by Milt Mays
“Helene is on her beat until around eight p.m. She’ll probably come in a few minutes early before her shift ends.”
Helene Krieg. He liked that. A Viking name. “Hmm. That’s a little late for me. How about tomorrow?”
“She’ll be in about noon.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Can I tell her who called?”
“Tell her a tired student. She’ll know.”
Jabril hung up. He noted the address of the police department, tapped the “Directions” icon on the phone from “Current Location” and filled in the address. The path to his destination highlighted in blue. It was not far. Life was so easy in today’s world.
Tonight at eight, he would follow her when she left the police department. A personal “thank you” for a job well done was so much better than a card. And now that he did not have Rachel, what he really needed was information about the layout of the medical school. It was her beat; she would know right where the mice were. Perhaps she would also tell him if she had told anyone about him. He could also find out if she was a real blond.
First, there was another issue. Find an electronics store and place a diversion for tonight.
Chapter 26
The normal half hour to circle and land at Mitchell International Airport in Milwaukee was cut short when the pilot heard the din from the passengers and found out two were dead. Rachel estimated there were two hundred people on the plane; one percent was about right. Disgusting that a company would think it okay. Ambrosia had been covering up, stating fewer than one in a million people had any problems with their GMO foods. But she had seen the latest figures: one in a hundred got extremely low platelets, though only if the GMO foods were eaten regularly. They would start to bleed internally. Some bled very fast. The woman who’d said she loved the new veggies probably had been eating them at home. That was what Ambrosia counted on. Food of the gods. They were delicious, sweet and buttery and something else—an intangible, like Buzz Cola.
Years ago she had become addicted to the stuff. Loved it. Though not as much as the ten percent of the population that found Buzz Cola irresistible, so much so that they drank a twelve-pack a day. There had been some concerns about dementia from too much BC, or getting obese due to the constant sugar craving from the diet sweetener, but no one really believed that. Moca-Cola Corporation made sure of it. “Completely harmless and it is one of the few drinks diabetics can consume that satisfies their sweet tooth without raising their blood sugar.” It would have been true, except for all the other sweets their body craved due to the non-sugar sweeteners in the BC. The diabetic epidemic not only remained; it bloomed.
Now Ambrosia had taken the chapter from Moca-Cola. Chapter, verse and all the punctuation. Thank God she and Alex had gotten rid of their initial mistakes—lethal GMO mistakes. She thought about that. No the mistakes weren’t gone, just hidden, and still in the electronic files that Ambrosia had confiscated. But there was no way they could get them. No way.
The plane landed. Weeping and crying and angry passengers rushed off. Rachel wanted to take a look at the dead passengers and ask a few questions of the attendants. She convinced Sam and Dan to stay aboard. They waited in seats just behind the first lady who died. One of the attendants had covered her with a blanket.
Two guys in white shirts and blue jeans came in and started to put the first lady into a body bag.
Rachel showed her ID to one of the guys. “I’d like to take a look at the bodies before you take them.”
He peered at the ID and shook his head. “You’re not from Ambrosia or the Army, so no can do.”
One of the pilots had come out of the cabin and took a step towards her. She decided this was not the time to push it.
“Where are the bodies being taken for the postmortem?”
“Post?” The guy’s face scrunched in puzzled disbelief. “You probably clicked the ‘Accept’ button without reading the fine print of the agreement, just like them.” He nodded at the body bag. “Might want to read it.”
“Agreement?” She frowned at Sam. They started hunting for their tickets.
The pilot had turned and started out the door. The stretcher bearer looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The GMO agreement. It’s on every ticket, at least for Delta. They can’t afford to fly without Ambrosia’s endorsement. Hell, Ambrosia supplies half the gas.” He and his partner lifted the second body onto the stretcher and took it out of the plane.
She found her ticket stuck as a bookmarker in a paperback. “Listen to this.”
Sam took his hands out of his pockets and eyed her.
“It’s about halfway down,” she said, “right after ‘The buyer will not hold the carrier at fault for any Acts of God, such as . . . blah, blah, blah.’ Then comes the interesting part. ‘The food supplier, Childress Foods, Inc. shall be held blameless for any illness caused by unforeseen contamination of food served by the carrier for the consumption of the buyer.’”
She stopped reading. “Are you kidding me? This holds up in court?”
Sam made a sound close to a horse snorting. “Not only local courts. Remember the Supreme Court ruling last year on organic growers against Childress Foods, aka Ambrosia?”
“It was quite reasonable, I thought.” Dan said. “Ambrosia spent a lot of time and money developing drought- and pest-resistant crops. They said pollen contamination from other farms nearby screwed up their final product and the resultant foods caused people to get sick. We need their foods and their ability to harvest large acreage quickly, what with the droughts over the last five years and fuel shortages.”
Yet, even after saying it and believing it, Dan felt his stomach churn. It was Ambrosia who had said the contamination from other crops caused the problems. Yet Ambrosia had put in the clause Rachel read. Maybe they were trying to cover up. He knew how things could go wrong with bioscience. He thought of his work before the Oil War. Oh, yeah. He knew too well.
He stood. “I’m not feeling so good.” He ran to the back bathroom, squeezed through the door and threw open the lid as he butt-shut the door behind him. Everything came up. And there was blood. Bright red.
A knock on the door and Rachel’s voice, “Are you okay?”
He wanted to scream, No, I’m bleeding to death and I’ll be joining those body bags in a few minutes. He eyed the emesis and realized it was only a few flecks of red. Could be pimentos. He’d be fine. Maybe. But another thought hit him. Had Ambrosia been using his programs to do something else besides weed and pest control?
“Yeah. Just a little queasy.”
Rachel pushed the door against him, almost toppling him, headfirst, into the toilet. “Let me see.”
He pushed his butt against the door, forcing her out, and flushed the toilet. The vacuum sucked everything away. He turned around and pushed the knob from green to red. The door locked.
“Dan. What’s going on?”
He washed his face and combed the few wisps of remaining blond hair over. Rachel was so hot, or cool, or . . . He could not look like some geeky weakling.
“Dan!”
He unlocked the door. “I’m okay. I have a weak stomach when it comes to talking about dead people.”
“Why’d you lock the door?”
He pursed his lips, frowned and dropped his head, giving her furtive glances. “I was throwing up.”
“Any blood in it?” Her words sounded accusing. She knew.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Let me see your eyes.” She took her thumb and pushed down his lower eyelid.
He flinched and pushed her away. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry. Forgot about your touch thing. I was only trying to see your conjunctiva.”
“What are you looking for? You’re not telling me something. Why did those people die?”
She sighed, turned back to Sam, motioning with her hand toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way.”
Chapter 27
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br /> They rented a car, a compact Ford that Dan thought entirely cool: black with a spoiler and the telltale green nanotech tires that took away most of the friction, were nearly noiseless, lasted two hundred thousand miles, and saved tons on gas. Besides, they were colored green so the company that made them had to be good. Had to be.
Just out from the airport, they made a quick stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts. Sam knew Dan loved them, especially the cream-filled glazed. Oh yeah. He wanted to dig right in, but Sam said to wait. Oh well. He would wait. Sam was a good guy.
They got on I-43 west. It was twilight, the gray day giving way to a feeling of gloomy darkness. The interstate had very little scenery, gray road, gray barriers, gray electric towers. At least the road signs were in green. His spirit brightened at the twinkling lights of the city. The colored lights were the coolest. Dan loved colors—needed them. They soothed him. He had less nausea, though he did not like Rachel’s driving. Why did she always have to drive so fast? She’d put him in the front passenger seat and asked him to read the ticket fine print, out loud again.
“Do you think I have Alzheimer’s?”
“No. I sometimes hear things differently when someone reads them.”
She said it so nicely, he complied, then said, “It still doesn’t explain why you think Ambrosia foods are killing people.”
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes, so here’s the thing.” She jerked the wheel and passed the delivery truck in front of them. “Miller Lite, Great Taste, Less Filling” accompanied the glass of pale amber beer painted on the side.
Sam clucked his tongue in the back seat. “Why don’t you slow down and we might get there alive?”
She whipped into the right lane and started the long right curve onto 45 North/I-894 West. Dan thought, why didn’t highway people label roads correctly? He gripped the door handle and the center console. He was sure he felt the left side wheels lift off the road. She passed another car on the curve, going a cool eighty.
“I love these tires,” she said. “Gotta get me some for the Beemer. Anyway, Dan, here’s the story. My husband and I helped develop biological agents for our fair government many years ago. We genetically linked viruses as the ultimate weapon. If you had no vaccine, millions died.”
“That’s against the BWC.” Dan absolutely knew she was mistaken. The Biological Weapons Convention had over 165 countries that signed on. They would not allow biological warfare.
“You know of course that the Bush Administration said in July 2001 that the BWC was not consistent with the national interests of the U.S.? And no one is enforcing this convention agreement. I heard they even have biowarfare factories in Utah, now. We couldn’t get near that in 2001. Had to do the research in Brazil.”
Dan shook his head. Okay. So he didn’t know everything. What she said sounded a lot like policing nanotechnology developments. Nobody home. The police were always several steps behind technology. Or without a clue they were even needed. Part of him was happy about that. Made his job easier.
Rachel continued. “Before all these people started dying, we thought we had GMO foods down. Our viruses attack any biologic threat to the plants. There’s a separate virus for fungus, bacteria, or other viruses that cause disease in the plants. There’s also one for vermin. Then Ambrosia got the big idea to make their foods taste better using nano-molecular coating.”
Dan felt his stomach drop. Nano-molecular coating was what he had been doing for Ambrosia.
There was a backup ahead, brake light after brake light lit the end of cars, like red-dotted domino pieces lined up for a massive tumble. She slammed on the brakes. Dan braced himself with a hand on the dash. Sam bumped against the back seat. Horns honked. Gas and diesel fumes crept in.
Dan imagined the same traffic jam in 2014 in Denver. Would have been ten times the cars, two-hour wait. Probably almost the same in Milwaukee, then. Now? He counted eighty-five cars and sighed with relief. One more would be a jinx.
He went back to nano-molecular coatings and started flicking his fingernails with his thumb. Over and over.
Rachel steered to the right. The breakdown lane was there and empty.
“No,” Sam said.
She eased into the breakdown lane. “The next exit is ours.”
“That’s ninety-four. You want,” he consulted his smartphone, “Watertown Plank Road.”
“Yeah. But we can get on ninety-four east and—”
She braked, almost stopped, then steered back behind the old Toyota hybrid in front of her. “Damn. The exit ramp is packed. It’s causing this backup.”
She sighed, seemingly resigned to waiting. “Anyhow,” she glanced at Dan, “we at La Riva, specifically me and my husband Alex, had done some research with GMO foods, corn, rice and wheat, using viral DNA transduction to plants. We increased the vitamin A and protein content and they tasted great. That combination would have been a boon for many poor countries. We were still in the beta test when Ambrosia bought up everything. They did not want any competition. We helped them reduce hemorrhaging from eating the plants from 50% to less than 1%. But they were in a hurry, fired us and went into production. People started dying of the bleeding disorders. Ambrosia blamed our virus. But we managed to get some inside information about the GMO foods found in the stomachs of those people who died. They had the nano-coating. Our viruses may have had nothing to do with that. That’s why we’re here.”
Dan released his grip on the door handle, squeezed his eyes shut, pinched his eyebrows together.
There it was. His program. Again. He gripped his head in his hands wanting to squeeze so hard his brains came out like a ruptured watermelon. How could he have been so stupid? Rachel and Sam knew the whole time.
He opened his door.
Strong fingers pressed against his neck on both sides. The pressure was not bad, but his vision grayed. Then, only black.
#
Dan woke, confused and disoriented. He was in a small room on a bed, maroon wallpaper with tiny scrolls on the walls, a bedside light casting a circle of yellow on the white, orange-peel-textured ceiling. A cloying hydrocarbon smell and wavy vision accompanied an ache behind his eyes. He tried to sit, but rolled on one side, unable to move his left arm. It was handcuffed to the bedpost. The room moved like he was on a boat. He blinked and the movement stopped, but not his anger. What the hell was going on?
“Easy there, Danny Boy.” Sam sat on a chair next to the TV about five feet from the foot of the bed.
“You tricked me.”
“Not really.”
“You said it had nothing to do with my nano-programs.”
“That would be a lie, not a trick. Besides, it was only a partial lie, and a white lie at that. So I will be absolved at confession and still go to heaven.”
Dan rolled his eyes around like he’d seen his son do many a time. Jeff. Why had he thought of him? Damn!
“What I’ve seen you do, no way you’re going to heaven.”
Sam lifted one side of his mouth and one shoulder. “Probably right. Better enjoy life while I can, huh?”
Sam’s cell phone chimed the familiar Rocky tune. He tapped the screen, stood and started toward the door as he put it to his ear. “Yeah.”
Dan strained to hear. Only a few words were clear before Sam stepped into the hallway: “Jabril . . . Rocca . . . Milwaukee.”
They were in Milwaukee. Weren’t they?
Sam came back in.
“Who’s Jabril and Rocca? We’re still in Milwaukee, right?”
Sam glared at him and paced back and forth. Dan could not remember ever seeing Sam mad. Not ever. This was weird.
After several back and forth paces, Sam sat on the same chair, elbows on knees, head in hands. He stared at the floor. A siren sounded outside. Someone laughed next door, or below them, and a TV blared voices then clapping. Dan started counting the paisley swirls on the wallpaper. He liked maroon, but preferred green, apple green.
“Jabril is the werewolf guy,” Sam
said. “He killed my friend, Rocca, a few hours ago in Chicago O’Hare airport. And now we know he almost got me and Rachel in a bus explosion. My contacts believe he’s now here in Milwaukee.”
The door opened. Rachel walked in. Her eyes were red. Dark streaks snaked down from her eyes onto her cheeks.
Sam looked up. Rachel walked to him. He stood and they hugged. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”
Dan watched them. He could not understand hugging. Why did so many people like it? It made him feel like walking away. Except with Adam and Marci. Then he felt pretty good with it. But only for a few seconds. They always wanted to hold on too long.
He cleared his throat. “Okay. You can release me now. I’ll go back home and everything will be forgiven.”
They continued to hug each other and both said, “No!” in unison.
“I can’t help you against a werewolf. I already told you that. I’m not a field agent. Learned that. Yeah, learned that well. You know, Sam. I can’t fire a gun worth beans. Don’t want to. I—”
Sam opened his eyes and his unmoving gaze penetrated Dan. He said each word very distinctly. “You . . . are . . . staying.”
“Why?”
Rachel turned around. “Jabril is here. The mice are here. Jabril has a grudge, hates America. With those GMO foods and mice, he has a bioweapon that can kill millions. I know our virus. You know nanotechnology programs. We need you.”
Dan looked at his wrist shackled to the bedpost. He rattled it. “This is no way to treat someone who can help you.”
Chapter 28
“Sorry, buddy. Rache and I had to leave before you woke up.” Rachel stood by the door as Sam came over and released Dan.
For the first time Dan saw the chair and table on the other side of the bed. On the table sat a cup, a carafe, the box of Dunkin’ Donuts and a white laptop—his laptop from his office in Denver. It stared at him. It was open to the Medical College of Wisconsin website. The caption read, “MCW, home of the best lab mice in the world.” The smell of coffee hit his nose, as did the sweetness of glazed donuts. His mouth watered.