Old Poison

by Joan Francis

  As we were finishing the cleanup, Gill said, “Judith, Ken, it’s almost time for you two to make your presentation to the pharmaceutical committee.” For a split second I thought they both looked at him a little confused, but as he issued instructions, they checked their watches and seemed to catch his sense of urgency.

  “Judith, you show Miss. Hunter to the exhibitor’s powder room so she can get all the glass and juice stains out of her clothing. Work quickly, Miss Hunter, because that will stain if it dries. Ken, you and Judith go to the trailer and change into your presentation clothes, and I’ll clean up the rest of the mess here.

  “Miss Hunter, we all want very much to know more about this incident on the bike trail. If you have time, we would be grateful if you could meet us at the Costa Rican restaurant in the food court in about one hour. If you will be so kind as to be my guest at dinner, we can have time to talk.”

  I was hustled off to a spacious and well-equipped powder room and spent almost thirty minutes shaking my clothes, rinsing the spots out of my skirt, and drying it under the hand dryer.

  Once finished, I still had a half hour to kill, so I ambled slowly toward the food court, looking at some of the exhibits I had missed earlier. When I passed the booth where I had bought a video of one of Evelyn’s speeches, it occurred to me that I no longer had it and assumed I must have set it down in the Enviro-Medic booth.

  I circumnavigated the food court twice, and though there was a wide selection of food, no booth said Costa Rica. I then sought out an employee and asked for directions to the Costa Rican restaurant. He told me flatly that there was no such thing. All the food was supplied by convention center catering.

  Feeling unbelievably foolish, I fought my way back through the crowd to the Enviro-Medic Research booth. At the spot on the convention floor where the booth had been, there was nothing left but a large green stain on the floor and the sack with my video of Professor Evelyn Lilac.

  * * * * *

  TEN

  Monday morning I had bits and pieces of eleven cases pending. By Friday, I had mailed nine final reports, with invoices attached. This burst of energy and efficiency was my way of ignoring the one case that had me stumped. Mr. Borson, Professor Evelyn Lilac, Guillermo Jesus Montegro Y Monteblan, and Ken and Judith Hoffman had all flat-out disappeared. I was left with part of a retainer and a very unpleasant question. What had been Borson’s real agenda?

  I had broken my own basic rule: Only work for attorneys where cases are filed and everything done through legal procedures. With a layman client you can get blind-sided by your client’s hidden agenda. Private investigators who ignore this end up in the wrong kind of newspaper headline: “MAN KILLS ESTRANGED GIRLFRIEND. ADDRESS SUPPLIED BY PRIVATE EYE.”

  The fact is, if Borson had just tried to hire me that first day, I would have turned him down. He had played me expertly, introducing himself inside the courthouse, baiting me with my own curiosity, and sucking me in with two seemingly innocent meetings. “Just try the first assignment,” he had said. “If you don’t like the work, you will never hear from me again.” Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Hard work on other cases allowed me to ignore the question until Friday night, when Sam and I were having dinner at the Ocean Way Grill. A young man walked up to me and asked, “Are you Ms. Diana Hunter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was supposed to deliver this package to you here at seven p.m. Sorry, I’m a little late.”

  The kid turned to leave and did not respond when I said, “Wait, who told you I would be here? Where did this package come from?” He kept right on going and was out the door in a dozen running steps.

  I looked at Sam. He put his napkin on the table and lumbered his big body out the door. He returned in about five minutes. His only comment was a shake of his head. The kid had disappeared.

  Eyeing the unopened package he asked, “You want to have a demolitions guy look at it before you open it?”

  I smiled. “No, I know what’s in it. A CD and a wad of cash. I just don’t know how in the hell Borson knew I would be here at seven o'clock.”

  Sam shrugged. “We can check your phone and apartment for bugs, but with the equipment today, he could eavesdrop on you with no hardware in place. Chances are we won’t find anything. Let’s just go to your place and see what we got.”

  Neither of us spoke as Sam drove us the eight blocks to my building. As we climbed eight flights of stairs, however, he did mumble something unflattering about my choice of residence.

  I pressed my thumb to the security button Sam had installed on my door. After reading my print, the system unlocked the dead bolts and I opened the door.

  Yeabot rolled over to the entry and greeted us with, “Hello, Mother. Hello, Uncle Sam. Mother, you have two messages. Would you like to hear your messages now?”

  Sam studied his handiwork for a moment, then said, “You know, Diana, if you keep living in this dump, you’re gonna get hit. It’s a bad part of town.”

  “Sam, I already have Yeabot to protect me, as well as the security system you put in. No, thank you, Yeabot. I’ll hear messages later.”

  “Would Mother and Uncle Sam like a scotch?”

  “No thanks, Yeabot. Just rest. We’ll call you if we need anything.”

  Still frowning at his own thoughts, Sam said, “Yeah, well, you know what trouble I’d have if anyone knew about Yeabot. I think I better upgrade its security system a little. Maybe I could also work on some sensors that would pick up on anyone listening in on you.”

  We pulled chairs up to my desk; I turned on the computer and put in the new CD. I typed in my password, “rdskblu,” and the screen filled with words. Above the diary text was a note.

  “You will soon have news of Evelyn. You need to read this. B”

  15665-6-3 MY LAST DAY (47th language translation–English 20th century)

  Syntax adjusted

  Copy 2,783 (Caretaker–Nosha)

  I do not know if the dreams we Nomads have lived and died for have any hope of ever coming true. But hopeful or hopeless, I have lived for those dreams for twenty-two years. Now, I am ready to die for them.

  The day the nomads rescued me was the real beginning of life. That day is still vivid in my memory. I sat on the plastibag after the Red 19 dissipated and cried with relief, then crawled to the rim of the Great Drain. Looking around at the vast expanse of sand and sky, I was overwhelmed by the immensity of the world. Born and raised in a subterranean burrocity, I had never seen a ceiling of more than one man-height nor a habitat space larger than one cordat. This much sky and this much space was terrifying. How could I hope to find the Nomads or even survive.

  Like a frightened nimwat who curls into a ball and becomes as still as death, I curled up, pulled my windrobe over my head, and gave up hope.

  I awoke to rough hands picking me up and wrapping me tightly in great coils of cloth. I did not even care to resist for I had already accepted death. Then a man with kind blue eyes and a huge red-blond beard took my face in his hands. He made me look into his face and said, “My friend, you are in need of water and you have the open land sickness. I cover your eyes so you will not fear. Go to sleep now. We will take you to safety.” Then he gave me water to drink and bound cloth around my eyes.

  I was tied to some hard surface that moved roughly across the land, but I could not guess what propelled it. There was no sound or smell of motors, only the wind overhead and the thumps against the uneven sand.

  I slept fitfully and awoke to chilling cold. We had stopped and I was on the ground again. Quiet voices murmured around me, soft footsteps patted about, and occasionally there was a muted tinkle of pots and dishes. Someone touched my shoulder gently and I heard the voice of the Red Beard say, “Here, Antia, let me unbind you. It is night now and the world will not look so fearsome.”

  I was surprised to hear my name and see the welcome roof of a low rock cave. An open fire blazed a few feet away, powered by small black lumps of fuel. I had never see
n such a thing. Only Red 19 stoves were allowed in the burrocity.

  Red Beard bade me move closer and warm myself and gave me a large cup of hot drink. It was a strange drink with many flavors vying for my tongue’s attention, first bitter, then herbal, then sweet and satisfying.

  Four men and two women moved about the cave in quiet efficient movements, revealing long familiarity with their routine. Soon a camp was set, a meal cooked, and security zones established. As we all ate our meal, Red Beard introduced himself as Ober, leader of this group sent to search for me.

  Seven people risking their lives to rescue me seemed such an obvious fabrication that it insulted my intelligence and I said so. The group responded in anger that I should call their Ober a liar, but he calmed them, telling them that I was burrocity raised and knew no better.

  “Antia, there are two things you must know. First you must open your mind to a totally different society. We Nomads care about one another and often give our lives to save others. Prepare yourself for a new world which you must learn about very quickly.”

  I knew what he said was true no matter how incredible it might sound.

  “The other thing you must know is that you are a very valuable person to our movement.”

  “But my only skill is numbers.”

  “Numbers are one of the skills you bring us, but you also can make stories.”

  Again, I thought he was making a fool of me but knew better than to say so.

  He laughed as he read my expression. “You make stories that can be remembered and retold generation after generation. Within those stories can be buried memories and history for our children’s children.

  And as strange as it seemed then, creating stories is what I have done now, for twenty-two years. But today is the end of my story. The memory coils that carry the stories of our people and our destruction are now complete. We hope that they will tell someone, someday, where and how our geneticists have hidden the cell patterns of many of the plants and animals that have disappeared from our world. Will anyone ever find these frozen treasures and learn the secrets of restoring our lost world? No one knows. I know only that like my dying planet, I must carry out my last task, and die with hope.

  I will deliver this diary and the last of the memory coils to a safe drop. They will be given to the Hidden Ones who will carry our coded stories to the new home on Atland. A second set of coils is hidden in the great pyramid, and a third is interred with the ice crystals and genetic codes. It is my private joke that the safe drop is in the old astrological gardens at Nautical University. In the burrocity scientific knowledge has been withheld from the people, so my pursuers will not understand the significance of the great granite spheres that chart the stars and planets. But someone among the Hidden Ones may know enough to get my joke. I leave my last information buried beneath the sphere that represents Atland. Thus, in a way I am the first to get to the new planet.

  A totally different set of memory coils are embedded in my scalp where the Enforcers can easily detect them, and be misguided by them. I can hear their combox voices behind me. It is time to bury the history coils and this diary, and give my pursuers a lively chase. If I tire them, they will act in hasty, thoughtless rage and slice off the top of my head to get the memory coils. It will be a merciful and instant death and give me no chance for betrayal. Dear Red Beard, dearest Ober, I carry my love for you to whatever may lie beyond. Antia

  From my last experience, I knew better than to hit the down arrow, so I tried to save the file. Once again the letters dissolved into meaningless symbols and the damn screen went blank. Nothing we did could get it back.

  * * * * *

  ELEVEN

  Before Sam left that night we brain stormed two complex searches for Yeabot to work on. In the first search we incorporated every fact, opinion, date and description I could remember from my talks with Borson. Then we asked Yeabot to search for a true identity and location. In the second search, we fed Yeabot everything I had found on Evelyn Lilac, including her video, and asked him to see if he could find her current location.

  The next morning I opened a second client trust account to keep Borson’s money separate from the rest of my client funds. I then put an ad in the Los Angeles Times personals that read, “Mr. Borson, assignment declined. Please contact me for return of retainer. DH.” I doubted that Borson would respond, but at least I could prove my legal attempt to reject the assignment and return his retainer. I had an awful feeling I was going to need it, either for a criminal trial or a Bureau of Security and Investigative Services inquiry regarding my license. As it turned out, what I would need it for was an FBI murder investigation on the Navajo Reservation.

  Yeabot’s searches produced nothing useful on Borson, and all the information he found on Lilac was old. I had no funds of my own to chase a wild goose to Costa Rica and had no client to pay me to do so. The case went into the dead file.

  For the rest of the week I worked hard and tried to forget all about Red 19, polluting Martians, and Evelyn Lilac. It was amazing how many reminders would pop up: I couldn’t pick up a newspaper or magazine or listen to television or radio without hearing something about Mars or environmental issues. Pictures from JPL showed what scientists believed was evidence of water on Mars, and an international conference was predicting a disastrous rise in global warming. I started avoiding the papers, and turned to reading historical novels and watching old movies. My avoidance therapy was beginning to work. Then the call came.

  “May I speak to Diana Hunter, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Ms. Hunter, this is Neal Camas. I am a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Flagstaff, Arizona. Are you a licensed private investigator in the state of California?”

  “Yes, ah, could you hold just a moment, Agent Camas.” I try never to answer questions over the phone unless I’m sure who is on the other end of the line. “Agent Camas, I have an urgent call on the other line. Could I call you back in about five minutes?”

  Most professionals understand the need to verify a caller’s ID, and after a pause he supplied me with a number and extension. After verifying that the number was, in fact, the FBI office, I dialed him back and waited while the receptionist put me through to his line.

  “Agent Camas, this is Diana Hunter. How may I help you?”

  “Ms. Hunter, we need your assistance in identifying a woman found dead on the Navajo Reservation.”

  Stunned by this request, I took a moment before answering. “Is there some reason I should know her? I don’t believe I’m acquainted with any Navajo women.”

  “She’s not Navajo, and your business card was found in her bra. It was the only ID on the body.”

  To myself, I mouthed the name “High Pockets.”

  Hearing my whisper, he asked, “What was that?”

  I needed think time. Why did they need me? With Evelyn’s arrest record from her protest days, her prints must be in the system. “I really don’t know how someone in Arizona could get my card. Did her fingerprints give you any possible ID?”

  There was a long pause, then he said, “With the condition of the body, there were no prints.”

  The vision of a totally decayed body I had once found came to mind unbidden. Memory of the sight and its unforgettable stench made my stomach turn. “Will there be anything recognizable for me to ID?”

  “Oh, yes. Her face is undamaged.”

  “Then what happened to her prints?”

  Another pause. “We won’t speculate about that now, Ms. Hunter. The bureau is requesting that you fly down here. I can authorize something toward your expenses.”

  His tone made the request sound a bit more compelling than a simple invitation, so naturally, I agreed. I didn’t need to piss off the FBI. Finishing my call with Agent Camas, I turned on the computer and was about to search for airline tickets when a message appeared on my blank screen:

  IT’S TOO LATE FOR EVELYN, BUT YOU CAN STILL BE OF HELP. THE
FBI HAS WASTED TIME IN NOTIFYING YOU. MORE MONEY HAS BEEN DEPOSITED TO YOUR CLIENT TRUST FUND. PLEASE INVESTIGATE HER MURDER AND FIND THE MARTIAN DIARY. THE BUREAU DOES NOT HAVE IT. B

  This was not an email. It was just waiting to come up on the screen the minute I booted up. How the hell did he do that? The computer hadn’t even been on. How did he know about my client fund? Scared and mystified, I reached for the phone and dialed Sam.

  * * * * *

  TWELVE

  As I looked down at her lifeless body, I couldn’t help pondering the big question. Where had the life gone? Was the real Professor Evelyn Lilac out there? Was her spirit floating somewhere around this room, glaring down at me for my failure, or was this inanimate organic form all there was? I like to believe that life is an energy and that, as Einstein said, energy can be neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. I like to believe birth and death are only transformations of that energy form, and that it remains a unique soul. I like to believe it, but I know it could be wishful thinking.

  Agent Camas was watching my face closely, reading my response. “I take it you did know her.”

  “We met once.”

  “Was she your client?”

  I thought about the question a moment, then shook my head, “No. There don’t seem to be any marks on her body. How did she die?”

  Camas nodded to Mr. Sanchez, the coroner’s assistant. Sanchez pulled back a covering from her forehead revealing that the entire top of her head had been severed. Unable to control my reaction, I gasped and raised a hand to my mouth to shut off further sound. A small moan escaped my lips as I shut my eyes to block the shocking sight.