FLASHBACK (35 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: FLASHBACK
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Jack felt a cold flash up his back, but all he could do was nod in reflex.
Fagan shook his head. “That’s something that just never sat right with me, a storm kicking up the water just a hundred feet away. I’ve got a grandchild
about that age, and he can climb out of his crib like a monkey. Not something me or my wife would’ve chanced. Hell with the boat’s my attitude.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fagan.”
“No problem. Good luck.”
Jack watched Fagan walk into the parking lot toward his car, his words sizzling in Jack’s brain.
RENÉ HEARD THE FAMILIAR HIGH-COMPRESSION GROWL out her window, and she looked out to see Jordan Carr pull up in front of her house in a new Ferrari—this one a black lacquered thing with huge chrome wheels.
Over the months, she had seen Jordan Carr at meetings with other clinicians working on the Memorine trials, but her social relationship was restricted to a few quick lunches in nursing home cafeterias. But it was evident that he was attracted to her. On a few occasions he asked her out to dinner, a movie, or a concert, yet she politely refused, saying that she was busy with work or other engagements. He seemed to take it well, coloring and nodding, bowing out with an exit line—“Maybe another time.” Eventually he stopped asking.
René knew she probably came across as aloof or old-fashioned, maybe even prudish or anti-men. But she was none of those. In fact, she had decided that she wanted to meet new men and go out, and that when her work on the trials subsided, she would start exploring the dating scene. But at the moment she was swamped. About Jordan Carr she was just not interested. What made tonight different was that Jordan insisted that she meet old acquaintances of his to talk about investments and financial planning. With her school loans, the grant money she was making on the trials, plus the growing value of her GEM stock options, her economic situation was becoming more complicated, so she agreed to a dinner date.
“What do you think?” Jordan asked when she stepped outside.
She looked at the low, sleek machine with the midnight-sculpted luster. “Did you and Batman do a swap?”
“Very funny,” he said with a blank face, and opened the passenger-side door.
René got in thinking that that was one problem with Jordan Carr: that he found few things funny, that he had almost no sense of levity, that she could not imagine him having a good belly laugh. Perhaps he was above the display of humor as with real anger. If he got angry or upset, he tended to internalize his reaction, perhaps in accordance with some mannered protocol of behavior—as if the control of his emotions underscored a superior virtue.
Ironically, the blotching of his face would betray him. And that’s what bothered René the most about him: She was never completely certain of his true feelings. And in that uncertainty Jordan Carr made others aware that he was superior.
Jordan started the car and they pulled away.
It was Friday afternoon, and they were driving to the cliffs of Manomet, a few miles north of the Cape Cod Canal, where Grady and Luanne Vickers had a summer place. Grady worked for a Boston mutual funds company and was Jordan’s portfolio manager. Luanne was a Boston bank manager.
“But she really doesn’t need to work,” Jordan said “She’s from old Yankee money.”
Old Yankee money.
And that was another thing. For Jordan, money seemed to be a prime mover. Perhaps it had to do with making up for the divorce lawyers, but when once she complained how in the trials there seemed to be more emphasis on the financial than medical, especially regarding the clinicians, Jordan reminded her, “Look, it takes eight to ten years to get trained—school, internship, residency, not to mention high professional expenses and staggering malpractice insurance. Maybe not you, but some people would argue that docs are entitled to financial rewards.” She saw no point in counterarguing and said nothing.
As he ate up the highway in his stallion hat and leather driving gloves, she decided that Dr. Jordan Carr really
was
that Michael Douglas character—and proud of it.
A LITTLE AFTER FIVE, THEY TURNED off Exit 2 and onto 3A, and from there they found a tree-lined side street that led to the cliff-top house—a gray-shingled two-level place with a deck offering a spectacular view of Cape Cod Bay.
As soon as they arrived, Grady came out of the house. He was a heavyset man with floppy brown hair and an eager, pleasant face. He shook René’s hand when he was introduced. “You’re going to have to forgive me, but I have to leave.” Then, with a woeful expression, he explained that their four-year-old daughter, Leah, who was staying with Luanne’s parents in Wayland, had developed a high fever and had been taken to the local emergency department. Luanne had left earlier and called to ask Grady to join her. The girl had had a seizure.
“How high was her temperature?” René asked.
“One-oh-four point seven. They put her in a cool bath but decided to take her in.”
“That was smart.”
Grady checked his watch. “Luanne called twenty minutes ago and it was down to one-oh-three point six. I’m sure she’s going to be fine, but Leah is asking for me. But you’re welcome to stay, of course. We’ll be back later, depending on how things go. And I’ll be happy to talk financial planning.”
“I understand,” René said.
Grady led them inside and showed them what would be their room if they wanted to stay over. René noted a queen-size bed. She also noted that across the hall were the master bedroom and a smaller room for Leah. But downstairs in the living room there was a couch. She didn’t know how Jordan had characterized their relationship, but she had no desire to share a bed with him. Jordan dropped his bag in the guest room. He had brought a change of clothes. She hadn’t. An overnighter was not part of the evening.
René followed Grady and Jordan down the stairs, where Grady grabbed his keys and headed outside again. He walked over to the Ferrari and shook his head. “Guy’s got it rough,” he said to René. “House in the country, vintage Ferraris, getaway perks to Park City and Aruba.” He winked at her. “All those drug company kickbacks.”
Jordan’s cheeks instantly blotched. He didn’t like that, but he covered well. “And how’s the insider trading going?”
“Touche.”
Grady smiled. “But apparently not as well,’cause I’m still driving a Toyota and you’re running around in Stealth fighter jets.” Grady jiggled his keys. “There’s a shrimp and scallop casserole in the oven, rice on the stove, and a terrific salad Luanne made in the fridge. Plus plenty of beer in the cooler and a rack of wine in the kitchen. Enjoy. Again, I’m sorry about this. But maybe later.”
René thanked him and added, “I’m sure Leah will be just fine.”
He nodded and his smile faded. “Luanne’s kind of worried about the seizure … you know, possible consequences …”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Jordan said. “Febrile seizures are over in moments, with no lasting damage. Besides, her temp was too low. It’s when the fever is over one-oh-seven for an extended period of time that there could be some problems.”
“I’m feeling better already.”
Jordan pretended to write something out on his palm. “That’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Which will just cover room and board for the night,” Grady laughed and got in the car. “And don’t wait up for us. Nice meeting you,” he said to René. “See you later.”
Room and board?
It began to feel like a setup.
René followed Jordan inside. The place was designed for the view—cathedral ceiling, open living-room-dining-room-kitchen area, a corner fireplace, and a huge floor-to-ceiling glass wall with sliding doors that led onto a deck. The sun had set behind them so that in the fading light the blue-gray sea made a seamless fusion with the sky. From the canal, a few miles to the right, to Provincetown, the full sweep of the Cape’s arm could be seen. On a clear evening, Jordan said, you could make out the lighthouse in Province-town straight out.
“Well, we might as well make the best of it,” Jordan said, and began to spoon the casserole onto two plates. René opened a bottle of red wine, chiding herself for her earlier suspicions. They would make the best of it, have dinner, and head home, no problem.
They ate the dinner and drank some of the wine they had brought. Then they moved onto a wicker couch on the deck to take in the view. It was a perfect spring night, warm, with a gentle breeze and an opaque sky fretted with stars. To the right, a crystalline moon rose over the water, making a marbleized path all the way out to the horizon. In the distance pulsed the P-town lighthouse.
Jordan poured himself his fourth glass of wine and made a toast. “To us and continued success. And I hope we all make a ton of money.” He was beginning to slur his words.
“Yes, continued success,” René said, and clicked his glass.
“Which reminds me,” Jordan said. “Did you see the Klander Report?”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“So, what do you think?”
She really didn’t want to get into it over wine. “Well, I think it’s something of a whitewash.”
“Whitewash?”
“It dismisses flashback seizures as incidental events.”
Maybe it was the wine, but Jordan’s face darkened. “Because that was the conclusion of the CRO—that they’re simple anomalies unrelated to the drug.”
More likely, that was the conclusion of GEM Tech execs who had vigorously denied any rumors of side effects—rumors that had kept deep-pocket
investors awake at night.
Unrelated delusional behavior.
And helping to counter such anxieties was the frenzy created by the FDA’s decision to fast-track Memorine’s development—the deluge of calls and e-mails to clinicians and trial site administrators from AD victims, their families, health care people, and government reps wanting to know when the drug would be available. (The unofficial response was, this coming Christmas.)
However, that was not the unanimous agreement among clinicians, a few of whom had made their concerns known. Even though it was still impossible to prove conclusively that Memorine caused flashbacks, the observational correlation was overwhelming. “It’s still rudimentary,” René said, “but Dr. Habib’s MRI studies were beginning to confirm a connection between flashbacks and neurological repair. I’m sure they were sent to you following his death.”
Furthermore, the MRI configurations of Jack Koryan’s flashback seizures were identical to those of AD patients during flashback seizures. The EEG readings were also similar. And Peter Habib’s independent study had confirmed the similarities. The only problem was that Jack Koryan refused to submit to any more MRI exams or tests to determine the effects of the jellyfish toxins. Understandably, he had had it with being probed. Besides, he was a “civilian” again and getting on with his life.
Jordan studied her for a moment as he selected his words. “Well, some have argued that those are exaggerated claims.” He got up and went inside to get another bottle of wine.
When he returned, he poured more wine into his glass. René still had half a glass. He took a sip. “I’m not sure what to make of Peter Habib’s findings, but let’s say there is some connection, just for the sake of argument. We’re addressing the problem with standard meds and good results, right?”
He put his hand on hers. “And, look, ask yourself this—if your father were still alive, which would you prefer: him drying up layer by layer until he’s nothing more than just the shell of himself, or him alert and reliving some good old times with old friends?”
She hated the question and deflected it. “If these people were all experiencing delightful nostalgic moments, it wouldn’t be so bad,” she said. “But many of them are being thrust into past traumas over and over again, like Louis Martinetti. He keeps reliving the torture of himself and a soldier friend back in Korea. And others get lost in equally horrible experiences from childhood. For whatever reason, these traumas overwhelm any other recollections and keep pulling them back.”
Jordan made a dismissive gesture with his wineglass.
“Jordan, these flashbacks are turning out to be worse than the disease. Worse than fading away to nothing. The stuff is making some of them prisoners of their worst experiences. And the meds we use to treat the flashbacks not only wear off but they dull them so that they’re barely functional.”
Jordan took a sip of his wine and made a smooth grin. “Whatever, once we get to Utah all the laundry will be sorted and all issues will be resolved with one mind. And if there are those who disagree—me, Nick, or anybody else—they can file separate reports with the FDA.”
Just then the telephone rang and Jordan went inside to catch the call. But that wasn’t necessary since a portable was sitting on the side table. She could hear muffled talking from inside and what sounded like Jordan chuckling. Maybe it was the wine, but Jordan never chuckled. He just made polite, smooth grins when he thought something was supposed to be funny.
A couple minutes later, he returned from the kitchen. “That was Grady. Leah is fine and sleeping comfortably. They’ll be back tomorrow for brunch.”
René felt herself tense up.
“So,” Jordan said. He lowered himself to the couch again and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind,” he began. “I asked you out four times, and four times you turned me down. I’m just wondering what there is about me you don’t like. Is it my appearance? Was it something I said? Do I have bad breath? Every time I ask you say you’re busy.”
“Well, I have been. That’s the truth.”
“Well, you’re not busy now.” He lowered his face to hers, at the same time sliding his hand over her shoulder toward her breast.

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