by Jeff Abbott
‘For us, it serves as camouflage for Frost. Every patient here believes they’re testing the effectiveness of the virtual-reality treatment – they don’t know they’re being dosed with Frost.’
Groote frowned. ‘They don’t know they’re test subjects.’
‘No. We couldn’t let them know. It’s important we not publicize the research, since we’ll be selling it to a pharmaceutical that’ll claim the research for their own.’
The young man jerked against the suspension cables, started to gasp and plead for help as, on the screen, the computer-generated thugs attacked him with chains and knives. A technician sitting on the same side of the glass as Groote and Hurley spoke quietly to the patient through a microphone, reassuring him.
‘I understand your stepdaughter suffered an interesting trauma.’
Interesting? Nice word; this guy was a lab-rat freak. ‘Daughter. I adopted her. She and her mother were driving on a canyon road when another car fired shots at them and drove them off the road. They were pinned in the wreckage. My wife died a few hours later, my daughter lay trapped in the car with her mother’s body for another thirty-six hours before they were found.’ Tightness filled his chest. He was surprised at himself, sharing his family’s horror with a near-stranger – but he knew this was it, clear and present hope for Amanda, the promise of a future for her beyond tiled hallways and sedatives and twenty-four-hour care. ‘The doctors haven’t been able to help her. She tries to hurt herself.’
‘Her brain is dealing with this constant recalling of the traumatic memory. The memory strengthens – and so does the trauma associated with it – the nightmares, the fear, the paranoia,’ Hurley said. ‘In your daughter’s case, everything becomes a reaction to the power of the memory; I suspect she’s afraid to ride in a car, or thinking of her mother sends her into a dissociative state where she flashes back to the trauma itself, or she hurts herself because she believes she should have died with your wife.’
‘Yes,’ Groote said.
Hurley pointed at the man in the virtual-reality chamber. ‘Most of the research about dulling the traumatic memory – we can’t wipe a memory out, after all – has revolved around introducing beta blockers to the patient, which help keep the memory from forming. When we have a frightening experience, our brains activate stress hormones, neurotransmitters, and peripheral beta-receptors – I call the whole mix “fear juice.”’ Hurley smiled. ‘Those chemicals enhance the memory of the traumatic event. Conceivably we can interfere, right away, with the formation of a traumatic memory if we introduce beta-adrenergic antagonists such as a beta blocker called propanolol – so the memory of the trauma never gets the power of the fear juice, to put it simply.’
Groote nodded. ‘I did take chemistry in college, I can handle a technical explanation.’
Hurley smiled as if he didn’t believe him. ‘Of course. A traumatic memory consolidates in regions across our brain – it doesn’t just exist in one set of brain cells that we can zap away. But the moments when the patient recalls the memory, as our boy is doing right now, are also the moments when the memory is at its most chemically fragile. It’s the best opportunity to weaken the memory, make its impact less debilitating. You pull the memory up out of the bed of your brain; it’s like loosening a rose from its bed of soil. If you don’t treat the memory, it takes root again, harder and deeper. But if you chemically weaken the memory after it’s pulled up, you can strip the thorns, so to speak. The problem was, with earlier experiments, you had to introduce the beta blockers very soon after the trauma; there was nothing to help those suffering from long-term trauma. Until Frost. It’s a cocktail – well, “a combination” sounds better – of drugs that combines several approaches: a synthetic, super beta-blocker to undermine the fear juice and powerful new brain enzyme blockers to keep the fearful memories from getting their thorns back.’
On the screens one of the animated attackers delivered a vicious kick to the man’s chest, held a knife to his throat. The patient stayed still in the cables, tilted his head as though a scene only mildly interesting were playing out of the screen.
‘You’re saying Frost could let this guy eventually forget this attack?’
‘Not entirely. But Frost strips the trauma of the attack, keeps the fearful memory from strengthening. Frost can make his memory of being beaten almost to death toothless – so that the recall of it produces no effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Hurley tapped a pen against his bottom lip, grinned with pride. ‘This man suffered his trauma two years ago. Four months ago seeing the computer-generated re-creation practically drove him into a dissociative state. But now, after treatment with Frost, his heartbeat’s slightly elevated, he’s nervous, but not frightened.’
‘It’s a cure.’
Hurley grinned. ‘It works. As long as it’s used in combination with therapy that brings back the traumatic memory – such as our virtual-reality room or regular psychiatric therapy – while medicated with Frost. Come with me.’
Groote followed him out of the VR room and down the hall to Hurley’s cluttered office. Hurley sat down at his desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. ‘All forty-six patients dosed with Frost were suffering from severe PTSD, with extreme flashbacks, pronounced anxieties, and often maladaptive behavior. All of them have shown steady improvement in the lessening of their trauma through usage of the memory drug when compared with the control group of forty-six patients who got a sugar pill. A small sample, but enough to interest the pharmas in our sale.’
‘And this Allison Vance knows about the program.’
‘She doesn’t know about Frost – only the VR side of the project here. But I believe she’s gotten suspicious about whether we’re dosing the patients. I caught her trying to take a blood sample from the lab; she said she thought the patient might be HIV positive and that we should get it tested.’
‘That’s not completely implausible.’
‘It suggested to me she thought there was a story hiding in the blood samples,’ Hurley said. ‘If she got hold of Frost, or she knew about the auction of our research to the drug manufacturers, she could make trouble.’
‘The drug companies wouldn’t develop this themselves?’
‘Think how many ads for drugs you see. Their marketing budgets are much more than their research-and-development budgets. We’ll make a mint, so will they.’ Hurley turned back to the computer.
Groote crossed his arms. ‘Where’d Quantrill get Frost?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He steal it? He’s a thief, even if you put a fancy consultant title on him.’
Hurley didn’t answer.
Groote leaned forward. ‘Here’s my theory. He doesn’t want the drug companies to know where he got Frost from, does he?’
‘I couldn’t say, Mr. Groote.’
‘Why have Allison Vance involved?’
‘She’s fairly new to town, not plugged in to the local psychiatric community. She keeps to herself. I needed a doctor to handle assessments. She was affordable and efficient. Patients liked her.’
‘She could sneak out a Frost sample and get it tested.’
‘I administer all the doses. None are missing.’
‘How do you check them?’
‘Counts.’
‘Are these solid capsules? Could she replace any with fakes?’
Hurley’s face grew red. ‘You’re giving her far too much credit. She wouldn’t resort to thievery. She’d simply call the authorities if she had a concern.’
‘So we buy her off if she raises a stink.’
‘Allison’s not the type much motivated by money. She’s altruistic. Always blathering on about how the patients come first.’
‘Why not just bring her in, sit her down, and question her?’
Hurley gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not a strong-arm type of guy. That’s why you’re here.’
‘But she hasn’t run to the authorities about your setup.’
‘Allison woul
d never make a sudden or ill-placed accusation. Spend five minutes with her and you can see she’s simply a careful person, as most psychiatrists are. You can see how she is, we have videos of her interviewing the patients…’ He unlocked a desk drawer, opened it, froze.
‘What’s the matter?’ Groote asked.
‘I have backup DVDs of all our research – I keep them in here. They’re gone.’
Frost. Gone. The tightness came back to Groote’s chest. ‘But they’re only backups. You have the originals on the hard drive-’
‘That’s not the point. If Allison wanted to expose us, she’s got the proof on those DVDs.’
‘Maybe you simply misplaced them.’
‘No. I do a daily backup here, lock them up tight. I have the only key.’ Hurley’s voice rose in panic.
‘Is Allison here now?’
Hurley moused and clicked on his computer screen. A video window opened to show the three entrance and exit points from the hospital; it also displayed a log that recorded the usage of the staff’s electronic passkeys. ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Where might I find her?’
‘Probably at her office. On Palace Avenue, close to the Plaza.’
‘How long ago did she leave?’
Hurley clicked on the keyboard; two of the video windows stayed open, one showing Allison Vance walking out of the building; according to the timer, at ten that morning. The other video showed a young man, in patient scrubs, glancing over his shoulder, heading out a door. The timer read ten minutes ago.
‘Who’s that guy?’ Groote asked.
‘A patient. Nathan Ruiz. What the hell’s he doing with a pass-key? It’s showing him because the key he’s using is the same code as Allison’s… The guards must not have seen him leave.’
Groote drew his sidearm from under his jacket.
‘I don’t know how he got past the doors up here,’ Hurley said.
‘He’s the thief.’
‘Not this guy, he’s a total fuckup, and the patients don’t know about Frost,’ Hurley said. ‘I’ll handle him. You find Allison and see if she has those files.’
‘It’s not the end of the world, right? You still have the original research.’
Hurley’s tone was tight and frantic as he started to head down the hall, Groote following him. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Whoever took the research, they could give Frost to the FDA and blow us out of the water. No medicine for us to sell.’ He shook his head. ‘No medicine for your kid.’
Groote bolted past him.
EIGHT
Thunder boomed and Miles opened his eyes, sweaty, sour mouthed, jerking away from the fading dream of Andy pulling a gun from the back of his pants as Miles tried to say, Don’t don’t don’t, of Andy collapsing on the grease-spattered concrete, Miles collapsing across from him, the floor dusty against his cheek. He blinked again.
Night had slid into the room.
He read the soft gleam of his clock. Six fifty-eight. He’d be late to meet Allison. He grabbed his coat and ran out into the cold drizzle.
He ran down two streets, then across the Plaza, then up Palace Avenue. The rain faded to a mist and he could see the lights aglow inside her office. Allison, still waiting for him.
Miles ran into the parking lot and he spotted Allison’s BMW parked at the back of the lot. Then as he turned his face toward the building the blast cracked the world and slapped him backward through the mist, hitting the pavement shoulders-first, the afterimage of the explosion a fiery blot against his eyes.
He threw his arm up over his face and heat hooked into his pants, his stomach. He rolled over once, wriggling, knocking the burning debris away from his clothes. He staggered to his feet. The building’s front collapsed but he heard nothing but an awful ringing in his ears. Flames burst from Allison’s building, a fiery fist raised toward the sky.
He ran into the wall of broiling air surrounding her building; he retreated with a low moan humming in his throat. Where her office had been – right-side front – a heart of hell burned. Miles stood, numb in shock.
Sirens wailed as two fire engines pulled close in the street. Pain began to creep along his arms, his hands. He probed at the blood on his skin and his hair, felt it drying in the heat.
He stumbled backward, dug out his cell phone, punched in her pager number, frantically keyed his number for a reply, thinking, She’s not here, maybe she walked to dinner because I was late. He tried her cell phone; just voice mail.
Another fire truck roared to a stop, the fighters moving into position with practiced speed and grace, water jetting quickly from their hoses, a perfume of destruction drifting through the rain-cleaned air.
Miles dodged the firefighters, went back across the street, sat down on the curb among the crowd that had poured out of the Posada and along the street. He heard a firefighter ask a kid in a Posada valet uniform what had happened. The kid said, ‘Gas explosion, man, big huge boom.’
Not a gas explosion, Miles thought with horror as the shock cleared his head. No. Sorenson. He carried a case into her office. A case I didn’t find. The action’s loaded, he had said. A bomb, Jesus, he planted a freaking bomb in her office and I didn’t find it when I could have, this is my fault my fault my fault…
‘Sir?’
Miles raised his head. Another firefighter stood over him.
‘You okay? You’re injured.’
‘No. I’m okay. I was walking’ – he almost said to but he caught himself – ‘past the building. Suddenly it just blew.’
‘You’re cut. Come with me.’
Miles followed the paramedic, shuffling. The office building shuddered again, fire tearing upward through the remnants of roof now, spouting fresh flame into the sky. A tremendous crash sounded as the broken innards of the building collapsed. He thought of the refurbishment going on inside, the solvents, the paint, the lumber, all fueling the inferno.
A crowd – from the residential streets nearby, from the church, from the hotels – formed and he walked through the mass of people, searching for her face, listening for her voice.
I need your help. I’m in real trouble. See you at seven.
He had failed her.
Sorenson. Sorenson had done this. What else had he said? Tonight. Yes. Her house. No problem.
Her house.
He stopped following the paramedic toward an ambulance; he cut back through the crowd. He walked away, unable to look at the fire.
No one stopped him as he left.
Miles half walked, half ran to Allison’s house, ignoring the pain in his scraped hands, the ringing in his ears, the trickle of blood winding down his neck.
‘You should have died with her,’ Andy said, running alongside him.
‘Shut up,’ Miles said, throwing a punch toward Andy, who sidestepped Miles’s fist, laughing.
Miles kept running.
Her home lay up the long curve of Cerro Gordo on the far east side of the city, up a hill thick with chimisa and pinon. Cerro Gordo cut through the side of the climbing terrain, lined with adobe homes and stretches of scrub. The road went from paved to unpaved. The thunderstorm, now more rumble than rain, wandered to the east. The clouds hung low and gray, darkening the mountains, shrouds for the day.
He shouldn’t know where she lived; she would have understandably considered it an intrusion. He had not followed her or found her in the phone book; she was unlisted. But once, she was leaving after their session and when they walked out of the building a bill tucked in the side of her purse fell. He picked it up and gave it to her but saw the address, and he’d trained himself in his earlier life to memorize addresses, account numbers, phone numbers, with a single glance. He had walked by her house only once, when he knew she was at her office. Just so he would know the route. Because he feared if Andy got too loud, too insistent, that if Andy slipped a gun into Miles’s hand, guided it toward his temple or his mouth, he would need her and not find her by pager or phone before Andy squeezed the trigger.
&n
bsp; He needed to know where to run for help.
Off Cerro Gordo, private driveways split from the main road and snaked farther into the hills. He took the driveway for the group of five houses that included hers, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign, walking past the open adobe gate. Hers was the second house. The road stood empty, gravel lined with scrub. He hurried past the first house, its windows black.
Her house stood dark. No car in the driveway. He ran to the front door. He gently tested the doorknob. Locked.
The house remained still.
‘She’s gone,’ Andy said from the adobe wall that lined her driveway. ‘Gone, gone, gone.’
Miles hurried to the rear of the house, following a stone path. He squatted down to study the lock. No dead bolt shot. If an alarm system wailed, he would melt back into the night.
Miles tested the knob first. The back door swung open as he pushed.
He eased inside, shut the door behind him. He stood in her bedroom. In the dim glow from a bathroom light he saw the room’s details: wicker furniture painted a soft rose, a turquoise throw rug with twisted geometric patterns, a bookcase filled with worn paperbacks, a queen-size sleigh bed. A bureau, with a mirror crowning it. The mirror was cracked from side to side, in a single fracture, and two of himself stood in the bedroom.
He walked into a kitchen. Dishes were stacked in the sink. A forgotten glass stood on the tile countertop, a swallow of soda puddled at the bottom. Next to it, a container of aluminum wrap lay open, a strip of foil dangling free in a jagged tear. As though she’d just stepped away to run an errand or answer the phone.
He went through the kitchen and into her den. The barrel of a gun eased against the back of his head.
‘Freeze,’ a voice hissed.
NINE
‘Her office is gone,’ Groote yelled into his phone. He stood at the end of Palace Avenue, watching the burning building.
‘Gone?’ Hurley spoke as if he didn’t understand the word.
‘Destroyed, burning like a goddamned torch,’ Groote said. ‘There’s a crowd, I heard people say there’d been an explosion.’ He’d driven down from the hospital to Vance’s office, stopped as the traffic snarl formed, left his car when he saw her building consumed in flames and smoke. ‘What the hell is going on?’