Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  “Cops kept it for evidence.”

  The shrill chirp of a smartphone woke Quinn from deep sleep. Ambient light from the nearby National Mall spilled through the window into his room at the Willard Intercontinental Hotel. With a growl, Quinn rolled over and snatched the device off the nightstand. After a full day of tense negotiations and unpleasant ass-kissing to potential investors, his forty-six-year-old body longed for one uninterrupted night of rest. That particular chirp was associated with an encrypted chat, warning him that tonight wouldn’t be that night.

  Operative report received, he read upon entering the chat. Santos active in Boston.

  The muscles in Quinn’s neck tensed. For two years he’d conducted a manhunt, but the rogue had seemed to vanish off the map. Now he resurfaced in Boston? There could only be one reason. He was after Cristina Silva. Anxiously, he typed: Has he made contact?

  After a tense moment, the reply came: Affirmative.

  This could put their entire plan in jeopardy. Santos had to be neutralized. Living in a hotel and operating under an assumed name gave Quinn flexibility to mobilize if needed, but he couldn’t abandon his work in Washington right now—not after building up his role in the project over the past year and a half. He’d have to entrust others to handle matters in Boston, and trust didn’t come easily to him.

  The phone chirped again. Another message: She tripped an internet packet sniffer. Seeking info on the rogue. She’s digging where she shouldn’t.

  Quinn caught himself from slamming the phone against the nightstand and instead took a deep breath. He typed: I’ll handle it.

  Grumbling to himself, Quinn tossed the phone onto the nightstand and searched for his pants. No more sleep. He’d deploy his operatives before Dr. Silva learned too much—if she hadn’t already. If it was too late and he had to get personally involved, that would be messy for everyone. Quinn hated messy.

  Chapter Five

  When her alarm sounded the next morning, Cristina could barely summon enough strength to silence it, let alone crawl out of bed. She’d tossed and turned so much during the night that she wouldn’t have been surprised to find bruises covering her body. Every time she’d started drifting off to sleep—she pictured Carl leaping eight floors to his death and jolted awake. When she tried to relax, she’d hear Santos whisper: You’re not who you think you are.

  In the shower, Cristina lathered conditioner in her hair, reciting the mantra she developed to deal with frustrations and setbacks. “You can do this. Yesterday was bad, but today will be better. Every day’s another step forward. Every new memory, good or bad, is still progress toward a complete self.”

  Cristina leaned under the showerhead and closed her eyes, cleansing away stress and fear as warm water trickled down her face. Often a new memory emerged when she did this: a bit of medical school training, an image of a high school track race, maybe even a flash of her mother’s face. But today her mind circled back again and again to Carl and her failure to save him. The walls of the tiny shower closed around her. Frustrated, she gave up her search for a new memory and toweled off.

  Twenty minutes later, cold wind lashed against Cristina’s cheeks as she stepped outside the apartment building. She tucked her hair tighter under a brown stocking cap and wrapped a beige scarf over her mouth. The extra layers protected her from the cold, as well as sheltering her from undue attention at the bus stop.

  When the bus pulled up and its door opened, Cristina took a deep breath and reassured herself before boarding. She scanned the aisle of passengers while using her MBTA pass. A group of college students chatted in the back. A Hispanic couple stood near the front with a baby stroller. By the middle door sat an old Indian woman wrapped in a sari and odhani veil.

  Cristina’s usual seat by the heater was empty, but today she instead chose one closer to the front where the driver could clearly see her in the overhead mirror. She loosened her scarf and opened her purse. The can of pepper spray was there, next to the envelope of articles. Cristina had been too exhausted after returning from the medical examiner to review them again. As she pulled out the envelope, she heard a gravelly voice in the back of her mind. We’re being watched.

  She glanced at the Hispanic couple. The woman stuck a pacifier in the baby’s mouth and cooed. When the man caught Cristina looking, she glanced away. Better not to take chances. She slipped the envelope back into her purse, found a medical journal and pretended to read it.

  A few passengers boarded at each stop, but no husky men with fisherman caps. No one seemed to notice Cristina, let alone try to talk to her. By the time she reached her office, she almost felt disappointed. As frightening as the encounter with Sebastian dos Santos had been, Cristina had questions and wanted answers—perhaps even more now, after losing Carl. Maybe that was why she had ignored Andrea’s suggestion to take the T instead of the bus. Despite her friend’s reassurances that Santos the stranger was a scammer, Cristina felt sure he knew something about her past.

  Or some part of her wanted to believe it.

  With a sigh, Cristina hopped off the bus. As she walked to her practice, she reminded herself of her unwritten rule of psychiatry. Don’t listen too closely to your patients’ delusions. They might start making sense.

  Devi was starting up her computer when Cristina entered. As expected, her assistant had ignored her offer to take a late morning. She smiled inwardly, grateful for Devi’s work ethic. Cristina had not been looking forward to being alone in the office this morning.

  Attempting to remain casual, Cristina asked, “How was your date?”

  “Amazing. I had no idea leeks could be melted, but they worked so well with the lamb,” Devi grinned. Her smile faded as she studied her boss’s face. “What happened to you? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

  “I didn’t. Carl Franklin killed himself yesterday.”

  “Oh, no.” Devi’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is that why the medical examiner called? I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “He jumped out a window.” The words tasted bitter as they rolled over her tongue. Cristina could feel tears forming and fought them back. “I don’t know how I could’ve missed it.”

  “Mr. Franklin always looked happy and well put together. If you missed something, he must have hid it well. If you want, I can pull his file so you can review it.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Or do you need to take the day off? I can reschedule your appointments.”

  The weight on Cristina’s heart lifted. Thank heavens for good friends and loyal employees. “No, it’s better if I concentrate on helping the living. When’s my first patient?”

  “Not for another half hour.”

  “I’ll be reviewing charts in my office until then. Thanks, Devi.”

  Once inside her office, Cristina sat at her desk and removed the bottle of Recognate from her desk drawer. As she prepared to pop two capsules into her mouth, she paused.

  The ReMind researchers had no idea that when Dr. Cristina Silva prescribed Recognate to her patient Catherine Silvers that Catherine Silvers did not actually exist. Cristina had fabricated the fake identity in a moment of desperation. She knew it was wrong—unethical and illegal—but no other medicine had been helping her. When Mitchell died, what was left of Cristina nearly died too. The only thing that had kept her from taking her own life back then was the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could regain what she’d lost.

  Cristina rolled the capsules between her fingers. She’d told herself that she’d try the drug for a few weeks and then stop. But after memories began emerging, she couldn’t go back.

  Thinking of Carl, she bit her lip and squeezed the hand holding the pills into a fist. The pills weren’t dangerous. And like Andrea kept telling her: she needed to stop doubting herself.

  Straightening her back, she swallowed the pills.

  Cristina was about to pull up
her notes on the morning’s first patient when she spotted the envelope sticking out of her purse. Curiosity won out. She dumped the contents on her desk. Setting aside the news report about her parents’ death, she sifted through the articles about the various suicides. All five had been under psychiatric care but had been reportedly stable. None left next of kin. Just like Carl Franklin.

  Her stomach knotted as she finished reading the last article. Had Santos known about Carl’s suicide before she did?

  Shaken at the thought, she picked up the O Globo article. A research team had received private funding to test a new medication to target a key factor they’d identified in class-based gang violence. They called the project Renascimento, or rebirth. The article lacked details but identified the research team leader as a Brazilian, Jose Kobayashi.

  The name summoned a flash of memory, but the harder Cristina tried to figure out why the less sure she became of its familiarity. She turned to the photograph, timestamped six years ago. A somber group stood in two rows beside the flag of Brazil—women in front, men in the back. In the center, a man with Japanese features smiled into the camera. Cristina assumed it was Kobayashi.

  His face did not register any response from her. None of the other men triggered anything either. But when she focused on the woman on the far left, the one with a confident smile and determination in her eyes, Cristina nearly dropped the printout.

  With shoulder-length black hair, high cheekbones and full lips, the woman was a dead ringer for Cristina. Examining the grainy picture even more closely, she became fixated on the thought that this was a photo of herself on a forgotten day.

  Chapter Six

  Compared to the Boston PD, with its major case division and multiple criminal investigation units, the Somerville precinct felt like a mom-and-pop shop to Detective Wilson. Crime on the north side of the Charles could be just as violent, but it was nowhere near as high-profile as in the city proper and was more likely to surround local affairs and petty conflicts. At least, that’s what Detective Wilson had observed since transferring here three years ago. Though if he was being honest, they’d transferred him. That’s what happens when—as Internal Affairs said—you get “personally involved in a case.” Wilson knew that his relationship with the witness in the Cambridge murder wasn’t as black and white as IA’s summary. But he also knew he was lucky to keep his badge.

  Wilson sipped his morning coffee—no cream, four sugars—and skimmed through the report on the Valentine theft on his computer. Past making an inventory of what was taken to check against if it popped up for sale online, there wasn’t much else for him to do investigation-wise. With a sigh, he saved and closed the file. Getting bounced from Homicide to General Investigations had been a serious blow. Whereas his intuition nearly always led to a homicide arrest, it didn’t work properly with other types of crimes. Not to mention that investigating petty thefts and computer crimes didn’t produce the same satisfaction as delivering a killer to justice.

  Leaning back in his desk chair, he scanned the division floor. The rows of desks were mostly empty; just a handful of uniformed investigators working on their computers. It was almost noon and the other plainclothes detectives were having lunch, or—like his partner, Rick Hawkins—attending an in-service training for the next two hours. Since Wilson wasn’t due for his until next month, he had time to follow up on other matters.

  Wilson opened his internet browser and typed in a search for “Recognate.” After sifting through several pages of results, he frowned. Other than a few entries in an urban dictionary website and the lyrics to a Foo Fighters song, he found no matches. What kind of prescription drug was invisible on the internet?

  “Good morning, Detective,” a gruff voice said in a thick Boston accent.

  Wilson turned to find Sergeant Chip Davis standing over him with his hands on his hips. Davis, a twenty-year veteran of the force, proudly grew up in blue-collar “Slummerville” and probably wore his uniform to bed. He took great pleasure in finding fault with detectives who committed even the most minor of sins. Thanks to his past digresses, Wilson may as well have had a bullseye on his forehead.

  “What’s up, Sergeant?” Wilson hoped it wasn’t another busywork assignment.

  “Captain wants everyone in the briefing room. We got company. A Fibbie.”

  The hairs on Wilson’s arms tingled. “FBI? What do they want?”

  “Don’t know. You been downloading porn again?”

  “That’s funny. Practicing for open mic night at the Comedy Stop, I see.” Wilson bit his tongue when he saw Davis’s blank look. Subtle sarcasm flew over the sergeant’s head. “Never mind. Thanks for the heads up.”

  Entering the briefing room, Wilson understood how cattle felt being led to slaughter. Captain Harris stood at the front, adjusting the lapels on his perfectly pressed uniform as he surveyed the herd. A buff, blond man in a tailored navy suit and a tall, attractive woman with dark hair braided into a bun waited next to him. Wilson recognized Agent Charles Forrester by the bushy eyebrows permanently fixed in a cocky tilt. His thin lips were curled into the same smug grin Wilson remembered. A sour taste filled Wilson’s mouth. The last case he and Forrester had crossed paths—a homicide case involving a Boston city councilor—had started with constant battles over jurisdiction and ended with Wilson’s transfer here. Wilson didn’t know for sure that Forrester had gotten Wilson banished. But he knew he preferred a wide berth.

  “Take a seat, everyone,” Harris said, attacking each syllable. The plainclothes detectives grumbled about having their lunches interrupted but complied. When the last of the nine officers sat down, Harris indicated his guests. “These are Agents Forrester and Vasquez from the Boston office. They’ve come to request our help tracking down a fugitive operating out of Somerville.”

  “What kind of fugitive?” asked Detective Miller, a soft-­spoken twenty-year veteran from the Anti-Crime Unit.

  “Arson,” said Agent Forrester. “Along with international terrorism.”

  Murmurs spread throughout the room. No one liked to hear the t-word used in their backyard.

  “Is there an imminent threat?” asked Detective Malone, an opportunist who always managed to snag the most interesting cases before everyone else.

  “To be determined.” Vasquez turned on a projector. A photo appeared on the whiteboard of a Latin man with a heavy brow hanging over two eyes like black holes. Deep scars lined his cheeks.

  “We’re looking for Edward James Olmos?” Wilson asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “If Olmos has decided to get involved with terrorism, then, yes,” Vasquez said without missing a beat. “The suspect has been identified as Francisco Martins, but he may be using another name.”

  “Detectives Malone and Johnson, ”Harris said, nodding at the pair of plainclothes detectives in the back row. “I’m assigning you to work with Agents Forrester and Vasquez on this. The rest of you, keep your eyes and ears open.”

  As Vasquez handed out BOLO flyers with the wanted man’s photo, Captain Harris’s gaze locked with Wilson’s. “Francisco Martins is extremely dangerous. Do not engage him.”

  Wilson’s cheeks burned. Obviously, that last statement had been directed at him. After accepting the flyer from Agent Vasquez, he stuck it in his coat pocket. He had enough to keep him busy. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up in a federal case.

  After what she’d seen in the news clippings from Santos, Cristina had been finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on her work for the rest of the morning. At least twice per session, instead of focusing on her patients’ stories, her mind drifted back to the O Globo article. It seemed impossible that it had been her in the photograph. Could she have a twin? It made her want to track down Santos. What else did he know?

  “What do you think, Doctor?” Seventy-year-old Martha Watterson stared intently from the other side of Cristina’s de
sk. Her white hair clung to her scalp in tight curls. She fidgeted with the cuffs on her cardigan sweater. Despite advancing Alzheimer’s, the woman’s gaze remained razor sharp.

  “I’m sorry, Martha,” Cristina said. “Could you repeat that last part?”

  “My hairdresser says this plant restores memory. It’s called bacomen or back pain . . . something like that.”

  “Bacopa monnieri. It’s an Indian herbal remedy.”

  “That’s it. What do you think of it?”

  Cristina sighed. “Some studies suggest the herb might be helpful, but it’s not proven. I can’t recommend something that hasn’t been studied or isn’t part of a study.”

  “That’s the same thing you said about ginkgo and hawthorn.” Tears welled in Martha’s eyes. She wiped them away with a shaky finger before taking a deep calming breath the way Cristina had taught her. For a moment, the woman seemed to have regained her composure, but when she spoke, her voice cracked. “I forgot my son’s name the other day. I didn’t even recognize him. Please, Dr. Silva. There’s got to be something I can try.”

  Cristina’s heart broke as she held Martha’s pleading gaze. She’d scoured journals for new Alzheimer’s treatments and there was nothing ready for market. She’d spent weekends cold-calling researchers, but none could assert Martha would get the study drug instead of placebo. The last thing Cristina wanted to do was give the woman false hope.

  She was a perfect candidate for Recognate—good health, no additional comorbid illness to muddy the results, she was still active in her daily routine—yet ReMind excluded subjects with Alzheimer’s. As Cristina caught her own reflection in Martha’s sad eyes, she remembered how horrible it had been to live without a past. She could only imagine how it would be to feel your past slipping away.

  Cristina’s thoughts drifted to Carl Franklin. She wouldn’t let a tragedy like that happen again. Recovering memory could save one’s life. Cristina understood that better than most. She’d risked her career by misleading ReMind for her own treatment, but it had paid off.