Deadly Messengers by Susan May Page B

replacing the enthusiasm glowing there only a moment before. Kendall could imagine the tender memories these latest events had dredged up for the poor man, whose drawn, weathered face spoke to years of anguish. She didn’t need to ask how he survived such a great loss, his enthusiasm for his research, his obvious salvation.
    “I lost my wife Gloria to cancer three years before. She was only forty-two. Charlie came along the year after we married. Gloria couldn’t have any more children. So Charlie was our world, my world after Gloria.” He smiled at clearly pleasant memories.
    Then his brows knitted as dark lines formed across his forehead.
    “That man took my son. And I’d already lost Gloria. Statistically, that’s a lot of bad luck. Too much death. It took years to fight my way back, to not feel bitter that this thing had happened to me. I wished every day that I’d died instead. You can’t imagine. The doctors actually put me on similar drugs to Wright. Anti-depressants. The answer to everything.”
    A wad of sadness stuck in Kendall’s throat. This was the reason she avoided these types of interviews. She could imagine. She knew exactly how it felt to lose someone, the incredible pain, the days that felt longer than a year. The nights, the very dark nights, where you felt as though you could crawl up the walls, pains in your chest so deep it felt like a stabbing knife.
    She wanted to say that to him; she even thought to apologize for reminding him of something he probably wanted to forget. Kendall didn’t, though; she had a job to do. As she listened to his voice cracking with emotion, she knew this was going to make for a great story. She hated herself for thinking it, and calmed herself by repeating: a girl’s gotta eat . Thinking about the story and not thinking about emotions his words created helped.
    The introduction for the article formed in her mind:
    Twenty years later, still visibly shaken, Doug McKinley faces each day with trepidation. He had lived in a world of numbers, but when your number is up…
    No, no she’d have to reword that, but something like that. A play on numbers fitted. Doug McKinley continued, drawing her attention back. She’d work on the words later.
    “I lost myself in my work and, yes, you can do that with figures. For a time, they filled my mind and blocked out the pain. The numbers and the drugs worked. As the years wore on, I came to see that, statistically speaking, I should count my blessings for having had those two in my life. Gloria and Charlie. I decided to live the rest of my life in their honor. So every day I wake up and say to them, ‘I live for you today.’ No matter how hard some days and nights are, I work hard to keep my promise.”
    For the second time since she’d met Doug McKinley, Kendall felt tears at the corners of her eyes. She reached up and dabbed at the side of her face with the back of a knuckle.
    “That’s beautiful and very brave, Mr. McKinley.”
    He smiled at Kendall, a trembling smile that told every moment of those twenty years of heartache. Then he gathered himself, his pale blue eyes igniting with fire, as he tapped the manila folder sitting on the table between them. His SSRI research notes.
    “These. You think you can use them? I sent them to the newspapers, many newspapers, but they did nothing. They just wanted the gory details of Charlie’s death and how I felt about that. As if that isn’t the stupidest question to ask. How did they think I felt?”
    He leaned forward and lowered his voice as though the walls were bugged.
    “That’s what sells newspapers, you know. Answers to stupid questions and death and violence. Those pharmaceutical companies, well, they advertise in those papers, don’t they? They’re not going to run negative stories about their customers, are they? Even if people are dying because of these drugs.”
    Kendall nodded to assure him she was on his side, even though she’d been about to ask one of those