Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  We approached and saw miles of cords as people hooked up microphones, cameras, and transmitter equipment. Reporters were testing for sound levels and blocking shots while make-up crew straightened ties and collars and touched up hair. I’d had the impression that Clara’s disappearance had been kept under wraps, but evidently word that something important had happened at the clinic had gotten out.

  “Ghouls,” muttered Badger under his breath as we pushed through.

  “Hey, Helena!” I heard and suddenly Butte, my ex-husband, with a grim look on his face, was pushing past a cameraman to get ahead of us on the cement stairs.

  “Butte! Get out of our way,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m not going to block you,” he said, taking a position at my side as we worked our way up. “I want to help.”

  I stopped. So did everyone else. Billings moved in protectively. “Beat it, Dad. This is CURDS business.”

  Butte lifted his hands in surrender, indicating that he was, in fact, not blocking our progress. “It’s WHEY business, too.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?” Billings asked the same thing I was thinking.

  “Honestly, I don’t know why I always have to explain it to you. Uber research is important to us. WHEY has always supported it. Why, the organization donated $10,000 last night, and I personally pledged $500.”

  I looked him in the eye, which I could only do because I was standing two steps higher than he was. “Bully for you. But I still don’t get it. You want people to eat Uber.”

  He sighed. “No, I don’t. I just think they should have the freedom to, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” I started to walk again and Butte followed, so I stopped. The rest of our group did likewise, like synchronized swimmers on land. “Back off!”

  “Put me in the loop, that’s all I ask.” He turned his right hand into a fake handset. “Call me.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I looked at him, making it clear that it wasn’t. “If Banana Harris’ research is successful it destroys the one argument you guys have,“ and here he changed his voice into whiny little brat mode, “it kills people.” He made it sound like the threat of mortality was a really lame excuse. His voice returned to normal. “An end to Offensive Obstruction means an end to any reason against decriminalizing Uber. WHEY hasn’t had an opportunity like this since the Supreme Court decided 5 to 4 in our favor in the People vs. Colby Jack. This colonic pacemaker thing is the answer to all our animosity. I want to see it happen.”

  “Mom,” said Billings quietly. “We have to get going.”

  I bit the inside of my bottom lip in a futile effort to calm myself. “Stay with the press,” I told Butte. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “Come along, Helena,” called Miss Chiff, who was already standing in front of the large glass double door.

  All I could do was hope that Butte wouldn’t try to follow. He wouldn’t be the only one without a CURDS vest. Neither Miss Chiff nor Knobby was wearing one. He could easily slip in behind us. I repeated my request firmly. “Stay with the press.” Then I put him out of my mind and headed up to the door.

  As I entered the lobby with the others, I heard Sylvia say in a confidential tone, “He wants you to get upset. Don’t you dare give him what he wants.” She nudged me gently and either winked or blinked with her good eye. It was impossible to tell.

  There are dozens of signs and directories to help you find where you need to go as you enter the Mayo Clinic, and the whole place is well lit with soft white recessed lighting. The research building is the newest addition, dedicated to Uber research and built to Banana Harris’ own specifications. Constructed out of polished marble, it’s far more colorful than other buildings in the complex. The huge lobby is a nice muted tan, but you can see hallways in different cheerful colors such as yellow, green, and blue leading to various departments. In the middle of the lobby is a circular reception desk with three attendants. A male attendant was interviewing a young couple escorting a middle-aged man in a wheelchair. Our large group approached the desk with Billings in the lead. “Hello,” he said to the nearest attendant, “My name is Billings Montana and we’re here representing CURDS, the Cheese and Uber Rennet Disposal Service. Dr. Banana Harris has requested our presence. We’re here to help in the search for Clara.”

  The female attendant was very young and fresh-looking with bouncy black hair, dark eyes, and a friendly smile. She wore crisp scrubs with kittens and puppies on them and a name tag with a smiley face that said “Hi! I’m Louise!” She happily took Billings’ hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Montana. I’m Louise French. Welcome to the Mayo Clinic. I’ll be happy to take you to Dr. Harris.” She came out from the reception desk by raising a portion of the counter and then snapped it back into place. “This way.”

  We followed her into the hallway that was done in bright blue marble. A plaque to one side marked it as “Animal Research Facilities – Restricted.” There were doors marking a set of restrooms on each side, and then a corner. We bunched up as Louise came to a stop in front of a sealed glass door. Next to the door was a card scanner into which Louise inserted her passkey. A green light flashed and she opened the door. It led into another short hallway that opened into another reception area. Behind a semi-circular desk sat a young man in very clean white scrubs. “Joe, I have the group from CURDS here to see Ban.”

  The man smiled. “Wonderful. She’s really been looking forward to it. I’ll take them from here, Louise. Thanks.” Louise turned and walked out. He came from behind the desk. “We weren’t expecting such a large group. Does anyone need refreshments? There’s a vending center on the way.”

  Billings spoke for all of us. “No, thank you. We’d like to get up to speed and get to work.”

  “All righty, then! Follow me.”

  We exited his office through an open doorway that led to a bank of elevators. I could see the vending center, as he called it, on the far side, one small round table and two chairs with banks of vending machines around the walls. Joe used his passkey to access one of the elevators. I was already trying to figure out how anyone could waltz in here, grab a raccoon, and get out again. I did spot another doorway marked ‘In Case of Fire Use Stairwell’ with a graphic of a stick figure climbing stairs. Evidently, Miss Chiff also saw that door. “Elevator Shmelevator!” she said energetically. “I’m taking the stairs. Who’s with me?”

  Everyone looked at each other awkwardly. “Shouldn’t we stay together?” suggested Billings.

  “Which floor, sir?” asked Miss Chiff, ignoring Billings’ question.

  Joe was stunned. “Um…fourth, Ma’am. It’s the only outlet in that stairwell.” It seemed there was no protocol against it, and, being a fire access door, it opened without an electronic key.

  After more awkward stares, Agnes spoke for the two of them. “We’ll go with. We love stairs.” She smiled broadly and Avis nodded agreement. It was simply a good idea for someone to accompany Miss Chiff and the twins merely gave themselves the short straw. They disappeared into the stairwell after our fearless and unpredictable leader.

  The rest of us crowded onto the elevator and rode it to the fourth floor. Joe moved all the way in and faced the back wall. I noticed that there were no buttons for the second and third floors in this car, and I grew curious. Was it some kind of superstition, like the 13th floor of a hotel or were those two floors separate for a reason? When we got to the fourth floor, the doors on the opposite side opened and Joe was able to lead us out. There was just a short hallway to another security door, but it did give us room to jockey for position, behind Miss Chiff and the twins who were already there. The twins fell back, allowing Billings to be in front with Miss Chiff, but I was right behind them. Sylvia was next to me, but her butterflies fluttered and she slipped back into the crowd shyly. Instead of inserting his passkey, however, Joe pushed an intercom button and spoke into the panel. “CURDS is here.”

 
; The door slid open sideways and she was standing there. Banana Harris, dressed in brick red scrubs, with her short brown hair looking mussed. Her neck looked unnaturally long, but not distinctly elegant, and her smooth velvety skin shined with patches of sweat. She smiled through eyes twinkling with recent tears and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Banana Harris,” she said.

  Billings took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Harris. I’m Billings Montana and this is our Director Miss Chiff.”

  “Miss Chiff,” Banana said as she shook her hand as well. She stepped back to allow us to enter the lab. For that is what the room was. A huge laboratory with tables holding microscopes, oddly-shaped beakers, burners, and strange little machines manned by more people in red scrubs. The floor was pristine white ceramic tile, the walls painted a very slightly more subdued shade of eggshell. I saw Nitro’s eyes grow about three sizes. He couldn’t wait to see everything. Everyone else was there to see Banana Harris. Nitro was there to see the famous research lab at the Mayo Clinic.

  But Banana wanted to meet the entire group first. She took my hand, ignoring my stunned, vacant expression, and I tried to accept it firmly. I pictured her putting her pants on one leg at a time. I tried to picture her naked and couldn’t. Instead, I gathered my wits and very confidently said, “Heeble doober, memaw flidja yaya.”

  Chapter Five

  “My mother, Helena Montana,” said Billings. Wisely, he brushed off my gibberish and proceeded to introduce everyone else.

  There was, of course, no way Ms. Harris was going to remember all our names, but she greeted each of us individually anyway. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  There was one person in the lab not wearing red scrubs. He was dressed in dark pants and a tan shirt, with a leather belt and holster holding a handgun. He was standing near a laptop set up in a corner near a line of coat trees which held a variety of outerwear. The top of one was adorned by a dark brown Stetson hat. “You can all call me Ban,” Banana Harris said to the group. “I insist. This is Minnesota State Trooper Ferguson. The man from the FBI had to leave. Someone is mutilating women in California.” She sounded mildly offended that such things seemed to outrank her missing raccoon.

  Sir Haughty leaned close to my ear. “Tarantino.”

  I gave him an elbow to his ribs. Well, that was the intention, but being that I’m about 5 feet 2 and Sir Haughty is a solid 6 feet it turned out to be more like an elbow to his appendix.

  Billings seemed a bit hesitant, so I said, “Would you fill us in, please, on what happened? What’s the status so far?”

  Billings realized he should have asked those questions, but I gave him a discreet pat on the back.

  “Of course,” said Ban. She pulled over a chair and sat on it sideways, leaning one arm on the back. “After the appearance on the telethon, we brought Clara back here and put her back in her habitat. She was a little agitated from the trip and took a while to calm down. I never leave if an animal is distressed. There’s a sort of dorm room with a few beds in it where we sleep sometimes, and I decided to spend the night. The rest of the staff went home. That’s not unusual. Last night, I woke about 4 in the morning and I knew something was wrong. I just knew it!” Her eyes started misting again and she produced a well-used tissue from her scrubs pocket. One of her staff, a tall blond man, approached and put a hand on her shoulder. No, not just blond. His hair was white, not yellow, and his eyes were pale pink. An albino, I realized. The contrast couldn’t be more stark. Ban touched the hand on her shoulder gratefully, “My fiancé, Darwin Kinkaid.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. He nodded grimly, slipping on a pair of lightly tinted sunglasses. The bright lab lights had to hurt his eyes, but perhaps he felt it impolite to cover his eyes without everyone seeing his condition. I reasoned that he didn’t want the sunglasses to be misinterpreted as pretentious or rude. “Do you know what exactly woke you?” I asked Ban. “Did you hear a noise? Was there an alarm?”

  “There’s no alarm system, actually, which is why there is so much security at the doorways. I didn’t want a false alarm to stress the animals.” Banana hugged her stomach. “It’s my fault. I was lax and stupid.”

  “No,” I was quick to point out. “You were trusting, at most. Trusting and compassionate to your animals. That’s not a bad thing.”

  “Do you normally wake during the night?” This came from Nitro, whose familiarity with bodily functions often caused embarrassing questions. It would have been easy for Ban to take it as a question of bladder control, since that was the main reason people woke in the middle of the night.

  Either it didn’t occur to her, or she didn’t care. “Lately, yes. I’ve been under a lot of stress preparing everything for the announcement. But last night, when I went to bed, sure, I was worried about Clara, but that other stress was gone. It should have been the most restful night I’ve had in weeks. I’m not sure what woke me exactly. Instinct, maybe.”

  Nitro had a follow-up statement. “So you were probably sleeping pretty deeply then. You might not consciously remember hearing a noise, but it still might have brought you out of REM.” To help her return to her narrative, he added, “what did you do next?”

  “These days, my first thoughts are always of Clara, so I went to her habitat immediately. I thought maybe she was hiding, prayed that she hadn’t collapsed somewhere, but I searched the entire habitat and couldn’t find her.”

  Billings said, “You keep saying ‘habitat.’ Your animals aren’t just in cages?”

  “Absolutely not! I would never cage an animal,” she replied defensively, very quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No apology necessary. I know this is difficult,” he said. “Do we know how they got in? Was there property damage? Is there any surveillance video?” He looked up at Trooper Ferguson to include him in the questions.

  But it was Ban who answered. “There’s a broken window on the terrace,” she said, pointing idly to her far right. There was a single glass door through which I could see the third floor rooftop. “But I can’t imagine how anyone got onto the terrace. We’re on the fourth floor.”

  “Sylvia,” said Billings.

  Sylvia came forward. “Yes, Billings.”

  “Ban, is there someone who can take Sylvia to the terrace?” Ban looked startled. “Don’t be fooled by her appearance. She has an excellent eye for detail,” he added.

  Ban looked her over. “But only one. That’s a shame. I can’t think of a greater loss,” she said with amazing compassion. This from someone who’d just had five years of hard work stolen from her.

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia quietly. She was still self-conscious and shy about her injured eye.

  “I’ll take her,” volunteered one of the lab workers, grabbing a sweater from a coat rack. “Should be plenty of light at this time of the day, but it won’t last.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Sylvia. “Sometimes less light is actually better.”

  “Thanks, Daniel,” said Ban.

  Daniel and Sylvia left the lab through the glass door. Daniel didn’t have to insert a passkey. The only security appeared to be a deadbolt that had been left open. Daniel pushed the door open and held it for Sylvia.

  “Sorry, don’t touch the SQUISH-E,” I heard someone say. It was a young redheaded man with a well-trimmed beard. “It’s a very expensive piece of machinery.”

  The object of his admonition turned out to be Nitro, whose curiosity had caused him to wander over to an unfamiliar piece of equipment. “I’m a physician,” he said by way of explanation. “What’s a SQUISHY?”

  The lab tech stepped in front of the machine. He spelled the acronym, realizing that Nitro wouldn’t understand the name without the right initials. “Sub Quantum Injectable Serialized Hemoglobular Electromicroscope. Not very exciting, really. It’s linked to microscopic sensors we can inject into an animal’s bloodstream to see results on a sub-molecular scale.”

  “It sounds fascinating,” said
Nitro, craning his neck to get a better look.

  “Sorry. Classified.” The tech planted himself in front of the machine. “I can’t let you touch the SQUISH-E.”

  “Nitro,” said Billings quickly to dissipate our doctor’s disappointment. “Focus, please. All eyes on the video.”

  Trooper Ferguson punched some keys on the computer and waved us over. “There isn’t much here, I’m afraid.”

  I was expecting the usual black-and-white, grainy footage we tended to see on the news, but this was in color, with reasonably good resolution, though nothing as pristine as the TV we’d left behind in HQ. There were eight views on the screen, but the Trooper punched some keys and zoomed in on the view of Clara’s habitat. It was a clear enclosure filled with bushes and small trees. A clearing held a food bowl and an oblong pond of clear water. It was dimly lit, being just past two in the morning according to the time stamp, but raccoons are nocturnal, so Clara was active. Leaves rustled, we could see her climb one of the trees and play with a paper bag someone had tied there. She jumped to another tree, nearly slipping out of it before finally getting footing on a branch. There, she stopped to lick her paw and stroke her nose, then scratched behind her ear with a rear foot. Suddenly, as if seeing the food for the first time, she leapt to the ground and waddled to the food dish. It contained some chopped vegetables, little squares of cheese, and some kind of kibble. Clara selected a cube of cheese, dipped it in the pond and swished it around, then brought it to her mouth and nibbled it to a quick death, her jaws showing tiny pointed teeth. She smacked her lips, then perked up her ears, tensing.