Liquid fear

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wallace Forsyth took a sip of Glenlivet single-malt scotch. He liked to think of it as his solitary moral weakness. But a forgivable one. After all, Jesus drank wine and gave it to others.

It was a ritual in which he often indulged while visiting Senator Burchfield. However, the senator was a teetotaler and had none of the common failings of the flesh. No, Burchfield’s addiction was power and influence, and even though he’d achieved success in the business world, he cared little for money. All money did was help him control those who didn’t share his views, a means to an end.

But as a rising star on the Foreign Relations Committee, the Health, Education, Labor amp; Pensions Committee, and the Armed Services Committee, Burchfield was uniquely situated to change people’s minds.

Many of them.

Burchfield’s library was elegant, with polished maple shelves, marble busts of Aristotle and Thomas Jefferson, and a dark leather sofa that sucked Forsyth into its depths. A fire crackled cheerily in the fireplace, though the room’s air was carefully controlled to protect the vast collection of books.

Burchfield was proudly pointing out some of his prized editions, such as an early printing of Hitler’s Mein Kampf and a copy of Lyndon B. Johnson’s biography signed by the late president.

“Top of your head, Wallace, who was the most intellectual of our nineteenth-century presidents?” Burchfield said.

Wallace went for the easy pick, mostly because he could only name half of those presidents. “Lincoln.”

Burchfield pulled a hard plastic sleeve from the shelves and held it aloft. The clear sleeve contained a ragged, salmon-colored paper. “Wrong. Millard Fillmore. He had a personal collection of more than five thousand volumes, and he established the White House library. He presided over the slavery compromise of 1850, which was the last time a senator drew a pistol on the Senate floor.”

“Now you threaten one another with so much greater subtlety and charm,” Wallace said, letting his Kentucky accent stretch the words a little.

Burchfield waved the document in the air. “He’s generally regarded as a footnote, the kind of trivia question that stumps a history major on finals. But Fillmore was the first president who didn’t come from a background of wealth and privilege.”

“Is that the reason you summoned me to the castle? A little history lesson? I’m too old and forgetful to squirrel away any more useless information.”

Burchfield laughed. “We’re more alike than you imagine. Play a little bit dumb so that people underestimate you. You get your best work done when attention is diverted to louder, shinier people.”

“You’re hardly a shrinking violet, sir. Or are those presidential ambitions just more smoke to veil a different agenda?”

“You know my agenda. That’s why you’re on the team.”

As Burchfield replaced the Fillmore manuscript, Wallace took another sip of the scotch. It was sweet and cold as it flowed through the ice cubes. Worth tempting the eternal flames of hell. “I don’t always agree with Dr. Morgan, but I’d hate to see her crucified for this.”

“That’s one of the risks,” Burchfield said. “You knew going in that there would be collateral damage.”

“I knew going in that the atheists, Communists, and radical liberals were winning the war against God.”

Burchfield gave his confident bellow of a laugh. “Don’t confuse the Democratic Party with the Illuminati. It’s all about timing. You just happened to come up for reelection when people were in a mood to dump a few incumbents. But, like all of us at the trough, once you know the way there, it’s not so hard to get back.”

“I’m serving a higher power here.” Forsyth drank more liquor. Scotch tasted better and better with each sip.

Burchfield nodded, suddenly somber. “And sacrifice is the hallmark of all good Christians. So we sacrifice a little now in order to save more people later. Christ took the nails so others might live eternally, right?”

“I reckon so, Senator.”

“So Dr. Morgan is serving a greater good. And there might be other casualties as well.”

“This here Halcyon…if you change people’s minds, are we making them better? Or are we making them less than human?”

Burchfield opened the glass doors on the hearth and grabbed a metal poker. “You’re always so concerned with free will and the state of the soul. That’s an old-fashioned sentiment.”

“That’s the Christian’s burden. To carry the message and save people from the flames of hell.”

Burchfield rolled one of the logs, and the sudden rush of oxygen caused the fire to roar. “Hell is right here, Wallace.”

Forsyth rubbed the cold glass against his lips, relishing the numbness. How fortunate to be numbed. If Halcyon was half as good as liquor, then maybe there was hope for the world after all, especially as evil ideas crept toward the United States from every corner of the globe.

“One in every eight American adults is on some kind of happy pill, Wallace,” Burchfield said. “Prozac, Xanax, Zoloft, so many drugs with the letters X and Z in them, all creating billions in drug profits.”

“So Halcyon is a golden goose.”

“It’s presented as a drug to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. I can already see the television ads, a grinning, all-American soldier returning home, sweeping up his kid in a slow-motion reunion. What doctor would have the balls to let even one vet walk out of a check-up without a prescription?”

“You know how I feel about messing with people’s minds.”

“Don’t play ‘holier than thou’ with me, Wallace. You’d like nothing more than to change people’s minds so they believe the right way. Hell, you’d practically consider it your sacred duty if you had the means.”

Forsyth hadn’t considered the potential of influencing people’s emotional conditions so that they were more susceptible to God’s grace. He wasn’t sure if such manipulation would be sinful, but God surely wanted his servants battling for the greater good with whatever weapon was at hand. The Old Testament was a litany of war, genocide, and enslavement, violence and conquest made ethical and right. “You think Halcyon has that sort of widespread potential?”

“This is a bait and switch,” Burchfield said. “Halcyon is a winner, to be sure, but it’s this rumored ‘fear drug’ I’m most interested in. But I can’t let anyone inside the Beltway know it. On the commercial front, imagine a low-level exposure to such a drug, one that left a certain population uneasy. Maybe something in the public water supply, or toward a targeted group like at a college or hospital. One would expect prescriptions of a drug like Halcyon to increase dramatically.”

“And profits along with it.” The thought evoked the need for another sip of scotch.

“But that’s only the beginning.” Burchfield spoke faster now, in that dynamic rhythm that kept members of both parties in line. “Think of the military applications. Can you imagine widespread exposure to a fear drug in a place already ripe for violence?”

“What, you turn crazy-eyed terrorists another notch crazier? That doesn’t seem so smart.”

“Fear and anger are the same thing when you get right down to it. If you can dose a sensitive area-say, the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan-then the situation’s bound to escalate.”

“So, while they’re busy killing each other, we send in the troops and play hero?” Forsyth said. “Another win for America?”

“You’re too old-school, Wallace. You worry me sometimes. The real effect would be protracted war, because American troops would be among the victims exposed to the drug. Protracted war means conservative policies, a chance to consolidate power, and a good time for a hawk to run for the Oval Office.”

“Damn, Daniel,” Forsyth said. “You’re more ambitious than I thought. And as ruthless as a rattlesnake in an Easter egg basket.”

“This is good news for your people, too. Hit Muslim areas first, then we can start on Africa. It’s about time America discovered a moral imperative in all those countries where tribalism is leading to the slaughter of millions. Of course, Africa’s home to the next gold rush for natural resources. And after that, who knows? China’s booming but still vulnerable.”

“And with so much war, trauma, and violence, Halcyon will become nearly universal,” Forsyth said. “I can see Halcyon doled out even before the trauma occurs. Just in case something bad happens. You owe it to your family to protect them from all the horrors of the world, right?”

“It’s a world of possibilities, old friend. Christian relief agencies-government funded, of course-move in and help clean up the rubble, with a Bible in every box of rice, socks, and soap. Missionaries have been using that carrot-and-stick for centuries.”

It wasn’t the way the Book of Revelations mapped out the final battle, but maybe it was metaphorically close enough. While Forsyth’s power in the capitol had declined, he was still a figure-head among fundamentalists and his support meant votes. But Forsyth needed a little more convincing, despite their long-time friendship. “But first you need to win the White House, or none of it matters.”

“Right. And you know there’s a place for you in my administration. That’s why I want you as an ally in this.”

Forsyth beamed. “I can side with Dr. Morgan and swing the bioethics council toward wider acceptance of mood-changing drugs.”

“That would help lay some groundwork. The NSA and CIA are already snooping, but Halcyon will sail through the FDA hearings and go aboveboard. Protecting our vets is the right thing to do.”

“More legislative tomfoolery’s been committed under the banner of ‘the right thing to do’ than every other reason put together.”

“Because the right thing is never questioned or explained.”

Forsyth was simultaneously intrigued and appalled. “And would you say inciting war is the right thing, Daniel? Using drugs to spread American ideals and influence?”

“I’m a freedom fighter, Wallace. And I’ll use any weapon at hand.”

Forsyth looked at his glass, wondering if Burchfield might have secured a liquid sample of the drug. He might right now be artificially subjected to deep forgetfulness. Or that other drug, which seemed to interest Burchfield even more.

And what if I’m afraid? What if the Lord has called on me, and this is my test of faith? Do I take up the sword?

All Forsyth could think was what he had thought before, that the devil was loose in the world and the forces of God were mightily outnumbered and had their backs against the wall.

Burchfield waved the poker in the air like a conductor’s baton. “One other little detail about Millard Fillmore.”

“Yes?”

“He was raised a Presbyterian and married the daughter of a Baptist preacher. Yet later in life he became a Unitarian.”

The Universalist Unitarian Church. The liberal mask of the anarchists, the ones who taught that every spiritual belief was valid and that individuality should be worshipped above all. A church that was actively eroding the country’s foundations and freedom.

“I see what you mean,” Forsyth said. “Knowledge leads you away from God.”

Burchfield leveled the poker, not in a threatening manner, but like an instructor drilling a point into a student. “And people with knowledge must be controlled or destroyed.”

Forsyth smiled. Of course he’d join the battle. It was the right thing to do.

He glanced at the crystal scotch decanter on the sideboard, wondering if he might have another before he left.