by R. J. Blacks
I, on the other hand, had little to lose. I had no professional future, no assets, and would probably qualify for a public defender. The best they could get out of me was an admission of fraud, which in some cases could carry a jail sentence. But they would have to prove intentional misrepresentation of the facts. It wouldn’t be easy for them, but the stakes are high, and GWI has the best lawyers and they could dump a million dollars into this without even blinking. If I follow this to conclusion it could turn out to be one hell of a fight. But it was either fight or be professionally shunned for the rest of my life.
“Agreed,” I say. “No mailings.”
“I anticipated you would be needing some equipment so I salvaged a few things that were in the process of being disposed of. There’s a microscope, some test tubes, a Bunsen burner, a pH Meter, a triple beam balance, a hot plate, and whatever else I thought you could use.”
“They don’t need this?”
“It’s old, but perfectly usable. And all top quality. I checked it out myself. The university doesn’t want it around, to protect the students. Safety regulations,” she says.
“Thanks, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s nothing more I want than for you to win big against GWI. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you could only do that.”
“I will,” I say. “I promise you, I will.”
But secretly I wondered if I would have the strength to go the distance. GWI has teams of lawyers and there is only me. The only thing keeping me going is my resolve; they have hard cash.
We both finish our meals and the waitress drops the check on the table. I reach for my wallet.
“Let me get that,” she says, and grabs the check.
I wanted to treat Jessica for taking the time to meet with me, but she insists so I give in.
We stroll out to the PT Cruiser and I open the back hatch. Jessica walks around the cruiser gazing at it from different angles apparently amused by the signs all over it.
“You work for an exterminator?”
“No,” I say, then proceed to tell her the story about how the dealer saved us a thousand dollars if we took it as-is.
“Interesting.”
Jessica opens the trunk on her BMW then helps me load the laboratory equipment into the Cruiser.
“Remember, if anyone asks, you got this stuff at a flea market,” she says.
“A flea market it is,” I respond.
Jessica slides into the seat of her shiny black BMW, pulls the door closed, and then, rolls down the window.
“One more thing.”
She hastily scribbles a phone number on a scrap of paper.
“If you need to call, use this number. It’s registered to my daughter. She gave me her old phone when she upgraded and it sure comes in handy. I use it to call scientists in the network, so the university has no record of who I’m calling.”
I take the paper and thank her.
She starts the engine, races out the parking lot, and darts into traffic. As I watch her drive away, I’m overcome by a feeling of envy. She has it all: money, tenure, and professional status, all the things I dream about, and have been working so hard for. But most importantly, she has it now. How much I admire her for it.
But then reality hits. I had come to Florida only to do what was necessary to earn my PhD. But now I was so caught up in the excitement of it all, so enamored by the thought of becoming a respected member of that elite group of scientists whose research is so compelling it shapes the destiny of mankind, I had mindlessly agreed to take on one of the largest corporations on the planet. Was I nuts?
I think about all the things Jessica had confided in me. How she was involved with a network of scientists and how she would be my mentor and secretly help me achieve my goals. Suddenly, the task didn’t seem so formidable. I had acquired a friend who was committed to my success and had the resources to see it through. How could I fail?
CHAPTER 15
I return to Fargo’s cabin around mid-afternoon. The same half-dozen cars are still in the parking lot and the airboat is still out. I climb the stairs to the porch and approach Will reclining in the chair.
“Can you help me with some groceries?” I say.
“Groceries? In the Cruiser?”
“Yes, I picked them up on the way back.”
Will jumps out of his chair and follows me to the Cruiser. As I hand him the grocery bags, he notices the laboratory equipment in the back.
“What is this stuff?” he asks.
“Equipment.”
“I can see it’s equipment. Where did you get it?”
“Dr. Parker,” I say, then catch myself remembering the promise I made.
“Dr. Parker gave it to you?”
“No, Dr. Parker told me about a flea market. That’s where I got it.”
“How much did it cost?” he asks.
I find myself getting drawn deeper and deeper into a lie. Every answer I give will invariably lead to another question which will lead to another lie. But if I tell Will the truth, I would be breaking my promise to Jessica and that would be a lie too. What to do?
I remind myself that Jessica has everything to lose if certain parties find out she is helping me. So a lie to her carried more weight than a lie to Will, if that makes any sense at all. But lying to Will would compromise the trust we had built up between us and that bothers me greatly. Even if he never found out, I would anguish in the thought that I had not been one-hundred percent truthful to him. I make a snap decision. I do what everyone else does when faced with a moral dilemma; I change the subject.
“Let’s hurry, I want to start dinner before Fargo gets back,” I say.
“Oh, sure,” he says, and grabs a few bags from the Cruiser.
It worked, but I knew the questions would probably come up later and I would be faced with the same ugly dilemma.
We bring the groceries into the kitchen and Will sets them on the counter.
“I’ll go get the equipment,” he says, sounding like a kid with some new toys to explore.
“Where would we put them?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but you can’t leave them in the car. The sun will damage them. I’ll put them in your bedroom for now.”
“Will, that’s your bedroom. Fargo will be furious. He’ll think I’m moving in.”
“I’ll tell him it’s only temporary. Besides, it’s Christmas in two days and he can’t expect you to go looking for an apartment on Christmas. Everything will be closed.”
I don’t want Fargo to find out later I had a part in this decision so I begin unpacking groceries without comment. Will takes that as a ‘yes’ and slips out the door. He returns with the microscope and places it in the bedroom. He makes a couple more trips while I prepare dinner, passing me each time with another piece of the equipment.
On his last trip I follow him to the bedroom and watch him set everything up on a table. The bedroom is beginning to look like a small laboratory from the 1800’s, the ones with paneled walls, wooden furniture, and glassware all over the place. Will peers into the eyepiece of an ancient microscope obviously fascinated by what he sees. He notices a stray ant on the floor and swats it with a rolled-up newspaper. He places it under the lens and studies it.
“Wow, it’s gigantic. Reminds me of those movies from the fifties, you know, where those monster ants attack people.”
Will is clearly enjoying himself. He runs outside then returns a few moments later with random samples of plants and insects. He places them under the microscope and studies them with the fervor of a biology major. It’s amazing. How far he could have gone had life dictated a different plan for him.
At about five o’clock, I faintly hear the roar of the airboat. I peek out the window and see it off in the distance, approaching at full speed. The sun is low on the horizon, but not quite ready to set yet. I watch as Fargo kills the motor and allows the airboat to drift into the dock. He ties up, then assists his passengers unload their
catch of fish. The tourists saunter over to their cars and leave the parking lot one vehicle at a time.
Fargo enters the cabin and strolls towards me. He’s barefoot, has his khakis rolled up to his calves, and is shirtless. There is an intriguing necklace around his neck consisting of arrow-heads held together with a thin leather cord. His chest is dripping with sweat and I am overwhelmed by the musty odor of the swamp as he gets near.
“Nice perfume,” I say.
Fargo stops, gazes at me like he doesn’t understand, then suddenly realizes what I mean. He appears to be embarrassed, looks around, as if he is about to say something.
“Dinner will be ready in fifteen,” I say.
He grunts something unintelligible, then wanders past me towards the bathroom.
And then I see it, on the right side of his back, just below the shoulder, a two-inch scar. It looks like it was hastily stitched up, perhaps an old war wound, but I’m pretty sure he’s never been in the military so it must be from something else. He enters the bathroom, closes the door, and then, seconds later, I hear the shower.
I approach Will.
“That scar, on Fargo’s back. Was it an accident?”
“Don’t know. I wasn’t around when it happened.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Every time I brought it up, he would get real tense and walk away. My mother told me to let it lie. ‘It’s better left untold,’ she said, so I never found out.”
His mother’s advice seems prudent so I drop the subject. I hear the bathroom door open, and then, Fargo’s bedroom door close. I drop my voice to a whisper.
“What are we doing about Christmas?”
“Shhh, I’ll take care of it,” he says.
I put out dinner and a few minutes later, Fargo joins us. His hair is tied into a ponytail and he’s wearing buckskin pants and a matching shirt. I detect the scent of men’s after-shave. It’s probably from a gift he was given ten years ago and just now had the inclination to open. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do this. I wonder; is he trying to impress me, or just making up for his embarrassment?
Will and Fargo dig in, as if they hadn’t eaten in a week. I place a couple of beers on the table, one for Will and one for Fargo. Will waits until Fargo has finished his beer then engages him.
“You know, it’s Christmas on Friday.”
“Yeah, so what?” Fargo says.
“We were thinking about hitting the stores tomorrow, for groceries.”
“We don’t need groceries.”
“Yeah we do. Kitchen’s empty.”
“We’ll make do.”
“But it’s Christmas.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make do.”
“Ain’t much left. Some apples, bread. That’s about it.”
“When you used to come home for Christmas, back when Mom was alive, did you eat okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Where do you think that food came from?”
“Dunno. Never thought about it.”
“You know our mother hardly ever went to stores, unless she had to,” Fargo says.
“So what are you getting at?”
“Seven o’clock, tomorrow, meet me here. We’ll do what our mother did.”
“What about Indigo?”
“Both of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been up since four.”
Fargo gets up then leaves the room. I wait until I hear the bedroom door close then turn to Will.
“What does he have in mind?” I ask.
“I’m guessing he’s taking us hunting.”
“You mean like... killing animals?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Are you allowed to hunt around here?”
“This is Indian land. Tribal laws allow us to hunt for ourselves. Can’t sell it though.”
“I don’t think I could kill an animal,” I say.
“You’re a Biologist. You folks kill laboratory animals all the time.”
“I’m a Micro-Biologist. In my field, the only thing I ever had to kill was a couple of mice, a frog, and a tadpole. I don’t like the sight of blood.”
“Then look away. Fargo will handle it.”
“Do I really have to go?”
“I think you’d better. If you don’t, he might be offended. He’s fanatical about the old ways, the ways of our ancestors. You need to stay on his good side.”
I reluctantly agree to go and spend the rest of the evening getting some specimen jars prepared for the outing. It’s obvious Jessica was well aware of the challenges I would face because the items she assembled are exactly what I need. I don’t know if I will have time to do any research while out with Fargo, but if the opportunity arises, I want to be ready. It makes good sense to gather my first samples from an Indian reservation, where the water and soil are unblemished. I’m well aware that Indians are passionate about respecting nature and doing things the natural way, so any samples collected in this environment would make an excellent control group.
I place a half-dozen specimen jars in an insulated lunch bag I brought down from Philadelphia. It makes a perfect carrier because the insulation protects the jars from breakage and I can place a couple of those ice packs in there to keep everything cold. If the samples get too hot from the sun, any living organisms in the water would be destroyed making the experiment useless.
I glance at the clock. It’s nine o’clock and I’m too tired to straighten up the kitchen. I’ve been up since five and it’s been a long and demanding day.
“I’m going to bed now,” I say.
“Good idea. You’ll be doing a lot of walking tomorrow and you don’t want to lag behind. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.”
I retreat to my bedroom, slip into a sweatshirt and some loose-fitting shorts, and get into bed. Hunting, as a sport, was not something I approved of, but the thought of getting our food naturally, from the forest, kind of excites me.
As a young girl, I had read the book, “Little House on the Prairie” by Laura Wilder, and loved it. It tells the story of a family that moves to Indian territory near the town of Independence, Kansas during the mid-1800’s. The book had such a pronounced effect on me I often wished I could go back in time and live that life, a life that was tough but appealing. As I lie in bed in the dark, I imagine myself as a pioneer woman, living off the land, just as they did in the book. It had always been a fantasy of mine; a fantasy I thought could never be fulfilled. But here I was, actually about to live it, a dream come true. As I’m slowly overcome by fatigue, my thoughts become blurred and I fade into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER 16
At five o’clock the beep from my alarm clock rattles me out of a dream. I hit the snooze button and sit up in bed. I have two hours to get ready, more than I need, but I didn’t want to be blamed for holding everyone up. I open the door a crack and peek down the hall attempting to slip into the shower un-noticed. Fargo is already in the kitchen, but he appears occupied and doesn’t see me. I quietly slip into the bathroom before he’s even aware I’m up.
After my shower, dripping wet, and with a towel wrapped around me, I peek into the hallway then dash back into my bedroom. I dry off, then slip into shorts and a tee-shirt.
Ready for whatever excitement awaits me, I saunter into the kitchen. Fargo is at the table checking his backpack. He’s dressed in his usual khaki pants and shirt, unbuttoned in the front. His long black hair cascades over his shoulders and down his back.
“You’re up early,” I say.
“I’m always up at this time,” he snaps back.
“Want some scrambled eggs?” I ask.
“Already ate. But help yourself.”
I look in the refrigerator and see there are no eggs. I’m glad he declined so I don’t have to explain myself out of this one. I take out a half-empty container of milk and pour myself a bowl of cereal.
The phone rings, an old black wall phone like my grandparents used to have. I didn’t know these things still worked no
w that everyone, almost everyone, has a cell phone. Fargo answers the phone. I hear a lot of “uh-huhs” and “rights” and he ends with, “I’ll be right over”.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’ve got to run over to the State Police for a couple of hours.”
“Something wrong?”
“They want my opinion on some alligator attacks, routine stuff. Happens a couple of times a year.”
“So the outing is off?” I ask.
“We’ll do it later.”
Then I take a bold gamble.
“I want to go.”
Fargo gazes at me for a moment, surprised at my request.
“I don’t mind taking you. But sometimes these things are not pretty. Do you think you could stand it?”
“I’m ready for anything,” I say, totally unsure of what I had just agreed to.
“Okay then. Let’s go.”
Fargo ties his hair into a ponytail then picks up a jacket and his backpack.
“What about Will?” I say.
“Let him sleep. He needs it.”
He unlocks the front door and goes outside. Instinctively, I grab my backpack and the insulated lunch bag packed with the specimen jars. I slip the backpack over my left shoulder and the lunch bag over the other. The backpack is a remnant of my life back at the university, never went anywhere without it. Once it had carried books and sometimes my laptop. But now it was stuffed with a jacket, an umbrella, a tube of sunblock, a swimsuit, and of course, my camera. I have no idea if I’ll need any of that stuff, but I’m in a strange land, under strange circumstances, and I want to be prepared for anything.
When I get outside, Fargo notices the lunch bag.
“We’ll be back before lunch,” he says.
“They’re specimen jars, in case I see something.”
Fargo looks perplexed for a moment, scratches his head, and then turns to leave, leading me along the porch, down the stairs, and over to the parking lot. There’s a faint glow on the horizon, but the parking lot is still dark, illuminated only by a low wattage bulb hanging unprotected from a ten-foot wooden pole.