Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  In the other half was another photo—even more worn and faded—of a beautiful woman with coffee-colored eyes. She looked like the girl’s mother. Recognition flashed in the back of Cristina’s mind, then vanished. Was that the clue she needed? Had she worked with the girl’s mother at some point?

  Cristina’s phone rang, startling her. The locket clattered onto the table. She seized the phone.

  “Turn on the TV,” Andrea said.

  “What?”

  “Turn it on, mami. Channel twelve. Now.”

  Puzzled, Cristina clicked on her TV. A reporter’s face filled the screen. The words Breaking News flashed below. “For those tuning in, Stacey Peterman, sister of the Park Street Station shooter, is about to make a public statement.”

  Cristina’s fingertips prickled with apprehension. An announcement only a few hours after she caught Stacey and Santos together couldn’t be good.

  Stacey Peterman appeared onscreen, wind blowing her blond hair. Cristina wanted to reach through the screen and slap her.

  “First,” Stacey said into the camera before brushing an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. “I want to apologize to the families who lost their loved ones. As hard as it was to lose my brother, I can’t imagine what it must be like for them.”

  “You bet your perky little ass you don’t,” Andrea muttered.

  “Andrea, please,” Cristina said. As much as she appreciated her friend’s cheerleading, she wanted to hear whatever venom this snake was about to spit.

  “Today, while sorting through Jerry’s possessions, I found a journal he’d been keeping since Valentine’s Day. Most of it was mundane, until the last entry he wrote two days ago, only a few hours before he . . .” She closed her eyes, then managed to gather herself and open them. “Before he went crazy.”

  Cristina’s chest tightened. She had given Jerry that journal.

  “Jerry had been struggling with depression for months. He hid it well, even from his psychiatrist. He didn’t want her to know that he wasn’t making progress and had tried to manage it by drinking.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “When Jerry was fourteen, a school bully hurt him. He carried that pain and anger for so long, it consumed him. But he never told his doctors about it. He was too embarrassed. It’s why he attempted suicide two years ago. I thought he’d finally gotten over it, but he hadn’t. That’s who he was hunting on the night he died. He wrote in the journal the madness would stop once he eliminated the cause.”

  Stacey’s words nearly knocked Cristina out of her chair. Could any of this be true? Was Quinn just a schoolyard bully?

  “Jerry would never want someone else to take the blame for his actions, let alone someone he clearly respected.” Stacey turned to the camera. “I want to apologize to Dr. Silva for my accusations. She couldn’t have known his intentions. None of this was her fault.”

  “Honey, you’re clear.” Andrea’s voice came through the phone light and airy. “The families have no case for a lawsuit now.”

  “Yeah, I’m clear.” Cristina stared at the TV screen, unable to move. Whatever she expected, this wasn’t it. The image changed to the anchorwoman, who summarized the announcement. Cristina switched off the TV.

  When Jerry lost his memory, he would’ve forgotten both the good and the bad. By reliving past trauma, his depression would’ve returned along with his memories. It was a clear narrative. Cristina could almost believe it herself—if she hadn’t seen Stacey with Santos. What did he say to change Stacey Peterman’s attitude?

  “We need to celebrate,” Andrea said. “Throw on some makeup, and we’ll hit the town.”

  Cristina looked down at the locket, thinking about the photos of the mother and daughter held captive inside. Was this Santos’s way of ensuring Cristina kept her promise? “Sure, give me a minute to get ready.”

  After hanging up, Cristina stuck the locket in a drawer and crossed the room to search her closet for a clean party dress. Her mind was spinning too much to make sense of anything. Better to blow off steam and give her brain a rest.

  Once Cristina settled on a silky black sheath dress, she went to the bathroom and pulled out her makeup kit. She frowned when she realized she’d used up her favorite shade of gold eyeshadow. Fortunately, she kept more in her emergency kit.

  As Cristina dug through her purse, she discovered her copy of the novel, Menino de engenho. She traced her finger over the cover, remembering the day she had bought it. It was a few weeks after she started taking Recognate, just after recalling her dead mother’s love of books in her native Portuguese. Grasping at any thread to connect to her mother, Cristina visited a tiny bookstore in Allston, considered Boston’s Little Brazil. The owner recommended this book as a hard-to-find classic.

  She chuckled softly. The story was compelling, but the details about social inequalities in rural Brazil were too complex, especially as she fumbled over the Portuguese idioms. And it didn’t bring Cristina any closer to her mother. With all the craziness of the past weeks, she wasn’t likely to finish the rest of the book anytime soon. She carried it to her bookcase and was about to put it on a shelf.

  Her gut twisted.

  On the next shelf up was another copy of Menino de engenho.

  The arteries over her temples throbbed. She removed the book and compared it to the one in her other hand. Similarly worn, almost but not quite torn in the same spots. She flipped to the title page. Same publication date. Both had stamps from an Allston bookshop.

  It had all started with Santos, when he returned her book at the bus stop, claiming they’d never met. That he knew nothing about her. Except he knew she had this book and where she had bought it. Maybe he had been there that day at the shop and had been watching her ever since. Maybe he knew everything about her.

  She found it hard to breathe. What else was he lying about?

  Cristina’s phone rang again. She dropped the two books on the floor.

  Cursing, she grabbed her phone and answered.

  “You ready?” Andrea asked.

  Cristina glanced back at the books. No, she wasn’t ready for any of this. But she didn’t have a choice. If Santos was manipulating her, she needed to fight back. And the best way to do that was to keep him from ruining her happiness.

  “Give me five minutes.” She hung up.

  She scooped up the cocktail dress and headed to change. For one night, she would relax, get her head on straight. Tomorrow, whatever it took, she would find Sebastian dos Santos and get answers.

  Quinn sat in a leather recliner in his room at the Willard InterContinental hotel in Washington DC, swirling a glass of cognac. The TV flickered, casting an eerie glow over the hotel room. As Stacey Peterman spoke onscreen, his ears burned. He could see it in her eyes. Santos had gotten to her.

  In his glass, amber and crimson waves rolled and twirled in an elegant, predictable pattern. Quinn’s grip tightened, jerking his hand to one side. The cognac sloshed over the edge of the glass. He glared at the puddle next to his foot. One small aberration and everything spills out into a worthless mess.

  “There’s still time,” he muttered.

  As much as he hated to lose a valuable asset, Cristina Silva had forced his hand. He set down the glass and picked up his phone. Entering the encrypted chat, he typed, “Eliminate the traitor.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Quinn tossed the phone on the bed. He reclaimed his glass, leaned back and sipped. His gaze narrowed as the reporter droned on and displayed photos of the two women involved.

  The operative’s value had ended, and he couldn’t protect her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cristina awoke the next day to her cell phone chirping. Prying open one eye, she rolled over and groaned when she saw the clock. Who calls at seven on a Sunday morning?

  Although she’d only had one drink, she had stayed out too late with Andrea, arriving hom
e right as frozen rain began. It took another two hours to wind down. Questions about Santos, Stacey, and her parents swirled like tornadoes through her mind. Only through self-hypnosis had she been able to fall asleep at last.

  The phone kept chirping. Cristina felt like she was moving underwater as she groped for it and checked the caller ID. Blocked. Wonderful. For a moment, she considered letting it go to voicemail, but curiosity won out. She rubbed sand from her eyes before answering with a groggy, “Hello?”

  “Dr. Silva?” The female voice sounded familiar, but in Cristina’s sleep-deprived haze, she couldn’t place it.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  The other woman hesitated, her breathing ragged. “It’s Stacey Peterman.”

  Cristina bolted upright, fully alert. “How did you get my number?”

  “The hotel clerk.”

  “Oh. Right, of course.”

  “We need to talk.” The fiery tone was gone. Stacey sounded afraid. The morning haze dissipated as Cristina recalled the previous day’s events.

  “Is this about whatever Santos said to you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I saw you with him at your hotel.”

  “I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice had an undertone that said, Shut up and stop asking questions. “But it’s important that we talk.”

  Cristina chewed on her cuticle. “Okay, so talk.”

  “Not here. Somewhere safe. Meet me at Harvard Station at noon.”

  “Are you crazy? There’s an ice storm outside. I’m not going anywhere until you answer a few questions, like what really happened to Jerry. A depressed person wouldn’t try something new, like auditioning for a play. And if he was angry at a childhood bully, why not google him? Why shoot up a T station?”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll answer all your questions at noon.”

  “Wait—where in Harvard Station?”

  The line was dead.

  Gritting her teeth, Cristina jumped out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, and brewed a pot of coffee. Whatever Stacey’s game, Cristina was determined to get answers.

  Wilson scratched his head as he sat at the secondhand kitchen table in his studio apartment, staring at his laptop. He took a swig of black coffee and again scrolled through Francisco Martins’s NCIC record. Among his other listed crimes, arson still figured prominently at the top of the list. Why, if the Silvas dropped charges? And which detective told Manny Feldman that Martins had been cleared?

  Grunting, Wilson clicked out of the record. He fared no better when he dug up Cristina Silva’s background. Yes, her medical license was up to date. Yes, Metro West Hospital confirmed her injuries. Yes, she had credit cards, utilities, and a passport in her name. But anything containing photo identification was less than three years old. All records created before the auto crash had been lost or had destroyed.

  Wilson went to take another gulp of coffee and scowled when he realized the cup was empty. Just like his search. At the coffeemaker, he found the pot empty too. His cabinets were bare, except for a bag of potato chips and a box of sugary cereal. Damn. Forgot to go grocery shopping. He placed the cup atop the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and returned to stare at his computer. Who was Cristina Silva?

  Wilson’s phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, he shut down his computer and answered.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” Hawkins said over the phone. “She’s on the move.”

  “In this weather? Where’s she heading?”

  “Looks like the T.”

  Wilson sat up straight, his mind racing. He’d asked his partner to do a drive-by of Cristina’s apartment on a hunch. “Follow her, but don’t let her spot you. Maybe she’s going to her office, but if she’s meeting with Martins, she’ll lead us right to him.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the feds?”

  “If they show up in their black vans and riot gear, he’ll run before they even get close. Silva’s only met you once, so she may not recognize you. But if you see Martins, call it in. Don’t try to stop him yourself.”

  “Don’t worry. I may be an idiot for letting you talk me into doing this on our day off, but I’m not a total idiot.”

  After hanging up, Wilson drummed his fingers on the laptop keys. The area behind his right ear was burning red hot.

  Ice chunks pelted Cristina’s back as she trudged down College Avenue. She pulled her jacket over her face to shield herself from the pellets sweeping under her umbrella. Cold wind bit through her wool overcoat and nibbled on her bones. The street was nearly empty except for a snowplow and a handful of SUVs. Even fewer souls braved the frozen sidewalk. Ahead, a woman in a parka waved her arms and fell on her rump. After climbing back to her feet and brushing herself off, the woman staggered away and ducked into a coffee shop.

  Cristina clucked her tongue as she carefully chose her path. Only a fool would be out on a day like this—a fool, or someone desperate for answers.

  After stepping through the double doors into the Davis Square T station, Cristina brushed away the ice particles clinging to her coat. She scanned the lobby as she paid her fare and made her way to the trains. On most days, the station was packed with travelers but not today. It would be easy enough to spot Santos if he followed her.

  As she waited for the train, Cristina surveyed the platform a third time. A group of Japanese tourists huddled together, appearing uncomfortable in their soggy, lightweight jackets and designer jeans. Farther down the platform, a bearded man clad in a camouflage jacket rubbed his hands over a heating vent. Cristina thought she caught movement out of the corner of her eye near the tunnel leading down to the platform, but when she turned, there was no one there. Shivering, she reassured herself.

  The train rolled to a stop. The doors opened. Cristina stepped aboard and took the seat closest to the exit. The tourists filled the back of the car.

  For the entire ride, Cristina prepared questions for Stacey Peterman. How did she know Santos? Why was he interfering with Cristina’s life?

  “Harvard Station,” the automated voice announced. “Change here for downtown buses.”

  The doors slid open. Cristina jumped off the train. The tourists chattered behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. They clustered around the giant wall map, jostling for position in a group selfie. Cristina shook her head. The Harvard mystique knew no cultural boundaries.

  “Spare change?” A man wearing rags slumped against the wall, holding out a coffee can. His few remaining teeth bore gold caps. He reeked of sweat and grease.

  “I’m sorry.” Cristina checked her watch. Five minutes past twelve. The train ran slower than usual. “I’m late for an appointment.”

  As she started for the tunnel, the man asked, “You Silva?”

  She froze in midstep. Faced him. “How do you know my name?”

  “Some bitch showed me your photo and paid me fifty bucks to give this to you.”

  He held out his can. Cautiously, she peered inside. At the bottom of the can lay a piece of paper. She looked back. The tourists were still taking photos. The platform was otherwise empty.

  “Was this woman blond?” she asked. “Was her name Stacey?”

  “Lady, someone gives me fifty bucks, I don’t ask questions.” He hefted the can. “You gonna take it or not?”

  Biting her lip, she reached for the paper, fingers twitching. At last, she withdrew the paper and unfolded it. Her heart raced as she read: Charles MGH.

  “That’s it? Did she say anything else?”

  “Yeah, she did say one other thing.” He crooked his finger and grinned. When she leaned closer, trying to ignore the stench of old food and beer, he whispered, “You’re being followed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cristina’s neck muscles tightened. She turned, looked over her
shoulder. The tourists walked toward them, laughing and chattering in Japanese. As they continued past, Cristina spotted the bearded man in the camouflage jacket leaning against the map, trying to figure out his route. He staggered and caught himself. Could be a wandering drunk. Or not.

  “Who is he?” she whispered to the homeless man. “What does he want?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy following me.”

  “Lady, I got paid to give you a message, which I did.” He waved the can under her nose. “You want anything else, contribute to the Save the Homeless fund.”

  Cristina’s heart beat faster. She heard footsteps. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bearded man approaching, shuffling and meandering haphazardly. He kept his head down, as if avoiding eye contact.

  She dropped a dollar bill into the can. “Who is he?”

  The homeless man stuck his nose into the can and then shrugged. “Beats me. Thanks for the buck.”

  Cristina cursed. She spared another glance. Now the bearded man was headed toward the tunnel, but he stopped as if he’d forgotten something. He patted his pockets, then reached under his jacket. His hand closed around something that glinted of metal.

  Something like the handle of a gun.

  Panic washed over Cristina. Her heart pounded.

  A voice said deep inside her head, Act first. Don’t be the victim.

  Before she could process the message, her body was already moving. She ran at the bearded man. Jumped. Spun. Kicked him square in the back. He flew forward. His chin smashed into the ground. She touched the floor. Flipped around. Ran back toward the trains. She turned a corner. Crashed into a white-haired man wearing an overcoat. He fell on his back. Cristina rolled away and kept running.

  Someone shouted behind her. She blocked everything out. Raced down the stairs. A red line train was waiting. Doors closing.