Chronic Fear Read Online Free Page A

better.”
    She gave him a sly look with her almond-shaped onyx eyes. “I’d planned to sleep on you .”
    “That can be arranged.”
    He glanced at his laptop screen. He’d had to leave his job selling display advertising, but many of the same skills translated to the Internet. The only difference was he had to think smaller. Which was a relief, actually.
    Wendy wiped her brush and dipped it in a jar of soapy water to soak. She was in an acrylics phase, which put her in a better mood. Watercolors were too delicate and oils tended to go to mud when she vented her frustration and painted too rapidly.
    She crossed the porch and stood over him. “Husband. Did you ever think we’d get back together again?”
    He took her hands, although they still had flecks and smears of paint on them. “I knew it all along. We were meant to be together.”
    “That’s what men say just before they kill their spouses in a jealous rage.”
    He studied her face. Was she joking? Was she starting to remember? “No, sweetie. That’s ‘If I can’t have you, nobody can.’”
    She leaned forward and kissed him. “Okay, you’re the expert in obsession.”
    He stroked her hip and ran his fingers behind her. “If you were married to this, you’d be obsessive, too.”
    “Dinner, and then we can play OCD in bed.”
    “Tell you what. Let me fire off this e-mail and I’ll be right in.”
    “Sure. And two more e-mails arrive before you shut down, and then you get to deal with those. The ever-expanding inbox of client obligation.”
    “I promise. Really.”
    She swatted him playfully with her rag. “So much for moving to the mountains to get away from it all.”
    He tracked Wendy’s alluring rear as she crossed the covered porch and entered the screen door. Even after twelve years, he still liked the way she moved. My Tibetan tiger , he liked to call her. The tiger was also her sign of the Chinese zodiac, while her Western zodiac sign was Cancer. Both had claws.
    He was eager to polish off the last e-mail. As a freelance graphic designer, he’d found a niche in e-book design and intuitively grasped the differences in marketing on a computer instead of a bookshelf. He’d also taught himself formatting, and although he wasn’t sure where the technology was headed, he’d been able to carve out a sustainable small business. Which was fortunate, because he considered himself pretty unemployable now.
    Roland sent the sample file and was just about to close down when a new e-mail popped in. He winced and didn’t allow himself to read the subject line.
    You promised her.
    But it’s only one more little broken promise. What does it really matter on the scorecard of a marriage?
    The subject line said: “Every four hrs or else.”
    “What the fuck?” He didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud.
    Spam. It had to be spam, a solicitation promising a Nigerian erection the size of a dictator’s bank account.
    The sender was “[email protected].”
    He knew he should log out immediately. Clicking could trigger a virus. Or exhume a past he’d nailed shut and painted black.
    “Hon?” Wendy called from inside. He’d already used up the window of good grace, and as a committed mate, he didn’t like forcing kitchen chores on her.
    Holding his breath, he opened the e-mail.
    It said simply: “We have a job for you, David Underwood.”
    “David Underwood” was the fake identity Briggs had foisted on Roland while tricking him back to Wendy and the Monkey House. It had turned out the real David was alive, although hopelessly traumatized, and Roland had burned the identification cards after their escape.
    The e-mail looked contrived. Why would the CIA send out e-mails? He doubted they even used e-mail.
    “Roland, these cucumbers don’t peel themselves,” Wendy said, with an edge of impatience.
    “Just a sec.” He Googled the CIA site, wondering if the agency tracked the ISP of every citizen who browsed it. A quick scan revealed that NCS