Invasive Species (16 page)

“That's because it isn't.” Jack smiled at her. “It's also not what's going on here. You're doing it again, you know, forcing your feeble human theories on something far more beautiful and profound.”

Sheila compressed her lips but didn't say anything.

“Listen. The fish in a school don't all react the same way to the same information . . . because they're not all
receiving
the same information. Think about it. Not every member of the school is under the same threat. If they were each reacting to what they were seeing, the ones on the edges of the school would flee in opposite directions, while the ones closest to the predator would plunge or head for the surface. No coordination. Every fish for itself.”

Sheila nodded, beginning to understand. “But that's not what happens.”

“No, it's not. The movement of the school is exquisitely—and instantaneously—coordinated. And the goal is for the most members of the flock or school to survive, not any one individual. In fact, you could argue that some individuals sacrifice themselves for the greater good.”

Sheila was quiet.

“
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
wasn't the half of it,” Jack said.
“That's
the beauty of the real hive mind at work.”

There was a long silence. Then Sheila looked at Trey. “You know about this?”

Trey nodded. “You spend as much time out in the woods as I do, you see it in action.”

“Okay. I buy it.” She paused. “But that leads to the obvious question.”

The corners of Jack's mouth turned down. “I know,” he said. “‘How does it work?'”

“Yes, that's the one.”

Now Jack was scowling. “I fucking hate obvious questions.”

“Why?”

“Because the answer to this one is: We have no idea.”

*   *   *

“GEORGE SUMMERS IN
Ag,” Jack decided.

They'd been figuring out what their next step should be. No one wanted to sit around, sticking pins in the map.

“Ugh,” Trey said. “The government?”

“I know. But Agriculture is in charge of keeping track of invasive species.”

Sheila didn't look impressed. “Things like wood-boring beetles and aphids.”

“George is kind of an asshole, but he's not stupid. He might listen.” Jack looked Sheila up and down. “Especially if it's you doing the talking. He likes a bit of skirt.”

“‘A bit of skirt,'” Sheila said.

Jack grinned.

“Anyway, forget it,” Sheila went on. “Despite such inducements, I'm not going.”

Jack looked surprised, but Trey had seen this coming. “You're planning to go see Kaitlin,” he said.

Sheila nodded.

Jack thought about it. “Makes sense,” he said. “We might learn something.”

She frowned. “I'm not going to learn, but to teach.”

Jack said, “What?”

Sheila was looking at Trey. “You came halfway across the world,” she said to him, “to tell me that I wasn't crazy. That I hadn't killed my mother.” She paused. “You saved my life.”

Trey could think of nothing to say in return. But Sheila wasn't looking at him anymore. She was facing the computer screen.

“This poor little girl,” she said. “Kaitlin. She deserves someone to do the same for her, doesn't she?”

Washington, D.C.

“LET ME GET
this straight,” George Summers said. “You rode the Acela all the way down here to tell me about a bug.”

He was sitting behind his desk on the fifth floor of the Department of Agriculture building. A disgruntled-looking man in his late forties, with a face like a hatchet, narrowed eyes, a permanent five-o'clock shadow, and a mouth with a lifetime's experience in turning down at the corners, as it was doing now.

Jack was looking back at him. It wasn't a friendly look. “The Metroliner,” he said. “On our own dime. You're forgetting that not everybody's lucky enough to have the American taxpayer springing for his travel.”

Trey stayed quiet. As far as he was concerned, the best thing you could do when dealing with government officials was keep your mouth shut.

Especially when you were skew data like Trey. Someone who went off the grid, traveled for a living, got in trouble.

Governments hate skew data.

“I don't know,” George Summers was saying to Jack. “The American Museum still pays you, don't they? Seems to me they use plenty of taxpayer money, too.”

Jack's mouth was a grim line behind his beard. “I took a vacation day.”

“Well, then, I'm afraid you wasted one. We should have just wrapped this up on the phone.” Summers pointed to a stack of thick files on his metal-topped desk. “And then I could have added your report to the pile without wasting time with this lunatic social call.”

After a moment Jack sighed and said, “George, if you'll just listen—”

But Summers didn't seem to be in the mood for listening. It got in the way of his talking.

“Tell me something,” he said, his eyes on Trey. “How many foreign insects and plants do you think make it into the U.S. each year? Let's just say each year since 2001. A rough guess will be fine.”

Trey just shook his head. But Jack shifted in his seat and said in a whiny approximation of a child's voice, “Papa, tell us about the effects of September eleventh again!”

Summers's mouth turned down, but the jibe didn't stop him. “One of the first things the new Department of Homeland Security did after 9/11,” he said, “was reassign hundreds of Ag scientists who'd been focused on stopping the spread of invasive insect and plant species. Overnight, presto, they became members of Customs and Border Protection.”

“He always forgets,” Jack said, “that I was there.”

Summers stared at him. “Were you? Funny, I don't recall that. I don't recall seeing your face back then, when people who'd spent their whole lives fighting troublesome bugs suddenly found themselves being told to learn the twelve signs of a suicide bomber.” His face darkened. “Know what? Surprise! Most of our people didn't want to become cops. You should have seen them heading for the doors. Homeland Security didn't get its new border protectors, and we didn't keep our inspectors.”

Summers took a deep breath, and when he went on his voice was calmer. “After that, the pests went wild. Our borders were closed to anyone with swarthy skin, but they were wide open to
them
. Chilli thrips. Emerald ash borers. A thousand others.
They
didn't need passports—”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Jack said, “shut up.”

Summers stared at him.

“If you don't stop living in the fucking past and start paying attention,” Jack went on, “you're going to be dreaming of the days when chilli thrips were your biggest problem.”

This was the part of the conversation where, in other countries Trey had visited, he and Jack would have been spun around and frog-marched to the nearest windowless room with bars on the door.

Here though, George Summers merely sat back and gave them a grim-eyed look.

“Why should I listen?” he said. “I already know what you're creaming your jeans to tell me about.”

Jack blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A wasp. A big black wasp.”

*   *   *

“YOU THINK I
didn't hear?” Summers said. “With all the noise you've been making? You're as bad as cicadas in August, you two.”

Jack looked disgusted. “Then why are you jerking us around?”

Summers's dark gaze was unyielding. “Because I don't buy it. I think you're lumping a few truths together with a bunch of guesses and suppositions and wild surmise. With the result that, like all paranoiacs, you're seeing bogeymen everywhere.”

Jack said, “We think—”

“I know what you think. And I know how it went.” He pointed at Trey. “
You
encountered a new species of wasp in Senegal, along with a lot of mumbo jumbo.” Now at Jack. “When Gilliard came back to New York, having screwed his reputation even more than before,
you
took his slender thread of evidence—though that's an insult to slender threads—and ran with it.”

He sat back. “And then the two of you hijacked that poor young lady doctor whose mother had been killed. Encouraged her delusions. She's the alcoholic and you're the ‘friends' who keep refilling her glass. You two should be ashamed of yourselves.”

His expression was bleak. “And where is she now, your damaged friend? Heading to Florida, so she can spread your delusions to another vulnerable victim. Disgraceful.”

He stopped, and for a few moments the room was silent. Then Jack reached down for his laptop. “Watch the videos—”

“I've seen them. I watched them all after you called. You think I don't do my homework? Yes, there's a wasp. Hooray.”

“And—” Jack said.

Summers ran over him. “And the population is spreading. Surprise! Welcome to the world. Species move around, especially these days, or hadn't you noticed?” He gestured again at the pile of folders on his desk. “What do you think I work on every single frackin' day?”

“They've made it here to the U.S.,” Jack said.

Summers's face tightened for a moment. “First of all,” he said, and now his voice was quiet, icy. “First of all, I don't believe you. You're doing it again, taking every tragedy you can find and claiming it for your wasp. Leave that poor little girl in Florida alone.”

He fixed his gaze on Trey, who stayed silent.

“What killed those people on Marco Island was Africanized bees, one of the pests that fell through the cracks after 9/11,” Summers said. “They're not part of your story. But say you're right about the rest. Your wasp's here. The point is:
So what?
”

He looked again at his stack of files. “That just makes it like thousands of other invasive species. Those killer bees we've been talking about. Anacondas. The giant African land snail. You want more? I could go on all day.”

His eyes went back to Trey's face. “You want reassurance, Gilliard? Here it is: We'll get to your wasp, I promise, just as soon as we've dealt with all those others.”

Trey said, “Wasn't my idea to come here. Fact, I bet Jack ten dollars you'd be completely useless.”

Now Summers was quiet. Trey held out a hand, and after a moment Jack, scowling, got out his wallet, extracted a bill, and handed it over.

“Easiest money I've made in months,” Trey said.

Summers stood. “Okay, you two clowns. We're done here. I have actual work to do. You know, important work in the
real
world.” He pointed. “Close the door on your way out.”

Trey stayed where he was. “Three days ago, in Costa Rica, I saw ‘my wasp' in action,” he said. “I saw it kill two people.”

Something flickered in Summers's gaze. “Explain.”

Trey explained. When he was halfway through, Summers sat down again.

He didn't speak until Trey was done. Then, his voice hoarse around the edges, he spoke four words.

“I don't believe you.”

And five more.

“Get out of my office.”

*   *   *

JACK AND TREY
left the enormous Agriculture building, wended their way through the concrete barriers strewn along the sidewalk to prevent a car bombing, and crossed Independence Avenue to the Mall. The day had grown hot, the afternoon sun hanging heavy in a smeared sky.

They had time to kill before catching their train home. At a food truck that was still selling lunch, each bought a falafel and a can of soda wrapped in a wet napkin. Then they sat on a bench amid purposeful men and women in business suits, meandering tourists in shorts and T-shirts, and runners whose neon shoes shone like beacons as they went past.

Jack took a bite of his sandwich, then wiped a hand across his mouth and said, “Think they've made it here yet?”

Trey shrugged. “Maybe. Only a matter of time.”

“They'll love it.” Jack watched the oblivious crowd. “Perfect weather and so many hosts to choose from.”

They ate in silence for a while. Then Jack said, “What's your take on our friend George?”

Trey finished his sandwich before answering. Then he said, “He was trying too hard.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. You could hear it in his voice.”

Jack nodded. “Agree. Overrehearsed, right? And all those pat phrases: ‘Disgraceful.' ‘You should be ashamed.' Yadda.”

“He didn't expect to hear about my face-to-face at La Tamandua, though.”

“Yeah. That shook him.”

A busload of Chinese tourists passed, heading toward the Capitol Building. Eyes on them, Jack said, “Question is, why try to throw us off?”

“That one's easy,” Trey said.

He was thinking about his taxi driver in Kigoma, who'd been reluctant to take him to see the Connellys' torched house. The old woman in the marketplace, wary about talking to him, always watching to see who might be listening. And Sheila's guards at the hospital, making sure no one talked to her.

He thought about governments and what they would do to protect their investments. The money they made from tourism, foreign trade, imports-exports, and other markets that would crash if word of the thieves got out.

He thought about the way governments made the same mistakes over and over again. It was what they did best.

“They're going to try to keep the lid on,” he said.

Jack's mouth tightened, making his beard bristle. “For how long?”

Trey shrugged. “Forever?”

“Least till Election Day.”

The two of them looked out at the passing crowd. All the government workers chatting as they walked by. All those moving mouths. Over on Constitution Avenue, a TV news truck was setting up a remote shoot. Another news camera was set up in front of the Reflecting Pool, the Capitol Building in the background.

“Election Day or forever,” Jack said, “I don't think it's gonna work.”