Pitfall (13 page)

What got me was his overacting. He must have spent hours perfecting his words for the tourist trade. Here was obviously a man who loved to hear himself talk. But as I said, from the information I’d copied to the flash drive at Brighter Day, there was more to this place than growing county fair prizewinning farm products. People didn’t vanish because of produce.

“That’s a lofty goal you’ve set, sir.” I strove to give the appearance of being impressed. “I wish you the best. But I do have another question.”

“Yes?”

I nodded my head toward the picture of the Franken-mater. “How does it taste?”

“Taste.” Eli frowned, tenting his fingers again and looking pensive, as if I’d hit a nerve. Good. “We’re working on that night and day. And having some success.”

“Some?”

His expression grew pained. This time I didn’t think it was an act.

“Mr. Fields, we can make vegetables and fruits grow to nearly any size we wish, the only limitation being the girth of the vines themselves delivering the necessary nutrients. The fact is, there’s no real trick to making them big. A simple DNA splice accomplishes it.”

Sure, why not. The kid down the street from me does one every week in his basement with his Gilbert chemistry set.

“The problem we’re having is that when the plants reach a certain mass, they tend to turn … inedible.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Yes, I can see how that might not go over well with the public.” I almost added, remind me to never eat a B.L.T. at your house, but didn’t.

Eli narrowed his eyes at my jape. Obviously he failed to see the humor in the idea of growing a tomato as big as your head that was impossible to eat.

“It’s really not a joking matter.” His aspect was frosty. “If we can solve that problem, we’ll have gone a long way toward remedying a persistent world malady.”

“My apologies,” I offered, hoping he’d buy it. Because I wasn’t sorry at all. “Are you working on anything else?”

“Yes. We’ve had quite good success with a mold-resistant strain of feed corn, and within the year we should be producing Bibb lettuce that can remain viable at thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit for up to ten weeks.”

That sounded fine, but I’d bet what Eli Cross was describing could be accomplished in a facility a third this size.

I hid my thoughts. “That’s terrific, Mr. Cross. Really.” Standing, I said, “I suppose I might as well get started. Where would you recommend I begin?”

He stood as well. “Anywhere you like. Feel free to use the cart Charles left for you. Another option would be if you’d prefer to stretch your legs and walk it. Our facility is yours, Mr. Fields. To a point.”

That stopped me. “Sir?”

“Every so often you’ll find a door marked with a red diamond. Those areas are off limits.”

I presented him my best no-nonsense governmental frown. “I’m sorry, sir, but no areas are off limits to the EPA.”

“These are.” His tone brooked no comeback, and then he softened it. “Please, you must understand our dilemma.”

“I’m listening.”

“Some of what we’re working on here has cost us literally tens of millions of dollars in research monies, with no net results as yet. Those results may be many years away.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m still not seeing the problem.”

“Very well. It’s this.” Eli’s visage grew adamantine. “I cannot, and I will not, compromise our secrecy, and chance industrial espionage.”

“That’s not the case here, I assure you.”

“I should hope not. Genetic engineering has been called the wave of the future. It is, but the process is also highly susceptible to theft.” He became conciliatory. “Of course, should you secure approval from Washington to examine these areas, I would acquiesce; admittedly, under protest. Failing that approval, I must insist on the rules as they stand.”

I gave the other man a curt and businesslike nod. “Very well. We’ll do it your way for now. Later if I find I need access to those areas, we’ll talk.”

I didn’t think it would be a problem for Marsh to vouch for me if I asked. With the skills he’s developed over the years working for various alphabet-soup federal agencies, he can intercept phone calls and emails with ease, and could make any correspondence seem to be coming from the highest levels.

“Fair enough.” My host swept out a hand of laconic dismissal. “Enjoy your tour.”

“Thanks.” We shook again, and a moment later I found myself back in the hall.

As I pondered what to do next, with a whisper Eli Cross’s door slid shut behind me.

Chapter Eighteen

I
don’t play golf. The idea of whacking a little white ball with an expensive stick and then chasing after it seems the height of idiocy. But if in a weak moment I ever do take up the sport, I won’t use a cart. Because why is it I can run through my Mustang’s magnificent gearbox without a hiccup, but I could
not
figure out how to get that freaking little machine I’d arrived on at Eli Cross’s door into drive?

Most likely I’d be there still if a sympathetic guard hadn’t rolled silently up on a cart of his own. The man was gray-haired, older, plump, and with a jovial countenance, looking more like the fellow who sells lawn sprinklers and crabgrass killer down at the True Value than someone drawing a GeneSys paycheck. His badge listed him as one Frank Vint.

“Yes sir, Mr. Fields. Having a problem with your cart? We don’t like to upset you EPA folks if we can help it.”

The news of my visit here must have already made the rounds. “You might say that. I’ve done everything but sing to it. What am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not you.” He shut his cart off and dismounted. Walking over to me he observed, “Yeah, looks like somebody stuck you with good old number five.”

“Number five?” I repeated, climbing off of mine.

The guard, Frank, lightly kicked its front wheel. “This piece of junk. We assign them numbers. And sorry to say, this particular one is a lemon. Giving it to you was Boneless’s idea of a joke. He says he’s the only one who knows the secret of how to make it work.”

“Boneless?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “Who or what is Boneless?”

That provoked a chuckle. “Boneless is Boneless Chuck.” I must have looked really lost because Frank went on, “Chuck.
You
know. The nickname for Charles.”

Understanding dawned. “Charles. You mean—”

“Charles Cross. The security chief. The guy who gave you the ride here.”

“That’s what you call him? Boneless Chuck?” I almost laughed out loud, but held back.

“Sure. I mean, you saw the guy. Is he strange-looking or what?”

“He is that. But why Boneless? He looked like he had plenty of bones to me.”

I was hoping my engaging the guard in friendly banter would draw him out. He appeared to be a real talker, and on top of that he was the first person since I’d hit town, outside of Rae Ann the waitress, who might give me something I could actually use. So as Led Zeppelin put it, I let him ramble on.

“One of the guys that used to work here nicknamed him,” Frank explained, taking the seat I’d just vacated. “Todd—that’s the guy—was a fan of old Fred Astaire movies. He ate ‘em up. Anything to do with dancing was right up his alley. Even though Todd was married, we all thought he might have been a little …” The guard wagged his hand. “You know?”

“If you say so.” 

“Todd always said that whenever Astaire danced, he moved across the floor like he didn’t have any bones. So that’s it.” Frank paused, as if he’d made his point. He hadn’t.

“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

He looked around and lowered his voice. “What I mean is, Boneless is kind of like Astaire, but he doesn’t dance. At least, I don’t think so. With him it’s martial arts.”

Can I spot ‘em or what?

“He knows them all, and then some,” Frank said.

“Karate, kung fu, tae kwan do, that sort of thing?”

“I guess. I’ve seen him in action.” His inflection went flat. “And wish I hadn’t.”

That sounded intriguing. “Go on.”

The old man frowned. “Why?”

“I’ve always liked watching martial arts.” I should; in the service I learned fighting techniques so obscure their names are barely pronounceable. “I’ll bet it was interesting.”

“Interesting.” Frank snorted the word. “Yeah, I guess you could say it was interesting when I saw him tangle with a guard who made fun of his voice.”

“From your tone that didn’t go over too well.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” 

Frank’s prompt comebacks made me wonder how wise he was, running his yap like this. I hoped he was close to retirement, because if Eli Cross had any idea of what a motormouth the old man was being to me, a complete stranger, I’d bet the guard’s days of working here would end with a sudden pink slip. Or worse.

The old man shifted his weight on the cart’s leatherette seat. “What happened was, one day Todd was standing right next to Boneless, and he happened to call him the Breezy Wheezer. He’d heard it around. You know, because of the way he sounds when he talks.”

Seemed appropriate to me. 

“But you don’t do that, because Boneless thinks he sounds just fine. One second he’s standing there, calm as day, and the next he’s ripping into Todd like a buzzsaw.” Frank’s eyes had gone wide. “I mean it. Every part of Cross was flying. I never saw anything like it. It was like … it was like he didn’t have any bones. Liquid. Almost like he wasn’t human.”

Charles Cross was human enough. Still, this was good intel.

“Poor Todd never had a chance.” Frank shook his head. “He died the next day.”

“Died?”
Now that was crazy. If it was true, why was Cross still walking around free?

“Yep. GeneSys paid for his funeral, but still …” Frank’s voice trailed.

“And that was all?”

“Sad to say, but yeah.”

This did not compute. Take it from a former cop, if Charles Cross really was as good at martial arts as the old man was making out, and had killed someone with his skills, he wouldn’t have been standing here earlier today, calmly talking to me. He would have been in jail. “So what happened after that?”

Frank finally turned cautious. “I think maybe I’m talking too much.”

I couldn’t lose him now. “You’re fine,” I coaxed.

Still he hesitated. Removing his blue cap, he worked its bill with worried fingers. “Well …”

“Listen, Frank, if I’m going to be dealing with Charles—Boneless—as part of my job, I need to know the kind of man he is.”

At that, the guard gave in. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He shook his head and his tone turned bitter as he ran his hand through his thatch of gray hair. “My retirement starts next week, and man, I’m glad I’m about done at this place.”

“Why is that?”

“Because nothing happened to Boneless, that’s why.” The old man spat the words, jerking his cap back on. “Not a single, solitary thing. Eli just spread some green around, including some to Todd’s wife, and everything was all nice again.”

I’d heard of situations like this, a company like GeneSys owning a town, buying their way out of any trouble that might come knocking. But I’d met Elgin Hardesty, and he didn’t strike me as the type who could be bought, and I told Frank so.

“I can’t see a man like your sheriff just letting a death like that slide. He seems to be a pretty straight-shooter.”

“Oh, he is. But a fight’s a fight, and Todd did start it with his crack.” The old man paused. “It just finished different than he expected.”

Again Frank hung up, and this time I let it go. I had enough from him to mull over, and then some. “You know, this is all pretty interesting, but—”

“But you’re still stuck with a cranky cart, and you need to get about your business,” Frank finished. Reaching down, he flipped the vehicle’s switch, turning it back on. “Tell you what, Mr. Fields, you take mine, and I’ll take this rascal.”

“I thought you said Boneless was the only one who knew how to work it.”

The guard’s grin was sly. “He likes to think so. But I know a thing or two myself.”

Once on it he began fiddling with the gears, and I had to ask. “Frank, I appreciate your candor, but isn’t it misplaced? I mean, how do you know I won’t go running to your boss and tell him the name you call him?”

“Because already he knows,” the old man stated simply.

“What?”

“This place may be big, but nothing stays secret for long.” He moved the gear shift handle up and down, trying to get it to engage. “We all think he kind of likes it now. But after what he did to Todd, no one ever dares say it again to his face.”

“Of course.” My thoughts were flying. “If that’s the case, he must really like the guard who originally hanged that handle on him.”

“You mean Buddy Mordetti.” With a soft clunk the handle found its sweet spot.

“I guess so.”

“That’s the guy.” Frank’s good humor slipped away. “But none of us know what Boneless thinks about Buddy. The day after he named him, he disappeared.”

The old man stepped on the cart’s throttle and silently drove off.

*

A minute later I was in Frank’s vehicle, gliding the other way back down the long hall. I realized I needed a map to negotiate the nooks and crannies of this place, since Eli must have thought I could find my way around his little funhouse by echolocation. It seemed the best place to get that map would be where I’d entered. Following the sweeping curve of the hall, in two more minutes I was back at the lobby doors.

“Yes sir, Mr. Fields.” The same guard who’d greeted me earlier was still at his post behind that futuristic desk. “Finished already?”

“Nope. I haven’t even started. I need a map.” And I wished I didn’t. In a perfect world the insides of GeneSys could have been found on the ‘Net, but we’re not there. Yet.

“Sure thing.” Pulling open a drawer on his left, his hand came out bearing an older version GPS, charcoal gray and maybe six inches by five. He held it out.

Taking it, I said, “I’ve used these when I’ve gone camping.” And I had, but not the kind of camping he probably would have known. My old Army unit had used something quite a bit like it when we were in the field. Ours were more advanced, of course.

“Maybe you have. Notice the clip on the back, so it can hang on a belt?” I flipped it over, seeing it. “You’ll find most of the workers here carry them because they also contain our intranet hookup.”

“Interesting.” I began handing it back, still trying the play the role of the humorless Luddite. “But I don’t much fancy the idea of this thing banging my hip all day. Don’t you have like a one-page, foldable map you can give me?”

The guard made no move to take the device. “Mr. Fields, take a slow look around. What don’t you see here?”

This guy’s cockiness was starting to grate. “Is that a joke?”

“Not at all. What you don’t see is paper. Not a scrap. That’s why we don’t have paper maps. We don’t even keep magazines for the visitors. Not hard copies, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Let me explain that by giving you some quick history here.”

“All right.”

“GeneSys is the most advanced facility of its type in the world. And rightfully so, seeing its funding comes mainly from a consortium of private investors.”

“Is that so?” That might lead somewhere. “Like who, for instance?”

“It doesn’t matter. Their names would be meaningless to you.”

We’d see about that. More and more the guard was sounding less like a minimum-wage cop wannabe, and more like something else. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what.

“I see.” I figured to play along. “Lots of bucks, I guess.”

“Oh yeah, lots and lots. Everything here costs big dollars because everything at GeneSys is totally state of the art. And all of it geared toward one purpose, that of ending famine in our lifetime.”

Looked like we had another true believer here, just like Eli Cross.

“It’s costly, true,” the guard continued. “But we feel the potential payoff is worth every cent. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes indeed. Go on. This is fascinating.” And it was, even though I knew he was bullshitting me terribly.

“GeneSys is completely self-sufficient in regard to power. As you may have noticed when you entered, you came down a slight slope. That’s because our facility was built using earth-berm construction.”

“I’m familiar with that.”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard. Or didn’t care. “Earth-berm is one reason we’re so cool in August. In addition, an aquifer supplies our water needs, and in winter the dome itself helps supply its own heat. We also compost everything here, and I mean everything, utilizing the heat that composting generates to create steam. This in turn powers our electric turbines.” He paused. “Am I going too fast for you, Mr. Fields?”

“Not at all.”

“I just wondered. Your attention seemed to be wandering.”

I almost told him I always look this way when I’m bored spitless, but didn’t. “I’m just a little tired. Please continue.”

He picked up without missing a beat. “Our advanced technology even extends to waste disposal. The toilets at GeneSys are the latest incinerating type.”

That got me. I couldn’t help it as I barked a derisive laugh. “That gives a whole new meaning to the term hot seat.”

Ignoring my jibe, the guard motioned above us with his hand. “The dome generates most of its power by way of its active/passive solar construction, meaning the entire exterior surface is covered with thousands of photovoltaic cells.”

“Photovoltaic?” I was still playing dumb.

“Those are devices for turning sunlight into electricity.”

“Really,” was all I said.

“All of this has been done for one overriding purpose, that of making sure we don’t waste a thing. And that also includes not having anything here made of paper. Again, it all comes back to waste. Mr. Cross just can’t stand the thought of it.”

“I see.” I realized we’d come full circle, and the sales pitch was over. “That was very well done.” I regarded him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Albert Trask, sir.”

“Well, Albert-Trask-sir, you are a by God treasure trove of helpful information. It’s a wonder you don’t lead tours here.”

“I do. I split my duties between manning the desk and escorting visitors around.”

“Then why didn’t you take me back to see Mr. Cross instead of his son doing it?”

“I imagine the boss wanted to see what kind of man you are. Truth be told, so did I.” Albert’s smile had subtly changed. “You see, Mr. Fields, Blakey Sinclair is a friend of mine.”

Picking up the unmistakable hint of warning, I checked his eyes. Uh-huh
.
Yep, there was fight there, far back.

I gigged him anyway. “But I’d think your duties would also include keeping out the riffraff. By whatever means, correct?”