been bitten on the ass too many times. Look at the Vioxx mess.”

  “Well, there’s a minor problem with that, sir.” Mark resorted to the salutation because it might soften the bad news. Burchfield didn’t buy it.

  “Problem? Hell, Morgan, I thought the problem was getting this through the red tape and putting Halcyon on those blocks of sticky pads in your friendly neighborhood doctor’s office. Don’t tell me we’re shaky on the approach?”

  “We’ve had some trials and rigorous testing. We’re doing a double-blind study right now.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Ain’t it obvious?” Forsyth said. “The boy’s walking on mule eggs. He has no idea what Halcyon can do.”

  “I have a real good idea, Mr. Forsyth.” Mark looked past Burchfield to the wispy-haired fundamentalist. “Trouble is, I’m not sure we want the whole story out there.”

  “Now, now,” Burchfield said. “Either you can deliver the damn drug or you can’t.”

  “We’ve had the trials. Years of trials. Our lead researcher has been on it for a decade. But not all of it’s documented.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not documented’?”

  “There are gaps in the record. The FDA likes a timeline, the introduction, the animal testing, the check for cross-reactions, all that. But we kind of skipped a step.”

  “It’s a little late for surprises.” Burchfield had the politician’s knack of changing moods quickly, at least when not in front of the camera or on the Senate floor. His cheeks blotched with anger. “Fill me in.”

  “Well, it’s an offshoot of a drug we had in trials a decade ago, before I joined CRO. The original testing was a little…” Mark shopped around for the right word.

  “Squirrel-eyed,” Forsyth finished. “You got some bad results and you chucked them off the back porch.”

  “The results were mostly positive,” Mark said. “But the testing started with human trials.”

  “Goddamn it,” Burchfield said, unapologetic for cussing in front of his Christian ally. “Can the FDA trace that to Halcyon?”

  “Not likely. The only link is Sebastian Briggs, the doctor who-”

  “I know Briggs. He gave a briefing to the subcommittee years ago on the ethics of mood-enhancing drugs. Before he went in the shitter.”

  “That was before the creation of the bioethics council,” Forsyth said. “The Senate would let any nutcase present evidence.”

  “You were in the House at the time,” Burchfield said. “And I didn’t hear you raise any objections.”

  “Briggs is a heathen,” Forsyth said. “Can’t keep his fingers out of God’s pie.”

  “Save it for the pulpit,” Burchfield said. “Or your next campaign, if you ever have one.” To Mark, he said, “So, is that the worst of it? Clinical trials without FDA approval?”

  “As if that ain’t bad enough,” Forsyth said.

  The limousine weaved in traffic and Mark glanced at the driver, who appeared to be checking his rearview and side mirrors. They were on the Beltway, making decent time for late afternoon, maybe half an hour from the airport. Mark was eager to get out of the car. The air seemed stifling, and Forsyth’s cologne was giving him a headache.

  “Well, Briggs had a few offshoots in the works,” Mark said. “As you know, researchers often don’t look for just one single thing. A lot of times, it’s a case of seeing what pops up.”

  “I don’t care about that end of it,” Burchfield said. “I just want to know if any of this can come back on me.”

  “Briggs was studying serum levels in Gulf War veterans with PTSD. He found elevated levels of certain neuroactive steroids correlating with a high rate of suicides and-”

  “Get to the point. Don’t play Michael Crichton with me.”

  “Basically, Briggs wasn’t satisfied with his test pool. After all, you can’t very well wait around for the next w
ar for a decent supply of near-death accident survivors. So he found ways to elevate normal serum levels. In effect, he created a drug that caused fear.”

  “You’re telling me he had to create the disease so he could find a cure?”

  “Fear is not exactly a disease,” Mark said. “It’s simply a condition, a state of awareness, a feeling. Some would argue it’s a valuable survival mechanism.”

  “If you’re scared, you run like hell,” Forsyth said. “We had this debate on the council. The consensus was that human emotions were natural, a gift of God.”

  Because of his wife’s membership, Mark was well aware the bioethics council wasn’t designed to reach a consensus, merely to serve as an advisory board that addressed potential concerns.

  And although God had a rightful place in the council’s deliberations, the government God was a theoretical, all-encompassing, and even generic deity, not the punitive, white-bearded denizen of the Old Testament. Not that Forsyth appreciated the subtle distinctions.

  “So Briggs was messing with some fear stimulants,” Burchfield said. “Nothing much new there. The DOD has been working on that since the LSD and mescaline experiments. The trouble is they’ve never found a drug that has the same effect on every person. If you dose your enemy, you’re just as likely to create a savage, bloodthirsty war machine as you are a man-mouse. Same with your own people.”

  “Well, maybe Briggs succeeded,” Mark said. “I’m still not clear on that.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a handle on him.” Burchfield, the son of a tobacco farmer, had been studying for his chosen career since being elected class president in grammar school, and he was used to moving human chess pieces.

  But in Mark’s world, control was limited to laboratory tests and board rooms and didn’t extend as readily to the scientists who concocted the substances. Science required rigid discipline, but a revolutionary creativity was essential for breakthroughs. Briggs was revolutionary in more ways than Mark cared to admit.

  “I’ll have it all by the time we go to the trials,” Mark said. “I have to dig through some records at UNC, where the original testing took place. Don’t worry, we’ll put on a good show for the FDA. He’s running two test groups, apparently. And we can always retroactively adjust the data.”

  “I can push on this, but the FDA is still going to want at least six months of solid numbers,” Burchfield said. “A flawless six months.”

  “Some of the elements are patented, so we’ll have to do some shuffling,” Mark said. “CRO doesn’t want anyone coming in claiming intellectual theft right before Halcyon hits the shelves.”

  “Sounds like Halcyon’s got more holes than a rusty milk bucket,” Forsyth said. To Burchfield, he added, “I’d tread mighty careful, Daniel. One slip and no Oval Office in two years.”

  “I’ll want a full report on what Briggs is up to,” Burchfield said to Mark. “This ‘fear drug’ might even wind up being more valuable than Halcyon. I don’t like question marks, and I don’t like our security agencies getting to it before I know what’s what. Understood?”

  Mark frowned. CRO had invested heavily in Burchfield, even more than it had invested in Briggs. “I’ll handle it personally, sir.”

  Burchfield pressed the button to summon the driver. “Next exit.”

  Winston nodded, and the limo glided up a ramp. The senator said, “You’d better take another route to the airport. It’s probably best if we’re not all seen together.”

  “I’ll miss my flight,” Mark protested, still shaken but eager to get out of that mad city.

  “We’ve taken care of everything.”

  The limo pulled into a gas station. A taxi waited by the kerosene pump, a dark-skinned man in a turban at the wheel. Winston stopped beside the taxi, hopped out, opened Mark’s door, and unlocked the trunk. By the time Mark stood blinking on the crumbled tarmac, Winston was putting the suitcase handle in his hand.

  “Is it safe?” Mark asked, meaning the cab, but he figured the question applied equally to the entire situation.

  “Just don’t go steppin’ in nothing unless you got your hip waders on,” Forsyth said.

  “Get your data in line,” Burchfield said. “Just make damned sure it all looks good on paper. And keep a tight rein on Briggs.”

  “And your wife,” Forsyth added.

  Winston got in and drove away, and Mark looked around before slowly approaching the cab.

  “Airport?” the driver said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alexis wound through the clusters of students milling on the commons. It was Friday morning, and most upperclassmen were wise enough to manipulate their schedules for a three-day weekend, so the college was less crowded than usual. Even so, the changing of classes launched a human tidal wave across the well-kept grounds.

  Not everyone was worried about the next class, however. Students sat under the ancient oak trees with fat books, iPhones, and laptops, while others enjoyed leisurely games of Frisbee or hacky sack. The aroma of coffee and rancid fryer oil wafted from the student canteen. A golden retriever chased a squirrel across the grass, nearly upending a girl on a bicycle.

  Alexis loved the older part of the University of North Carolina. The country’s first public university still had some of the landmarks from its 1700s origin, and care had been taken to preserve the traditional heart of the campus.

  She’d been an undergrad here, receiving twin degrees in psychology and chemistry. She still had many fond memories of basketball games, frat parties, late nights in the library, strolling through the arboretum in the fall, smoking pot at the Bell Tower with Mark during the traditional Friday “High Noon,” and barhopping on Franklin Street.

  She’d lost her virginity her freshman year in the woods behind the outdoor amphitheater, then wished she had it back when the guy turned out to be a self-absorbed asshole. Never date a concert violinist, no matter how skilled his fingers.

  Despite tradition, expansion had pushed the campus toward the south, where the buildings rose in gleaming towers of glass and steel surrounding the hospital. Most of Alexis’s classes were in the Morton Building, named for a prominent disciple of Carl Jung, with her lab in the Neurosciences Department.

  It was the same lab where she had served as a graduate assistant to Dr. Sebastian Briggs, although she only had a few papers of notes from that era. So much of it was lost, but she had a feeling the loss was for the best.

  Today, though, she had to pay a visit to the Chancellor’s Office to sort out some matters related to her upcoming leave of absence. She planned to take a year off to write another book.

  “Dr. Morgan?”

  Alexis turned. Celia Smith fell into step beside her, a freckle-faced young lady in pigtails and a Decemberists sweatshirt. Although Alexis had about fifty students each semester, she made it a point to memorize their names. Celia was one of those unspectacular students who turned in assignments on time but rarely made the leap from rote recitation to genuine insight.

  “Hello, Celia. How are you?”

  “Great. I didn’t know they let the scientists over on this part of campus. This is liberal-arts turf.”

  “Some people would argue that neurobiology isn’t really a science.”

  “Well, you’ve got a lab and stuff.”

  Alexis smiled at the “stuff.” “As we come to understand more about the brain, the closer psychology edges toward science. Mood, disorder, and emotion are nothing more than various combinations of electrical impulses and chemical compounds.”

  “You sound like Dr. Briggs.”

  Alexis drew to a halt, spinning to face Celia and grab her forearm. “Briggs?”

  Celia looked down at her flesh, where Alexis’s fingers pressed hard enough to create red rings. “Ow.”

  “Sorry.” Alexis drew back, appalled. “I didn’t mean…are you talking about Sebastian Briggs?”

  Celia nodded, eyes wide with a look Alexis realized was fear. “Yeah. I’m a volunteer in one
of his research projects.”

  “Briggs is here?” Alexis couldn’t believe it. She would have seen his name on the faculty roster, and he almost certainly would have been assigned to her department. Besides, Briggs had left UNC with a black mark on his record, and in academia, no administrator was willing to risk repeating a mistake. Especially one of the magnitude made by Briggs.

  She had shared in that mistake, but her resume was spotless. However, the ledger in her memory bore a few smudges and eraser marks.

  “He’s working under contract,” Celia said. “I drive over to RTP once a week. They pay us fifty dollars a session.”

  So Briggs is working in private industry. “What’s the project?”

  Celia shook her head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “We’re not supposed to say. We signed a whatchamacallit, where we have to keep it a secret.”

  “A nondisclosure agreement?”

  “Yeah. I could get in trouble just saying this much. Plus I could lose the bonus at the end of the trial.”

  The crowd around them grew denser, people picking up the pace as the next class loomed minutes away. Alexis felt the urgency in her own bloodstream.

  She didn’t know how to fish information from Celia without further frightening the girl. “I won’t tell anybody, Celia. I used to work with him and-well, I didn’t know he was around. I wouldn’t mind saying hello.”

  Celia backed away, looking over Alexis’s shoulder. “Sorry, Dr. Morgan. I’m late for chemistry lab.”

  Celia turned and hurried into the crowd, which seemed to have thickened in the space of seconds. Alexis was about to shout at Celia, but someone bumped into her, causing her to drop the books she was carrying. As she was flung forward, she bounced against a tall man with the muscular physique of an athlete.

  “Hey,” the man yelled in a deep, gruff voice. In the commotion, Alexis felt a sting in the small of her back.

  Her first thought was bee, even though it was March and bees were still a little sluggish in the cool air. A spider was more likely, since the spindly arachnids were so ubiquitous and would bite if trapped in clothing. She reached to rub the wound as the jock turned and sneered.