Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  His hands shook. “You lied to us.”

  Children’s faces appeared in the windows, covered in grime, staring at her with dark eyes. The kids chanted, “Liar, liar.”

  In the distance there were gunshots.

  “I didn’t lie.” Cristina covered her ears to block out the children’s chanting. “Please, tell me what happened.”

  “Quinn!” shouted a man’s voice. “Over there!”

  A gun fired and the boy’s head whipped back. His body crumpled to the ground.

  “No!”

  Blood streamed from his forehead. His eyes rolled back.

  The chanting grew louder. “Liar! Liar!”

  Through tears, Cristina saw the boy’s killer holding a smoking rifle. When she focused on his face, she saw it was Carl Franklin.

  Her stomach lurched.

  “Cristina, wake up,” Carl yelled, only it wasn’t his voice.

  More men mounted the hill, firing the guns wildly. Bullets flew overhead. Children shrieked. A faceless man appeared behind Carl and pointed at Cristina. She threw herself over the boy’s dead body, closed her eyes and screamed.

  Cristina was still screaming when she felt someone’s hands on her shoulders.

  “Wake up. What’s wrong?”

  “Andrea?” Cristina looked around. She was in Andrea’s apartment, hugging her pillow on the foldout bed. It took another second for her to register it had been a dream. “Oh, thank God.”

  “A bad dream?” Andrea sat down next to Cristina on the foldout.

  Cristina hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What happened? Tell me about it.”

  “No. I don’t want to think about it. The dream was horrible.”

  Holding Cristina at arm’s length, Andrea held her gaze. “It’ll help to talk. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Reluctantly, Cristina recounted the dream. When she finished, Andrea nodded and kissed her forehead. “Honey, with everything that’s happened, it’s no wonder you’re having nightmares. After seeing that article about the Brazilian slums, your mind took all that confusion and fear and created this dreamworld to sort it out. Isn’t that what you told me when I dreamed about being a CIA officer after watching Homeland?”

  “What about Carl? Why was he there?”

  “You’re the shrink, sweetie. You tell me.”

  Chewing her lower lip for comfort, Cristina replayed the image of Carl Franklin holding a rifle. “The cop’s questions must’ve drudged up my guilt, and my mind wove him into the dream. In a way, his suicide killed my naivete. Hence the death of the child. It makes sense, but it’s still weird. The whole thing felt so real, familiar—more like a memory than a dream.”

  “I know what you mean. I have dreams like that myself sometimes. Once the police deal with Santos, everything will go back to normal and your bad dreams will go away.” She brushed Cristina’s hair off her forehead. “Would some warm milk help you sleep better?”

  Cristina allowed herself to smile. “That sounds lovely.”

  “Good. Settle down and I’ll take care of it.” As Andrea walked to the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “By the way, what were you shouting before I woke you up?”

  “What do you mean?” Cristina propped the pillow. “I was just screaming.”

  “No, you were shouting something in Portuguese.” Andrea closed the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk. “The only thing I understood was the name Quinn.”

  Quinn watched as a midlevel researcher stood before a whiteboard, babbling about neurotransmitters and inhibitors. The man’s hand trembled as he wrote, his scribbled notes resembling an EKG tracing more than a meaningful formula. Every few sentences, he stopped to clear his throat, obviously nervous. As well he should be. ReMind Pharmaceuticals was just weeks away from launching Recognate. Everything had to be perfect before then.

  But the latest data on the drug was problematic. The investors gathered in the executive boardroom needed to know they had a solution to any potential complication or heads would roll, starting with the research team.

  However, that was the least of Quinn’s worries as he half-listened to the presentation. He still hadn’t heard from his operative about the previous night’s mission. With Santos on the move, he needed to be sure Cristina Silva wouldn’t be a problem, or he’d have to answer to more than dimwitted deep-pocket investors. He checked to ensure no one was watching, then slipped his smartphone out of his pocket for the ninth time and turned it on.

  A banner indicated he had a new secure text.

  His pulse quickened as he opened the chat. The text was from a different operative than he expected: Your boy took too long. She surprised him.

  Quinn’s shoulders tightened. He’d hoped to avoid confrontation, especially given his operative’s violent tendencies. He typed: Is she dead?

  After a tense pause, he read: She nearly killed him. Barely escaped.

  His first reaction was relief and admiration. Even after all this time, she was still resourceful. But aggravation quickly took over. If Cristina Silva remembered too soon, he’d have to take drastic measures. His fingers crushed the keypad as he typed: Did he find the locket?

  An immediate response: No.

  Quinn cursed under his breath. Either she didn’t have it, or she’d hidden it.

  A shriveled man with a dry rasp of a voice interrupted Quinn’s thoughts with an indignant question about the violent behavior being reported as an adverse effect of Recognate.

  The researcher’s face reddened. He stammered, but he did a semi­reasonable job of providing reassurance that these were isolated events and wouldn’t be a problem in the final product. Quinn nodded in agreement, relieved when the elder seemed satisfied with the answer. Everyone there knew too damned well there was a problem, but when there was so much money already invested, it was easy enough to pretend otherwise. As long as no one in the press made a connection, they had time to deal with it.

  A disturbing realization buzzed in his mind. If there was anyone capable of foreseeing the chess game he was playing, it was Cristina Silva. And his next move was in her backyard.

  Quickly, he sent another text: Cancel the switch. Abort the next subject.

  For the next two agonizing minutes, the screen remained blank. Finally, the response came: Too late.

  Quinn’s fist tightened around the phone. He needed a new plan before everything came crashing down.

  Chapter Ten

  At Andrea’s insistence, Cristina skipped the bus and took a taxi to the office each day, no longer listening to music that might distract her or dull her reflexes, but instead clutching the can of pepper spray inside her purse the entire ride. After arriving at the office unscathed, she tackled her cases, hoping hard work would distract from the tangled mess her life had become.

  That was nearly impossible, as Detective Wilson called Cristina daily to check facts and update her on the investigation’s progress—which was minimal. Other than Cristina’s fingerprints, the only other set of recovered prints remained unidentified. Wilson said he was running it through the FBI system and promised he would have something soon.

  She didn’t really mind his frequent calls. Wilson was easy to talk to, and he made her feel safe. At times, he almost seemed flirtatious. It was good to feel wanted. Especially when Cristina looked in the mirror each morning and saw the less-than-sexy bruise still lingering on her cheek from the fight. But that feeling of being wanted stirred up others that were less comforting, forcing her to make a reality check. After Mitchell, she couldn’t trust her feelings for anyone, especially another cop.

  Even though Cristina was sleeping better, it had been a full week since the break-in and she was still jumping every time a patient suddenly crossed their legs. As she wrapped up her last progress notes for the morning, Cristina’s cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was her patient, Je
rry Peterman.

  His voice was tense. “Sorry to bug you, Doctor, but I need a favor.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You told me to keep taking risks, right?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said, feeling a bit of trepidation.

  “Well . . .” He cleared his throat and laughed nervously. “Right after our last visit, I remembered I can act, and I took your advice. I auditioned for a small part in a local production of Long Day’s Journey into Night. I got the part. Isn’t that incredible?”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Please, Dr. Silva, I—I haven’t been feeling myself lately. My nerves are getting the best of me. We’re performing at six fifteen tonight. I need that shot of encouragement you promised. I’d feel better knowing someone out in the audience believes in me.”

  “You want me to be there?” Cristina chewed on her index finger. Jerry was in a delicate state. She had no idea if he could act or not, but if he took this risk and failed, he might need her to pick him back up. After Carl, Cristina would not let down another patient. “Where are you performing?” she asked.

  “The opera house off Park Street.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You don’t know how much this means to me. Thanks.”

  Cristina leaned back in her chair and massaged her scalp. She hadn’t been out after dark since the attack in her apartment. And the assailant was still out there.

  She brushed away the negative thoughts. If Jerry could take a risk, so could she. That was the best way to get her life back on track. Maybe she could convince Andrea to join her.

  Devi knocked on her office door. “Hey, boss, I’m going to Fratelli’s for lunch. Care to join me?”

  “Do they still have that lobster carbonara?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cristina stared at her clinic notes. She should finish them. She should.

  “Count me in.” Cristina pushed the notes away. “I could use a change of scenery.”

  Devi grinned. “Great. I’ll set the answering service.”

  After Devi walked away, Cristina opened her desk drawer and withdrew her pill bottle. She poured two capsules in her hand. She had suffered nightmares for three nights after the attack, but then she realized that those were nights she had skipped doses of Recognate. Once she resumed her treatment, the awful dreams disappeared, and happy memories emerged again. That morning, she remembered strutting down the family staircase in a lavender prom gown, her parents beaming with pride at the bottom of the stairs.

  Recognate did more than restore memories. It chased away paranoia. It provided perspective. It made Cristina feel whole. Turning the bottle on its side, she poured an extra pill into her palm and swallowed it.

  If Cristina needed proof God existed, she found it in Fratelli’s lobster carbonara. The North End restaurant always seemed on the verge of folding to its more famous and elegant competitors, but its old country charm, proximity to St. Stephen’s Church, and great lunch deals kept the owners from bankruptcy. Throw in a homemade tiramisu that would make the Duke of Florence weep, it was well worth the T ride from Longwood.

  Accordion music lilted through the tiny dining room. The only other seated guests were a lovey-dovey tourist couple and an Armani-wearing banker at his own table. Artificial flowering vines hugged the ceiling and pillars and framed a mural of Cinque Terre. Aromas of garlic and oregano hung in the air.

  As Cristina speared a chunk of lobster and swirled linguine around it, she knew she’d made the right choice to get away from the office. At the medical examiner’s office, Dr. Morgan hadn’t uncovered anything to explain Carl’s suicide. The police were making regular patrols past her apartment building. And Santos had never resurfaced. Detective Wilson had been unable to find anything on him. Cristina had tried her own online search again, but nothing turned up. He was like a ghost.

  The best thing she could do was move on with her life. Her real life, not whatever fantasy that a strange man on a bus had wanted her to believe.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” Cristina couldn’t help but smile while observing Devi wrap her mouth around a giant eggplant stromboli. “This is the first time we’ve had lunch together, isn’t it?”

  Devi finished chewing and wiped her mouth. “You’re always so busy, but it seemed like you needed a break.”

  “You’re very perceptive. Someone should hire you.”

  Devi laughed, and said, “Your cheek’s healing nicely.”

  “Oh, thanks. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

  “I hope the bastard who did it can’t say the same.”

  “Yeah.” Feelings of being violated resurfaced. “Hey, have you ever dealt with a police detective?”

  “Once, when my car was stolen. Why?”

  “Well, Detective Wilson, the guy investigating the break-in at my apartment, keeps calling me even though he doesn’t have anything new to report.”

  “Really? Why’s he calling you, then?”

  “According to him, to gather facts. He asks about my neighbors, the route I take to work, my hobbies . . .”

  “I suppose that makes sense. You still have no idea who attacked you, right?”

  “I guess.” Cristina twirled her pasta. “It’s . . .”

  “What?”

  “Is it normal for them to ask what kind of movies I like?”

  Devi lowered her stromboli in midbite. The corner of her mouth crept upward. “Movies?”

  “I told him I like movies about memory, so he mentioned this new action thriller about an international superspy who loses his memory and ends up working for the enemy.”

  “Oh, yeah, I wanted to see that one.”

  “So does Detective Wilson. He said it would be quite a coincidence if we ran into each other at the Fenway Theater when it’s playing.”

  Devi snickered. “That’s practically an invitation. Is he cute?”

  “Wilson?” Cristina toyed with her straw. “I guess.”

  “You guess? Come on, he’s clearly interested in you. Do you like him?”

  Cristina blushed. “Yeah, I do.”

  “So, what did you say to his invitation?”

  “I said the premise was farfetched. Memory doesn’t work that way.”

  “What?”

  Cristina stopped. Devi was staring at her like she had a chicken on her head.

  “You really said that to him?”

  Cristina blanched as she imagined how she must have sounded. “More or less.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing. He said he had to follow up on some leads and hung up. He’s been all business since.”

  Devi’s phone chimed. She checked it and looked puzzled.

  “What the heck? The delivery guy is waiting outside the office with the new printer I ordered. He’s early.”

  “Should we go?”

  “I’ll go. You stay and finish your meal.” She flagged the waitress and pointed at her stromboli. “Please box that up.”

  As the waitress scurried away with the food, Devi stood and pulled out her wallet.

  “Don’t worry,” Cristina said with a hand wave. “It’s on me. And I’ll get your to-go box.”

  “Thanks.”

  Devi turned to go, then stopped and touched Cristina’s hand. “You’re a great psychiatrist, but you need to stop listening to your head and start listening to your heart.”

  After Devi left, Cristina stared at the remains of her carbonara. Devi was right. Whenever anyone tried to get close to Cristina, she transformed into an intellectual snob. It kept her from getting hurt, but it was a lousy way to live. Wilson wasn’t the first detective to show unusual interest in her. Just because things had gone badly with Mitchell didn’t mean they couldn’t work out with Wilson. And he was hot.

&nbs
p; The background music shifted to a romantic mandolin melody as the server dropped off dessert. Cristina took a spoonful of tiramisu. As mascarpone cheese melted over her taste buds, she thought more about Devi’s words. Cristina’s head may be able to comprehend the chemical process involved in preparing this dessert, but it was her heart that appreciated the flavor.

  Cristina licked cocoa powder off her lips and was about to take another bite when a deep voice whispered in her ear. “Do not run, Cristina. I need your help.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alarms blared in Cristina’s head, eclipsing the restaurant’s lilting mandolin music. She turned to find a broad-shouldered man with Latin features sitting behind her, arms folded on the back of his chair. A coarse beard covered Santos’s jaw. Dark hair fell at rough angles over his ears. His overcoat reeked of sweat.

  “Get away.” She jumped up and grabbed the butter knife, still thick with cream sauce. She scanned the room, surprised to discover they were alone. “What do you want from me?”

  “Please don’t make a scene,” Santos said softly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “You’ve a funny way of showing it, sending someone to attack me.”

  Santos spread his hands out innocently. “I had nothing to do with that. Why would I attack you when I need your help?”

  Aiming the knife at him, she searched the room again. “If you are unstable, I can help. I can refer you to some excellent colleagues.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not unstable.”

  “Then why don’t you leave me alone? I know who I am. I’m happy with who I am.”

  “Yet you hesitated when I said your memory was stolen. And I know you were searching for information about me. At least some part of you wants to know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  His mouth twisted grimly. “That the Silvas were not your parents.”

  The words stung. She shook them off. “You’re lying.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.”

  “Then, convince me I should trust you. How do we know each other?”