Seeders: A Novel

by A. J. Colucci

  “I think it’s possible.” He nodded. “Are you familiar with ergot?”

  “It’s some kind of plant fungus. Why?”

  He reminded Isabelle that the Canadian police had arrested George for growing ergot on the island. “The fungus is used to make LSD. George had grown it in the field of ryegrass in front of the house, in order to create his own more potent versions of the drug.” He took a breath. “We cannot rule out the possibility that George killed Hodges in a drug-induced state. According to Mr. Bonacelli, he had access to a rifle and wasn’t afraid to use it.”

  “No, I won’t believe it.”

  The idea that she might be the daughter of a drug addict, a dealer, and now a murderer to boot was more than Isabelle could bear.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.

  She picked up the ivy leaf Sean found. “You’re saying this fungus could produce a psychedelic drug.”

  “It’s not just the ivy.” Jules rushed to the basket of specimens he’d collected. “I found the same fungus all over the woods. Trees. Grass. Ferns. Pine needles.”

  He was getting excited and Isabelle sensed a thread of anger in his voice.

  “It seems to have infected every plant on this island.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “No. Ergot only grows on grasses. This could be something … worse.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted, and his expression changed dramatically.

  Isabelle flinched.

  “I had a feeling something like this could happen.” He wrung his fists. “Don’t ask me how I knew, but all those years on the island, I could feel it.”

  “What are you talking about? Why are you getting so angry?”

  He stepped to the window and peered into the night sky filled with stars and a bright full moon. “There’s something in those woods. That fungus.”

  “What can it be?”

  He shook his head. “I need to study it.”

  “There are microscopes in the cabinet. We’ll have to find the key.”

  “The key,” he hissed and fury returned to his face. “Why in God’s name would he lock a cabinet when he’s all alone on an island?”

  In one sweeping motion, Jules picked up a heavy metal stool and smashed it through the door of the mahogany display cabinet, sending shards of glass flying across the room. Two microscopes crashed to the floor. The stool dropped with a loud clang.

  Isabelle stared in astonishment.

  The room fell silent, except for Jules’s heavy breaths. He wiped a sleeve across his damp face and said, “I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight and Luke lay on his bed, staring at the flickering light on the ceiling that came from the fireplace across the room. The fire had a pleasant smoky aroma and cast dancing shadows over the hunter-green walls and heavy tapestry curtains.

  Luke was thinking about the dead body, the swim at the beach—and Monica.

  He should have been shaken after the day’s events and finding a rotting corpse, but nothing could penetrate the memory of her warm slender hand in his own, the smell of her damp hair against his shoulder, or the look in her eyes when she turned to him for protection. It was the best feeling in the world. A smile caught his lips when he recalled the smooth white curve of her buttocks, how they jiggled as she ran toward the woods. He closed his eyes in a fantasy of that same fleshy backside squirming in his lap as they made passionate love. He moaned and threw a pillow over his thighs, sliding it back and forth.

  There was a knock on the door and Luke bolted up in bed, holding the pillow down firmly and trying to remember if he locked the door. “Wait—I’ll be right there!” he said and stood up slowly, focusing his mind on calming his erection.

  Ginny … think of Ginny … blue veins … wrinkled mouth … baggy stockings.

  “Luke?” It was Monica.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door, one hand bracing the pillow.

  She was standing alone in the hall, wearing pink shorts and an oversized Yankees sweatshirt. Without makeup her face was hardly recognizable. Gone were the black liner, white powder, and dark lipstick. She was more beautiful with peachy flawless skin and blond lashes over the lightest green eyes.

  “I can’t sleep.” Her arms folded defensively.

  “Me neither,” he told her. “You want to come in?”

  Monica slid past him into the room and Luke caught a whiff of alcohol. He closed the door and sat with her on the edge of the bed, no longer needing the pillow.

  She pulled out a vodka bottle hidden under her sweatshirt and unscrewed the cap.

  Luke realized why her suitcase was so heavy. He noticed the bottle was nearly empty and wondered how long she’d been drinking.

  “You want some?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He took the bottle and chugged a mouthful. It burned down his throat and set off a hacking cough. Monica didn’t seem to notice, her eyes fixed blankly on the wall.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that body.”

  Luke cleared his throat and took a smaller sip, speaking in a deep voice. “It wasn’t so bad.”

  Monica crawled backward on the bed and eased against the pillows, and Luke crept up beside her. They sat on the flowery bedspread like an old married couple, staring at their feet and passing the bottle back and forth, not speaking for a long moment.

  “Damn thing has me freaked,” she uttered.

  Luke thought this was his chance. Maybe if she felt really helpless, she’d need the comfort of a man. “Yeah, he was pretty creepy. And who knows if the killer is still out there.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You think so?”

  Luke sensed her fear. “No.”

  She seemed relieved.

  “But if he were out there, you can bet I wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.” He saw an expression of doubt on her face. “I would. I mean, if he tried to hurt you.”

  Monica put the bottle on the nightstand and slid closer to him, so their hips were touching. She rolled onto her side and lightly touched his shoulders, staring at him drunkenly, while her fingers traced a line down his arm.

  Luke felt his face pulse with heat. Chaos swirled in his brain, trying to process the sudden flood of information while struggling to ignore the sensations in his body so he could focus on what to do next. It wasn’t necessary because instinct took over. He rolled forward and pressed his mouth against her full lips. Instead of pushing him away, she kissed him back.

  Oh God, he thought. After so much waiting and nearly giving up, suddenly it was happening. Bam!

  Every part of his body was electrified. The urge was maddening and he grabbed a fistful of her hair and thrust his body against her. He thought he might explode.

  Then Monica pulled away, leaving him weightless and tingling all over.

  He stared at her lips and his cheeks flushed with desire. Her hair was disheveled and a glimpse of her tummy was exposed.

  She reached for the bottle of vodka and took a long drink, passed it back to him.

  Without moving his gaze from her face, he took only a sip. He didn’t want to numb the feeling of kissing her again.

  But Monica looked like she was going to cry. “I don’t…”

  “What?” Luke wondered if he was doing it wrong.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  “Also, my mom’s a prostitute.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not. You know that, right?”

  Luke nodded. More than anything, he wanted to get back to kissing. “Of course you’re not. You’re like … a goddess.”

  She took another chug. “Goddess. Right.”

  Luke moved in closer but she turned away. “No one at your school likes me. No one talks to me.” Her expression hardened and she sniffed back tears. “I don’t care really, I’m used to it. Every school I’ve ever been to sucks.”

  “I l
ike you.”

  “’Cause you’re a dork.”

  It was like a dagger to his heart, but then she smiled warmly.

  “Chill. You’re not really a dork. You’re just trying to impress your parents so you pretend to be this perfect son, all studious and sweet. Inside, you’re actually this very cool”—her face moved inches from him—“hot … brave kind of guy. Smart, but sexy smart.”

  Luke tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head with an audible sigh. It seemed she still wanted to talk.

  “I hate sponging off other people like I can’t take care of myself. I can, you know. As soon as we get back to Brooklyn I’m getting a job and an apartment. Save enough money to go to Paris.”

  “Maybe I’ll come with you. I’ve got a couple thousand in the bank.”

  “Really? You’d come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked like she might start bawling again, but instead started chugging vodka like water. She wiped her mouth. “My shrink was right. Being tough is just a stupid act, keeping me from a normal life. Rick, that’s my shrink—at least he was before I keyed his car and stole his stupid ashtray. He said it was silver. Yeah, right. Anyway, he said I could turn my whole life around in a second. All it takes is a different way of thinking. Pretty much the opposite of how I think now. What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good. God, I want that kind of life. Like you have.”

  Luke’s heart quickened. Seeing her so vulnerable was exciting and unbearable at the same time. He could feel it, they had a connection. She was an outcast and wanted to change her life, be more like him. He was an outcast who wanted to toughen up, like her. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He kissed her hard on the lips. His tongue found the inside of her mouth, causing a pang of pleasure that shot a lightning bolt from the back of his throat to his stomach and kept on going south. She didn’t resist when Luke reached inside the back of her sweatshirt. Her body felt so slight and smooth, and she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Please don’t stop me.

  He opened his hand wide, sliding it around the block, and gently cupped her breast. It felt larger than expected, a handful, but soft as a cloud and he felt himself losing control. When his thumb rubbed across her nipple the dam burst open, an almost painful shot of pleasure. A tiny moan came from his mouth and he reached for his lap. He could already feel the dampness on his thigh against his pajama pants.

  He sat up, flushed with embarrassment.

  “Did you just…?”

  His eyes closed.

  “It’s okay.” She had a sly smile and climbed over him, slipping off the bed and adjusting her clothing. “I better go.”

  Luke’s head fell back against the wall.

  Monica turned from the door. “Hey, you’re a good kisser.”

  His mouth wouldn’t work so he just gave a quick nod.

  “Good night, Luke.”

  She closed the door behind her and Luke decided right then, he was in love with Monica. No doubt about it, he would have to tell her.

  Tomorrow for sure.

  CHAPTER 15

  IT WAS A DREARY MORNING and cold drizzle pelted the windows. Isabelle awoke in the damp bedroom feeling shaken from a bad dream she couldn’t remember. She gazed over her childhood possessions, realizing the happy memories had vanished from this place. The death of her father overshadowed the house and every inch of the island.

  With a sigh, she left the warmth of the bed and dressed in a white cable-knit sweater and wool trousers. She went downstairs to find the kitchen deserted, so she tried the radio for a while with no success. Then she made a pot of oatmeal and a pitcher of orange juice for the kids, and poured a steaming mug of coffee. She carried it to the laboratory, hoping to find Jules at work.

  He was standing in front of a large bay window, staring toward the woods in a trancelike state. Isabelle approached him, and he seemed oblivious to her presence. She cleared her throat, placing the coffee mug on the desk beside him, and he turned around.

  “Isabelle, I didn’t hear you.” His eyes were dark and bloodshot.

  She glanced down at the desk full of scribbled papers, microscopes, and various tools of science. Plastic cups held a dozen plant species, all infected with the fungus. Their leaves were pinched with metal clips and wires that led to an oscilloscope.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Jules cleared his throat. “Just an experiment.”

  “You certainly found a lot of equipment in that cabinet.” She pushed back the fronds of a fern hooked up to electrodes.

  “Don’t touch that, please,” he nearly shouted.

  Startled, she was about to ask him why in heavens not, when she noticed the front of his shirt was covered with bits of brown leaves and pine needles. Burrs stuck to his arm and continued down the side of his trousers to his muddy boots. There was a mushroom in his hair.

  Isabelle touched his wet sleeve. “Where did you sleep, outside?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “I was looking for specimens in the woods this morning. Must I now get your permission?”

  “No, I—”

  “You think I slept on the ground?”

  She was put off by his rudeness. Why was he so angry? She did nothing wrong, just brought him some coffee. Certainly no reason to snap at her.

  His face showed impatience. “Shouldn’t you be looking for the diamond?”

  “I wanted to ask you about that. I found a Bible in the library with a passage underlined. It mentioned the word Eden, just like in my father’s journal. May I see it?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t at the moment,” he said coldly.

  “Fine, then, maybe later,” she snipped back.

  He picked up the steaming mug and stared out the window, saying nothing as though she weren’t in the room. She squared her shoulders and snatched up one of the ferns covered with a fungus.

  “So is it ergot or not?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What kind of fungus could it be?”

  “What makes you think it’s a fungus?”

  “You said it was.”

  “Well, I … don’t know.”

  Isabelle pursed her lips. She was overly tired and anxious to know what had happened to her father, if the fungus had anything to do with his death. “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s either a fungus or not.”

  “It’s not that simple. There’s no fungus in the world that can grow on bark and leaves and grass, and every bloody thing in the forest. I’ve been studying them all night. Truthfully, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Then you’re suggesting it’s some new kind of life-form?” she said sarcastically.

  “It could be anything, really. Slime mold or a gall, perhaps. A new type of neoplasm that we’ve never seen before.”

  With a smirk of defiance, she leaned over the microscope to have a look.

  “Please don’t touch that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not a mycologist, or even a botanist.”

  “And you can’t tell the difference between fungus and a gall.”

  He pointed with his chin. “Go ahead, then. Have a look.”

  She hesitated, but then peered into the lens.

  “What do you see?” He sounded curious.

  After a moment she said, “The cellular structure of the leaf looks normal, except for these rather hideous microbes shooting out from the leaf. They look like blackish purple tubes. I’d say it’s a fungus.”

  “Yes, the dark mass could be sclerotium, and those threadlike stalks most certainly resemble some kind of endophyte, but none I’ve ever seen. Its reproduction and life cycle are completely different from ergot or any other kind of Claviceps, and the fact that it grows on everything; well, it could be some kind of Neurospora mold mutation.” He stared pensively out the window again. “It’s not really the fungus that worries me, but the plants themselves.” He motioned to the desk. “That Eden book. Your
father wrote about giving the plants an ability to hear our thoughts, communicate on a cognitive level with humans. Suppose he was right? What if they could read our minds?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s ridiculous,” she said. “Plants can’t think. They don’t have a brain.”

  “Of course, the almighty brain. You think because there’s no organ to study and we can’t see how the information is organized, then plants can’t process thought. It’s all right here.” Jules walked swiftly to the green journal and picked it up, pointing to the text. “The action-potential propagation in all of these plants is comparable to the speed of action potentials in mammalians, specifically one hundred and five meters per second, which is the same velocity as a neuron. The amplitude, duration, relative and absolute refractory periods, depolarization peaks are the same as you’d find in the cognitive regions of the human nervous system.”

  Isabelle didn’t understand his pedantic jibber-jabber. Her education in botany stopped at common species identification. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but what proof do you have besides that silly book?”

  For a moment he stared at her. Then he turned to the window, gazing at the trees in the distance. She could barely hear his voice. “I had a strange experience in the woods this morning. I can’t explain it, but it felt as though I wasn’t alone out there. I may have passed out, but I could hear some kind of chatter. Then I felt them, touching my mind.”

  “Jules?” Isabelle whispered. “You’ve been up all night. You should go upstairs and rest.”

  “They touched my memories.”

  “Who?”

  His eyes narrowed and she suspected he was only semi-aware of her presence.

  “It has something to do with the fungus. Its relationship with the plants that makes it all possible. How they hear our thoughts. Communicate. Understand. Everything is starting to add up.” A smile crossed his lips and he whispered, “Imagine the possibilities.”

  “Jules?”

  All at once his demeanor changed. He was grinning with excitement, his voice bursting with cheer. “Do you realize the significance of this finding? Isabelle, I’ve been up all night thinking how this could change the entire world. Change my future. Our future.” He walked quickly over beside her and grasped her shoulders, a towering giant looking down into her face. “I want you to be part of this. We can study your father’s research. Figure out how he did it, you and I together.”