The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “In the lab?”

  “Umhmm.”

  “Did they say it was urgent?” Sandy looked at a stack of neglected mail.

  “I think they found the bad guys.”

  “Bad guys?”

  “You know, what causes the sickness.”

  “You’re kidding.” Sandy was on his feet so quickly that his desk chair toppled over. “Take messages. Don’t forward any calls.”

  “Okay,” Gloria said to the empty room.

  Seven excited lab techs were clustered in a back corner. “This is it. Us, the CDC, the University of Alabama’s mycoplasma expert, UNM—we’re all saying the same thing.” One man pulled a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. Another handed out Dixie cups.

  “Sure that isn’t a little premature?” Sandy asked.

  “Not this time. We’ve nailed this dude.” The cork from the champagne bottle ricocheted off an overhead vent, and a light misting of foam drifted over Sandy’s forehead.

  “The CDC found antibodies to the Hantaan virus in tissue samples from three of the four people who have died that we’ve been able to test. We’ve found 42 of the 257 rodents tested here in the lab to have antibodies indicating that they had been exposed to the Hantavirus. Twelve of the 42 mice were trapped close to the houses of Peter Tenorio and his fiancée. I don’t think you can get more conclusive than that.”

  The technician turned back to refilling his Dixie cup and another half dozen held out to him.

  “Any particular type of rodent more involved than others?” Sandy asked.

  “Deer mice. The real cute ones with the big ears. Forty of them tested positive and only two common field mice.”

  “So, we have a name. Hantavirus.” Sandy said. A virus well known worldwide but not in the United States. But it was bound to happen. World trade. Travel. Sooner or later, few diseases would remain isolated, indigenous to only one part of the world.

  He walked back to his office and stopped to tell Gloria the lab’s findings. But why wasn’t he feeling elated? Something was nagging at his memory. Some question unanswered.

  “Is it over?” Gloria asked.

  “You mean people getting sick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wish I could say yes,” Sandy said.

  “So what happens now?”

  “It’s more important than ever to continue to trap rodents in and around the pueblo, and throughout New Mexico, for that matter.”

  “My husband’s Navajo. His people predicted this.”

  “Predicted what?”

  “Mice inhabit the night world and the mesas; people inhabit the day world and live in houses. It happens when the piñon nuts are plentiful and there has been abundant snow. It is an old story. When mice come into the world of the people, an ancient illness will happen.”

  “Gloria, I can’t believe this. There’s a legend about people dying from mice cohabiting with humans?”

  “Umhmm.”

  “Has it ever happened before?”

  “Twice to the Navajo. Once in 1918 and again in 1933.”

  “Does the legend say how the illness is spread?”

  “Mouse urine. The old ones warned the people to keep their hogans clean and keep food in containers. If a mouse touched them, they should burn their clothing.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Sandy leaned against the wall and stared at Gloria.

  “When there’s disharmony among the people and nature, these things happen,” she said.

  Sandy crossed the hall to his office. Amazing. Folklore and western medicine both reaching the same conclusion. But there was still something not quite right. Something he should be thinking about. Some missing link.

  “Doctor Black?”

  “Gloria, you startled me.”

  “I forgot to give you this. The UNM Medical Center sent it over in the mail.”

  The white envelope was lumpy. The note on the back flap was signed by Marilyn Bernowich. Bernowich. Amy, of course. One of the survivors. That’s the piece that doesn’t fit. How could she have been exposed to mouse urine, feces, or saliva from mice around the pueblo? Her contact was Mary Toya. Hantaviruses were not spread from human to human. Unless ... Sandy reached for a pair of tweezers in his drawer. He extracted the plastic bag from the envelope. Pumpkin seeds. They could have traces of mouse droppings. He’d get them to the lab. This might be an important piece to the puzzle.

  + + +

  “This way, Governor Yepa.” The psychologist held open the door to his office. Johnson wished the man didn’t look like Bob Newhart, but he followed him inside.

  “This must be a very stressful time for you. I’m sure your duties as governor take you away from your family.” The psychologist sat looking at him. Was he supposed to comment? Johnson didn’t know. “Your wife shared with me that the two of you seem to be having difficulties. I think that’s what we should talk about today. I want to assure you that I listen to both sides and will work with each of you, but I can’t rekindle any flames if the fire has gone out.” The man looked at him expectantly.

  Johnson looked at the floor. Maybe if he acted contrite, concerned, anxious to be helpful. Maybe if he told the truth. Nancy’s well-endowed figure blurred his vision. He shook his head. Better. The desk and psychologist were sharply in focus now.

  “I’m not sure what my wife has told you ... maybe something about another woman?” Johnson waited but the doc was noncommittal—not a nod, not a shake of the head, nothing—just that patient waiting.

  “Well, Doc, you know how it is. A man needs to keep his blood young.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The warrior after battle, the hunter after the hunt; there’s a need to refuel, to be with a maiden and replenish the source of one’s manhood.”

  The doctor pursed his mouth, frowned slightly as if in thought, then relaxed, never taking his eyes off of Johnson.

  “I thought the pueblo people were farmers,” he said.

  Johnson paused. He wasn’t going to get by with anything. He would have to regroup and try to cut this meeting short.

  “You know, Doc, I’m probably just wasting your time. My wife and I have talked, and we think she’s going to be okay. I would have cancelled today, but I wanted to stop by and say thanks. That meeting with her last week really helped.” Johnson stood and moved toward the door. The psychologist remained seated.

  “If you change your mind and would like to talk, just make an appointment with my secretary.”

  Johnson nodded, backed out of the office, pulling the door shut after him, and bolted for the back door of the hospital. If he was lucky, he’d find Nancy alone in the lab. He wondered how far he could go with her. He could probably work a hand up under her t-shirt and cop a good feel. Maybe even push the cotton fabric up to her neck and bury his face in the scent of floral and warm flesh. The idea was almost too much for him and he reached the door of the lab, sticky with perspiration that made his crotch itch.

  “Hi. I’m Dave. You’re the Gov, right? Nancy said you might drop by. Hey, Nancy, your friend’s here.”

  Johnson followed him into the lab and fought an urge to scratch.

  Nancy was beaming as she held out her hand.

  “I was hoping you’d stop by today. Did you know we’ve solved the mystery?”

  Johnson shook his head, but he was more interested in getting rid of Dave, who seemed to be the only one around besides Nancy.

  “Come with me.” Nancy pointed to the back of the lab.

  Johnson noticed the bags of deer mice tagged and stacked in clear plastic containers. Maybe it was just as well Dave was here. It was like trying to think about sex in a morgue. He offered a silent prayer for the souls of the tiny creatures.

  “What are you doing with so many deer mice?” he asked.

  “We’ve proved that they are the principal carriers of the Hantavirus, the mystery killer.”

  “Where did the mice get the virus?” Johnson tried not to think of t
he investment group.

  “Good question. And there are a couple possible answers. One, mice have carried the virus for some time but in numbers too small to impact humans until a couple things happened. Like the mice quadrupled in numbers and came in contact with more humans whose immune systems were less able to combat the virus. Or it has mutated recently to a new, deadly form. You know, it just continued to hang around and adapt until it successfully infected a host.”

  She acted like this was an everyday occurrence in nature, not something caused by man in a laboratory. But maybe he should make sure. If the Andersons knew this, they’d feel a lot better about the casino plans, assured that no one suspected ....

  “How could it mutate?” Johnson asked.

  “By exchanging genetic material. Hantaviruses may mutate whenever two invade the same cell at the same time.”

  Johnson frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Do you know how influenza epidemics occur? Why every year people have to get shots and aren’t immune from one season to the next?”

  Johnson shook his head.

  “Well, influenza viruses in Asian ducks co-infect with benign human influenza viruses; they swap genetic segments and produce a new strain of flu that the human immune system can’t handle. That’s why flu epidemics tend to come from Asia.”

  Nancy was looking pleased with herself. Johnson noticed the outline of hard nipples pushing at the white cotton stretched tightly across her chest. This woman could get excited over Asian ducks. What would she do with his hand between her legs? More importantly, when was he going to find out? He tried to focus on what she was saying.

  “This is probably only theoretically possible for Hantaviruses, but I believe it could happen. For example, we know that this Hantavirus has made one major change. It attacks the respiratory system instead of the kidneys like four other Hantaviruses do. But here I am going on and on. Wouldn’t you like something cold to drink?”

  Johnson watched her go to the fridge in back and admired how the material of her shorts dipped between the halves of her buttocks and pulled above the dark line of her tan when she leaned over.

  “Oh no, we’re out of sodas. It’ll just take a second to get some.” She was out the door and heading for the hospital basement before he could say he wasn’t thirsty. Idly, he sat on one of the stools and twisted around to face the high counter. There were three-ring binders everywhere and note pads scribbled full. An envelope in front of him was from Dr. Black. He picked it up and looked inside and gasped. He slipped off the stool, catching himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Inside was a plastic bag of seeds. Pumpkin seeds.

  An attached note read, “Mary Toya, Tewa Pueblo, August 9.” Mary Toya. His secretary Mary Toya? The former governor’s secretary? Had she taken the original packet? Had she brought them here?

  His legs had that rubbery feel that followed a good gut punch. He held onto the counter and locked his knees; even his teeth wanted to chatter. He looked around to see if Dave was watching him. No, Dave was at a computer along the back wall with his back to him. Somewhere a compressor was whirring and masked any sound that he might make. Good. Johnson controlled the shaking of his hands and slipped the plastic bag and note into his pocket He needed to get out of there. He needed to think.

  “Uh, tell Nancy that I didn’t realize how late it was getting. I have a council meeting at four.”

  Dave waved and didn’t turn from the computer screen.

  + + +

  Douglas Anderson, Sr. sat at his dining room table, unfolded the newspaper and read the headlines: “Biological Serial Killer Found! Report Shows Hantavirus in Mice Around Since Early ’80s.” He pushed the pot of coffee toward his son and smiled broadly.

  “This couldn’t be better.” He patted the paper. “Science has triumphed. Half the mice in the state will be killed and it’ll be a boon for exterminators, but we’ll get back to building that casino.”

  Douglas, Sr. felt safe and a little smug. They had really only suffered a minor setback. The casino could open by the first of the year. And all this publicity for the virus kept dissenters from paying attention to them. Public hearings last summer brought out protestors but their numbers were dwarfed by the assenting crowds from the pueblos. It had been the old Tewa governor who had stood in their way. Luckily, Governor Yepa saw the potential in joining a six billion dollar a year industry. Some tribes take in a million dollars a day and funnel much of that money back into tribal projects.

  State officials had suggested they start slow with the lower end Class II gambling, bingo and lottery, but that would have been a waste of energy. No, it had been best to go for the top. Laws were still murky on how much local government intervention there should be. They had gotten in on the ground floor. They would set precedent. They would upgrade the economic status of the pueblo and help them overcome an unemployment rate of 30 percent.

  “Are you thinking of sending a crew back into Tewa?” Junior asked. Doug, Sr. pointed to the paper. “I think it’s time. We were only waiting for some answers. In fact, maybe it’s time for that hoopla we couldn’t have earlier.”

  “A party?”

  “Why not? Do it up big. The governor of New Mexico, legislators, a real who’s who of Santa Fe. Nothing spared.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Yes. We could use a little fanfare.”

  + + +

  The tuxedo shop smelled musty. Sort of moth balls and unwashed linen with a heavy scent of Ralph Lauren. A tinny bell attached to the front door announced Johnson’s entrance. They rented “dress attire” as the slightly effeminate voice on the phone had said, “for the discriminating.” Johnson wasn’t sure about that; he was here because it was the only place in Albuquerque that guaranteed the tux, tailoring and all, would be ready by Friday.

  He’d had a fight with his wife about buying a tux instead of renting one. He wanted his own. It wasn’t just for the Anderson’s party; he’d wear it to the casino. Renting was a waste of money, but he had given in. It was bad enough that he wasn’t taking her to the party. He started to speak to a gentlemen wearing black tails but realized before he looked foolish that it was a mannequin. Actually, the room was filled with nattily attired molded plastic men arranged to appear to be having intimate conversations. Tea cups and New York Times were held by perfectly manicured hands.

  Top hats were everywhere. In one circle, a dog stood beside its master. The dog looked real. Johnson walked over to put a hand on the dog’s head.

  “Aren’t they wonderful?” Johnson jumped. A slightly built man of indeterminate age glided toward him from the back. “This is Fred. Astaire, of course. And this is Clark. Oh, here’s The Duke. Wouldn’t he just die, or what, to be sharing a little tête-à-tête with the likes of these?” The man laughed shrilly, a sort of whinny, and flitted among the twenty-odd statues arranging a tie here, an ascot there.

  “You know they’re anatomically correct.”

  “They’re what?” Johnson thought he should say something and not just stare.

  “You know, their little dickies are all right there.” He patted the crotch of The Duke.

  “Why?” It was the only thing Johnson could think of to say.

  “To make them look better in swimsuits and underwear. I was a window dresser in New York. I hated the summer months. You can cover up a bad model with clothes but there’s nothing you can do with a flat crotch in a bikini brief.” He paused to fluff up a pocket hanky. Johnson felt vaguely uncomfortable and thought of leaving.

  “You know, one time I had to do an entire window of men in official Olympic swim trunks, the Spandex ones that leave nothing to the imagination. Well, let me tell you, they looked awful. Nothing would hang right. If you’ll excuse the pun. Of course, I could have stuffed them, but sooner or later the tissue would settle or the socks would shift.” He walked closer to Johnson and leaned toward him conspiratorially.

  “I bet you can’t guess what I did. Clay. Child’s
modeling clay. It was brilliant until the air conditioning failed.”

  Johnson let his imagination stray to what that might have looked like, handfuls of clay melting and separating from the host, running down its legs. It wasn’t pretty.

  “Did you lose your job?”

  “Not that time, luckily. But let’s see now. You need a little something for Friday night. Correct?”

  “Yes.” But his reply was lost as the man was already in the back room. Johnson tried not to look at The Duke’s crotch.

  “You’re in luck.” He was yelling from behind a curtain that separated the showroom from what must be fitting rooms, Johnson thought. “I even have a delightful maroon that will do just dandy after a few teensy changes.”

  He emerged with four suits and plopped them over the counter. “Shall we take a look at that maroon one first?” The man pulled it from the middle of the stack. “Now, of course, you’ll want a contrasting cummerbund. But this is such a rich color. Look. Isn’t that smart?” He held the suit up in front of Johnson and pointed to the full length mirror. Johnson liked it. It would do perfectly for meeting the governor of the state and impressing Mollie.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “We’ll need to pinch a little here and there.” The man stood in back of Johnson holding the jacket up by one shoulder and gathering and straightening cloth with the other hand as he watched the effect in the mirror. Johnson wasn’t sure he liked him standing that close.

  “Why don’t you just slip the trousers on and let me see the fit. Dressing rooms are that way.” He waved toward the back behind the curtain.

  The dressing room was beautiful. A wine velvet settee filled one corner, and the walls had some kind of flocked paper that felt more like fuzzy cloth. Brass cherubs held their arms out to receive his clothing. Johnson noted that their little legs were crossed. He felt better.

  The back wall was a mirror. Floor to ceiling. Its gilt edges scrolled toward the center of the frame to hold hearts and more cherubs. Johnson peered closely at the thick glass. It was an odd mirror. Then it dawned on him. Two-way. It could be two-way glass allowing someone to watch him.