by Lisa Harris
With a groan, he shifted, exposing the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants. She had seen him retrieve it from underneath the counter at The Shed before they left, but didn’t say anything. Given his former career, he obviously knew about weapons and how to assess risk. If he felt they were safer with it, she wouldn’t argue. Unbidden, the memory of the corpse on the floor flashed in her mind, the smells and sights of that night rushing back as if she were there, sending a ripple of anxiety through her.
If Ian thought they needed a weapon, he probably wasn’t wrong.
He stirred again, this time rolling his neck and stretching his arms. He yawned, turning in his seat toward her, then flashing a thousand-watt grin. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.
“Not long. You slept up front,” she said, matter-of-factly stating the obvious.
Concern flitted across his face and he tensed. “Well, I thought we were pretty safe and that it was okay to get some rest.” He sounded apologetic. “I didn’t notice anyone tailing us and no one came along after I parked so I thought we would be fine. I’m sorry if I left you feeling vulnerable—”
“No, no, I wasn’t second-guessing you! I just meant…that couldn’t have been comfortable, sleeping up there. You could have taken the cargo area.”
“Oh,” he said, the muscles in his face and neck relaxing. “it wasn’t a problem. And this way I could react faster—drive off quickly if I needed to. But how are you? You were snoring a bit,” he said, more than a hint of teasing in his voice, “so I’m guessing you got some decent rest.”
“Snoring, huh?” Hating that he actually heard that, she pushed herself into a seated position, rolling her shoulders, working out the kinks. “Well, now you really do know all my dirty little secrets,” she joked, wrinkling her nose. “But, yeah, I feel fairly rested, considering. And very ready to see what’s in that mailbox.”
Ian lifted his hand from where he had been rubbing the base of his neck and pointed to the right. “The place is only a couple of streets over that way. Didn’t want to park too close. Just in case.”
“Well, we’ve got more than an hour, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“I could eat,” he said, patting his stomach.
“Good,” she replied, poking one leg over the console after the other and dropping into the passenger seat. “But it’s my turn to pay.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he agreed enthusiastically.
“All right, then. Where’s the nearest Hardees? Order anything you want. Sky’s the limit.”
The Mailbox Office occupied one of a dozen units in a red-brick strip mall situated on a busy downtown street. It opened at 8:00 a.m., and after several minutes of watching to make sure no one was scouting the place, Ian and Quinn pushed through the front door at 8:10, feverish anticipation driving her steps.
An electronic chime announced their entry, but the clerk behind the counter—already busy helping another person mail a large box—barely looked up. Quinn tossed the clerk a quick smile and nod, and without slowing down headed straight for the wall of mailboxes to the right of the counter, looking for “126,” the number printed on the key. She scanned the rows of small, brass-colored doors, her eyes racing over the number plates as a buzz began to build in her head.
There it is.
Box 126. Third row. Tenth box over. She dropped to a squat, her hand shooting out to touch the door at the same time Ian’s did. His fingers were warm and solid and when she looked at him she could tell from his expression that she wasn’t the only one feeling the spark the contact ignited.
“Key,” she mumbled, holding his gaze as she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans with her free hand and brought it up to eye level.
“Key,” he said, dropping his hand but not breaking his focus on her.
She inserted the key into the lock, turned it and pulled the door open. Inside was a thick manila envelope, folded into a “U-shape” to fit within the confines of the small mailbox. Quinn snatched it out, then peered inside the box to make sure there was nothing else.
Empty.
She shut the door and they stood simultaneously. The envelope was about an inch thick when unfolded. The recipient was listed as Brad Atkins, Box 126, 19 Grapple Avenue, Unit C, Columbus, GA 31906. The return address was the same.
“Come on,” Ian said, pulling on Quinn’s sleeve. “Let’s not hang around.” Nodding, she followed his lead, her pulse galloping like a racehorse as they hustled out the door.
Chapter Thirty-One
“We’re not sitting here while you read whatever’s in there,” Ian said, backing out of the space and pulling onto the main road as soon as traffic would allow. “You read, I’ll drive,” he said.
Quinn slid a finger across the envelope’s flap, tearing it open and removing the contents. There was a letter to her and a clipped, thick stack of papers. She turned the envelope on its end, and a thumb drive and plastic identification card slid onto her lap.
She picked up the card. It was an employee photo identification badge for Rhinehardt Pharmaceuticals and, based on the strip on the back, also a keycard. The color photo on the front bore the name “Brad Atkins” and depicted a man in his late thirties with light-brown, wide-set eyes. Blonde-brown hair, cut short, no sideburns. A short, pudgy nose and thick brows that nearly touched.
Quinn's stomach flipped. “This is the dead man I found in my house.” Though her hands were steady, the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” she replied.
Ian made a hard right, then stepped on the gas, merging onto U.S. Highway 27 South, the road that would take them back to Seaglass Cove. “What’s the letter say?”
The handwriting was the same as on the note hidden in her devotional book. After swallowing hard, Quinn read it aloud.
* * *
Dear Ms. Bello,
My name is Brad Atkins. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’ve been trying to reach you for several weeks, but my attempts by telephone have failed. I can’t leave a voicemail or email you, because while I’m not sure they will have been able to tap your phone, it’s possible they’ve hacked it and/or your computer and will be able to access messages. So I’m coming to Seaglass Cove to see you. I don’t think they’ll realize I’ve left Raleigh until it’s too late. I think I’ve managed to keep them from suspecting that I know what I know. At least I hope I have. Just in case, I mailed this before I left to safeguard it, in case something happens and I don’t get to meet with you in person. You don’t have a connection to Columbus, so they won’t be looking for you there and it’s pretty close to where you are, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to make a quick trip.
I know this isn’t making any sense. Please bear with me. It’s a lot to explain.
I work for Rhinehardt Pharmaceuticals in Raleigh as a Junior Vice President of Research and Development. For the last twelve years we’ve been developing a new drug for the treatment of acute anxiety disorder—Anavexiam.
Nausea hammered Quinn and she gripped the paper tighter, her knuckles white. “Anavexiam. That’s the new drug I started back in September when the alprazolam didn’t work,” she said, then continued reading.
* * *
I don’t know what you know about the process of bringing a drug like that to market, but it’s long and expensive and very risky. The last two drugs we were developing failed in the late stages of their clinical trials, at a loss of $200 million and $175 million, respectively. Rhinehardt spent $250 million preparing to bring Anavexiam to the public. In order to recover its losses from the earlier drug failures and not lose another $250 million on Anavexiam, the drug had to succeed.
Anavexiam received final approval nine months ago and we began marketing the drug immediately. The initial reports were very positive. But then there were problems.
In the third month after Anavexiam’s release to the public, we learned of five problematic ca
ses in different parts of the country involving Anavexiam patients who developed tragic and unexpected side effects. All of these patients had previously been prescribed a benzodiazepine—like alprazolam or clonazepam—to control their anxiety, without success. Their physicians switched them to Anavexiam to see if it would produce better results. You were one of these cases.
Unfortunately, in four of those cases, the patient committed suicide within 4-6 weeks of starting Anavexiam. According to their medical records, each patient had previously exhibited suicidal tendencies. Consequently, these cases did not raise red flags as the patients were already suicide prone.
Your case was different in that, although you did not attempt suicide after using Anavexiam, you did manifest paranoia and direct it at others with violent results. While you had no prior history of such paranoia or violence, it was also true that while you were taking Anavexiam you admitted to self-medicating with your discontinued alprazolam and alcohol. It was decided that this combination of over-medicating and alcohol usage, not the Anavexiam, resulted in your dangerously erratic behavior, and the case was treated as statistically insignificant.
However, several weeks ago I stumbled onto information that suggested a cover-up at the highest levels of Rhinehardt concerning these issues. I started digging and what I’ve uncovered proves it.
To start with, the fourth patient and his wife were killed when he supposedly drove their car off a bridge after leaving a suicide note at home. But I’ve found emails proving that just prior to his death he and his wife had begun to question the effect Anavexiam was having on his state of mind—including hallucinations and paranoia he had never experienced before. They voiced these concerns to his physician and to Rhinehardt through reporting channels, but nothing was done. I even suspect his physician may have been bribed to alter the patient’s records to reflect a history of prior suicidal thoughts.
I continued gathering as much as I could from the inside, and I now believe the patient and his wife were killed to keep them quiet. Which leads me to think that patients 1-3 may not have committed suicide either. I believe you were only spared because your continued use of alcohol and alprazolam on top of the Anavexiam conveniently explained your behavior without specifically pointing a finger at Anavexiam.
Rhinehardt needs Anavexiam to remain viable and in the market to avoid crippling financial repercussions. Their pockets are deeper, and their influence more far reaching than you can imagine. I now believe that they’ve done and paid whatever was necessary to keep the truth hidden and will continue to do so.
And it gets worse.
At first I believed Rhinehardt was just covering up problems which came to light after Anavexiam’s release. But I have since discovered documentation proving that Rhinehardt became aware of the drug’s potential danger during the Stage III clinical trials, but covered it up to keep the drug in line for approval. This means that Anavexiam isn’t just a failed drug. It’s a failed drug with potentially catastrophic side effects that Rhinehardt knowingly delivered to the market with a callous disregard for the outcome.
The data suggests that patients with certain pre-existing conditions may react negatively to Anavexiam, experiencing side effects of hallucinations, paranoia, excessive panic and irrational thought, becoming dangerous to themselves and others. The common factors in the five cases I’ve discussed are: you each experienced childhood seizures, currently experience migraines, and have heart palpitations (PVCs).
While it might be rare for a patient taking Anavexium to meet all these conditions, it can happen and it happened with the five of you, and apparently also with one or more patients in the Stage III clinical trials. If word got out about this lethal combination, it would ruin the drug. The FDA would pull it—at least until further studies (taking years) could be completed—and patients with any of these factors, and especially those with two or more of them, wouldn’t want to take it anyway because of the risks. This would kill the drug, given the incredibly high number of people who experience both migraines and at least occasional PVCs.
* * *
Quinn sucked in air, her chest tightening as the words washed over her and she tried to absorb the meaning behind the information in the letter.
“Is that true? Do you have all those things?” Ian asked.
Quinn nodded. “The childhood seizures ended when I was ten. I get migraines, usually with stress and weather changes. And yes, I have PVCs.”
“What else does it say?” Ian asked, jerking his head toward the paper, his voice urgent. Quinn’s gaze returned to the letter.
* * *
If they discover that I know the truth, I have no doubt they’ll get rid of me. But my conscience won’t allow me to remain silent. I’m coming to you first before going to the authorities for two reasons. One, you aren’t safe and there isn’t a moment to lose. I believe they’re still watching you and that if you do anything or your condition takes a turn that jeopardizes this drug’s viability, or if circumstances change, making your suicide somehow appear credible, I have no doubt they’ll remove you from the picture. If I contact the authorities first, by the time they understand what’s going on and that you need protection, you’ll be dead. I need to bring you into this so we can immediately get you the protection you need, and make sure you understand what happened so you never take that drug again.
Second, you are the only survivor who experienced the side effects firsthand. What happened to you in Tampa was not the result of your anxiety condition or you losing control. Yes, you drank and double-dipped on meds, but Anavexiam produced the hallucinations and paranoia in you because of your pre-existing conditions, and it is responsible for causing you to do what you did. Basically, you were drugged. I need you to tell this story, your story, to the authorities, but we have to be careful because I don’t know who to trust. Rhinehardt had to have help from someone on the inside of one or more agencies in order to hide the problems with Anavexium and secure its approval. I just don’t know who.
I’m flying into Atlanta and driving down, in the hopes that if they are following me, I’ll be able to lose them before they know where I’m headed. I want to bring you in, explain this to you in person—be sure you never use Anavexiam again—and together take this information to the right people to be investigated. You’re a lawyer. You understand how that side of it works better than I do. We need each other.
If something happens and I don’t make it to see you, be aware that they’ll be watching your every move. Get away from Seaglass Cove and take these materials—there’s also a thumb drive with files I was able to download and a video of me essentially explaining all this—to someone you decide you can trust in the FBI. If you’ve got personal contacts, use them. All the documents to prove what I’ve said in this letter are attached.
As a final precaution, I’ve uploaded the video and copies of this letter and the enclosed documents to an online email service. I’ve set a timer for its release to you, the news station in Raleigh, and the Atlanta FBI office—to an agent I essentially chose at random. I reset the timer every Thursday. If I meet with you, it’ll never go out. But if I’m gone I have to put the information out there in order to protect the public. It’s risky because if it does go out, Rhinehardt might come after you before you know what’s happening. I’m sorry if that’s the way this went down, because it will probably put you in more danger. But I can’t die with no one knowing.
You’re the key to undoing this, Quinn. You’re the only one left alive to tell the story. I don’t know if your doctor is involved, but with the kind of money Rhinehardt waves around, you can’t rule it out so don’t trust her. When you start asking questions, they’ll do everything they can to discredit you, then silence you. Please be careful. Move quickly. Godspeed.
Brad Atkins
* * *
The letter ended with an email login and password for the service holding the electronic message that was queued to be sent if Atkins didn’t reset the timer.
/> “You’re gonna need to log on and reset that timer so those emails don’t go out yet. Not until we’ve figured out what to do,” Ian said. It was only Tuesday. They still had time. But he was right. They would need to reset it soon.
Quinn dropped the letter onto her lap, her hand shaking as she reached over to grip Ian’s leg. He covered her hand with his and she could feel hot tears gathering as his sympathetic gaze swiveled to meet hers. “You know what this means?” she asked weakly.
Ian’s lips formed a thin line as he nodded.
“It means I wasn’t crazy. And it wasn’t my fault.” She barely got the last word out before a sob racked her. Lifting his hand from hers, he threw his arm around her and pulled her into his shoulder, hugging her tightly as she felt the waves of relief and anger and exhaustion come, pouring out in choked gasps. She pressed into him, breathing in his scent of sandalwood, focusing on that and striving to calm down, to hold it together and breathe. But it was too much. Surrendering to the surging tidal wave of emotion, she abandoned the attempt at composure and let it all go.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Quinn’s mind spun as she tried to process the truths in the letter. A man was dead. A man named Brad Atkins whose conscience had compelled him to act. To seek her out. To protect her and others. And they had killed him for it.
Ian continued driving south on Highway 27 while they batted ideas back and forth about who to contact, who not to contact, and whether or not to go straight to Shane Cody and Investigator Fisk. Ian stepped on the gas, passing a logging truck, then swung back into the right lane. “There’s my brother’s friend—the special agent in the Florida Department of Law Enforcement—we could reach out to him,” he said.
