Ejecta (17 page)

“That’s when they would begin to grow, send root-like structures down into the subject’s nervous system, and begin the process of conditioning their hosts. Then, having reached sexual maturity, the parasites would look for mates. But if they weren’t able to find one quickly enough, their host would begin to die, and it would be necessary to escape.”

Palmer looked up from his food. There was a distinct possibility that the next question would bother some people, especially at dinner, but he was pretty certain that Sara Devlin wasn’t one of them. “And that’s when some poor bastard’s head explodes?”

“Exactly,” she responded clinically. “The strategy being to infect a secondary host should one happen to be present. Or failing that to spread spores far and wide. Spores that would dry out and become dormant until reactivated by the presence of certain conditions.

“Days, months, or years later a host borne parasite might even search out a mate that's dormant. Although that would be akin to looking for a needle in a haystack—or using an on-line dating service!”

Palmer laughed. “So the parasites would have a natural desire to hook-up with a life form that is at the same stage of development that they are?”

“I think so,” Devlin answered. “Which might explain why Harvey Podry exploded at an airport. Maybe he, or his host, was on the way somewhere. To a location where potential mates could be found.”

Palmer frowned. “So, these things can think?”

“No. At least I don’t think they can,” Devlin replied cautiously. “And there’s no need for them to think. For example, a fungus called
Puccinia monoica
lives inside certain mustard plants. As it matures the fungus taps into the plant’s stem to get the nutrients it needs. But, in order for the fungus to reproduce, it needs to have sex with the
Puccinia
located inside another mustard plant. To facilitate that the parasite blocks the host from creating genuine flowers, and forces the plant to convert clusters of leaves into
fake
flowers. They attract bees that eat a sweet sticky substance which the host plant has been forced to produce. As the insects consume the food, they also consume the parasite’s sperm and female sex organs, which they unknowingly transport to distant mustard plants. My point being that the fungus don’t
think
about it. They just
do
it. And continue to survive as a result. And, in the case of
Puccinia Monoica
it’s a very complicated process.”

“That’s why we should go to Key West,” Palmer put in earnestly. “When we met in Arizona I had just returned home from delivering a large iron to a friend in Key West. He’s a broker, which means he handles dozens of meteorites a year, and if your theories are correct he could have been infected while processing one of them.”

Devlin frowned. “There must be thousands of people like him. Take yourself for example. You handle meteorites too. It wouldn’t be practical to fly all over the country checking on each one of them.”

“No,” Palmer agreed. “It wouldn’t. But this case is different. The last time I saw Ambassador Quinton, which was just before I left for Africa, he looked perfectly normal. By the time I returned to Key West four weeks later he was walking with a cane and had a slight hump on his back. What if he’s infected?”

“That does seem strange,” Devlin agreed. “But I spotted a woman with a kyphosis at McCracken’s memorial service and made a complete fool of myself chasing her down. She had a curvature of the spine. A condition common to older women—but it can happen to men as well.”

“Point taken,” Palmer replied. “But remember what Mrs. Harris told you? About how her daughter was becoming increasingly hard to control? Well, Quinton’s housekeeper called me just before I came here. It seems the ambassador lost his temper and threw a coffee mug at her. And believe me,” he added earnestly, “that’s unusual. Quinton is one of the nicest men I know. Plus he's been acting strangely in other ways as well. So it fits, doesn’t it? That’s why we should go to Key West. And if money’s a problem—I would be happy to pay for the trip.”

There was a pause at that point as Devlin considered her options. The proposal was tempting. Especially since it was so important to find the parasites. But what about the government? Should she call Wilson? And tell
him
about Quinton? Thereby revealing the extent to which the gag order had been violated?

And what about Palmer? She barely knew the man. And why was the geologist sipping ice water? Because he was into fitness? Or was there a drinking problem to consider? Just like his father's. Yet there was an undeniable attraction too. The kind that didn’t come along every day.

Finally, as if somehow able to read her mind, Palmer broke the silence. His eyes seemed to plead with her. “Look, Sara, I’d be lying if I told you that my intentions are entirely honorable. That’s pretty obvious. But I promise to respect whatever boundaries you put in place. And I believe we would make an excellent team.”

The waitress arrived at that point. She looked tired—but was determined to sound chirpy. “So, how ‘bout it you two? Would you like some dessert?”

When Devlin smiled it was at Palmer. “Nothing for me, thank you…. We’re headed for Florida—and I’m saving room for Key Lime pie.”

***

Key West, Florida

The National Weather Service had assured local residents that the tropical storm would slide by to the east But the wind was blowing hard, and rain was drumming against the roof as Benjamin Quinton sat in his study staring at a flat panel monitor. A list of all the mineral samples available at the International Conference of Mineralogists’ headquarters building in New York were displayed in front of him. Suddenly the ex-diplomat heard a loud crash. The noise sounded as if it had originated from the back of the house. A tree limb perhaps, broken off by the wind, and dumped onto the metal roof.

Worried lest the limb cause a leak, the old man stood, and made his way towards the kitchen. But no sooner had he left the dining room than Quinton saw what remained of the back door fly open as a huge white man appeared. His head was shaved, a broad chest strained at the fabric of his tee shirt, and his boots were muddy. “Where’s your money old man?” the intruder growled. “Get it now!”

Quinton was already backing away by the time the sentence ended. And that was the signal for the intruder to lumber forward. The dining room door made a loud bang, as Quinton slammed the barrier closed, and hurried to turn the old fashioned brass key.

But the seventy-five year old six-panel door didn’t present much of a challenge to the intruder. He delivered a powerful kick to the wood right next to the lock and saw it shatter. The white man had a big smile on his face as he walked through the doorway and took a ferocious blow to the head.

The four-foot long knobkerrie had been acquired during Quinton’s years in Africa and had spent the last sixteen years sitting in a corner. But just as the long, knob-headed shaft had served a Zulu warrior more than a hundred-and-fifty years earlier it served Quinton now. And, thanks to all of the adrenalin the parasite had pumped into Quinton's bloodstream, he was
very
strong.

There was a dull
thud
as the big knob hit XL’s temple, shattered his skull, and killed him instantly. And no sooner had the big man gone down, than the normally crippled Quinton stepped over his body, and reentered the kitchen. That was where he spotted the
second
intruder.

***

The man his friends called XL and Speed had burglarized three houses by then. All under cover of the storm. And, having acquired a 9mm Browning BDM in the last residence, Speed was armed. He looked down at XL’s body and up to the old man. Something was wrong….
Very
wrong. And Speed would have been happy to flee at that point except for the fact that the black man was coming at him with a blood smeared club! So Speed brought the semi-auto up and pulled the trigger.

But the safety was on, and Speed was trying to get it off, when he backed into a foot stool. The burglar tripped, fell over backwards, and lost the weapon as he hit the floor. There was barely enough time to try and protect his face before the first blow fell.

***

Quinton felt strong and completely pain free as he brought the club down. Speed uttered an ear piercing scream as the knobkerrie broke his left arm. But it didn’t make any difference because another blow was on the way. Followed by
another,
and
another,
until the hard knob crushed his forehead and the whimpering stopped.

Both Quinton and the adjacent cabinets were covered with blood spatter as the ex-diplomat let the gore-encrusted club clatter to the floor. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, until the pistol caught his eye. As Quinton bent to retrieve the gun a gust of air pushed its way in through the back door. That was sufficient to draw him outside.

The blood warm rain had already soaked the old man’s clothes as he rounded the corner. That was where he spotted a strange vehicle parked in his driveway. Did he own a van? No, Quinton couldn’t remember buying a van as he lurched forward to inspect it. After opening the driver’s side door he saw that the keys were in the ignition. It gave Quinton an idea. A
good
idea. He went back to the house.

***

Devlin hadn’t realized how much she missed Costa Rica until she walked out of the terminal into the warm afternoon sun. The storm that had brushed the Keys was gone now leaving piles of debris and enormous puddles of rain water in its wake. Devlin felt sorry for the locals but relished the energy that lingered in the air as Palmer loaded their suitcases into a cab.

Then they were off. And, never having been to the Keys before, Devlin was busy taking in the sights as the taxi carried them down Flagler Avenue toward White Street. There were downed tree branches, and areas where the storm drains were backed up, but no major damage to be seen.

***

Since he was already familiar with Key West, Palmer was more interested in looking at
her.
Even if it was from the corner of his eye. Because even though there was nothing special about the T-shirt and shorts Devlin had chosen to wear there was something special about the woman herself.

Many of the hotels were closed or not accepting new guests. So rather than stay at the Pier House Resort Palmer had been forced to take two rooms at a bed and breakfast in the historic district. Once they arrived the B & B proved to be a well run if somewhat worn establishment popular with older couples. Some of whom had ridden out the storm there and were quite proud of themselves.

The light was starting to fade by that time. And as most of the tourists made their way down to Mallory Square to watch what promised to be a spectacular sunset Palmer met Devlin out by the pool. All sorts of wind borne trash was floating in it. So, except for the low flying planes which continued to pass over they had the spot to themselves.

The plan was to visit the ambassador and try to assess whether he had been infected before returning to the B & B. Then they would figure out what to do next. That was the plan. But when Florence answered the phone things began to change. Her voice was uncharacteristically muted. “This is the Quinton residence….”

“Florence?” Palmer inquired. “This is Alex. Are you okay?”

There was a short pause, as if the house keeper needed a moment to shift mental gears, followed by a hesitant, “Alex? Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” he replied. “About eight blocks away. What’s going on?”

“It’s bad,” Florence replied huskily. “
Real
bad. Two men broke in day before yesterday. But they’re dead and the ambassador is missing. We don’t know if someone took him or he just ran off. You must have seen it. The story was on the news.”

“We’ve been out of touch,” Palmer replied. “But what about you? Are
you
okay?”

“Luther and I were in Miami when the break-in took place,” the housekeeper answered. “But I’m worried about the ambassador.”

“Do the police have any idea what happened? Or where he went?”

“No,” Florence answered miserably. “But they want to talk to him.”

“I have a friend with me,” Palmer said, as he glanced at Devlin. “We’ll be there in about fifteen-minutes.”

“Okay,” Florence replied dispiritedly. “I’ll make some coffee.”

As they made their way past a row of carefully restored antebellum homes, picking their way around piles of debris, Palmer gave his account of the telephone conversation. Devlin could see that he was genuinely concerned about Quinton and it seemed natural to take his hand. It was warm, slightly callused, and large enough to engulf hers.

Before they could enter Quinton’s trash-strewn front yard the couple had to duck under a long piece of yellow police tape. That served to remind Devlin of the trailer park in Shelton, the tragic deaths of Catherine Harris and her young charge, and the reason for the trip to Key West. Was the Quinton break-in part of a botched robbery attempt? Or something more? The scientist felt something wiggle deep down in the pit of her stomach and wished the feeling would go away.

The doorbell rang, and moments later Florence was there to open the door, and welcome the visitors inside. The burgundy colored rug was missing. And all of the furniture had been moved over to one side. But everything else was as it had been the last time Palmer was there.

Florence wrapped Palmer in a hug. That was followed by a lightning fast evaluation of Devlin as the women were introduced. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sara,” Florence said. “I’m sorry the ambassador isn’t here to greet you himself. He has a soft spot for pretty women! My son Luther is out looking for him—but I doubt it’s gonna do much good.”

A few minutes later Palmer and Devlin were seated at the dining room table where Florence insisted on serving them coffee before pulling out a chair for herself. “Even though I got the back door fixed it’s hard to sleep at night,” Florence confessed. “There wasn’t nothing subtle about it. They kicked it open. There’s no telling what happened next, except that there was a fight, and the ambassador won. Can you imagine that?”
she said incredulously
.
“Mr. Quinton beating two men to death? It doesn’t seem possible.”