Tunnel Vision (31 page)

That left the puffer fish toxin.

And there it was: “Nonlethal dosages can produce dizziness, headaches, and hallucinatory effects.”

He had gotten nearly 470,000 hits from Googling “tetrodotoxin.” Aside from all the data on how it was probably the deadliest substance in the natural world, he learned that the prime source, the puffer fish, though outlawed as a menu item in America, was a coveted Japanese delicacy called
fugo
that when prepared by an expert sushi chef produced a psychedelic high for the diner. “In the skilled hands of an expert
fugo
chef, if just enough tetrodotoxin is left in, the preparation of puffer fish flesh leaves the customer with a pleasant tingling sensation to the lips and a slightly mind-altering buzz.”

“A thrill without the kill,” proclaimed one
fugo
blogger.

Before he logged off, he noticed a link to
The Boston Globe
. Dated four months ago, the story described a homeless man murdered by another with a baseball bat on the Harvard Bridge. According to a witness, the murder appeared to be a bizarre mercy killing. The Massachusetts State Crime Lab reported traces of tetrodotoxin in his blood. Either the guy had exotic taste and a bad cook or a new drug had hit the streets. Yet a Boston Police Department spokesman said, “I don’t know how a homeless man ended up with puffer fish toxin in his liver. It’s a first for us.”

According to another site, a nonlethal dosage dropped one’s temperature and blood pressure to the point of inducing a deep coma. In a few accidental food-poisoning cases in Japan, victims recovered days later after being declared dead. In Haiti, tetrodotoxin was known as the “zombie drug,” used by voodoo priests to fake the deaths of victims who were revived hours later to the dismay of others.

In the United States, tetrodotoxin was on the “select agents” list of the Department of Health and Human Services, meaning that the drug could be used only by registered research scientists.

58

Mitch turned onto Connecticut Route 84 and headed north for the Vernon exit. It was Saturday night, and he had been at the Outback in Manchester, celebrating his promotion to floor manager at the Buckland Hills Sears. And, of course, he’d had a few beers and was wiped out and dying to get to bed.

He was driving a 1992 Mitsubishi 3000 VR-4—one of the few all-wheel-drive sports cars on the road and one of the best looking. He had bought it used four years ago and had it repainted and detailed. Today it was in mint condition, even though it had seen 162,000 miles. He loved the sculpted design, the wide wheel base, the low-slung macho look. And with three hundred horses under the hood, the Mitsu had balls.

He was maybe two miles shy of the exit when he heard a deep rumble. “Shit!” he cried, and slammed his hand on the wheel. His muffler had blown a hole. He growled down the highway, sounding like something out of a NASCAR race. He had gone maybe half a mile when he heard the connector pipe hit the ground and drag, no doubt leaving a trail of sparks. “Fuck!” The car began filling with fumes.

He opened the window and took the next exit down Bolton Road to a clearing among trees. There were no streetlamps in this area, but he had a flashlight and some rope in the hatch to tie up the pipe. Luckily it had happened a few miles from home.

He pulled the flashlight and a fishing knife from the glove compartment and got out. He looked under the car. The muffler was still intact, but the pipe was on the ground. He opened the hatch and removed the jack, then raised the car maybe a foot so he could slide under.

The hangers that held the pipe to the muffler had come loose. But it had cooled enough to be roped to an opening. Unfortunately, the pipe had rusted through and would have to be replaced. By the time the Midas people got through with him, he’d be talked into a whole new exhaust system, putting him back at least a thousand bucks. And given the year of the car, it might take a week for parts to arrive, which meant he’d have to get a rental. Hell, he didn’t need this.

Even though the air was cool, it was hot and cramped under the car, and his arms tired working the rope. Worse, he was exhausted and yearning to be in bed.

He had worked for maybe twenty minutes when he heard something. He didn’t know if it was the wind or the traffic, but it sounded as if someone had approached the car. He looked down the length of his body, then to the right and left. Nothing. He squirmed to face the rear of the car, maneuvering the flash in the tight space. Still nothing. Just the underbrush and shadows.

Yet he had a sensation that he was no longer alone.

After a few moments, he dismissed the feeling and continued tying the pipe to the car’s underside.

A minute or so later, he again thought he heard something. And again he looked around, half expecting to see feet out there. Nothing. Probably the sound of the engine cooling, the metal contracting in the cool night air.

He was just finishing the last makeshift rope hanger when he heard some scuffling just to his right.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

Mitch waited until he was sure it was only in his head. He continued securing the rope to the pipe.

“Mitchell.”

His name. Someone had whispered his name. But it was so soft, it could have been the wind in the trees.

The next moment, he heard the jack cranked down a notch. The sound shot through him like a bullet.

The car had lowered on him.

He turned the flash toward the jack, expecting to see a pair of feet, but only the jack lit up. Before he could move to squirm out, another snap of metal, and the underside of the car came down an inch closer to his face. He could feel the searing heat of the engine. He could smell oil and rust. He could taste terror.

Before the car came down another notch, he squirmed out from under. He fanned the flashlight around, but no one was there. Just the trees and scrub, making shadows against the light. He pulled himself to his feet, then moved around to the other side of the car. Through the passenger window he reached into the glove compartment, where he kept a loaded .38-caliber Smith & Wesson. “Okay, you son of a bitch.” He turned a complete circle, holding the gun straight out.

Nothing. Nobody was there. A couple of sets of headlights came down the road, and he lowered the gun so he wouldn’t draw attention.

The cars passed and he stood there in the silent black, a flash in one hand, the pistol in the other. The only sound was that of the crickets. He sprayed the trees again with light. Nothing.

Your imagination,
he told himself. He was tired and edgy from a long day, sore and pissed from having to crawl in the dirt to fix a muffler pipe.

But he hadn’t imagined the car being lowered on him.

He inspected the jack. It was still in place, but the tire iron was gone. He had used it to crank up the car and thought he had left it on the ground by the jack. But it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d brought it with him when he slid under the car. He dropped to one knee and shone the flash under the car. No tire iron.

As he pulled himself up, he heard that whispery voice again.
“Mitchell.”

By reflex, he shot in that direction. The explosion filled the night air, and in the flash of the gun, he saw a hooded figure like the Grim Reaper.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Go to hell, asshole.”

In a flicker of light, a blackened figure stood with the raised tire iron in hand. Before Mitch could scream, it crashed down on his head.

59

“
Okay, time to wake up.
”

“
That’s it. Open your eyes.
”

“
Can you tell me your name?
”

Disembodied voices through the fog.

He could not answer. He cracked open his eyes against the bright ceiling lights. He rolled his head, taking in stacks of electronic equipment, computer monitors, the desks, shelves of books. Faces of the lab scientists and technicians. But across his mind flashed images of a black metal tire iron smashing the head of some faceless guy in the shadows.

In disconnected image bursts, he saw the curved bend of steel whack the man on the crown, then again on the back of the neck, then the man crumpling to the ground like a broken marionette.

Someone said something to him, and he stooped over the man’s body and smashed him again on the shoulder and his rib cage until he no longer moved.

“Zack, are you all right?”

He didn’t answer but kicked the man so that he rolled over, one knee raised to his chest, the other leg broken at a weird angle on the ground.

“Would you like to sit up?”

He shook his head and stomped on the guy’s chest … again and again until he felt the rib bones crack into his lungs and blood spurted from his mouth and nose.

“I think you’re still a little foggy from the drug.”

He touched his left side where the bullet had entered. It was still tender in the area of his liver. But remarkably, there was no blood.

“Does your side hurt?”

He did not respond, but the gunshot rang in his head.

Somebody handed him a bottle of water. The pretty woman with the short auburn hair. He drank from the bottle and looked around the room stupidly at all the equipment and the four people glaring at him.

Another woman asked him his name. He couldn’t remember. He was too intent on getting away.

Once again he heard the older woman say, “Do you remember your name?”

And he heard himself whisper, “I don’t know.”

“Your name is Zachary Kashian. Remember?”

Zack. Zachary Kashian.

For maybe a full minute in real time, he stared at nothing. His head was clearing of the attack. He drank more water, hoping to flush away recall.

Then the moment came back to him.

Yes, Zack Kashian.

The brightly lit room—the people, computers, beeping monitors, IV drips, oxygen tanks, cabinets, defibrillators, medical cabinets, shelves. He looked at them, the fading images leaving him spent and trembling.

“You were in suspension, remember?” Sarah said. Sarah Wyman.

He nodded.

They had put him under again. They had flatlined him and sent him someplace awful that left his mind full of venom and his side aching.

“Want to go home.” His voice was a jagged whisper.

“Of course, but we’d like to ask you a few questions first.” The older woman. Dr. Luria.

Call me Elizabeth.
The one with the dead kid she wanted him to find. Questions. She always stoned him with friggin’ questions.

“Only because the experience may still be fresh in your mind.”

Sarah brought him a bolster, and he lay back on it. He felt too spent to protest.

Dr. Luria pulled a chair beside the gurney while Dr. Cates turned on the video camera.

“Zack, do you remember anything from being under? Anything at all? Where you were? What you were doing? Who was with you?”

“No.”

“Do you remember where you were? Any sense of place?”

“No.”

“Or what you may have been doing?”

Go to hell, asshole.
He could still feel the rasp of those words.

He shook his head. He could see from the expression on Dr. Luria’s face that she was not happy with his responses.

“Take your time and think. I know you’re still a bit foggy. But relax and search your memory.”

He closed his eyes as if he were rummaging through his memory banks. That was the last thing he wanted—to be back on that night road. All he wanted was for this to be over so he could leave and never come back. They were screwing up his brain.

Sarah could see him struggling and suggested that he go to the restroom to change and freshen up. She helped him off the gurney, and he headed for the toilet with his clothes.

When he returned he felt better, his mind less raw. He decided to play dumb so they’d let him go. But Luria and Morris Stern were waiting for him, like twin vultures on a tree branch. Sarah handed him a mug of coffee.

Luria sat at her desk and Stern next to her by the computer monitor. The others were standing on the sidelines. Zack took a seat to face them.

“Feel better?” Luria asked.

He just grunted.

She nodded, then kicked into interrogation mode. “Zack, let me go back and start again. Do you recall any sense of the locale?”

“No.” Something flitted across her face, as if she knew he was lying.

“Were you outside? On a beach? In a room? Woodlands? Just some sense of the setting?”

He shook his head and felt a twinge on his left side.

“Okay. Any sense of the presence of other people?”