savings of taxpayers’ money. So, it’s fait accompli.”
“What about the investigators at some of the other sites? I thought we had some support on this.”
“We do. Paul Nadeau wants an extension. So does Brian Rich. In fact, Nadeau reports he’s got a patient who keeps having flashbacks of finding his father hanging in the closet when he was eight years old. And Dr. Rich says one of his keeps reliving her days as a child at Dachau. And the only treatment is to dope them into a stupor.”
“God, the cure is worse than the disease.”
“Exactly, but GEM’s going to deny that.”
“So we treat the flashbacks with the usual stuff.”
Nick nodded. “And if people recede into the past, let them stay there. If they get out of hand, sedate them, and to hell with the burdens on the families.”
“I don’t believe this.” And in Rene’s mind she saw Louis Martinetti blanching with horror as he was suddenly transported to the Red Tent where he was forced to watch his captors do unspeakable things to his buddy, pleading for them to stop in some kind of pidgin Korean speak.
“Believe it. What we have is a fifty-billion-dollar piggy that’s going to market, no matter what—ethics and good business practice be damned. It’s the same sealed mind-set you saw with Enron and Tyco. Nobody wants to hear bad news. And if you have any or you raise ethical questions, you’re not part of the team—and don’t get the rewards.”
“But this didn’t happen on its own. Somewhere along the line somebody made a decision to compromise the truth.”
Nick nodded. “There’s an old Greek expression: ‘The fish rots from the head first.’”
In all the years she had known Nick, Rene had never seen him so worked up. His face was flushed and his eyes filled his glasses. He looked like another person pressed to the surface under internal heat. In the classroom he had held forth on the need for strong ethical safeguards, especially in the cloudy interface between drug companies and physicians. But the lectures were always cool and reasoned. And never had she heard him criticize colleagues or staff behind their backs. If he had a problem, he was always diplomatic and respectful, stating his differences in objective and conciliatory terms. And if someone was wrong, he always gave second chances. “We’re all allowed one mistake to learn from,” he once said. “It makes us better and stronger people.”
“So what do you think will happen in Utah?”
“I’ll lodge my protest, but I don’t expect to turn a lot of minds. As somebody said, it’s like trying to stop a train in its tracks.”
Then from the floor he lifted a large cardboard box full of Memorine marketing products—gym bags, umbrellas, hats, decals, letterhead stationery, rain ponchos, a jewelry box with a pearl necklace. He slapped down a CD. “They even have their own soundtrack—
“A flawed medical miracle whose benefits exceed any risks, they claim.”
64
JACK HAD NOT BEEN IN MASS General since the days of his coma, so he remembered nothing. He made his way across the lobby to the elevators in the Lane Building and up to the eighth floor, where he found Dr. Heller’s office. He was let in to see her almost immediately.
“Every time I go down into the cellar, I get hit with bad visions. Maybe I’m cracking up.”
“You’re not cracking up, Mr. Koryan. You’re having some kind of seizures.”
“What about my muttering Armenian phrases in a woman’s voice? I don’t even know the language.”
“Did you recognize the words?”
“Not the exact translation, but they’re words of endearment you’d say to children.”
“Maybe your relatives spoke to you in Armenian and you just forgot.”
“From thirty years ago?”
“It’s possible. Your deep recall is remarkable. Perhaps you were just pronouncing them from rote memory— maybe from your aunt or other relatives.”
“Then how do you explain the image of some misshapen creature with a witch hat and a large animal with the bashed-in head? Those were as real to me as you are now.”
“I’m not a psychologist, but I think you’re making some kind of association. Tell me about the visions.”
Relaxing a bit into the gentleness of her manner, Jack described them. Their occurrences weren’t predictable or even restricted to bedtime: Daymares that would strike while he’d be taking a shower or out for a walk or sitting on the porch having a beer. But the bad flashes were always violent and thematically consistent—a darkened figure with a pointed head coming for him, then suddenly attacking another figure with some sort of bludgeon to the brutal sound of skull bone cracking. And always the flashes were perceived from the same point of view—by a window, about chest high, and through some obstruction, as if from the inside of a cage of some sort. And the banging sounds and flickering lights. What baffled Jack was that the location was deeply familiar. And although it lacked none of the non-Euclidean geometry characteristic of ordinary dreams, recognition eluded him.
“Simple nightmares.”
She had a cleanly rational explanation for things that didn’t feel clean and rational but alien and clammy. “But it felt like real time, like I was reliving it.”
She nodded and jotted something on her pad. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve had vivid recollections.”
“No, but these are different.”
“How are they different?”
He explained that these were not pleasant periodic flashes from his youth—warm vignettes of childhood play in the schoolyard or in the neighborhood park with friends, or interludes with girls he liked. What had distinguished them from daydreams or ordinary recollections was that they were violent and exquisitely vivid.
“Dreams often feel very vivid.”
“What about the possibility that it was the toxin?”
“It’s possible.” She flipped open a folder of his medical charts. “According to your most recent blood test, there are negligible traces of the toxin in your system from the original attack.” She looked back at him. “But a more likely possibility is that the massive amount that entered your system has permanently enchanced the physiology of the memory centers of your brain and, as a result, you may be experiencing memory-related nightmares. But that will require running tests on you, which you’ve refused.”
He was still not interested, but her words sent an uneasy ripple through him. “What I don’t understand is why the same violent scene.”
Dr. Heller studied Jack for a moment as she absorbed his words. “Do you recognize the figure?”
“No. But I can see its form.”
“Do you recognize the victim?”
“No.”
“And how long have you been having these spells?”
“The bad ones, since I’ve been out of Greenwood—since I moved into the house.”
“Do you recognize where the violence takes place?”
“I have a sense of being near the ocean, but I also recall a swimming pool smell.”
“A swimming pool smell?”
“Yeah, chemicals—chlorine, I guess.”
Dr. Heller folded her hands. “Mr. Koryan, I’m a neurologist, not a psychologist, but I know some very good people I’d like to refer you to.” She pulled out her pad and scribbled down a name and held it out to him. “He’s very good.”
Jack took the paper and laid it on her desk. “I’m sure. But I really don’t like the idea of some specialist shrinking me back to my toilet training then giving me a prescription to the same stuff you could write.”
Dr. Heller stared at him for a long moment parsing his comments and her own possible responses. “It might
