Liquid fear

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mark parked half a mile from the Monkey House property, pulling the car into the concealment of the roadside pines, whose late-afternoon shadows stretched toward darkness.

He’d never been there, but he’d overhead the plans for its security system. It was one of a dozen facilities on the company books, although it had been mothballed and listed for sale since the 1980s. However, the price was too high, even for the booming Research Triangle Park, which meant no danger of a serious offer.

The revived Monkey House project had been pitched as “Burchfield’s baby,” which suggested only a few close allies were in the loop. But maybe Burchfield was careless in his arrogance, and Burchfield was not without enemies who would be watching his every move.

Enemies both in and out of government.

The Glock had been almost a joke, one of those little macho tokens that were supposed to make corporate executives feel like big shots. Mark had even licensed his handgun, which diminished the locker-room points at the racquet club. He’d only had it out at the range three times. It had made him uneasy to even store it in the closet, and he never thought he’d actually be concealing it, fully loaded.

He’d insisted on a newer model with an internal locking system, because he wasn’t comfortable with the series of trigger safeties. Now he only hoped he didn’t have to use the gun at all.

Mark had dressed in leisure wear, taking a cue from the jogger. Workout freaks could be seen just about anywhere, in all hours and types of weather, without arousing suspicion. People merely turned away with slight resentment as they touched their own soft bellies and made useless, silent vows to get themselves fit.

Mark didn’t run, though. He needed to get the lay of the land first. Two compact research complexes stood to the west of the property, glassed entrances giving way to brick, windowless structures. Mark had seen dozens of them as a CRO exec, and the shiny prescription medications with inventive names often grew from well-lighted but tediously mundane operations in such featureless buildings.

To the south, the orange glow of Raleigh was just visible against the horizon, a state capital that was more sprawling than metro. Sunset brushed the top of the pine forest to the west, an area that industrial development had yet to claim.

CRO couldn’t have chosen a more remote, yet easily accessible, location, which made him wonder how far back they’d been planning the need for secrecy. There was a cartoon he’d once seen of a gorilla standing amid a crowd of briefcase-toting businessmen in suits, with the slogan, “If you want to hide, hide in plain sight.”

He didn’t have any sort of plan besides finding Alexis and getting her out of there. He tried not to think about the fallout, but he was shocked at how little he now cared about his career at CRO.

Alexis. When in hell did you become the most important thing in my life?

The undergrowth scratched at his face, and vines that he hoped weren’t poison oak whipped at his ankles. The forest canopy blocked the dying rays of the sun, which slowed his progress but helped him feel less vulnerable and exposed. He found a road of crumbling pavement that appeared to run parallel to the property, and he followed it where the walking was easier. If any vehicles approached on the access road, he would be able to hear them and hide in the woods.

A minute later, he came upon the sedan with the tinted windows parked just off the road, pulled into the weeds in a halfhearted attempt at concealment. It was a Lexus, not the kind of car someone would use for off-road exploration.

So Briggs has got company besides me.

The road widened ahead and Mark entered the woods again. Foot-high grass and small saplings thrust up through the asphalt beyond the fence, a sign that the complex had not been used much. The front gate was likely monitored, which meant he’d have to find a way through or over the fence.

At least the scrub vegetation grew right up against the wire, a sign of long neglect that meant he could probably buy enough time to find a way in. He was tugging on the bottom of the chain links when he heard the crackle of tires.

Mark ducked low and scrambled through the brush, which tore at his exposed wrists, until he found an opening in the clusters of honeysuckle vines girding the entrance. He peered through and saw a black limousine idling in front of the fenced gate, headlights cutting blue-white swathes.

He recognized the limo, even though its windows were tinted as well.

Burchfield. Checking up on his investment.

He wondered if Burchfield had shown up without an invitation. Either way, Briggs would have to let the senator in. Assuming Briggs was inside.

The question resolved itself with the hum of an electric motor and the clanking of chain as the fenced gate was tugged to one side along a slotted steel track. Mark timed the opening, counting down in the dark rather than risking his watch light.

Seventeen seconds.

The gate clanged into place and the limousine entered the grounds. Mark wasn’t sure whether a monitor camera or laser had revealed the car’s arrival, but he was betting on the limousine diverting attention from inside, and the limo driver-what was his name? Something butler-sounding-would be focused on the narrow, overgrown approach. The car was through the gate and fifty feet down the bumpy driveway when Mark made his move.

He tore through the honeysuckle, discovering it had grown over a series of long steel poles that bruised his shin. He clambered over and kept as close to the fence as possible. The gate began retracting, and he had to expose himself to run ahead of it.

He moved, ducking low, half-expecting a gunshot or a megaphone blare of warning. Instead, he hurtled through and rolled just before the gate locked back into place.

The forest inside the fence was sparser, with taller, spindly trees that made for easier progress yet offered less concealment. The meager landscaping had long since gone wild, and the asphalt lot was spider-webbed with weaving rows of tall grass and weeds. Mark wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have flagged down Burchfield’s limousine and rode in with the boss, but the chill that had swept over him upon seeing the limo affirmed his instinct to hide.

The road was easy to follow while still remaining in the trees, and he heard the distant echo of car doors closing. He couldn’t make out the voices but there were at least two, and maybe three, men talking. He moved through the darkness as fast as he dared.

The voices had stopped, which led Mark to assume everyone was inside. Unless there were guards on the grounds.

Mark didn’t think so, because of the secretive nature of the project. A show of security would have aroused suspicion both from competing pharmaceutical companies and from the government agencies Burchfield hoped to avoid.

He reached the edge of the woods and an expanse of rough lawn about twenty yards wide separated him from the building. A high band of light marked a row of windows near the top, and he estimated the facility at about an acre in size. A solitary spotlight projected from the front of the building, revealing the shadowed alcove of an entrance with a steel door. The limousine was parked near the door, and Mark saw no sign of movement.

Great. What do I do now? Knock?

He turned to sneak around back and check for additional entrances when something moved to his right.

“Looking for your jogging buddy?” came a brusque voice.

“Uh, I’m…uh…”

“Yeah, I know,” the big man said, moving just out of the shadows so Mark could make out his square face and small eyes in the floodlight. His mouth sagged to one side as he spoke. “You’re lost. That happens a lot around here.”

“I guess this road is the way out?” The gun seemed like a stupid idea now, but still Mark debated fishing it from his waistband. In the gloom, the man probably wouldn’t even notice until he already had it out.

But then what? It wasn’t like Mark was going to shoot him, and he couldn’t see forcing the man to let him in the building.

“Well, it would be the way out if you were leaving,” the man said.

And then the gun was out, but it wasn’t Mark’s. The man pointed his gun at Mark and then waved the barrel toward the building. “If you’re so curious, let’s go have a tour of the place.”

Mark had never been threatened with a gun before. All the movies made it seem like no big deal. You banter with the shooter, and before you know it, he drops his guard and you jump him. Mark had seen it dozens of times.

Except the cold, black eye of the gun seemed to be peering deep into his soul.

As Mark headed for the limo and the factory door, the man came close behind him and yanked the Glock out of the back of his waistband. “Careful with this. You don’t want a new asshole.”

“I’m a friend of Senator Burchfield’s,” Mark said.

“Sure you are,” the man said. “And you brought the Easter Bunny and Hillary Clinton with you, didn’t you?”

Mark wondered if he should have mentioned Sebastian Briggs, but Briggs was the kind of guy people didn’t like to talk about.

“You’ re one of the people from the trials, aren’t you?” the man said. “You’re about the right age for it.”

“Yeah,” Mark said, wondering whether the lie would keep him alive or amp up the danger. Whatever happened, he figured it would get him to wherever Alexis was.

“How come you’re not freaking out like the rest of them?”

“I’m freaking on the inside.”

The man gave a bark of laughter and pulled out an old-fashioned key ring. He opened the door and stepped back. “Welcome to the Monkey House.”