Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  “So, what I’m thinking is, ah, getting back in the saddle,” Duncan said, pushing his coffee cup back and forth on the table.

  “Really!? This soon? I mean, wouldn’t that make things worse? I really don’t understand, what saddle? I thought they took it away from you.”

  “Not really. Yeah, my funders are, you know, backing away like rats on a sinking ship, though I don’t think the ship is sinking. I’ve had nothing but time to think about this and there’s two things that I gotta do.”

  Despite following the developing story online, Boyd hadn’t heard about Suarez’s arrest and became upset when told.

  “Of all the people, that was the one guy who, I don’t know, without him would any of us be alive? I can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, well, believe it or not, that’s what’s happening.”

  After describing his conversation with Suarez’s attorney, Duncan said that he would send an affidavit. “But that’s like sending a condolence card to a tornado victim. What he really needs is a lawyer who can handle his case.”

  “So that’s one thing. What’s the other?”

  Duncan stopped toying with his cup and smiled broadly.

  “I’m going back. To Brazil. I’m gonna get specimens, live specimens, and I’m gonna bring them back and, just maybe, I’ll sell myself and my specimens to the highest bidder. If the university wants to get rid of me, if my funders won’t support me, then I’ll do the capitalist thing.”

  Boyd stared at Duncan in disbelief, astonished at his boss’ angry, defiant tone. He knew him to hold strong opinions but this was revealing a completely different side to his personality.

  The remainder of their lunch was a question and answer session about how he would fund his next expedition while at the same time helping Suarez. It seemed impossible to Boyd. Perhaps one or the other would be possible, but he knew Duncan wasn’t wealthy. Boyd assumed Duncan had saved money, given that he didn’t own a car and didn’t spend a lot on rent and when he ate out it was usually at inexpensive mom-and-pops. Duncan had a reputation of being cheap, though he had paid for the past two lunches they’d had together.

  Duncan was not forthcoming about his finances, but wondered himself how he would pay for everything. His conscience wouldn’t let him choose between helping the guide and collecting specimens. If only he could choose one, but the way he envisioned it, both had to be done, which he admitted to Boyd.

  Boyd shook his head knowingly.

  “You know, Maggie likes you and she’s rich. Have you called her?”

  31

  REACHING OUT WAS not one of Duncan’s strong suits. His self-image was that of an experienced, self-sufficient man who could handle any situation outside of the social. It was the social part of life that gave him pause. He was not big on small talk, though he could manage it with the aid of a glass of wine. Sitting in his apartment for what would be his last night in town, he deliberated over what he would say to Maggie Cross—if he called her. He hated cold calls, whether giving them or receiving them. Telephone conversations had always bugged him. You never knew who was sitting next to the person you were talking to and what they were doing. He suspected George Hamel of being at her side and making rude gestures and mouthing sarcasms while Cross was on the phone. He wanted a private conversation with her. Perhaps at a nice restaurant with a glass of chardonnay. Just the two of them talking.

  He knew Boyd was right about calling Cross. She would be in a position to help Suarez, if she wanted to.

  He made the call using his university phone. The number was on Cross’s contact list and if she didn’t answer he’d know she didn’t want to talk to him. He tensed as it rang.

  “Hello Howard,” Cross said grandly. “How are you doing? I tried to call you, but I guess the messages didn’t get through.”

  Duncan brightened immediately. There was so much to talk about he hardly knew where to begin.

  32

  DUNCAN WASN’T CERTAIN how to proceed. He wondered whether Hamel was sitting alongside Maggie Cross, hanging on every word. It was difficult for him to dismiss this since all his troubles seemed to stem from Hamel’s explosive interview with numberless media outlets. It was not just what he said, which was technically accurate. It was the way he characterized Carlos Johnson’s death and Antonio Suarez’s role in it. But why should he be concerned whether Hamel was listening in? It infuriated him that he even had to ask himself the question. Hamel was not his friend.

  “That bastard Hamel has gotten Antonio in a lot of trouble. You know, they’ve arrested him based only on what George said on TV. He’s in jail as we speak.”

  “You know, George is here listening.”

  “I don’t care. I’d punch him in the face if I could. He’s not nearly the man Antonio is.”

  Duncan was surprised at how quickly anger poured out of him. It was as if he were relieving the built-up pressure of the past week in a single blast.

  “He has that effect on people,” Cross said.

  “Some people,” Hamel protested. “I’ll have you know that CNN called me, I didn’t call them.”

  “I’ve got it on speaker phone,” Cross said apologetically.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m not calling about what he said. I’m calling about Antonio. He needs help, he needs a lawyer.”

  Duncan described his conversation with Suarez’s court-appointed attorney.

  “You know, if it weren’t for him, we might not be here.”

  “Oh, bosh,” Hamel said. “What did he do, other than lead us into a killing field? He didn’t save us, we saved ourselves.”

  Duncan felt hair rise on the back of his neck. He resisted the temptation to strike back.

  “Can you take it off speaker phone?” he asked. “I don’t want to talk to or listen to him. If it’s a bad time, I can call back.”

  “No, no, no problem. Here, it’s off. He’s an ass. It’s his nature. Now tell me, what can we do to help Antonio?”

  “His lawyer asked me for an affidavit about Carlos’s death but, really, that’s a waste of time. I can’t afford to hire an attorney myself but I thought you could help with that. I’ve been thinking of going back to Brazil, for a couple of reasons. I’m taking a sabbatical.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Yeah, I’m too much of a hot potato. Anyway, I’m moving out of town and I’ll probably spend a week or two in Houston and then fly down. I’m thinking about going back into the forest, you know, for specimens.”

  Cross listened intently, shaking her head as Duncan described his plans. She had followed the news more closely than he did and was well aware of his situation. She knew that Duncan had used her to partially fund the expedition but at the time she had romantic feelings toward him.

  “You know what it sounds like to me?” Cross said. “It sounds like helping Antonio is your excuse to go back so you can do another expedition. Are you sure that’s a wise thing to do?”

  “You could be right. I’m not always good at figuring out my motives.”

  “Now you’re just being disingenuous. You know your motives quite well. I know that from how you manipulated me, although, I let you do it. I liked the extra attention. What can I say, I’m that kinda girl.”

  Duncan couldn’t believe he was that transparent.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said, sheepishly.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I’ve been around the block. I know we’re all in it for ourselves. Besides, I had my own motives and, of course, I had the money and you didn’t.”

  The conversation turned more personal and drifted for several minutes, with fewer words and longer periods of dead air. Duncan felt a closeness with Cross, not only from the experiences they’d shared but because of her nonjudgmental attitude. He could say things to her without measuring every word, as he often had to do with colleagues. Talking to her on the phone suddenly seemed inadequate.

  “You know, maybe we should get together,” he said, self-consciously e
xpecting her to reject the notion.

  “That’s a great idea! You want to come to Chicago?”

  For an instant he was on the verge of a resounding yes, followed by a second thought.

  “Not if he’s there. I swear, if I see him I’m gonna punch him. I’m sorry, but that’s just how I feel.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen,” she said in a cheery, calm voice. “How about I fly to Houston? You said that’s where you’ll be.”

  “You’ll come down by yourself?”

  “Yes, of course. George will stay here and take care of my cats. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to my attorney about getting help for poor Antonio.”

  33

  COVERAGE OF WHAT one newspaper called “a barata com dentes,” started slowly in Manaus and grew into a thunderhead within days, to the consternation of authorities who had tried to keep a lid on it from the start. Even when it became apparent that something horrible had occurred, that bodies had been found, local coverage was limited. Reporters could not reach the sites where the bodies were found, and even if they had seen it for themselves the authorities claimed that the bodies had been carried by the flood to the area where they were found and that their condition was the result of scavengers and decomposition.

  Although no specimens of the insects had been found for forensic analysis, investigators had examined the human remains and were aware of the markings left on the bones. The specimens that Investigator Dias had taken from Professor Azevedo’s office and forwarded to the state entomologist’s office had yet to be examined. The supposition was that some type of animal had scavenged the bodies. Since the authorities classified the investigation as ongoing, they declined to release details.

  With few facts to go on, local coverage descended into speculation. Like mushrooms after a rain, commenters popped up by the score with each article, claiming that the government was testing a new weapon that had gotten out of hand, or that the United States had infiltrated the rainforest with swarms of robotic killing machines. Others saw it as the fulfillment of Old Testament curses. In any case, it didn’t continue for long, as the blogger who first reported on the bodies posted several videos that he claimed had come from an anonymous source. Despite the poor lighting, the dizzying camera work and the absence of close-ups, the public got its first, albeit inconclusive sight of Reptilus blaberus and it was enthralled.

  34

  HOWARD DUNCAN HAD convinced himself that the simple act of moving would be sufficient to put his life back in order and get on with his research. He had laid out the details neatly in his mind. With Maggie Cross’s money to hire a lawyer, he’d go to Manaus to testify on Antonio Suarez’s behalf. The young man would be released and Duncan would turn his attention to the pursuit of blaberus. He hoped Cody Boyd and perhaps one other researcher would join him. The goal would be to return to the lab with living specimens. How long they would survive in captivity and whether they would breed were open questions. But even with that, he envisioned numerous journal articles, a big, public apology from the university and the reinstatement of his grants. It might have worked out that way had the public not embraced the “cockroach with teeth” meme. It was all that anyone in Manaus talked about.

  Boyd was the one who kept up with the developing story, bookmarking online Brazilian media outlets that he checked daily for updates. From the very beginning he saw potential in the expedition for a reality TV show, but that was before people started dying and he lost all the video he’d shot in the flood. A friend suggested he write about it, and even though he was not a writer, the idea resonated.

  “That’s what people do,” his friend had said. “Look at what happens after any tragedy, especially stuff like this. You remember those people who died climbing Everest? There were like a bunch of books and a movie. This is like the same. And some of them made big bucks.”

  It wasn’t the same for Boyd but he found himself writing notes to himself about the expedition and its aftermath. He had no vision for what he would do but within several days he formalized his project by creating a journal dedicated to documenting what had happened. He was still acting as the expedition’s documentarian, this time in print. But he wasn’t a journalist and found it difficult to keep perspective. He knew he’d have to talk to the others at some point, that if it turned into anything someone would end up being hurt. Someone would have to be blamed.

  But these concerns were blown out of the water after the images from Belmonte’s camera went viral. Suddenly, the authorities were unable to control the spin as interviews with anonymous sources proliferated, speculation grew and the public embraced the concept of Brazil’s new man eater.

  35

  DUNCAN WAS IN disbelief when he learned about the frenzy to find blaberus in the State of Amazonas. At first, he couldn’t understand how people who knew so little about this predator could treat it so cavalierly and believe they could simply walk out into the forest, capture a few and then what? What were they thinking?

  “It’s like a gold rush,” Boyd said over the phone.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are contests,” Boyd said disbelievingly. “People think they’re gonna make money off this.”

  “Fat chance,” Duncan sniffed.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not how people think. You know. They see someone who might be on to something and they want a piece of the action.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense. They’re not researchers. They’re plunderers.”

  “I get it,” Boyd said, “but, you know, that’s how the world works. I’m guessing it’s gonna make what you want to do a lot harder. From what I’ve been reading, it’s like some kind of party down there.”

  “That party’s gonna end all of a sudden, if they don’t watch out.”

  “Oh, absolutely. I can’t imagine myself being part of it.”

  “You mean part of what’s going on down there?”

  “The whole thing, kinda,” Boyd said.

  Duncan felt that part of his plan to return to the forest was crumbling. He wanted Boyd to participate. He trusted him. It would be important to be there with someone who understood scientific methods and was familiar with the region. Boyd, he thought, was irreplaceable. And now it sounded like he didn’t want to go.

  “You’re not interested in going back?” Duncan asked glumly.

  “To tell you the truth, doc, I don’t know. There’s a part of me that wants to go back, you know, and finish what we started. But there’s a part that makes me wonder if it’s worth the risk. I mean, what am I gonna get out of it?”

  “I can make it worth your while,” Duncan blurted.

  36

  THINGS WERE MOVING too fast for Duncan. If you believed what some of the media were saying, ordinary Brazilians were chasing after blaberus like schoolchildren collecting butterflies. He’d learned of two scientific expeditions being mounted. Initially, the entomology community had been divided over Duncan’s expedition, especially since he’d failed to provide specimens. There were those who condemned him as reckless and those who defended him, and those who remained skeptical at the supposed discovery of a carnivorous, predatory insect. The videos, however, provided tantalizing evidence that Duncan had uncovered something unique and potentially valuable. They also brought out the competition.

  Duncan hadn’t thought about Nolan Thomas for three years until he saw him on cable news just after the call from Boyd. Three years ago, Thomas had left academia to join a privately-held biotech in Texas, Biodynamism Inc. Unlike Duncan, who specialized in entomology, Thomas held multiple advanced degrees in unrelated fields, including entomology and artificial intelligence. They’d met briefly at several conferences and had never communicated beyond that.

  Thomas was a proponent of convergence, which he applied across multiple disciplines. Computing and technology were rife with advocates for convergence, where various fields were heading in the same direction until, somewhere in the future, they would converge or m
erge into something spectacular. The true believers theorized about transhumanism based on predicted developments in the various scientific fields. Some were futurists with little intellectual weight, but Thomas was a scientist and could not be dismissed. If he was in Brazil, it wasn’t for the fishing.

  37

  BOYD FELT GUILTY for not leveling with Duncan about the job offer he’d received from a reality TV producer. He could have done it—should have done it—before his boss practically begged him to return to Brazil. Of course, he hadn’t yet decided what he was going to do, but he enjoyed working with video. It came naturally to him, more so than studying or working as a research assistant. At twenty-six he was restless and it didn’t help that even though he continued to be paid, he had no work to do. The university had closed Duncan’s lab and it would remain that way for at least the next semester. There were rumors that Duncan’s sabbatical was the first step toward dismissal. Duncan didn’t seem to believe this when they spoke, but Boyd realized that he couldn’t depend on Duncan forever. Sooner or later he would have to go out on his own and this could be that time. It was his life, after all.

  His friends wondered what he was waiting for. Most thought being a consultant and technical advisor on a reality film shoot was very cool, way better than lugging specimen boxes in the rainforest. The gig was in response to the furor in Brazil, and the producer told him that other companies were planning similar ventures and that the first to produce would be the first to profit. Boyd liked the idea of competition but profiting wasn’t a big motivator. He said as much to his friends, some of whom told him that he wasn’t being realistic. What is it you want to get out of life? That was a question that hung in the air like a balloon. He hadn’t given it much thought since starting graduate school but now, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, things were different. Maybe it was time he started thinking about his future. Other than working in a lab for someone else, he had no vision for what he would be doing in five years.