Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  “I’ve got one more thing you can try, Martha.” Cristina typed on her keyboard. She paused and smiled warmly. “With any luck, you’ll remember more than you realize you’ve forgotten.”

  Chapter Seven

  A bare size-eight foot streaked toward Cristina’s face. She jerked her head back. Ducked to the right. Deflected with her left arm. Bone thudded against her forearm. She stepped back with her right foot, but before she could recover a fist rammed into her chest. Her breath whooshed out. She fell to the mat.

  “That was better.” Andrea towered over Cristina, extending a hand to pull her up. “But you’re still overcorrecting. Don’t think so much. React.”

  “That’s funny, telling a psychiatrist not to think so much.” Cristina allowed her friend to help her stand and tried to ignore the bruises to her ribcage and ego. Body odor and sweat thickened the air in Sid’s Gym. She was grateful Andrea reserved the space so they could have privacy. “I suck at this.”

  “Not true. During our first session, you showed me some moves Mitchell taught you that were pretty slick. But you’re off your game.”

  Cristina winced at Mitchell’s name. His lie about his marriage made her question if she had ever known him at all. “It’s because of that weird photo . . .”

  “Honey, you know that’s not you.”

  “But she looks exactly like me. Let me show you.” Cristina fetched the article from her purse and handed it to Andrea.

  After a moment’s inspection, Andrea laughed. “Mami, she looks like you, like I look like Jennifer Lopez.”

  “Can you please be serious?”

  “I am. Her nose is rounder and her eyebrows thicker. She’s got like a unibrow. Everyone has doppelgängers out there if you look hard enough. That weird bus guy must’ve noticed the resemblance and took advantage of it to scare you.”

  Cristina studied the photograph. She could see Andrea’s point, but the resemblance was still eerie. “I’ve had a lot to deal with all at once. If anything else happens, they’ll have to admit me for inpatient stabilization.”

  “Don’t talk that way.” Andrea grabbed Cristina’s shoulder and drew up to her full height—six feet—commanding Cristina’s attention. “You’re a strong, brilliant woman who’s rebounded from crises that would destroy most people. You can handle this. Remember that move I showed you last time against a larger opponent?”

  “Where I make myself even smaller to draw him in?”

  “Exactly. If things seem overwhelming, step back and get low. Change your perspective. By making your opponent even bigger, you have no choice but to find a way to deal with them.”

  Andrea always knew the right thing to say, and Cristina now felt foolish for letting her fears overcome her. “And I thought I was supposed to be the shrink here.”

  “Even doctors need a kick in the butt sometimes. Let’s go home, clean up, and then you and I are going out to Tangerine.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for a dance club,” said Cristina, picturing Santos lurking in the night shadows.

  As usual, Andrea knew her thoughts. “You’re not thinking of that creep again, are you? If we see him, I’ll kick his ass.” Her friend gave her a hug. “You know I can, right?”

  Cristina smiled. “I do. Let’s see how the night goes, okay?”

  Ten minutes later, they were arriving back at the apartment building when Andrea’s phone chirped. After a momentary glance, Andrea frowned.

  “Something wrong?” Cristina asked.

  “This guy I met last week canceled our date for tomorrow.” Andrea dropped the phone back into her purse and started up the stairs. “Jerk doesn’t have the manners to call. No, he sends a text.”

  “And you wonder why I avoid dating?”

  “Touché, my dear.” They stopped at Andrea’s door. “Hey, why don’t you come in for a drink first? I could use one and you know I hate drinking alone.”

  “I need a shower. I stink.”

  “So do I. It won’t bother me.”

  “I could use a little time alone to unwind.” Cristina caught Andrea rolling her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. I’ll come by after I clean up.”

  “You better, or you’ll have an angry Puerto Rican breaking down your door.”

  They shared a laugh and then Cristina headed upstairs to her apartment. By the time she reached her door, Cristina decided she needed to stop spending so much time worrying. If she jumped at every shadow, how was she any better off than her patients?

  She stuck her key in the lock. At her touch, the door inched open.

  Her back muscles tensed. She’d locked the door, hadn’t she?

  She held her breath and listened for movement. Other than outside street noise, she heard only Grizabella softly mewling and pawing at the door.

  Pull it together, Cristina. She removed the key from the lock but held it, so the blade stuck out between her fingers.

  Cristina nudged open the door. Nothing. She sighed, feeling relieved and silly. Adjusting her purse strap, she stepped inside and reached for the light switch.

  Gloved fingers clamped on her wrist.

  Cristina cried out as a dark figure wearing a ski mask tightened his grip. She was dragged inside. The man kicked the apartment door shut.

  Grizabella hissed.

  Cristina spun, reflexively swinging her free fist. Her key connected with something fleshy.

  The dark figure screamed, yanking her arm so she flew across the room. Cristina’s shoulder smashed against the wall near the window. Pain jolted across her back. Her purse tumbled away.

  She scrambled to her feet. The window light illuminated a square in the center of the room. Darkness engulfed the rest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. He was there. Somewhere.

  Something rattled. Cristina spun, ready to strike.

  It was the old radiator kicking in. She cursed under her breath.

  Slow your breathing, your movements. Don’t let him see you’re afraid.

  The voice spoke in the back of her mind. Female. Whose?

  Use the environment to your advantage.

  She forced herself to take slow breaths. She knew this apartment better than anyone.

  Grizabella yowled. Cristina jumped.

  Something scuffled in the dark corners of the room.

  Move. Now.

  Cristina yanked down the shade and dove to the carpet next to the coffee table. She groped on the table until she found the caduceus paperweight Mitchell had given her. As she clutched it to her chest, she felt a rush of adrenaline.

  Unless her attacker had night vision, he was now blind. She had the upper hand.

  Cristina listened for any sound that would give him away.

  After a few moments, the floorboards creaked.

  She pounced. The paperweight crashed into his ribcage.

  He roared. Staggered backward against the window. The shade crumpled. A dim beam of light shined into the room.

  He wasn’t a big man, maybe medium build. She could take him down with a solid punch. His gray eyes glinted as he glared at her. She lunged again with her weapon, but he sidestepped, knocking the paperweight from her hand with a quick chop. The shade fell back into place. The light disappeared.

  The man’s fist rammed into Cristina’s stomach. She screamed and doubled over. He punched her in the cheek, then the side of her head. Cristina fell to the floor. The last thing she saw was her assailant smashing the window and leaping onto the fire escape. The darkness around her faded to gray.

  Chapter Eight

  Leaning against the front door jamb, Cristina pressed an icepack against her cheekbone, trying to ignore the throbbing pain and the police officers searching her apartment. In her other arm she held her cat.

  When Cristina had regained consciousness, the first thing she’d done was search for Grizabella�
�who had been found hiding under the bed. Cristina had covered the tabby with kisses, but the joy was short-lived as Cristina took stock of the mess her assailant had made. Books, clothes, and even a pair of pink panties lay on the floor for all to see. She felt violated and called the police.

  “We’ll be out of your hair soon,” said the detective in a South Boston accent. He looked to be in his early thirties, white, with a five-o’clock shadow and jaw-hugging sideburns. “We’re doing one more walkthrough to ensure we didn’t miss anything.”

  Andrea stood next to Cristina, seeming at multiple times as if she was about to say something reassuring but failing. Finally, she came out with it: “Do you know who did this, Detective Wilson?” Andrea asked in a husky voice.

  Cristina raised her eyebrows.

  “Not yet,” the detective said. “But we collected some prints from the door lock.”

  “But he was wearing gloves,” Cristina said. “I told the other officers that.”

  “We’ll run the prints, anyway. Sometimes we get lucky.” He tapped his chin and studied the living room. “You said nothing is missing?”

  “Correct,” Cristina said.

  “And the only damage was to the window and the lock.” He scratched his chin. “Seems like this guy was looking for something specific and didn’t find it. Do you take any prescription medications that the burglar could have been looking for?”

  Cristina had a brief thought of Recognate, but remembered the bottle was safely stowed inside her purse.

  When she shook her head, Wilson said, “You surprised him as he was doing something nefarious—perhaps targeted specifically at you. Can you think of anyone who would want to threaten or harm you?”

  “No.”

  The detective plucked a framed picture off the floor. “Maybe an ex-boyfriend?”

  Cristina’s mouth went dry. The photo was of Cristina and Mitchell embracing at the New England Aquarium. “He’s dead.”

  The detective handed the photo to her. “I’m sorry. So, no one else then?”

  “Actually,” Andrea said, “there is someone.”

  “Andrea, what are you—?”

  “Shush, I’ve got this.” Andrea brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and leaned close enough that her chest grazed the detective’s when she inhaled. “A guy accosted Cristina on the bus yesterday. He said he had a gun.”

  “Wilson turned back to Cristina. “Did you report that incident Ms. Silva?”

  “No.”

  Detective Wilson’s eyebrows inched up his forehead. “Why not?”

  Cristina’s cheeks burned. How do you tell the police that you didn’t report a crime because you were curious to know more about the criminal? “He was bigger than the guy who broke in here, and he hasn’t bothered me again. I don’t know that he really had a gun.”

  “You should still report any kind of threats. You might not be his only victim.” Wilson pulled out his smartphone and began entering notes. “On the bus, you said?”

  “Yes, on my way home from work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I run a clinic at Longwood.”

  He looked up. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Psychiatrist,” Andrea said.

  He blinked. “Doctor Cristina Silva?”

  Cristina felt uneasy. “Yes . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “My partner and I ran the investigation on Carl Franklin’s suicide yesterday. One of your patients, right? This is an odd coincidence. I wanted to ask you some questions, and here you are.”

  Chills ran down Cristina’s back. “Was there something suspicious about Carl’s death?”

  “Cristina,” Andrea said, “you got attacked in your own home. I hardly think you should be worrying about anyone else right now. Isn’t that right, Detective?” She gave Wilson a pointed look.

  “Er, right,” Wilson stammered and buried his nose in his smartphone. “What did this guy on the bus who threatened you look like?”

  Cristina hesitated. Santos had told her to trust no one. She hadn’t told anyone but Andrea. What would happen if she told the police? She struggled with that for a moment, then realized she didn’t know that much anyway, so what was the harm? “He had broad shoulders and wore a fisherman’s cap. I couldn’t see most of his face.”

  Wilson frowned. “Anything else?”

  “He had dark eyes. And he said his name was Sebastian dos Santos.”

  Wilson wrote down the name and stuck the phone back in his jacket. “I’ll put it through the federal databases. The guy who attacked you tonight wore a mask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, we’ll run the prints. I’ll call you if we find anything.” Wilson’s hazel eyes glimmered as his gaze met hers. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  Something stirred inside her, but Cristina pushed it away. He was handsome, no question. Even as she tried to deny it, she felt the spark of attraction. But now was not the time.

  “I still have questions about Mr. Franklin,” he said.

  “Why don’t you give her a call tomorrow, Detective?” Andrea nudged him toward the door. “I’m sure she’ll be able to give you better answers when she’s not so totally freaked out.”

  He glanced at Cristina again before nodding. “Good idea. But I suggest you find a safer place to stay tonight, Doctor.”

  After the detective left with the rest of his crew, Cristina glared at Andrea and offered a sarcastic “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “It wasn’t your place to tell him about the bus incident.”

  “Come on, Cristina. A masked man broke into your home and attacked you, and you weren’t going to mention to the police that he’d already threatened you?”

  “It wasn’t the same guy. The man in the ski mask who attacked me had gray eyes.”

  “Sweetie, it was dark. Everything looks gray in the dark.”

  “The man on the bus was bigger.”

  “So, you’re saying in the middle of fighting for your life you took measurements?” Andrea threw her hands up. “I don’t get what’s going on here. Why would you defend this guy unless— You still think Santos knows something about your past!”

  “Maybe.” As much as Cristina tried to convince herself that her hesitation had only been about safety, she couldn’t deny a yearning to discover what Sebastian dos Santos knew. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Come here.” Andrea pulled Cristina into a hug, her Dior Hypnotic Poison perfume assaulting Cristina’s nostrils. “I don’t know why you’re not a bowl of jelly right now. How did you fight him off, anyway? Did you use the moves I taught you?”

  Cristina hesitated. It wasn’t Andrea she’d heard in her mind. It was a familiar voice, but the more she tried to identify it, the fuzzier it became.

  “Yes. They worked great,” she lied, feeling horrible the moment the words left her mouth. More lies to her best friend? Cristina really was falling apart.

  “Of course, my moves worked, but Detective Wilson had a point.” The detective’s name rolled off Andrea’s tongue like crème brûlée. “It’s not safe here. You’re staying on my couch tonight.”

  “Andrea—”

  “No arguments. Grizabella too.”

  Cristina felt relieved. She didn’t feel safe in her apartment. At least her friend gave her an excuse. She stroked the cat’s head. Grizabella purred.

  “Let me pack a bag.”

  “On the bright side,” Andrea said as Cristina searched for a suitcase, “we’ll get to have that drink together, after all.”

  Sebastian dos Santos dragged his overcoat snug across the lower half of his face and leaned around the corner of Cristina’s apartment building, taking a look. He ducked back into the alley when he saw the police cruiser pulling away from the curb. Uttering a Portuguese curse, he flattene
d himself against the wall and waited for the cop to leave, but it was too late. After taking a year to gather the needed information, he’d acted prematurely by contacting her on the bus. Obviously, his enemies had found out.

  Sebastian’s hand tightened around the locket. He didn’t have another year to try again. His only chance of recovering his daughter was to get rid of Cristina Silva.

  Chapter Nine

  Despite drinking two mojitos with Andrea, Cristina lay awake for over an hour. Metal bars under the foldout mattress dug into her back, but even that was less painful than the feeling of being invaded. Let the cops sort it out. She curled into a ball on one side of the mattress.

  A short time after drifting off to sleep, Cristina dreamed of ramshackle buildings piled atop one another along a narrow, litter-strewn street. Rats scampered in and out of garbage bins that reeked. Off in the distance, she heard the ocean’s roar and people laughing.

  The road wound up a hill, ending at giant colored blocks, stacked haphazardly to make a building. Telephone wires snaked around a nearby pole in a tangled mess. Graffiti covered the walls. As Cristina approached, she caught dark eyes peering out of the windows, disappearing the moment she spotted them.

  She advanced closer. “Is someone there?”

  A teenage boy appeared in the doorway, wearing only shorts. Dirt and blood covered his cheeks. He clutched a crimson-stained stuffed tiger. He looked suspiciously at Cristina.

  She crouched before him. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Bullet holes framed the doorway and glass shards lay beneath a shattered window.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked. “Do you need help?”

  He tilted his head. “We don’t need any more help from you.”

  Before she could respond, a pistol appeared in the boy’s hand.

  He aimed the barrel at her forehead. “We trusted you. Now they’re all dead.”

  She stood up, raising her hands and retreating from the gun. Her heart raced in fear. “Who’s dead? What happened?”