Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  “His fingerprint was on my door lock.”

  “That print was faked.”

  “How could you possibly know that? And why are you so sure it wasn’t him?”

  “Because,” he said, looking her square in the eye, “I am Francisco Martins.”

  “Burning the midnight oil?” Hawkins pulled up a chair next to Wilson, who sat rubbing his chin as he stared at his computer screen. “Time to call it a night, buddy.”

  “I know, I just . . .” Wilson threw his hands in the air and grunted. “I’ve searched every corner of the NCIC website for more information about Martins and keep getting nothing. He disappeared two years ago. There are no reports of recent activity anywhere. So how did Agent Forrester know he was in Somerville?”

  “The feds aren’t big on sharing. Maybe that info’s classified.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Wilson scratched behind his ear. That itch had gotten worse over the last couple days. “But how are we going to catch this guy if we don’t know where to look?”

  “We aren’t. You notified Forrester, right?”

  Wilson grimaced. “Not yet.”

  “Gary . . .”

  “I will. But as soon as I contact Forrester, he’ll swoop in and take over the entire investigation.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Not if you are the sort of person who would enjoy boot camp.”

  “Yeah, not fun. But are you sure that’s it? This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain sexy shrink?”

  Wilson’s cheeks flushed. “I have this feeling, okay?”

  “Oh, no, not one of your feelings.”

  “Hear me out. It can’t be coincidence that one of Dr. Silva’s patients jumped through a window a day before Martins attacks her. Maybe this Martins dude killed Carl Franklin.”

  “Jesus, Gary, you’re not going to rest until you prove this guy was behind the Marathon Bombing and 9/11, are you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “All right, if you want to find something the feds missed, cross-reference Martins with Silva. Maybe we can find a connection.”

  “Good idea. Let me try the ICE system.” Wilson entered the database and began searching. His screen filled with data. “Around the time he was accused of arson, Martins was working as a mechanic for Manny’s Auto in Framingham.” Wilson reread the next few lines and scratched his head. “Looks like he kept working there until he disappeared. Why wasn’t he in jail?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have enough evidence.”

  Another search came up with a smaller return. Wilson frowned as he read. “Martins disappeared the day after the Silvas died in a car wreck. How much you want to bet he ran them off the road?”

  “That’s a fool’s bet. Is there an investigation report?”

  Wilson typed a few keys. Two file names appeared. He clicked on the first. “Forensics report says the brake line was severed. Looks like they initially thought it had been cut, but then determined it snapped on its own. Also says there was black paint on the rear bumper. Not much else to go on. Let’s see what the police report shows.” He clicked the next file. A message appeared in red. “Missing? What the hell?”

  “Must be a problem with their server. A hit-and-run would make the news though. Try public records.”

  After a few more keystrokes, Wilson’s screen lit up.

  “There’s an obituary for Jorge and Claudia Silva. No mention of Cristina, no details about the crash or any suspects.” He pulled up another record. “The police report says the Silvas’ car was serviced the day before . . .” Wilson scrolled down. “At Manny’s Auto. I’ll be damned.”

  “Wait—am I reading that correctly?” Hawkins pointed at the additional lines of text at the bottom of the screen indicating the repairs performed and the technician performing them.

  “You are.” Wilson gritted his teeth. “Looks like Dr. Silva and I need to have a conversation tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What the hell?” Cristina shouted and backed away from Santos. “Are you going to explain why you burned down my parents’ house?”

  “I will, but you must stop attracting attention.”

  Cristina fought the urge to punch him. If he was as dangerous as Wilson said, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him. She caught people around the ice rink, staring.

  “We should move somewhere more discreet,” he said.

  Cristina held her ground next to the frog statue. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said quietly enough that only he could hear.

  The onlookers lost interest and returned to watching the skaters.

  “Answer my questions or, so help me, I’ll scream for help.”

  “Very well,” Santos said. “When I was young, I found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. A powerful man wanted me executed for a crime I didn’t commit. I had no chance of proving my innocence. Zero Dark approached me. They promised to clear my name if I vowed to help them. I possessed skills they found desirable.” His gaze danced over the heads in the crowd. “I accepted, not believing they could keep their word. They did.”

  “How?”

  “They killed the man who framed me and left evidence proving his guilt. I was free, but not truly free. Zero Dark promised to set me up for killing my accuser if I betrayed them. From that moment on, they owned me.”

  “So, you committed horrible crimes to stay out of jail?” Acid stung Cristina’s throat. “That’s why you burned down my parents’ house?”

  “No. By that time I wanted out of Zero Dark, even if it meant I would be tried for my crimes. But then they found something else to hold against me—something I would do anything to protect.”

  “Your daughter.”

  He turned to her, the skin around his eyes wrinkling with a tenderness that reminded her of her father. Or the man she knew as her father. “The director threatened to kill her if I didn’t follow his orders. Burn down a house to prove I was still loyal. I didn’t even know who owned the house. Only after I obeyed would he trust me to keep silent, or he would silence my daughter instead.”

  Cristina swallowed. She wanted to hate him but found she couldn’t. He wasn’t a monster. Just a father left with no options. “What happened once you did as they asked?”

  “It wasn’t enough. I had to keep serving their needs or they would turn me over to the authorities.” His voice cracked. “And they kept my daughter prisoner.”

  A shiver ran down Cristina’s back. “Is she still alive?”

  Santos nodded.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I know where she is, but she won’t listen to me. That’s why I need your help.”

  “Why would she listen to me? I don’t even know her.”

  “Maybe not, but after you see the truth, after you understand, she’ll listen to you.”

  Cristina threw up her hands to keep from clamping them around his neck. “No more riddles. If you want my help—and I’m not promising you’ll get it—I need details, starting with who ran my parents and I off the road and why?”

  Santos stared at her like her nose had fallen off her face. “You were never in that car.”

  “Of course, I was. I got a head injury that caused my amnesia.”

  “Your head injury occurred beforehand. You were placed unconscious at the scene of the car crash to replace the third passenger.” His stony gaze locked onto hers. “The real Cristina Silva.”

  Cristina’s heart jumped toward her throat. “That’s impossible.”

  “Zero Dark has made you believe you are Cristina Silva to keep you under control. They made me burn down the Silvas’ house to destroy any evidence that would shatter this illusion. These are dangerous people, Cristina. Only together can we stop them from hurting anyone else.”

  A thousand thoughts swir
led through her mind. Even if she believed nothing else Santos said, certain facts rang true. Someone had killed the people she thought of as her parents; someone had ordered Santos to burn down their house; and something was wrong with her memories, even with Recognate. But a conspiracy involving a shadow organization manipulating her life? The idea would be preposterous if it didn’t ignite tiny sparks of familiarity in the recesses of her mind.

  “If I’m not Cristina Silva,” she said, barely able to work her mouth. “Then who am I?”

  A floodlight swung over them. Cristina shielded her eyes. Peeking through her fingers, she saw a reporter interviewing a woman with an expensive-looking fur coat and scarf. Cristina vaguely recognized the woman as a local celebrity, a singer from a popular Boston rock band who’d scored an acting role on a TV courtroom drama. Onlookers crowded around to get a glimpse while the camera recorded their reactions.

  “So much for a quiet night at the Pond.” She turned back to Santos.

  He was gone.

  “Damn it,” she muttered and searched the crowd. No sign of him.

  There was no point sticking around. She started the long walk back to Park Street, angry at herself for not pushing him harder for real answers, and even angrier for allowing herself to believe him. As she trudged down the path, she yanked off a glove. She’d better call Andrea.

  When she reached into her pocket for her cell, Cristina’s fingertips grazed cold metal. Puzzled, Cristina wrapped her hand around something and withdrew it. She held it in the lamplight. It was a round silver locket, strung on a lightweight chain. An intricate engraving covered the front, depicting a man tied to a tree. Arrows pierced his bare chest. Something about the image sparked recognition, but she couldn’t determine why. She flipped the locket over and found the design of a cone-shaped building. Something had been written beneath the building, but the years had worn the writing away. Her finger traced over the design.

  Cristina stuck the locket in her pocket and continued walking. As she pulled out her phone and activated it three new voicemail messages popped up. She listened to the first as she continued walking.

  “Dr. Silva, it’s Jerry. It’s almost curtain time. I’m not sure you’ll be able to make it, but at least if I talk to you, I can do it. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

  Cristina’s heart jumped. She checked the clock on her phone. Six twenty. She’d spent longer with Santos than anticipated.

  She picked up the pace, walking faster as she called Jerry back. No answer.

  Her pulsed raced. She proceeded to the next message.

  His voice was strained “It was a disaster, Dr. Silva. I couldn’t do it.” He sounded angry. “He . . . he said this would happen. I thought I could fight it, but I can’t. I’m on my way to Park Street Station. If you’re coming, meet me there.”

  Her grip tightened around the phone. He sounded desperate. She hurried and played the last message.

  “Dr. Silva, are you working with them again? Did they get to you?” He broke into spasmodic laughter. “It doesn’t matter. This will end tonight.”

  Cristina stopped. Jerry’s voice made her skin crawl—cold, vacant, hopeless.

  She verified the voicemail’s timestamp. Seven minutes ago.

  She hit redial. The phone rang. No answer.

  She could not lose Jerry. Not like Carl. Not like Mitchell.

  She raced to the Park Street subway station, scolding herself all the way. She’d been so focused on this ridiculous game with Santos she’d forgotten what truly mattered: her patients.

  The station exterior was a giant box. She did a full circle around it. No sign of Jerry. He had to be inside. She hoped he wasn’t about to do what she feared.

  As she pushed her way through the crowded entrance and walked downstairs, she scanned the crowds. Not there. She moved toward the turnstiles, readying her T pass.

  A gunshot echoed through the station.

  People screamed. Ran in all directions. A heavyset woman crashed into Cristina. Knocked her to the floor. Cristina rolled away onto her knees. Her heart raced. Through the chaos, she couldn’t see anything.

  Another gunshot. Then two more. More screams. More panic.

  Cristina leaped to her feet. Everyone shoved their way to the stairs. A mob swept past like a tidal wave, carrying her with it. She fought to stay on her feet. She swung her arms to keep the others from crushing her.

  Someone shouted. He sounded familiar.

  “Police!” Four uniformed officers rushed past. “Clear the area!”

  “Stay back!”

  Even as Cristina fought her way to the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. She recognized Jerry’s voice.

  “Stay away or I’ll kill him!” he called out.

  “Put down the gun!” shouted a uniformed police officer, aiming his weapon. “We want to help you.”

  “You can’t help me. Quinn must die!”

  Cristina froze at the base of the stairs. People jostled her as they forced their way past.

  “Drop the gun,” ordered the policeman. “Now!”

  Like a salmon, Cristina maneuvered her way upstream through the crowd. Every instinct told her to get the hell out of there, but her need for answers propelled her forward.

  She emerged back in the open area near the turnstiles. Police officers stood shoulder to shoulder, weapons aimed at the far wall. Four inert bodies lay near their feet.

  “This man stole my life!” Jerry’s voice echoed through the now empty room.

  Past the cops, a man in his midthirties knelt on the ground, hands behind his head. One torn shoulder of his jacket hung limply. Tears streaked his cheeks. His eyes were shut tight. Behind him, a balding man wearing a blood-stained parka and jeans held a gun to his head.

  “Jerry?”

  Jerry’s head snapped in Cristina’s direction. His expression shifted from anger to confusion. “Dr. Silva?”

  “Stay back, ma’am,” said one of the officers. “This is a secure area.”

  “He’s my patient, Officer,” Cristina said, even as she struggled with the inconceivable reality that sweet mild-mannered Jerry could have killed several people. She’d feared he was about to throw himself in front of a train, but never imagined him capable of this. She forced away her revulsion and focused on the man. “I can help.”

  Jerry laughed bitterly. “You’ve done enough already.”

  Cristina recoiled. “What do you mean?”

  “Everything came rushing back. I did horrible things, Dr. Silva. Horrible things.”

  “It’s okay, Jerry. Why don’t you put down the gun and we can talk about it?”

  “Now you want to talk?” His voice hardened. “I needed your help. You didn’t come. Didn’t even answer your damn phone. You weren’t there for me.”

  Cristina’s cheeks cooled. “I’m here now. Tell me what happened.”

  “You know what happened. You were there.” He pointed the gun barrel at his captive. “And it’s his fault.” Jerry pointed at the man kneeling in front of him, “He did this to us.”

  “Please,” the man said, sobbing. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Shut up!” Jerry’s hand shook as he dug the gun into the back of his victim’s head.

  The man trembled.

  “No more lies,” said Jerry.

  “Who are you talking about, Jerry?” Cristina stepped closer, telling herself this wasn’t the man she knew. Jerry was a good person. He wasn’t a murderer. “Who is he?”

  “Ma’am,” the officer said, “you need to stay back.”

  “I’m a psychiatrist. I know what I’m doing,” she said, even though she questioned if that was true with each step she took. “Talk to me, Jerry. Who do you think this man is? What did he do?”

  “Don’t tel
l her.” Jerry snapped his eyes shut. “She has to know. She’s working with Quinn. She did this to us. She needs to pay. Don’t make me do this. Please.”

  Cristina was baffled. Jerry’s voice shifted back and forth from that of the mild-mannered security guard she knew to that of a hardened killer. A horrible thought struck her. Could he have dissociative identity disorder, a rare condition once known as split personality? She couldn’t have missed something that significant—could she?

  “Jerry,” she said, using the hypnotic tone she preferred for therapy, despite her heart beating so fast it nearly burst from her chest. “I’m not working with Quinn. I don’t know who Quinn is. I need you to tell me what happened. It’s not too late to find a way to help you.”

  He held her gaze, panting heavily. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. His lips danced as he continued his self-argument in a whisper. Jerry lowered his gun an inch.

  “That’s it.” She took another step, her heart pounding. “Put down the gun and we can talk. You still need to tell me about that New Orleans trip.”

  A smile played at his lips. Then it vanished, replaced by wild rage. “There was no New Orleans trip. No marathon. None of that was real. I know who I really am: a killer.”

  The ferocity of his verbal assault forced Cristina to retreat. Her mind raced through possibilities—psychosis, mania, depression. None fully explained his behavior.

  “Jerry, you’re not a killer. We can sort this out.”

  The kneeling hostage began to cry.

  “That’s it,” the officer murmured loud enough for Cristina to hear, “we need to put this guy down.”

  “No,” she said. “We need more time.”

  “We’re out of time, Doctor,” Jerry said, his voice eerily tranquil. It was a tone Cristina heard before, in patients who’d given up. He jammed the gun behind his captive’s ear. “This is the only way we can both be free of his control.”

  “No!” Cristina shouted.

  Jerry pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed his face. His hostage slumped to the ground.

  The officers opened fire. Bullets ripped through Jerry’s arms and chest. Just before the final bullet tore through his forehead and he crumpled backward, Cristina thought she saw him smile.