Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  “We don’t mean any harm, Tiago,” Maria said. “This is my sister.”

  “You come with guns and expect us to believe you?”

  “You know the streets aren’t safe. We must protect ourselves.”

  “The rich always protect themselves from the poor,” said the taller boy. “But how can we protect ourselves from the rich?”

  “This isn’t about rich or poor, Eduardo. This is about ending the cycle of violence. Isn’t that what we discussed?”

  Eduardo’s mouth twisted. He turned to Tiago and jerked his head toward the hallway. The shorter boy ran off while Eduardo stood with his arms folded. “We’ll see what Dona Luísa has to say.”

  Moments later, Tiago returned. Following him was a woman wearing jeans, a plain white blouse, and a red headscarf. She studied the women over wire-rimmed glasses. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “Please, Luísa,” Maria said. “My sister must speak to him.”

  “He speaks to no one.” Luísa appeared to be in her midthirties, but her scowl made her look ten years older. “Isn’t it enough that we allow him to live?”

  “He will answer her questions—and ours. I’m certain of it.”

  Luísa remained steadfast.

  Cristina set her jaw. She understood why Luísa didn’t trust her. These children were fighting for survival, thanks to the Renascimento project of which she’d been a part.

  Cristina pushed her shoulders back. “If he can explain what went wrong here, I may be able to find a way to fix it. I promise, I’m not here to endanger you or the children.”

  Luísa arched her eyebrows. She glanced at the boys, who shrugged. Without another word, she led the sisters to a massive bookcase filled with children’s books. Tiago and Eduardo shoved the bookcase to one side, revealing a wooden door.

  “Talk to him,” Luísa said. “But do not scare the children.”

  Cristina glanced over her shoulder in time to see several young children spying on them from around the corner. Their eyes widened, and they ran off.

  “As you say,” Maria said.

  Dona Luísa glared at Cristina for another uncomfortable moment and then left with the boys in tow. Maria approached the door and rapped three times, waited, and then rapped twice more.

  “Quem é aí? ” a voice called from inside.

  “Maria.”

  Wood scraped against concrete. Someone stumbled toward them. Heavy breathing came through the keyhole. “Tem mais cachaça? ”

  “Yes. Please let us in.”

  The door swung open, releasing a pungent gust of alcohol and sweat. A worn, soot-covered face appeared in the doorway. Cristina gasped as she peered through the dirt and recognized the man. “Dr. Kobayashi?”

  He blinked three times. His gaze drifted until at last he focused on Cristina. His features hardened. In a low voice tainted with bitterness, he said, “You.”

  For the third time since he entered the morgue waiting area, Wilson checked his pocket to ensure the pills were still there. He let out a breath of air and resumed his incessant pacing. His career was already in ruins. But if Mitchell Parker and his wife Miranda were examples of how Forrester and Zero Dark dealt with problems, his life was also in jeopardy. His only hope was to find out more about these pills before it was too late.

  “Detective.” Dr. Morgan emerged through the doors. “Did you get it?”

  Wilson handed the medical examiner the bag of pills. “How long will it take?”

  “It depends on their composition, but if I start the analysis now, I should be able to give you preliminary results before you leave.”

  “Great.” Wilson followed Morgan through the doorway to a machine that resembled a cross between a photocopier and a food processor.

  At the touch of a button, a drawer slid out. Morgan inserted a pill and pushed another button. The drawer slid back.

  Wilson coughed, never at ease in the morgue. “Should I wait out there?”

  “Actually, I have something to show you.” Morgan pushed another button. The machine lit up and emitted a low humming sound. He walked away and held open the autopsy room door.

  Wilson’s gut lurched. “In there?”

  “I assure you, everyone in there is very much dead.”

  “That’s what bothers me.” Wilson summoned his courage and entered the autopsy room. The stench of formaldehyde and decaying flesh assaulted him.

  Morgan offered him the menthol gel. Wilson shoved it into his nostrils.

  In the center of the room, a body lay on a metal table, covered by a white sheet.

  “Detective Wilson,” Morgan said, “meet Carl Franklin.”

  Morgan drew back the sheet, revealing a partially dissected white male in his midforties. The right side of his face was smashed in, his left leg twisted. Wilson covered his mouth.

  “I’ve finished autopsying his brain.” Morgan donned a pair of gloves and removed the top of Franklin’s skull. “Come here, please.”

  “Seriously?”

  Morgan gave Wilson a once-over and rolled his eyes.

  Cheeks flushed, Wilson forced himself to look. Spasms rocked his esophagus. The cadaver’s skull seemed to be stuffed with pasta and marinara sauce.

  “What am I looking at?”

  Morgan used a probe to push aside one of the cerebral lobes and pointed at the underlying structures. “This is the hippocampus. That’s the amygdala. Both are important in learning and encoding new memories. Look here.” He made a circling motion with his finger. “They’re twice their normal size.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let me show you something first.” Morgan turned the mass of brain tissue over, then stuck his probe inside and pried it open. “This is the left temporal lobe. When I was checking the mammillary bodies as Cristina requested—which are fine, by the way—I found this.”

  Daring to lean over Morgan’s shoulder, Wilson spotted a blackened patch of tissue. “It looks like charcoal.”

  “It’s necrotic. A third of his temporal lobe had eroded.”

  “What would cause that?”

  “Not sure.” Morgan flipped the lobe back. “I found similar scars on the hippocampus, but if you look here . . .” He indicated a glistening lump of grayish tissue overlying the dead patch. “It seems he managed to rebuild the tissue.”

  Wilson whistled softly. “So that drug does restore memories.”

  “Not entirely.” Morgan prodded the fresh tissue with the probe. “Microscopically, the cell column structures are completely different. The newer tissue is unregulated and uneven, invading the old tissue like a cancer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whatever Recognate is designed to do, it doesn’t recover damaged memories.” Morgan poked the gray mass again to emphasize his point. “It replaces them.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Kobayashi’s eyes smoldered. Upper lip quivered. Fingers trembled. At last, he said in Portuguese, “So they’ve sent you to kill me. Fitting justice, I suppose.”

  “I’m not here to kill you,” Cristina said in English, in case anyone was listening. “You’re the only one who can tell me what went wrong with the Renascimento project.”

  “Why are you speaking in English? And why do you look different?”

  “I’m not who you think I am.” Cristina took a step closer.

  Kobayashi flinched like he expected her to beat him. Cristina’s chest tightened. What kind of person did he think she was? What kind of person had she been?

  “Please,” she said. “I need your help.”

  After another moment, Kobayashi leaned close as if sniffing her. He studied her eyes and withdrew, chuckling softly. His laughter intensified. He rested against the doorjamb and guffawed into his elbow.

  “What’s so funny?” Maria asked.


  “ ‘God has given you one face. And you make yourself another.’ How right Shakespeare was.” Kobayashi looked at Cristina and burst again into laughter.

  Cristina seized his tattered collar. “I’m tired of being the butt of jokes I don’t understand. Someone did this to me. I want to know why. Will you help or not?”

  Kobayashi stopped laughing. His eyes widened, rimmed with fear. “You were taking Recognate. But you’re not anymore. Are you?”

  “Not for three days.”

  He touched his chin in thought and nudged her away. “Then we have time—though just barely. Come inside.”

  The women started toward the door. Kobayashi blocked Maria’s way. “Only her.”

  “I haven’t seen my sister for three years,” Maria said. “I won’t lose her again.”

  “You won’t. But what I must say is only for her ears.” He leaned out and scanned the hallway. “If you found me, others will come. Someone must warn us if they do.”

  Maria glanced at Cristina, who nodded.

  Frowning, Maria jabbed her finger at Kobayashi’s chest. “If she’s harmed, you will answer to me.”

  Kobayashi raised his withered arms. “Do I look like I could harm her?”

  Muttering under her breath, Maria drew her pistol and stood guard.

  Cristina and Kobayashi entered his room. Barely larger than a pantry, it had a single window allowing sparse light inside. He closed the door and invited her to sit on a bench next to a rickety table. He parked himself across from her. A ratty mattress covered by torn blankets was on the floor beside them. The room reeked of human waste. She fought the urge to gag.

  Kobayashi rested his elbows on his thighs and folded his hands together. He studied her, his eyes sharp and probing. She squirmed, feeling like she was back in the interrogation room at the police station.

  “So, you’ve returned. Why?”

  “To discover who I am.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “Until recently, I thought I was a psychiatrist from Boston named Cristina Silva.”

  “Silva?” He smiled. “Clever.”

  “I said I’d had enough jokes. Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “I apologize. It isn’t that funny.” With a long sigh, he smoothed his fingers over his cheeks. “How did you find out?”

  “A man named Sebastian dos Santos showed me a photo of your—our—research team and told me I wasn’t who I think I am.”

  “Santos?”

  “You know him?”

  “No, but names are meaningless. What did he tell you about our research?”

  “Nothing, but I know you weren’t studying gang violence. You were working for ReMind.”

  “Five years researching endorphins and all I created were aggressive rats. My career was slipping away from me.” Kobayashi rested his forehead on his thumbs. “Then ReMind found me. They played to my ego. Even then, I was skeptical, until they showed me the animal studies.”

  “What did they show?”

  “No aggression, not even on withdrawal. Just a little jitteriness and tachycardia. A much better response rate than I ever achieved.”

  “So, you pushed to hold human trials in Rio.”

  “Who told you that?” He snorted. “ReMind wanted to operate without Institutional Review Board oversight. Twice, I refused. On the third request, they promised to fund everything. Give me top credit. Donate a sizeable amount to rebuilding the favelas.” He leaned back and spread his hands apart. “Win-win for everyone. How could I refuse?”

  Children’s voices echoed in her mind. Liar, liar. “ReMind claims its Recognate trials in Rio were their most successful.”

  “Oh, very successful, depending on how you look at it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “More than half of the gang members enrolled recovered memories and ceased violent activity.” He rubbed his hands together as if trying to remove a stain. “Then members of Comando Novo started turning up dead. Murdered. Then, Barracuda members also died.” Kobayashi stopped rubbing and studied his fingertips. “After the Pacification Police Units moved in, the gangs declared war on each other. They no longer fought for territory. They fought for revenge.”

  “The police incited a gang war?”

  “No. The police didn’t kill those gang members.” His eyes blazed. “We did.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Beneath the layers of dirt and grime, the lines around Kobayashi’s eyes and mouth remained serious. “Do you know what happens to research subjects in a test group when a clinical trial ends, the ones who still need treatment?”

  “Well, I . . .” Cristina searched for an answer. “I guess they could keep taking the drug.”

  “Yes, that would be an excellent idea. What if they can’t afford it?”

  “ReMind didn’t offer to continue treatment?”

  “As I said, they used a convenience sample. Once they had their data, it was no longer convenient to keep providing free samples.” He clenched his fists. “I had been so excited about the prospect of success, I had never considered its aftermath.”

  “What aftermath?”

  “The subjects became violent. More violent than ever before.”

  “But you said the lab animals didn’t become aggressive.”

  “True,” Kobayashi said. “But the animals hadn’t spent their lives wallowing in poverty, watching loved ones tortured and murdered. The animals hadn’t blocked traumatic memories only for them to be forced back into their minds later.”

  Cristina’s head spun. “I don’t understand. Why did the people here recover traumatic memories after stopping the drug?”

  Kobayashi exhaled against his clenched fist and stared at the floor. At last, he staggered to the mattress. Reaching underneath, he withdrew a crumpled sheaf of papers. He handed them to Cristina. “These are my interviews during the study. Each subject describes wonderful, long-forgotten childhood events. The looks of joy on their faces as they remembered them for the first time were incredible.”

  As Cristina sifted through the narratives, a lump grew in her throat. The descriptions mirrored what Jerry, Carl and Martha had reported, and how she had felt while taking Recognate. Cristina’s hands shook. “Their happy memories—they weren’t real.”

  “Recognate turns the brain into putty, susceptible to the power of suggestion. At the mention of something remotely plausible, the drug molds that putty into new memory. But it only lasts as long as the subject keeps taking the drug.”

  I remember everything, Jerry had said. Cristina recalled his face changing, as if he were two minds trapped in one body. “And when they stop taking it,” she said, “they remember the truth, and it drives them mad.”

  “It’s more about the emotions attached to what they remember. The lab animals didn’t become aggressive because their new memories were indistinct from their old ones. To suddenly remember that your mother was killed by your best friend, however, or that you once held your sister’s still-beating heart in your hand . . .” He closed his eyes. “It was devastating.”

  The images seeping into Cristina’s brain, the voices she was hearing—were they true memories, shreds of a past life knitting themselves back together? “When did you discover this?”

  “Too late to stop what was to come. Like everyone else, I assumed the Pacification Police Units executed those people. It wasn’t until a CIA officer knocked on my door that I learned the truth.” Kobayashi searched under the mattress again. “Someone gave him a tip that mercenaries were operating out of Rio. He believed they were responsible for murdering the gang members . . . Ah, here it is.” He hobbled back to Cristina and handed her a business card. “This is the man who visited me.”

  Her heart sank. The card read Jorge Silva.

  She ran her finger over the name and withdrew it as if sh
ocked. Trembling, she set the card on the table. “For two years I’ve believed he was my father.”

  “Now you understand the joke. I told you it wasn’t funny.” He plopped on the bench and folded his hands together. “The name of the man he was after was—”

  “Quinn.” When Kobayashi’s eyebrows rose in surprise, she shrugged. “Lucky guess. So, Dad—I mean, Silva—believed Quinn killed the gang members? Why?”

  “ReMind hired him to clean up their mess. If word got out Recognate didn’t work in Brazil the way they claimed, they’d look like fools.”

  “The company killed those people to avoid reporting bad results?” In her mind, she heard Simmons’s voice: We’ve been working overtime to keep it out of the headlines for the good of the project. She shuddered. “But no matter how much they cover it up, Recognate doesn’t work.”

  “Do you think that matters to them? All they care is that people pay for something they believe works. The world is full of desperate people.”

  People like you.

  Cristina bit her lip. “Santos said I had information locked away in my brain—something Zero Dark needs and fears.”

  “You were one of our team’s most promising neuroscientists. We were lucky Federico introduced you to us.”

  “Federico?” Cristina’s jaw slackened. “Federico Gomes?”

  “Yes. Apparently, you two knew each other since you were teenagers.”

  Cristina flashed back to the waking dream of Corcovado, running hand-in-hand with a young Cristiano Ronaldo—the first true memory, after all. She felt queasy. How could a childhood friend have tried to kill her?

  “Right before you disappeared,” Kobayashi said, “you told me you’d found a way to make Recognate stable. No adverse effects. No withdrawal.”

  Her heart raced. “And did I tell you what that was?”

  “I’m afraid that secret disappeared with you. If you had a stable form of the drug, you could safely discontinue it without losing your mind. Unfortunately, that requires you to regain your true memories. Which means losing your mind.”