Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  Cristina chewed her thumbnail. Stacey said it was the realization he was a murderer that had driven Jerry insane. Could a Recognate overdose have pushed him over the edge? “What about THC?”

  “It looks negative.”

  “I thought you said his tox screen was positive.”

  “Yes, but inactive THC metabolites remain for up to a month. He’s been clean for at least two weeks.”

  Cristina chewed her fingernail. No active cannabinoids ruled out a Recognate overdose, but if he hadn’t been taking it at all, what caused him to suddenly remember his violent past? And she’d written a refill for him a week earlier. Why would he stop taking Recognate?

  “Cristina? Still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I feel like I’m trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded.”

  “I know that feeling.” Morgan cleared his throat. “Look, I may be out of line, but this is more than clinical curiosity, isn’t it? You sound like you’ve been through hell and back.”

  “You’re not out of line. I’m in trouble and I need answers.”

  “Well, if there’s any way I can help, let me know. Unfortunately, my hands are tied with Mr. Peterman.”

  “Wait. I’ve got an idea.” Cristina forced away her doubts and fears. Time to think like a doctor again, and Jerry wasn’t her only patient. “Do you still have samples of Carl Franklin’s blood?”

  “Sure. I’ve got the body on ice.”

  “You do?” Hope for answers to her questions glimmered in Cristina’s mind.

  “We keep unclaimed bodies for a month, so the police can try to find next of kin. It saves taxpayer money on cremation expenses.”

  Two Recognate subjects were dead after suffering psychotic breaks. If she couldn’t touch one body, perhaps the other could yield some clues as to what went wrong. “Luke, I’d like to request an expanded autopsy.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The rest of Cristina’s morning passed smoother than one had in weeks. No more surprises, odd medication effects or lawsuits. At noon, she set aside her charts with the hope she might get through the afternoon unscathed.

  “Devi,” she said as she passed the reception desk. “I’m going to lunch. Do you want anything from Mei’s Noodle Shop?”

  “Hold, please,” Devi said into the phone. To Cristina, “Sorry, but it’s Julius Simmons from ReMind. He says it’s urgent.”

  Images of the punishment the ReMind CEO was about to inflict on Cristina’s career assaulted her. She blocked them out. She wasn’t defeated yet. Straightening her blouse, she started back to her office.

  “Do you want me to order something from Mei’s?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  The call-waiting light taunted as she approached her desk. She clenched her fists and gathered her strength.

  You can do this. Yesterday was bad, but today will be better . . . The more Cristina recited her mantra, the less she believed it. She gave up. Willing herself to stay strong, she picked up the phone.

  “This is Cristina Silva.”

  Are you sure? A voice whispered in the back of her mind.

  “Dr. Silva. We need to talk.”

  “Yes, and I understand how upset you must be. It’s only because I believe so much in Recognate’s potential that I did it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I thought it would help that poor lady. I’ve already told Mrs. Watterson to stop taking it, and it won’t happen again—”

  “Doctor, what are you talking about?”

  “You’re calling about Martha Watterson, right?”

  “I have no idea who that is.” He cleared his throat. “I need you here at our main office in Washington. Right away.”

  “Washington?” Cristina wondered if she’d misheard. “Why?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it over the phone. But we need help with an urgent matter, and ReMind would appreciate your cooperation.”

  Still trying to grasp the idea she wasn’t about to lose her license, Cristina asked, “When do you need me?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I have patients. I can’t drop everything and fly there without—”

  “I’ve booked a flight for you at eight thirty in the morning.”

  Cristina’s head spun. “I don’t think you understand—”

  “No, Doctor, you don’t understand. I expect to see you here tomorrow with records of every subject you’ve referred to us.” His voice assumed the Darth Vader tone Cristina recognized from their last conversation. “Unless you’d prefer to meet with the medical licensing board . . .”

  The back of Cristina’s neck crawled. Clearly, whatever help Simmons needed was more important than Mrs. Watterson, and he wasn’t above blackmail to get it. “No, that will be fine. Please give the travel information to my office manager.”

  “Of course.” Though he resumed a congenial tenor, the threatening undertone continued. “Have a pleasant flight.”

  Cristina placed him on hold. When did her world fall completely out of orbit? Did she have even a shred of control over anything anymore?

  The hold light blinked angrily at her. Let him wait. At least that was something she could control. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out the overstuffed envelope she now carried with her everywhere. The day Santos first appeared—that was the day everything fell apart. Maybe Andrea was right. With her career and her sanity in jeopardy, did she have time for conspiracy stories and a fool’s errand?

  She glanced at the blinking light again and sighed. If she kept him waiting too long who knew how he’d retaliate? She pressed the intercom button. “Devi, can you get flight information from Mr. Simmons? And you’ll need to cancel tomorrow’s patients.”

  “Flight? What’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m sure Mr. Simmons will happily fill you in. Can you also gather the records for all of my study subjects?”

  “I’ll work as quickly as I can. Funny, Mr. Stevens called this morning.”

  Alarms rang in Cristina’s head. Josiah Stevens had been in the Recognate study for eight months. “Did something happen?”

  “No, he wanted to confirm his appointment for next week.”

  Cristina sighed with relief. Crisis averted. But better not take chances. “Do you think you could call the remaining participants to check how they’re doing and tell them I’m sending orders for lab work? Just routine. Try not to worry them.”

  “You’re worrying me. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure. For now, let’s say I’m being cautious.”

  “Okay. I’m not going to get subpoenaed, am I?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  After turning off the intercom, Cristina toyed with the envelope on her desk. Maybe a day away would be good for her. Despite his subtle threats, Simmons needed her help. If there was a fixable problem with Recognate, she was all for it. And the trip would get her away from Santos and the madness he and Stacey Peterman had created.

  Cristina flipped the envelope open with her finger. The news articles peeked out. She pulled them out and sifted through them. Once more, she skimmed through the multiple suicide reports. It seemed long ago that she was horrified by these gruesome details. Now, after witnessing two murders, the stories barely triggered a reaction. She set them aside and picked up the O Globo article. The dark-haired woman in the photo stared back at her. Stacey Peterman said they had changed Cristina’s face. Was it possible this woman and Cristina were the same person? The only person identified in the photo was Jose Kobayashi.

  The name rang a bell. After searching the internet, she realized why.

  Jose Kobayashi was the first to study beta-endorphins in memory research. Cristina had read his research at least thirty times. Could she even consider it a coincid
ence that her physical double had worked with a memory expert? She clicked through the list of web pages. After five minutes, she scratched her chin. A statement by the mayor of Rio declared the Renascimento project a success three years after its inception. Gang violence was down, and the city had earmarked millions toward improved public services for favela residents. That article was dated three years ago. Cristina could find nothing dated after that to identify Kobayashi’s whereabouts or activity, nor those of any other team member. It was like they’d vanished.

  Cristina slumped against her chair. Another dead end.

  She scanned the faces in the photo again. Her mouth went dry. One face was familiar, after all. In the back row, three heads to the left of Cristina’s doppelgänger, stood a young man with a thin nose, low-set eyebrows, and a striking resemblance to Cristiano Ronaldo.

  Cristina recognized the man who had been in her apartment—the same man who had shot Stacey Peterman.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “I’m sure it’s the same guy.” Cristina cupped her hand around the cell phone and peered out the window from the office foyer. From there, she had a clear view of the bus stop—and anyone who might be loitering nearby. “Andrea, this guy knows where I live. He probably knows more about me than I do. What do I do?”

  “Don’t work yourself into a panic,” came Andreas’s voice through the phone. “The police are still making runs by your office, right?”

  “Yeah, I saw a cruiser pass by two minutes ago.”

  “You should be fine then. Stay alert like I taught you and don’t act like a victim.”

  “We’re talking about a professional assassin, not a mugger.”

  “I know, it’s just . . .”

  Cristina frowned. “You think I imagined him.”

  “Well, honey, you’re all worked up about this trip to Washington. Didn’t you tell me this drug jumbles up your emotions and memories?”

  “Not exactly, but I get your point.” Cristina’s heart ached. Her best friend thought she was cracking up, and the worst part was Andrea might be right.

  Cristina’s bus was approaching. She scanned the street again. All clear.

  “Hold on.”

  She stepped outside and ran to the bus stop, then put the phone back to her ear. “Let’s assume for a moment I’m not losing my mind. What if this guy is real and he tries to stop me at the airport? Or does something to the plane?”

  Andrea muttered something in Spanish Cristina couldn’t make out. After an exasperated sigh, she said, “You’ll be fine. I’m going with you.”

  “Oh, no, that’s too much. You have your job. I can’t ask you—”

  “You’re not asking. I have a few vacation days saved up. Let me tell my boss, and I’ll head home and pack.”

  Cristina was so overwhelmed with gratitude that she missed a step as she boarded the bus. The driver caught her arm. She nodded thanks and paid her fare. As she made her way to a seat near the heater, Cristina shook her head. Why hadn’t she confided in her friend sooner? “Thank you,” she said to Andrea after sitting down. “You really are special.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be trolling for cute boys at Georgetown while you deal with the pill pushers. Anyway, if you beat me home, you make the drinks.”

  Cristina laughed. “Deal,” she said and hung up.

  After tucking away her phone, Cristina scanned the bus. There was a wheelchair-bound man in a hoodie near the back and an Indian woman with a baby near the front. It would be easy enough to spot the assassin if he appeared.

  Cristina confirmed no one was watching her and pulled file folders out of her backpack. Carl Franklin, Jerry Peterman, and Martha Watterson—their names stirred up feelings of failure. At least her other subjects were fine.

  She opened Carl’s file and searched for clues to something she might have missed.

  The Somerville precinct was bustling as officers scurried to respond to fender benders and conflicts due to the icy weather. Detective Miller and his partner shuffled off to file reports from their last case. Sergeant Davis prowled through the station, barking orders at junior officers before returning to his post.

  Tucked away at his desk, Detective Wilson studied the CIA file he’d been emailed, feeling like he was reading a Tom Clancy novel. According to the government file, the international assassin Jeremy Hammond, also known as the Golem, was nearly as elusive as his legendary namesake. He had first appeared ten years earlier, poisoning Pakistan’s Federal Secretary. While the Golem evaded capture, the Inter-Services Intelligence agency discovered ties to India’s Research and Analysis Wing. They launched a bloody attack that lasted four months until the United Nations negotiated a truce.

  Assassination after assassination followed. The killings followed no pattern that pointed to a specific geopolitical affiliation. The Golem then dropped from sight after every assassination, only to kill again months later.

  Until two years ago. CIA field officers tracked the Golem to Bogota, where informants claimed he was planning to kill the Colombian Defense Minister on behalf of the rebel group FARC. The US operatives arrived minutes after the minister’s home exploded, leaving no survivors. Three bodies found in the rubble were never identified, but dental records of one matched Jeremy Hammond’s by 80 percent.

  After rereading the report, Wilson reflected on Cristina’s claims. If Jerry Peterman had been the Golem, the trained killer might not have died in Bogota but perhaps instead lost his memory in the Bogota explosion. But what had made Jeremy Hammond remember the truth?

  The ringing of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. The caller ID read Hawkins.

  “What’ve you got, Rick?”

  “Silva’s on the move.”

  Wilson checked his watch. “It’s only two thirty. She never leaves the office before five.”

  “I spotted her on a routine pass and circled back. She boarded the 47 bus.”

  “Stay on her. She’s involved in something big.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “I’ll fill you in later, but I think it’s time to call Forrester.”

  “If you’re calling the feds, should I be worried?”

  “I hope not. But if things go sour, follow your gut.” He ended the call.

  Wilson knew he was in over his head. If Martins was in the same league as the Golem, the situation was way out of Somerville PD’s jurisdiction. Wilson rubbed his forehead. It was time to call in help.

  “Hey, Detective!” Wilson jumped at Sergeant Davis’s guttural bark. They heavyset officer waved at him from the doorway. “You’ve got visitors.”

  “Who?”

  Agents Forrester and Vasquez shoved their way past the sergeant. Forrester’s face twisted into a scowl. Vasquez looked cool and controlled.

  “Gary Wilson,” Forrester said as he approached. “I should’ve known.”

  “Agent Forrester, I was about to call you.”

  “Oh, really? Before or after you fucked up a ten-year investigation?”

  Wilson recoiled. “What?”

  “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been sitting on leads to Francisco Martins for over a week. And now you’re sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong. We’re assuming primary authority over all matters relating to Cristina Silva. Effective immediately.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The brakes of the 47 bus hissed as it pulled to a stop. A group of teenagers boarded and jumped into the front seats. The bus lurched forward and then rattled along the bumpy street.

  Cristina closed Martha Watterson’s file and stared at the cover. Fifteen minutes of comparing records for all her subjects failed to yield any common threads. Neither Carl nor Jerry had reported anything suggesting false memories. However, Carl had suffered total amnesia, so how would he know if his memories were real or not? Jerry only lost ten years. Wouldn’t he be able to
tell if his recovered memories didn’t match his older ones?

  Unless he had lied about everything. Unless he never took the drug.

  We’re being watched.

  The voice whispered in the back of Cristina’s mind. She couldn’t be sure if it was a warning from her new companion, or an echo of what Santos had said to her that first time on the bus. Either way, the hairs on her neck stood on end. Pretending to check the files again, she scanned the other bus passengers out of the corner of her eye.

  The Indian woman remained in her seat. The teenagers gathered near the front. And the guy in the wheelchair was in the back.

  Alarms blared in Cristina’s head. That same wheelchair guy had been on the bus that morning.

  She grabbed her backpack, walked toward the back of the bus, and dropped into the seat next to the wheelchair.

  “You can’t make an appointment at my office like normal people?”

  Santos pushed back his hoodie, revealing those smoldering obsidian eyes. His clothes reeked of alcohol. “The police have forced me into hiding, but I needed to make certain you were still willing to help me after the unfortunate incident with Ms. Petrov.”

  “Which incident? The one where you two skulked around behind my back, or where one of Zero Dark’s assassins killed her?”

  In response, Santos momentarily raised his eyebrows. A moment later, his face was again passive. He remained silent.

  “You didn’t know she was dead,” Cristina said. She pulled the O Globo article out of her backpack. “They sent the same guy who broke into my apartment. This one.”

  “Federico Gomes.” Santos nodded. “It makes sense they would send him.”

  “Why does it make sense?”

  “Zero Dark has an unusual sense of humor. You and Gomes share a common history. If they’ve deployed him, you must take extra care when you travel to Washington.”

  Cristina noted Santos avoided her question but was more irritated by his apparent belief that he had control over her life. “As if I’m safe here with the guy who killed my parents.”