by Ray Garton
“Who’s that?”
“An old friend of Everett’s. He used to mention her frequently. Dr. Varadaraj is an expert in psychopharmacology.”
“The one who wrote the books?”
Falczek nodded once. “That’s the one. She’s quite well-known and very respected in her field. Having her on your side will be a big plus. She’s supposed to get into town sometime tonight, and she’s bringing an attorney with her who specializes in handling cases of violent behavior induced by prescription drugs. You’ve got a big pain-in-the-ass hassle ahead of you, but I don’t think you have to worry about the outcome.”
“Is Everett around?” Eli asked. “I’d like it if he’d explain what happened to me.”
Falczek’s lips pressed together tightly and squirmed around under his thick mustache as he stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. Then he released a long sigh. “Everett didn’t make it, Eli,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He was killed by... uh, by the same intruder who shot Roger.”
Eli’s mouth opened but nothing came out. He felt vaguely nauseated. It could have been from the sedative or a result of everything else that had happened. But he didn’t think so. He was finally able to say, “Intruder? What intruder? Where?”
Falczek seemed to consider the possible responses. After a long moment, he said, “Let’s talk about it later, okay, Eli? You should rest up. You’ve got a mess ahead of you and you’ll probably be doing a lot of talking soon. Get some z’s and rest up.”
“What about Chloe? Is there any way I can see Chloe?”
“Not now. She’s recovering from surgery, like I said. But she’s going to be okay. Don’t worry about her for now.” Falczek took the cup from Eli and put it back on the bed table. He hit the button again and the head of the bed slowly lowered with a hum until it was flat.
Eli stared at the ceiling for awhile. Everett was gone and Chloe and Roger had both been through surgery. Was it all because of him? What had happened, exactly?
His heavy eyelids slowly lowered. Thirty seconds later, he was asleep again.
2.
Victor Gall always slept well, but he was a light sleeper, and halfway through the first trill of his phone, he sat up, eyes open, wide awake.
“Hello,” he said, his voice clear and level.
“Sorry for calling so late, Vic,” the Director said. “Hope you weren’t sleeping. But I need you. Could you get down to my office right away?”
“I’ll be right there,” Gall said.
The Director hung up.
Gall placed the receiver on the base next to the nightstand lamp and turned on the light. Beside the landline, his cell phone recharged. He stood and quickly put on some clothes as he went over possible reasons why the Director might need him at such a late hour. Nothing stood out—nothing problematic or up in the air that might need tending to so suddenly. He was confident it had nothing to do with the Paaxone shipment. That was a done deal, handled smoothly and efficiently as far as the Director knew. Of course, he knew nothing about Ed Smurl’s dimwitted fuck-ups and Gall intended to keep it that way. In fact, the Director knew very little beyond the fact that Gall had overheard him express concern about his son in Afghanistan and the current problems the troops were having there and had responded with decisive and effective action.
Once he was dressed, Gall left his bedroom, hurried through his apartment, and grabbed his keys on the way out the door. It wouldn’t serve him well to keep the Director waiting.
3.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Ed Smurl said as he paced in his bedroom. He clutched his cell phone in his right hand as he took broad, fast steps from one end of the room to the other. The radio was on, tuned to an all-news station, and the news was on TV, muted.
“Phone calls made to Braxton-Carville after hours were not returned,” the male voice on the radio said, “and no statement has been offered by the pharmaceutical giant. The antidepressant Paaxone has been unavailable in the state of California for at least a week. It’s not yet known if any incidents of violence can be attributed to the withdrawal effect, but this story is still developing.”
A woman said, “I would think that if an antidepressant was needed anywhere, it would be California.”
The man chuckled and said, “We’ll keep you up to date as more details become available.”
On the television screen, file footage showed an aerial view of the Braxton-Carville industrial complex in northern Virginia. At the bottom of the screen, a banner read, “Violence linked to antidepressant withdrawals?”
“Jesus H. tap-dancing motherfucking Christ!” Smurl shouted as he stopped pacing and hit the redial button on the phone. He put the phone to his ear and listened to Gall’s voicemail recording. “Fuck!” he shouted. It was the fifth call he’d made to the only number he had for Victor Gall. When the beep sounded, he said, “Will you pick up the fucking phone! Jesus Christ, aren’t you watching the news? We’re fucked! Call me the second you get this. Hell, you’d better call me the second you get the first one!” He severed the connection, then hit the memory button and triggered his third call to Ronald Shelldrake.
No one was answering and the tension was eating Smurl’s guts. He needed to get some people together. They had to get to work on damage control.
4.
Chloe woke with a jerk and a quiet gasp. Her mouth was lined with soggy felt and she smacked her lips a few times. She was groggy and her right hip ached. She lifted her head slightly and looked around the dark hospital room. The glow from the television throbbed and shifted through the dimness. A cooking show was playing quietly.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Yvonne said as she came to the side of the bed.
Chloe tried to smile up at her sister but knew she didn’t pull it off. “You’re still here?”
“Of course I am. Mom went home to sleep, but I didn’t want to leave. At least not until you woke up and I knew you were okay.”
Chloe reached up and rubbed her bleary eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess.” She dropped her hands and said, “Some water, please?” Yvonne gave her a cup and she drank a few swallows. “Have you talked to Eli?”
“Yes, I saw him earlier. That man was with him.”
“Man? What man?”
“With the mustache and the funny name. He was sitting beside Eli’s bed writing.”
“Oh, Falczek?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Is Eli okay?”
“He’s still a little confused. He says the Taser turned his brain to scrambled eggs,” she said with a chuckle. “He wanted me to give you this note.” She took a piece of paper from the bed table, reached up and turned on the light, then handed the note to Chloe.
It took a moment for her to focus, then she read it.
Dear Chloe,
I’ve been wanting to call you on the phone, but I know you’re sleeping. I’ll wait. I’m very sorry for everything. I’m still not quite sure what “everything” is, but I’m very sorry for it. I miss you so much, sometimes it feels like if I don’t touch and hold you soon, my head will explode. I’ve been told you’re quite the hero. I’m proud of you. Thank you for all you did. And again, I’m sorry. I love you so much.
Kisses,
E.
P.S. I hope you haven’t changed your mind.
Chloe’s chest ached and her throat burned as a moist lump grew in it. She gulped it back, sniffled, and whispered, “Oh, Eli, of course I haven’t changed my mind.”
“About what?” Yvonne said.
Chloe looked up as her tears began to fall. “About marrying him. He’s afraid I might have changed my mind. About marrying him.” Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.
“Oh, honey,” Yvonne said as she leaned down and embraced Chloe. “Why are you crying?”
After a moment, Chloe caught her breath enough to say, “Because I-I was so... afraid... that I’d lost him.”
5.
Gall walked through the empty outer office and s
aw that the Director’s door stood half-open. As he approached, the director’s deep voice came from behind the door:
“Come on in, Victor.” As Gall entered, the Director said, “Close the door, would you?”
Gall closed the door, then turned and headed for the leather-upholstered chair that faced the Director’s desk. The large man was seated behind the desk, leaning forward with his elbows on the blotter and his chin resting on the knuckles of his big joined hands.
“Thanks for coming,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “We need to talk. Have a seat.”
Gall lowered himself into the chair.
“Tell me, Victor, what was your motive in arranging for Braxton-Carville to ship Paaxone to Afghanistan?”
He does want to talk about the Paaxone shipment, Gall thought. Caution moved through his muscles like a vague cramp.
“My... motive?” he said. “Well, if you remember, I was in a meeting in your office one day when you mentioned that you were worried about your son in Afghanistan. With terrorists strapping bombs to children, you were concerned for the safety and morale of your son, of all the troops.”
“Yes, I recall. I mentioned that I didn’t understand why the Pentagon didn’t get some appropriate medication to treat the PTSD the troops were suffering as a result of this tactic so they wouldn’t have to be sent home. And that’s when you spoke up. You offered to do that very thing. To see that the right drug was sent to the troops. And you offered to do it quickly and quietly. Now, I was a little hesitant because the NSA is not a military agency and I didn’t want anybody to get the idea that I was stepping on toes. But we discussed it and you were pretty confident and reassuring. You said you’d make sure no one interpreted it that way and that ultimately it would look good for me—a father doing something to help his son and the other troops dealing with a tough situation. When I asked if you’d be working with the Pentagon on this, you said, and I quote, ‘I’m willing to do whatever it takes.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
Gall nodded. “If I remember correctly, yes.”
The Director sounded calm and relaxed, but with that Alabama drawl, he almost always sounded that way. “I’ve been impressed with your work, Victor, with your resourcefulness and drive, and I remember thinking to myself back then, that sounds like a capital idea and Vic’s just the guy to get it done. So I gave you the go-ahead. And then what did you do? Take me through it, Victor. Step by step.”
“Well,” Gall said, dragging the word out as he thought, Choose your words carefully and don’t step on any mines. “First I had my assistant do some research into effective treatments for PTSD. He came back with a list of drugs. I was intrigued by Paaxone because it was comparatively new and reportedly had an impressive success rate. So I contacted Braxton-Carville about the possibility of getting a shipment to Afghanistan to the troops.”
“And you went through all the proper channels,” the Director said.
“Absolutely. The Pentagon, the accounting office, I called the—”
”Yeah, you were doing all this on my behalf, so you were good enough to keep me in that particular loop. Now tell me about the things you did secretly. The things you didn’t want me to know about.”
Gall opened his mouth but nothing came out. He heard the sound of imaginary brakes squealing and felt himself slam up against a wall inside his head. He felt like a cartoon character flattened against a wall and slowly peeling off of it in a paper-thin sheet. For the first time that he could ever remember, he did not know what to say.
“Okay, then, I’ll ask specific questions,” the Director said when he got no response. “What kind of reaction did you get from Braxton-Carville at first?”
“Reaction? Well, Smurl told me—”
”Who?”
“Ed Smurl, the CEO.” His mind was at least three sentences ahead of his mouth as he spoke. “At first, he said it would be difficult to make a shipment of Paaxone to Afghanistan immediately. The logistics would be a problem, he said. I figured he was just stalling, hoping for more money. I made some calls to my Pentagon connections, went through all the proper channels, and then discussed with Smurl the possibility of future government contracts, and he was very interested in that. He said he thought he could manage a shipment right away. He made the arrangements very quickly and I—”
”Was money or the possibility of a lucrative government contract his only reason for hesitating? Or was there something else?”
“Something else?”
“Yes, something else. For example, was an immediate shipment going to cause problems in their regular shipping schedule? Or did they happen to have a bunch of extra Paaxone pills lying around that they weren’t doing anything with at the time?”
“Well, yes, that was a problem at first. But he found a way around that.”
“He diverted a committed shipment to Afghanistan to meet your schedule.”
Where is this coming from? Gall thought. How does he know this?
“Yes,” Gall said, “that’s what he ended up doing.”
“Which means somebody somewhere didn’t get their pills. Right?”
Who has he been talking to?
“Uh, yes, but he said that could be dealt with quickly and efficiently and that—”
”He didn’t tell you there was a possible problem with doing that?”
“A problem? This is his company, you know. I naturally assumed he knew what he was—”
”Withdrawal effects. He didn’t say anything about the possible withdrawal effects users of the drug might experience if they couldn’t refill their prescriptions and continue taking the pill?”
Oh, fuck, Gall thought as his intestines squirmed and loosened deep inside his abdomen.
“Withdrawal effects?” Gall said, frowning. His face had been smooth and calm up to that point, but now his brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Well, yes, he did say something about that. But he said he could—”
”He just mentioned it in passing? He didn’t point out that it would be a rather large problem for them, these withdrawal effects?”
“Uh, as a matter of fact, yes, at first. But like I said, he figured out a way to—”
”So you had to grease the skids a little, didn’t you?” the Director said. “Motivate him a little? Offer him some incentive?”
“I’m not sure I know what you—”
”A favor. You didn’t do him a little favor? In exchange for that quick shipment to Afghanistan in spite of the fact that customers in a particular market might go a little crazy without their pills?”
“A favor, sir?”
“Yes, a favor.” The Director leaned forward and locked his hands together on the desktop. “Y’see, Victor, I’m trying to give you a chance to come clean here. And you know what?” He smiled briefly. “You’re not taking it.”
Oh, god, how much does he know? Gall thought. How is this possible?
The two men held each other’s gaze for a long, silent moment.
“Let me help you out,” the Director said. “You wanted to convince Mr. Smurl to forget about the little problem of possible withdrawal effects in the users of the drug, so you offered to do Braxton-Carville and the entire pharmaceutical industry a big favor by getting Senator Walter Veltman out of the way before his committee took a good hard look up that industry’s ass. Isn’t that right?”
“I... I... I’m sorry, sir, but I honestly don’t know what you’re referring to.“
”You don’t, huh?” The Director gestured to something behind Gall. “I think you’ve met my guest.”
Gall turned and looked over his shoulder. A man sat on the couch against the wall with both arms stretched out over the back and his right ankle casually resting on his left knee. He was smiling.
“Hi, Vic. How’s it going?”
It was Oran Rubinek.
Gooseflesh crawled across Gall’s back and his scrotum shriveled tightly as the significance of Rubinek’s presence in the Director’s office sank in. He turne
d slowly back to the Director.
“Mr. Rubinek dropped by my house a little earlier,” the Director said as he stood and came around to the front of his desk. “I gotta admit, I was a little pushed outta shape about his unannounced appearance so late at night because, for one thing, he got past the front gate without being seen, and for another, I was already in my pajamas and sound asleep.” He leaned his hips on the front edge of the desk and folded his arms across his barrel chest. “But he assured me he had some pretty important things to say that I’d want to hear, so I gave him a listen. And you know what, Victor? I’m glad I did. He told me what you’ve been up to. Hiring him to kill Veltman’s press secretary. Hiring him to kill some people in California because they’d found out a little too much about what was going on. And that’s only what he knows. There’s no tellin’ what other fuckery you’ve been stirring up. Mr. Rubinek told me that you’ve been doing all this in my name. And that gives all of this a significance and urgency it might not otherwise have in my eyes. So I’m gonna ask you again, Victor, and this time I want a straight answer, because right now I’m having to struggle real hard with the urge to rip your head off and shit down your neck, so you don’t wanna say something that might make me give up on that struggle. Understand? Now. What. Was. Your motivation?”
Suddenly, Gall felt slightly winded, as if he’d just run up a few flights of stairs in a big hurry. “My... motivation. I was... well... I thought you wanted it.”
“Wanted what?”
“The drug to get to Afghanistan. For the troops. For your son. That was my whole purpose. You wanted it.”
“So you did this for me. You had these people killed... for me.” The big man lowered his arms and bent at the waist, propping his hands on his thighs. His large, fleshy face moved close to Gall and swallowed up his field of vision. “One. More. Time. What was your motivation?”
Gall licked his lips and gulped as he took three quick breaths. “I... I wanted your approval. I wanted... I wanted... “ He couldn’t say it.