by Chris Fabry
A whisper behind her and she turned.
“That didn’t happen to you,” Devin said. “Dr. Crenshaw told us about that when we interviewed him.”
“Is that what drew you to the people at Desert Gardens?” Davidson said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Were you shaping a history of your own from the stories you heard? Because you can’t remember? Or don’t want to remember?”
“I answered your question.”
“With a fabrication,” he said. “You told me someone else’s story.”
“I don’t eat ice cream,” Treha said. “Now you know why. Can we continue?”
“What else did Dr. Crenshaw tell you?”
Typing now, her fingers flew across her lap. “He talked about his life. Where he grew up. His family. His wife. How he came to the facility. He gave me riddles, word games, because he knew I was good at them.”
“Did he tell you anything about his work?”
“He was a doctor.”
“What kind of doctor?”
“Obstetrician. Gynecologist. He worked with mothers having babies.”
“Yes, that is how I came to know him as well. I worked for Phutura developing medicines. I sometimes asked him to help me find willing participants for my research. This is why I believe he wrote to me. Did he talk to you about this?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask? You never wondered why he was so interested in you?”
“I was interested in what he wanted to tell me. I don’t like to pry.”
“But you’re prying into my life.”
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want,” she said evenly.
He dipped his head and there was a slight smile.
“You’re trying to make me angry,” Treha said.
“I’m looking for emotion.”
More typing, but Treha didn’t speak.
“What really happened to your mother? She didn’t leave you in an ice cream shop.”
Mrs. Howard stepped into the room. Treha glanced up and saw a look on her face that seemed both weighty and relieved.
“I don’t know my mother. I never knew her.”
“Pictures? A name?”
She shook her head.
“And what about your father? Brothers and sisters? You had to have a childhood. What was it like?”
She shook her head again.
Davidson’s eyes wandered like a man who has gone on a journey home and sees something that sparks a memory. He sat back, his arms limp, the gun dangling.
“What is it, Mr. Davidson?” Devin said. “Are you all right?”
Davidson looked at Treha and instead of paranoia she saw recognition, sure knowledge of the past.
“The answer,” he whispered. He pointed an arthritic finger at her.
“What?” Treha said. “What answer?”
“The riddles he gave you. He wasn’t looking for something inside you. You are the answer. You are the question he had. The question I have held at the back of my mind for many years.” Tears rose in the old man’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Treha.”
The coffeepot gasped in the next room. Otherwise the house was still. All eyes were focused on Davidson.
“What are you sorry about?” Treha said softly, inviting.
Davidson wiped his face with a hand. “Treha, I believe Dr. Crenshaw found you—I don’t know how, but he did—because he must have been under a weight of guilt about what happened. And this is why he sought you out, suggested you work there. The quizzes, the riddles, the word games you played—these were not happenstance; they were engineered.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to observe the effects, I believe.” Davidson looked at Devin and Jonah. “This is important for you to get. I want you to hear every word.”
Jonah focused the camera and nodded at the old man that he was ready.
Davidson leaned back and spoke toward the camera. “I worked for Phutura Pharmaceuticals for many years before starting my own company, an independent laboratory. At Phutura, there was pressure on us to perform, to come up with new products, new medication. There was competition from other laboratories and a great deal of money involved.
“By accident my experimentation led to what I thought was a breakthrough. That’s the way it happens. You are looking for a medication that will stimulate the pancreas to produce insulin, for example, and you come upon something vastly different but just as important.
“My research held great promise and potentially huge profits for Phutura. We focused on an antidepressant, antianxiety medication. I won’t go into the technical information, but from a layman’s point of view, it was perfect. Safe enough for even a pregnant woman to use. Or so we thought. The delivery system was supposed to get the medication to the prefrontal cortex more effectively. But instead it penetrated the limbic system. It did what we wanted, but in the wrong place.” He put a hand to his forehead as if in pain. “We discovered this with the laboratory animals.”
“So this was not a legal trial you were conducting?” Devin said from behind Treha.
“No.”
“Keep going,” Treha said.
“Everything was going well in the laboratory. Everything seemed to be in line. But I was using two separate control groups of laboratory animals, and I realized there were problems. Certain symptoms I didn’t anticipate.”
Treha glanced back as Jonah adjusted the camera for a tighter shot of Davidson’s face.
“The animals, in the initial stages, showed amazing response. The medication calmed them, took away hyperactivity, but also allowed them to focus and narrow their mental acuity. I conducted tests on the brains of the animals. I was elated about the possibilities, but after a few weeks I noticed a degeneration.”
“What type of degeneration?” Miriam said.
Treha looked at her, but the questions coming from different sources didn’t seem to bother Davidson.
He pursed his lips. “Nystagmus. Aggression. When stress chemicals stimulate the limbic system inappropriately, the result can be anger and rage. I knew then that human trials were out of the question.” He looked again at Treha.
“So you told Phutura about this?” Miriam said.
“I told the director of research immediately. A man named Hollingsworth. He’s still with the company, though in a higher position. He was disappointed, of course, but I considered the problem solved. I had lost valuable time and energy on this research, but no one was hurt. Phutura assured me nothing further would be done with the medication.”
“They lied to you.”
“Yes. To my face. While I was shutting down the research, discovering the drawbacks to the medication, Phutura went ahead with the development. Another team was given my notes, my research, and they continued working.
“But this is not the worst of it. Not only did they continue the research; they went behind my back and found a medical doctor who would introduce a human trial. A test subject who could never be traced, in case something went wrong.”
“Not Dr. Crenshaw,” Treha said.
Davidson nodded. “Yes. Jim Crenshaw. When I discovered this, I went to Hollingsworth. We had a heated conversation. I threatened to go to the authorities. To the media. I told him I would report the company. That I didn’t care what happened to me.”
“How did he respond?” Miriam said.
“He turned on me like a wild animal. He threatened my career, told me I would be the one prosecuted. That the company would disavow any knowledge of what I was doing and that Crenshaw would go along with it. Would implicate me.”
The man’s face clouded and he looked down. “And then he did what those in power will do. He offered money. If I would keep things quiet, it would all go away. No one needed to know. I would be set for the rest of my life. My family wouldn’t have to worry. All of that.”
“And you accepted,” Miriam said.
“Yes. To my shame. And the research on this medication ended. No more w
omen were subjected to it. But they continued to test the delivery part of the active medication, thinking it might be useful in other medications. That research did not end until two years ago. And then the company dumped the waste.” He sighed. “The truth is like a toxic spill, in a way. It is a dangerous thing. And it will come to the surface one day. The truth is always there, haunting you, hovering over you. Always ready to return.”
“The truth being what?” Devin said.
“The damage done to the fetus, the unborn child of the woman involved in the human trial, was unconscionable. They never considered the possibility that this medication would be a teratogen—would hurt the unborn. Of course I didn’t know the identity of the test subject. Jim Crenshaw did. I never knew the results, but I feared all these years that someone would come forward. And I also feared that no one would. That the company would not be held liable.
“Then I heard of the lawsuit, the schoolchildren who have developed abnormalities. This might never have come to light if the company had ceased development and disposed of the medication properly. But somehow it got into the groundwater near the school. Apparently the school is on its own water system, separate from the nearby town. I don’t know why, but the truth is coming back, coming to the surface. Obviously the lawyers for those parents and children have a link to Phutura, but there’s no way for them to identify the drug or know about its effects. If their legal team ever found this information, there would be a huge settlement. It could bankrupt the company.”
Davidson leaned forward. “This is for the authorities. In case something happens to me. I want you to know the truth. This is why my house was bugged and why they are listening even now. I know I sound like a crazy old man, but I’m not. You will find that all of the records of my work for Phutura have been destroyed. There is no paper trail to me, but I’m swearing in front of these people now, there were human tests done, unauthorized human tests.”
“Tell me about the tests,” Treha said.
He set his jaw and nodded. “You deserve to know. . . . Many people in developing countries will agree to undergo trials without knowing the risks. And some in this country are desperate enough that they will agree to almost anything. When I uncovered what was happening and confronted Hollingsworth, I also went to Crenshaw and discovered he was using a young mother, her pregnancy well along. She was taking the medication for anxiety and depression and it was actually helping her. There were special circumstances with her case—I’m not sure of the specifics. Dr. Crenshaw said there would be no problem, that no one would be able to trace the child. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Was that me?” Treha said.
The man nodded again.
“Why would it never be detected?” Miriam said.
“The mother was giving up the child at birth. It was a blind adoption. Dr. Crenshaw was helping facilitate that. I don’t know much else except that Treha’s mother was told the medication wouldn’t harm her child.” The man’s voice was grandfatherly. “Jim Crenshaw must have tracked you down.”
“But why?” Devin said. “If he lied to Treha’s mother—and if the company paid you off—they paid off Crenshaw, too, right? He was opening himself up for trouble. He’d want to keep her as far away as he could.”
“Yes,” Davidson said. “That is what I would have thought too. I’ve remained silent all these years, kept quiet and moved to the estate. But something must have made Crenshaw want to take a chance on finding Treha.”
“He went through a spiritual change—a transformation,” Miriam said. “I spoke with Elsie, one of the residents. Dr. Crenshaw confided certain things to her.”
Treha sat forward. “He played games with me. He asked questions. He probed my mind with riddles and problems.”
Davidson spoke softly again. “I suppose you were part of his coming to himself, this spiritual awakening. He couldn’t bear not knowing the truth. And the truth will do strange things to you. When he made the connection between you and the research, the effect it had on you, he couldn’t help but try to make amends.”
Treha looked at the floor, her eyes pivoting, the room moving with the gentle swaying she had known for as long as she could remember. And the more she looked, the more questions came, and her heart rate accelerated.
“What about me?” she said. “If you know all of this about medication and laboratory animals, why can’t you use that knowledge to help me?”
“I wish I knew how to help you,” the old man said. “All I can ask is that you forgive me. Forgive all of us who were involved. And I will do everything I can to see that you are compensated.”
“Compensated? Is that what you think I want?” She was shouting now, though she didn’t realize it until the old man recoiled in his chair. But she couldn’t help it. “You think I want their money? I don’t want their money.”
“Treha, please,” Miriam said, reaching out to her.
But Treha moved backward and pulled away when Devin gently took her by the arm. “Don’t touch me. Leave me alone.”
“We’ll get you help,” Miriam said. “I promise you that.”
“You heard what he said!” Treha screamed. The old man covered his ears as she let out a piercing yell. Her eyes raced, her mind on fire. Everyone in the room moved toward her and she wanted them away, wanted them to stand back.
“Treha, I know we can help you. Please calm down,” Miriam continued louder, trying to break in.
“I don’t want your help!” she shrieked. “I don’t want to answer your questions.” She pointed at her eyes. “I want this to stop!”
Treha ran for the door and opened it, but the outer door was locked. They were rushing for her and she wanted out. She balled her fists and beat them hard against the glass until it shattered and something sprayed in her eyes, and the light through them was red. Someone grabbed her and she beat at him and wouldn’t stop until the sirens came and something stung her arm and then she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 35
TREHA AWOKE to white light and the smell of fresh sheets. The first thing she felt was the difference in the clothes she wore, and she didn’t like it.
“Where are my scrubs?” she mumbled.
When she tried to wipe the drool from her mouth, she couldn’t reach because her arm was restrained to the railing of the bed. She let her eyes adjust and saw the TV on the wall. She was in a real bed, surrounded by a curtain. And beside her in a chair was Mrs. Howard, sleeping. Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth open, and it looked like a very uncomfortable position.
Treha pulled against the restraints again, not in anger or rage, but like a child who might awaken in a car seat, confined. There was pain to her struggle and Treha noticed she wasn’t just restrained; she was bandaged about her wrists. She tried to remember what had happened.
The glass. The window must have cut her. She remembered screaming and the frightened looks on their faces, even Devin and Jonah. And Mr. Davidson . . . She remembered seeing him, distraught, trying to get to her, but it was someone else who grabbed her from behind—Charlie. It had to have been him, the one riding on the periphery the whole evening. He had grabbed her arms and held her down until the paramedics came.
She tried to relax, to close her eyes and just rest. There was a dull ache in her head, her reaction to the medication they must have given. She wanted to push on her temples—that was what made her feel better when a migraine came—but she couldn’t. So she gave in to the truth, the reality. She stopped struggling.
And went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 36
MIRIAM AWOKE and found Treha sitting up, her eyes open and moving, a blank expression on her face. She pulled herself up in the chair, wiped her mouth, and yawned, but the girl didn’t acknowledge or turn toward her.
“How are you feeling, Treha?” Miriam said.
No response.
“You caused quite a stir last night. Let me look at your arms.”
The girl didn’t move, didn’t blink. She
just stared straight ahead as Miriam checked the bandages. The restraints were a precaution so she didn’t tear the stitches if she had another episode. This wasn’t the psych ward; Miriam hoped it wouldn’t come to that. They’d given her a powerful sedative that had knocked her out for the night.
There was the usual seepage and draining of the wounds and stitches, but Miriam felt confident the girl would be okay. Scarred, but intact. She shuddered thinking about the violence, the sight of Treha flailing her arms at the broken glass, the shards digging deeper. The spray of blood. If Charlie hadn’t been there, hadn’t grabbed her and held on with all his might, who knew what might have happened.
“Are you hungry?” Miriam said. “I can get the nurses to bring you something.”
No response.
Miriam stepped into the hallway and let the nurse know Treha was awake. The nurse followed her back to the semiprivate room that Treha had to herself and inspected the bandages. Breakfast had already been delivered, so she carried Treha’s meal to the tray table beside the bed.
“Can you take these off?” Treha said to Miriam. “How do they expect me to eat?”
Miriam leaned down. “They wanted to make sure you don’t hurt yourself again.”
Through all the movement of her eyes and head, Treha caught her gaze and communicated more in that look than Miriam could in a lifetime of talking. Her face said more than Charlie had ever said to her.
“All right, we’ll take them off,” Miriam said. “But if you get violent, we’ll have to move you to a different place in the hospital.”
“I know. The crazy floor.”
Miriam smiled and untied the left arm, and Treha squeezed at her temples. When the right arm was free, Treha pushed herself all the way up in bed like she was ready to eat, so Miriam moved the tray over her lap. Treha drank the orange juice in one gulp and picked up a spoon to try the oatmeal. Miriam thought this was a good sign.
“Do you remember anything about last night?” she said.
