by Kyra Davis
“If it were me, I’d start by getting him into a calm, happy mood before I talked to him about anything,” she said as she zeroed in on a Winnie The Pooh baby blanket. “Get him to a place where he thinks you're catering to him, maybe even spoiling him a little. Pour him a small drink…Russians like cognac, right? Pour him a little cognac, give him a nice shoulder rub, bake him some cupcakes and then when he’s feeling relaxed and receptive, that’s when you bring up the whole murder and mayhem stuff.”
“I’m not sure that will work.”
“Trust me,” Mary Ann said as her eyes moved over a row of mobiles. “And I have a great chocolate cupcake recipe I could give you.”
“I don’t think a cupcake can solve this,” I said, doubtfully.
“Sophie,” Mary Ann turned to me and fixed me with a stare, “have you ever seen an angry man with a cupcake in his hand?”
I opened my mouth to reply then thought about it for a second. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Still, if you offer someone a cupcake and then tell them you want to talk about poison…” my phone rang and I shut up and fished it out quietly hoping it was Catherine. I didn’t recognize the number on my cell, but then maybe she was calling me from her home number. I gestured to Mary Ann to hold on for a moment and picked up. “Hello?”
“Sophie!” Gundrun boomed.
My heart dropped a little. Had he figured out I wasn’t who I said I was? “Hi Gun…drun,” I said, unsure if I was still invited to use his nickname. “How are you? Did…did you like the article?”
“It’s absolutely fantastic! As I said to you before, I didn’t think the first interview was nearly in depth enough but I could see your hand in this, a lot of things I spoke specifically to you about made it in. I appreciate that.”
“Well, it was my pleasure Gun.” I suppressed a loud sigh of relief. Obviously, the reporter had been able to get information about Gundrun and Nolan-Volz without asking him directly about it. That’s what reporters do. But if he wanted to attribute the information to me, I’d happily take the credit.
Mary Ann gave me a funny look and made a symbol of a gun with her hand while mouthing boss man? Yes, I mouthed back as I also made a gun symbol with my hand…which I then held up to my head.
“Still, they wronged you by not giving you credit. Only Tereza’s name was listed as the byline. What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Well, I really worked as more of a research assistant on this one,” I hedged. “Tereza did all the writing and the vast majority of the work.”
“I still say you were robbed. But I want you to know, I for one am damned grateful for your work on this.”
His tone and speech patterns were different than the last time I had spoken to him. Perhaps this is what he sounded like when he was truly happy?
“Please let me show you my appreciation. Come to my home for dinner tomorrow night. My wife cooks a mean eggplant parm.”
“Oh.” Another shopper stepped up to the shelves beside us, her baby was strapped into a seat that seemed specially designed to fit into her shopping cart. “Thank you, but I don’t think that would be appropriate.” The baby smelled awful.
“Why’s that? The article has been completed and published. I can’t influence it anymore. Beside, this would be a business dinner. You clearly had more questions about pharmaceutical development and the other concerns of Aaron London. I’m afraid I was a little brusque on those points. But after that article? The least I can do is give you the information you want and set you up well for your next piece…which I do hope will have your name on it. Seriously, Sophie. I owe you.”
Oh. Well when he put it like that…
“When were you thinking?” I asked.
“My husband and I have a communication problem in that he always wants to communicate. There’s a lot to be said for just shutting up every once in a while.”
--Dying To Laugh
When I came home I found Anatoly standing outside the house, helmet tucked under one arm and staring up at the second story windows. I pulled into our driveway, behind his motorcycle and came out to join him. “What are you looking at?” I asked.
“I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way to climb up there.” He graced me with a cursory glance and a nod before looking back up at the window. “The locks on those windows aren’t as secure as they should be.”
“Our house is in full view of the street,” I pointed out with a forced laugh. “No one’s going to scale it in order to climb in a second story window.”
Anatoly grimaced, keeping his eyes on the house. “Your problem is you’re too paranoid about highly unlikely dangers and not nearly paranoid enough about the more plausible ones. I’ll fix the locks on the windows tomorrow.” He finally brought his eyes down to me and then gestured toward the front door. “Shall we?”
He waited for me to walk up to the door first, the perfect gentleman if not the perfect partner at the moment. We entered our home single file. I sat down on the couch next to my feline feeling awkward. Anatoly had dropped off his helmet by the door and was occupied with scratching Ms. Dogz’s belly. “You saw my note about the alarm?” he asked once he finally joined me in the living room.
“Yes, I saw it…a little late. Isn’t our alarm system connected to a security patrol service or the police department so that when it goes off something…you know, happens? Like, someone responds or something.”
“It’s not,” Anatoly admitted taking a seat in the armchair. So very far away. “However if it goes off for four minutes straight without one of us entering the code the alarm company will check in.”
He was focused on me. I had his attention if I wanted it. But I didn’t know how much else I had. His heart? Yes, I was sure I still had his heart. But his understanding? His support? Certainly not his patience.
“Anything interesting happen today?” he asked. His tone was casual but I could sense the edge in the question.
“Mary Ann’s looking for baby items even though she doesn’t have a baby. She’s absolutely sure she’s one, maybe even two days pregnant.”
“Anything else?”
I thought about the call from Jason, then from Gun and of course, the underlined headline. “That’s all.”
Anatoly’s jaw set. “You can’t be honest with me.”
My lips curved into a small, sad smile. “It would be easier if you actually wanted the truth.”
The flash of anger in Anatoly’s eyes was unmistakable. “I have never been one to stick my head in the sand.”
“No,” I agreed. “You’ve also never been one to turn your back on a man in need. And yet we both did that this time. And now you’re following one unfortunate first with another.”
“Damn it, Soph--”
“It seems outlandish,” I said, cutting him off, “but also heartbreaking that a man could come to us for help only to have us dismiss him as a lunatic.” Anatoly’s jaw was so tense I thought it might crack and shatter to the floor. I really should have done this after making him a cupcake, but it was too late for that now. “It seems ludicrously, perhaps unrealistically Machiavellian that someone could slowly poison a man until he lost his senses and thereby the credibility he would need in order to get help.” I glanced over at Mr. Katz, he had fallen asleep, but I decided that the position of his body was kitty language for You tell him, Sister. “But sometimes the truth is ludicrous,” I said, bringing my eyes back to Anatoly. “And I’ll admit, dismissing one oddly suspicious event as coincidence is rational. Dismissing a string of them? That’s denial. You’re in denial.”
Anatoly looked stricken. “I didn’t misjudge the situation. London was destroying himself. I couldn’t help him with that.”
And I heard it, the undercurrent note of angst hidden under layers of bravado and cultivated frustration. Anatoly couldn’t admit that he might have failed in a life or death situation. And his failure wasn’t that he hadn’t saved London because in truth London came to us too late for that. The failure had been
in our judgment. Anatoly prided himself on his good judgment. Perhaps we all did. But the thing is, the one universal human sin is that occasionally, we all exercise grievous misjudgment.
“Anatoly,” I said, leaning forward, “you really need to consider the possibility--” the doorbell rang, interrupting me.
Anatoly sat up a little straighter. “Are you expecting anyone?”
I shook my head. “But if it was, like a stalker…he wouldn’t ring the bell, right?” I whispered.
“That depends on whether he wanted you to come to the door or not,” he answered before slowly getting to his feet. “Wait here,” he instructed.
I stayed in my seat as Anatoly disappeared into the foyer. It was fine. Everything was fine. I looked over at Mr. Katz who twitched his ears. That’s kitty language for it might not be fine.
And then I heard the door open and a voice. Not Anatoly’s voice but a voice I certainly recognized.
“Hey man, is Sophie here? She’s expecting me.”
In seconds Jason was standing in my living room, wearing an Atari T-shirt under a Western-style suede leather shirt and on top of black baggy jeans. There was a stack of manila folders in his arms. Anatoly was steps behind him looking confused, although whether Jason's presence or his outfit was the thing confusing him was anyone’s guess.
“You are going to love what I found,” Jason said, beaming down at me.
“Jason, I told you tonight wasn’t a good time.” I looked over at Anatoly. “I did tell him not to come.”
Jason’s face fell. “But…you owe me for Stalingrad!”
“I don’t know what that means and I don’t care,” Anatoly growled. “Sophie and I were in the middle of a private conversation. We don’t want company.”
“He’s right. We can discuss all…that,” I waved at the files as I got up from the sofa, “on another day. Here, I’ll walk you out.”
“He left notes,” Jason said as I tried to lead him to the door.
I stopped. “Who left notes?”
“London! I have personal notes in here! He typed them up but they’re definitely his thoughts. They’re clues, Sophie.”
I hesitated. I could feel Anatoly staring at me, waiting for me to make my decision. And I knew what he wanted that decision to be. But I couldn’t help myself. I turned to Anatoly. “We’ll just be, like, ten minutes, okay? Fifteen tops.”
Anatoly stared at me, his expression completely unreadable. I offered him an awkward smile then took Jason’s arm and brought him into the dining room. “Let me see the notes,” I said eagerly.
“Are there any electronics in here,” he asked, still holding tight to the files.
“Electronics?” I repeated. “Why?”
“You know how easy it is to turn your laptop into a listening device? Your TV? Your refrigerator?”
“Our refrigerator is very good at keeping secrets,” I assured him. “Where are the notes?”
“You have way too much faith in the integrity of your appliances,” he replied with a completely straight face. “Before you look at the notes, take a look at this.” He dropped a file on the table. “These are details about, like, two dozen different class action cases involving pharmaceuticals, going back fifty, sixty years. And all different companies. I told you, they’re all corrupt. The Christian Scientists got this one right. The medical establishment can Not. Be. Trusted. We all think we’re the rugged-individualist protagonists in some kind of glorified Ayn Rand novel. But the truth is we’re the complacent, weak-willed followers you find in the books of Orwell! You hear what I’m saying?”
“Jason, just show me London’s personal notes.”
“The case he has the most information on was Orvex,” he went on, ignoring my request. “Man, your friend Gun is lucky he got away with his career intact. If this Sobexsol thing doesn’t fly I think he’s done. This is his chance to prove to the world that he can do something right in pharmaceuticals ooor…that he can’t.”
“And you think he can’t?” I asked, flipping through the file.
“Nobody can do anything right in pharmaceuticals,” Jason insisted as he hugged the rest of the files to his chest protectively. “I keep telling you, Big Pharma is evil.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever. Show me the personal notes.” I closed the file feeling more than a little impatient now. “Please.”
Jason graced me with something very close to a pout. But he did give me the file with all of London’s notes. A few were written by hand but most were typed just as neatly as the blog posts and the articles. But unlike those other documents, the notes felt fragmented. Slices of thought, sprinkles of emotion, a dab of fatalism here, a smidgen of heartbreak there.
The first note read like a stream-of-consciousness chapter of a Faulkner novel:
She’s withdrawn. I see her look away. Always, always away. I was helping. She knows what I’ve done. So many risks! But it’s all worth it. It should be worth it. She just needs to stop looking away.
I put the note down and picked up the next one:
To love honor and protect. I’ve done that, haven’t I? I’ve been a husband to her in every way that matters. This must just be the transition. She is better. Slurred speech? Gone. Red eyes? Clear. She still trembles, maybe even more so now. But that’s to be expected. And she has a cold. Her immune system may be out of whack. But that’s to be expected too. She’s angry. But that’s probably normal. She’s better, because of me. I’ve taken care of her the way a man should take care of his wife. When she’s stabilized she’ll see me as a hero.
“Is this a chronicle of the end of his marriage?” I mumbled, more to myself than to Jason. I had only collected a fraction of the papers that were in that apartment. Had I missed anything that would clarify the meaning of this? I picked up another note. But that one was completely different than the other two. It read:
Eight months in: Subject had half a glass of wine and then stopped, without wanting more. Can stand among smokers without wanting a cigarette. Minor hair loss, but that seems to be tapering off.
“I think this is from his work,” I noted, pushing it aside.
“Sophie,” Jason took a step closer as Ms. Dogz trotted into the room to see who was calling out to her. I had never met a dog more responsive to her name than this one. “There’s a pattern…or at least there is with the blog posts he collected. Over eighty percent of the articles are about faulty, unethical drug trials or about approved drugs making patients sick. And Nolan-Volz is on the cusp of introducing a new drug to market.”
I finally turned back to Jason, putting London’s notes down. “But the early results of the Sobexsol trials are great,” I reminded him. “That’s what’s being reported.”
“You can’t trust what the media tells you,” Jason said, stubbornly. “They’re just reciting corporate talking points.” He leaned in a little closer. “London’s establishing a pattern of behavior here, not his, theirs. Some of these stories are about things that are confirmed to be true. The MKUltra stuff, there are some articles here about syphilis experiments they did on African American men, that’s documented and absolutely true, as is the stuff about Thalidomide.” He shuffled through the papers to show me a few more of the articles. “Some of it is a little more controversial,” he admitted, “like the whole thing about vaccinations causing autism or there’s a story about how a certain over-the-counter antihistamine may result in infertility. Admittedly, there isn’t a lot of documented evidence to back any of that up. But what matters here is not what’s true and what’s false. What’s important is the pattern of behavior of corporations and our government!”
I shifted my weight back on my heels, taken aback and a little appalled by what I had just heard. “Jason,” I said quietly once I found my voice, “it always matters what’s true and what’s false. That’s always the important part.”
“Okay, yeah, I feel you but--”
“Where’s Anatoly?” I looked past him for the first time fully noting his a
bsence.
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. I thought I heard him leave a few minutes ago.”
“You heard him leave?” I asked, incredulously. I rushed past Jason to the living room. It was empty save for Mr. Katz. Anatoly’s keys were no longer on the coffee table. I rushed to the front door and threw it open. His motorcycle was gone. I stared at the empty space for a moment, only turning my eyes away from the spot as I heard another car start up and pull away from the curb.
The car didn’t have its headlights on which was odd enough. But the street lights did afford me just enough light to make out some of its minor details as it accelerated past my house.
It was a Zipcar.
“Sophie.” I turned to see Jason, Ms. Dogz at his side. “Is everything okay?”
No. Everything is not okay. I mutely walked back into the house, my mind jumping from the Zipcar to Anatoly’s quiet exit then back again. I wasn’t sure which one scared me more. “I have to call him,” I whispered to myself.
“What?” Jason asked. “I didn’t catch that.”
I went into the living room for my purse and dug out my cell phone. “Go home, Jason,” I said, a little louder this time. “Leave the files. I’ll look over them tonight on my own.”
“I really think I can help you with this,” Jason protested.
“You have helped me,” I acknowledged. “But you and I…we’re both on thin ice with Dena.” And with Anatoly. “You may not really get that but…trust me,” I continued. “Go see her. Tell her you’re not going to help me anymore with this whole London thing.”
“But--”
“Do you love her?” I asked, cutting him off.
“Yeah, yes, of course I love her,” he sputtered.
“Then sacrifice for her.”
He blinked. Then looked back at the dining room where he had left the files. “I’m really into this,” he said, plaintively. When I didn’t reply he exhaled loudly, his shoulders sagging. “You really think she’ll be that upset if I keep helping you?”