Meds

by Ray Garton

  “Before I depart,” the senator said, “I would like to say a word to the man or woman who will take my seat, and to my fellow men and women in public service.” Veltman’s eyes narrowed. “There are wolves at the door. There always have been, that is a fact of political life. But today, they are far more aggressive and bloodthirsty than ever before. Even worse, they are far more powerful than ever before, and they will do anything—anything—to get what they want. What they want is not in the best interest of this country or the American people. You are all that stands in their way.” He glared silently for a moment. “You must. Not. Forget. That.” Then he turned and exited quickly.

  “Wow,” Rubinek said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a politician speak such forceful words, and with such carefully modulated but very obvious anger behind them. He thought of the recent job he’d done in Montecito, of Arnold Shipp’s severed head in the middle of the train set on the floor. Once again, he wondered what message had been sent to Senator Veltman with that killing.

  The screen returned to the news anchor in the studio. He was a man in his late thirties, dark hair, a boyish face. “Those were strong parting words from Senator Veltman,” he said, “and we have a panel of guests on hand to discuss this breaking news.”

  As the anchor introduced the talking heads, Rubinek ignored the television and finished dressing. He put on a shirt, underwear, and pants while the talking heads on TV babbled over each other as if to see who could be the loudest. The talk was interspersed with clips of interviews with the senator and past speeches he’d given.

  Rubinek went to the mirror to put his disguise back on. He donned the red wig and applied the matching eyebrows. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the bed and put on his socks and shoes. As he finished getting ready, he vaguely listened to a clip of one of Senator Veltman’s speeches.

  “Money is flowing between pharmaceutical companies and the FDA,” Veltman said. “It is flowing through perfectly legal channels, but legal does not necessarily mean ethical. Restrictions have been quietly relaxed, allowing this relationship to flourish. In addition to that, drug companies very often fund the drug studies that determine a drug’s safety. Too often, that funding has produced deceptive results. Research has been tampered with and dangerous side effects have been concealed, resulting in injury and death, all in the name of enormous profit.”

  “Tell me about it,” Rubinek muttered as he put on his wristwatch. Any discussion of drug companies always brought memories of Olivia to mind and made him angry. As Veltman continued to talk, Rubinek put his regular cell phone in one pocket, the cell phone Gall had given him in the other, and picked up the car key. He took the remote from the nightstand and turned toward the TV. He lifted his right arm and aimed the remote at the TV, but didn’t turn it off just yet.

  Veltman stood at a microphone in the center of a long table where other people were seated on either side of him with plates of food in front of them. Some kind of dinner. A benefit, or something.

  “This has been a gradual, steady process,” Veltman continued, “by which drug companies have subtly closed its fist on the FDA and the medical establishment and now wield dangerous influence and control. My commission will investigate this. If restrictions need to be reinstalled, that’s what will be done. We will urge that existing laws be rigidly enforced and, if need be, new ones be established. If necessary, heads will roll. And the first to go will be the seven heads of this rampaging hydra that the drug industry has become.”

  Rubinek’s arm lowered slowly as his eyes narrowed. After that, he heard nothing else from the TV. Suddenly, he was back in that cottage at the resort in Montecito—

  If necessary, heads will roll.

  —looking down at Arnold Shipp’s severed head—

  And the first to go will be the seven heads of this rampaging hydra that the drug industry has become.

  —in the center of that whispering train set, looking very surprised.

  His eyebrows pulled together low over his eyes as the crackle of connections being made sounded inside his head.

  Senator Veltman... his press secretary Arnold Shipp... pharmaceutical companies... heads... rolling ...

  The connections did not quite make sense yet, but it was enough to make him wonder what Gall was up to and what he’d gotten himself involved in by working for Gall.

  The cell phone Gall had given him vibrated against his thigh. He turned off the TV, put the remote on the nightstand, and took the cell phone from his pocket.

  “Yeah,” Rubinek said.

  “I’m late for a meeting, so this will have to be quick,” Gall said. “I’ve just received some information that will require changes in your job.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “Changes in plans. In subjects.”

  “Subjects—plural? Then this means payments—plural.”

  “Yes, our agreement still stands. The folder I gave you contains information about a man named Roger Dreyfuss, including his home address. Go to that address immediately. And I mean immediately. If you’re sitting on the toilet, don’t take time to wipe your ass.”

  Rubinek waited for more. When it didn’t come, he said, “What about the subjects?”

  “Everyone. Everyone in the house.”

  Chapter 16

  Back in the Hen House

  1.

  Mrs. Gonzalez brought Chloe a cup of coffee, then returned a moment later with a tray of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, a stack of small plates and some napkins. Falczek waited for her to leave before continuing. Chloe watched him as he waited. She didn’t know him well. The first impression he gave was one of a curmudgeon. But as she watched, she saw something on his face that wasn’t curmudgeonly at all: Fear.

  “We’re waiting, Falczek,” Everett said.

  Falczek stood and began to pace as he talked. He told them about his visit with old friends the night before, about the intruder, the killing, and what the intruder had threatened to do to him if he didn’t reveal where he’d gotten his information about Paaxone.

  “And what exactly did you learn about Paaxone?” Everett said.

  Falczek walked slowly around the table as he spoke, hands joined behind his back. “All I know so far is that Paaxone has been unavailable in California because Braxton-Carville has made it unavailable. The shipments of the drug that were tagged for California were diverted. They were sent somewhere else. But I don’t know where yet.”

  “Why would they do that?” Everett asked.

  “I don’t know that yet, either. But the reason must have been important because they did it knowing full well the problems it might cause.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Everett muttered with a sigh.

  “You don’t have to. Yes, they’re aware of the possible severity of withdrawal effects. They know what abruptly stopping the drug can do.” He stopped walking and turned to them, cocked a bushy eyebrow. “And they don’t care. I can’t say for sure, but that suggests to me that there’s a sizable amount of money involved somewhere in this.” Falczek returned to his seat and took a few swallows of his ice tea.

  “What about your friend?” Chloe said. “You said someone tried to kill him?”

  “No, not Renny,” Falczek said. “His best friend Lauren Parks. She’s the wife of a bigshot lobbyist who represents a number of major pharmaceutical companies, including Braxton-Carville. One of Lauren’s best friends is a woman named Delia Smurl, the wife of Braxton-Carville CEO Edward Smurl. I called Renny, asked him to see what he could find out about the unavailability of Paaxone, and he asked Lauren. She dished to him what she’d heard from Delia, who apparently overheard her husband discussing all this on the phone. Renny was going to pass it on to me, but before he could do that, it seems someone learned that Delia had talked, and they worked fast to plug the leak. Renny told me that Lauren is in a coma after wrapping her car around a tree. She just happened to run out of brake fluid. At about the same time, Renny got a call from
an unidentified man who knew everything there was to know about Renny, including the fact that he’s dying of cancer. He told Renny that if he kept his mouth shut, that cancer would be allowed to kill him in peace. Otherwise, his life would become a storm of pain and humiliation. The threat wasn’t specific, but it worked. He was intimidated. So Renny declined to tell me what he knew. At first. I convinced him, though.”

  Falczek sat back in his chair, ran a hand back over his bald head before continuing.

  “According to Delia Smurl and the conversation she overheard, her husband was aware that stopping Paaxone abruptly can cause dangerous withdrawals, that it can cause hostility, violence—the things you were just discussing, Everett. I did a little research. If they’ve known about these withdrawals from the beginning, they’ve managed to conceal it. They simply included in the product insert a warning not to stop taking Paaxone abruptly. The warning doesn’t explain why or reveal what will happen if one does stop it suddenly, it just says not to.”

  Chloe said, “And knowing this, they pulled the drug from people who’d been taking it so it could be sent elsewhere?”

  Falczek said, “From what Delia heard of this one-sided phone conversation, the reasoning was that the withdrawals would not be severe for everyone taking the pill, and in the cases where they were—if a few people were driven to violence by the withdrawals—Smurl figured no connections would be made between that and Paaxone. At least, not in the time it would take them to replace the supply of Paaxone in California, which they figured would be no more than a week, maybe ten days at the most. That means Paaxone should be available again here anytime. It might be by now, I don’t know. Their attitude was—so what if a few people go batshit crazy and hurt or kill themselves or someone else? Obviously whatever they did with the drug was more important than that. And most likely more profitable.”

  “Money talks,” Roger muttered, “and everything else walks.”

  “But people are being killed over this information?” Everett said.

  Falczek nodded. “Someone is aware that I know about this, and they don’t like it. That’s my own damned fault, really.” He sighed. “I went to Braxton-Carville in Virginia and talked to some PR flunky. I told him I knew they’d intentionally diverted the Paaxone shipments from California. I figured word might get around there that someone knew what they were up to and I might hear from somebody who knew more, somebody willing to talk. A chain reaction of information, you know? I’m guessing that’s what started this. But I didn’t think they’d try to kill me.”

  “Braxton-Carville?” Chloe said. “They tried to kill you?”

  Falczek shrugged. “Whoever it was, the way I see it, I’m in some deep shit.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the others. “We may all be in deep shit, because now you know about this, too. That makes you a possible threat to whatever the hell they’re up to.”

  “We’re not much of a threat if we don’t know why they did this,” Everett said. “Didn’t Renny have any idea? A guess, maybe?”

  “He said something, but it didn’t make any sense. He’s very sick. He has stage four lung cancer. Our little talk exhausted him. When I finally got him to talk, I could see the life draining out of him while he told me everything. By the time he was done, he was a limp rag in a chair, barely talking above a whisper, his eyes closed as if he were drifting off to sleep. I asked him why he thought Braxton-Carville had diverted Paaxone and where they’d diverted. He didn’t say anything for a long time and I started to think he had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, he muttered, ‘The Middle East. It’s got something to do with the Middle East. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.’ And I believe him. He didn’t say anymore after that. I asked what he meant—in fact, I asked twice—but he said he was feeling sick and wanted me to leave. So I did.”

  Frowning, Everett said, “The Middle East? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Falczek shrugged.

  “Where in the Middle East?” Roger said.

  Chloe leaned forward and said, “Why would Braxton-Carville deprive all the Paaxone users in California of the drug by shipping it to the Middle East instead?”

  “I don’t know that they did that,” Falczek said. “All Renny said was that it had something to do with the Middle East. And at that point, I’m not sure he was making a whole lot of sense. The end result is that we still don’t know why Braxton-Carville diverted the Paaxone shipments or to where they were diverted.” He stood, agitated, and ran a hand over his head again. He looked like he were about to start pacing again, but he didn’t. He just stood there for a moment. Then he leaned forward with both hands flat on the table. “But I’ve been thinking. I’m a reporter, and I’ve got some connections.” He nodded at Chloe. “You’re a radio station news director, and you’ve got a microphone, an immediate forum you can use to get the word out about this. Seems to me our biggest mistake would be to stay quiet about this, and we’ve got the ability to make a little noise.” He turned to Roger. “And, hey, aren’t you filthy fucking rich?”

  Roger grinned as he stood and said, “That’s me. Filthy fucking rich.” He reached across the table and shook Falczek’s hand. “Nice to meetcha.”

  Falczek said, “Well, maybe we can use that, too. We’re not as helpless as I first thought.”

  “What are we going to do?” Chloe said, her voice hoarse. “What am I going to do? Eli’s out there somewhere, in trouble. I’ve got to find him before something—” She was interrupted by the trilling of her cell phone. She took it from her purse, flipped it open, and checked the Caller ID. It was Kevin.

  “Remember Officer Marty Kelso?” Kevin said, not bothering with a greeting. “You interviewed him a few months about the meth problem in—”

  ”Yeah, yeah, I remember him. Eli and I had dinner with him and his wife afterward.”

  “He just called looking for you. A call came in about someone at Park Marina who nearly ran over a woman and her two kids, then sped off. Somebody got the license number. It’s Eli’s car. Kelso remembered Eli and called to see if you knew where he could be reached. They’re looking for him.”

  “Looking for him? Where?”

  “All over town. They’ve put out a BOLO on him.”

  A BOLO was a “Be On The Look Out” order, which meant when they found Eli, they would arrest him.

  Chloe shot to her feet. “Oh, Jesus. Did he hurt anybody?” Inside, she felt as if someone had taken her head off and poured a bucket of ice water down her neck.

  “No, Kelso said he didn’t hit anyone. But people at Park Marina said he was behaving very strangely, like he was drunk or on drugs, or something. Chloe... Eli’s not doing drugs again, is he?”

  She turned her head back and forth a few times before she could speak. “No, he... he’s not doing drugs,” she said, her voice breaking up a little. “And that’s his problem.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk now, Kevin. I’m sorry. Thanks for calling.” She slapped the phone closed, dropped it into her purse, and stepped away from the table so clumsily, she nearly fell. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “The police are after Eli, and I have to find him.”

  “The police?” Roger said, standing. “What happened?”

  Chloe said nothing for a moment. She stared down at the table, thinking. She had to reach Eli. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, so calling him wouldn’t work. But she knew he almost always listened to KNWS when he was in the car. He enjoyed hearing her on the radio. She could reach him that way. She snapped her head up and looked at Roger.

  “I can’t explain,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Roger said, coming toward her.

  “No. No, please, Roger, stay here.” She headed out of the room.

  Roger hurried after her, saying, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” she called back over her shoulder. “But I have an idea.”

&nbs
p; Chloe rushed out of the house and jogged to her car.

  2.

  Why did I come here? Eli thought, sitting at the bar.

  He was in The Hen House, the same grungy little dive in which he’d been arrested for buying cocaine back when his life had fallen apart. The bar hadn’t changed a bit. It was still dark, still had the chicken-themed decor. The place was cluttered with chickens and eggs of all sizes, made of plastic and wood and rubber and plaster and cardboard, and chicken wire was stretched over the long mirror behind the bar. The jukebox was stocked with ancient rock and roll and twangy old country tunes. At the moment, Charlie Rich was singing something from the ‘70s. There was a handful of people in the place—a few at the bar and a few at the small round tables on the floor—but Eli had hardly noticed them when he’d come in. He’d gone straight to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic.

  It was good. So good. And he needed it. He couldn’t hold still. First, there was the trembling. When he held a hand up before him, he could hardly see it at all. But under the skin, in his muscles and bones, he felt it. It felt like he was turning to liquid. Then there was the need to stay in motion—hands fluttering, arms jerking, legs jittering. It had just started and wasn’t too bad—he was able to hide it for the most part—but it seemed to be growing worse. And his thoughts. He couldn’t keep them straight, couldn’t organize them or make them fully coherent as they flicked through his mind half-formed.