by Joel Shulkin
Cristina’s fingers clenched. “How do you know me?”
“It’s me, Maria.” The woman touched her chest. “Your sister.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Detective Gary Wilson studied the other T passengers as he descended the stairwell at Government Center Station. College students and union workers mingled with straitlaced executives, all bundled in scarves and parkas. An E line train arrived and quickly filled, leaving a dozen passengers waiting for the next. Wilson wanted to plug his ears. The constant clacking, flickering fluorescents, and stench of body odor made it tough to keep down his meager breakfast of corn flakes and coffee. He meandered to a bench and waited.
Santos had chosen this meeting place wisely. Wilson watched passengers force their way aboard a B line train. Cell phones were useless underground. It was easy to blend into the crowd. And there were ample escape routes.
Wilson knew the signs of surveillance from years of stakeouts: the businessman who never turned the newspaper page, the woman drinking the same cup of coffee long after it’s been emptied, or the panhandler who didn’t seem to care about how much money was coming in. Wilson didn’t spot anyone out of place.
“Excuse me.”
A blind man wobbled before Wilson, tapping his white cane against the bench. He was tall, broad shouldered. Sunglasses shielded his eyes. A wool hat covered his ears.
As Wilson shifted to make room, he noticed the man’s swollen ankle. “Hey, you should get that foot looked at.”
“I’ll be fine, Detective.”
Wilson was startled. “Santos?”
“Avoid eye contact or names. I’ve ensured no one’s followed us, but let’s not take any chances.”
Facing forward, Wilson side-eyed Santos. Now he recognized the broad chin, the heavy eyebrows and the bulbous nose from the BOLO. It took all Wilson’s will not to punch him in the face. “What makes you think I won’t haul your ass to the station?”
Santos remained placid. “If you thought it ended with me, you wouldn’t have come alone.”
Wilson tried to think of a good response but came up empty. “All right, where’s Cristina?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Last I heard, she was headed for Paris.”
“Paris?” Santos’s lip quivered. “I doubt it. I expect she’s on track to find the truth.”
“Do you always speak in riddles?”
“Detective, only when I’m sure I can trust you will I give you a direct answer.” Santos winced as he shifted his foot. “I’m in no condition to run if we’re caught, so we must make this brief. Did Cristina tell you why she went to Washington?”
“It had to do with an experimental drug—Recognate, right?”
“Yes. The memory drug she prescribed for Carl Franklin, Jerry Peterman, and herself.”
“Wait—she’s taking it?”
“Yes. Which means she faces imminent danger.” Santos leaned down to scratch his leg. As he did, he said, “All these deaths are because of the drug. If you want to help, learn whatever you can about it.”
“How? The prescription bottle didn’t have a company name or an address, and I can’t find anything online. I tried calling the number on the bottle, but no one answered.”
“If you cannot find where something is, start by looking where it is not.” Santos straightened his cane and prepared to stand. “When you find it, contact me again.”
“Wait.” Wilson pretended to help the old man to his feet and yanked his arm, pulling Santos closer. “What about Devi? The feds still have her.”
“Talented young woman, yes? She’s an aspiring actress I hired to monitor Cristina, but she knows nothing that can help us.” Santos withdrew his arm. “Do not tell the FBI about this meeting. Trust no one.”
“So why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t. However, desperation makes for strange bedfellows. Cristina had faith in you, so I must do the same.” Santos slipped a burner phone into Wilson’s hand. “You may call me just once. Betray my trust and you’ll never find me again.”
Wilson casually slipped the phone into his pocket. “Betray my trust, and I’ll see you in hell.”
“Don’t fear, Detective. We have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
Santos made eye contact. “We both want to find Cristina alive.”
Cristina pressed a trembling hand against her forehead. The world seemed to spin as the samba parade surged around her. “I have a sister?”
“You look terribly ill.” Maria grabbed Cristina’s hand. “I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“No.” Cristina ripped her hand away. “No hospitals.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I am a doctor. I’m not letting someone I don’t know drug me.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
As Cristina scanned Maria’s face, she felt a twinge of recognition, but it faded. “I don’t know you.”
Frowning, Maria glanced side to side before holding out her hand. “Then we must change that. Come with me.”
Cristina hesitated. Could she trust this woman? Ever since she left Washington, she had been forgetting the people she knew best. She could no longer remember the color of Claudia Silva’s eyes. Who was left to help her, before she forgot her own name?
“All right.” Cristina took Maria’s hand. “But no hospitals.”
“You have my word.” Maria led Cristina through the crowd to the sidewalk and then to a side street. As they walked, Cristina’s gaze darted, searching for attackers. Nothing happened. Her paranoia ebbed, but she remained alert.
After another block, Maria led Cristina into a parking lot and over to a green Ford Ka. They buckled in. Maria revved the engine and honked as she squeezed into the traffic.
They drove in silence, and Cristina tried to sort reality from fiction. How much of what she had seen in the cathedral was memory and how much was hallucination? Was she remembering her past life or was she losing her mind?
A few minutes later, they arrived at a gated community. A lofty apartment building towered beyond a gate bordered by manicured trees and hedges. Maria rolled down her window.
The guard peeked in and nodded. “Bem-vindo de volta, Senhora Carvalho.”
He waved them through.
They parked in front of the building. Cristina’s fingers tingled with apprehension, and she suddenly feared she could be walking into a trap.
“Our last name is Carvalho?” she asked.
“Yes, but it’s complicated.” Maria led Cristina up two flights and down a short hallway. They stopped at Apartment Twelve. Maria glanced over her shoulder before unlocking and opening the door. “Inside. Quickly.”
Entering the apartment, Cristina felt like she’d stepped through a funhouse mirror. A flat-screen TV overlooked sleek leather couches and a glass-top coffee table with a heavy bronze statuette of Christ the Redeemer. Mint-colored paint covered the walls. Luxuriant silk drapes framed the windows. The place was familiar and yet it wasn’t.
She turned to Maria. “How did you happen to be at the cathedral right when—?”
Maria slapped her across the face. Cristina recoiled in shock, her hand to her cheek.
Maria said, “That’s for letting me think you were dead.”
“Dead?”
“You told me you were in trouble and then refused to let me help you. You said if I didn’t hear from you in three days to assume you were dead.” She clenched her fists. Her lip trembled. “That was three years ago. Once before, you ran off to study English in America for a year, but this time, you didn’t return. Every Carnival since then, I’ve gone to the cathedral and lit a candle for you. And now here you are.”
Cristina forced down the rage swelling from being slapped. Her cheek stung, but what hurt more was the unexplainable se
nse of guilt to this woman she didn’t know. “For the past two years I’ve thought I was Cristina Silva. I didn’t even know you existed.”
“Who’s Cristina Silva?”
“She, I mean me, I mean—it doesn’t matter. Until a few weeks ago, I knew who I was and then that changed. Now I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.” Cristina studied Maria’s unassuming elliptical eyes, her prominent cheekbones, the creamy mocha color of her skin—yes, she could be her sister but with plastic surgery, so could anyone. “I don’t know who I am, and I’m losing my mind.”
Maria stared back. After several beats, she approached. Cristina retreated, muscles tensed.
Maria stopped, tilted her head, and then spread her arms. “Vem cá.”
Cristina didn’t move. What trick was this?
Muttering to herself, Maria advanced, pulling Cristina into her arms. “You’re not losing your mind. You’re regaining it.”
A warm feeling of security and belonging rushed over Cristina in a way her memories of Jorge and Claudia Silva never had. Her body relaxed. She hugged back.
After a moment, Maria released her. “Who did this to you?”
“Some dangerous people. Did I ever mention anyone named Quinn to you?”
“No.”
“Zero Dark?”
“No.”
The locket brushed against Cristina’s skin. She wrapped her hand around it. The image of a winged man resurfaced, stretching out his hand as chaos rocked the cathedral. Again, she tried to focus on his face but failed. “What about Sebastian dos Santos?”
Maria’s gaze narrowed. “So it was no coincidence you were at the cathedral.”
“No. I was trying to find someone: a girl. But instead, I remembered a man with wings.”
“Sebastian dos Santos.” Maria made the sign of a cross. “You were very young when gang members attacked the cathedral. A man rescued you, carried you outside, and then fled. We never learned his name. You called him Sebastian dos Santos.”
“After Saint Sebastian.” The vision intensified, but now Cristina could see that the wings belonged to the fresco behind the man. “I thought he was my guardian angel. So, what I saw in my vision at the cathedral really happened.”
“Yes, but years ago.” Maria’s brow furrowed. She placed a hand on Cristina’s forehead. “What’s wrong? Your skin is pale and wet.”
The room started spinning. Thoughts and memories clashed in Cristina’s mind. She tried to control her breathing and nudged away Maria’s hand. “I’m fine.”
“I should call a doctor,” Maria said.
“No doctors.” Cristina leaned against the wall, clenching her fist, willing the man’s face to clarify. What if Santos had been her savior? Had he been in her life all along? A powerful craving struck, stronger than the one in the samba parade. She relaxed her fist and tried to smile. “It’s a lot to absorb. I could use something to drink.”
“Of course.” Maria escorted her to the sofa. “Caipirinha?”
“Excuse me?”
“A drink made with cachaça—sugar cane brandy. I make them strong.”
“Great. Thank you.” As Maria entered the kitchen, Cristina shut her eyes. Memories of the Silvas swirled away as she clutched at them. Shadows swelled without form. “You live here alone?”
“Yes,” Maria said over chopping sounds. “Ever since you disappeared . . . and Mother died.”
Cristina bolted upright. Her heart ached in a way it never had when she learned about the Silvas’ deaths. “She died?”
Maria appeared holding two glasses filled with cloudy liquid and crushed limes. She handed one to Cristina and sat beside her. Cristina took a sip. A pleasant rush of sweet and sour rolled over her tongue. She took a bigger gulp. The cravings subsided.
“She died of dengue last year.” Maria sipped her drink. “Father’s death stole her will to live.”
“Father—?”
“My father. Your stepfather. He died shortly after you left.” Maria sighed. “It has been very difficult.”
More dead ends. Frustrated, Cristina drained the glass. “I’m sorry. But what about my father? Do you know where he is?”
Maria shook her head. “No. I don’t even know his name. Father adopted you when he married Mother. My entire life, you’ve been Sabrina Carvalho.”
Cristina slowly twisted the glass in her hand. How could she know if anything Maria said was true? “Tell me about our mother. I can’t even picture her.”
“She was beautiful inside and out. She loved you very much.” Maria pointed across the room. “There’s a picture of her.”
The glass slipped from Cristina’s fingers and crashed to the floor. Her mind shattered, spraying memory fragments in all directions. She shook her head. It wasn’t possible.
In a silver frame was a portrait similar to a smaller one she’d found nestled in a locket—a smiling woman with chestnut hair, delicate features, and coffee-colored eyes.
Dazed, she turned back to Maria, who had rushed to clean up the broken glass. How could Cristina not see it before? They had the same eyes.
“Maria.”
Maria looked up. “Are you okay? Your hands are shaking.”
Unable to speak, Cristina removed the chain from her neck. Fingers trembling, she opened the locket and showed it to Maria. “Are you the girl in this photo?”
“No.” look of puzzlement spread over Maria’s face. “This girl is you.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Detective Wilson sat at his desk, staring at the mess he’d doodled on a yellow notepad. Quinn. Gomes. Parker. Cristina and her patients. He’d written their names and drawn lines of varying thickness between them, trying to understand the connections. Parker was the key. Was he FBI? Zero Dark? Or something else?
“Gary.” Hawkins waved his hand in Wilson’s face. “Anyone home?”
“Sorry. I was trying to figure this out.”
“What is it? A spiderweb?”
“It’s sort of a string theory chart. I think if we find the fake Parker, we’ll find out who Quinn is. And maybe even how Agent Forrester fits in.”
Hawkins pursed his lips.
“What?”
“Captain Harris thinks we’re dedicating too much time to this. He wants us to work with Vice on finding the source of a new designer drug popping up at the high schools.”
Wilson’s cheeks cooled. “Why would he think that?”
“Dunno. But I saw Forrester buddying up to him this morning while you were— Where were you, anyway?”
“Overslept.” Wilson thumped his fist on the desk. He had to keep his meeting with Santos secret. No point giving Forrester more ammunition to use against him. “Bastard must know we’re onto him.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Nah, what decent person could resist your sparkling personality?” Hawkins’s serious expression betrayed his joke. “Even if Forrester is dirty, he’s a fed. He probably covered his tracks.”
“I know, but even the best criminal masterminds slip up.” Wilson frowned at his scribbles. “And I still don’t get how this drug fits into the picture.”
“The R stands for the drug?”
“Recognate. Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you write one over Peterman? I thought he was taking it.”
“Don’t you remember? Cristina told Vasquez the coroner didn’t find it in his . . .” Wilson trailed off. Moles lined up and then fell one by one. He heard Santos’s voice: If you cannot find where something is, start by looking where it is not. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“What’s the medical examiner’s name?”
“Morgan, I think. He’s at the downtown office.”
Wilson jumped up and grabbed his coat. “Cover f
or me?”
“What do you want from the ME?”
“If Harris asks, better you don’t know.”
As he ran out the door, Wilson made sure he had both burner phones in his coat pocket. If Morgan could answer his questions, he might be one step closer to finding Cristina and a solution to the case.
“This isn’t possible.” Cristina paced the room, pounding her fists against her skull in a vain attempt to force the idea of Santos as her father out of her head. “Fuck.”
“Stop.” Maria grabbed Cristina’s wrists.
Maria’s hands felt like ants crawling across Cristina’s skin. She pushed her sister away. “Don’t touch me.”
“What’s happening to you? Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t you see? This has all been for nothing.” Cristina ripped the locket from her neck and held it high. “The woman I was trying to find for Santos is me. Get it? I came all the way here to find his daughter, but I’m his daughter.”
“Your father died in a car accident before I was born.”
“A car accident.” Cristina snorted. “Where have I heard that one before?”
“How can you be certain this man is who he claims?”
“I just know. I . . .” Cristina glanced again at her mother’s picture. “Do you have pictures of my father here?”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“Naturally.” Each strand Cristina grabbed at shredded into a million unusable threads. She ground her fist into her palm. “It has to be him.”
“So if he is your father, why not tell you?”
“I don’t know. He said I’d find the information I needed to convince his daughter who she really was, and . . .” Cold beads of sweat trailed down Cristina’s forehead as she made the connection. “I’m Zero Dark’s prisoner.”
“Who?”
“A mercenary group. ReMind. That’s what he meant. They’ve been using me all along. Maybe they even planned for me to come here.”
“You’re not making sense. What’s ReMind?”
“A drug company. They’re tied to Zero Dark.” Images of Simmons, Stacey and Jerry Peterman, and Santos clicked into place like a game of Connect Four. “They used me to keep Jerry Peterman under control. They threw me under the bus when it all went to hell. That’s what Santos wanted me to see. There must be something here in Brazil that will expose them.”
