Jill swung around to see a tall, broad-shouldered man step into the classroom. His chambray shirt and faded denim jeans complemented dusty cowboy boots and an old leather belt. He took off his hat to reveal a thatch of short, spiky, brown hair, and he was looking at her with a pair of blue eyes that could belong to only one man.
“Matthew Strong’s father.” She stood and thrust out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Cole Strong.” His grip was firm, his palm callused. A working man.
“I’m Jill Pruitt, computer ed. And that was Marianne Weston, Matt’s trig teacher. You’d better run if you want to catch her.”
“You’ll do,” he said. The blue eyes bored into her. “I’m looking for my boy. Seen him today?”
“He was in my class this morning. Why?”
“He didn’t come home after school. Billy Younger tells me Matt likes to stay late and talk to you.”
Jill sensed a thread of suspicion in the man’s voice. “He drops by between classes or at lunch. He’s been working on a term paper—”
“Food, yeah, I know. Billy says you fired him up on it.”
“I mentioned my work with hunger relief. Matt was interested, so we discussed it. I gave him some names and addresses to use as sources. Have you checked with Jim Banyon out at Hope? He—”
“Matt’s not there.” Cole turned his hat in his hands. “Billy says he got crossways with some Agrimax honchos. He was trying to push your ideas on them, and they warned him to back off.”
“My ideas?”
“My son doesn’t know anything about famine relief, Miss Pruitt.”
“Oh yes he does, Mr. Strong.” She returned his appraising gaze. “He uncovered a wealth of information, and he’s very excited about it.”
“Obsessed, you mean.”
She bristled. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“You would if you knew Matt.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I do know your son. I know him very well.”
“Then where is he?”
She paused to collect herself. In fifteen years as a teacher, she had faced a lot of angry parents. Frustration, concern for a child’s GPA, confusion about assignments—all these things drove them to confrontation at the school. Jill had learned to back off, take it slow and insist on civil treatment. But the dominating stance of this man, the hostility in his voice, and the insinuations he had tossed out were getting on her nerves. If he were a more involved parent, she would sympathize with his concern. But she knew for a fact that Cole Strong had shown little interest in his son’s life at school before now.
“I’m not sure where Matt is, Mr. Strong,” she told him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m averaging midterm grades.”
“Did he go to all his classes today?” He took a step toward her.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have access to that infor—” Jill caught her breath. “Wait a minute. Two men…college recruiters, I think…asked to meet him during his trigonometry class. Marianne—Mrs. Weston—told me he never came back.”
“Who were these guys? Which university?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, look it up.” He gestured at her laptop. “You’re the computer wizard. Open the file or whatever, and find out who got permission to take my son out of class.”
Despite her irritation with Matt’s father, she felt a stab of concern about the boy. “I don’t have code access to office documents, Mr. Strong.”
“Then break the code. Isn’t that what you’ve been teaching my son to do?”
“Sir, I do not appreciate your tone. And I can assure you—”
“Look, lady.” He stuffed his hat onto his head. “My son is missing. Do you get that? Matt did not come home from school, and he’s not there now. Billy Younger and I have combed this town and haven’t found hide nor hair of the boy. Now you’re telling me two strangers showed up at school and took my son off someplace—and he never came back? And I’m supposed to be nice and polite about it?”
Jill swallowed. “I’ll call Mrs. Weston at home. Maybe she can tell us who the men were.”
TWO
Vince Grant gazed at the tray of glazed crullers on the gleaming mahogany desk in his corner office. His new secretary provided him with sweet snacks each afternoon at four, and he wondered if she was trying to give him a heart attack. He didn’t like Jennifer, and she didn’t like him. But his vision and her efficiency meshed well, and the situation was a lot tidier than it had been with Dawn.
Vince’s wife had known about Dawn and the others before her, but this time she refused to tolerate her husband’s straying. Maybe it was because their children were growing up and moving on—the two girls away at college, their son busy with polo and soccer. Or maybe it was menopause. Cheryl Grant had grown edgy, moody. He would have to be more discreet.
Tapping his blunt-tipped fingers together, Vince tried to resist the crullers. Things weren’t going well on this Thursday afternoon, and food always seemed to calm him. But his tailor—who had used the same patterns for Vince’s $4,000 wool suits since he had taken the helm of Chicago-based Agrimax thirteen years before—had been obliged to take new measurements on his last fitting. Vince didn’t like that. At fifty-eight, he still had a lot of good years left, and he intended to enjoy every benefit of his position. But he had to look the part—trim, neatly groomed, well suited and in perfect health.
Vince Grant had great plans for Agrimax. His blueprint—carefully spelled out in documents to which only he and his top executives had computer access—was both his obsession and his pride. Vince had been consumed by the plan for years. At last, its many components were clicking into place.
In twelve days, the corporation would absorb its two rivals, Megafarm and Progrow. The new conglomerate, with Vince as its CEO, would essentially control the world food market—at which time he could begin putting into place the seed, fertilizer, pesticide and genetic technologies that Agrimax scientists had been developing in secret. The merger and resulting takeover of worldwide food production would assure Vince a place in history and make him a billionaire.
The plan had involved skillful diplomacy, hardball boardroom politics, careful public relations and, finally, subterfuge. His executive board wasn’t completely aware of the complex ramifications of its CEO’s plan, though all would benefit immeasurably. Once in place, the merger would allow Agrimax to overcome all barriers to power and profitability.
But Agrimax’s executive board had found another reason to be restless. They were unhappy over negative publicity about the company’s genetically modified seed. At the last board meeting Vince had promised to squelch the problem. He had his public relations people initiate high-profile food donations to hunger-relief organizations chosen for their news value. The newspapers cooperated admirably. Agrimax’s media spokeswoman had appeared on two national morning television programs and a prime-time talk show. Vince felt confident the company’s image concerns were under control.
Until now.
In the past month, someone who identified himself as a high school sophomore had begun e-mailing Agrimax’s top executives. Annoyed at first, the executives became nervous when the tone of the e-mails switched from that of an idealist who wanted to end world hunger to the voice of someone who knew the company intimately.
Security had pinpointed the source of the e-mails. They came from a small town in New Mexico near the ranch to which one of Agrimax’s leading scientists, Jim Banyon, had just retired. Banyon had been a loyal team player, moving through the ranks until he was awarded a vice president’s position. Vince had liked the man, and his work for Agrimax was groundbreaking. The two became personal friends. Their wives even socialized at the country club until Banyon’s divorce put his ex out of circulation.
In the past couple of years, the scientist had joined some sort of evangelistic religious group. He grew reclusive, losing interest in golf and absenting himself from the regular happy-hour gathering at the club. Vince hadn�
��t given it too much thought. Last month, Banyon had taken early retirement, and his position had not yet been filled. A week ago, before the e-mails were traced, Banyon returned briefly to Agrimax headquarters in Chicago to clear a few things from his office.
Though the suspicious messages had come from the account of one “Matthew Strong,” Agrimax security believed Banyon was the actual source. Vince ordered an investigation into information transferred recently to his former colleague’s computer. His worst fears were realized when it was discovered that Vince’s own top secret blueprint had been copied from the mainframe.
When his secretary’s voice came over the intercom with a call from the head of security, Vince was quick to grab the phone.
“Harwood, what do you have for me?”
“The kid is no problem.”
“There really is a kid?”
“Matthew Strong.”
“You found him? Talked to him?”
“We took care of him.”
“So it’s Banyon?”
“There’s no question. The two know each other. Banyon’s been feeding the boy the data he used in his e-mails to our executives.”
“What does the boy have?”
“He’s clean. We profiled him before we talked to him. He’s a nerd, a Sunday-school-type kid, spends all his time at his computer. Knocked the top off the ACT, but no social life. A wide-eyed innocent—barely sixteen. He’s writing a research paper. That’s how he got onto us—he interviewed Banyon.”
“That’s the connection, then.”
“Banyon told him a few things, but the kid isn’t the source of our trouble. Banyon’s got the stolen data on a CD at his house. I’d bet my job on it.”
“A CD can’t hold that much information, Harwood. Where’s Technology? I want them in on this.”
“I talked to Technology this afternoon.”
“Don’t talk to them. Get them on the scene.”
“Yes, sir.” Mack Harwood paused a moment. “I’d rather not wait for Technology to arrive, Mr. Grant. This place is the backside of nowhere. I think we need to look up Banyon today.”
“Just get the data, Harwood. Do whatever you have to do.”
Vince set down the receiver. He wished he hadn’t been forced to move his former secretary to Agrimax’s Wichita branch. Dawn had been good for him. Kept him feeling alive, vital, confident. He reached over and took a cruller from the silver tray.
Seated in his pickup under a cottonwood tree, Matt rummaged in the glove compartment for something to eat. From the debris of torn road maps, ballpoint pens, a pocketknife and the vehicle owner’s manual, he rooted out an old Snickers bar and peeled back the wrapper. The candy had gone pale and crumbly, but he wolfed it down anyway. He knew he had to function. Had to keep going. Had to think.
Not fifty feet away, the lights were on in Jim Banyon’s house. But who was inside? Hands shaking, Matt gripped the old black steering wheel as he swallowed the last of the chocolate.
Okay, think, think. Think, Mattman!
The two men who had taken him out of trig class said they were college recruiters. Princeton. They wanted to treat him to ice cream. Talk about their computer science program.
So he had gotten into their car.
“Stupid!” Matt slammed his hand on the steering column. Never get into a stranger’s car. His mom had taught him that. Josefina had echoed it a thousand times. He knew better!
The men had driven him out to the sports complex on the edge of Artesia. That’s when they started asking him about Agrimax. About his term paper. About his e-mails to the company. They wanted to know where he got his information.
“Why did I tell them?” he ground out, dropping his forehead onto the steering wheel. “Dumb! I am such an idiot!”
By that time, he had figured out enough to get scared.
They had slammed his head into the concrete wall, and he had passed out. A moment later he came to, crumpled on the ground, aware of blood trickling down the back of his neck. The Agrimax men leaned against their car, talking in low voices.
That’s when Matt bolted.
They ran after him. Shouting. Threatening to call the police, send him to prison, put him away forever. He wriggled under the park’s barbed-wire fence. Ran down the sidewalk and cut across the yards of several houses. Rounded a corner of the video store. Dashed down an alley. Found a culvert and hid. An hour. Two hours.
Sweating, smelling like dank water, his head throbbing, he ran all the way to the high school just as the last class was letting out. He hid in a clump of bushes and scanned the area for the Agrimax men or their car. Nothing. In the distance near the main door, he saw Billy waiting for him. Checking out the girls. Calling greetings to classmates. Matt wanted to go to him, tell him everything. But what if the two men were watching? Then they would go after Billy, too.
Matt made a dash for his pickup. He sped from the school parking lot, headed out of town. Drove to nearby Hope. Found a thicket of trees near Jim Banyon’s house. Cottonwoods, piñons, salt cedar. Not much cover, but he pulled his pickup as far into their midst as he could.
It was beginning to grow dark, so he checked his cell phone. A message from Billy that Matt’s dad was worrying about him, searching for him.
That didn’t sound right. His dad never cared where he was, did he? Were the Agrimax men holding Billy? Had they made him leave that message?
Shaken, Matt decided to place a call. He pressed the button and listened to the rings on the other end. When Billy answered, Matt barely managed to squawk his own name.
“Mattman, is that you?” Billy’s voice had a calming effect. Yeah, this was Billy. Life was normal somewhere out there. But not here…not in this pickup in the middle of a grove just outside Mr. Banyon’s house.
“Listen, Billy,” Matt breathed. “I got your phone message, okay? But don’t keep looking for me.”
“Where have you been, dude? I waited for you after class.”
Matt remembered their plan to go to Dairy Queen together. Like always. They each would have ordered an M&M’s Blizzard, talked about their classes, planned their weekend. But not now.
“Something bad’s going on,” Matt said. “Really bad.”
“What? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”
“I’m going away. Don’t look for me anymore.” Realizing he was starting to cry again, which was totally uncool, Matt hung up.
He stared through his tears at Mr. Banyon’s house. Nearly paralyzed with panic, he wadded up the Snickers wrapper and stuffed it into the ashtray. What should he do? What was right—and wrong? None of this was supposed to happen! He had just wanted to help feed the hungry.
He needed to talk to Mr. Banyon. Jim Banyon made sense when he explained ethics, when he discussed the difference that Christians could make in the business world. He sounded just like Miss Pruitt when he talked about Christ’s command that Christians meet people’s needs—no matter what the cost. He understood Agrimax better than Matt ever could. Mr. Banyon would know what to do.
But what if the men were inside the house…threatening him and waiting for Matt? He knew what he ought to do. Leave. Disappear. Get out of town for a while. Isn’t that what fugitives did in the movies? But this wasn’t a movie. This was no computer game, where he could press a button and start all over. It was real.
He wished he could call Billy again. Billy always had advice—even if it wasn’t necessarily right. Matt stared at his phone. Then he threw it out the window into a tangle of tall grass. No phone. No contact. He looked at the laptop lying beside him on the front seat. He was afraid Agrimax had hacked his user account and could read his e-mails and personal information. He should toss that out, too.
No. He could use it to stay in touch somehow. But what if they traced him? Now he was getting paranoid. Matt knew more about computers than those two men did. They weren’t Princeton techies, after all. They were Agrimax goons.
All the same, Matt knew if he stayed around, h
is dad and Billy, and maybe even Miss Pruitt, would get involved. The way the Agrimax men had slammed him against the wall today, they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt people if that’s what it took to get their data back. Anyone connected to Matt would be in danger, because he had helped Mr. Banyon.
The Agrimax men would soon find out Matt was the one who had told Mr. Banyon that he could copy the incriminating Agrimax information onto a USB key. They would learn that Matt had used his own credit card—which his father had said was just for emergencies—to buy the key. They would discover that Mr. Banyon was going to give the USB key and all its terrible secrets to the chairman-elect of I-FEED, a man named Josiah Karume, who would turn everything over to the right people in government and the media. They would know that, in the name of God, Mr. Banyon was going to ruin them. And that Matthew Strong was helping him do it.
But where could Matt go if he ran? Granny Strong lived in Amarillo. She would take him in. He could drive to Hobbs and cross the state line into Texas. Pick up a map somewhere so he could find the right roads to Lubbock and then Amarillo. Spend what cash he had on gas and food.
He fought the panic that felt like a noose tightening around his neck. Dear God, please help me! I don’t know what to do. I need to talk to somebody. I need help. But You’re all I have.
He forced himself to reason. If God was all he had, wasn’t that enough? God is more than sufficient…a very present help in time of trouble…wonderful Counselor…
“Okay,” Matt breathed out. “Holy Spirit, give me wisdom. And courage, too. Please be my counselor. Help me not to blow this worse than I already have. Amen.”
When he lifted his head, he felt calmer. He wasn’t in such bad shape after all, he realized. He had about fifty dollars, a laptop, a vehicle. He had youth, energy and brains—more than enough to get him out of this hot water. He even had the credit card his father had given him. What more did he need? Maybe the Snickers had just given him a sugar high, but he was feeling better about the situation. He turned his attention to Jim Banyon’s house.
Fatal Harvest Page 3