Killer Dust

by Sarah Andrews

  – 4 –

  When Tom Latimer returned (his head bowed with some abstract form of repentance), it was too late for him to regain control of his immediate future. Faye and I had already decided to go to Florida.

  In the first minutes of the hour that he was gone, Faye dissolved to tears, but that was nothing new. Tears had been flowing down her face with fair regularity ever since she had become pregnant, and she had long since asked me to quit noticing them. The hormonal shifts brought on by her little hitchhiker had wreaked havoc with her usual cool stoicism, and the difficulty of adjusting to the consequent marriage to her very cerebral lover had filled in where the hormones left off. This time she made it additionally clear that she didn’t want my help by locking herself in the bathroom and running water to cover her sobs.

  I jumped onto the computer that Tom had left running in the living room and got to work, stopping only to shout over the water when I couldn’t figure out how to get through the security system he had rigged to keep prying eyes out of the business he did through that portal. Security systems of all types were now his stock-in-trade. Since the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, antiterrorist security had been his FBI assignment, and since his so-called retirement, he had become a consultant, again making it his professional pursuit. The retirement was part of the deal he and Faye had cut to form sufficient common ground on which to build a marriage: His work for the FBI had been dangerous, and she didn’t want to raise a kid with a father who might at any moment get shot. Consulting seemed suitably remote from chasing bad guys down dark alleys, allowing Faye the pleasant fantasy that Tom had settled down.

  Faye gave me instructions that would get me into her section of the computer’s hard drive and onto the Internet. Once there, I logged on to a search engine and typed in FLORIDA DUST. I wasn’t trying to kid myself that such a casual action would help me figure out where Jack was in Florida or what he was doing there, but at times like this, I liked to keep my mind busy.

  My hands shook slightly as I worked. Jack had originally come to Salt Lake City to work with Tom on antiterrorist security. Did his current assignment mean that there was another wave of terrorism on the horizon? Certainly Florida had been in the news since the September 11 attacks … the first anthrax death had occurred there, and anthrax came in the form of dust. I had pushed specific notions about Jack’s assignment far to the back of my mind since his sudden departure, but now they crowded to the front. Terrorism made my blood run cold; not only did I not want that happening to my country, or in my world, but I didn’t want the man I loved right smack in the middle of it. Call me selfish, but the very thought turned my innards to soup.

  So I tried to concentrate on the computer. It, at least, was holding still, just a dumb box. Not a potential source of trouble. Even there, I was wrong.

  In the brief moment between hitting the ENTER key and watching the results appear on the screen, I wondered if I should have narrowed the search to U.S. government activities by typing FLORIDA DUST + FBI, but the first entry on the list that came up referenced the feds anyway. It concerned work being done by the U.S. Geological Survey, the federal agency charged with the study of the Earth. It was a news story from a major television network. The headline read, “Long Distance Dust: African Dust Clouds Bring Fungi, Bacteria to United States,” and the story began like this:

  Scientists have long known that upper-level winds carry particles great distances. But now they’ve found that hazardous bacteria and fungi hitchhike across the Atlantic on North African dust plumes.

  “It shows we’re all connected in one way or the other, much more than I would ever have dreamed,” says Miles Guffey, one of the researchers of dust plumes at the U.S. Geological Survey.

  The next two stories also referenced investigations of microbes riding dust clouds blowing off North Africa. Both took me to NASA’s Web site and its prodigious publicity machinery. I wondered at first why America’s space agency was involved with a geology story, but then realized that the first A in NASA stood for atmospheric, and the S for space. So NASA’s interests were not as much in observing geology as in the act of looking down from above.

  The headlines read, “Desert Dust Kills Florida Fish: New Research Links Huge African Dust Clouds with ‘Red Tides,’” and “Dust from Africa Leads to Large Toxic Algae Blooms in Gulf of Mexico, Study Finds.” And sure enough, both articles were illustrated by images beamed down from NASA equipment that was riding through the heavens mounted on satellite steeds, proudly demonstrating what NASA had done for us lately.

  I did not for a moment think that dust blowing off African deserts onto Florida and surrounding waters might account for Jack’s sudden departure, especially because it was clear from the articles that the process had been going on for quite some time. In fact, dust had been blowing off Africa for as long as there had been deserts there and wind blowing over them, hardly something that would suddenly rouse the FBI.

  The satellite images showed dust blowing far out over the ocean. Peering into those images got me thinking about water, and water got me thinking about waves, and by now you know where the concept of waves took me. With all that rolling around I relaxed just enough to get an idea: Armed with the smidgeon of information that Faye had divulged, I could call Jack’s office and ask how things were going for him in Florida, sound casual, and hopefully kid someone into telling me what Jack was up to and when he might return. As I punched in the numbers, I decided that my sweet love would be pleased with the elegant simplicity of this ruse: If I presumed to call and sounded like I knew a little, then whoever I talked to would counterpresume that I knew a lot and would speak openly. Or as Tom had taught me, the best way to lie is to attach it to the truth, and in this case all I had to do was artfully leave off the critical detail that I had not heard about Jack’s whereabouts from Jack himself.

  As luck would have it, an office manager named Tanya, with whom I had a chatty sort of relationship, received my call. “Hi, Em,” she cooed. “Hear anything from Jack?”

  “No. But, um, I was hoping you could help me with that. I’ve … been off fishing for the last several days.” Warming to my fabrication, I blustered on, getting girl-to-girl confidential. “You know … I miss him and all, so I thought it easier to pretend that I was the one who left.”

  Tanya laughed like she knew this sport.

  “Anyway,” I continued, really rolling now, “I got back and there was a message from him on my phone, and I’m supposed to call him, but he didn’t leave the number again, and um, well, I can’t find the piece of paper where he wrote it down, you know, and …” I let it trail off, making room for her to jump in there and give me what I wanted. I was amazed at myself, and in fact wondered why it had taken me so long to think of this.

  Tanya laughed. “Em, dear, ol’ Jack-o isn’t in the habit of telling me where he spends his vacation time, much less does he leave a number where he can be reached.”

  Vacation? “Oh. Well, I …”

  “So you’re telling me he isn’t back yet?”

  This wasn’t going my way at all. “Ah, no …”

  “And he didn’t take you?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Listen, I know how you’re feeling, but calm down, that boy really has it for you. Maybe the fishing was just extra good where he is!”

  Now I was completely confused. Jack hadn’t told me he was going fishing, and if he had gone without me, it was over between us! Wham! So where was he? And what was he doing?

  “The other line is ringing,” Tanya said. “Gotta go.”

  “Right.”

  I sat listening to a dial tone for longer than I care to admit.

  Finally, Faye came out of the bathroom. “Get anything out of Tanya?” she inquired, as she dabbed a cold washcloth at her tear-swollen eyes.

  My bafflement dissolved into pettishness. I said, “Your ears are good! No wonder Tom gets pissed.”

  “Now you’re not answe
ring my question.”

  I couldn’t work up much volume as I said, “She says he’s on vacation.”

  Faye’s eyebrows joined into one straight line. “Oooh, that sounds bad. Something’s up. No wonder Tom’s been wired.” She put her hands on her widening hips and stared out the window toward the high sweep of the Wasatch Range. “So what’s Jack up to, then?”

  “You tell me. I looked up ‘Florida dust’ on the search engine, and all I got was a bunch of NASA images and some jive about research some geologists are doing there.”

  Faye asked, “Where in Florida?”

  “Oh, come on, Faye, I was just keeping myself busy. I—”

  “Where?”

  I clicked back to that story. “It’s the USGS. Looks like its Florida office is in … let’s see … . St. Petersburg.”

  Faye put a hand on my shoulder and peered into the monitor. “I have an aunt there. Nice town, if you like retired white people. Has a Salvador Dali museum.”

  “Great,” I mumbled. “A little added surrealism with your monoculturalism. Tell me more about what Jack told Tom, Faye.”

  “Just that he was going to Florida, and that Tom would understand about ‘killer dust.’”

  “I thought you said project dust!”

  Faye twisted her face into a concerned wince. “Yeah. Okay. Thought you might not like the ‘killer’ part.”

  I put my head down on the desk. I said, “And Tom would understand what about this killer dust thing?”

  “Tom said, ‘If you go there and do that, I can’t help you,’ or something like that.”

  I began to moan.

  Faye patted my back. Then she reached forward, grasped the computer’s mouse, and started scrolling down through the article. “We can go see my aunt, and you can visit Jack.”

  “Are you losing your grip? This is a geology project. The chances are slim to nil that it has anything to do with Jack’s whereabouts.”

  “Well, at least according to this article, it’s the fish that are being killed, not wandering FBI agents who’ve gone AWOL from their jobs.”

  I lifted my head and glared at her. “Way to calm my nerves, Faye.”

  “Just trying for a little levity.”

  “Right. Very little. Try this: Jack told me only that he had a job to do. ‘Job’ does not usually mean ‘vacation time.’ And Jack likes to fish, but not so much that he’d run off and do it five minutes after we …”

  “Right.”

  I closed my eyes. “It was getting so nice.”

  “Don’t put it in the past tense, Em. Have a little faith.”

  I was on the edge of tears. “Where is he? And what’s he doing there?”

  “I’ll get it out of Tom.”

  “For once in my life I meet a man who’s smart, good-looking, employed, sane, kind, funny … faithful … .”

  “Yes.” She had a hand on my shoulder.

  “He is sane, isn’t he, Faye?”

  Faye let her breath out heavily. “Strikes me that way.”

  “And faithful?”

  She patted my hair. “Follows you around like a dog. “He’ll come back.”

  “Sure. The man’s an FBI agent. Carries a loaded weapon. Heads out somewhere on his own to do something he doesn’t want even his ‘lady’ to know about. How long do you think I should wait before I panic?”

  “So let’s fly to St. Pete. Didn’t he say his mother lives in Orlando? Two hours’ drive from the airport. We could call her, and—”

  “Orlando? I didn’t even know that. And with what money? I can’t afford the book-two-weeks-ahead, super-discount kind of plane ticket to Florida, let alone the last-minute, pay-through-the-nose variety!”

  “I seem to remember I have a perfectly good airplane parked out at the airport.”

  That was true. Faye was a professional pilot; or at least, she was a commercially rated pilot who had, on occasion, charged money to carry people and small freight. I’d been all over the western states with her. But that was in the before times. Before losing her trust fund. Before marrying Tom. Before growing so pregnant that she did little else but lounge around and sleep. I wasn’t sure she could concentrate long enough to fly us to Florida, or even reach past her belly to the control wheel. I said, “Florida’s a long way from here. And you don’t have a bottomless wallet anymore. And you’re more than a little bit pregnant.”

  She turned a shoulder to indicate that she felt affronted. “I can fly just fine, thank you very much. The cabin’s fully pressurized, and you can always take the controls for a while if I need to stretch or barf. And I thought it all through while I was in the bathroom: Tom’s being a pain in the butt. I can use the break from him. And once this baby comes, I won’t have time for any such adventures. My aunt would love to have us, so much so that she’d probably pay for the gas, and she’d loan us one of her spare Mercedeses. Even if we can’t find Jack, we can run down to the Everglades. I’ll bet you’ve never seen a live alligator, now have you? I mean, have you ever been to Florida?”

  “No. But I don’t want to be a party to your running away from Tom.”

  Ignoring my second statement, she said, “Well, then, no better time than the present. Now, quit hanging around here moping and get going. You’ve got twenty-four hours to plan your dream vacation. Go down to the bookstore and read some travel guides. If Jack comes back before then, you can make small talk about where he’s been, and if he doesn’t, then you’ll at least be occupying your mind with something other than ultimate downside scenarios. It’s gorgeous down there. Now, quit arguing with me and go pack your bikini.”

  I stared up at her. I’ve never worn a bikini in my life—high-plains ranch women aren’t much inclined to exposing that much skin to the risk of sunburn—and the thought of Faye’s burgeoning belly hanging out over a little slip of fabric made me gape. But if she wanted to take a little field trip, I was game. But I had to play it just right. If I went to Florida with Faye without first talking to Jack, I could come off looking meddlesome, or worse yet, clingy. But if I went there to do some work, I could play a game of rationalization: I became interested in the place because you were there, Jack, but went there because of this really cool geological project. But it had to be something I could back out of if he came back before we headed out. I needed a target to train my brain on, and I knew just what kind of a bull’s-eye would do nicely.

  – 5 –

  I headed up the hill to the University of Utah to see Molly Chang, a professor in the geology department. I’d gotten to know her during the winter semester, when I took some classes there in preparation for starting a Master’s program—or, at least, that had been my plan at the time. When I began to get tight with Jack, I started to wonder if some nice university closer to where he was more typically stationed might be even nicer. Call me fickle, but that’s how my mind works: life first, and career … in there somewhere.

  I found Molly sitting at her desk in her office, leaning back so far in her swivel chair that her hiking-boot-clad feet dangled above the floor. Her desk and surrounding bookshelves were populated by the usual array of rock samples and obscure images that seem to bloom wherever a geologist is planted. She looked up from a clutter of books and papers and gave me an expectant look.

  Molly is a sedimentologist, which means she studies how fragments of rock, animal shells, twigs, and what have you get transported and deposited as things like riverbeds, beaches, and so forth. If left deposited for a while, the fragments get cemented into sedimentary rock. I went to Molly because she is an expert on desert sediments, and so far “African” was the only word I could put with “Florida dust.” Leaning against her doorjamb, I said, “Dust storms from North Africa would come off the Sahara desert. Is that right?”

  “Usually. Back before Homo sapiens,” Molly said. “Mineral dust deflates off the Sahara, sure, and always has. But the topsoil blew off the Sahara a while ago.”

  “Say what?” That’s the thing about talking to a g
eologist. You never know what time frame you’re going to land in. We are the historical science, and our minds jump straight to the time scale and epoch that seems most significant.

  “Well, the Sahara wasn’t always a desert, you knew that,” she said.

  “In fact I did not. What epoch are we discussing?”

  “Post-Pleistocene. In human terms, the Stone Age.”

  We were discussing a time considered recent to a geologist, but to a historian of human events, the dim, distant past. “I savvy the warming of the western U.S., the climate change from wet and cool to hot and dry, but I’ve never chased it overseas.”

  “Ten or twelve thousand years ago, the Sahara was green, a savannah. It had some nice forests, even. The climate was cooler and wetter. Paleolithic man chipped pictures of giraffes into the rock outcroppings that surrounded the water holes where the animals came to feed. The women dug up wild onions and raised a couple kids and maybe an orphaned fawn or two. Life was easy. Then as the ice age retreated, the Sahara warmed and grew increasingly arid. Life got tougher. Game and grass grew scarce, so the men took over the care of the domesticated animals and started herding them to far pastures, stripping the vegetative cover there as well. The topsoil started to get up and go.”

  “How long ago?”