The Violet Crow (31 page)

The Chief checked it out through his binoculars. It was Littlejohn and Porthous.

“What's going on?” Bruno asked impatiently.

“They're arguing. There's pushing and shoving.”

“What do you think it's all about?”

“Hard to say. I'm guessing the man may be what's-his-name—Littlejohnson. The woman's got big hair, like an afro, so she's probably a professor too. It looks like Alison's friends want to be there right with her for the big event, or maybe they're trying to protect her.”

“From what?”

“Exactly my point.” The Chief kept narrating like a sportscaster. “The ushers are moving in. They're breaking it up. They've placed Littlejohn and Big Hair in the seats directly in front of Alison. Now she's arguing with the man. He keeps trying to grab her arm and she keeps pulling away.” He turned to Bruno. “I wonder if we should get her out of there. Go in and grab her right now?”

“Let me see.” Bruno grabbed the binoculars. But just then the pianist took his bow, the lights dimmed, and the room went quiet.

When the lights came back up, Emmanuel Fischer was standing alone in front of the curtain. He thanked the audience for coming and welcomed them to the Garden State. Then he tried to launch into the main part of his speech. “For 15 years, our mission has been to transform our world into a new garden, through the promise of biotechnology …”

That was as far as he got when he was interrupted by a chorus of jeers and hisses. Littlejohn and Porthous were standing up and trying to get the other protestors to shout down the speaker.

Fischer studied them with contempt. Obviously he wasn't prepared for such juvenile behavior, which is normally confined to college campuses. Fischer stood uncomfortably while the disruption continued.

People in the audience grew restive. A few hollered, “Let him speak.” Littlejohn and Porthous exhorted the students to join them, but most refused to join in. Their eyes were glued on Alison, who sat solid and silent.

A voice came on the loudspeaker. “
Anywon
disrupting the meeting will be removed from the
awditworium
.”

Littlejohn and Porthous stopped hissing and jeering. They cast hostile looks at the students and tried to disappear into their seats.

Dr. Fischer resumed speaking. “For some reason, I felt compelled to invite a couple of my in-laws,” he ad-libbed. “They're too shy to tell me how they really feel about me.” The audience exploded with laughter and applause.

The curtain opened behind Fischer, and he continued his presentation. On the stage were the glass-covered exhibits, which Bruno recognized from the company museum. In fact, Fischer was giving the exact same speech on the promise of biotechnology that Jurevicius had delivered on Bruno's first visit to the company. Fischer roved from exhibit to exhibit, while a video camera followed him and projected enlarged images on the screen behind him.

As Fischer concluded, Chief Black looked at his watch and called Biff on his radio. “Tell everybody to stay in position outside. It's a bit dicey in here. We may need to move fast.”

Fischer introduced Dr. Jurevicius, who seemed to have twice the energy as his predecessor. He moved briskly around the stage while he talked about the company's financials. Since all of the revenue came from agriculture, that was his focus. He mentioned medical research briefly, noting, “The burn rate is still manageable for the time being.”

Then he stepped to the front of the stage and shielded his eyes from the glare. “Some of our newest shareholders are students in the Sociology Department at the University of Pennsylvania,” he announced genially. “Can we give them all a warm NewGarden welcome?” The spotlights panned across the section where Alison was sitting. Most of the audience applauded politely, with a few ironic jeers and whistles mixed in.

“Judging from the signs I saw on the way in …” The crowded interrupted Jurevicius with a lively chorus of boos.

The Chief took advantage of the noise to send another quick radio message. Bruno couldn't hear what he said, but there was a look of urgency in his eye.

Jurevicius quieted the crowd with an upraised palm. “Now, please. Let's show our friends we welcome debate as an exchange based on
facts
.”

There was a hearty round of applause for “facts.”

“The fact is, Scarecrow Corn does not kill crows. It merely makes the corn unpalatable to them, without changing the taste or nutritional qualities for humans and animals.”

More applause.

“Now I'd like to show you a little movie we've made to illustrate how our technology works. It's a remix of a couple of classic tales. I hope you enjoy it.”

The film started out as a homage to Hitchcock. Filmed in lurid Technicolor, it played off the promotional newsreel for
The Birds
. Instead of repeating, “
The Birds
is coming,” the NewGarden version said, “The birds are going” over and over. And of course it didn't show crows attacking schoolchildren. It showed crows dive-bombing cornfields, then pulling up at the last second, shaking their beaks with disgust.

Then the film segued into the famous hangover scene in
Dumbo
, where the crows sing, “When I see an elephant fly.” The corporate version was called “I Doan Like Dat Scarecrow Corn” and it had new words dubbed in. It started out with the crows half-talking/half-singing among themselves:

I like corn on the cob.

I like corn dogs, too.

I even like corn chowder.

Then they break into rollicking, full-fledged harmony:

You can hang me from the highest treeee

If y'ever see me eatin' dat Scarecrow Corn.

The audience was laughing and cheering wildly while Jurevicius came prancing back onto the stage. “Isn't that a hoot?” he yelled, stirring the crowd to further excesses.

The university contingent sat dumbfounded. No one showed
Dumbo
in public anymore. It was beyond offensive; it was taboo. Was this a shareholder meeting or a KKK rally? Some of the more suggestible even worried they might not get out of there alive.

Then things got even spookier. At Jurevicius' signal the light dimmed. Next, the audience saw the image of a giant crow floating four feet above the stage in ultraviolet light. Jurevicius, decked out in an ultraviolet suit, hopped nimbly up onto the float and stood at the feet of the giant crow—to the audience's continuous applause. At last the noise died down and he bowed his head in thanks. “We'd like to end the meeting with a brief Q&A. We have time for about a half-dozen questions.”

Bruno felt his heart beating rapidly. Why? What did he think was going to happen? If Alison had something to say, she was going to say it now. He looked over at the Chief. He could see his jaw working. He must be feeling the tension, too. The Chief held his radio close to his mouth. Bruno heard him say, “This is it. Get ready.”

But the first questioner was a money manager. An usher presented him with a microphone and he asked a lengthy question about the quality of earnings. Jurevicius provided a detailed answer with references to the supply chain and overseas demand.

The next question was from an individual investor. She wanted to know when the company was going to start paying a dividend. Jurevicius hit that one out of the park. NGBS was a growth company. When it reached a cap size of say, $10 billion, which implied a share price growth of 1,000%, then he'd start paying a dividend.

The audience went giddy. The applause started to hurt Bruno's ears.

Jurevicius fielded a few more questions from money managers. Bruno looked at the Chief. He gestured frantically to Bruno, “Let's move. Now.” They stayed low and started creeping down the center aisle.

Then Jurevicius scanned the audience. “I'll take one final question from one of our friends at the U of P. But please, no politics. This is a business meeting.”

Several hands were raised. Then it struck Bruno. He was searching for Alison. What if the microphone were rigged with a detonator or something? He looked at the Chief. He was down in his crouch, walking crablike as quickly as he could. Then it happened. The ushers had found Alison. They were handing her the mike.

Bruno felt frozen in place as Alison lifted it to her mouth and started to speak.

“Where is Dr. Fischer?” her voice boomed.

“You don't have to shout, my dear, your voice is amplified,” said Jurevicius.

“Where's Dr. Fischer?” Alison repeated.

“He's right here, backstage, of course. What is your question?”

Bruno thought Jurevicius looked momentarily confused. He looked around as though trying to catch someone's eye. Was he summoning Fischer?

“I'm asking,” said Alison, her voice rising in volume along with her emotions, “because I came here today to accuse you, you and Dr. Fischer …”

Jurevicius frantically gestured with his hand cutting across his throat.

“… of murder. I saw the whole thing …”

The lights went out and they cut power to Alison's mike. Above the crowd noise you could hear her shouting, “I saw the whole thing … and I found Ginnie Doe's body on your property!”

Then there was a flash of light and a loud noise. It seemed as if the violet crow was exploding. People started screaming, “Someone's been shot.”

Then they stormed the exits.

“We have to help her,” Bruno screamed, trying to push his way against the crowd.

The Chief grabbed Bruno and pulled him back. “You'll never get to her that way.” He used the crowd's momentum to carry them to the nearest exit. Fortunately, the door opened easily and they were hurled safely out onto the NewGarden loading dock.

Chapter 62

The parking lot was chaos. People were screaming. People were injured. People were crying.

The Chief spoke quickly but calmly on his radio. He was summoning more help. He put out a call for all available emergency medical response units. And he called the State Patrol to put them on alert.

“Why isn't their security coming out to help?” he radioed Michelle.

“Don't know, sir. Probably busy dealing with the situation inside.”

The Chief turned to Bruno. “What are you doing?” he shouted. The psychic had been lurching from student to student, trying to find out what had happened. The responses were incoherent. The Chief pulled him away and led him to Randy. “I want you two to stay together. Keep a low profile, and if you see Jurevicius or Fischer, let Randy know right away.”

They got into Randy's Charger and pulled into a spot in the parking lot where they wouldn't look too conspicuous.

They waited for what seemed an impossibly long time. The line of cars trying to clear the parking lot had almost dissipated. Medical vehicles were arriving with sirens blaring and their crews were rushing around treating the victims. Then the radio crackled to life. It was the Chief. “I'm inside the building. Security is non-existent; they seem to have melted away. One of the professors got shot; it's sort of serious, but not life-threatening. Fischer's having a nervous breakdown. No sign of Jurevicius.”

“What about Alison?” shouted Bruno.

“No sign of her either,” the Chief reported. “I guess she escaped.”

Bruno knew he should not be taking this as good news. Nevertheless, he felt elated. Alison wasn't killed or injured. She was safe.

A few minutes later, a red 5-series BMW whipped out of the garage and headed out of the parking lot. Serge Jurevicius was at the wheel and he appeared to be alone.

“That's him,” said Bruno, hopping into the passenger's seat.

“What are you doing?” asked Randy.

“It's
simcha
time. Let's party.”

Randy stared at Bruno with a mixture of dismay and disbelief. He had come to the NGBS circus in undercover attire, jeans, and a leather jacket—the right look for someone driving a '68 Charger. After facing combat in the first Gulf War, with live ammunition spraying at him from hostiles with automatic weapons, he was not prone to getting too worked up over matters of lesser urgency. He saw Bruno as a civilian, nothing more, nothing less. Bruno's lack of training concerned him. However, the Chief had ordered them to stay together.

He grunted, “Fine,” and dropped the Charger into gear. “Don't touch this unless things get really crazy.” He placed a small revolver on the console. “It's my backup. Smith and Wesson 340PD.”

“You just point and shoot, right?”

“Very funny. It's got .357 loads, five of them. Use two hands or it could break your wrist.”

Jurevicius drove furiously out of the gate. He took the turn onto Marter Avenue with tires squealing, then slowed to a moderate pace when he saw no one in hot pursuit. He didn't seem to notice Randy, who was following at a prudent distance. Slowly, they wended their way through downtown Maplewood and the endless succession of traffic lights in Berry Hill.

Bruno had nothing to do and, after the excitement of the meeting, a peculiar sort of manic boredom started to set in. His face twisted into a snarl as he assumed a crazed Edgar G. Robinson voice: “Coppers ain't gonna get me! Not me. Yahahahaha?”

Then he switched to a different character, a big, dumb lug, who replied, “Yeah boss.”

Randy stole a quizzical look at Bruno, who was grinning idiotically.
“Dow. Dow. Dow. Dow
. Dey shot the
door
off, but dey ain't gonna get me! Yeah, boss.”

Randy shook his head. Guys had funny ways of preparing themselves for battle, but this was pathetic. He tried to ignore it, but Bruno wouldn't let him.

“
Ganefs
,” he pronounced, putting down his imaginary gun and resuming his own voice. “The story appeared in the premier issue of
Mad Magazine
. October 1952.”

“OK.”

“‘
Ganefs'
means ‘thieves'—not that they ever bothered to translate, or even tell you it was Yiddish. The
ganefs
are the boss and his assistant, Bumble. They're trying to get away, but the coppers keep shooting their car apart, a piece at a time. The boss keeps yelling, ‘Nyaah, coppers. You'll never get me.' And Bumble keeps saying, ‘Yeah, boss.'”