Fatal Harvest

by Catherine Palmer

  Nostrils flaring, the horse stepped toward him, and Cole caught the animal’s mane. He boosted himself up with a foot on the corral fence. His injured hand was useless. Driven by desperation, he threaded his fingers through the horse’s mane and mounted.

  “Let’s go, boy,” he yelled, digging his heels into Jack’s flanks. With a howl, he brought the other horses to attention. Nervous, skittish at the unfamiliar disturbance, they whinnied.

  As if sensing Cole’s distress, Jack took off at a gallop. Cole clutched the mane, leaned forward and did his best to hang on as Jack easily outpaced the other horses, who were making a break for the open gate. The car’s brakes squealed as the bolting animals thundered toward it. A gun fired, and a horse screamed.

  If they shot one of my animals…Cole gritted his teeth, anger pulsing through his veins. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched in vain for the men who had been chasing him on foot.

  At Cole’s urging, Jack leaped over a fallen log and kept on course for Catclaw Draw, a shallow creek choked with salt cedar brush. The shrubbery was low, but it would provide some cover. If he could lose the car, it would buy him time—but he couldn’t hide in the draw forever. Where could he go? How could he get away once and for all?

  Jack’s hooves thundered across a stretch of baked earth. The headlights had picked them out again, and the car pulled closer. Cole guided the horse the last few paces and then braced himself as Jack skittered down the five-foot dip into the draw. With his fingers still tangled in the animal’s mane, he lowered his head. Salt cedar branches scratched across his thighs and reached for his face. The horse slowed.

  Cole glanced behind at the instant the car plunged off the lip of dry ground and plowed straight into Catclaw Draw. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and someone shouted a string of expletives.

  “You left me in a ditch,” Cole murmured, “and turnabout is fair play. Come on, Jack. Let’s head for town. There’s somebody I know I can count on for help.”

  TWELVE

  “Two movies, and both of them were lousy,” Billy grumbled.

  “You should have tried to sleep.” Matt followed his friend down one of two narrow aisles between countless rows of seats in the massive jetliner. They were headed for the aircraft’s door and the terminal at Charles de Gaulle Airport outside Paris.

  “You didn’t sleep. You sat there watching that dumb map on the screen. How can you stare at a graphic of a plane moving across a map for seven hours? That’s totally boring.”

  “Better than two lousy movies.”

  Matt couldn’t explain why he was so fascinated by the small digital screen on the seat back in front of him. He didn’t know why it intrigued him to watch the airplane graphic as hour by hour it crept from Chicago over Canada, Newfoundland, the Arctic Ocean, and eventually across Ireland, England, and down into France. He hadn’t been able to tell his father why he liked to stare at the clock in the kitchen for an hour at a time, either.

  Matt just knew he enjoyed precise movement. Tiny increments of space and time compelled him. Mathematical perfection and predictability—things like that were more interesting than movies in which people made long, impassioned speeches or killed each other or performed random actions that made little sense to Matt.

  Humans baffled him. He liked girls all right, and he had noticed some pretty ones on this airplane, but he had decided early on in the tenth grade that he would never marry. A wife would drive him crazy in a millisecond—if she could stand to be around him that long.

  “I’m beat.” Billy shook his head as if that would clear out the fog between his ears. “I don’t get how it can be eight o’clock on Tuesday morning. It feels like the middle of the night.”

  “It is the middle of the night at home. But we’ve flown through seven time zones, and our circadian rhythms have been interrupted.”

  “Circadian rhythms?”

  “The human body has rhythms which occur in approximately twenty-four-hour cycles,” Matt explained as they walked up the covered Jetway to the terminal. “At this point in our circadian oscillations, we should be in bed asleep. But the plane traveled across all those time zones—actually human-imposed geographical regions in which the same standard time is used. Of course, the earth’s rotation is the true basis for—”

  “Yeah, okay, Mattman,” Billy cut in. “Good grief, look at this line of people. I guess we have to go through customs to show we don’t have any illegal drugs or vegetables or whatever.”

  Matt stiffened at the realization they must pass yet another checkpoint. He placed his hand over the lump of the USB key in his pocket and lifted up a prayer for protection. What if they had come this far only to be sent back to the States? Or worse—what if the customs people confiscated the USB key? He hadn’t declared it on that little form he and Billy filled out on the plane. Maybe Agrimax had alerted customs to watch for two unaccompanied teenagers without any luggage. This could be really bad.

  Billy gazed around the terminal. He edged forward in the line. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

  “I’m freaking,” Matt said.

  Billy thumped him on the back. “Chill, Mattman. We’ll be fine.”

  It took almost half an hour to inch to the front of the line, but the French customs officials seemed indifferent to the fact that a fugitive from justice was passing into their country. With freshly inked stamps inside their passports, Matt and Billy followed the flow of people out into the main terminal. They stood for a moment, surveying the array of cafés, gift shops and newsstands.

  “I’m hungry,” Billy said. “Take a look at that bread.”

  “Baguettes. We need to find a taxi before we can eat. And we have to find out where the conference is going on. I hope Josiah Karume will agree to talk to us.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He was supposed to be elected chairman of I-FEED at this summit. He’s a bigwig now. But maybe if I mention Mr. Banyon, he’ll see us. They were scheduled to meet.”

  “We can’t do anything till we change our money. They don’t use dollars here.”

  “They use euros. It’s the standard currency in all of Europe.” Matt swallowed as a man in dark glasses approached them. He lowered his voice. “Look out, Billy.”

  “Do you need a taxi?” the man asked in accented English. “I make you a very reasonable price.”

  “No thanks,” Matt said quickly. “We have to figure out where we’re going first.”

  “What is the name of your destination? Perhaps I may assist you.”

  “It’s a food convention,” Billy blurted out. “A meeting on world hunger.”

  “Ah, oui! The International Conference on Hunger Relief. At the convention center on Boulevard de la Villette. I know where this is—come with me! I shall take you. A good price—only ten euros.”

  “We don’t have any euros.”

  “No problem. I accept dollars. You come!”

  He turned on his heel and started for the exit. Billy moved to follow, but Matt caught his arm. “How do you know he’s safe? Maybe he’s with Agrimax.”

  “Didn’t you see his taxi uniform, dude? He’s just trying to drum up business.”

  “But what about changing our money? I read in the airline magazine that you can do it at the airport.”

  “Just hang with me, Mattman. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Billy set off behind the taxi driver, and Matt had no choice but to tag along. He knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t get the image of Mr. Banyon’s blackened mouth out of his mind. If the Agrimax people would murder harmless old Mr. Banyon, what wouldn’t they do? All the same, Matt had to admit he was no good at reading people. He had zero intuition, and as a child, his teachers regularly wrote on his report cards that he needed to work on his “social skills.”

  The best thing to do was to follow Billy’s lead, he decided. They stepped out into a bright spring morning, and the traffic speeding by was unbelievable. Way more congest
ed than Albuquerque or Oklahoma City, and those cities had seemed frenetic to Matt. The taxi driver opened the door of his small black car, and sure enough, there was a meter right on the dashboard. Matt felt a wash of relief.

  Another man sat in the backseat, an older fellow dressed in a gray business suit and reading a French newspaper. He barely looked up as Billy climbed in beside him and Matt took a place by the door.

  “I am taking this gentleman to Avenue de la République,” the driver told his new passengers. “It is near the convention center. No problem.”

  “Bonjour,” the man said, nodding at the boys.

  “Bonjour,” Billy echoed. He leaned over and whispered to Matt. “I took French in seventh grade. Watch this.” He addressed the other passenger. “Comment allez-vous?”

  “Très bien, merci. Et vous?”

  “I asked him how he was, and he said he was fine,” Billy confided to Matt as the taxi pulled out into traffic.

  “What did he ask you?”

  “He didn’t ask me anything.”

  “Yeah, he did. He said, ‘Et vous?’”

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know that. But here’s one. Monsieur, parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Yes, I speak English,” the man replied. “I hail from London, actually.”

  “London, England?” Matt’s thoughts sped through the massive catalog of facts he had absorbed during social studies classes in elementary school. “Why didn’t you take the bullet train through the Chunnel?”

  “I prefer to fly.” He smiled. “And may I ask which of you young men is Matthew Strong?”

  At that, Matt gulped down a bubble of air and pressed himself back against the seat. They were dead meat.

  “Oh, great,” Billy said, his eyes wide as he swung around to stare at Matt. “This is bad.”

  “May I introduce myself?” the man asked. “I am Dr. John Sloane of Agrimax’s Technology Development Department, headquartered in London. My colleague, Pierre Brochant, manages security for the French division of the company.”

  The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder and smirked at the two boys. “Sorry to mislead you,” he said, his broken English suddenly gone.

  Matt elbowed Billy. “Did you tell your mom? You told her we were going to Paris, didn’t you?”

  “I called her from Chicago, because I couldn’t very well go clear across the Atlantic Ocean without letting her know. But I didn’t tell her—”

  “Gentlemen,” Dr. Sloane cut in, “I don’t believe you’ve answered my question. Which of you is Matthew Strong?”

  Matt stared straight ahead, trying to keep a poker face. He was so mad at Billy he couldn’t see straight. How could anyone be so dumb? Thanks to Billy’s big mouth, they’d been nabbed in two seconds, like a couple of bozo-brains. So much for counting on Billy for help. Matt would be better off alone.

  “I shall assume from the photograph I received by fax last night that you are Matthew Strong.” Dr. Sloane looked directly at Matt. “Do not be alarmed. We mean you no harm whatsoever.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Billy demanded. “We have business at the convention center.”

  “The conference on world hunger ended last Friday. Hector Diaz is taking a short holiday on the Continent, after which he will return to Mexico.”

  “We’re not here to meet Hector Diaz,” Matt said. “We’ve come to talk to the chairman of I-FEED. He’s expecting to have a meeting about…about why we’ve come.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Josiah Karume has already resumed his post at the Africa headquarters in Khartoum, Sudan.”

  “You’re lying,” Matt said.

  “No, indeed. What I tell you is quite true. You will find no one with I-FEED in France at this time. They have all returned to their places of service.”

  “Service. What would you know about that?”

  “Are you aware, Mr. Strong, that we at Agrimax work quite closely with I-FEED? Our CEO, Vincent Grant, is a great supporter of humanitarian causes. We’re actually one of I-FEED’s major suppliers.”

  “Big deal,” Matt said. He lifted his chin. The kids at school thought he was a nerd, but he knew how to talk about things that mattered. “I know how it works. Agrimax donates the surpluses that American farmers grow because of farm subsidies. The U.S. government—the taxpayers—are providing that food, not Agrimax. You funnel it from the granaries to the foreign countries so you can look good.”

  “And yet, without our services, where would I-FEED be?”

  “This is not about I-FEED or any other organization.”

  “No, indeed. It’s about an idealistic young man who has stolen the private intellectual property of a corporation.”

  “You’re wrong, Dr. Sloane. It’s bigger than that. It’s about hungry, dying children. Starving mothers who can’t feed their babies. Fathers who don’t have the energy to take care of their families. That’s why Mr. Banyon couldn’t take it anymore. You people are evil, and he wanted to bring about a change. And that’s why I took the USB key.”

  “A USB key, is that what you have? I should have known.” He tapped Pierre on the shoulder. “Find a place to stop. We’ve got it.”

  “Oui,” the driver said.

  “You’re not getting the key,” Matt said, clutching the solid lump in his pocket. “I won’t give it to you.”

  “What do you mean to do with it—turn it over to I-FEED? They’re a humanitarian organization, not a food producer or a media outlet. They can’t do anything with it. It’s useless to them.”

  “The stuff on this key is gonna fry Agrimax, and you know it. That’s why you killed Mr. Banyon. That’s why your people have chased me all over the place. You know that whoever has the information can ruin you. If I-FEED has it, you’ll have to cooperate with them, or they’ll blow your cover.”

  “You’re saying I-FEED would blackmail us?” Dr. Sloane laughed. “Good heavens, lad, you do have an imagination.”

  “It’s not my imagination. It’s what Mr. Banyon told me, and it’s not blackmail. He said you’re planning things that aren’t right—they’re not ethical. Your plan is based on technology you’ve been developing for the past fifteen years. Genetic technology, illegal mergers, hostile takeovers, all kinds of things that will ensure Agrimax control of the world’s food supply.”

  “Pierre, do find a place to stop immediately.”

  “Dr. Sloane, please, the traffic. We are in the second arrondisement now—very crowded. No parking!”

  “Give me the key, Mr. Strong,” Sloane demanded, reaching across Billy. “Do so at once.”

  “No!” Matt gripped it more tightly. “Never.”

  “You should be grateful we found you before the police did. If you hand over the USB key, I promise that all charges against you will be dropped.”

  “That’s not what I want,” Matt replied, unable to see why Dr. Sloane was having such a hard time comprehending this. “I don’t care about my own safety. If I did, I wouldn’t be doing this. My goal—the goal every Christian should have—is to feed the hungry.”

  “Young man, Agrimax is doing all it can to make sure that food goes to the needy.”

  “What’s it doing? Tell me what.”

  “This world is a business. Supply and demand are its pillars. People will always demand food, and we shall always supply it.”

  “To the highest bidders.”

  “Of course. Why should we sell to the low bidder? Capitalism doesn’t work that way.”

  Matt tried to think clearly. Supply, demand, capitalism…they sounded like words printed on one of his board games—a test of strategy where little plastic pieces moved around on a sheet of colorful plastic. Not real life.

  Everything inside the taxi felt surreal, unexpected. None of this had ever crossed Matt’s mind when he was sitting with Mr. Banyon and discussing his term paper. Feeding the hungry had been an idea, a workable concept. But it hadn’t involved all these terrible things—things that were so out of his control.
They couldn’t actually be happening to Matthew Strong from Artesia, New Mexico. And yet they were, and he had to do something. Say something.

  “You should sell to the low bidders because they need the food,” he told the man across from him. “They can’t afford to pay high prices. They’re too poor, and you’re starving them.”

  “Do you hear the boy, Pierre? Such passion.”

  The driver glanced over his shoulder. “Passion will never allow you to succeed, Monsieur Strong. Power is what you must seek. To the powerful belongs the victory.”

  Matt was breathing too hard, nearly hyperventilating. He had to calm down. But how? These men had him in the palms of their hands. They were going to take the USB key away. Mr. Banyon would have died in vain. Nothing would come of his efforts. And people would go on starving.

  “It’s not about passion or power,” he told the Agrimax men. “It’s about right and wrong. The world isn’t a business—it’s a battleground. Good versus evil. And I’m on the side of good.”

  “How quaint to see the world in black-and-white,” Dr. Sloane murmured. “You’ve been reading too many books, my naive young friend. Heroes and villains, right and wrong, good and evil—this is the stuff of fairy tales.”

  “It’s the stuff of the Bible, which is the only book I’ve been reading these days, and I can tell you that the forces of good belong to God, and the forces of evil—”

  “Calm down, Mattman,” Billy said, reaching for him.

  “No way!” Without stopping to think, Matt grabbed the chrome door handle. The taxi door swung open, and he hurled himself out onto the street. He landed hard on his shoulder, his head glancing off the pavement and a layer of skin scraping from his arm. Around him, tires screeched, horns blared. Dazed, he lifted his head to see a small blue car bearing down.

  This was it. He would die like Mr. Banyon, for the cause of Christ.

  Scrambling to his feet, he made a frantic attempt to leap to safety. Too late. The car’s fender caught his hip and tossed him into the air. He hit the blue roof, slid across it and landed on solid ground again, his elbow slamming into concrete. He lay on a sidewalk. Cars braked, a waiter dropped a tray of dishes, people ran to see. Coming for him. Reaching.