Twenty-Three
The boys had been sent up to bed.
They’d wanted to stay up and watch The X-Files, but that had gone horribly wrong the week before. The episode had been about an escaped convict who could alter his molecular
structure to move through objects, including people, and it had totally freaked Reece out. Holden, however, had loved it,
concluding that the ability to pass through walls would be a pretty handy skill. You could break into a Toys “R” Us at night
without tripping any alarms and steal as many Star Wars action figures as you could carry, or maybe one of the new Nintendo
Game Boys with a color screen.
Reece said that was stupid. Even if you had the power to go through a wall, the action figures and the computer game couldn’t
change their molecular structure, so you couldn’t take them back through the wall with you. Holden countered, saying anything you were
holding would have those same qualities. Like, the guy on the episode was able to go through a wall and still have his shoes.
“I’ll try it tonight,” Holden said. “Even if you lock your bedroom door, I’ll come right through it and get you after you
fall asleep.”
Reece began to cry. Holden was scolded by Catherine and ordered to tell his younger brother he would not come through his
door or his wall or even the ceiling to get him in the night.
“Okay,” Holden said. “I won’t do it.” And then added quietly, so only Reece could hear, “Not tonight.”
And despite all that, when another week went by, and there was a new episode of The X-Files, they both wanted to watch it. Catherine said no. Both boys moaned their displeasure. Reece promised not to be scared, and
Holden vowed that, even if Reece were scared, he wouldn’t tease him.
The answer was still no.
Brent would have been okay with letting them watch it again, but he hadn’t wanted to undermine Catherine. So both boys were
sent to their respective rooms at nine. Reece’s room faced the street, and Holden’s bedroom window looked out over the backyard
and the pond. Brent crept upstairs about fifteen minutes later, saw no light under either door, although he thought he could
hear some stirring in Holden’s room. Reading comics with a flashlight, Brent guessed.
Catherine had gone to their bedroom. He peered in briefly, heard her shuffling clothes in the walk-in closet, and decided
to head downstairs. He considered, briefly, watching The X-Files on his own (he was kind of a fan) but opted to go into the kitchen and make himself a drink. He was sipping on a scotch when
he thought he heard a car pulling into the driveway.
He walked through the living room to the front door; when he opened it, he saw a silver Porsche Boxster sitting there, the
engine now off. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who had a car like that, but he recognized Evelyn Corby when she got out
and remembered her mentioning at the party that she was driving one of those.
“Evelyn,” he said, walking toward her, the scotch still in his hand.
She smiled weakly. “Brent. Forgive the unannounced drop-in.”
“No, that’s— Is something wrong?”
She was dressed in designer jeans and a blue jacket over a white silk blouse. Tucked under her arm was a soft, leather case
large enough to carry documents.
Evelyn came up the walk, stopped in front of him, let out a long breath, as though she had run here instead of driven, and
said, “I need to know if I can trust you.”
“About what?”
“It’s a simple question. Can I trust you?”
“Yes, of course.”
He led her into the house, through the living room and into the kitchen, where he offered a drink. She looked at his glass
and said, “I’ll have one of those, but make it a double.”
Brent handed her a tumblerful and, pointing out that his sons had just gone upstairs and might still be trying to settle down,
suggested they go sit on the back deck. The sun had set, so he flipped on a couple of outdoor lights, slid back the screen
of the sliding glass doors that were already pulled open, and followed her outside.
Before sitting in one of the cushioned chairs she admired the reflection of the lights in the pond.
“Your own private lake,” she said.
“Yeah, well, not quite big enough to water-ski. That little rowboat’s for the boys.”
They sat. Evelyn laid the case across her knees and patted it with one hand.
“It’s all here,” she said.
“What’s all there?”
“They’re killing people and they know they’re killing people and they don’t care.”
Brent sighed. “Evelyn, you know the media’s on a witch hunt with Wiffel-Smith. Printing bullshit stories quoting anonymous
sources and no evidence. Why don’t they go after Budweiser for giving people beer bellies. When used responsibly to treat
pain it—”
“Stop. Just, stop, Brent. Look who you’re talking to. I know the spiel. I know the company line. You don’t believe it any
more than I do. I’ve seen the look on your face.”
“What look?”
“In the meetings. The others in that room, they’re brainwashed. They’re in the cult. But I look at you and I can see what
you’re thinking. That it’s all a crock. Those cooked-up studies saying if the patient’s pain returns, up the dosage. Pop another
pill. And if that doesn’t work, pop another one. It’s crack, this stuff. You know it, I know it. The assholes running the show know it.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Evelyn. Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked out into the night, into the
woods beyond the pond. “Look, maybe there are times when I have my doubts. But . . .”
“But you don’t want to give up this,” she said, tilting her head back toward the house. “The big house, the cars, the vacations,
probably private schools for your kids. You don’t want it to end. But it has to.” She smiled. “I’m gonna burn this company
to the ground.”
“It’s impossible. You can’t.”
“It’s not impossible, and I will.” She dropped her voice. “They killed my nephew. No, that’s wrong. I killed my nephew. I did their bidding. I got him hooked, and it killed him. Did I tell you how old Miles was?”
Brent said nothing.
“Twenty-eight. Had the world by the balls. Liked to play honky-tonk piano, did a great impression of that Reverend Jim guy
from that sitcom Taxi. Gets his shoulder banged up playing hockey. I pass on some sample packs of Oxy-Mirac. ‘Motherfucker,’ he tells me one night. ‘That stuff is amazing.’ No shit. Well, he’s not feeling any pain now.”
“Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I truly am. That’s . . . it’s a tragedy. It’s not your fault. All you wanted was to make his pain go
away.”
“Not my fault? That’s not what his sister says. My niece. Have I told you about her?”
Brent, feeling this is a story he can’t stop her telling, said, “No.”
“She’s Miles’s sister, but she lives with me. Over the last two years, they lost both their parents. Mom dies of heart failure
first, then eighteen months later, the dad’s killed in a car accident. Miles was already living on his own and would have
taken his sister in with him if he had to, but Evelyn, the wonderful aunt, steps up, says hey, Alicia, you come live with me. One day, though, she drops in on her brother, wants to see how he’s
coming along, he’s dead on the kitchen floor looking like six-month-old cheese.”
Evelyn shook her head sadly. “You know what my niece called me? A merchant of death. Said if I hadn’t given Miles that first pill, he’d still be alive. And you know what? She’s right.”
She patted the leather case on her knees. “It’s all here.”
“Jesus, what have you done.”
“Before I show you, I ask you one more time, for real. Can I trust you? Because this is it. This is the whole ball game. I
think they’re watching me. If something happens to me, I need backup. Someone else with the courage to take them on. If it’s
just me, I go to the Times or the Post or whoever, maybe they think I’m some kind of nut at first, but if there’s two of us, then we’ve—”
“For the love of— Evelyn, you want me to be a goddamn whistleblower? I can’t— I couldn’t.”
“So you’re okay with it?”
“I’m not saying that. For fuck’s sake, Wiffel-Smith is the General Motors of the drug world. Whatever you’ve got in that case,
I don’t care what it is, it’d be like going after Godzilla with a peashooter.”
“You think?” She unzipped the case, brought out several papers, and handed them to Brent. He shifted his chair slightly so
that he could get some light on the documents.
“What . . . am I looking at?”
“Memos from the desk of Graham Wiffel. Copies, by the way.” She gave him a sly grin.
Brent started reading. “How did you get all this?” he asked, his voice filled with a terrified sense of wonder.
She smiled.
“You’d be surprised what people will toss into the trash, thinking no one will ever see it. But overnight custodians, with
the right financial incentive, will happily pass it all on to you the next day. Sometimes, Wiffel tears things up, but as
long as it’s not shredded, it’s not that hard to piece together. A little Scotch tape and you’ve got yourself a smoking gun.”
She pointed at the papers in his lap, made a go ahead gesture.
“Read. Fake testimonials. Bribes. Bogus studies. All to make more and more money. This is straight from Wiffel himself. Plans on how to maximize profits at the expense of human misery. They want people addicted. They don’t give a flying fuck about improving anyone’s quality of life.”
Brent picked up a page and started reading. At the top, a red EYES ONLY stamp. It was a ten-point “action plan” from the president
himself to counter growing negative publicity about their product and still increase sales. Proposals included secret payouts
to major personalities and media outlets for positive stories. A video team would produce testimonials from patients crediting
Wiffel-Smith with changing their lives for the better, and the actors who would play these patients could be sourced from
various talent agencies. People alleged to have overdosed on Oxy-Mirac would be investigated and evidence “found” that they
had a history of drug abuse. Details of how to conduct smear campaigns were included.
Brent looked up. “Oh my god. It’s dynamite. I mean, literally dynamite.”
“No shit,” Evelyn said.
Brent read on, still shaking his head. “They’re soulless,” he said. “They’ve got the moral rectitude of an alligator. Christ.”
“You already knew all this. We all knew it. Not what’s in those memos, but the general drift. You knew it but wouldn’t admit
it to yourself.”
He set the papers down, looked at Evelyn. “Maybe.”
“What are your boys’ names?”
“What?”
“Your sons. What are their names?”
“Holden and Reece.”
“How would you explain it to them? What it is you do? You think what you’ve been doing would make them proud? Are you the
man they would want you to be? One day, it’ll all come out. If it’s not through me, through somebody else. This kind of depravity
will implode from its own meanness. You have to ask yourself, do you want to get ahead of it? Or hang in till the bitter end,
when your shares in the company aren’t worth wiping your ass with?”
He said nothing.
“I can’t do this alone. I want someone along for the ride. And it’s going to be a fucking bumpy one too. Crane?”
“Yeah?”
“He makes a New York rat look like a chipmunk. He’s dangerous. Soon as he gets an inkling about what I’ve got, I’m toast.
That’s why I have to move on this. Skipping local media. New York Times, baby. Walk in like Daniel Ellsberg did at the Post with the Pentagon Papers. I want to be able to tell them I’ve got someone who can back me up.” She paused, then grinned. “That’d be you.”
She pointed to the papers in his hand. “Those are your copies. Mine are in the car. I’m heading for the border, then straight
on to New York. Eight, ten hours if I don’t get pulled over for speeding. I’ll be there by daybreak.”
“And if don’t back you up on this?”
“Don’t break my heart, Brent. Do it for your boys. Make ’em proud.”
Brent stood, paced the deck. “I’ll be throwing everything away.”
“You’ll reinvent yourself. You’re a salesman, and a good one. Sell something else. Consult. Invent something. I don’t care
if I end up bagging groceries. I can’t do this any longer.”
Brent stopped, stood a little straighter, nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“No, you won’t.”
They both turned. It was Catherine, on the other side of the screen. She slid it open slowly with one hand, her other hanging
down at her side, out of view.
She stepped outside. “You can’t do that, Brent.”
“Honey, hey. You remember Evelyn, from the party at—”
“I remember.”
Evelyn stood, nodded respectfully. “Hello, Catherine. Don’t know how much you heard but what I’m asking of Brent—what I am
asking of you—is to do the right thing.”
“The right thing.”
She nodded. “For your consciences, for yourselves, for your boys, and—”
“Don’t talk about my boys. Don’t talk to me about the right thing. What do you stand to lose? A job?” She scoffed. “How about
a husband? Children? A family. A wonderful life. You want us to throw that away? Because you have some little pangs of conscience?”
“Catherine, just—”
She cut off her husband. “He won’t help you.”
Catherine showed what she’d been hiding in her other hand. A gun. She pointed it at Evelyn Corby, who froze, a stunned look
on her face.
Brent said, “Christ, Catherine, where the hell did you get—”
“I told you,” she said. “I tried so hard to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. I haven’t felt safe. And I’ve never felt more threatened than right now.”
“Put that down,” her husband said. “Catherine, we can work this out.”
Evelyn’s eyes were darting from side to side, looking for an escape. Struggling to keep her voice calm, she said, “Read those
papers. They’ve done terrible things. Evil things. Your husband isn’t an evil person, and I know you’re not. The evidence is right there. It’s overwhelming. All I’m
asking is—”
Catherine raised her arm, trained the gun more squarely on her target.
Evelyn bolted.
She couldn’t head back into the house. Catherine was in her path. She jumped the two steps that led down to the yard from
the deck and started running in the direction of the pond, legs and arms pumping.
Catherine went after her, rushing past Brent in pursuit.
Raised her weapon and fired.
A few feet short of the pond’s edge, Evelyn went down, her arms stretched out ahead of her. Her head touched the muddy ground
where the pond met the yard.
“No!” Brent cried, racing after his wife, now kneeling next to Evelyn’s lifeless form.
“You stupid bitch!” Brent shouted. “You goddamn stupid fucking bitch!”
Catherine was fixated on the red blossoming stain on the back of Evelyn’s jacket. When Brent tried to wrestle the gun from
her hand, Catherine resisted.
“Give me that! Give it to me!” he said.
Catherine broke free long enough to bring her arm back and throw the gun into the air. It sailed over the pond and landed
with a splash.
“You want it, go get it,” she said, struggling to her feet.
Brent stood there, mouth agape, looking down in shock at Evelyn’s lifeless form.
Catherine happened to glance back at the house and noticed, in the second-floor window of Holden’s bedroom, the dark silhouette
of a child, watching.