“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.”