Pitfall (12 page)

Her tone grew brisk as she retrieved her pencil. “Anyway, John, back to breakfast. You like breakfast meat?”

“Sure. I like anytime meat.”

“Then whatever you do, if you value your life don’t order the bacon. I gave it the sniff test when it came today. It kinda reminds me of my mom’s old gym socks.” I chuckled, and she went on, “I’m serious! I think Lou’s trying to get rid of it, and he’s got a boatload. There must have been something wrong with the refrigeration in the delivery truck.”

Good thing she’d told me. Food poisoning would have been a heck of a thing to come down with at this stage. “I guess bacon’s out then. How’s the sausage?”

“That’s okay. Lou bought some at the market just yesterday afternoon. A farmer makes it fresh, right outside of town. It’s pink and spicy.” Again she snapped her gum, grinning saucily. “Like me.”

“How about the eggs? Any good?”

“Ehhh.” She made a face as she rocked her hand. “You feel brave today?”

I chuckled. “Not particularly.” Resting my chin in my hand I said, “Tell you what, Rae Ann. How about sausage and wheat toast, grits with gravy, and black coffee?”

She nodded. “Good choice, hon. Coming right up.”

*

I wiped my mouth with the white paper napkin; the breakfast had been good and filling. There’s something to be said for the simple pleasures of flesh and bread. I tried to shut the saying, “the condemned man ate a hearty last meal” out of my mind. Instead I thought about Sarah, and what she might be going through. Hang tough. Help is on the way.

Rae Ann showed up with the coffee carafe, pointing to my cup. “Freshen that up?”

Slurping down the last of it I shook my head. “No thanks. Everything was great, though. Tell Lou.” I began reaching for my wallet, but my hand was stopped by the waitress placing her work-roughened fingers on top of mine.

“It’s on the house, John. My treat.” When she smiled this time, it seemed almost shy. “For what you did to Blakey and Chet. For all of us. At least maybe they won’t be bothering the Harrisville womenfolk for a while.”

It appeared Jerry wasn’t the only pig in town. “Well now. That makes me wish I’d hit them harder.”

Rae Ann laughed, patting my wrist appreciatively. “Ah, you did good.”

Thanking her, and leaving her a nice tip on the table anyway, I got up to leave. I was heading for the door when she called, “You come back and see me now, John. Be sure to try our pie.” I turned. Her look at me was wistful. “It’s always here.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Y
es sir. How can I help you this morning?” The young security guard, one of the ones I’d observed last night, stared intently. But I wasn’t sure if it was directed toward me or my car. Maybe this kid had an unnatural interest in red Camrys. You never know.

“Put your tongue back in, son. It’s a rental,” I said. It was all I could do not to smile at his lust. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-one and skinny, with slicked-back, dishwater blond hair above a uniform collar a size too big circling a scrawny turkey neck. Slipping my thumb under my badge, which I’d fastened to my suit’s lapel, I lifted it up an inch and stated, “Fields, EPA.”

“Yes sir.” Checking an electronic plastic clipboard the guard went on, “I don’t see your name here, Mr. Fields. Do you have an appointment?”

“Nope. I’m the new boy in town. Courtesy call.”

“I see.” His nod at me was curt, as if he was really enjoying his gatekeeper status. “Nice car, by the way. For a government guy. Let me just make a call.”

Drumming my fingers on the wheel, I watched him go back into the shack and mutter something to the other guard, who was alike enough to be his brother; this one was reading a well-worn porn magazine. I saw them both laugh, and then the first guy picked up a phone. Punching in a single digit he turned away from me as he spoke. A few seconds passed, and I saw him nod briskly. Hanging up the phone, he wandered through the shack’s door and back over to my car, now wearing a cheesy grin.

“You’re good to go. Drive on and take any slot you want in the visitor’s area.”

I put the car into drive, but before I let off the brake I regarded him. “Do you mind telling me what’s so funny?”

“Not at all. We’ve heard all about you, Mr. Fields. About what you did to Blakey and Chet last night. How you handed them their heads.” The guard’s grin expanded. “Mr. Cross is real anxious to make your acquaintance, sir.”

I’ll just bet he was.

The guard pointed to his right. “Like I said, anywhere in that lot is fine.”

After parking and locking my car, I pocketed the keys and began walking toward the entrance. At least I assumed it was the entrance. Swelling out from the dome’s near side stretched a tunneled archway, sealed with double glass doors on this end, and maybe thirty feet long by ten wide. It appeared to be made of the same shiny material as the rest of the structure. But as big as that arch was, it was dwarfed by the massive dome itself.

And that wasn’t all. Flanking the walkway leading to the doors, and running along either side of the building as far as I could see, spread a landscaper’s paradise. A profusion of close-trimmed, box alders pressed against the structure, set off with late summer, red tea roses holding their heads high on white trellises, all of it arching above lush Kentucky bluegrass that looked as if someone cut it daily with nail clippers.

Unfortunately those horticultural touches didn’t help much. To my eye the dome still looked like the mother ship from
Independence Day
come to Earth and parked in rural Ohio.

Reaching the tunnel’s doors I pulled the handle of the one on my right. With a soft hiss and a click it opened, and a draft of cold air blew out, enveloping me. I paused. A sultry robotic female voice urged me in, murmuring, “Welcome to GeneSys.”

Welcome to hell is more like it, I thought. Abandon hope, all ye that enter here.

Senses sharp, I began walking the thirty feet of the tunnel, down toward the other end where a matching set of doors waited. As I descended a slight downward slope, my footsteps were absolutely silent on the short-napped, black carpet.

I’d reached the halfway point when I heard another soft hiss and click, and I turned. The first set of doors, doors I’d thought were securely closed behind me, now were doubly so. My farsight feeling picked that time to kick in, reminding me this was a supremely dangerous place. As if I didn’t know it already.

When I strolled up to the second set of doors and drew them open, this time my ears popped faintly. Airlock. Maybe this really was the mother ship. Going on through, I found myself in a lobby. But what a lobby.

The room was huge, approximately fifty feet by fifty and well-lit, all done up in chrome and black leather. Gracing its center hulked a large, circular, metallic work station. It was a honey of a set up too, full of buttons, bright lights, closed-circuit TV monitors, and enough phone lines to reach Mars. I wished I could get a closer look, as I needed to know what kind of security the place had.

Behind the desk sat another guard. But he was different than those two high-school boys at the gate, and even seated I could tell the young man was big and rough-cut. A worm of scar tissue crossed the bridge of a lumpy nose that looked to have been broken and badly set more than once. But the smile beneath his small brown eyes was sunny as I walked up. My, what a happy bunch worked here. Maybe I should relocate.

“Yes sir, Mr. Fields?” he asked.

“My fame precedes me.”

“I’ve alerted Mr. Cross, sir. He’ll be right out.” The guard pointed to a bank of uncomfortable-looking leather and chrome visitor’s chairs to my left. “Have a seat.”

“No thanks. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Those things have back strain written all over them.”

“Yes, sir.” While the guard went back to viewing the screens, I gave the room a closer look. Besides the huge desk and those chairs, the area boasted plenty of live plants, ferns mainly. First the ones at Prestige, and now here, I mused. Maybe it was time I joined the crowd and bought a few of those for my own office.

My reverie was broken by a weird, wheezing voice behind me. “Mr. Fields?”

I turned, and came face to face with what appeared to be a living Buchenwald victim. I’m not kidding. The man was about my age and well over six feet tall beneath his natty blue blazer. But that’s where any similarities ended.

He was as skinny as a broom handle, all gristle and nerve ganglia, and saddled with tight, reddish skin and thick lips. But what shook me the most about him was his head. It was high-domed and narrow, graced with a hard bony ridge running across the top of his sunken, cadaverous face. Worse, there wasn’t a hint of hair on that head, not even eyebrows.

He appeared to be a burn victim, like I’d seen in the war. His gaze was humorous, though, and his icy blue eyes intelligent. In an instant I knew he was taking my measure.

“That’s right,” I acknowledged, and we shook.

Like his frame, his hands were hard, and layered with the characteristic knots and calluses indicative of a serious martial arts student. But there was more. They were so wrapped in old scar tissue the man had no fingernails, only smooth skin where they should have been.

“I’m Charles Cross, head of security. Nice to meet you.”

Right
.
I motioned around. “This is some place you have here, Mr. Cross. I’ll admit I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Who’s in charge?”

Cross’s teeth were dazzling, as white and even as the crosses at Arlington. “That would be my father, Eli. He asked me to escort you back. This way.” He motioned down a long hallway. It appeared we were in for a hike, but then I saw what he was really pointing at: a row of gray motorized golf carts lined up like soldiers.

Choosing one from the middle, Cross climbed on and indicated that I should join him. I did, taking the seat next to his. Flipping a switch, he stepped on the pedal, and we were off.

The cart’s wheels were noiseless as we traversed more of that same endless black carpet. Maybe they’d gotten a deal on it somewhere, I mused, so much off in exchange for doing the whole complex, and the salesman had retired on the commission he’d made. The hall seemed deserted as we passed relatively few office doors, all of them closed.

For some reason that made me vaguely uneasy.

After a few moments of silence my guide spoke up, glancing at me as he drove. “My father’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

“Meeting me as a representative of the EPA?” I inquired. “Or as the guy who put two of his employees in the hospital?”

Cross chuckled, glancing at me again before staring straight ahead. “Both, actually. Many men have tried, and failed, to do what you did with those two. I would imagine you’d make a formidable adversary.”

“Maybe.” My reply was glib. “And maybe I just got lucky last night.”

The other man smiled slightly, as if he was enjoying a private joke. “Oh, I don’t know. We each make our own luck, don’t you think?” Before I could answer he announced, “Here we are.”

We’d stopped at the last door at the end of the corridor. Getting off, I gave it a casual look. The portal carried the grain and color of fine oak, but I would have bet Smedley’s last peanut it was cleverly disguised metal, like everything else around here.

“I’ll be leaving you now,” Cross wheezed. Leaving? His tone was brisk as he climbed out of the cart and pointed at a recessed button set into the door’s frame. “Just press that and wait. You’ll be buzzed in. When you’re finished, feel free to use the cart to take you back up front. Enjoy your stay.”

And without as much as a have-a-nice-day, he began walking back down the same way we’d come, whistling a tuneless ditty. In ten steps he came to a branching corridor. Taking it, he turned and was gone; like the Cheshire cat’s smile, all that remained was his whistling as it faded.

Once again I looked around. No cameras, yet I knew I was under surveillance. And I bet I knew how. Using my knuckle, I mashed the button Cross had indicated. Nothing. The door remained closed. Uh-
huh.
I realized how this worked now.

With the pad of my thumb I pressed the button once more. There was a pause and the door slid back, as silent as a thought. Yep, biometrics.

From inside I heard, “Mr. Fields? Come in, please.”

Time to do what I came here for. Walking in like I meant it, I nearly stumbled to a sudden stop. Because I found myself right in the middle of the lair of Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Minus the cat.

Not really, of course, but the headquarters of James Bond’s old nemesis would have had a hard time competing with this room. Metal again, and plenty of it, this time not disguised in the slightest. There was more chrome around, more black leather, more ebony carpeting, more steel walls. It was as if Hal the computer from
2001: A Space Odyssey
had taken up interior decorating.

I knew what would soften this place up, I thought then, make it warmer and more attractive to the eye. Circus posters. Big ones, with chimps.

“Hello.” My attention was drawn from the stark décor to the man standing behind his desk, hand extended. “I’m Eli Cross.”

So this was our villain. At first read Cross struck me as the singular type of man you underestimate at your peril. Physically, in addition to their matching bald heads, the father bore some resemblance to the son. But at second glance, that wasn’t quite right. Eli’s baldness appeared natural, giving him a healthy glow, and as I said before, it seemed Charles’s hairlessness was the result of some kind of an accident.

Cross senior seemed to carry an almost electrical vitality, even though he wasn’t near my height. And it wasn’t his expensive dove gray pinstripe suit or his erect posture, either. I had the feeling that what we had here was that rarest of individuals, a man completely at ease with his supposed superiority over others. A snap analysis, but I’m a keen judge of character.

Walking the ten or so steps over I gripped the man’s hand. “John Fields, EPA.”

Eli Cross’s nod was curt as he motioned to a visitor’s chair opposite his desk with a manicured hand. “Please, have a seat, won’t you?”

I did, grateful the thing was normal, just regular office furniture. My host took his own seat behind his desk. In a bigger leather chair, of course.

Tenting his fingers, he studied me with a cool and seemingly condescending gaze. “So you’re the new field inspector for the EPA.”

“That’s right.”

“So what happened to the other man? Riley, was it?” Eli’s tone was light as he quietly snapped his fingers, as if searching his memory. “No, Ridley.”

I’d already prepared myself for this. “I don’t know. I never met him. Never even knew his name. I just transferred in from our eastern Montana region.”

“Montana. Big sky country. I hear the trout there are magnificent.”

“I suppose. I don’t fish much.” Which was a lie, but I was trying hard to project the image of the humorless, workadaddy bureaucrat.

“Neither do I. Tyranny of the urgent, and all that.”

I shifted my weight in the chair. “Mr. Cross, I’d love to talk fishing with you, but unfortunately my schedule is tight. And I’m still waiting for my email from Washington to get straightened out and sent to me. So I’ll just ask you point blank.” I spread my hands. “What kind of work do you do here?”

Eli lifted his head and laughed at the ceiling. It sounded artificial,
hah-hah-hah
, as if he didn’t get much practice at it. Then like a faucet shutting off he was done, and he looked back down at me. “We get asked that a lot. Believe it or not, GeneSys Technologies is a genetics lab. Albeit a big one.”

Bullshit. From what Marsh had uncovered on the drive, there was more to it than that.

“The name is simply a play on words,” he said. “GeneSys is shorthand for genetic systems. I came up with that myself.”

“Catchy. But again, what exactly is the facility’s purpose?”

“I’ll show you. Look here.” Turning to his left in his chair, Eli directed my attention to two, eleven by thirteen framed photos on the wall behind him. Of course, I’d noticed them when I entered, but didn’t place any importance to them. I was about to.

He pointed to the one on the left. “This is a shot of a normal tomato plant, the way they’ve looked for thousands of years. Four to six ounce fruit. No surprises.”

The photo featured a man’s thumb next to a bright red tomato hanging from the vine, as if for scale. He was right, it was nothing special. My family had grown them that big, and bigger, back in Gibbs.

“And this …” He indicated the other one. “Is that same species after we’ve tinkered with it.”

That same thumb now posed next to a monster. The tomato was grossly huge, nearly the size of a pumpkin, the vine supporting it equally outsized. But its color seemed off. Instead of a healthy red, the fruit appeared distended and pale, with dull, waxy skin.

I leaned forward to get a better look. “That’s real?”

“As real as you, Mr. Fields. Or me.”

I didn’t reply, my mind trying to absorb what I was seeing.

The CEO grew stentorian, as if giving a speech. “It’s as real as famine. Or want. Or deprivation. The things that have plagued humanity for centuries.”

My gaze returned to Cross as I stayed mute. Sometimes saying less says more.

“It may sound grandiose,” Eli pressed, “but we here at GeneSys intend to do our part, however small, to help end that cycle of famine. To aid our fellow man.”

I leaned back, concealing my expression of disbelief. Not at what he was saying; for all I knew maybe such a goal was attainable.