Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  “It wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “I’ve seen worse, where you’d get nauseated watching them.”

  “No, I mean the content. What do you think?”

  “Man,” Martins said, “they’re kinda sick.”

  “Is that in a good way or a bad way?”

  “Both.”

  This wasn’t going the way Belmonte had imagined. His friend wasn’t as excited as he was. He had called Martins not just because he could trust him, but also because he knew a lot about the internet. His first week on the job, Martins told Belmonte that he’d worked as a production assistant in a video marketing firm and learned not only how to shoot videos but how to get the most attention for them when posting them online. Belmonte had no experience posting videos and hoped that Martins would help him.

  “OK, so what do you mean both?”

  “I don’t know,” Martins said. “There’s some ugly stuff there.”

  “Yeah, isn’t that what counts on the internet? You know, there’s videos of beheadings and stuff.”

  “Yeah, but you won’t find those on YouTube.”

  “No?” Belmonte said, disappointed. “Why not?”

  “YouTube has rules about what you can post and gruesome stuff like this they don’t allow.”

  “Really?”

  Belmonte rose and moved behind Martins’s shoulder, looking at the laptop’s blank screen.

  “So, I can’t put this on YouTube?”

  “No way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. Those are the rules.”

  “Fucking rules!” Belmonte growled. “I’m always getting hung up on rules. I was hoping I, we, could make money off this, you know, put it online, get millions of views, go viral, get advertising and make a bundle. But you’re saying that can’t happen?”

  “Not on the major sites but you might be able to sell it to one of those blogger news sites, you know, the ones with the gossip and political bullshit. They might pay for this. It’s news, you know.”

  “You can help me with that, right?” Belmonte asked, grinning. “We’ll split whatever we get for it.”

  “Works for me.”

  14

  THE MEETING WITH the university president left Howard Duncan chagrined and wondering whether he had a future in academia. With his dean sitting alongside him, the president had said, barely concealing his anger, that the state attorney general had opened an investigation into the matter and that the parents were “breathing down our necks.” The local paper was preparing a front page article for the Sunday edition and TV affiliates were preparing their own stories. Duncan tried to explain what happened and why, but the president wasn’t satisfied.

  “For me, it all goes back to the decision to do this when you should have known that flooding was possible. Did you even check the weather reports?”

  “Of course,” Duncan said in his defense. The storms were north of their location and he felt they would avoid them. Postponing the expedition would have jeopardized their goal of finding specimens of a newly discovered insect species.

  The president gave the dean a frustrated look.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Dr. Duncan? A student has died on your watch as a result of a possibly reckless act on your part. That is how it is going to be portrayed.”

  “What he’s saying, Howard,” Dean Dearborn said in a less strident tone, “is that it is going to be hard to demonstrate that you acted prudently. You understand? This is not about insects. This is about culpability.”

  Duncan realized that defending himself was pointless. The meeting wasn’t to get his side of the story, as he had hoped. It was the first step taken to insulate the university and his department from what had happened and would happen.

  They’re cutting bait, he thought as he returned to his office.

  15

  CODY BOYD WAS shocked when Duncan confided in him following the meeting with the president. It was the topic of the day in the department. Everyone knew about it. Duncan had a reputation among faculty and staff. Most office staff thought him brusque and indifferent, a haughty person who didn’t bother to learn their names. Faculty found him to be a professional who was always prepared for meetings and who, whenever asked, would provide advice on obtaining research grants. He taught several classes. Though he was cordial, he often seemed to be too busy for conversations. Because of his status as a highly regarded entomologist, he was often invited to social gatherings, where he would make an appearance but rarely stay for more than a cocktail. Although he was admired for his academic success, his single-mindedness made it difficult to make friends.

  Duncan smiled wryly from behind his desk and asked Boyd to close the door.

  “What’s up? How’d it go?”

  “Well, it wasn’t what I expected,” Duncan confided. “I think I was blindsided. The dean was no help. The president just unloaded on me like I was an adjunct. Absolutely no respect from that man.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve gotta put that behind me. Gotta get on with it, you know.”

  Sitting across from Duncan, Boyd wondered whether he was talking about the meeting or the disaster in the rainforest. He wondered whether Duncan thought of it in the same way. Was it a disaster or just a speed bump in his mind? With a natural reticence against pressing a man who was nearly twenty years his senior and much more accomplished, not to mention his employer, Boyd waited for the moment he could determine whether the conversation was professional or personal.

  “So, are you planning to set up a scholarship for Carlos like you were talking about?”

  Duncan wasn’t thinking about Johnson at the moment.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Boyd prompted.

  “I guess I’ve tried to block that out of mind.”

  Boyd’s jaw dropped slightly, stunned by the response.

  “Not the scholarship—the death, and not just Carlos. Azevedo, too. I just can’t get a handle on it. The president thinks I acted recklessly because of the weather, but we were on an important scientific mission and the old fart himself hasn’t done any research in decades. Who is he to criticize me?”

  Boyd was surprised by Duncan’s sudden crescendo of anger. Was he really putting his feelings ahead of the victims?

  “Ah, I don’t mean that, not in that way. It’s not about me. And yes, I’m going to establish a scholarship.”

  Boyd was relieved upon hearing this.

  “Maybe you can start the ball rolling on this, Cody ol’ boy. What do you say? Call the development folks and find out what we need to do.”

  “You already asked me to do that,” Boyd said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I think that’s a good use of your time. Find out the details; maybe we can do a fundraiser.”

  16

  DEAN CHESTER DEARBORN was more of a politician than an academic. His professional credentials hardly equaled those of many faculty in his department, but he knew how to schmooze and get along with people at any level. He thought of himself as a departmental peacemaker, and he was good at it. He’d been on the job since before Duncan came to campus and was always at the front of the room when faculty or students achieved success. He liked to have photographs taken with the achievers, which his secretary would then display on a bulletin board outside his office. He had outlasted several presidents, which he attributed to his innate ability to avoid confrontations. He avoided criticizing anyone in front of others and even then his tone was avuncular and nonjudgmental, as he believed that people who strayed needed only a nudge to get back on track. And Duncan had strayed.

  Duncan wasn’t surprised that the dean wanted to confer shortly after their meeting with the president. Prior to leaving his office, he asked Boyd if there was a way he could record the meeting with his phone. Boyd looked at it, went to the iTunes store and downloaded an app.

  “I think even you can use this one,” he joked as he demoed the app.

  “That’s en
couraging,” Duncan said. “All I want to have to do is press a button and forget about it.”

  “It’s pretty much foolproof.”

  “I’m thinking I should do this just to protect myself, you know, from an assault on my academic freedom. I wish I’d recorded my meeting with the president. I think I’ll record everything from now on until this blows over.”

  Boyd nodded and wished Duncan luck as he left for the dean’s office.

  17

  DIAS WAS NO closer to locating Antonio Suarez, the surviving guide, than he had been at the start of his investigation, which was supposed to be perfunctory. His supervisor wanted him to close the case quickly, but reports were starting to appear in the local media that the American who died had been killed by one of his companions. He was inclined to dismiss them as rumors, since they appeared in publications and blogs known for their sensationalism.

  The problem was that he couldn’t find the only person in Brazil who could confirm the rumors. He knew that finding a young man with such a common surname was virtually impossible. It was unlikely Suarez would be listed in any kind of directory and he probably didn’t have a permanent address, and if Dias asked around, people would become suspicious and not cooperate. The only thing he had to go on was Javier Costa’s promotional flyer.

  Studying the flyer, he saw that the two phone numbers had different area codes. One was assigned to phones in the state of Amazonas and the other was not. The second one was probably a cell number. He dialed the Amazonas number. A woman answered after several rings. It was Costa’s wife. She told him that Suarez had informed her of her husband’s death though he didn’t tell her how he had died. She asked when his body would be recovered. Dias explained that he wasn’t involved with the recovery but was looking for Suarez.

  “Did he commit a crime?” she asked. “He’s such a good boy.”

  “Nothing like that. I’m just looking for information.”

  “He might be at our rental house. My husband sometimes stayed there when he had to work crazy hours. Unfortunately, the neighborhood is in decline and we couldn’t keep it rented. You wouldn’t be interested in buying it, would you? I could use the money now that Javier is gone.”

  “No, Senhora, but I could use the address.”

  Using the GPS on his phone, Dias arrived at Costa’s rental house at mid-day. The sun was high in the sky, the temperature in the low nineties Fahrenheit but the humidity was under fifty percent. Not altogether unpleasant.

  He surveyed the house from the street. It looked ordinary, identical to other stuccoed houses on both sides of the street, which only differed in color. Pressing past the gate, he approached the front door and knocked several times. Looking through a gap in the curtains on the front window, he sensed movement.

  He knocked again, harder, and tried the door knob. It was locked. His curiosity piqued, he moved to the back yard. There he found a concrete patio covered by a wood awning. On the slab were two patio chairs and a small cast-iron cafe table in need of paint. The sliding back door was locked, a curtain blocking the view inside. Wasting little time, he found an unlocked window and using one of the patio chairs boosted himself into a small bedroom, landing face first on the carpeted floor. A man was hiding under the bed.

  “What the fuck!” Dias said.

  Scrambling to his feet, he felt for the pistol on his hip, but didn’t pull it out of its holster.

  “Come out of there,” he commanded. “I’m with the police.”

  18

  BOYD SAT IN Duncan’s office, watching his boss as he replayed the recording from his meeting with Dean Dearborn.

  “Can you believe that!” Duncan exclaimed at intervals, staring at the iPhone, shaking his head, not even looking at his assistant.

  Boyd found himself losing interest. Duncan had placed the phone in the inside pocket of his sport jacket and the sound was muffled. Boyd struggled to follow the conversation.

  “Did you hear that, Cody?” Duncan said, staring at the phone. “He wants me to take the semester off. And did you hear that part where he says I might have PTSD! Of all the nerve,” he said, angrily. “Do I look like I’ve got PTSD? Do I?”

  Boyd smiled wanly and shrugged.

  “You seem agitated,” Boyd said, tentatively.

  “Well, who wouldn’t be?” Duncan said defensively. “He’s basically telling me—not in so many words, but underneath it all—that my services are no longer needed. They’re abandoning me like, like, I don’t know what.”

  “Like yesterday’s news?”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe it. You know, I’ve got half a mind to resign. That’ll send a message through the department,” Duncan said, defiantly. “At least that’s what I’d like to think. But I’d just be helping them out. I know how academia works. It’s not for people with thin skins, that’s for sure.”

  After the recording ended, Duncan paced. He was agitated and he could see he was making Boyd uncomfortable. He knew it wasn’t a good state to be in and wished Boyd hadn’t seen him get so angry. He’d already left a message with a member of the faculty senate to find out whether they supported him.

  “Did you contact development about the scholarship?” Duncan asked abruptly.

  Boyd was glad he had changed the subject. Perhaps he is getting tired of it, he thought.

  “I did and I’m supposed to meet with someone next week. The person I talked to said it doesn’t take long to set one up. He said Carlos’s family should probably be involved, as it will be in his honor.”

  “Of course,” Duncan said. “We might wait on that, though. I don’t think they’re ready for that just yet. They were pretty angry when I called them.”

  “OK. I’ll just meet with development and see what they say. What about you? You must be pretty, ah, upset by what’s going on, huh?”

  “Upset? Hmph,” Duncan said, sighing. “I wish this hadn’t happened, you know. It’s not as if I planned this.”

  “I know. I’m with you on that,” Boyd said.

  “But it did happen and I have to expect consequences. I was in charge, there’s no denying that. I may have made mistakes, but I think I did the best I could. We lost two good men…”

  “Three men died,” Boyd interjected softly.

  “Three men died. But the rest of us survived, right? That’s something in my favor, isn’t it? I mean, we could all have been killed. We’re lucky to be alive. As much as I want to put it behind me, it’s the most exciting, terrifying and depressing thing I’ve ever done. And I’ll bet it’s that way for everyone.”

  “Can’t agree with you more, boss.”

  19

  DUNCAN WAS ALONE in his apartment when he received a call from the foundation supporting his grant. The voice on the other end identified herself as Elizabeth Groton, the foundation’s general counsel. She told him that they were suspending his grant temporarily.

  “My grant runs through the end of the calendar year. You can’t just suspend it. I’ve got important work to do.”

  She asked if he’d read the grant application he signed.

  “Everything I wrote is accurate,” he insisted.

  “That’s not what I’m referring to. There’s a section in the boilerplate that relieves the foundation of its responsibilities in the event of adverse publicity. If you like, I can have it sent to you.”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that,” he said, giving up the fight.

  “This is nothing personal. The foundation can ill afford negative publicity and our board feels that it’s best for the foundation that we distance ourselves at this time. It has nothing to do with the quality of your work. We are picking up on articles from Brazil that the authorities are conducting an investigation and that charges may be filed, though we don’t know against whom.”

  “Who’s filing these charges?” Duncan asked, suddenly livid.

  Groton declined to provide additional information and warned Duncan that if he mentioned the foundation in any interviews he could
be stripped of his grant entirely.

  “So, I’m between a rock and a hard place?”

  “It would seem so, sir. I’m sorry, but we are doing this in the best interest of the foundation. I hope you understand. I hope things resolve quickly and successfully in your favor, as we are otherwise quite pleased with your work.”

  Fuckers, he thought.

  20

  THIS IS MY lucky day, Detective Dias thought as he escorted Antonio Suarez into the kitchenette. With the windows closed, the house was hot and stuffy. Opening the back door, they stepped onto the patio where he directed the young man to take a seat. Concerned that Suarez might flee if he took his eyes off him, Dias reached into the kitchenette and pulled out a padded chair. Sitting across from Suarez, the cafe table between them, he asked if he was Antonio Suarez.

  “Yes. What is this about?” Suarez asked.

  “I’m investigating the death of an American, among others, in the forest and I understand you were one of the guides.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, why would you think that?” Detective Dias said.

  “I don’t know. Police arrest people.”

  “Well, if you committed a crime then that would be the case, but you haven’t, have you?”

  “Not that I know of. What do you want to know?”

  Dias started writing in his notebook.

  “Well, first thing, why were you hiding under the bed? That seems suspicious.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what, exactly?”

  “It’s just that I worked for Javier and I’ve stayed here plenty of times when we had early morning trips, you know, guiding fishermen. They like to get out early.”

  “And, you know, of course, Mr. Costa is dead.”

  Suarez lowered his head.