Liquid Fear by Scott Nicholson Read Free Book Online Page B

gathered his belongings and wiped down the telephone with the sock, he realized the police would be looking for David Underwood, not Roland Doyle. The world believed David had rented this room, and the police would put out an All Points Bulletin not for Roland, but for his spontaneous alter ego.
    Despite the roiling of his gut and his hop-scotching pulse, he found comfort in the idea that David would be the fall guy. The latest contestant to suit up and show up for the Blame Game.
    The car keys jingled in Roland’s jacket pocket. He pulled out the orange plastic vial and gave it a shake as he held it up for inspection. It contained maybe eight pills. A plain white label bore bold print that read simply, “D. Underwood. Take one every 4 hrs. or else.”
    Or else what?
    LSD? A kick-ass barbiturate? Diazepam?
    And, the bigger question, how many of them had he taken? Enough to blot out a murder?
    He shoved the vial back in his pocket. Two minutes until the maid returned.
    Run now, sort it out later .
    That’s what drunks and cowards did.
    That’s what Roland Doyle had always done.
    Familiarity gave him comfort.
    A drink would offer even more comfort.
    He slipped his bare feet into his Oxfords, gathered his laptop and satchel, and took a final look at the bathroom. Hand in sock, he twisted the door handle, exited the room, and hurried along the balcony, hoping that bastard David had left him the right car key.
    The outside surroundings were urban, but rounded hills and a river bordered the low buildings, a series of steel bridges glistening in the morning sun. The air smelled of coal smoke and chemicals. He recognized the city now as definitely Cincinnati, its Revolutionary War roots giving way to redevelopment, the arts, and young corporate professionals.
    And the occasional surprise corpse.
    He picked out the car and slid behind the seat.
    Sitting on the dash in front of the speedometer was a handwritten note. It said, “Or else you’ll remember.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    “The chair recognizes Dr. Morgan. Alexis?”
    The chairman of the President’s Council on Bioethics, Dr. Michael Mulroney, had an irritating habit of referring to all committee members, and those providing testimony, by their formal titles. Except for the women.
    No doubt he assumed it was part of his Texas charm and he probably wasn’t even aware of it. But Alexis had noted, even in a cutting-edge field where women had credentials equal to men’s, a sly sexism still existed. And the Good Ol’ Boy network drew even tighter the closer she got to the Capitol Building.
    She gave no sign of her feelings, though. “Thank you, Dr. Mulroney. This seems to be more of a moral issue than a scientific issue. From what I’ve heard here, we tend to view social anxiety as a welcome trait. Indeed, as an essential survival mechanism. When the monkeys came down from the trees, we couldn’t instantly trust all the other monkeys—some wanted to steal our food or our mates, and maybe even kill us to protect their territory or eliminate competition. Fear was not necessarily a bad thing.”
    She could always count on Wallace Forsyth, a wispy-haired former U.S. representative from Kentucky, to stir himself any time she used a monkey metaphor, and she had taken to using at least one per session just to keep the old codger awake. As the token Christian Coalition appointee to the President’s Council, Forsyth made it his mission to frame every issue as a war on religion.
    Specifically, his religion, which to him was the only one.
    Alexis was privately a Taoist of no fixed beliefs and was willing to throw anything at the wall and see what stuck. But she took an agnostic approach in professional matters. Her work was complicated enough as it was.
    Crossing thin ice is even more dangerous if you believe you can walk on water.
    “Mrs. Morgan”—Forsyth refused to call her “Doctor,” as if he resented the fact that she had neglected to wear an apron and serve up coffee for