Meds

by Ray Garton

  Everett turned left, pulled open the door, and stepped into the waiting room. “Avalon” was playing on the radio. For just a moment, he wondered if he were dreaming or hallucinating.

  Blood had splattered all over the wall opposite the reception desk. Everyone in the room had gathered along the front of the desk and faced the bloody wall with expressions of horror.

  Barb Mannetti was struggling with a man Everett didn’t recognize, and standing nearby, as if afraid to go any closer but just as afraid not to, a woman—Marianne Spencer, one of Everett’s patients—pressed her fists to the sides of her face and screamed, “Larry, oh god, Larry, be careful, be careful!” Barb held a large, blood-stained knife in her right hand; it looked like the kind of knife that had come from a drawer in her kitchen. Larry stood behind her with his left arm wrapped around Barb’s torso while his right hand held her right wrist. He was a middle-aged balding man and his face was pulled back in a grimace as he struggled to keep her from using that knife.

  It was obvious that Barb had already used the knife quite a bit. Mrs. Pardo was on her knees in front of a chair, hunched forward with her upper body motionless in the chair’s seat, blood on her clothes.

  Pregnant Darlene Fugelman was scrambling clumsily over the floor on hands and knees away from Carla and toward the desk, her left shoulder and arm bloody.

  Barb’s face was twisted into a mask of exertion and she grunted with effort as she tried to pull away from the man.

  It took only a couple of seconds for Everett’s eyes to sweep over the scene and absorb everything. He cursed under his breath as he rushed forward to help Larry with Barb.

  In the mere heartbeats before he reached them, Barb twisted her head to the right, mouth open wide. She closed her teeth on Larry’s wrist so hard that blood bubbled up around her mouth almost instantly. He cried out and instinctively took a step back, away from Barb. Larry’s wife Marianne released a shrill scream of fear as Barb swung the knife around and plunged the blade into the left side of the Larry’s abdomen. More shouts and cries rose from the patients huddled together in a clot before the reception desk.

  Everett did not think about his options or possible lawsuits or other consequences, he simply followed his gut. He locked his hands together and, as if swinging an invisible baseball bat, struck Barb in the back of the neck with all his strength. She dropped forward heavily and hit the floor hard, face down. The knife remained in Larry’s side as he fell backward and slammed into the glass door, rattling the narrow strip of venetian blinds over the door. Marianne rushed to Larry’s side, crying and babbling hysterically.

  Everett stood there a moment, his heart pumping adrenaline through his veins, and kept an eye on Barb. At first, she made an effort to push herself up on her hands, then dropped back to the floor, sobbing and murmuring. She rolled back and forth in a rocking movement, and her arms and legs remained in constant motion.

  Everett went to Larry and said gently to Marianne, “Please step back, Marianne, so I can get him on the floor, okay?” He called over his shoulder, “Teresa? Gauze. Now.”

  Teresa rushed to get gauze as Everett put an arm around Larry’s shoulder and pulled him away from the door. Karen took Marianne’s arm and pulled her out of the way.

  “Step over here,” Everett said, moving and speaking rapidly. “Now, I want you to just lie back. I’ve got you, don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Just lie back against me without bending at the waist, you need to stay straight.” Once Larry was stretched out on the floor, Everett pulled one of the chairs over and gently lifted Larry’s feet up and rested them on it. He hunkered down beside Larry. To no one in particular, he said, “Did someone call 911?”

  “Yes,” Teresa said as she came to Larry’s side with gauze. “They’re on their way.”

  “Pack his wound, Teresa! Karen, get more gauze!” He looked over at Barb.

  She still lay face-down on the floor, moving her arms erratically as she muttered and whimpered, rolling back and forth with no apparent purpose other than to keep moving.

  The Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields” began to play over the speakers.

  Everett hurried to Mrs. Pardo’s side. She was limp and motionless and covered with blood. He reached down and touched two fingers to her bloody neck, feeling for a pulse. He found none.

  Darlene Fugelman sat on the floor with her back to the front desk, legs stretched out before her. Blood soaked her top, especially over her left shoulder an arm, and she was as pale as a corpse as she stared blankly at nothing in particular.

  As he rushed to Darlene’s side, Everett looked over his shoulder at Teresa and said, “What the hell happened?”

  Teresa stood, having packed Larry’s wound, and turned to Everett. Her eyes widened as she shook her head and said, “I don’t know! Barb came in without an appointment and said she had to see you because she hadn’t been feeling well since she ran out of Paaxone.”

  “Karen, gauze,” Everett said after examining Darlene’s shoulder. Karen came to him and he said, “Pack her wound. She’s in shock.” He turned to Teresa again. “Paaxone? She ran out?” He tried to keep his thoughts straight as he looked around the bloody room to make sure everything that could be done was being done. To Teresa again, he said, “Did she say when?”

  “A couple of days ago, she said she took her last one a couple of days ago. She said... well, I thought it was weird, but she said her thoughts hurt.”

  Everett looked down at Larry, who’s eyes were showing a little too much white. A red, soggy stain was spreading around the blade that was in his abdomen almost to the hilt. He was pale and there was fear in his eyes. “How you doing, Larry?”

  His eyes flitted to Everett. “Eh,” he said tremulously, “I’ve been better.” One corner of his mouth valiantly curled upward into a smirk.

  “You just hold still and the ambulance will be here anytime, okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  To Teresa, Everett said, “When did you call 911?”

  “The second this happened.”

  Everett looked down at Barb, who continued to squirm and roll on the floor. He thought, Paaxone... Paaxone ...

  Barb was neurotic, but she had never been violent. She’d never been so much as obstinate. She was frustrating and sometimes even infuriating, but Barb was not very likable and she had no one. She was alone and lonely and sad, and Everett had always tried to show her patience in the years she’d been coming to him. She was a danger to no one, except perhaps to herself with her dreadful eating habits, her drinking problem and her hypochondria. But the drinking was under control, she’d been in therapy with Dr. Myerson for a year, and there had been marked improvements. Violence was uncharacteristic of her, and murderous violence like this—it was aberrant, bizarre.

  Paaxone... Paaxone ...

  The deadly side effects of antidepressants were only now beginning—just beginning—to be acknowledged, although his friend Tara had been sounding the alarm for years in books, articles, lectures, and courtroom testimony all over the country. Suicide, violent behavior that resulted in serious injury and death... they were far more common than anyone knew or wanted to believe, which was the primary reason Everett had stopped prescribing them. And sometimes that behavior could be sparked by withdrawals brought on by suddenly stopping the meds.

  A couple of days ago, Teresa had said, she said she took her last one a couple of days ago.

  The timing was right.

  She said... well, I thought it was weird, but she said her thoughts hurt.

  Barb was still moving—rolling, sliding her arms over the floor, lifting her feet up off the floor then dropping them again, one at a time.

  The constant movement combined with her claim that her “thoughts hurt” sounded like akathisia, which was a possible side effect of psychiatric drugs. A dangerous one. It often drove people to suicide and violence. One of Tara’s books had an entire section devoted to it.

  Paaxone... Paaxone ...

  Th
inking of the antidepressant reminded him of Falczek’s trip to Washington. He wondered if he’d learned anything and when he was coming back. And that led to another thought.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Everett muttered. “Eli.”

  Chapter 13

  Rubinek in Flight

  1.

  Rubinek awoke with a start from a dream about Olivia and felt a moment of panic. He quickly looked around at the first-class section of the plane he was in and remembered where he was going. He relaxed in his seat and turned to look out the window to his right at the hilly landscape of milky clouds below. The aisle seat beside him was empty. The wig he was wearing made his scalp itch and the matching eyebrows tickled. He was a redhead today, traveling under the name of Gordon Kainer.

  There had been a time when Rubinek enjoyed surrendering to sleep, drifting off into its timeless, womb-like darkness. Now he dreaded it. It was the only part of his life over which he had no control. If his thoughts turned to Olivia while he was awake, he could always steer them in another direction, distract himself. But not in sleep. There he was helpless and forced to relive her death again and again. Sometimes he could force himself to wake up, but that didn’t work as often as he wished it would. Most of time, he was solidly anchored in the dream, unable to escape.

  A skinny fortyish flight attendant appeared beside his seat and leaned forward slightly with an antiseptic smile. “You looked like you had a bad dream,” she said.

  He gave her a brief smile, but said nothing.

  “Can I get you anything?” she said.

  “I’m fine.” As she started to leave, he said, “Wait. On second thought, some coffee would be nice.”

  “Do you take anything in it?”

  He shook his head. “Just black.”

  “Coming up.”

  The anniversary of Olivia’s death was a few days away and he’d been thinking about her more than usual. There were plenty of good memories, but he’d never gotten the hang of separating those from the painful stuff. He seemed incapable of having a fond memory of Olivia without the interruption of memories of her unnecessary death.

  She’d had problems with her kidneys as a child and had missed a lot of school while spending time in hospitals. Doctors had been baffled by her problem. Her kidneys wasted potassium and amino acids before her body could process them, and it made her sick, nearly killed her. She’d undergone endless tests and had been poked and prodded by a stream of curious doctors. As she entered adolescence, the problem began to recede on its own, mystifying doctors even more. By the time she finished high school, it seemed to have disappeared. In college, she enjoyed good health for the first time in her life and vowed never to enter a hospital again. But no one told her that kidney ailments experienced early in life could cause other problems later.

  Rubinek and Olivia had been together for almost two years when she broke three ribs with a single sneeze. Her doctor ordered a bone density scan, which revealed severe osteoporosis, a delayed affect of the kidney problems she’d had in her childhood. The osteoporosis was so advanced that Olivia’s doctor recommended injections of Bandrozine rather than taking it orally in pill form. Bandrozine was a brand name for ibandronate sodium, which inhibits bone loss. Olivia discussed the treatment at length with her doctor and researched the possible side effects herself before deciding to go along with it. She was very conscientious and took responsibility for her own health rather than blindly doing whatever a doctor told her to do, one of the many things about her that Rubinek had loved. According to the pharmaceutical company’s warnings, renal complications were only a risk for patients in whom renal impairment was already present. For those with healthy kidneys, such problems were described as “very rare.” Olivia’s kidney problems were long past and other than osteoporosis, she was in perfect health. There appeared to be no risk in her receiving the injections.

  Within two weeks of the first injection, Olivia died of acute renal failure.

  After her burial, still reeling from the loss, Rubinek hired an aggressive, high-profile attorney to look into the possibilities of a lawsuit. His investigators learned that Braxton-Carville, the company that produced the drug, knew the risk of renal complications was greater than they’d led the public to believe. Handing the reins of the case to Olivia’s parents and supplying the necessary funds, Rubinek instructed the attorney to go after the pharmaceutical company with everything he had. They’d lost the case, but Braxton-Carville had altered the warnings to read more accurately as a result, which Rubinek considered a small victory.

  But it didn’t bring Olivia back. And it didn’t punish those responsible for not properly warning of the risks of which they were very aware.

  The flight attendant returned with his coffee and another shiny smile.

  Rubinek looked out the window as he sipped his coffee. He was not the least bit interested in taking this trip or doing a job under such last-minute conditions. He liked to have time to plan and prepare. But he couldn’t turn down the paycheck. The money was so good, it even made it easier to deal with Victor Gall, whom he hated. He barely knew the man and had dealt with him briefly on a couple of jobs—most recently the job in Montecito a week ago with the unfortunate train enthusiast Arnold Shipp—but it was more than enough for Rubinek to know he didn’t like the man.

  They’d never met in person until that morning. Gall had always gone through the usual channels before, which involved phone calls, recorded messages, emails, and prearranged drops. It had been a bit odd for Gall to ask for a meeting, but Rubinek had gone along with it. He’d called early, awakened Rubinek, and insisted on meeting immediately at an all-night greasy-spoon in a bad part of town.

  “I’ll be wearing a brown shirt and carrying a satchel,” Gall said.

  “Don’t worry, I know what you look like. I can come to your house if you’d like.”

  “Funny.”

  2.

  Rubinek slid into the booth and said, “This better be good.”

  Gall sat with his arms on the tabletop leaning forward over his cup of coffee. He wore a threadbare brown shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—apparently an attempt to appear working-class. “Sorry to wake you, but it’s an emergency.”

  “You got lucky. I’m not even supposed to be in town. I was supposed to be winging my way to a sunny little island populated by loose women with minimal clothing last night, but there was a problem with the plane and the flight was rescheduled for later this morning.”

  “You’ll have to cancel.”

  “Oh? Well, we’ll see. Like I said... this better be good.”

  When the waitress came to the table, Rubinek ordered coffee and a cheese omelet. They were in a grungy little all-night diner on Southeast 4th Street just south of the D.C. government offices. It was not a neighborhood Rubinek normally would visit, but it was an unlikely meeting place for two men like himself and Gall, which, he assumed, was why Gall had chosen it.

  “Here,” Gall said, reaching into a battered old satchel beside him. He dropped a thick manila envelope onto the table.

  Rubinek picked up the envelope and took a look inside. It was full of cash. “And what’s this for?”

  Gall slapped a folder onto the table. Rubinek thumbed through the pages it held.

  “Your plane ticket is in there, along with all the information you’ll need. You’ll be going to Santa Vermelha, California right away. The target is John Falczek, a former investigative reporter for the Post. All his information is in the folder, as well as the information on all of his friends and associates. This needs to be done immediately.” He reached into the satchel again and removed a plane ticket. “Your plane leaves at 9:10.”

  “And this comes from your boss?”

  Gall nodded. “Naturally.”

  Rubinek nodded slightly as he looked the plane ticket over.

  “The envelope contains twice your normal fee,” Gall said, “and you’ll receive fifty percent more if you do it by six o’clock tonight Pacific Ti
me.”

  “Problem. I’ll be flying commercial, which means I can’t take a weapon. I’ll need time to find one when I get there.”

  “Not a problem. In the folder is a phone number. Call it as soon as you arrive. The man who answers will have what you need. Arrange to meet him and he’ll give it to you. What do you want?”

  “A Glock 23 with a silencer and subsonic ammunition.”

  Gall nodded once. “Got it. He’ll have it for you when you arrive.”

  Rubinek had checked Gall out completely the first time he’d dealt with him, and he was everything he claimed to be. But something about all of this... the meeting place, Gall’s demeanor... he wasn’t sure what, exactly, but something about it didn’t sit right with Rubinek. He’d never met Gall before, so it was possible that he always behaved this way—stiff, uncomfortable, somewhat furtive, eyes darting around all the time as if afraid of being watched. But Rubinek sensed something off-center. He just didn’t know what exactly, or why. But it was enough to make him a little more inquisitive than usual.

  “So, this reporter... I guess he really blew it, huh?”

  “Blew it?”

  “Pissed off your boss? What happened, did he sleep with his wife, or something?” He smirked, trying to keep it light.

  Gall frowned. “What does it matter to you?”

  Rubinek shrugged. “It’s none of my business, but... spur-of-the-moment jobs make me nervous. And curious.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no more risk in this than in any other job. This reporter, Falczek, he’s not a pro. He won’t present a problem. He’s just... gotten in over his head.”

  “Over his head?”

  Gall stared at him silently a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s interfering with an important shipment to the Middle East. Important enough for me to put a stop to him.”

  Me, not us, Rubinek thought.