The Scent of Revenge

by Russell Moran

  He leaned over to kiss her. She stared at the blank TV.

  “Who are you?” Ellen asked Bennie.

  “Oh, let’s just say that I’m an old friend. You can call me Bennie.”

  “Hello, Lennie,” Ellen said as she stared straight ahead.

  “I’m writing a book,” politely lied Dr. Bullshit Detector, “and Rick says that you can help me.”

  “I don’t know how to write a book,” said Ellen, her hands planted firmly on her lap.

  “Well according to The New York Times Best Seller List, it seems that you do know quite well how to write books. But don’t worry about that, sweetie. I just have a few questions.”

  “My name is Ellen, not sweetie.”

  “Sure thing, Ellen. Would you please tell me the name of the firm where you work?”

  “Firm? What firm?”

  “The architectural firm where you just became a named partner.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever hear of Whitney, Cox, and Bellamy?”

  “Are they on television?”

  “Is Bellamy your last name?”

  “My name is Ellen.”

  “Do you remember my name?”

  “George.”

  Ellen’s hands were no longer clasped together on her lap, but were gesturing and fidgeting like crazy. She began to perspire.

  “Hey, Ellen, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look tired. Did you get much sleep last night?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

  “Ellen, I’m going to go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be right back, Ellen. Rick, can you help me with the coffee?”

  Bennie and I walked into the kitchen.

  “I’m going to give her a mild sedative, Rick. She’s in a high state of agitation. It’ll knock her out shortly. Then you and I can talk.”

  ***

  Ellen was fast asleep in the guest bedroom at the other end of the apartment. Bennie sat across from me in the den. We dined on sandwiches that I had delivered. I took one bite and put mine down.

  “Rick, I may be a psychiatrist, but you’re one of the smartest guys I know. Before I say anything, first tell me what you think is going on.”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, Ben, but from my experience in life, it almost seems like Ellen is showing signs of Alzheimer’s disease. But that’s impossible. Just two days ago, Ellen—good old Ellen—was in my office, talking and joking with Barbara and Buster. We then had a great lunch. The only negative thing about lunch was that she forgot her bank PIN number and was pretty upset about it. Just a few days ago, Ellen laid out a detailed plan for me to cope with the stress of my job. Only days ago, Ellen was concerned about my mental health. And now she’s acting like a fucking zombie.”

  “Rick, you and I aren’t just colleagues, we’re friends. You stood by Ellen when she was kidnapped a few months ago, and I stood by you. I’m supposed to be a dispassionate professional and look at this shit clinically, but I admit that I’m upset, really upset. You hit it on the head. The symptoms we’re seeing are classic signs of dementia, like we see in Alzheimer’s patients. You saw the first indication when she forgot her PIN number. That can happen to anybody, but under the circumstances, I think it was an early marker. The disease isn’t a specialty of mine, but I do know a lot about it. Based on what you told me and what I’ve just seen, I gotta say I’m mystified. Yes, Alzheimer’s can act fast, but the speed is measured in months and years, not fucking hours. And, my God, I’ve read about it hitting younger people, but 38? That’s rare.”

  “Bennie, is there anything we can do?”

  Bennie got up and walked into the kitchen. He splashed cold water on his face and dried off with a couple of paper towels. He walked back into the den, looking sad.

  “You’re aware, Rick, that there’s no cure for Alzheimer’s. It isn’t just dementia, but a disease that manifests itself physically. Plaque actually forms on the surface of the brain, along with twisted fibers called tangles. And the disease eventually kills the victim. But hey, I’m going to hold out some hope here. Because of her age, and because it happened so fast, I’m thinking that we may be looking at something completely different.”

  “So what’s next, Ben? Please don’t tell me that I’m going to have to institutionalize Ellen, and that she’s going to die soon. Please don’t fucking tell me that, Bennie.”

  I started to cry, and I didn’t give a shit. The center of my life was disappearing from me.

  “Here’s what I will tell you, Rick. A guy named Harry Noonan is the absolute maven on the subject of Alzheimer’s. We were classmates at Harvard Medical School. He’s a good friend of mine, and he’s located right here in Manhattan. He’s affiliated with Columbia Presbyterian.”

  Bennie placed a call to Dr. Harry Noonan. He explained to his friend what his findings were.

  “Harry will be here within the hour, Rick. He wants to see Ellen himself. Meanwhile, you have some preparations to make. Here’s the name of an excellent visiting nurse who I’ve worked with, Olga Burns. You can’t leave Ellen alone, obviously. Olga has a lot of experience with dementia patients. Also, you need to get a combination lock that secures the door. The last thing you want is for Ellen to start wandering.”

  My mind swam as I contemplated what Bennie had just said. Two days ago, I had lunch with my Ellen, the smart, witty Ellen. Now, two days later, I have to be concerned about her wandering off.

  Chapter 17

  At 2:30, the doorbell rang, and it was Dr. Harry Noonan. He was short and wiry, with a burst of red hair. He had a nervous energy about him that set my nerves on edge. He and Bennie hugged, obviously old friends.

  We told Dr. Harry the story of the past 48 hours in the life of Ellen Bellamy. He took notes as we spoke.

  “Bennie, it’s amazing that you called me when you did. I’ve just returned from an Alzheimer’s conference in Albuquerque. It was the most ground-shaking meeting I’ve ever attended. There’s an article about it in today’s Times. Make sure you read it.”

  “Did you see or hear anything about the situation that Ellen Bellamy faces?” asked Bennie.

  “Yes, Ben, and I’m about to blow your mind just like mine was blown. The keynote speaker was an epidemiologist named Frank Buchannan who keeps a huge database of dementia patients, their symptoms, history, and the timing of the disease. To get to the main point, the world of Alzheimer’s and dementia has changed in the past 12 months, changed radically. According to Buchannan’s database, there’s been a large increase in Alzheimer’s diagnoses in the past year. Not only have the diagnoses skyrocketed, but the patient profiles are shocking as hell. Cases of early-onset dementia have shot off the charts. Rick’s wife, Ellen, at age 38, certainly qualifies as an early-onset victim.

  “Last year, we expected to see about 490,000 new cases of dementia. Instead, we found that the new cases reported were over 500,000. If the numbers hold as projected, we’ll see close to 600,000 cases this year. Now a significant part of that increase is because of the aging baby boomer population, but nothing can explain the dramatic surge in early-onset cases. Right now the surge is in the hundreds, but the projection for the future is staggering. And get this: of those diagnosed as early-onset, 50 percent are under the age of 40. And they’re all women. Every blessed one of them are women, young women. Something strange is going on, something we’re all trying to come to grips with.”

  “Doctor Noonan—”

  “Please call me Harry.”

  “Harry, did you read that New York Times article about 12 women in a small village in Afghanistan coming down with apparent Alzheimer’s symptoms?”

  “Yes, Rick, I read the article. The reporter interviewed me for background material. I’ve been invited by the Afghan government to consult with them, and I’m going there next week.”

  “Is there anything about all of this that lines up wi
th what you know about Ellen, Harry?”

  “It’s the speed, Rick. Ellen is not the only person I’ve heard about coming down with full-blown dementia in a couple of days. But hey, hold on. Here’s the most important thing, at least many of us think it is. I’m an expert in Alzheimer’s, maybe the nation’s leading expert, but my colleagues and I are beginning to think we may be dealing with something entirely different.”

  “Harry,” said Bennie, “are you saying that this disease you’re looking at may not be Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. The symptoms mimic Alzheimer’s exactly, but we have some flags that have thrown off our thinking. As you probably know, a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s can now be done with an MRI, but a definitive diagnosis is done after the fact, by autopsy. The plaque and tangles on the brain are visible on the examining table. At this point, Buchannan has estimated that about 600 women have come down with this thing in the past year. Ten have died and autopsies were performed. Not one of the autopsies confirmed the classic physical manifestation of Alzheimer’s—not one. A colleague of mine is working on a paper, and she’s asked me to review it before publication. She makes a strong case that this disease we’re looking at may be some kind of virus or a bacteria, transmittable in the environment.”

  “Hey, guys, I’m no doctor,” I said, “and I think I know the answer to the question I’m about to ask, but can the disease be treated?”

  “Rick,” said Dr. Harry, “the problem is we don’t know what this disease is yet; and therefore, we don’t have a treatment protocol in place. We know that genetics plays a big role in traditional Alzheimer’s. I want to ask you some questions, Rick, even though we don’t know just yet what we’re dealing with. Is there any history in your wife’s family of dementia?”

  “Ellen comes from a close-knit family and I’ve met every one of them. Her folks are in their 60s and both are sharp as hell. Her grandparents are both alive and in their 80s. They play chess regularly. Her grandfather always beats me, and I’m pretty good. No, I don’t know of any dementia in Ellen’s family.”

  “May I see Mrs. Bellamy, please?”

  I’d just remembered something, something that should give Harry a better understanding of Ellen than stories from me and Bennie. I picked up my iPad.

  “Here’s a video I took of Ellen—three days ago—at an architectural conference.” There was my Ellen, in front to a crowd of 5,000 other architects, giving an articulate, witty, and detailed explanation of a new building design. She had the audience in the palm of her hand.

  Harry looked at me. “Three days ago?”

  I nodded.

  We took Harry into Ellen’s room. She had just woken up, still groggy from the sedative that Bennie gave her.

  “What do you people want?” she said. “And who the hell are you?” Ellen looked at me when she said that.

  Oh, my God. She didn’t recognize me.

  Chapter 18

  Olga Burns rang the doorbell at 8 a.m. the next morning. I had gone through another sleepless night, checking on Ellen every half-hour. Olga was a tall, heavy-set woman with a ready smile. I figured she was about 45 years old. She spoke with a slight Ukrainian accent. As Bennie told me, it was easy to like and trust this woman.

  “So, Mr. Rick, please introduce me to my new friend.”

  I led Olga into the guest room. Ellen was lying in bed with her eyes wide open.

  “Ellen, my good friend, I haven’t seen you in a long time. Let’s have some tea.”

  Olga told me that she was simply creating a new reality for Ellen, one that would seem familiar to her.

  Olga and I led Ellen into the kitchen and sat her at the table while I prepared the tea. She sat next to Ellen and talked nonstop as if they were the best of friends.

  “Olga, I have to go to my office. Here’s my card. Call me on the cell phone if you have any questions at all.”

  “You leave everything to Olga, Mr. Rick. I will take good care of your Ellen.”

  My day at the office could have been 10 years long. I wasn’t prepared for what I’d encounter that evening.

  ***

  I never keep secrets from colleagues, especially my boss, Barbara Auletta. Bennie and I met with her and explained everything about Ellen. Barbara, who I always think of as a tough cookie, was in tears. She and Ellen had become close friends, and it was obvious that she was upset.

  “Rick, you’re the best agent I’ve got, and I want you to know that you have my 100 percent support. I’ll help you get through this, but I’m not sure what I can do.”

  I went to my office and poured myself a cup of decaf—because Ellen had told me to knock off the caffeine. I’d never been so stressed in my life, but I decided to let Ellen’s program take over. One of my jobs, like that of any FBI agent, is to think clearly under pressure. Bennie had once told me that you shouldn’t try to force out negative thoughts. Rather, I should let the thoughts happen and observe them, just like in meditation. If you try to force them out, they will take control. So I let the horrible memories of the past two days sink in.

  I got up from my desk and removed my jacket and shoes. I performed the five basic yoga exercises that Ellen taught me. Then I meditated for 20 minutes. For some strange reason—maybe not so strange—following Ellen’s plan for stress management gave me comfort. My wife came up with a plan to aid my mental health, and now she doesn’t even recognize me.

  Okay, enough bullshit. I’ve got work to do, I thought. I’ve got a case to work on. I have to learn everything I can about surface-to-air missiles. But my thoughts were in one direction only. How can I work a case when the love of my life is disappearing from me? Wait. What the hell am I thinking? Something’s going on, and it’s more than my personal crisis. There’s an old saying that “shit happens.” Well, sure it does, but usually in small increments. You get a flat tire or your washing machine craps out. Shit happens, but not large-scale shit like Dr. Harry talked about with the vast increase in dementia cases. Shit like that does not just happen. Shit like that happens for a reason. There’s always a reason. There’s always a pattern, and it usually begins with something that’s not supposed to happen.

  Something out of the blue, in and of itself, usually means there’s a dot, a dot that wants to be connected to another dot. Dr. Harry told me about the dramatic and unforeseen increase in apparent dementia cases across the country, early-onset cases, extremely early-onset. And all the victims are women, young women. This has nothing to do with baby boomers. A huge number of the new cases involve the children of baby boomers, daughters of baby boomers, people in their 30s and 40s. Harry told me and Bennie about that guy Dr. Frank Buchannan, an epidemiologist, a medical detective. I hope Doctor Frank likes his new partner, Rick Bellamy, a guy he hasn’t met.

  Dr. Frank Buchannan may have some keys in his pocket that he doesn’t know are there.

  Chapter 19

  Marla Giovanni, Senior Vice President of Microsoft, met with her product development team, Jane Wilcox, Roger Boynton, and Phil Smith. The subject was the progress of one of Microsoft’s biggest projects, the next version of Windows.

  Phil Smith poured coffee for everyone as Giovanni took her seat at the head of the table.

  “I’m going to go out on a hook, Marla,” said assistant vice-president Jane Wilcox “and say that this will be the most exciting version of Windows that any of us ever imagined. It’s almost making my head explode.” Her other two colleagues nodded in agreement.

  “Oh, my God,” said Giovanni, “your head is going to explode?” The look of fear on Giovanni’s face was clear.

  “Well,” said Wilcox, “you know me. I love to speak in superlatives when I’m excited about something. And this version of Windows definitely has me excited.”

  “But I like these windows,” said Giovanni, pointing to the view through the real window in her office.

  Everyone laughed, assuming that Giovanni was joking.

  “Look at this,” said Roger
Boynton as he pressed his remote toward the viewing screen.

  “I don’t want to look at that, I want to look at that.” Giovanni got up and walked over to the window and wiped off a smudge with a napkin. She then grabbed her chair, wheeled it away from the conference table, and placed it facing the window.

  “Hey, Marla,” said Wilcox, “I know how busy you are. Maybe you and I should huddle for a couple of minutes and get the rest of the gang back here tomorrow.” Wilcox was trying to save a situation that was heading in a strange direction.

  “Good idea,” said both Boynton and Smith. They could see what Wilcox was trying to do. They walked out of the office, leaving Marla Giovanni and Jane Wilcox alone.

  “Marla, what’s up? We’ve been friends for years. Talk to me.”

  “Who are you?”

  ***

  An ambulance took Marla Giovanni to the nearby hospital at 4 p.m., where she was scheduled for a mental evaluation. Jane Wilcox went with her.

  “Marla, honey, I don’t know what the hell is going on but I’m with you.”

  “Who are you?”

  Chapter 20

  I arrived at the apartment early at 5:30 p.m. I couldn’t wait to see Ellen. At the same time, I was scared shitless to see Ellen.

  Olga met me at the door. Her smiling enthusiastic face was not there. Her Ukrainian accent had gotten thicker. She looked, well there’s only one way to put it, she looked scared.

  “Meester Reek, come seet and talk.”

  “Is everything okay, Olga?” Starting a conversation with a stupid question always does the trick.

  “Ellen is not good. From this morning to now, she is getting worse. Every time I see her, she doesn’t know me. I ask her questions, and she says nothing. She even…” Olga let go of a sob, blew her nose, and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Ellen has started peeing on herself. She doesn’t even call me to go to the bathroom. She has no control. Also, she is very nervous.”

  “Did you call Doctor Bennie, Olga?”

  “Yes, he comes here soon, maybe ten minutes.”