by Jack Kilborn
Rothchilde swiveled around in his leather chair and stared up at his Miro. He found the use of color garish, and didn’t think the composition was correctly balanced. But it was a Miro, and status couldn’t be much more symbolic than that.
If things went according to plan, he’d be able to plaster every wall of his mansion with Miros. That was frivolous yet lofty enough to make people talk about him. He could make his home the largest Miro museum in the world.
But that was only the beginning. Art was a hobby. Rothchilde wanted power. He wanted American Products to expand, for his corporate empire to grow.
And grow it shall. Perhaps he would become big enough to take over Microsoft. Or Disney. General Motors might be fun to run. He imagined launching a new sports car, calling it the Rothchilde GT.
“Maybe I’ll buy it all.”
Rothchilde had his people come up with projected sales figures for N-Som. It staggered him, and he’d been around money all his life. With a conservative estimate of only ten percent of the US population taking the drug, Rothchilde would be making nine billion dollars a month. Of course, more than ten percent would take it. Within five years, half the population of the world would be taking it. And that didn’t even include the proposed military contract, which would make him richer than the combined fortunes of the next seven runners-up.
Rothchilde idly wondered if France was for sale. He’d have his secretary make a few calls.
But first things first.
Someone was trying to sabotage the N-Som project, and Rothchilde needed to find out who.
There was a chance, however slight, that Dr. Nikos’s murder had nothing to do with N-Som. Perhaps the doctor had personal enemies. Or perhaps it was just some unfortunate random lunatic. Rothchilde hoped that was the case, but he had to plan for the worst.
Besides the CPD, Rothchilde had enlisted his friends in the government for help. He also sent feelers out to all of the families he supported, to see if anyone in the underworld had issues with him. So far, nothing had come up.
“Could be anyone. Anyone at all.”
In his more creative moments, sipping hundred year old port and snorting coke off a call girl’s welted backside, Rothchilde imagined he was being challenged by another pharmaceutical company. Sleeping pills were a billion dollar industry. Perhaps the manufacturer of Dalmane or Halcion was trying to keep their bread and butter.
It could even be the Sealy Mattress company, afraid of losing long-term sales. Soon, the bedroom would be a thing of the past. The same with pajamas, hotels, night lights, caffeinated beverages, and a slew of other products related to the sleep/wake cycle.
Rothchilde delegated it to the back of his mind. All the wheels were in motion. Manny would be found, and his attacker would be dealt with. The important thing now was Dr. Bill May and FDA approval.
He opened a side drawer in his desk and took out Bill’s file. The doctor had been a medical officer with CDER for over ten years. During that time, he’d overseen clinical trials on forty-eight different drugs. Only eight of these had gone on to receive FDA approval. Bill was responsible for killing the other forty.
Like most governmental offices, the FDA worked by committee. Besides the clinical review, new drugs must submit to Toxicology and Chemistry panels. Rothchilde had been able to pass these already-the chemistry reviewer had children. It was easy to coerce her into approval without having to reveal the secret manufacturing process. As far as pharmacology went, N-Som wasn’t toxic. The way it was made didn’t negate the fact that it worked, and worked well.
Unfortunately, the previous clinical reviewer asked too many questions. Rothchilde stared at Bill’s file and hoped this wouldn’t end up the same way. The doctor’s history showed him to be smart, ethical, and stubborn. Three times in the past, companies had attempted to bribe him. Those companies were no longer in business. Even if Rothchilde threw an obscene amount of money at him, he knew Bill wouldn’t take it.
Especially after the unfortunate occurrence with Bill’s wife.
Perhaps there was a way to work that angle. It warranted some thought. Unfortunately, there was no other person in Bill’s life that they could use to squeeze him.
Rothchilde wondered if the video tape was having its desired effect. Was Bill terrified and eager to please?
Doubtful. But that wasn’t Rothchilde’s plan. He hoped to unhinge Bill just enough to keep his full concentration off the review process. A scared man might miss the things his predecessor had uncovered.
Rothchilde predicted Bill’s course of action. He’d call the police, who wouldn’t help-Halloran would see to that. Bill might look closer at N-Som to find out its secret, but Rothchilde had disposed of all the risky paperwork. Another threat or two, maybe an actual physical encounter, and Bill would have no evidence that N-Som was dangerous, but every incentive in the world to approve it.
In a way, it was lucky that Dr. Nikos was murdered. He would have had to be dealt with sooner or later. The same as his daughter, and the rest of the team.
The grandfather clock in the corner of the den chimed four times. Rothchilde smiled. He was fully awake and alert, and would be for another eighteen hours. And the total cost? Only eighty cents a pill.
“I’m going to be the wealthiest man in the world.”
Rothchilde’s mirth disappeared when he remembered how N-Som was made. He couldn’t get the antacids out of his pocket quick enough.
“Chemicals. That’s all. Nothing more than chemicals.”
But it took the whole roll to calm his stomach down.
Jack Kilborn
Disturb
Manny looked around Townsend’s apartment. The first thing he saw was a heap of bloody clothing, stacked in the middle of the living room carpet.
Upon closer examination, he realized it wasn’t clothing at all.
Manny turned quickly to get out of there, slipping on a wet spot. He fell forward, covering himself in gore. The scream grew in his lungs, and Manny squeezed his eyes shut and clamped a hand over his mouth to squelch it.
Don’t attract attention, he thought. Stay calm.
He forced himself to carefully get off the floor. His clothes were soaked. He needed to change. Townsend’s clothes? Doubtful. The man was half his size. Maybe he had a large sweater, but pants would be impossible.
After a focused search he found the laundry room behind some double closet doors. Manny quickly stripped and threw his bloody clothes into the machine, adding half a box of detergent. He left red hand prints on the lid and the knob.
There was some underwear folded neatly on top of the dryer. Manny took them and wiped the entire surface of the washer. Careful not to touch anything else, he walked naked through the condo, looking for the bathroom.
“Hello, Manny.”
Manny yelped.
David was stretched out in the bathtub, the water a bright pink. He frowned at Manny. “Quit acting like a baby, and see if there’s another bar of soap in that cabinet.”
Manny couldn’t move his feet. He stared down at his brother, who was picking bits of something out of his fingernails.
“Did you hear me, bro? Soap!”
Manny recoiled at the shout. He tore open the vanity and found a bar of soap.
“Thank you.” David unwrapped the bar and rubbed it onto a rag, making red bubbles. “Want to come in? Water’s fine.”
Manny took a breath and found his voice. “Do you… do you feel better now?”
“Now? You mean, now that I’ve killed?” David thought it over, eventually grinning. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Sure I am. We both are. Created in a lab, just like Frankenstein. It’s the N-Som, Manny. You know it as much as I do. I don’t see how you can stand the dreams without cracking.”
Manny bit his knuckle, drew blood.
“They’re only dreams, David.”
“Sure they are. Here.”
David searched through the bath
water and came up with a scalpel. He held it out to Manny.
“I don’t want it.”
“You promised. You promised if I killed again, you’d end it for me.”
Manny stepped back.
“I can’t, David.”
“Kill me, Manny.”
Manny shook his head.
“Kill me, or I’ll skin you like I did Townsend.”
Manny reached behind him, trying to find the door knob. David stood up, bloody water cascading off his naked body.
“It was hard, Manny. Like pulling the upholstery off a couch. You really have to put some muscle into it.”
David climbed out of the tub. He held the blade in front of him.
“I’ll hurt you, Manny.”
“Please, David. I don’t want to kill you.”
David frowned. The scalpel caught the light and glinted.
“Too bad. Well, I guess I don’t have any choice then. You broke your promise, and I have to punish you.”
Manny began to cry.
The cries quickly became screams.
Jack Kilborn
Disturb
The phone was ringing when Bill walked in the door. He was exhausted and scared, but his prevailing emotion was anger. This was insane.
Six hours at the police station had provided no help. The tape was clear evidence of a murder, and the fact that it was given to Bill was a threat that even a three-year-old could see. But the cops seemed to wallow in skepticism and ennui. The case was given to an overworked duty officer who thought it was a prank, and Bill was told they’d get back to him after their so-called investigation.
Bill answered the phone, half-hoping it was the asshole who gave him the tape. He wanted to vent.
“Bill? It’s Theena. I’ve been trying to call all night.”
Bill sat on the couch and rubbed his face. It had occurred to him that Theena could be involved. He had her down as a bit flaky. But the hundred grand question was; did that extend to murder?
“I was at the police station.”
“Are you okay?” Her concern sounded genuine. “What happened?”
“It… I got a death threat. It has to do with approving N-Som.”
“My God. Was it Manny?”
“Manny? No, why?”
“He’s been missing from the hospital since last night. I have no idea where he is. I think the people who killed my father took him.”
Bill tried to make sense of the news. “He could have left on his own.”
“Maybe. But he was in bad shape.”
“Have you checked…” Bill began, wondering if she’d checked Manny’s remote EEG.
“Yes.” Theena had anticipated him. “Manny’s still alive. I’m at DruTech right now. He’s in distress, running Beta 2 waves. It’s been going on for a few hours. Are you okay, Bill?”
Her voice was soft, genuine.
“I’m fine. Someone sent me a video tape of Mike Bitner being killed.”
Bill got no reply.
“Theena? Are you there?”
“I… I don’t believe it. He’s actually dead? This is, this is just horrible. What are you going to do?”
“Do you think your boss could do something like that?”
“Albert Rothchilde? I don’t like the man, to be honest, but he’s not the killer type.”
Bill had only met the man once, and didn’t like him either. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think.
“Is American Products doing well?”
“Extremely well. Stock is way up. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“What do you know about the other investors?”
“Albert has a controlling share. But there are dozens of other stakeholders. Politicians, businessmen…”
“The mob?”
Theena’s silence told him more than if she’d answered.
“Look, Theena, I’m going to the Feds. They have an organized crime bureau. Maybe they can help.”
As he said it, Bill realized he’d left the tape at the police station. Maybe he could get it back somehow.
“I’m scared, Bill.”
“You’ll be safe at DruTech. It has security. I’ll give you my cell phone number if you need to talk.”
“I’m sorry. I feel like I’m the one who got you into this.”
“I’ll be by in a few hours.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
Bill hit the disconnect button, then dialed his office at the FDA in Maryland, hoping that someone was there early. Luckily, a secretary picked up.
“Hello, Dr. May. How’s the sleep research?”
“Exhausting. Laura, can you look up Mike Bitner’s number and address for me?”
“Sure, just a sec.”
“Have you heard from Dr. Bitner lately?”
“No, not for a while. Here it is.”
Bill memorized the information and thanked her. When he called, he got Mike’s answering machine. There were at least ten seconds of beeps, indicating unheard messages. Bill hung up.
“The police have to investigate.” Bill said it to reassure himself, but it didn’t help. As the duty officer had repeated over and over, “There’s no crime without a body.”
Bill was positive Mike was dead, but if a video of his murder wasn’t enough proof, maybe he could find more.
Bitner lived in Roscoe Village, only fifteen minutes away. Bill took a cold shower to wake himself up. After dressing in chinos, a polo shirt, and an older blazer, he hit a corner store and bought a large coffee and a bottle of ma haung weight loss pills. He choked down four.
The sun was up by now and the city was opening its eyes. Bill’s condo came with a garage, which he shared with three of his neighbors. He climbed in his Audi and headed north. Traffic was sparse, but there were a good number of joggers and bikers out. The caffeine and ephedrine hadn’t kicked in yet, so Bill paid careful attention to his driving.
Bill took Addison to Hoyle and located Bitner’s two-flat without difficulty. It was brick, slightly lighter brown than the buildings on either side of it. The porch light was on. He parked in front of a hydrant and waited until a roller blader passed.
Instead of trying the front door, Bill walked straight to the gate leading into the back yard. The rear entrance was attached to a deck, where a wooden chaise without a cushion and a somewhat rusty gas grill kept a silent vigil. Checking either side of him for witnesses, he approached a window and peered inside. It was dark, quiet.
Bill could hear his heart, pounding with a combination of fear and stimulants. He contemplated returning to his car and leaving; other than traffic violations, Bill had never broken the law in his life. Breaking and entering was a felony, right?
The police won’t help you. You need more evidence. Just do it.
He took off his jacket, put it up against the pane, and hit it with the heel of his hand.
The glass cracked with the sound of a gunshot, and the falling pieces seemed to tinkle forever. He locked his knees and refused to run away. Searching for the latch to unlock the window reminded Bill of the first time he assisted in surgery as an intern, trying to find the appendix while all eyes were on him.
A dog barked, a few backyards away. Bill probed the inside of the window frame for a full minute before locating the lock. Two seconds after that, it was up and he was in.
It was the kitchen. The only light was streaming in from the opening he’d crawled through. A steady hum from the refrigerator seemed to exaggerate the silence. He stepped clear of the broken glass and made his way into the hallway.
The drapes had all been drawn, and seeing was tough. He took a minute to let his eyes adjust, and then began poking around, careful not to touch anything.
There was a stereo, hundreds of CDs organized in a rack. An entertainment center hugged the wall, flanked by two large floor plants that were going brown. The sofa and loveseat were black leather. He searched a bookshelf and found some current bestsellers, magazines, some medical texts.
Not
hing in the hall closet, nothing in the bathroom. Bill located the basement stairs and flipped on the light. He descended, slowly.
The odor hit him halfway down. It was a smell he knew well, and one he always hated. Musky, putrid, clinical, final.
At the bottom of the stairs, Bill went right. A hand was over his face, and when that no longer worked, he covered his nose with his shirt bottom. The basement was unfurnished, the walls and floor bare concrete. In one corner was a washer, dryer, and an oversized utility sink. Some cardboard boxes were stacked in the center. The furnace and water heater were side by side, next to a large PVC pipe that stretched down from the ceiling and into the sump hole.
To the left of all that, a concrete wall with a door in the middle of it. Much as he hated to, he made it his destination.
When Bill pushed the door open the smell enveloped him like a dry heat. He had to take several steps back or risk vomiting.
Bill decided to examine the rest of the house first, allowing time for the death room to air out. He went up to the second floor and located the bedroom. The dresser and closet contained nothing extraordinary. The bed was unmade. A nightstand drawer revealed a remote control for the TV, some Kleenex, and a Robin Cook paperback.
Bill headed across the upstairs hall and found a study. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk, their contents strewn over the carpet. A large file cabinet had been similarly disturbed, files and papers littering the floor. Bill didn’t think poking through it would provide any answers. It was doubtful that whoever made the mess left anything important.
On a hunch, Bill went back to the bedroom. Many doctors took their work to sleep with them. He looked under the bed, behind the nightstand, and eventually found the file wedged between the nightstand and the bed. The tab on the manila folder read N-SOM. It was thick, held closed by a large rubber band. Bill tucked it under his arm and went into the adjoining bathroom.
In the closet was an old tube of Ben Gay. He dabbed some on his upper lip. It burned, but it was a small price to pay to smell menthol rather than rot. Then he pushed aside his trepidation and walked back down to the basement.
The door was waiting for him. Bill approached without enthusiasm, knowing what was in there, knowing he had to look anyway. When he pushed it open, the stench surrounded him like a tropical breeze. He pulled the cord on a hanging bulb.