“It’s me,” the voice says. “It’s Mitzy.”
I haven’t seen her in a couple of years, but I’m no less shocked at what I see when I open the door. This woman has no trace of the regal beauty that was Mitzy’s hallmark. Her eyes are hazel, where Mitzy’s were a soft blue. Her nose seems rounder, maybe a little shorter. Even her hair seems wrong, though I’m enough of a man that I can’t pinpoint how it’s different. Everything I see here tells me this woman isn’t Mitzy, yet when I look deep into her eyes, there’s no doubt.
“Hello, Wil,” she says. Despite her appearance, her voice is the same—and against all logic, it warms me. “It’s been a long time.”
I want to say something witty for some reason, something that artfully betrays my dissonance with what I’ve always believed to be her shameful parting with Art—something that lets her know that I know what the score is. I’m not sure why this feels so important to me, considering I don’t know the score at all. I’m a fly nabbed in a sticky web of deception. I search the directory of my mind for something to say, but I come up empty.
So I just step to the side and let her in.
It isn’t until she’s in my apartment, looking around with a wistful sadness—like everything’s familiar, yet completely changed—that our implants shake hands. Almost greedily, I sift through her xchange profile. What I find there doesn’t make sense to me, so I check again to be certain. There’s no mistake.
“Misty Edwards?” I ask, my wariness regaining a foothold.
The woman who is and isn’t Mitzy laughs. “I know, creepy, huh? I’m walking around with a dead woman’s implant. I keep waiting for somebody to call me out, but I doubt that’ll ever happen. Art did an excellent job.”
He had. I lead her to my couch—from behind, something about her is eerily familiar, though only slightly—and we both sit.
“So tell me about yourself, Miss Edwards.”
“Missus, actually. Well, let’s see. Fifty-nine, born and raised in Pittsburg, married for thirty years—no children—widowed at fifty-four.”
“Misty, huh?”
She sighs. “Just Arthur being funny; people were always calling me Misty,”—I can empathize; I still get an occasional post-introduction William—“plus, I’m not very good at subterfuge. I needed something close enough to my real name that I’d at least react when someone addressed me. You can’t imagine how strange it is, Wilson.”
She’s right; I can’t, and I admit as much. I scrutinize her face—no rudeness intended, of course. She looks remarkably different; I’m not sure I’d have picked her from a lineup before now.
“Strange, huh? It’s been two years and I still flinch every time I pass a mirror.”
At once, I find myself thinking about how bizarre—how horrible—this all must’ve been for her—to give up her home, her husband, her career. To become a stranger, to pretend that her memories never happened, and to collect someone else’s as her own.
“So who’s the girl walking around with your hard-earned name?”
“Oh, she’s a bona fide Mitzy—she earned it fair and square. Sweet girl, too.” Her eyes flicker to mine and an absurd little smirk tugs at her pursed lips. “But I guess you already know that, huh?” She laughs deep in her throat, and I blush appropriately. “Anyway, as you’ve discovered, a cursory search for me on the nexus points to her. Of course, anyone who lays eyes on her can see that she’s half my age.”
“Is she in any danger?”
“Not at all. Arthur was very careful about that. The fact that she’s still alive proves that much.”
I give her an appraising glance. Despite the new getup, she looks good. I’m reminded of balmy Saturday nights, playing cards with her and Arthur out on their veranda. Man, those were such good times.
“So, how have you been?” I ask, in part because I’m interested, but mostly to fight off the onset of awkward silence.
“Alive. I guess that’ll have to do for now.”
I hesitate, then say: “I guess you know about Arthur.”
She blushes, and I suddenly realize I have seen her before, if only a glimpse as she fled Art’s wake. In that same moment, it dawns on me who actually footed the bill for the ceremony. I should’ve guessed; the city of Chicago isn’t exactly renowned for its benevolence.
“You know,” she says, “when we were younger—when you were younger—Arthur used to think of you like a son. But then, as you became a man, his perception of you changed. You weren’t just an honorary adoptee, Wilson. You were his best friend. He’d have done anything for you.”
This is too much, too raw and unexpected. It’s bitter and sweet, swaddled like an infant in a blanket of time I’ll never get back.
“They killed him, Mitzy.”
A pained expression unfolds on her face. “I know.”
“What’s going on? Too much is happening; I can’t make sense of it all.”
“I’ll tell you what I know, Wil. And then I’m going to leave—and we’ll never see each other again.”
I sigh deeply, and then nod.
“You might think this has something to do with IDS.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes. And no,” she says drily. “It started with me.”
“What?”
“Just listen, Wil. It’ll all make sense.”
I nod again.
“Okay. About the time you hired on to IDS, I was drafted into the ranks of an executive marketing team at Premiere Global Research Services.” I look at her with wide eyes. Mitzy? A corporate executive?
“Don’t look so surprised. I put in twenty years at Premiere before they even considered me; once I was promoted, I was working alongside men who’d put in less than ten in the industry—some less than five in the company. Anyway, I was excited at first. It was what I’d been working toward my entire adult life. But then, I got an introduction to our first project. Premiere was working on preliminary testing for a new drug back then, one of the first formulaic NanoPrint add-on patents to ever hit the market.”
I’m baffled that Mitzy—who I’ve known as long as I knew Arthur, on a much shallower level—was such a pioneer in medicine. And that I never had any inkling. Formulaic patents are a dime a dozen these days, but there was a time when drugs had to be physically introduced into a person’s body. In case you’re not already aware, formulaic drugs are produced on the fly by our implants; technically speaking, they aren’t drugs at all, but procedures that trigger the natural production of hormones and proteins in our bodies as needed to address specific conditions. Virtually everything from headaches to rheumatoid arthritis can be treated and/or cured using these procedures. Not only that, these same procedures now work hand in hand with medical monitoring technology to actively prevent heart conditions, discourage cancerous activity, et cetera. And every formula equals huge profits for drug research corporations, because no one formula does it all.
“Then what?”
“At first, it was just the company cutting corners. We glossed over a little anomalous data here, skipped a test filing there. Nothing to lose any sleep over, except it really bothered me that we would do that with so much at stake. Why invest billions in R&D, only to invalidate our data with sloppy documentation and testing? Turns out what I took for careless behavior was actually quite deliberate. We knew the drug was solid; but NanoPrint technology was still a bit shaky back then. Occasionally, an implant would misfire in administering the drug—nothing fatal, mind you. Once, a woman treated for an infection on her foot developed a tumor at the infection site. Another time, a man developed a chronic bladder infection following treatment for colon cancer. Any time something like that happened, the NanoPrints turned out to be the culprit. Our CEO was convinced these problems would work themselves out as NanoPrint technology advanced—and in the long run, she was right.”
“But in the meantime, Premiere covered up the undesirable test results,” I offer helpfully.
“Exactly. But that was just the
beginning. A few years later, just when I was reestablishing some respect for the company, a new era of research began. Formulaic drugs remained our bread and butter, but we began subsidizing research for new drugs—and I don’t mean the healing kind.”
“Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Didn’t seem to. But eventually, it did. The market for hallucinogens has never waned, but medical monitoring via our NanoPrints made it impossible to mask drug use. For a few years, there were countless manufacturers of formulaic hallucinogens—and they sold like hotcakes. Drowners must’ve thought heaven fell to Earth. But eventually, the keepers of the nexus caught on. You couldn’t get high like that if you tried, now. Even if you managed to get an add-on installed, the nexus would shut it down and report you to the authorities before a single chemical process could take place.
“So Premiere went old school. We began experimenting with bioengineered plants—cannabis, coca and whatnot—trying to enhance and domesticate their naturally occurring properties. Those of us in the fray had no idea what we were working toward, believe it or not. Formally, Premiere was revisiting nature for inspiration. We may have been fooled for awhile, but eventually a few of us caught on. Suddenly, all of our tried-and-true clinical tests went out the window. Our research leaders became closed-mouthed, and many of us lost faith.
“I should never have complained about all this to Arthur. But you just can’t help that sort of thing when you’re married. He’d ask over dinner, ‘How was your day?’ and I’d get a glass of wine in me and tell him all about it. If I had even an inkling of where it would all lead, I’d have kept my mouth shut.
“Anyway, a month or two went by, and suddenly Arthur became distant. We argued a lot. He wanted me to quit my job, and he wouldn’t give me any explanation why. I refused, of course, resented that he’d even ask that of me. I’d worked too hard to get where I was, and I guess I thought I could wait out the storm. Goodness, it sounds so selfish when I say it out loud. Especially now.”
I want to console her, to tell her it doesn’t sound selfish to me. But I’d be lying, and she’d see right through me. “So then what happened?”
“Well, nothing for a lot of years. But then, one day Arthur came home and he was terrified. ‘You’re being used,’ he said. ‘By who?’ I wanted to know, but he wouldn’t say. All he would tell me was that I was in serious danger and that we had to flee. I wouldn’t dream of it, naturally. I told him no. He insisted, but I wouldn’t give in.
“Then, one night after work, someone attacked me in the lobby of our building. He was big and hairy.” Mitzy pauses, her eyes losing focus for a moment. “I remember he smelled like onions and cheap aftershave. He stabbed me. If not for Arthur, I’d have died that night. He came running down the stairs, screaming and brandishing a gun. My attacker was about to stab me again, but when he saw Arthur coming down those stairs like an angry bull, he ran for the hills and left me bleeding on the floor.”
I feel my mouth parting in a gape; I never knew.
“The blade missed my heart by a half inch, so I lived. But that was it. Neither Arthur nor I had any doubt that we couldn’t just continue on with business as usual. So I left him. I wanted him to come with me—demanded it, actually. But he convinced me that we were both better off like this, and that it was only temporary.”
“Why?”
Mitzy looks me squarely in the eyes and smiles shyly.
“Because of you, of course.”
My pulse races and sends my head into a slow spin. If I wasn’t already seated, I’d have to sit down. “What are you talking about?”
“The thinking was that if I left, I’d be hunted. Arthur was confident we could beat that. If we both left, whoever wanted me dead would use you to draw us out. We couldn’t risk your life.”
It’s clear to me that Arthur hasn’t been truthful with Mitzy; she doesn’t know about Palmer Gunn and his extortion racket. As a result, she’s been carrying on with an unfair burden of guilt. I’m compelled to lighten the load.
“Mitzy, I think there’s something I should tell you. I don’t think Premiere had anything to do with the people chasing you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Arthur was caught up in something at work. Something he never shared with me or anyone else, to my knowledge.”
Mitzy fell silent and leaned forward. “Are you referring to Palmer Gunn?”
I’m stunned.
“Still don’t get it, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
“Premiere was using us both; they promoted me and made sure I was in the loop with all their covert research. Then, they approached Arthur to drag him aboard.”
“What could they possibly need Arthur for?”
“Because the drugs we were working on? They would never make it past the nexus without help.”
“So they thought they could use their hold on you to manipulate Arthur?”
“More or less, yes. It started out as Get on board, or your wife’ll be out of the job. When that didn’t work, it escalated to Get on board, or your wife is dead; she knows too much.”
I must’ve looked stupefied, because Mitzy laughed—not with any humor, but as if it has suddenly dawned on her that she’s become so desensitized to her situation.
“I know, it’s crazy.”
“And then some. I guess I just never imagined gangsters would get their hands into something like this. It doesn’t really seem like their territory. The tactics sort of fit the stereotype, though.”
“It’s a brave new world, Wilson. For once, Palmer Gunn isn’t the one calling the shots.”
“What?” Oh, my brain hurts.
“Let me ask you something, Wil. Have you ever dealt with Premiere Global Research Services before?”
“Sure. Couple of times; nothing really memorable, though.”
“So what do you know about the company?”
“Other than what you’ve told me? Virtually nothing.”
“Then it might surprise you to know that Premiere is a thriving subsidiary of Miritech.”
Miritech. I rack my memory, trying to remember where I’ve heard the name. It’s in there, I can tell. But I can’t place it—and then I remember.
“Wait a second, as in Vice President Carlisle’s company?”
“Bingo.”
“Are you saying that the Vice President of Unified America is indirectly funding and overseeing the research of illegal narcotics?”
Mitzy smiles bitterly. “Exactly.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I’m sure you can imagine the political fallout if that information was to leak.”
“Holy scrap. So that’s why you ran.”
“More or less, yeah. Arthur was supposed to stick around long enough for things to blow over. But I never really thought they would. I just knew it somehow, you know? I told myself it would be okay, that if we just stuck it out, we’d be together again. But deep down, I knew they would never let him go.”
“I don’t understand why Arthur thought they’d spare him.”
“Because he agreed to give them what they wanted. He pushed the drug through.”
I feel my cheeks warm at this terrible revelation. “What? Why in the world would he do that?”
“Don’t judge him, Wil. Arthur was a good man. He did what he had to do to protect me. And you.”
I feel sick with the knowledge that my best friend sacrificed his integrity—and ultimately, his life—for my sake.
“I guess they decided to take him out of the equation after all,” I say.
“Yeah, it looks that way. Which is why you have to make a tough decision, Wil.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a good chance they’ll be coming after you now.”
I swallow a mouthful of cotton. “Why would they do that?”
“Because you’re a loose end. Just as I am. I could be wrong—maybe they won’t bother with you at all. But one thing is cert
ain: they haven’t stopped looking for me. Knowing that, I have to believe they’ll eventually latch onto you as a resource. And when they’ve finished with you, Wilson, they’ll kill you.”
I want to dispute this, to water it down so I can more easily digest the end of life as I know it. But what’s the point? Save for Adrian, my life has lost all meaning and order. I’m considering a new bout of questions when I hear Adrian stirring in the bedroom. She calls my name and Mitzy looks startled.
“It’s okay, it’s just Adrian.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of a recent development.”
“I’ve got to go, Wil.”
“Wait, please. Give me just a second, will you?”
She’s reluctant, but she doesn’t refuse.
I pad softly to the bedroom and peek inside.
Adrian squints at me in the darkness. “What’re you doing?” she grumbles. “It’s after two in the morning.”
“Sorry, babe. Having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”
“Who’re you talking to out there?”
“Just an old friend. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
It’s a little too dark to tell, but it sort of feels like her eyes are trying to pierce me. “Define old friend,” she says in gruff monotone. Warning bells begin to ring in my head. Before I can respond, she’s suddenly up and out of bed and screaming in my face—just to be clear, there’s nothing sexy about her being angry this time. “Do you have an ex-girlfriend here?”
An ex-what? I guess I’ve neglected to tell Adrian that not only is she my first live-in girlfriend, she’s technically my first girlfriend. “What? No, Adrian. It’s nothing like that.”
But she’s not listening. Before I can react, she whips past me and storms the living room like a vengeful demon, eyes ablaze with hellfire. I follow in a mad rush to intervene, but there’s really no need.
The front door is slightly ajar, and Mitzy is gone.
Adrian is an enigma. A lifetime of cinematic stereotyping has led me to believe that women are internally wired to drool over romantic getaways. An all-inclusive, luxury cruise to Australia, for example. Pre-booked with a nonrefundable deposit, just to demonstrate my commitment to her happiness. With no other frame of reference, it’s hard to decide if Hollywood has intentionally duped me, or if my girlfriend is simply an exception to the rule. Either way, I’m baffled. I might as well have pitched a nice hike through a recycling plant.
The Pedestal Page 10
