by Glenn Cooper
Cyrus sat forward, eyes closed, straining into his headset. The sound of crashing glass had barely stopped when he heard the first cracks of gunfire.
Pop. Pop.
The voices were eerily businesslike.
“One male down in bedroom two!”
A woman cried out, “Mario!”
Pop.
“One female down bedroom two.”
“I’m in bedroom one. I’ve got the baby. Cover the door. I think the mother’s okay. Are you Marcie Martell?”
“Yes!”
“How many of them are in here?”
“Two men! One woman!”
“Where’s the other guy? Who’s got the other guy?”
“Watch out. I think he’s behind the sofa.”
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Second male down!”
“We’re clear! Get the paramedics in!”
Moments later, the street was alive. A burly cop walked out of the building with the baby in his arms, his mother supported between two other officers.
Cyrus watched Marcie Martell emerge. She looked like a woman who’d been through hell. He called Avakian.
“It’s over on Clark Street. Pick up your guys.”
Avakian and four special agents calmly walked in and took down John Abruzzi and his driver without a struggle. The large plastic bottle was in Abruzzi’s coat pocket.
“It’s sugar, asshole,” Avakian said. “Where’s the first bottle?”
Abruzzi thrust out his chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about but if I did I’d bet it’s long gone. I’d bet it’s all over the fucking streets already.”
Thirty
Cyrus was too busy to leave the office but he refused to cancel the appointment. Days after the North End raid he was still grinding away on his after-action reports but that morning he kept thinking about his date, if that’s what it was. Emily Frost was getting under his skin, creeping up on him, invading his thoughts at odd times—while reading; shaving; eating cereal.
He was determined to be on time. In fact, he blew into the coffee shop a few minutes early. She was there already in a booth, on her cell phone. She waved and kept talking as he sat and stripped off his overcoat. He could tell from her tone she was in doctor mode talking to a family. He tried not to eavesdrop on the content but listened to the sound and cadence of her voice. She was able to blend gravitas with warmth. It was soothing. He could use some of that.
She finished up. “I’m sorry. How are you, Cyrus?”
He was pleased she’d remembered their deal on first names.
“Fine, Emily. Busy but fine.”
“Still reading Shakespeare?”
He laughed. “That’s like asking me if I’m still breathing air.”
“You’ve got me doing it too. The sonnets are really lovely.” They ordered their coffees. “How’s Tara?”
“Not bad, not good,” he said heavily. “Every time I see her she seems to be getting a little farther away. Does that make sense?”
She smiled sadly. “Yes it does. Like a star getting dimmer.”
He swallowed hard and nodded.
“How’re you doing?” she asked.
“Ordinarily, I’d be bitching about being out-of-control swamped with work but I think the distraction’s probably a good thing.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Can you talk about any part of your work? Or is it confidential?”
The coffees arrived and he watched to see if she was going to get cappuccino foam on her upper lip again. She did and he liked it.
“Have you heard about the drug, Bliss?”
Her eyes widened. “You’re working on that!”
“I’ve gotten drawn into it through a related investigation.”
“I’m fascinated by it, absolutely fascinated,” she enthused. “I’ve been reading everything I can. I even saw my first patient last week, a fifteen-year-old girl who attempted suicide after taking it. We’ve got her as an inpatient.”
“It’s spreading like crazy,” he said. “The world’s gotten more dangerous in the past few weeks.”
“More dangerous and more comforting at the same time, don’t you think?”
“How do you mean?”
“Many people find the notion of an afterlife comforting. It’s the foundation for great religions. People want to believe there’s more.”
“Your patient tried killing herself. There’ve been plenty of successful ones. But not everyone opts for that. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t think the drug’s effects are monolithic. Maybe the underlying psyche of the user predicts the response. If a person has a marginal, unfulfilled life full of sorrow, then maybe suicide and the promise of something better proves irresistible.”
“Choosing death over life,” Cyrus mused.
“From what I’ve read and heard from colleagues who’ve seen more patients than I, users describe experiencing feelings of incomparable joy and peace, the purest pleasure they’ve ever had.”
“And those who don’t want to off themselves?”
She paused. “My guess is that healthy, self-actualized people may find the experience gives them an added dimension. For them, heaven can wait, though it might change some of their lifestyle decisions.”
Cyrus took on a mocking tone. “They zoom through a tunnel toward the light! They see a beautiful river! There’s a loved one waiting for them! They feel the presence of God! What’s your explanation for these identical hallucinations?”
Emily chuckled. “Your skepticism comes through loud and clear but there really are only two explanations, aren’t there? Either it’s a drug-induced hallucination with mass suggestibility … or it’s real.”
He allowed the waitress to refill his cup before exclaiming, “Real?!”
“Who am I to say the afterlife doesn’t exist? Most people think it does, you know. Ninety-two percent of Americans believe in God, eighty percent believe in an afterlife. Heck, one in three believes that the bible is the actual word of God!”
“What do you believe?” Cyrus asked. As soon as he said it, he realized it wasn’t an appropriate question but before he could retract it, she answered.
“I’m a card-carrying agnostic,” she replied. “Since you asked me, I guess for me to ask you the same thing is fair game.”
He shook his head and looked out the window for a few seconds. “I’m a practicing Catholic,” he answered. “I have faith. But for me, these kinds of things have to be necessarily abstract. To solidify concepts of God and afterlife in specific imagery … I don’t like it. It goes against my grain.”
“I understand completely.” She bunched her lips in curiosity. “So what’s the FBI’s role in Bliss?”
“Like I said, I’m coming at it from another angle, which I can’t go into.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m too nosy. Does anyone know where it came from?”
“Yeah, that’s another thing I can’t talk about.”
“There I go again.” She laughed.
He changed the subject. “The crazy thing is, the drug’s not illegal! Using it or selling it. There’s nothing the authorities can do.”
“Is something being done about that?”
“The DEA’s looking at it. Drugs don’t get scheduled overnight but if it were me, I’d be working overtime.”
“I think your concern is well placed. I don’t know if the drug is addictive in a classical sense, but it surely is seductive.”
“Remember I asked you once about Alex Weller?”
She nodded.
“You said you went to one of his salons. Do you remember a nurse named Thomas Quinn? Or a lab tech named Frank Sacco?”
“There were so many new people there and it was a couple of years ago. Sorry.”
“Have you seen Weller lately?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.” Her cup was empty. “You want another one?” he asked. “Something to eat?”
“I’v
e got to get back for clinic,” she said.
He called for the check. “Can I ask why you chose to work with sick kids?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word dying.
“I had kind of a rough childhood myself,” she admitted soberly. “I empathize with kids in crisis. I don’t only see cancer patients. I do all sorts of trauma work. If I go home at night feeling I’ve helped a child, then I’ve had a pretty good day.”
He left some money on the table and at once had a thought that pleased him.
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
“Another coffee would be great,” she replied.
“Actually, I had another idea.”
“I’m still your daughter’s doctor,” she gently reminded.
“No, a professional idea.” He laughed. He told her what he had in mind and asked if she’d join him day after tomorrow.
“I’d love to,” she said, checking her calendar. “I’d really love to.”
Jessie took off Alex’s shirt and began to knead his shoulder muscles. He was tense and a back rub usually helped. He hadn’t been sleeping well, he’d become withdrawn, spending hours alone in a darkened room. In retrospect, his life had been so simple. His quest to understand his childhood NDE had driven the choices he’d made in a singular way. It drove him to study brain sciences; it drove him to study philosophy and religion. Yet, now that he’d made his breakthrough, complexities flooded in as if a dam had been breached. He felt as though he were holding onto a sapling that was bending in torrential floodwaters, in mortal danger of being swept away by the powerful forces he’d unleashed.
For a man who always strived to be in control, the sudden lack of control was eating at him. He couldn’t control Cyrus O’Malley, who was pursuing him with a bulldog’s tenacity. He couldn’t control the Uroboros compound anymore. Even its name had been taken away from him. Bliss. On the street it was becoming some kind of vast uncontrolled experiment that would eventually lead back to his door. And when that happened, O’Malley would be there, smugly wielding handcuffs, taking him away to prison for life. He’d rather die.
Death had become an overwhelmingly appealing option. He knew with the certainty of a replicated scientific experiment what awaited him and it was so much more alluring than life, particularly the anxiety-filled existence he now was experiencing. With the stroke of a blade or ten minutes in a running car in his closed garage he’d be with his father forever. He’d learn, once and for all, what lay on the other side of that river.
I should do it, he thought. With Jessie. It’s not a matter of if but when.
At first he’d shunned the media coverage of Bliss because it conjured up images of O’Malley knocking on his door; but the scientist in him eventually was drawn to it. It was his discovery, his creation, and people were eagerly reporting their experiences everywhere. Videos, blogs, postings, and tweets were popping up all over the net and TV and newspaper coverage was becoming ubiquitous.
One particular piece haunted him. A pretty girl posted a YouTube video of her coming out of a Bliss trip. She was crying and laughing at the same time, saying, “I can’t understand why everyone isn’t taking this. Everyone needs to know. Everyone needs to understand. Fuck everything else. This is the only thing that matters. Come on people, join me.”
Come on people, join me.
He watched the video over and over until it came to him. He knew what he needed to do.
“Feel better?” Jessie asked, her hands moving down his spine.
“Yes. How about you?”
She was simple, innocent. When something bothered her she didn’t bottle it up, she came out with it. “I’m still worried about the FBI agent who came to see me about Thomas and Frank.”
He couldn’t shield her from the FBI’s harassment. O’Malley had shown up at his house while he was at the lab and had grilled Jessie for an hour. She was bewildered by the visit. Why did he want to know where Alex was the night Frank was murdered? Why was he interested in the Uroboros salon? Why did he want to talk about Thomas Quinn’s death? She was careful, of course; Alex had prepped her never to talk about drug use at the salon or Bliss. Even so, she’d been rattled by the encounter.
“Don’t worry about it,” was all he could say. “You did well.”
“I still don’t know why he asked all those questions. It’s almost like he thought you had something to do with Thomas and Frank’s deaths.”
“He’s misguided. He’s got a warped idea of the truth.”
“I miss Thomas,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about him.”
“I miss Thomas too but I don’t miss Frank. He stole from me. He wasn’t a good person. He got what he deserved.”
She tenderly kissed his thick burn scars. “Frank’s in a better place. They’re both in a better place.”
Alex turned around and pulled her into his chest. “You’re a wise soul,” he said. “But don’t go joining him, okay? I need you here with me. We’ve got work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“Jessie, this is something I’ve been thinking about. Actually, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. Frank let the cat out of the bag prematurely, but look what’s happening: hundreds of people, maybe thousands, have taken Bliss. It’s triggered a new kind of joy and understanding. Why stop here? Isn’t it our responsibility to do more for more people?”
“Our responsibility to do what?”
“Bliss is mine. I’m its father. A father has a responsibility for what he creates. I’ve got some ideas, Jessie—important ones. But I can’t do it alone. I’ll need help. I want to talk to a few of the Uroboros people, the ones we can really trust. Erica, Davis, maybe Sam, the new bloke, a couple of others. We may need to go somewhere else, someplace where we can work quietly, without O’Malley or anyone else interfering. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
She didn’t ask questions. “Of course I will. I’ll go wherever you go.”
He kissed her passionately and nuzzled her. “I have two more doses of the liquid—the last two.” Paulo Couto’s precious last drops. “Shall we take them now?”
She nodded happily.
“You first,” he said.
After he pipetted the drops onto her tongue, she lay on the bed and asked, “Alex, why are the drops better than the powder?”
The question caught him off guard. He answered cautiously. “The crystals are synthetic. The liquid contains the natural chemical. There are small differences between the two but critical ones. I’m working to get a better understanding.”
“Where does the liquid come from?” she asked, closing her eyes, waiting for its effects.
“Animals,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to be grisly, but it comes from animals and it isn’t easy to prepare. Don’t worry about these things. Just relax and have a beautiful time. I’ll be right here when you come back.”
The next day, Alex found a FedEx box waiting for him at the lab. It was from Mexico. He hurried into his office, closed the door and ripped the box open. Inside were two large plastic bottles. The only markings on the labels were the weight of the contents: one read 35 GRAMS; the other, 46 GRAMS. He pumped his fist in triumph. Eighty-one grams! Almost 200,000 doses! “I love you!” he said out loud and immediately hit his speed dial.
In seconds, Cifuentes was on the line.
“Alex! I’m guessing you got my package!”
“Oh, man. You’re the best. Eighty-one grams! You’re too much!”
“That’s what my wife was telling me last night.” Cifuentes chortled. “I’m glad to help my old friend.”
“Tell me how much I owe you. I may not be able to pay you all at once, but give me a target.”
“Actually, Alex, I don’t think I want money from you. With respect, I’d like something else.”
“Tell me. Anything I can do for you.”
“I want to know if this peptide is the drug that’s being called Bliss in America.”
Alex breathed hard into the hand
set. “I’ll be honest with you, Miguel. One of my lab techs stole your original supply and started selling it. I was horrified.”
“I read in the papers that it’s going for a hundred bucks for half a milligram.”
“That’s what I’ve heard too.”
“Okay,” Cifuentes said. “That’s all I needed to know. We’re square, my friend.”
Alex tried to read between the lines but decided to keep his conclusions to himself. “Miguel, look, there’s one more thing. I’ve got reasons to believe that other isomer combinations might be even more interesting. Is there any chance you could do some more explorational chemistry for me?”
There was a long pause on the line. “That’s kind of you to think of me for that, Alex, but frankly, I think I’m going to be extremely busy in the near future. So, stay warm up there and take care of yourself. Okay?”
Thirty-one
Frieda Meyer’s house was a lovely old colonial shoehorned into a small tree-filled lot in Chestnut Hill, a five-minute walk from the heart of the Boston College campus. Cyrus had rarely returned to the college: after all, he wasn’t an alumnus, he was a dropout. So there was no small pleasure revisiting the campus in a semiofficial capacity.
He’d rehearsed what he would say when he placed the call. A secretary told him to hold the line and a minute later, a familiar voice with an authoritative German accent cut in.
“Hello, this is Professor Meyer.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Professor, my name is Cyrus O’Malley. I’m sure you don’t remember me but I was one of your students twenty years ago.”
“It’s an interesting name, Mister O’Malley, but you’re right, I don’t recall you. Undergraduate or graduate student?”
“Undergrad.”
“How may I help you?”
“Have you heard about the drug known as Bliss?”
“Bliss? Is that the one that’s said to produce divine hallucinations?”
“That’s right. I’m with the FBI now, in the Boston office. Bliss is something of a problem, as you’ve probably seen.”
“What’s this to do with me, Mister O’Malley?”
“When I was a sophomore I took one of your courses, Two Thousand Years of Faith.”
