by Gary Braver
He headed back down the street toward Andre’s Toyota, repeating just what a bad idea this was. He should have just gone to the North Shore Mall instead. Andre was reading a newspaper.
Jack got in the car. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Nobody home?”
“Nobody home.”
As Andre pulled away, Jack felt the tug of the house at number 12 for one last little peek—for auld lang syne. He glanced through the window, gazing at the house through a mist, too distracted by the receding visions to notice the black SUV following them.
57
PETER HABIB TURNED HIS BRIGHT RED Harley onto Ocean Drive and cranked the throttle. At one in the morning there were no other vehicles on the road.
Peter did this whenever he couldn’t sleep. Instead of tossing around in his sheets, he’d take his candy-apple-and-chrome stallion for a spin.
And this was one of those glorious early spring nights when the sea air was laced with sultry hints of summer yet still cool and moist and requiring a leather jacket.
He loved this drive because there were several strips where the houses and trees gave way to open vistas of beach. His favorite was a straightaway strip for about a mile with no obstacles between him and the ocean save for a concrete breakwater barrier erected a few nor’easters back.
Rising among scraps of clouds was a three-quarter tangerine moon that blazed across the black expanse of water and set the sky in motion. It was one of those nights when Peter felt privileged to be alive.
He whipped along the winding course of Ocean Drive, feeling that he could do this all night long, except that the Massachusetts coastline would not allow endless oceanside cruising. Maybe after the trials were over, he’d head for California—growl up the Pacific Coast Highway from Los Angeles up through Big Sur. And why not? He could afford an early retirement. And his wife wouldn’t mind if he and one of his biker friends did a guy thing. Might even take the hogs across country. The other option was flying out and renting bikes in L.A. Or buy them and have them shipped back. Whatever. He was making great money.
Ahead the road opened up to the straightaway, and his heart throttled up.
Amazing. Not another car on the road, and there was the endless Atlantic and that splendid moon you could almost pick out of the sky with your fingers.
Peter pushed the bike to about forty. He liked the way the roar of his engine echoed off the barrier as he whipped through the scene, the moon to his right over the water. He throttled up.
But it wasn’t the only light. Out of his left eye he saw something in his mirror. The moon. But reflecting off something else.
He checked his right mirror, but it happened all so fast that he did not process that a large black vehicle had closed in behind him. Or that its headlights were off. Or that it had come up on him at full speed, the only indication being the moon glancing off its windshield in his mirrors.
Peter also did not have time to process how the driver of the vehicle could have missed the bright taillights of his Harley. All he knew was that the large dark mass suddenly closed on his left flank pressing him into the strip of barriers.
By reflex, Peter braked. And the moment exploded into a void.
58
“HE DIED INSTANTLY,” NICK SAID.
“That’s terrible.” René had met the man only a few times, but she felt as if she had lost an old ally. And Nick was devastated.
“The police say that he lost control of the bike and hit a concrete breakwater.”
“He was such a nice man.”
“And a first-rate clinician. It’s a real loss.” He was also the one vocal ally Nick had in his effort to postpone the FDA application of Memorine.
According to Nick, Peter had been cremated and a memorial service would be held in a few weeks.
They were walking on a trail through conservation land about two miles off the South Border Road exit of Route 93. It was where Nick would hike to get in shape for the Utah trip in June. Most of the trails were through tall oaks, although the land climbed to huge glacial outcroppings of granite from the top of which one could see the skyline of Boston.
They continued in silence for several minutes. The cool breeze felt good, a relief from the confines of nursing homes and an opportunity to deal with their sadness. In a couple of hours they had to be back at Broadview to consult with the Martinetti women. Louis was protesting that he wanted to go home.
“The other news is that GEM’s decided to hire an independent clinical research organization to go through all the data and come up with recommendations.”
“To what end?”
“GEM’s mandated to explain any problems with the trials to the FDA, so they’ll try to determine if the flashbacks are the result of the drug or the disease. It’s what Peter was pressing for.”
“But we can tell them that.”
“Except they don’t want to hear our argument.”
“I thought once the Zuchowsky affair was resolved, they’d stop putting their heads in the sand.”
“The Zuchowsky affair cost them a million dollars. This could cost them five hundred times that.”
Nick had been working out here and on a home treadmill, so he cut up the trail like a mountain goat, René right behind him. “Any idea which CRO?”
“No. Some gerontology specialists.”
“And what about flashback cases?”
“We continue fine-tuning dosages and noting behavior changes. Any problems we continue to treat with antiseizure drugs, antipsychotics, sedatives.”
Two other clinical PIs had bowed out of the trials in disagreement with GEM Tech’s pressure tactics and had been replaced by GEM-approved physicians. And now Peter Habib was dead. “Are we the only ones who think they’re rushing a faulty drug to market?”
“I think Brian Rich and Paul Nadeau agree, and possibly Jordan Carr. He may be coming around. Unfortunately, that’s up against a powerful flood of appeals by AD groups to get it to market by Christmas, no matter what.”
“But a CRO review could take months.”
“If pushed, they could review the data in a week. They’ve also got to have it done for Utah. That’s seven weeks from now.”
“So there’s a deadline.”
“Absolutely. Meanwhile, we box up all case report forms, records, whatever, including all files on CDs, and continue the trials.”
They came to a clearing and climbed the granite boulders to the top, where they had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. Nick sat down on a rock and took a deep breath.
“You okay?”
He smiled and let out his breath. “Just a little dizzy.”
René handed him a water bottle from her day pack. “How long have you been having these spells?”
“Since I’ve been thirty pounds overweight.” He guzzled some water and stood up. “I’m fine.”
Toward the east the skyline of Boston shimmered in the milky blue mist. Nick took his camera out of his backpack and snapped off a few shots—of the local rocks, the Boston skyline, and René.
“The Utah conference is just an hour’s drive from Bryce Canyon. Imagine the views.”
“I take it the FDA knows nothing about these flashback problems.”
“Not officially, even though that was what Peter was pushing for,” Nick said. He snapped another two shots. “Nor will they unless that’s in the report by the CRO.”
“And if the CRO concludes that the problem is drug-related?”
Nick shrugged. “Then we go back to the drawing boards—determine where the problem is—dosages, interactions with other medications or other diseases, population demographics—whatever it takes. We’ve done nothing about determining a correlation. Maybe Italian Americans or Eastern European Jews are susceptible to such seizures. Or people with a particular genetic signature. Or those patients with high blood pressure. We just don’t know why some have flashbacks and others don’t, but we’d better determine that before the stuff hits the market.”
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“And if this CRO concludes that the flashbacks are not drug related?”
“It goes to market.”
What bothered René was how GEM Tech reps were categorically dismissing the flashbacks as anomalies unrelated to the drug. Even Mary Curley’s death was ruled an unintentional suicide as the result of advanced dementia. The same with a man from Connecticut named Rodney Blake who had cut off his own genitals.
“Meanwhile, we continue feeding hope to victims and caregivers.”
“And isn’t that a shame.”
59
“I DON’T WANT HIM HOME LIKE THIS. He’s not right yet, I’m telling you. He’s not right.”
René and Nick were back at Broadview with Marie Martinetti and her daughter, Christine. Louis was insisting on being released from the home and had called a lawyer.
“The tests say he’s improved nearly fifty percent,” Christine said.
“Yeah, but he’s worse.”
Mrs. Martinetti was in her seventies and ailing with arthritis, and Louis was still strong and more active than ever. And given his cognitive improvements, Louis had outgrown the nursing home. That fact made this a circumstance that nursing homes had never before had to confront—not since Memorine. And René could feel Nick struggle with the dilemma.
“Well, you’re free to sign a release for him if you choose to bring him home,” he explained.
“That’s what I’m saying. I can’t handle him the way he is.” Marie looked pleadingly at René. “It’s that Memorine. You gotta take him off it. It’s making him crazy.”
Christine’s face was drawn in dismay. “Mom,” she began.
“Mom, nothing. You don’t know the half of it. You got to take him off it.”
“Mrs. Martinetti, we really can’t do that,” Nick said woefully.
“What do you mean you can’t do that? Of course you can do that.”
“If we withdraw Louis from the drug the disease will come back.”
Mrs. Martinetti glared at Nick as if he had just spit something up. “What?”
“That’s the problem with this medication, I’m afraid.”
“What’s the problem? What are you saying?” She shot René a frantic look for an explanation she could accept.
But Christine cut in. “Mom, they’re saying that the plaque will grow back. That he’ll get Alzheimer’s again if he’s taken off it.”
“What?” Mrs. Martinetti looked back at Nick. “You didn’t know about this?”
“It never occurred in the early phases of the trials with lab animals. No reversal of any kind. Even in the second phase using humans we didn’t see any evidence of a reversal.”
Nick was correct. René had scanned some of the reports from GEM and outside protocol test labs, and nothing in the data had indicated that withdrawal from Memorine in any dosage caused animals or healthy non-demented humans to develop the amyloid plaque. Not until Clara Devine was returned from McLean’s.
“It was completely unforeseen,” Nick said. “I explained to Christine the other day. I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry? But they said this was a miracle cure.” Then the realization set in and her face crumbled. “Oh, my God.”
“But, Mom, he can still take it,” Christine began. “He’s still recovering.”
But Mrs. Martinetti disregarded her. “So, what does that mean? Louis will have these flashbacks the rest of his life—go back someplace in the junior high gym or in the army? Sweet Mother of God, what are you telling me?”
“Mom, please. It’s better than him just wasting away.”
Her head snapped at her daughter. “No, it not better! It scares me, he goes off like that, talking to dead people, getting all scared he’s got to watch them cut out Fuzzy Swenson’s eyes, that Colonel Chop Chop bastard.”
“Colonel Chop Chop?” Nick asked.
“Some North Korean commander,” Christine said. “Chop Yong Jin, or something like that. I think he was in charge when my dad was taken prisoner. That was his nickname, Colonel Chop Chop.” She explained that he was a high-ranking Korean officer who brought a Russian advisor on military campaigns—a guy they nicknamed Blackhawk, from an old military comic book character. In the book Chop Chop was his loyal sidekick. “Dad escaped, but he saw some bad stuff he never talked about.”
“No, he didn’t escape,” Marie Martinetti cried. “They still got him. He keeps reliving them. And he talks about it and he’s back again and again, but you’re not there. I am. I am.”
“I don’t care if he has a couple of flashback things,” Christine continued. “Those were the best times of his life, when he was young and full of himself. And he’s fine in between, and he’s not hurting himself or anybody else. And maybe you can come up with something that keeps them under control.”
“But you don’t know what he’s reliving,” Marie protested. “I’ve seen him. I’m here almost every day and you’re not. It’s horrible what I seen him go through. HORRIBLE, pressing his hands to his eyes so he can’t see what they did to his friend. We’d be having a nice visit, and suddenly he’s back in the Red Tent, he calls it—the torture place in the Commie camp. You don’t know what he saw. He screams and cries …” And she broke down. “It’s horrible …”
Christine put her hand on his mother’s knee. “But I don’t want him taken off it, Mom. I don’t want to see him slip away again. I don’t.”
“But I can’t handle it. I can’t. I know what it does to him, how he gets so upset. Because in his head it’s real what he sees. I prefer him … forgetful.”
“Forgetful? You prefer him turning into a vegetable, just sitting there with dead eyes and a bag on his side? Not me! And I’m not going to let that happen to him again.”
“But you haven’t seen him suffer. That stuff’s a curse. A damn curse. I wish to God we’d never signed him up on it.” Then her voice broke into a whimper. “Oh, Sweet Mother, give me strength.”
As René listened, she uttered a silent thanksgiving that her own father had never been afflicted with such war delusions. He rarely talked about the war, so God only knows what he might have relived on Memorine.
“Mrs. Martinetti,” Nick said, “the lab is working on fine-tuning the dosages and coming up with some combination with other drugs to control these episodes. Believe me, there are a lot of very talented people working on this.”
“Well, hurry up, because I want him back the way he was.”
“In the meantime,” René said, “we’re giving him antiseizure medication that will help keep him stable.”
“But that stuff makes him dopey,” Christine said.
“I don’t care dopey,” said Mrs. Martinetti. “I’ll take him dopey. It’s better than being back in the Red Tent.”
“Well, he certainly can go home on a furlough,” Nick said to Christine. “It’s unusual for patients with Alzheimer’s, as you can imagine. But maybe some weekend soon.”
“That would be great,” Christine said, her eyes brightening.
“Then we’ll put something on the calendar.”
“But only if he had his antiseizure pills,” Mrs. Martinetti insisted. “Otherwise, he can stay here. I can’t take his torture. He was better off with Alzheimer’s.”
60
“SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, JACK.” It was Marcy.
Jack opened his eyes. He was still lying on his bed in his jeans and sneakers. After his morning walk—the forty-yard dash up and down the hall in just seven minutes—he had stretched out on his bed with the television on mute and closed caption and a copy of U.S. News and World Report across his chest. He had dozed off.
“This is Theo Rogers.” With Marcy was a man in a T-shirt that said “We Fix It.” “Mr. Rogers is going to repair your Venetian blinds.”
“Call me Theo.” The man held out a large rough hand that felt as if it could crush Jack’s like twigs.
“How you doing?”
My legs ache, I’m built like a tuning fork, I wake up in the middle of the n
ight with visions of gory mayhem, there’s a six-point-two Richter scale quake rumbling between my ears. “Just dandy.”
Theo nodded. He looked to be in his early thirties. He was maybe fiveeight and built like a gymnast. His hair was dark and held back with elastic bands in a short ponytail, and his face was smooth and open. Either he had non-Caucasian blood or spent time in the tropics or a tanning salon, because his skin was a coffee color. Around his waist hung a tool holster with a hammer, pliers, and other tools. He opened a small stepladder.
“This won’t take long.”
Outside the window deep-bellied rumbles rolled across the sky and lightning flickered, making Jack squint.
“A bit bright for you, huh?” Theo said. “We’ll take care of that,” and he began to work on the blinds, which hung at a crazy angle in the window frame.
“I’ll leave you two guys on your own,” Marcy said. Before she left, she checked Jack’s heart and pulse and took a temperature reading. While the workman inspected the blinds, Jack closed his eyes. Through the open window he could smell the ocean.
“I read about you in the papers.”
Jack opened his eyes to see the man looking down at him from the ladder.
“Waking up after almost seven months. That’s something.”
“I guess.” Jack closed his eyes again. He was tired and didn’t want to chat.
“I never heard of jellyfish attacking people before. Musta been one hell of an experience.”
