by Josie Brown
She left in such a hurry that she didn’t even take the time to clean out her desk. A month-old ticket to a San Francisco Giants–Los Angeles Dodgers game is in one of the drawers, as well as an autographed photo of Buster Posey.
I guess we know which team she roots for. But, obviously, she didn’t make the game, or the ticket wouldn’t still be here.
Dr. Wellborne was stupid to leave me her computer, especially since SeedPlenish’s tech personnel haven’t ditched her old password. First, I try BusterPosey. No luck. Then Buster, then Posey. Both dead ends.
I use my cell to call Arnie. “I’m trying to hack my predecessor’s computer. From what I can tell, she’s a baseball fan—specifically of the SF Giants’ Buster Posey. I’ve tried the name in various combinations, but no luck.”
“Didn’t you read your manual? For example, the password has to be alpha-numeric.”
Duh.
“Just a wild guess, but why don’t you try the name, ‘Buster,’ with his team number?”
I type Buster28. “Bingo,” I murmur.
“Link me in,” Arnie suggests. It’s a good idea to allow his employee ID to access it as well, so that he can see what I’m seeing, and perhaps pick up on other clues throughout all her stored data.
We roll through her emails. At first, the ones to and from Dr. Wellborne are all business, then become flirtatious, and, finally, all pleasure—
Until the last week of her employment. For some reason, the tone is now stilted and distant.
The last email between them comes from her. It reads, simply:
You lied. It hurt.
“She is—or was—a Thomas Wellborne fan girl—at least, at first,” I murmur. A renowned scientist as a notch on your belt? To each her own, I guess.”
“Wow, wow, wow,” Arnie murmurs excitedly. “Jackpot!”
A file pops up on my screen, entitled, Strain v.101313.
“How do you know this is it?” I ask.
“Because she copied it from his secure cloud.”
“I wonder how she figured out his password,” I mutter out loud.
“She knew him well enough, I guess. By the way, it’s AssMan1.”
Ouch. Yep, that hurts.
“Apparently, she got her revenge. This file has everything: his correspondence with an entity he refers to as BIG PAY DAY, in which he puts out feelers for its interest in what he calls ‘the Exodus Strain, 22:6.’ There is also a response in the affirmative, along with confirmation of a one billion-dollar payoff, placed in a Cayman Islands bank account.”
“‘Exodus?’ That’s a book in the Old Testament of the Bible.” A thought hits me. “Hey do me a favor and look up verse 22:6.”
I hear a few clicks. “Oh, yeah, this is it,” he finally says. “It’s a real toe-tapper too. Listen to this: ‘If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.’ Well, I guess we now know who’s been quote-unquote kindling the fire.”
“Poor choice of words, but I hear you. If this Jilly person took off, something tells me it’s because things got too hot for her to hang around, no pun intended,” I say with a sigh. “Arnie, is there any indication where the seeds were—or hopefully, are—being stored?”
“My guess is that Wellborne keeps them within reach, and within sight. The R&D department’s organizational chart shows that half of SeedPlenish’s silos hold corn kernels, and the other half hold bags of seed.”
“At least we now know which half to investigate.”
“That would be Silos Fifteen through Twenty-Eight.”
“Is there any way to narrow it down even more?” I ask.
He’s silent as he taps away. Finally, he says, “Let me work on it for a while. By the way, I’ve duplicated what we have here, and uploaded it into the Acme cloud, so that you and Emma’s ComInt team can also scan for clues. Keep your cell phone handy in case we come up with anything, okay? ”
“Will do. In the meantime, text Ryan to put a tap and a tracer on Dr. Wellborne’s phones—home, office, and cell. If we get lucky, he may lead us to the Exodus seeds.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon going through the office, to see if Jilly planted some clue as to which silo contains the Exodus strain, but I find nothing.
Since I worked through my lunch hour, I clock out an hour early. From here to home still puts me in I-405 traffic, but at least I’ll get to Hilldale in time to pick up Trisha and Jeff.
I text Jack to give him the great news that I’ll be couriering Cheever and Morton. Only after I hit SEND do I remember that I’ll be doing it in the new Jackmobile.
Oh well, goodbye to that wonderful new car smell.
The first mistake Cheever Bing makes in Jack’s new BMW is to let loose with a burp. “Tacos,” he says as a way of apology. “Gotta love ’em.”
His next faux pas is to jump in the front passenger seat. “I call shotgun!” he crows.
I shake my head. “No, no, no—out! That’s where Trisha sits when we pick her up.”
“But—but I called shotgun!”
“You can call a cab for all I care. Better yet, if you want to lose those taco love handles, walk home.”
He shuts up. But instead of opening the door, he climbs over the front seat into the back.
“I call window!” He shoves Morton Smith toward the middle. Morton shoves back.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to play Margaret Dumont to their Groucho-Chico shenanigans. “Jeff, in the middle, please.”
“But, Mom, today was taco day.”
Note to self: look at middle school lunchroom menu before committing to carpooling—especially in the new car. Oh well, too late now.
Cheever waits until I pull onto the road before making his third mistake: slapping Jeff on the head. “Hey, what’s the big idea, turning in a forty-page paper for Current Events class?”
“Yeah,” Morton growls. “You made the rest of us look bad.”
Jeff shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”
“Terrorists don’t wear shoes. They wear sandals.” Cheever says smugly.
Morton stares at him, confused. “That’s stupid! I wear sandals, and I’m not a terrorist.”
“You’re right. You’re just a moron.” Cheever reaches over to Jeff to pinch him. “I’m talking about the real ones, you moron—you know, like in the Middle East.”
“You’re both morons,” Jeff counters. “Terrorism has taken place all over the world, Germany, Ireland, Africa, South America, even here in the United States—you name it. And from all nationalities too. Pay attention in History class, why don’t you?”
“Yeah?” Cheever taunts him. “Well, you haven’t noticed it here in Hilldale—right under your own nose too.”
I look at Jeff in the rearview mirror. As I suspect, his eyes open wide with concern. “What the heck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about that teacher you’re always sucking up to: Mr. Karman.”
“You’re nuts,” Jeff snorts.
“No, I’m not! I looked in his window during lunchtime. He was on his hands and knees, on a blanket, mumbling something—just like they do in the terrorist movies. I asked my mom, and she says that means he’s a muslin, which means he’s an Arab, which means he’s probably a terrorist,” Cheever says smugly.
“The word is ‘Muslim,’ not ‘muslin,’ which just so happens to be a fabric, not a religion,” I point out. “And by the way, not all Muslims are Arabic. And whereas it’s the dominant religion in Arabia and all of the Middle East, this can also be said about fourteen countries in Africa, most of Indonesia, some of Russia, and a few small countries in South America. And, guess what? Two million United States citizens are Muslim as well.”
“Why do you know so much about it?” Cheever asks. “Is it ‘cause your old man was a terrorist?”
I slide the car to the curb and turn off the engine. “The point I’m trying to
make, Cheever, is that one doesn’t have to be Arabic to be a terrorist. Or Muslim, either. You can be Methodist, or Catholic, or even an Atheist! To be a terrorist, all one has to ‘be’ is willing to hurt or kill others to make one’s point—”
Jeff’s head is down.
Oh hell, I’ve gone too far.
“Which ‘one’?” Morton asks.
“Anyone!” Jeff yells. “That’s the point—anyone can be a terrorist!”
The next thing I know, he’s climbing over Morton to get out of the car. Slamming the door, he trots off.
At least he’s going in the direction of the house.
I turn to Cheever. “Mr. Karman hasn’t hurt anyone. Your mother is wrong—not to mention hurtful, and unnecessarily cruel. ”
“No? Well, at least she hasn’t killed anyone—like you have.”
I start the car. I’d give the little brat the ride of his life, except for the fact that I’m afraid he’d pee his pants, and this is Jack’s new car, after all.
The only good to come out of my so-called conversation with Cheever is that the rest of the ride to Trisha’s school and then home is made in silence.
I’ve just walked into the house with Trisha when I get a text from Evan. It reads We’re stranded.
Jack hasn’t yet left SeedPlenish? I guess he’s been detained.
Jeff seems to have calmed down. He gives me a hug and nods absentmindedly when I ask him to watch Trisha while I go get his sister from practice.
On top of his knapsack is his research paper. The grade: A+++.
I can see why. The finishing touches included maps, PowerPoint organizational charts, timelines, and pictographs of recent attacks.
If I showed it to Ryan, he’d hire him on the spot. But somehow, I don’t think Ryan would let him off in the afternoon for baseball practice, so it’s a nonstarter.
When I pull up in the new Jackmobile, Mary and Evan are standing with Sara, Cara and Tara. Mary runs over to me and asks, “Mom, would you mind if they come home with us? Sara is third-year French. She wants to show me some tricks to ace my exam.”
Sara leans over her shoulder. “We want to make sure she keeps up her grades so that she can stay on the team.”
I’ll just bet.
I shrug. “Sure, hop in.”
“It’s not what you think,” Jack insists when, finally, he gets home. “Trust me, I was on a reconnaissance mission.”
“Thought so. With the in-house evangelist, I presume.”
“If it’s any consolation, it was one drink and out.”
“I hope you slipped her a truth serum.”
“I didn’t need to. All it took was a Mai Tai.”
I shake my head. “Why am I not surprised? And what golden nuggets did you glean?”
“Tammy claims that—”
“Tammy? How sweet that the two of you are already on a first name basis.”
“I’d be more flattered if you were truly jealous.”
“And I’d be truly jealous if I thought she was capable of saying anything that didn’t come out of the company handbook. So, did she?”
“Oh, I’ll say she did.” Whatever it was puts a grin on his face. “But as far as this case is concerned, she did let go with one interesting fact: Wellborne has been passed over for promotion to company president twice, which gives him a possible motive for cashing in on the killer seed.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Considering his touchy-feely management technique, I’m surprised they haven’t fired his sorry ass by now.”
“When Tammy told me about her own tickle-and-slap sessions with him, I asked the same question. She claims that he’s too valuable of a scientist. Besides, he knows where all the bodies are buried.”
“He’s a letch, no doubt about it. He actually admitted that his last two assistants didn’t last even a year in the position. I may have stumbled onto the paper trail on the killer seeds, but I’m not sure. His last assistant left the files a mess. She may have done it on purpose.”
“What was her name?”
“Jilly McIntosh. Maybe, by now, Arnie has hacked her personnel file and passed it forward to Emma to look for any red flags—you know, see if her placement in the department was legitimate, including her next place of employment—”
I pause, because it sounds as if a herd of elephants are coming down the stairs, but it’s only Mary with her new entourage.
Evan is heading in the opposite direction—from the kitchen, where he’s been focusing on his homework, to his room, which is the bonus room over the garage. When Sara passes him, she grazes against him, on purpose. He ignores her not-so-subtle attempt to get his attention. She tosses her head angrily as she flounces into the kitchen with the other girls.
Jack’s head swivels back in my direction. When his brow goes up, so do my hands, as if they could wield off his amused glance. “Mary begged me to give them a lift. She claimed they want to help her with her French homework.”
“Are you sure they didn’t mean Evan?”
“From all the seductive naughty talk aimed his way, no doubt about it.”
He shakes his head. “They’re using her.”
“I know it, and you know it. Even Evan knows it. But Mary hasn’t figured that out yet.”
“You can’t be the one to burst her bubble,” he warns me.
“I have to. If those little witches pop it first, it’ll hurt a hell of a lot more.”
“Sadly, you’re right, on both counts.” He kisses my forehead. “Go for it, but don’t be surprised if she doesn’t listen to you. Mary has to find her own path, even if the road is bumpy, or takes her off course.”
Whatever else he has to say is cut off by the buzz of my cell phone. Arnie is calling. “The shipment happens tonight, two in the morning,” he says urgently.
“Do we know where?”
“No. The time was set by phone, and it was cryptic. All Wellborne said was, ‘Yes, meet you there.’ He must have been talking to the driver who’ll be taking it where it needs to go.”
“Were you able to put a trace on the driver’s phone?”
“Unfortunately, it was a burner, so no. It was out on Highway 5, so I presume he was completing a run.”
“Grab Abu and Dominic, and meet us at the gates to the SeedPlenish compound at midnight. We may need more manpower.”
“Will do. Right before we arrive, I’ll loop the webcams, so that Security never even knows we’re there.”
I hang up and turn to Jack. “Speaking of detours, the mission team has to take one tonight, around midnight. Wellborne is our man, and he’s moving the seeds tonight.”
“Why don’t you call Aunt Phyllis and tell her the guest room is hers? That way, the kids are covered for the evening, and for drop-off, if need be.”
We can hear the girls giggling as they tromp from the kitchen and back to the foyer. When they reach the foot of the stairs, Sara shouts, “Evan, you can’t hide from us forever!”
Concerned about our reactions, Mary glances over at us. When our eyes meet, she blushes a deep red, but follows the other girls up the stairs.
Turning to Jack, I shake my head. “Enlisting Aunt Phyllis is a great idea. And I’ll tell her, quite emphatically, that there are to be no sleep-overs.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “No kidding! Nothing these girls are doing with Mary even closely resembles French.”
“Maybe that’s the real game plan: to get Mary to flunk French, so that she’s kicked off the team.”
“If so, it’ll be the best thing to come from this ordeal.”
He’s right. It’s a hard lesson, but at least Mary will know the true meaning of friendship.
The minute Aunt Phyllis shows up, we’re out the door.
Evan has yet to come out of his room. I can’t say that I blame him.
Chapter 6
Weedwacker
The Weedwacker is a wonderful lightweight device that holds a quickly rotating string, the velocity of which can cut all grass within it
s reach, thus assisting the avid gardener in keeping her lawn trimly clipped.
A “lady of the night” is apt to use the term as well, in reference to a client who insists on slapping her in the face with his one appendage that isn’t part of a pair.
Should the former weedwacker have a run-in with the latter, we can pretty much guess the victor:
The lady.
Ah, hell. There are four trucks lined up outside of Silo Twenty-Two.
The loading of the Exodus seeds has already started.
Three of the trucks are already loaded with bags of seed.
Another is under a cone, being filled.
We can hear the hum of the trucks’ engines. Except for the driver loading his truck, the others stand in semicircle around Dr. Wellborne, who seems to be briefing them on something. There is no moon tonight. The only light in the area comes from the trucks’ headlights.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Jack murmurs. “From left to right, Dominic takes Truck One, Abu takes Truck Two, I’ll Take Truck Three, and Donna takes Truck Number Four. Kill the tires first. If possible, take the drivers and Dr. Wellborne alive, for further interrogation.”
His instructions come too late, in regard to Truck One, anyway. As the driver hops into it and roars off down the road, Dominic runs after it.
His first two shots ping the truck. The next one sends it skidding into the cornfield. Dominic reaches the cab before the driver runs off into the field.
Before the other drivers scatter, Jack, Abu and Arnie draw their guns and round them up.
On the other hand, Thomas takes off behind the silos.
“I’ve got Wellborne!” I shout to Jack.
I mean, how fast can he run, really?
Note to self: never underestimate the adrenaline rush that can take place in a man who realizes his capture means spending the rest of his life in a Federal penitentiary for treason and terrorism.
I take off after Thomas as fast as I can, but his head start puts him far enough away that I’d be wasting bullets if I tried to shoot him in the dark.