Fatal Harvest (12 page)

“Unless he
flew
to Amarillo,” Jill said. “Did you ask if the sheriff had checked out flights leaving Roswell and Carlsbad last night?”

“No. But he did tell me something important.” Cole paused. “They have a videotape of Matt buying snacks at a convenience store in Alamogordo.”

“Alamogordo! That’s the opposite direction from the way we went.”

“That’s because he went to Mexico,” Billy said. “He went to find that Hector Diaz guy.”

“Maybe. It seems far-fetched to me, but I told Sheriff Holtmeyer about the e-mail and the term paper anyway. I told him about your I-FEED Mexico connection, Jill, and that Matt had that name and address in his paper. Holtmeyer’s already following up on what I gave him about the two men who went to the school, Matt’s interest in Agrimax, and the other information. He called around, and he’s got people checking school records, talking to Matt’s teachers, even working with the USDA to contact Agrimax and the other food companies Matt was e-mailing.”

“The USDA,” Billy said. “Cool.”

“Holtmeyer’s not happy we took the computer, and he’s even less happy that we left town. But the sheriff’s a good man. When he heard about what happened here, he was concerned. He’s going to look into the Hector Diaz connection right away.”

“Wow.” Jill’s reaction came out as a sigh. “That’s great. I feel better knowing someone is working so hard from that end.”

“I realize you’d like to go home,” Cole said. “But I’m not comfortable leaving my mother here—”

“Stop jabbering, boy, and go find out who’s in that car outside!” Geneva cut in.

“Let’s go,” Billy said. “C’mon, Miss Pruitt.”

Jill glanced at Cole. “All right. We’ll hit the grocery store and be back in fifteen minutes. But if that Lincoln starts to tail us, I’m coming right back here.” She started for the door, then paused. “Give me the gun.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“I’m not going out there without protection.”

“What am I?” Billy protested.

“Sixteen. Cole, give me the gun.”

He shook his head as he handed over the weapon. “Do you even know how to shoot?”

“No. But I bet I can make it look good.” She dropped the gun into her bag and unlatched the front door. “Come on, Billy.”

Squaring his big shoulders, the teenager accompanied her to the pickup. “Don’t look over there,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t let him know we suspect anything.”

Feeling more nervous than she cared to admit, Jill slid onto the driver’s seat and fitted the key into the ignition. A thousand movie images shot through her head—cars blowing up the moment the key was turned, white-knuckle chases down winding mountain roads, people shooting at each other through open windows as they drove, stuntmen leaping from car to car….

Breathing a silent prayer, she turned the key. The pickup chugged to life. She put it into reverse and backed out onto the street.

“Don’t look at the guy as we pass,” Billy warned. “Just pretend like you don’t even see him.”

Jill swallowed as they rolled by the navy Lincoln. A quick glance told her the man was still inside the car. Just sitting there, watching. She pulled to a stop at the four-way intersection and signaled left.

“He’s not moving,” Billy reported. “He’s going to stay and keep an eye on the house. He must be waiting for the Mattman.”

Feeling as if each tiny tendril of nerve ending was relaxing just a smidgen, Jill drove toward the strip of shops where she’d found the drugstore. Had the Lincoln been on Geneva Strong’s street at that hour? Had she driven past it without even noticing? Had it tailed her?

Preparing to change lanes, she glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted the dark shape behind her. “Billy!” She grabbed his hand. “Oh, Billy, he’s following—don’t look! Oh, what am I going to do? Why didn’t I bring Cole? Where’s that gun—wait, don’t touch it!”

“Stop freaking, Miss Pruitt!” Billy hollered. “Stop shouting at me! Let’s turn around and go back to the house!”

“Be quiet. Don’t look back there. Just calm down, Billy.” She took two deep breaths. “Okay. We can do this. ‘For I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’
All things,
Billy.
All things through Christ.
Now think. Should we turn around and go back to the house or go to the store or drive straight to the police station?”

“Go back to the house!” Billy shouted, gripping the seat with both hands. “Let’s get Mr. Strong!”

“Billy, good grief, stop yelling at me!” Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes as Jill clutched the steering wheel with stiffened arms and inadvertently drove right past the shopping center. “Oh, no! I missed it, and now I’m lost—Dear God, please help us.”

The black plastic wheel grew slippery under her palms. She felt a tear slide down her cheek. This wasn’t happening. Really, it couldn’t be. She was a computer-tech teacher. She was a gardener and a churchgoer. She didn’t get chased by strange men in Lincoln cars.

“Get the gun out of my bag,” she told Billy. “Take it out, and whatever you do, don’t pull that trigger! And don’t look back!”

“Is he still behind us?”

“Yes, he’s making every turn I make.” She held her breath. “He turned!”

Billy swung around. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know! He just turned off and went down that street back there.”

“Well, let’s go after him!”

“Are you crazy?” She rubbed the heel of her hand across her damp cheek. “I’m going to find that shopping center and get back to Geneva’s house right now. And put that gun away, Billy!”

“I think we ought to follow him. We need to find out where he’s going, so we can see what he’s up to.”

Jill turned the pickup around in a driveway and headed back the way they had come, making turns that quickly began to seem random. “I’m not going to follow anyone. I may have traveled all the way to Bosnia and Sudan, but nobody was chasing me. Billy, I’m a chickenheart of the first order. Or maybe I’m just smart.”

“Nah, you’re a chickenheart, Miss Pruitt.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “If I’d been driving, I’d have followed him.”

She smirked. “Yeah, right.”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “Hey, didn’t we pass that doughnut shop on our way into town?”

After negotiating several more wrong turns and stopping at a gas station to ask directions, Jill finally found the shopping center. In moments, she was at the intersection again. But her relief vanished as she turned onto Geneva Strong’s street. In the same tree-shaded spot once occupied by the navy Lincoln sat a dark green Mercury Sable with a man in the front seat.

J
osiah Karume spotted a familiar face descending the curved staircase of the Hotel Batignolle Villiers in Paris. “Hector!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea you were coming to the conference, my friend.

The Mexican trotted across the lobby, his face beaming. “How could I miss the moment when you become our new chairman?”

“You mean the moment when the mountain of paperwork slides from my predecessor’s shoulders to my own?”

Hector laughed. “I cannot think of anyone more suited to climb that mountain than you.”

“Thank you, Hector. I appreciate your support.” Josiah gave his I-FEED colleague a warm handshake. The organization’s far-flung employees stayed at this small, inexpensive hotel when attending food summit meetings in France. It gave them the opportunity to share both professional and personal news.

“I’ve been planning the trip for some time,” Hector said. “The corn has become such an issue this year. I felt I should be here despite the cost.”

“Of course, Hector.” Josiah laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How is your wife? And those two fine sons?”

“All good. But I’m traveling too much these days. Mostly
to Oaxaca, of course. The roads are very bad down there. And you—how is your family,
amigo?
”

“Very well, thank you.” Newly arrived from the Somali refugee center, Josiah had intended to unpack his bags and leave for the conference center immediately. But registration could wait. “May I treat you to a late lunch, Hector? This corn situation will affect my work, too, sooner or later. I should like to know what you’ve learned.”

“Certainly. I was planning to walk down the street to a café just now anyway. Shall we?”

Josiah left his bags with the hotel manager and accompanied the younger man out into the spring afternoon. The Friday traffic sped past them, not so different from Nairobi, New York, Buenos Aires or any other large city. In Paris, businessmen hurried to appointments, lovers strolled along the Champs-Élysées, tourists poured from the Louvre to board sightseeing boats that cruised along the Seine. Everyone moving, talking, honking, pushing, urging. Few gave thought to anything beyond the circle of their own vision. Most in this world, Josiah knew, had very narrow vision.

“Researchers for the Mexican Environmental Ministry recently went into the mountain villages of Oaxaca,” Hector was saying as they took a table at a small sidewalk café on Rue des Batignolles. “They were trying to confirm what a team from the UZACHI agricultural center had discovered in November 2000—that the genetically pure strain of corn in the Zapotec Indian village of Calpulapan had been polluted by genetic alterations.”

“I read the original study, of course. I was deeply concerned.”

“As were we. Our rural indigenous people believe the gods created man from an ear of corn. To alter a religious icon is bad enough, but Mexico has only about sixty pure varieties of native corn—a crop that can be traced back four
thousand years. My friend, the whole world relies on our un-polluted genetic stock to ensure biological diversity.”

The Kenyan had fallen silent as his colleague spoke. He knew diversity was essential as a hedge against diseases, pests and climate change. But genetically modified strains of corn could contaminate or even displace Mexico’s original stock. While there was no evidence that eating these modified crops was harmful, it was clear that they could crowd out—and eventually eliminate—the pure varieties. And without biodiversity, a single pesticide-resistant insect or disease could virtually wipe out the world’s supply of corn.

As Josiah tried to imagine Sub-Saharan Africa without its staple food, cornmeal, Hector greeted the waiter. The men ordered sandwiches on baguettes and spoke of other things—the upcoming conference on world food issues, their countries’ World Cup soccer prospects, the status of I-FEED.

When their lunch arrived, Josiah was deep in thought. “Tell me, Hector,” he said, “were the researchers for the Mexican Environmental Ministry able to confirm the original study on the polluted corn? Or did they find it to be false?”

Hector shrugged. “False, of course. The few polluted strains discovered, they announced, may disappear by themselves or remain at low levels for a long period of time. Ha! Disappear? Can you imagine that? But you must understand, the ministry is under great pressure to deflect attention from the problem. Mexico is a net importer of corn, my friend—more than nine million tons annually, and almost all of it from where?”

“The United States,” Josiah said. “Home of the world’s giant agrochemical companies and genetically engineered–seed producers. Tell me, have you spoken with Vince Grant about this matter?”

“Why do you place so much trust in Agrimax, Josiah?
That company and the two other Goliaths—Progrow and Megafarm—have far too much control over the world’s food supply. And I question whether they are truly competitors. Yes, my friend, we know who fills Señor Grant’s bank account.”

“But his heart, Hector. I believe his heart is good.” The Kenyan sighed. “He has promised a large shipment of cornmeal for my Sudan project.”

“And where is this cornmeal now?” Hector held up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess. Still in a warehouse in Kansas?”

“I have to send him the final paperwork.”

“We shall see, amigo.” He tapped Josiah’s plate with his fork. “But eat. Here, you have rich white bread stuffed with roasted chicken and fresh egg and tomato. Soon enough, you return to the land where no rain falls and nothing grows. Where if the people don’t perish of hunger, then AIDS will get them soon enough.”

“Thank you, Hector,” he said. “You have such a way with words. I should nominate you for the chairmanship of the public-relations committee.”

Cole slipped the cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans. “Jill and Billy are back,” he informed his mother, who was dozing in a recliner. “Mom, I’m going now.”

Geneva opened her eyes and let out a deep breath. “Cole, you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, and you’re all keyed up. I wish you would just—”

“He followed us!” Billy announced, bursting into the house and tossing Jill’s bag onto the sofa. “That Lincoln followed us all the way past the shopping center and up and down a bunch of streets while Miss Pruitt got lost, and then he turned off onto some side street. I wanted to follow, but she wouldn’t do it, so anyhow, it took us a while to find our way back. But we did, and did you see the guy in the Mercury out there?”

“Cole, what’s wrong?” Jill shut the door. “Something’s happened.”

“Sheriff Holtmeyer called while you were gone,” he said. “The El Paso police found Matt’s pickup in a parking lot near the main bridge to Juarez.”

“I told you!” Billy crowed, lifting one hand for a high five. No one responded, so he turned it into a victory fist. “Yes! I knew the Mattman went to Mexico! I knew that’s what he meant by the paper trail. He went down there to find Hector Diaz!”

“But Hector’s not there,” Jill said. “He’s in Paris.”

“We know that, but Matt didn’t.” Cole picked up the plastic sack of toiletries Jill had bought earlier for Billy. “I can’t understand why he thought he needed to see Diaz, and I have no idea where he’ll go when he finds out the I-FEED office is closed. But I think I’d better head down there and look for him. I’ll take the first flight from Amarillo to El Paso. Then I’ll rent a car and drive over to Juarez. Jill, can you give me the address for the Mexico I-FEED office?”

She grabbed her bag off the sofa. “Here,” she said, “take my Palm. It’s got all my contacts.”

“Take the gun, too, Mr. Strong,” the boy said. “You might need it!”

“He can’t take a gun on the plane.” Jill rolled her eyes at Billy.

Cole took Jill’s arm. “Will you step outside with me for a minute? I need to ask you something.”

“And I need to tell you something.”

He didn’t like the sound of that, Cole thought as he walked out onto the narrow concrete stoop of his mother’s house. He glanced down the street at the Mercury. “Two men in it?” he asked her.

“I’m not positive. Maybe just one.” Jill tucked a curly tendril behind her ear. “Listen, Cole, I’m going with you to Juarez.”

“What? No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I know Hector Diaz and his secretary personally, I know right where his office is, and I speak fluent Spanish.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You might. Besides, I don’t have any plans for the weekend, so there’s no point in my going home right away.”

Cole’s irritation over the strangers in the Mercury doubled as he focused on Jill’s green eyes. A curl sprang out from behind her ear, but she didn’t seem to notice. “No,” he said, reaching out and tucking it back, “you’re not going with me. In fact, I was going to ask you—and I had intended to be polite about it, too—if you’d be willing to stay here and keep an eye on my mother until I get back. But now I’ll just have to tell you what you’re going to do, because if I stand here and argue, I’ll miss my flight.”

“I’d be happy to stay here, but you don’t need to be heading off to Mexico by yourself.”

“I’m fine by myself. I do everything alone.”

“But you and I are a team now. God put us together in this, don’t you see? And besides, I’m very worried about Matt. I think if I—”

“No,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “No, we’re not a team. You’re you, and I’m me. I’m the one who asked you to come along, not God. I needed you to work the computer, and now I need you to stay here and watch my mother and keep Billy out of trouble.”

“Billy can watch your mother. Those men aren’t interested in her. They’re after Matt, and that’s why I’m telling you that I—”

“Lady, you could drive a man to drink.” Irritation surging through him, Cole swung around and stalked down the driveway toward the street. Bad enough he had to deal with a couple of thugs terrorizing his mother. Now he had this stubborn woman on his hands, too.

Well, he’d take care of one of the two this minute, he decided, crossing the street and striding toward the Mercury. He could hear Jill following. Even her shoes on the sidewalk sounded determined. What kind of a female was she? God-fearing, zealous, manipulative, hardheaded…and what was he going to do with her? Why had he touched her hair? He wrapped up his jumbled emotions and prepared to hurl them at the strangers watching his mother’s house.

“Hey,” he said, rapping hard on the window. “What are you doing here?”

The tinted glass slid down into the car door, and a man with thinning dark hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses blinked at Cole. “Well, I’m lost, to tell you the truth.”

He smiled at Jill, and somehow that made Cole even madder.

“What’s the problem, sir?” she asked the man.

He held up a sheet of notebook paper on which something had been scribbled. “I’m looking for the home of a Geneva Strong. I was given the street name but not the house number. Do you live in this neighborhood, ma’am?”

“What do you want with Geneva Strong?” Cole demanded.

The man shifted position on the seat, wariness veiling his eyes. “Well, I was told to come here and speak to her.”

“What about?”

“Umm…well. It’s a private matter, actually.”

“I bet it is. I’m her son, buster, so why don’t you just spit it out.”

“Her son!” The man smiled, opened the car door and stepped out. “That’s a relief. They sent me over here from Lubbock. I drove up early this morning, and I seem to have gotten down the address right, except for—”

“Who sent you?”

“The USDA. I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He held out his hand. “Charles Keeling. Friends call me Chuck. Pleased to know you, Mr. Strong.”

“You men have any ID?” Cole asked.

“Of course, sir.” Keeling motioned to his partner, and both men pulled small wallets from inside their jackets. Keeling held his open, and Cole inspected the familiar green logo—the letters USDA emblazoned above a graphic depiction of rolling farmland.

His anger skulking away like a guilty dog, Cole shook the man’s hand. “Cole Strong. This is Jill Pruitt. So why did the USDA send you to Amarillo?”

“I work in security. I’m with the Office of Crisis Planning and Management—the Texas division, of course. I manage technology for the OCPM across the state. We generally deal with larger issues like counterterrorism and biosecurity, but sometimes the department sends us out to help with more localized concerns. I brought along one of our men from the physical security area.” Keeling leaned into the car. “Ted? This is Mrs. Strong’s son.”

A tall, heavy-shouldered man emerged from the passenger side of the Mercury. He had a shock of graying hair, thin lips, and a neck the size of Jill Pruitt’s waist. He and Cole introduced themselves.

“Ted works as a security guard, for the most part,” Keeling explained, “though he’s had some other training and experience we thought might be helpful.”

“Helpful for what?”

“Last night, my supervisor got a phone call from the Eddy County Sheriff’s Department in New Mexico. I’m assuming your son is Matthew Strong?”

“That’s right.”

“We understand there may be a connection between your son’s situation and a company called Agrimax. Apparently, a former Agrimax employee, Jim Banyon, was murdered yesterday. We realize your son is being sought in connection with the crime, Mr. Strong, but we believe there may be more to this than first meets the eye. Matthew was taken out of school by two men, am I right?”