James Adcox - Does Not Love

“What you’re talking about — if it existed — would be illegal,” Trey says; then, to Robert, “The facility was shut down years ago. It would be trespassing. The state of Indiana would be well within their rights to force these people to leave the area.”

“A single bus line runs by the storage facility,” Hugo continues. “Other than that, the only vehicles that approach are the white vans of the researchers, who arrive with their lists and call out: Male, in good health, 18 to 24. Female, in good health, 35 to 40. Male, in good health, 33 to 45.”

“In good health?” Antonio asks.

“It’s a phase I study,” Trey says. “In a phase I study you’re testing the safety of a drug, rather than its efficacy. Phase I studies start with healthy volunteers. Phase II studies are the ones that target people who actually have the condition you’re trying to treat.”

“You take the drug, and they see if it does anything terrible to you, and then they give you some money,” Hugo says.

“An honorarium,” Trey explains. “By law, all participants in a phase I study have to be healthy volunteers. You don’t pay volunteers. But it is reasonable to recompense them for their time. If you didn’t recompense them for their time, you wouldn’t have any healthy volunteers for your phase I studies.”

Hugo frowns. “Many of the guinea-piggers are not in good health. Many have not recovered from previous phase I studies.”

“Then they shouldn’t be volunteering,” Trey says. “They shouldn’t be signing forms that specifically say that they are in good health.” Then, turning again to Robert, “I mean, are we supposed to assume that our volunteers are lying to us?”

Robert looks down at his drink, concerned.

“That’s assuming, for the sake of argument, that any of this is happening. This fairy tale.” Trey gestures at Hugo. “I mean, who is this guy? Some trombone player. Some asshole making a few bucks on the side from pharmaceutical trials.”

“Hey,” Antonio says, starting to stand up.

Hugo motions for him to sit down. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then continues speaking, in the same calm, sad voice. “Jeremy, the leader of the guinea-piggers, is a good man. He is trying to organize the guinea-piggers, to have a voice in the conditions of their labor.”

Trey snorts. “For God’s sake.”

“But there are other, darker forces at work. Guinea-piggers who strive toward violent revolution, who want to take revenge not only on the pharmaceutical companies, but on the city itself. Rumors of a man in black goggles and a fake fur coat who carries two pistols, and stalks the night for researchers who have been sloppy in their phase I testing. Some say that he is exacting vengeance for the death of his son, or perhaps his wife; others, that he himself was killed as the result of a phase I study gone wrong, and it is his spirit who is carrying out these murderous deeds… ”

It’s four a.m.by the time Robert gets home. Viola is not in bed. He wakes up several hours later, still wearing his clothes from the night before, minus his suit jacket. He gets up and wanders the house, trying to find the jacket. All around him he hears voices, a messy, conflicting jangle. His head feels thick, part hungover, part still drunk. These voices, he thinks. Is this an unintended adverse effect? Eventually he realizes that the television is on. He turns it off. The radio is on. He turns that off, too. He goes from room to room, turning off televisions and radios. I don’t remember turning any of this on last night, he thinks. Perhaps Viola did it. Perhaps she came home at some point while I was sleeping and turned on every television and radio in the house. Why would she do that, he thinks. Could that be an unintended adverse effect, the need to be surrounded by voices? To be blanketed by them? He can see how, in a certain way, it would be comforting. He tries to think back to the unintended adverse effects that Trey listed for him. He cannot remember if “needing to be blanketed by voices,” or some corresponding scientific term, was on the list.

He finds the suit jacket several days later, at the bottom of a pile of laundry. In the jacket pocket is a note from Hugo, with a phone number on it. Robert calls the number. “Robert,” Hugo says. “I am glad you decided to call. We think that you could be very useful to us.”

At the libraryno one talks about the FBI agent anymore. He is still there, but no one seems willing to indicate that they so much as notice him. It is as though he has become a shared secret. Has he issued National Security Letters to other librarians, Viola wonders. Who else is he fucking?

Viola stands outsidewaiting for the FBI agent in a floral-print sundress with a halter-style top that someone once told her was flattering on her, but then she gets cold and decides that he’s probably not actually going to come and goes inside and puts on a sweater. Five minutes later her cell phone buzzes. The FBI agent asks why she isn’t outside. Viola goes outside and gets into the FBI agent’s car.

This is the sweater with the oil stain on it, Viola thinks. I always forget that about this sweater. I guess I keep hoping that it will come out in the wash, but it never does. It’s not noticeable, though, she thinks. Or I don’t think it is. Only a little darker than the rest of the sweater, but it’s a dark sweater to begin with. It’s weird how I don’t ever really notice my body or my clothes when I’m by myself. Like I can have dirt and crap all over my skirt and not notice until somebody else comes into the room. And then I can’t not notice. Viola sits with her hands under her legs, thinking about the oil stain on her sweater, telling herself that it’s not noticeable.

The FBI agent asks how her day was. “It was fine,” she says. “A little boring. I caught a kid stealing some books in the Children’s Section but then he got away before me or Jeanette could catch him.”

“What did he look like?”

“The kid? He looked like a kid.”

“It could be important, what he looked like. Did he have little things on his head?”

“Little things?”

“Like horns.”

“Why would he be wearing horns?”

“It was just a question.”

Sometimes Viola likes to think that because of the NSL nobody else can actually see the FBI agent when she’s with him. She imagines the drivers of cars they pass reacting in horror at seeing her riding in a car that drives itself. She imagines the other drivers so surprised that they crash into railings and trees and other cars behind the FBI agent’s car. Viola sits beside the FBI agent picturing constant car crashes in their wake.

They stop at a storage facility on the far west side. The FBI agent pulls a cloth tote bag from the backseat and steps out of the car. “Stick close to me,” he tells her. She wants to mock him: stick close to me , serious, eyes slitted, but she doesn’t.

Smoke rises from the storage facility. There are little bonfires all over the place. For a moment Viola imagines that the storage facility has been carpet-bombed, pictures planes flying low. Then she notices people tending the fires. The people tending the fires are staring at Viola and the FBI agent. “Don’t say anything,” the FBI agent says, putting on a pair of sunglasses. “Just walk. Act like you own the place. Keep in mind that they’re more scared of you than you are of them.” Viola wonders if the FBI agent is going to flash his gun at anybody.

They walk into a storage unit near the periphery. A man looks up from a battery-powered, hand-held television set and smiles as they enter. “Good evening, Agent. Business or pleasure?”