The Arx Read online

  “Psych ward?”

  “He was there for more than a month. He wasn’t thinking straight. Dr. Sampson said the whole conspiracy thing was part of his… pathology.”

  Rebecca’s chest tightened as she spoke. “I know this must seem like a stupid question, but remember the night when Frank first met Gloria over at your place?”

  “Sure.”

  “He went to look at Ralphie that night. He told me Ralphie had a couple of teeth coming in. Do you remember seeing them?”

  “Teeth?” Janet said. “That’s unusual for a baby that age, isn’t it? No, I was outside the room when he was looking at Ralphie. But if Frank says he saw teeth…”

  A jolt went up Rebecca’s spine. “So you never saw any teeth?”

  “Well, no, but I never really looked that closely – there could have been…”

  “You’re sure about that? You didn’t see any teeth?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Rebecca felt like a chain was tightening around her stomach. “I also wanted to ask you about his experience a year ago – the one he has nightmares about…”

  The line was silent. “I’m sorry,” Janet finally said. “If Frank doesn’t want to talk about that I don’t think it’s my place…”

  “I understand,” Rebecca said, with a renewed sense of betrayal. “Thanks. Sorry for bothering you. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to Frank…”

  “Of course,” Janet said.

  Rebecca hung up the phone. She’d always suspected that Frank’s theories were a house of cards. A stiff wind was shaking that house to its foundations.

  Rebecca was apprehensive a few days later as she climbed the concrete staircase that swept like a terraced hillside around the man-made mountain that was the Kaffir Pharma building. People on either side of her rushed up and down like worker ants, entering and exiting the glass entranceway that wrapped the entire ground floor of the structure.

  She hesitated at the top of the stairs, still unsure about her plan. She’d been shocked when her request to interview the VP of Research was immediately granted. With no credentials as a journalist, and no background in pharmaceuticals, she’d expected to be brushed off instantly. She should have been happy at her success, but for some reason it made her nervous.

  Stalling, she studied the statistics on a plaque on the wall beside her. It celebrated the construction of the edifice that loomed above her head, one of the most important landmarks in the city.

  A million metric tons of concrete. Thirty thousand kilometers of re-bar. Twenty-five thousand square meters of glass. Ten thousand kilometers of copper wire and piping. Half a billion dollars, a million person-hours.

  A thousand careers won and lost in the construction of this single edifice, all in pursuit of a vision pouring inexorably from the corporation she was about to risk gaining as an enemy.

  She considered what Frank had said about the power behind the organization and shuddered. Then again, Frank said a lot of things.

  She’d been caught up in Frank’s version of reality, uncertain whether his theories were part of a delusion or statements of fact. His warning about Kaffir only made sense if his theories about a conspiracy were correct. Even then the relationship between Catherine Lesko and Kaffir seemed tenuous at best. Maybe Lesko was psychotic, acting alone, following some deranged agenda.

  Rebecca needed some kind of anchor – something to prove or disprove what Frank was saying. He’d be furious if he found out. Just the same, she pushed through the entrance doors and walked up to the semi-circular marble reception desk.

  She told the receptionist about her appointment and after a few minutes’ wait was escorted, through several layers of card-controlled security, to a foyer on the tenth floor. Her original escort waited discretely until a new one, wearing a white lab coat and different coloured security badge, took charge.

  Her new escort led her through a secured door on their right and they stepped into a gigantic laboratory. Rebecca glanced around her. As she expected, it was spotlessly clean, tinged with a chemical, antiseptic smell.

  Technicians in white coats sat on stools marching into the distance. They hunched over long white workbenches, fiddling with glassware formed into bizarre geometric shapes like ice sculptures, dropping test-tubes into machines for processing, dipping long glass pipettes into lattice-works of samples, examining computer screens or printouts, typing at their computers. The sounds of clinking glass mingled with the whir of centrifuges and the occasional chime from one of the machines.

  Her escort led her to a single office in the far west corner of the expanse. Its walls were made entirely of glass – appropriate for the setting, she thought. Sitting behind the desk inside was a woman, also in a white lab coat.

  A plain black and white name-plate beside the door read:

  Dr. Carla De Leon

  Vice President – Research

  As they entered Rebecca glanced around the office, then studied the desk in front of her. Something about it was unusual. At first she couldn’t recognize what it was.

  Finally it dawned on her. Every object on it had been meticulously positioned. The pens and pencils were placed at exactly the same distance from each other, and though she had no way of measuring, her eye told her they were also lined up exactly in parallel with the edge of the desk itself. Others in a pen-holder were arranged by size and colour. She glanced around the room and noticed that the entire office was laid out with equal care.

  The woman behind the desk looked up and noticed them at the door. She smiled and motioned with one hand and they entered. The escort introduced Rebecca and begged off.

  Rebecca’s research indicated that Carla De Leon had been with the Olmerol project for almost thirty years. In fact, she’d spent virtually her entire career studying the drug.

  Dr. De Leon’s age was listed as fifty-seven, but if Rebecca hadn’t known she would have found it difficult to guess. The difficulty had nothing to do with cosmetics, either surgical or the drugstore kind. Dr. De Leon wasn’t wearing any makeup, and had the aura of a woman who simply didn’t think such things were important.

  She had long chestnut hair parted on one side, which gave her a little-girl look incongruous with her age and prestigious position. Her hair didn’t show any gray, and, in keeping with Rebecca’s impression regarding makeup, didn’t look like it had been coloured.

  Dr. De Leon smiled as she stood and held out her hand.

  Rebecca shook it. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. De Leon. I know how busy you must be. Mr. Davis explained why I’m here?”

  “Please call me Carla,” De Leon said. She gestured toward a chair across from her and Rebecca sat down.

  “Yes,” she said once Rebecca was seated, “Mr. Davis explained your interest, but I should warn you – I’m a scientist, not a PR person. He said you were looking for a more in-depth discussion of the drug.”

  Rebecca pulled a pocket recorder from her purse and set it on the desktop. “I’m writing a freelance article on drugs from the fifties. I’m planning to title it something like: ‘Successes and Disasters’.”

  “And in which of those categories would you put Olmerol?” Carla asked, smiling.

  Rebecca felt a flush of warmth on her cheeks. “Well, a success, of course,” she said. “The idea is to compare disasters like Thalidomide with long-term successes like Olmerol. I’m most interested in what studies have been done on Olmerol, what side-effects have been found, and what Kaffir Pharma has done about them.”

  Carla casually laced her fingers together on the desk in front of her.

  “How did you come up with the idea?” she said.

  “Idea?”

  “The successes and disasters idea. I believe your background is in social work – not pharmaceuticals or obstetrics.”

  Rebecca hadn’t expected the question. She sensed her host’s eyes fixed on her as she fought for a plausible explanation. After Frank’s warning, the last thing she wanted to
do was mention Gloria. She glanced at Carla and saw the tiniest hint of a smile on her face. She had the disturbing impression that Carla already knew about her sister.

  Rebecca laughed to cover her nervousness. “There’s been a rash of pregnancies among my friends, and a couple of them mentioned taking Olmerol. I knew Olmerol and Thalidomide had been developed around the same time, and were prescribed for the same issues.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It seemed like an interesting story. I was pre-med before I took up social work, so I have some background…”

  Carla unlaced her fingers. “Which friends?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Which friends were taking Olmerol?”

  Rebecca’s stomach tightened. Her host was looking at her expectantly. She was going to have to answer. She glanced down. Her nails dug into the leather arms of her chair.

  She willed herself to relax. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable…”

  “You don’t have to answer,” Carla’s smile broadened. “I’m sorry, I’ve put you on the spot. I just thought, as a friendly gesture, I could arrange for some kind of discount.”

  “Oh,” said Rebecca. She was relieved, though she wasn’t sure she bought Carla’s explanation. “Thanks for the offer, but I think they’re past that phase.”

  "Are you working for anyone in particular?" Carla said.

  Rebecca had anticipated this question, and several others Carla asked regarding her background as a journalist, saying that this was her first foray into journalism, and that she was simply hoping to shop the article around. If Carla or anybody else at Kaffir were to dig into her life, as they obviously had, the facts would fit.

  “Sorry,” Carla said, “you’re supposed to be the one doing the interviewing.”

  Rebecca relaxed a little.

  “I was expecting to find you in a more corporate setting,” she said.

  The tiny office was sparsely decorated. There were no pictures on Carla’s desk, and the one or two that hung on the wall were generic Kaffir Pharma promo photographs, showing scientists and administrators hard at work. Judging from the rest of the office, Rebecca guessed that Carla had simply told the company to come up with something.

  “I actually have another office on the floor above,” Carla said, but I prefer to be down here, in the trenches. Research is my first love, and I still feel more comfortable here.”

  It took no more than a few minutes for Rebecca to grasp that Carla De Leon had a brilliant mind, and as she continued to interview the VP of Research, it became clear that Carla had a profound knowledge of Olmerol, though it must be a relatively minor drug in the company’s inventory. She briefly described its history and development, the refinements they’d made over the years, and the hurdles they’d overcome.

  Carla showed no hostility, or even resistance, toward studies suggesting that Olmerol might have negative side effects. She projected a simple desire to get at the truth, and possibly make improvements to the drug if possible. She cheerfully provided Rebecca with references to more than a dozen studies on Olmerol.

  After Frank’s lecture about the threat of the organization, Rebecca had built up an image of its employees as an army of black-suited murdering psychopaths. That image couldn’t have been farther from that of Carla De Leon. She was friendly, soft-spoken, even self-effacing, and dedicated to her work. In fact, her host’s highly organized, no-nonsense persona was a welcome break from Frank’s chaotic, conspiracy-obsessed world.

  Buying into Frank’s theories, Rebecca had been hoping to somehow maneuver the VP of Research into giving away incriminating information about the drug’s side effects.

  As she packed up the recorder and got up to leave, she had the unsettling feeling that if anything the opposite had occurred, that she was the one who’d said more than she intended.

  She was turning for the door when Carla spoke. “We must go for coffee some time.”

  A jolt went up Rebecca’s spine. It took a second for her to recover.

  “Coffee?” was all she could think to say.

  Carla quickly checked the smart phone on her desk. “I’m free on Tuesday at two PM.”

  Rebecca wondered what she’d gotten herself into. What was Carla playing at?

  A badged escort appeared to take her back downstairs.

  “The Boathouse on Kits Beach,” Carla said.

  Rebecca felt a knot in her stomach. The escort stood aside to clear the way for her. She considered her impression of Carla, a brilliant, thoughtful, unpretentious, not to mention powerful, woman. A woman she couldn’t help but admire.

  “I’m sorry,” Carla said, “I’ve put you on the spot again. It’s just that it’s rare for me to find someone outside work to talk to. I feel as though we have a connection. It would mean a lot…”

  Rebecca was touched. Carla’s eyes reflected a profound loneliness. Suddenly Rebecca felt a tinge of pity for her. In any case, she had to admit that as a fact-finding mission today’s meeting had been a failure. Maybe she could do better next time.

  “Alright?” Carla asked.

  Rebecca smiled. “I look forward to it.”

  The escort led her out the door.

  Frank Meets Ricky Augustus

  The Mountain View Psychiatric Hospital was situated on a cul-de-sac terminating a long drive so deep in the suburbs that there were swaths of wild countryside surrounding it. Frank pressed the green access button that unlocked the front door of the aging wood-frame structure and strolled inside.

  A white-haired old man in a wheelchair slept with his chin on his chest in a corner. Another man stood by a window, clenching and unclenching his hands over his head like he was grasping at non-existent insects. A middle-aged woman shuffled up to Frank, grabbed his sleeve, and said something urgently in what sounded like Polish. Frank shuddered, recalling his own time in the psych ward. He smiled at her and made his way to the reception desk.

  He’d spent a day trying to come up with a plausible explanation for wanting to see Ricky Augustus, with no idea who the man was: a patient, a worker, a nurse, even a doctor. In the end he was forced to involve Rebecca, who, through her connections, was able to determine that Ricky must be a patient.

  Frank stated his appointment with Susan Carstairs, the head nurse for the afternoon shift. The receptionist paged her. Several minutes later Carstairs, blond and wearing a white lab coat, walked in. They shook hands and walked to her office.

  “You’d like to volunteer as a companion for a patient,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “The information you provided says you’re on stress leave,” Nurse Carstairs said. “Are you sure you’re up to dealing with someone who’s mentally ill?”

  “I was in a high-stress job,” Frank said, trying his best to come across as well-balanced. “I’m not quite ready to go back to that work, but I’m fine. Volunteering would be good therapy for me. And the structure will help ease my way back into a work environment.”

  Carstairs bought his story and took him on a tour of the facility. They passed through a hallway somewhat bizarrely decorated with paintings depicting the English countryside. Thatched cottages nestled behind crooked fences along streams and rustic country roads. Hunters clad in crimson jackets and black helmets galloped on horseback in search of elusive foxes.

  The hallway funneled into a bright and airy rec-room in the southwest corner of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided lots of sunlight, though the bars behind them reminded Frank where he was. Shabby tables and rickety chairs dotted the room. At a few, patients sat thumbing through magazines or playing cards.

  The nurse began to introduce Frank to the patients he might want to occasionally come and spend time with. Half an hour later they’d met almost all of them and he still hadn’t spotted Ricky.

  In a far corner, facing the wall, was an electric wheelchair. Finally they headed for it. A balding blond head, leaning to one side, projected only slightly above the push handles. A freckled, wither
ed hand rested on the right arm just behind the motor control. As they arrived, Frank noticed the name scrawled on a worn strip of masking tape on the back: ‘R. Augustus’.

  He took a step back. This was Ricky Augustus?

  “Ricky?” said the nurse.

  Ricky didn’t move.

  “Ricky?” she repeated more loudly. The fingers moved slowly, like a pale spider, crawling the hand forward toward the control. After an impossibly long delay, it reached the knob and the chair jolted to life, slowly swinging around to face them.

  Rebecca’s information had indicated that Ricky was in his early twenties, but the ravages of his condition made him appear much older. He was pale to the point of transparency. He reminded Frank of pictures he’d seen of translucent sea life at the perpetually sunless bottom of the ocean.

  His wispy blond hair had almost all fallen out – only a sparse ring sprouted around his otherwise bald head. He slouched heavily to his right side, and his head tilted in the same direction. His condition seemed to have affected his facial muscles. His mouth drooped on the right side, and the eye on that side didn’t open completely. There were a variety of bags hanging from metal hooks, and tubes connected to various parts of Ricky’s body. Some seemed to be going in, others coming out.

  “Ricky,” said the nurse. “This is Frank.”

  Ricky didn’t respond. He just stared stupidly at them.

  “Hello, Ricky,” Frank said, smiling. He reached out and attempted to shake Ricky’s hand, which he realized didn’t function well enough to perform that operation. He finally just lifted the lifeless fingers and did all the shaking himself.

  Back in Nurse Carstairs’ office, Frank expressed an interest in Ricky. “He was literally left on their doorstep,” the nurse said, referring to the hospital that had transferred Ricky Augustus to Mountain View.

  “He was called Augustus because he came to us in the month of August,” she continued. “Why he was called Ricky, I have no idea. It was all before my time.”