The Shadow Box

by Maxim, John R.

  Megan covered her face with her hands. He could see that she was mortified. She needed a moment to collect herself. She swallowed hard and continued.

  “Have you ever, like the next day, said, 'I can't believe I did that’? Just shake your head or nod.”

  He nodded.

  “Were you disgusted with yourself? You can answer.”

  ”I . . . wondered about myself.”

  “If it happened often enough, not every day but still too often, you might decide you'd be better off living alone. I did. Did you, Michael?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You didn't want anyone else hurt.”

  “Hold it. Who says anyone was?”

  She chewed her lip. “It's all around you, Michael. People hurt. People dying. Some of it is through violence and that's the part that's clearest. But most of it . . . many people ... all kinds of people . . . was not violent, exactly. I want to say poison. People who were poisoned.”

  “Um . . . Megan.”

  She waved him off. She stopped pacing and sat, still hugging herself.

  “Megan . . . I know nothing about lots of people dying. Poisoned or any other way.”

  She rocked in her chair. Eyes closed. She seemed to be struggling. “Yes, you do,” she blurted. “Or you should. Or someone thinks you do. Or ... oh, Christ, I hate this.”

  Fallon pushed to his feet. He walked to her chair and lowered himself in front of it. For an instant, she seemed frightened of him. He backed away.

  “Megan,” he said gently. “That part is nonsense. It just didn't happen.”

  Silence. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Okay,” he said wearily. “Let's say it did. I either know about it, I should know, or someone thinks I do. Which is it?”

  The tears spilled over. ”I think you know.”

  He took a breath. “And if I swear to you I don't, will you believe me?”

  ”I do believe you. But you do know.”

  They had finished the bottle.

  Michael sat on the carpet by her chair. She had asked if she could touch him again but only with her fingertips. She did, but she could feel nothing else. Michael hadn't thought she would. There was nothing to this poisoning business. Megan said it herself. She was not always right.

  Wait a second.

  ”I work ... I did work . . . with a number of drug companies. When you talk about a poisoning, about all these people dying, could you be talking about ... I don't know ... a manufacturing error? A bad batch?”

  “Has that happened?”

  “In this country? Not that I know of. And I would know. Everyone in the industry would know.”

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head as if to say, “Then that can't be it.”

  “Why, by the way, did my pills upset you?”

  She looked away. “They just did.”

  “Megan, I'm looking for a connection here.”

  “Michael . . .” She flared at him. 'I just don't like pills.”

  Uh-oh.

  “They numb the mind. Why do you take them?”

  ”I stopped, actually.”

  “Then get rid of them.”

  He whistled inwardly. What was she? he wondered. A former addict? Suicide-prone? Or maybe psychics just like to keep all their circuits clear. Whatever. Her reaction had been extravagant and she knew it. She turned her head and gave a jerky little wave as if asking for a moment's grace. The hand settled on his arm.

  “Michael . . .” She squeezed it. “Go sit over there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you're going to be mad at me. Go sit.”

  Fallon obeyed.

  He thought that he was about to hear what she had against pills. Perhaps some clue to what made her the way she is. But she had shifted gears entirely.

  She began by telling him that on the night she rushed out of there, she had never intended to come back, hoped never to see him or speak to him again. When she came to ... realized what she'd been doing . . . she was so humiliated that she ran all the way down to the Edgartown dock, started her engine, and nearly plowed into a forty-foot Bertram.

  And she was frightened. The physical stuff aside, there was that gun. Awful things had happened around it. It was all a stew in her mind but she felt certain that she'd seen him mixed in with it. She had not seen him using the gun, not actually firing it, but she felt that he wanted to, planned to, hoped to. One of those.

  And there was still some of that anger in him, she said. And fear. Not as much. Just some. But the house, this house, seemed okay. It had been a happy house. Always. There were no dumb ghosts. He would be fine here.

  “So where do I get mad?” he asked her.

  She wet her lips. “Never mind. That's not important.”

  Fallon groaned aloud. Yup. That'll do it. Someone asks, Michael, do you know what's wrong with you?. . . No, what?. . . Never mind. Someone asks, Michael, do you know what women say about you?. . . No, what?. . . Never mind.

  “Megan,” he told her, “there is a poker by the fireplace. I'm about to pick it up and hit you with it.”

  She almost smiled. “Okay. Give me a second.”

  Another grimace as in here goes nothing.

  “Michael, I know about Bronwyn Kelsey. I know how she died.”

  He felt his head go light.

  “And your uncle. I know where you lived, where you worked. I know how you broke your arm.”

  He stared, disbelieving.

  “It was from the newspapers, Michael. I went to a library.”

  He began to understand. “Your sail to Newport?”

  She nodded. “They've got a big microfilm section.”

  She had not intended to research him, she said. She'd simply taken the boat out because she had a sense that he might come that weekend to confront her, attack her, say all the hurtful things he must have been saving up. She wanted to be someplace else when he did. But she couldn't get away from him. Even out on the water. There was this great bubbling stew that she mentioned. And all those dead that she felt.

  She knew that he had come from New York, that he seemed to be running from something, and anything that big, she reasoned, had to have been in the papers. It was no more than a hunch. But she spent last evening and early this morning scanning back issues of the New York Times and the Post. Then she spotted the name. His uncle's name, actually. And his own a few issues later.

  “I'm very sorry, Michael. About your loss, I mean.”

  He said nothing.

  “Are you angry?”

  ,”I don't know.”

  “I'd never say a word. And I won't mention it again unless you feel like talking about it.”

  ”I don't. At least not tonight.”

  She peeled back her sleeve, turned her watch to the light. She drummed her fingers, then rose to her feet.

  “Do you . . . need a ride?” he asked her.

  She shook her head, cocking it toward the Edgartown marina. It was only a two-minute walk.

  “Megan, if you'd care to stay over . . .”

  “No, Michael.”

  “This is an inn, Megan. I didn't mean with me.”

  She dropped her eyes. “I'm sure you didn't.”

  Michael looked for sarcasm. He didn't see it. He saw sadness.

  “Megan, you explained that. The other night . . . that wasn't you, exactly.”

  She said nothing. The shoulders seemed to come together again. She looked small again.

  “What if we just sat here?” he offered. “We have the fire. You can tell me where you've been with your boat. The Caribbean, maybe. I've never been there myself.”

  Still nothing. But she did look tired.

  “We can lay out some cushions. You take one side of the fireplace and I'll take the other. I'll get some quilts and pillows, make a couple of Irish coffees . . .”

  She shook her head. She seemed ready to cry again. Now what?

  “Megan, tell me what's wrong.”

  “Yo
u wouldn't see much difference,” she blurted. With that, she turned toward the door.

  He went after her. He reached to touch her shoulder, then drew back when she recoiled.

  “Are you going to tell me what that means?”

  A weary sigh. “Come on, Michael. You're not that dumb.”

  “You'd be amazed. Tell me.”

  ”I freeze up, okay? I'm good at one thing and it isn't screwing.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Megan, can't we just . . .” He almost said can't we be friends? “Can't we just sort of be with each other without that coming up? I mean, no one pinned any medals on me, either.”

  She wavered.

  “Stay for one more log. And one Irish coffee.”

  “One log?”

  “Scout's honor.”

  She did fall asleep by the fire.

  Michael fetched a pillow and comforter. He covered her. Carefully, he eased the pillow under her head and straightened the arm that it replaced. He was relieved that she didn't stir. Lying there, finally at peace, she really was a lovely woman.

  He had kept his word and his distance with some difficulty. He found himself wanting to hold her. But if he did she might read his thoughts and get them wrong again. He'd be thinking, Go ahead, Megan. Doze off. You're safe here with me, but she'd hear, Come on, tootsie. Let's get naked and give it another shot.

  One eye fluttered. It opened just a bit.

  She whispered, “You're a nice man, Michael.”

  And then she was asleep again.

  The fire was down to a few glowing coals.

  Fallon took off his jacket and shoes. He lined up some cushions well to his side of the fireplace and eased himself onto them. Megan was snoring softly. One arm was stretched out where he left it. Her hand was within reach. He wanted to touch it. He hesitated, for fear of waking her again.

  But he did reach out. Very lightly, he placed his hand over hers. The part of it nearest the fire was warm. He could feel her heartbeat through it. Her hand did not move or otherwise react until he started to take his own away. Her fingers arched, just a little. He waited. Then her hand slid out from under his and came to rest on top of it. Ever so lightly, she squeezed his hand.

  ”I freeze up,” she had said to him.

  He would like to have tried. He would like to have had the chance to show her that he could be patient . . . encouraging . . . kind. He had no idea whether he could ever get her to trust him or, more importantly, to trust herself. Maybe not. It probably wouldn't happen.

  But whether or not it did, even if they never made love or even touched again, he knew one thing. He knew that this, right here and now, was as tender a moment as he'd ever had in his life.

  Chapter 17

  Brendan Doyle, like Megan, had been to the library. On that Sunday afternoon, he had photocopied every page from Moody's, Standard & Poor's, and the Dun & Bradstreet World Business Directory that made reference to AdlerChemiker AG and one from Moody's Financial listing the officers and owners of Lehman-Stone. He had also used the library's Wilsondisc computer to find any and all recent articles on the subject of counterfeit drugs. There were only a few and Amie Aaronson had been right. Most of these were in the magazine called FDA Consumer. He photocopied those as well. Once home, he arranged them in two stacks and made himself comfortable.

  Before he began, his yellow Hi-Liter in hand, he tried the number of Jake's Florida condo one more time. Moon still wasn't answering. It had been two days now.

  Doyle regretted lying to Michael. But if he'd told him where Moon was, Michael might have been on the next plane to Naples. And it wasn't strictly a lie. Moon's primary address these past several-months had been a neurological ward up in Fort Myers and then a rehab and therapy clinic in Naples. He got worse before he got better. It had been only three weeks since his therapist said that he could try living alone.

  Jake's apartment had seemed a safe enough address. Anyone who thought to look for him there would have done so months ago.

  But now Doyle was worried.

  He wished now that he hadn't given Julie Moon's number. It's just that it was hard to say no, all things considered. All Julie wanted to hear, he said, was that Michael and Jake were clean. He would have believed it, coming from Moon. No one ever believes a lawyer.

  But what Julie had also said was “Always keep something in your pocket.” Doyle knew what he hoped that didn't mean. He hoped it didn't mean, “Doyle's okay but he's slow. He's too legal. Doyle likes to see proof. Fuck it. Let's just give this to Moon.”

  Yeah, well fuck you too.

  You want to see speed? I'll show you speed. I'll show you how fast Moon's brain explodes if you get his blood pressure all pumped up.

  But first things first. AdChem.

  Let's see what Michael was into.

  AdlerChemiker AG, according to Moody’s, was mostly a holding company, created in 1982 under German law. It was actually a merger of several smaller firms, some of which had been in business since before World War Two. Of these, the centerpiece was Arznei-Fabrik GmbH, wholly owned by the von Scharnhorst family of Munich. Doyle half expected to see that they made poison gas for death camps but all they ever made were vitamins. Later, after the merger, Arznei-Fabrik branched out into pharmaceuticals, buying up two more R&D companies, a printing and packaging firm, and a mail-order drug firm.

  Rapid growth through the eighties. Heavy investment in R&D, which apparently paid off. They now sell about sixty different product lines and hold over three hundred new drug patents. Until the past few years, relatively few have had FDA approval for sale in the United States but they made up for it in the rest of the world where standards are far less rigid.

  This, Doyle knew, did not mean the products were crap, necessarily. The FDA requires that a new drug be effective ninety-five percent of the time. That means ninety-five out of one hundred patients must benefit from it or it can't be sold in this country. It's a dumb standard. It sounds fine as long as you're not suffering from some nasty disease and there's a medicine that will help it, say, eight times out of ten. It's why Tijuana, just over the border, has become one big supermarket for drugs that you can't buy here. And where some drugs you can buy here sell at a tenth the cost.

  But getting back to AdChem . . .

  They have subsidiaries, it says here, in over twenty countries. Most of them third world. India, Pakistan, Cambodia, Egypt. Several in Central America. And there's Guatemala again, where Arnie said the bogus Ovulen was made. The legitimate reason for all these exotic subsidiaries is, of course, the low labor cost but it's also the freedom from burdensome controls. Some of them have no standards at all concerning product contamination, safety in the workplace, or even for the disposal of toxic waste. If they did make counterfeits, thought Doyle, you wonder who'd notice.

  Adler.

  It struck Doyle as odd that none of the companies in the AdChem group ever had Adler in its name. None of the directors had that name either. Most of them are von Scharnhorsts by blood or marriage. Among them, they control almost seventy percent of the stock. The largest single stockholder is the Countess Anna von Reisch und Scharnhorst. Her husband and her cousins run the company. No Adlers and no Rasmussens either. Moon is really reaching on that one.

  He found a profile on the Countess. It had photographs. One dated back to the war when she had volunteered at a civilian aid station. During the Allied bombings of Munich she was twice cited for heroism, pulling injured victims out of burning buildings. This says she saved dozens of lives.

  Doyle thought she had a good face. Very correct, very Prussian. Never pretty, exactly, but strong. The war ended and, with the help of the Marshall Plan, she started putting the family business back together. She gave jobs to hundreds of destitute Germans, sold ancestral land to pay their salaries until the company could start earning money. In her later years she spent less time on the business and more time on her charities. No kids of her own. She still worked three days a week as a volunteer in
a children's hospital.

  Looks . . . profiles . . . can be deceiving, thought Doyle. But if this woman had a venal bone in her body, he couldn't see it. Even so, Doyle had no doubt that AdChem had routinely skirted the law. That, after all, was the point in having so many subsidiaries in so many places. What is criminal here is legal there. It is also a way to hide the very large profits that are made on some of these products.

  Take an ordinary blister pack of a given medication. The raw materials are bought here, there, and everywhere, usually from a company's own subsidiaries, and each ingredient is marked up separately. Another plant mixes them, marks up the result. The mixture is sent to still another plant that presses it into pills. That's another markup. They go from there to the packaging plant for assembly. One last mark-up is added but this is the only mark-up that shows on the books. Little if any tax is paid on all those other profits.