by JJ Lamb
“Good evening, Ms. Goldmich.”
“Hello, Delores.”
“Time for your shot. Are you having a lot of pain?”
“It’s terrible!”
“You don’t have to move. I can get it into your hip just the way you are.”
The nurse’s words were kind, but her fingers were brusque and rough.
“This will help soon.”
And with that, Delores left the room.
* * *
Emma’s mind began to drift again. Thoughts jumped here, there.
Tuva … Tuva … beautiful baby … beautiful child.
Grown … independent … accomplished.
Her father gone away with my best friend.
Gone … everything gone … beautiful home … twelve-year-old child … alone … back to work … teaching other peoples beautiful children.
Poor Tuva … poor little girl … draws everything that moves.
Like her mom … art buries her pain.
Emma reached out for her cell phone in the bedside table drawer. That slight movement made her whimper. Her mind became even fuzzier, but the pain remained.
Matter with me? … no service out here.
“Regular phone?” she muttered, “what’s to say?”
Tuva, get me out of here.
No!
This is all I have now … I won’t be a burden.
Waves of silent screams echoed across her brain.
* * *
Tuva Goldmich looked at her watch—9:45. She was stoked, yet at the same time she was beat. She’d just had another sleepless night, one that left her dull, slow thinking. And she really had to be sharp for that 10:30 interview. She needed that job, needed cash in the worst way.
I'm sitting here like an idiot, hanging onto a telephone for ten wasted minutes, listening to elevator music. How smart is that?
Tightness was growing in her neck. It reminded her of Babe, the German Shepherd that her mom brought home for her after her dad moved out. Babe’s hackles would bunch up like a fist when she sensed a threat of any kind, especially if it involved Tuva. Someone at the door was enough to set her off. Right now, Tuva imagined her own neck probably looked as weird as Babe’s did long ago.
Everything was off-balance since her mom had been taken away to Nevada. Tuva was run down, a mess. She was even starting to dream with her eyes open. And when she finally did doze off, her mom would be there, trying to tell her something.
Two weeks.
Not a word out of this Carl Kreuger dude.
If the OCI agent didn’t pick up soon she would have to hang up. Have to get to that interview on time. She looked at her watch again. It was going to be close, very close.
She held the phone in the crook of her neck and paced to the mirror to check out her outfit. Her pin-striped, tan business suit, with a chocolate shell, was just back from the cleaners. The soft material nipped at her waist, exaggerated her petite figure, highlighted her brown eyes. She was pleased. It was the perfect outfit for her interview, even though she’d rather wear jeans and a tee.
That certainly wouldn’t land her the job.
* * *
Carl had already taken ten calls since 9:15, and none of them had been worth his time.
Always a lot of damn questions, usually poking at him, blaming him for all the stifling bureaucracy in the world. It was all his fault … of course.
Blah, blah, blah.
Budget cuts had taken away most of the telephone screeners the department used to have. Now, when the calls were about numb-dumb questions, he usually palmed them off to one of the junior agents, or redirected them to the on-line informational outlets. His time was too important to handle the stupid questions most citizens tossed his way.
He took a sip of coffee and reached for the phone to take the next caller in line. Even though he was pissed off, he forced himself to speak in what he hoped was a pleasant, helpful voice.
“Good morning, Agent Kreuger here.”
“This is Tuva Goldmich.”
She said it like it was a name he should remember.
“Oh, can you hold one more minute, Ms. Goldmich?”
He hit the hold button before she could complain and tapped into his computer files.
Damn it! That name sounds really familiar.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, “that’s the Alzheimer’s study business.”
How the hell did that get lost?
He thought back to the meeting he’d had with the woman, pulled out the notes from his bottom drawer:
Worried daughter re mom in Phase III Zelint (California company) study AZ-1166. Follow up with LA regional office.
There were no other notes … or any follow up.
Shit!
“Ms. Goldmich?”
“You didn’t do anything, did you?”
“I’ve been checking with the LA Regional offices about your mother.” He let the words spill out with no room for interjection. “Any action, of course, would have to be taken from our California offices since they’re the ones who cover Nevada and the facility where your mother is in residence.” He loosened his necktie and took a large gulp of coffee, which now was not only icy cold, but was making him choke.
“You’re a liar—”
“—now wait a minute!”
“You did exactly what I thought you would do. My mother’s case is buried in some pile on the corner of your desk. You don’t give a damn about her, do you?”
Before he could answer, the line went dead.
Chapter 21
Ethan detached the flash drive from his car key chain and pushed it into the USB port on the side of his PC. Zelint’s AZ-1166 study data was stored on it, as well as all of the completed altered results of the study. Not only that, copies of the submission papers for FDA approval were also stored on the memory stick.
The drive, a little piece of red plastic, also held the only copy of his personal testing, research, laboratory work, and clinical findings. Everything he’d done since joining Zelint had been compacted and exiled to a virtual reality that could fit inside a two-by-three-quarter-inch computer storage unit.
Thinking about how his huge accomplishments could fit into something so small agitated him. After all, he was studying and searching for answers to enormous questions. The only complete evidence of his work was staring back at him, housed in a tiny flash drive. He should have left the files safely in his computer. Deleting sections of them was stupid. Without documentation, everything he’d achieved could be dumped into that vast shit bucket called anecdotal evidence.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, but couldn’t concentrate on anything.
What if I lose the drive?
The answer wasn’t pretty.
David Zelint had a copy of the data, but that copy didn’t include any of Ethan’s private research or investigations.
Throughout his years as a pathologist, he’d pictured himself as an active research scientist. That’s why he went into the field of medicine in the first place.
Researchers, pathologists, medical examiners didn’t have to deal with the emotional outbursts of patients and their families. Working as a pathologist gave him the luxury of stepping back, standing off, treating people as an essential segment of a bigger, more important picture. They were subjects, building blocks to be assembled as a key to a solution.
He never had to put up with all the bad health news people were bound to get sooner or later. Specifically, he didn’t have to inform people that some disease would kill them long before the thought of death had ever crossed their minds.
He wasn’t cut out to deal with people—he just wasn’t a touchy, feely kind of person.
And that had always been fine; after all, dead people didn’t need hugs.
He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. He’d tossed and turned, couldn’t stop thinking about the woman Rocky and Pete had brought to his laboratory. He didn’t care for the way those goons handled her. He trie
d to stay away from personally meeting the patients who were brought in the Comstock Medical Facility. He preferred to be the faceless administrator and scientist. Getting involved only made his job harder.
But he’d met Rhonda Jenkins. She was blind and because of that, he felt safe with her. Besides, he liked talking to her because most everyone else he talked to in Comstock was ignorant about medical issues.
She’d wanted know how he became interested in studying Alzheimer’s. He’d been honest with her, only because the information would soon be of little value to her. He’d told her he’d gotten into Zelint’s AZ-1166 study late in the final stages of the investigation, but it had still been a wonderful opportunity to have the time and equipment to delve into his personal scientific research.
But Rhonda Jenkins is merely a test subject, no more, no less. No different than a chimpanzee, or a rhesus monkey. I couldn’t let her humanity in any way influence my mission to search out critical answers. Some things are much more important than being fuzzy and warm.
Question upon question continued to plague him. They never stopped.
Could a decaying brain heal itself, or at least regain function with the right catalyst? What made cells already damaged by Alzheimer’s regenerate in neural tissue?
What in AZ-1166 allowed an Alzheimer’s subject’s depleted neuron forest to take up increased function again? Regain normalcy?
Was it a different pathway of regeneration? Fewer neurons, with greater or increased cell-to-cell transmission power?
Super neurons?
He thought about that possibility a lot. He always liked the sound of it.
But neurons were only one part of the equation. He knew the only real cure for Alzheimer’s would be at the cellular level. That was the part of the puzzle that kept eluding and fascinating him.
There were times even he wondered why he preferred to be so detached and clinical. He’d come to accept that he simply wasn’t a herd animal like most of his human counterparts … and that in itself defied reason.
He came from an average family and he’d loved his parents and his brother. But somehow he never bonded with any of the men or women who passed through his life. He felt little need for companionship. He lived inside his intellect.
Ethan looked around the lab. Just being there made him feel at home. He yanked open the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a brand new flash drive. He shoved it into a slot in his PC, next to the one already there. He would finally download everything onto that extra drive, then sleep a whole lot better. He hit the download key and waited for it to finish, and then pulled out the extra drive, and stared at it for a moment before placing it back into his bottom desk drawer.
Life would be so much easier if he could have a tech assistant. Having to do everything himself was starting to wear him down.
Maybe I could train Pete or Rocky?
I really must be tired to even consider trusting anyone in this facility, especially them.
There were way too many people involved already. After having given it much thought, he still wasn’t sure how his relationship with any of the existing personnel would end.
But he knew he’d have to think about it and finish it sooner rather than later. The study was at an end and shutting down. All that remained was the FDA approval. Then Zelint could launch the marketing program.
Final dispensation for the personnel would have to be determined very soon.
* * *
Gina unlocked the unit’s narcotic box and pulled out Meperidine. She filled a syringe with the narcotic, matched it with Derek Kopek’s med card, and set it on a tray, ready to be injected. Hopefully, this would take away his discomfort.
Discomfort?
Yeah, sure!
This med isn’t going to bring Derek anywhere near comfortable. Saying that to him is almost laughable. He, of all people, would know better, especially after a lifetime of working in pharmaceuticals.
The poor can barely breathe, so his oral pain meds along with jabbing him with a needle and pumping him with the smallest dose of happy juice is not going to do it for him. He’s going to keep on suffering because there is no real relief for him.
Is there a single word for suffering? I don’t think so. I don’t know how to describe the crushing, grinding sensation that can turn someone into a frenzied, mindless creature.
And all I have to offer him are empty words.
Rocky held out the phone for her. “A call for you.”
“Put it on hold, please.” She shoved the unit’s supply of narcotics back into the lock box, put the keys in her pocket, and then picked up the phone.
Rocky looked up as she answered, made no attempt to hide the fact he would be listening to her conversation. She walked away as far as the cord would take her, but although she didn’t want him listening in, she also needed to keep her eyes on the man to make sure he stayed away from the narcotic-filled syringe sitting on the tray.
“This is Gina Mazzio.”
“Hi, doll. Can you talk?”
“Not really.”
“Just listen, then. It looks like we can stop wondering which patient was in the basement last night. Rhonda Jenkins is gone.”
Gina turned to a patient pushing a walker with shuffling steps. The woman went up to Rocky. “My dresser drawer won’t open, Rocky.” She gave him a big smile. “Will you come fix it for me?”
Gina could tell it was the last thing Rocky wanted to do, but he had no choice but to go with the woman.
“Are you sure it was Rhonda Jenkins?”
“Are you missing anyone on your unit?”
“No … we have the same census as yesterday.” Her heart sank. She’d wanted to be mistaken about the whole basement affair. Hoped there was no patient involved.
“Then she has to be the one.”
“Isn’t she the blind woman you told me about?”
“Yeah.” Harry’s voice was throaty. “I questioned Pete, but he played dumb. He gave me one of his infuriating business-as-usual shrugs. The thing is, her chart has already been deleted from the files for the unit’s current census; I can’t even bring her up on the computer.”
“That was pretty fast,” Gina said. “What about her room? Are her belongings gone?”
“Not one sign that anyone ever lived there. I went through everything to make sure there wasn’t something that I could follow up on. Not only that, someone new is scheduled to arrive this afternoon.”
Gina paused to think. “There must be some kind of master file that gives the names of everyone in the study, at least everyone who flows through this facility. We need to look for it.”
“Yeah! It’s probably in the same place as the exit interviews that were a part of the consent package. I still can’t locate that section either.”
“That’s where they talk about any symptoms they’ve had while on AZ-1166?”
“That’s it. Somehow we’ve got to get our hands on all that information. And the only place it could be is with Ethan Dayton.”
There was a beat before Gina answered, “Oh.”
Chapter 22
What has happened to Rhonda Jenkins?
The name kept running through Gina’s mind. She tried to remember what else, if anything, she might have heard in the basement corridor the night before. Everything had turned into such a blur. She needed time to think about it, time to disentangle her fears from what she’d actually heard.
The rest of the morning Rocky kept close to her until he finally disappeared for his lunch break. Gina sat down at the desk and mentally walked through everything from the time she left their apartment, to the repositioning of the security cameras so she wouldn’t be seen, to the moment she got cat-clawed.
Yes! There was a scream … just as the cat’s claw ripped into me. I’m sure of it. Was that Rhonda Jenkins down there screaming?
She remembered hearing Pete and Rocky walking in her direction, talking in their usual macho lingo, and that’s when Ethan called out to
them. It was definitely Ethan.
She reached for the phone to talk to Harry again, but Rocky strutted into the station, back from his lunch break.
“Your turn, nurse.”
That low-life really knew how to get her Bronx up. She wanted to wipe that smug smile from his face, kick him a good one smack between the legs. Instead, she acted as though she was unconcerned about him and walked off the unit.
Out the door, she checked her watch. The jerk had taken forty minutes for lunch instead of the allotted thirty. Once inside the elevator, she took her ID card off her neck and slid it into the basement slot under the blank square on the board. When the door snapped open—her stomach clenched and she jumped back.
Under her breath, “Cut it out! Don’t be such a wuss.”
She poked her head out into the dimly lit basement corridor and listened.
Nothing.
Stepping out, she began to walk to the right, following the path she’d taken the night before.
Not afraid … not afraid.
Shaking, she forced one foot in front of the other until she came to a huge outcrop of rock. She wondered if this was a portion of one of the above ground boulders she’d seen.
It was very quiet. No sign of the cat that had caused her so much grief the night before. Right now she was sorry it wasn’t here—at least it would have been company.
The farther she went, the dimmer the lights became. Shadows turned from gray to black. She searched for some place to hide if she had to, but there was nothing—only the dimly-lit corridor with its granite walls. Everything felt smaller and tighter.
She squinted at her watch. Couldn’t really make out the exact time, yet she felt she’d been gone about ten minutes.
And then, the pathway abruptly ended. Gina was smack up against another huge outcrop of rock that blocked her way.
Now she really felt trapped. She took short and painful breaths as claustrophobia became a rope that yanked at her neck.
“No!”
Her heart was beating wildly. The world was closing in … closing up.
She needed to get away, to return to the elevator. She spun around and pressed her back against the cold, massive boulder … a rock stabbed into her shoulders. Everything seemed smaller, tighter. She stared back into the corridor; the near-darkness became a moving wall edging its way toward her.