Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  Cristina swallowed hard. She asked her other self: Is this true?

  There was no answer.

  “This is outrageous,” Simmons said. “You never told me any of this.”

  “You didn’t need to know, Julius, but Cristina does. She needs to understand so she can remember who she was.” Quinn regarded Cristina coldly. “Who she still is.”

  Her hands shook. New memories seeped into her mind, swirling and blending with false ones. She was laughing over drinks with Andrea and Kobayashi. She watched old movies with Jorge and Claudia Silva on Maria’s sixteenth birthday. Her mind was suddenly balancing on a precipice over an abyss. Molten lava spurted all around her, licking at her feet. Her friends and family yanked her arms in a tug of war. Cristina knew that no matter which way she fell, she was doomed.

  She clenched her fists. I won’t give up.

  The locket seemed to scald her chest under her blouse. Pressing her fist against it, she built a mental wall to hold back the lava. Pushed away her conflicting thoughts. Straightened her shoulders. “Even if I remember, I won’t tell you anything.”

  “Oh, I think you will.” He lifted his smartphone to his ear. “Bring him in.”

  After fumbling in the darkness for who knew how long, Gary Wilson removed one shoelace. He dropped it on the floor. Wriggled into a prone position. Bit the lacing and chewed at the aglet. Half broke off in his mouth. He spat it out and rolled over again. Twisted the plastic piece between his fingers. Maneuvered it into the cuff lock. Wiggled and turned it until he felt a click. The cuff popped open.

  Wilson shimmed the other cuff and rubbed his wrists. Next, he grabbed the zip tie around his ankles with both hands and snapped it. He checked his pockets and holster. Empty. He searched the confined space for a tire iron, wrench—anything he could use to break free. Nothing. He felt around for what he thought was the trunk lock. Kicked. Again.

  The hatch opened. Sunlight blinded him. He covered his eyes.

  A shadow moved into view. Big.

  “Que es esto? ” the shadow asked in a baritone, leaning forward. He reached out his left arm, displaying an emblem portraying a brain surrounded by ivy. A nametag on his chest read, Mateo. “Let me help you.”

  The man’s eyes bulged. He gagged. Blood streamed from his mouth. He fell.

  Wilson scrambled to the hatch. He froze.

  Mateo lay on the ground, bleeding, a knife protruding from his back.

  “I hope you weren’t planning to leave,” said a thin man with wire-framed glasses, aiming a pistol at Wilson’s forehead. “The fun’s about to start.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “This is it.” Francisco Martins rushed to the ReMind building with Detective Hawkins. “Cristina and your partner should be inside.”

  “All right.” Hawkins held Martins’s elbow and nudged him forward. “Nothing funny.”

  “I’m quite humorless.”

  As they entered an opulent lobby, the detective let out a low whistle. Martins led him to the front desk.

  The receptionist smiled. “How can I—?”

  “Save it.” Hawkins flashed his badge. “Somerville PD.”

  Her smile didn’t falter. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  “I’m with a special task force. On Recognate.”

  Her grin wavered. “Are you with those feds?”

  “What feds?”

  “The ones I sent to Mr. Simmons’s office. Let me see.” She ran her finger down a list. “Forrester and Vasquez.”

  Hawkins was startled. “They’re here?”

  “You’re not with them?”

  “They told us to handle it.” Martins smiled. “They must have become impatient and gone ahead without us.”

  The receptionist studied their faces. “Hold on.”

  They waited while she dialed. The detective looked nervous. Understandable, but they had no time for error. Martins surveyed the lobby.

  “I tried calling Security, but Mateo won’t answer,” the receptionist said. “Let me check the monitor. Okay, there’s someone in admin— Oh my God! He has a gun!”

  “Call 911,” Hawkins said. “How do I get there?”

  Martins didn’t wait to hear the receptionist’s answer. Ignoring the ache in his twisted ankle, he darted into the elevator. Once inside, he readied the pistol he’d hidden in his underpants and prepared for the worst.

  “Here’s a choice,” Quinn said with a theatrical flourish. “Help me fix Recognate and you can continue as Cristina Silva or whoever you want. Or wait until Sabrina takes over and helps me—I’m sure she’ll be more cooperative.”

  Tears welled in Cristina’s eyes. The idea that her prior identity had helped create this mess—it was too much. She couldn’t let that person regain control. But she couldn’t help this madman either. Teenage boys screamed in her mind. Her brain swelled and threatened to rupture her skull. Sweat rolled down her cheeks.

  You’re not real, kid. Time to disappear.

  She dug her nails into her palms. The pain was real. She was real.

  “Cristina.” Quinn tapped his watch. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Quinn’s face darkened. He raised his fist but stopped himself. “We’ll see about that.”

  A man stumbled around the corner as if pushed, holding his hands by his head. His gaze met Cristina’s.

  Cristina’s heart leaped into her throat. “Wilson?”

  “Keep moving.” The man behind the detective used a gun to urge Wilson forward. The captor’s face came into view: Dr. Frank Alvarez.

  Cristina’s mouth went dry.

  An odd look crossed Wilson’s face. He mouthed, Run.

  Wilson ducked under Frank’s gun. Spun. Knocked his pistol away. The policeman connected his fist with Frank’s groin. Frank howled and doubled over.

  Cristina tried to run, but her feet had rooted to the floor.

  We’re not going anywhere. Not until Quinn cures us.

  Quinn and Vasquez aimed their weapons at Wilson, but he raised his hands over his head.

  “Valiant effort,” Quinn said. “But ill-advised.”

  A sliding sound came from Simmons’s desk.

  Quinn whipped around. Fired.

  The bullet struck below Simmons’s clavicle. He screamed. Clutched his chest. Fell into his chair. A pistol dropped onto the floor.

  “Julius, Julius . . .” Quinn kept his gun trained on Simmons. “I understand the detective’s misguided action, but you know me. What were you thinking?”

  “Kill me,” Simmons said. Blood stained his shirt. “I deserve it for inviting a sociopath into my house.”

  “Why waste the bullet? You’ll be dead soon enough.” Quinn turned to Cristina. “You could’ve run. I guess you realized you need my help.”

  “No,” Cristina said, keeping her voice level. “I realized you won’t kill me because you need my help.”

  “True, but I don’t need him.” Quinn grabbed Wilson’s neck and dragged him to face Cristina. He pressed the muzzle against Wilson’s temple. “You thought you lost your boyfriend once. Give me what I want, or this time you’ll get to watch him die.”

  Chapter Seventy

  “Get your pistol,” Quinn said to Frank, who clambered to his feet. “And make sure no one heard those gunshots.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  As Frank stumbled away, Quinn asked, “What do you say, Cristina?”

  A powerful craving struck Cristina, worse than the ones in Rio. The thought of Maria’s caipirinha made her salivate. The more she fought it, the worse it became. “Will you let him go?”

  “Don’t trust him, Cristina,” Wilson shouted. “He’s a murderer.”

  “Shut up.” Quinn pressed the muzzle harder against Wilson’s skull. He met Cristin
a’s gaze. “Yes, I’ll let him go.”

  Give him what he wants, and this’ll all be over. We’ll drink ourselves into a stupor and forget everything.

  Every corner of her brain lit up. Dr. Morgan said about Carl that he was clearly a heavy drinker for some time. Stacey said Jerry was drunk, but that wasn’t why he went crazy. Devi said Mrs. Watterson had started drinking two to three glasses of red wine per night.

  The formula from the locket whirled in her mind, expanding, rotating, pulsing.

  Her heart raced. She understood.

  “You remember, don’t you?” Quinn eyed her. “You know how to fix it.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” He ground the barrel against Wilson’s cheek. “Tell me.”

  “Don’t tell him anything, Cristina,” a familiar husky baritone said from behind Vasquez.

  Sebastian dos Santos pressed a gun against the agent’s back.

  A mixture of relief and anger washed over Cristina. Relief that he was there. Anger that he had hidden the truth from her—that he was her father.

  “What are you doing here?” Quinn asked, still holding Wilson. “Can’t you see we’re negotiating?”

  “Then negotiate your surrender.” Santos jabbed the gun against Vasquez. “Or I’ll kill her.”

  “Go ahead,” Quinn said. “She’s a liability, anyway, seeing as she’s linked to the murders of special agents Gomes and Forrester.”

  Vasquez blanched. “But . . . You can’t—”

  “Sorry, dear. You were a tremendous help, but I don’t need you anymore.” Quinn turned back toward Santos. “Once I’ve got a stable drug, I can brainwash anyone to work for me. Besides . . .” He patted Wilson’s shoulder. “My ante trumps yours.”

  “I’ve been in this game far longer than you, boy,” Santos said. “I only care that Cristina is free. Once that happens, you and I will cleanse our souls in hell.”

  “Jesus, you’re still a walking fortune cookie. You know what?” Quinn drew a second pistol from his jacket. Fired three times. Bullets ripped through Vasquez’s chest.

  The FBI agent screamed and slumped to the floor. Quinn fired again. He struck Santos in the abdomen. The man crumpled.

  “No!” Cristina started for Santos.

  Quinn swung a gun toward her. She froze.

  Santos writhed in agony. Cristina’s heart nearly burst. No matter what he’d done, she couldn’t let him die. “If you want the answer, let me help my father.”

  “Your father?” Quinn’s eyes widened. He stared, then snickered. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You didn’t think I’d find out?”

  “Oh, I’d be surprised if he didn’t tell you himself. What I don’t believe is how someone so brilliant could believe something so ridiculous.” He pointed at Santos. “That man’s not your father.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Cristina fought to stay in control. “How would you know if he’s my father or not?”

  “Because I made him believe he was,” Quinn said. “We went underground because the CIA was onto us.”

  “Jorge Silva was tracking you. I know.”

  “Who do you think tipped him off?”

  She stiffened. “Santos?”

  “He’d been helping Silva for months in exchange for asylum. No wonder he botched my order to burn them in their own home. He didn’t want to kill his golden goose.” Quinn glared at Santos’s writhing form. “But I couldn’t lose an asset. I made sure he wouldn’t betray me again.”

  “You made Santos believe I was his daughter.”

  “All I had to do was steal a little of his memory. Just enough to make him question his past. Then I got him hooked on Recognate, gave him the locket, and fed him the story about your savior. Once Jorge Silva trusted him again, even enough to service his car, I set him in position to take out the Silvas.” Quinn scowled. “But Martins ran, so I had to get my hands dirty. I hate getting my hands dirty.”

  “You cut the brake lines,” Wilson said. “You killed the Silvas. You’re full of lies.”

  “Shut up.” Quinn cracked the pistol butt against Wilson’s skull and looked at Cristina. “You see? You don’t owe him anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Cristina,” Santos whispered.

  “Does he even have a daughter?” Cristina asked, breathless.

  Quinn simpered. “Nope.”

  Waves of nausea swept over her, each stronger than the previous. Nothing was real. Not in this life. Not in the other life. All she had left were lies. If she didn’t do something, she would lose even those.

  “Let Santos and Wilson go, and I’ll tell you.”

  Quinn grinned. “You got it.”

  She took a deep breath. “Alcohol.”

  His grin faltered. “Excuse me?”

  “Alcohol blocks the cannabinoid receptors. The more alcohol, the weaker the drug’s effect over time. Old memories start returning. If you then stop the drug suddenly, the receptors scream for stimulation, causing the subject to crave anything with the same effect.”

  “So, they get drunk.”

  “Intoxication causes psychosis. When combined with a surge of violent memories—”

  “They go nuts.” Quinn gaped. “How do we fix it?”

  Wilson’s eyes pleaded with her. Santos barely clung to life. She couldn’t let them die. She couldn’t let Sabrina take over. Cristina’s only hope was to help the man who ruined her. “The formula’s hidden in the locket. A combination of benzodiazepine agonist to block the alcohol effects and a third-generation sedative to relieve the anxiety. Build it into the drug and it’ll work.”

  Quinn nodded. “Thank you, Cristina.”

  His finger moved toward the trigger.

  Gunshots. Quinn yelped. The gun dropped from his hand. Blood spurted from his arm.

  “That’s a warning shot.” Officer Hawkins appeared around the corner. “Now put your hands up.”

  Quinn glanced from his wounded arm to Cristina. Fire danced in his eyes. Wordlessly, he swung around. Fired the other gun.

  Hawkins ducked around the corner. Bullets slammed into the wall.

  Wilson threw himself backward. He crashed into Quinn and they both fell.

  Quinn wrapped his good arm around Wilson’s neck. Wilson rammed his elbow against Quinn’s abdomen. Quinn grunted, held tight.

  Cristina watched, frozen in place. Memories tossed and crashed.

  Simmons’s gun lay inches away.

  Do it. Stop that madman.

  You said we needed him. He’s our chance for sanity.

  We don’t need him. I remember now. We can’t trust him.

  Why should I listen to you? You helped him. You loved him.

  Yes, I loved him. And I paid for it.

  The office vanished. Now, Cristina was inside a sparsely furnished shack. Artillery covered a wooden table. A younger James Quinn pressed his fingertips against his forehead. Blood stained his shirt.

  “You’re terrorists,” Cristina heard herself saying. “You ordered Jeremy to kill a boy.”

  “We have a job—”

  “You kill children! Everything Francisco told me is true.”

  “Why were you talking to him?” He threw a glass against the wall. It shattered. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “I know what I’m going to do.” She started for the door. “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t leave.” He grabbed her arm. “I can’t lose you.”

  “You already have.”

  Quinn’s face twisted with rage. He grabbed a rifle. Rammed the handle into her nose. She cried out. Blood streamed from her nostrils. The gun crashed into her skull. Again and again.

  Cristina flashed back to Simmons’s office at ReMind. She gasped for air, as if she’d been ten feet underwater for y
ears and only now had broken free to the surface. Everything became clear.

  Eight feet away Quinn stood with his back to her, squeezing Wilson’s neck. The hand hanging from his wounded arm jammed the pistol into Wilson’s back. Anger flared in her gut and then as quickly cooled.

  “Kick the gun here and come out,” Quinn said. “No heroics. I only need one arm to kill you both.”

  A pistol slid across the floor. Hawkins emerged with his hands by his head.

  “Good. Thank you for making it easier to—”

  Cristina plunged the letter opener into Quinn’s wounded arm. He screamed. Wilson broke free.

  Quinn staggered. Turned to face Cristina. His face contorted into a mask of confusion and shock. “You—you need me. You can’t both exist in the same mind.”

  Cristina smiled thinly. “We made peace.”

  Quinn’s eyes blazed. He lunged. Tackled her. Rammed his forehead against hers.

  Pain exploded in Cristina’s skull. She kicked. Connected with Quinn’s groin. He howled.

  She rolled away. Sprang to her feet. Kicked again.

  He caught her foot. Lifted. Threw her against the desk.

  “I made you, bitch.” He stormed toward her. “You’re nothing.”

  Gunfire rang out.

  Quinn’s mouth gaped. He clutched his chest. Blood stained his shirt. He collapsed.

  Crouched a few feet away, Wilson lowered the smoking pistol.

  Whatever strength Cristina had left drained from her body. She slumped against the desk.

  Wilson scrambled to her side. “Stay with me.”

  Cristina opened her mouth to say she was fine, but she wasn’t fine. She couldn’t speak. She might never be fine again. She wanted to cry. No tears would come.

  Hawkins knelt next to Santos. “This guy needs help.”

  Cristina’s mind shifted into clinical mode. She pushed away Wilson and crawled over to Santos. His skin was ashen. His chest barely moved.

  While she fumbled for a pulse, Wilson asked Hawkins, “How’d you find us?”