Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  Maria sat on the couch and took a swig of caipirinha. She wiped her mouth and placed the glass on the table before looking up. “Does this involve your research?”

  Cristina did a double take. “You know about my research?”

  “Of course,” Maria said. “Your work was supposed to solve Rio’s problems with violence. I assumed that failure was why you disappeared.”

  “Violence?” Cristina recalled the O Globo article. “I was working with Kobayashi. But what failure? The favelas are supposed to be safe now.”

  “Safe? Ha!” Maria spat at the floor. “The government wants tourists to believe they’re safe, so they’ll come enjoy sporting events and spend much money. All lies. Just because the pacification police units have expelled the gangs doesn’t mean the favelas are safe. They’re more dangerous now than they were before.”

  Liar. You lied to us.

  Once again, ghostly faces surrounded Cristina, mouths gaping. Children chanted as they shot at each other. The smell of charred flesh assaulted her. She screamed.

  Maria blinked rapidly. “What’s happening?”

  The images vanished. Cristina staggered over to the couch. Afterimages of the violence smoldered on her retina and then faded. Sweat streamed down both cheeks. “Why is it more dangerous now?”

  “I don’t think now is—”

  “Tell me.” Cristina stumbled and fell against Maria. She squeezed her sister’s arm. “What happened to them?”

  Maria pressed her lips together. “For all their terrible deeds, the gangs kept their home in order. The government only cared about proving they’re in charge. Your research didn’t decrease violence in the favelas. It gave the government an excuse to control the gangs.”

  Don’t listen to anything she says.

  “Shut up.” Cristina covered her ears and backed away. “You’re not real.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one.” Cristina held her breath. The voice stayed silent. “No one, it’s . . . I’m fine now, but I need to speak to someone from the research team. One of them must know what happened. Can you help me?”

  Maria’s upper lip twitched. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone.”

  She’s lying.

  “Enough.” Cristina jammed her fingers into her ears. She caught movement near the window. An apparition materialized, mutating into the figure of an armed man. Another appeared, and then another. They aimed heavy rifles at her. “No! They found me!”

  “There’s no one else here.” Maria placed her hands over Cristina’s wrists. “No one is going to hurt you.”

  Lowering her hands, Cristina tried to focus on the light scent of mango in Maria’s hair, the soft touch of her skin. This was real. She had to remember that.

  Nothing is real, Cristina.

  A cold chill ran down Cristina’s back. This voice was different—male, familiar. Like moving through molasses, she turned and saw Jerry Peterman, blood trickling from his forehead. Next to him was Carl Franklin, his head twisted at an impossible angle, one side of his face caved in.

  “No. No, no, no.”

  It won’t be long. You can’t fight it, just like you can’t fight Quinn.

  “No!” Cristina shut her eyes and rocked—anything to block out their voices, the smell of their decaying flesh. “Focus on what you know. Focus on what you know.”

  Maria shook Cristina’s shoulders. “What should I do?”

  What do you know? You don’t know anything.

  “I know who I am.” Cristina shoved her sister aside and leaped from the couch at her former patients. She passed through them and tumbled to the ground. She bounced to her feet, punching and kicking. They mocked her. She fought back even harder. “I know who I am. I know who—”

  Pain exploded in the back of Cristina’s skull. She staggered and fell. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Maria standing over her, wielding the statuette of Christ the Redeemer.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Every time Detective Wilson had to set foot in the morgue, he flashed back to being a sullen sixteen-year-old staring at the cold bodies of his parents. After that experience—even though he reminded himself they were long gone—he could never shake the feeling they were still there, watching him with those empty eyes. As Wilson sat on the leather couch at the Boston Medical Examiner’s office, mesmerized by the fresh calla lilies, he steeled himself for what he would see inside the autopsy room.

  “Detective Wilson.” Dr. Morgan entered the room, wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat. He stretched out his hand. “I’m Luke Morgan, Chief Medical Examiner.”

  Wilson glanced at Morgan’s hand. “You weren’t just, you know . . . ?”

  “I wear gloves, Detective,” Morgan said. “Besides, you carry more active germs than a cadaver.”

  Grimacing at the image, Wilson shook Morgan’s hand. “Thanks for agreeing to talk to me. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true, but I’m always available to assist law enforcement. How can I help?”

  “I have questions about Jerry Peterman.”

  Morgan flinched. “I already told the FBI everything I knew about him.”

  “Well, let’s see if they missed anything. Cristina said you didn’t find anything unusual in his blood.”

  “Cristina?” Morgan seemed to survey Wilson up and down before jutting out his lip. “Huh. Makes sense now.”

  “What does?”

  “Nothing,” Morgan said. “Anyway, that’s not entirely true. Jerry Peterman had abnormally high catecholamines.”

  “What are those?”

  “Fight-or-flight neurotransmitters. High levels can cause restlessness, poor decision-making and aggressive behavior.”

  “You mean like a shooting rampage?”

  “That’s putting it bluntly.”

  “What could cause that?”

  “Trauma, stimulants, fear, prolonged stress—although before that I had never seen levels that high. Some antidepressants raise norepinephrine but not like that.”

  “What about a drug you haven’t seen before?”

  Morgan’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

  “Cristina—Dr. Silva—was testing an experimental memory drug called Recognate. She prescribed it for Peterman and another patient who committed suicide, Carl Franklin.”

  The color faded from Morgan’s cheeks. “I didn’t know.”

  Wilson leaned close. “I can see you’re trying to protect Cristina, but if you want to help her, I need you to be completely honest.”

  Morgan opened and closed his mouth before shaking his head. “I don’t know anything. Why don’t you ask Dr. Silva?”

  “I would, but I don’t know where she is.”

  Morgan’s eyes widened. “Did something happen to her?”

  “She flew to DC for a visit to the drug company that makes Recognate. In Washington, someone attacked her, and it now seems she has fled the country.”

  Morgan stared at the floor. “What’s the name of this company?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping if we knew more about the drug, we could track it down. Did Cristina tell you anything about it?”

  “No, but she kept perseverating on the trace THC.”

  “Tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive ingredient in marijuana.” Wilson scratched his chin. “She didn’t know Peterman smoked pot?”

  “Quite the opposite. She seemed perplexed because the quantitative analysis was negative—almost like she expected it to be high.”

  “Did you find THC in Carl Franklin’s blood also?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Trace amounts, yes.”

  “Did you do a quantitative analysis on him too?”

  “No, she didn’t request it. Anyway, alcoholics often use pot, so I ass
umed . . .”

  “Carl Franklin was an alcoholic?”

  “His liver was pickled. I told Cristina yesterday.”

  “You talked to her yesterday?”

  “Yes, but I had no idea she was out of town.”

  Wilson tried to get a grip on Morgan’s information roller coaster. “Look, I’m not trying to bust you. Tell me what you and she discussed.”

  “She wanted me to examine Carl Franklin for signs of alcoholic brain degeneration. It can cause memory loss and psychosis.”

  “Did he have it?”

  “Franklin’s labs were normal, but I haven’t finished autopsying his brain. If his mammillary bodies are damaged, that would make it likely.”

  The skin behind Wilson’s ear itched. How did it all tie together? “Could someone create a drug that causes everything you found?”

  “I’m sure they could, but why would they? That doesn’t sound like a good memory drug.”

  “You’re right.” Wilson thumped his fists together in thought. “If I can get some Recognate pills, can you figure out what’s in them?”

  “I’m not a pharmacist, but I can test for the basic compounds.”

  “Finish your autopsy. I’ll call you when I have the pills.” As Morgan left the room. Wilson pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When he heard a voice on the other end, he said, “Rick, it’s me.”

  His partner’s voice was stressed. “Gary, where are you? Hell’s breaking out here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tech team cracked Devi Patel’s phone. They found months of deleted text messages from Patel to her contact. Most were garbled, but the most recent one was intact.” Hawkins paused. “The message Patel received said to call you and you would handle everything.”

  Wilson’s throat constricted. “Rick, I only met Devi once before. I didn’t . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. Forrester has convinced Sergeant Harris that you’re the one who’s dirty. Don’t come back to the station.”

  “But—”

  “Gary, they’ve got a BOLO on you.”

  The blood drained from Wilson’s cheeks. “Son of a bitch. Forrester probably planted that message. He knows I’m onto him.”

  “I’m doing what I can, but you should stay low. They’re casing your house right now.”

  Wilson clenched his fist. Forrester was sending him a message: back off or else. But Wilson couldn’t back off. Not when Cristina was in danger. Not when there was so much at stake.

  “I’ll stay in hiding, but I need a favor.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Everything you know is a lie. Find the truth. Trust no one.

  Trust no one.

  Cristina jolted awake, Santos’s words resonating. Pain throbbed in the back of her skull. She went to rub it and found she couldn’t move her arm. Her arms and legs were tied to a chair. Maria sat on the edge of the leather couch, holding a bowl.

  “Relax.” The woman’s lips twisted with worry. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been drugged and tied up by someone claiming to be my sister.”

  “I am your sister.” Maria leaned forward and held a spoonful of thick liquid near Cristina’s lips. “Eat this.”

  “So you can drug me again?”

  “It’s caldo. Mother’s favorite soup. It will nourish you.” Maria made a show of draining the spoon, swishing it around her mouth, and swallowing. “See?”

  After a moment, Cristina tasted the soup. Flavors of chicken, egg, and vegetables rolled over her tongue pleasantly. She took another bite.

  “I didn’t drug you,” Maria said as Cristina ate. “You were raving about ghosts trying to kill you. I had to knock you out and bind you for your own safety.”

  Dream fragments twinkled in the dark areas of Cristina’s mind. She remembered crashing through a window to attack a faceless killer. She turned her head and spotted the broken glass table. Swallowing hard, she noticed Maria had changed into a T-shirt and shorts. “How long was I out?”

  “Nearly twelve hours.” Maria set the bowl on the couch. “Several times you woke and screamed about someone named Quinn or demanded alcohol. I didn’t think you needed any more to drink.”

  “Good decision.” The craving was gone, along with the voices. “What did I say about Quinn?”

  “Nothing that made sense. Who is he?”

  “Someone dangerous who wants something that I know—only I don’t know what it is. My only hope is to figure out what happened with the favela project and whether or not it had anything to do with Recognate. If I can find out why Renascimento failed, maybe I can figure out why the drug is failing now.”

  “If I untie you, do you promise not to attack me?”

  Cristina nodded.

  Maria undid the ropes.

  Cristina rubbed her arms in relief. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I wasn’t entirely truthful. I know how to find a Renascimento researcher.”

  Cristina leaped from the chair. She staggered and caught herself. “Show me.”

  “We must wait until you’ve recovered. It’s important you’re at your best.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he is hiding in one of Rio’s most dangerous favelas.”

  A cold wind hit Gary Wilson’s face as he sat on a bench. He pulled a wool stocking cap lower over his ears and bundled the tattered overcoat tighter. The Mattapan Trolley Station platform was packed with downtown commuters, allowing him to blend into the crowd. At least here, the city hadn’t yet installed surveillance cameras everywhere, making it high-risk for crime but low risk for being spotted on the run.

  Detective Rick Hawkins approached, similarly bundled against the chill, and sat next to Wilson. He stared straight ahead, as Wilson had instructed, following a play from Santos’s book.

  “This is risky,” Rick said under his breath. “I saw you blacked out your plates, but your Charger still sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  “I’ll take my chances. What about you? Any tails?”

  Hawkins shook his head. “Drove through Dorchester and took every side road I could find.”

  “Good. Did you bring it?”

  Hawkins reached into his pocket, withdrew a plastic baggie, and pressed it against Wilson’s. Feeling the slick crinkle of the plastic, Wilson grabbed it and stuck it into his own pocket.

  Hawkins said, “You look like shit.”

  “I slept in my car last night. Got the new threads at Goodwill.” Wilson chanced brief eye contact. “Thanks for helping out.”

  “You’re still my partner. And with the shit at the station—”

  “What shit? About me?”

  “Worse.” Hawkins sighed. “Miranda Parker’s gone missing.”

  Forgetting his own rule, Wilson stared at Hawkins. “I thought she was in witness protection.”

  “Someone intercepted the transport team. One agent was killed and three more are in intensive care.”

  “Jesus!” Wilson rubbed his forehead. “Any idea who did it?”

  “No witnesses able to talk. But the feds arranged the transport. They’re the only ones who knew where the team would be and when.”

  “Forrester.” Wilson clenched his fists. “Son of a bitch. Be careful, Rick.”

  “I’ll watch my back, but are you sure you don’t want to pull in Vasquez? She’s been defending you, insisting that the message on Devi’s phone doesn’t incriminate you.”

  “Really?” Wilson considered for two seconds. “No, Forrester wouldn’t hesitate to destroy her too. I can’t risk anyone else. But I want you to take this.” He pulled a slim plastic device out of his pocket and handed it to Hawkins.

  “What’s this?”

  “One of Santos’s burner phones. I’ve got another one. I programmed the number in
to yours. Don’t call my phone again until this blows over.”

  “Santos? Why do you have two of his phones?”

  “I can’t tell you, Rick. Trust me, okay?”

  After a moment of silence, Hawkins said, “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Did you find anything about whoever made that drug?”

  “The number on Franklin’s pill bottle was different from the one Miranda Parker gave you. I tried it. No answer, no voicemail. It’s registered to a bakery in Washington, DC.”

  “Keep looking. If we find them, maybe we can uncover a connection to Forrester and clear my name.”

  “Okay.” Hawkins stood and checked his watch. “Damn trolley never runs on time. I’m calling a cab.”

  Wilson waited for his partner to leave. After an old woman took the open seat, Wilson shuffled out to the parking lot. He climbed into his Charger and slipped the bag out of his pocket. Inside were three tiny green pills. With a grim smile, he replaced the bag, started the car, and drove off.

  Less than a minute later, a black shape shot into the air and flew overhead, following the Charger like a hawk chasing a field mouse.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Quinn was in his hotel room, cleaning his Beretta, when his phone vibrated. He calmly finished lubricating the recoil spring, then lined up the slide and clicked it into place. He wiped his hands with a rag before snatching the phone, logging into the secure chat and reading the message.

  Detective isn’t giving up.

  Quinn swelled with rage. He’d thought his contacts capable of distracting the remaining liabilities. Jabbing the buttons, he wrote: You’re certain?

  The tracker on the other cop led me right to him. The drone is following him now.

  Quinn slammed his fist against the table, knocking the oilcan to the floor. A dark stain spread across the carpet. He’d thought the detective would be easier to scare, but clearly, he required more convincing. Jabbing the keypad, Quinn typed: Deal with him. No mistakes.