Рита Браун - Sour Puss

"That's a big spread."

"Yeah, it is." He opened the porch door just as Flatface flew out of the barn for a night of hunting, "But you have to consider the health of the individual who contracts it and the level of health service available. Someone who ingests anthrax in the Sudan will have a much worse time of it than someone who becomes infected in Canada. Obviously, chances of infection in Canada are next to nothing."

"What about a cut?"

"Raised itchy bump like an insect bite. One or two days later a painless ulcer occurs on the site, a bit of necrotic skin in the center. The lymph glands swell. About twenty percent of infected people die. However, the last case of cutaneous anthrax occurred in our country in 1992. You see it in the developing countries. The real problem is airborne anthrax." He turned on the flame under the teapot. "Breathe that stuff in and the bacterium races through your lungs and then is passed into your circulatory system. Fatal septicemia comes on very fast. The incubation time is anywhere from one to six days."

"Wouldn't that make more sense as a bioterrorism weapon than stuff distilled from fungii?" She put a pot of water on the stove. Tonight was a good night for spaghetti.

"Seems so to me, especially since the anthrax spores resist environmental degradation. But the trick to creating anthrax that can kill huge sections of the population is the size of the spores. A chemist has to transform the wet bacteria culture into dry clumps of spores. But when the spores are dried they glop together into larger lumps, and then they have a static electric charge, so they cling to surfaces just like laundrywith static cling. If the spores do that, they won't float through the air."

"Could a smart loner figure it out?"

"The method of reducing the spores to the optimum size for penetrating the human lung once free of static electricity has been closely guarded by what used to be the Soviet Union and by our government."

"But the secret really is out, isn't it?"

"Yes." He handed her a packet of spaghetti. "One way to find out who knows the secret is to capture anthrax that has been used in an attack. Then you'd be able to tell how closely the stuff genetically resembles the weapons strain our government made before 1969."

"Why 1969?"

"We agreed to destroy our stored biological weapons then. At one time, honey, our country had nine hundred kilos of dry anthrax made per year at a plant in Arkansas. I have not one shred of doubt that some was saved after we supposedly destroyed it all."

"And it's possible some was stolen, isn't it?"

"Yes, and over time those spores divided. Remember, they are living things, sothey divide. And think about all the anthrax the Soviet Union made. That's not all gone, either."

"Gives me the creeps."

"Ought to give every single American the creeps." He paused. "How about I make clam sauce after I make you a cup of tea?"

"Okay. Want a vegetable?"

"You're heading somewhere with this. Fess up." He poured water in the teacups. "Uh, I don't want a vegetable, but I'll take a salad."

"I don't think the murders have one thing to do with bioterrorism, and one of the reasons is that anthrax is easier, is available. I just wanted to hear the particulars. So I'd feel more convinced of my direction."

"Gut instinct?" he questioned her simply.

"It may be that Professor Forland's specialized knowledge plays into his murder— Toby's, too, perhaps—but that's not what's underneath all this. I just wish I could find the reason."

"Not knowing is always worse than knowing. To change the subject, what's the dress code for Mim's party tomorrow?"

"She doesn't want us to call it a party. She says it's a gathering of friends to relax and celebrate the redbuds."

He smiled. "Right. We both know Mim."

"Coat and tie."

"You, too?"

"Probably be better than the ancient tea dress I trot out."

"You wear the coat and tie and I'll wear the dress."

"Fair, they don't make women's clothes large enough for you." She imagined him in a dress, and it was a funny picture.

"What about all those drag queens?"

"You are twisted." She tapped the back of his hand with her spoon.

"That's why you married me." He leaned over and kissed her.

"I have a surprise for you. I bought you a new tie."

He laughed. "Then it's not a surprise, is it? You just told me."

They laughed together.

29

"And that's the difference between red and white wine," Arch explained to Miranda at Mim's redbud party. She always threw an "impromptu," or as impromptu as Mim could be, celebration of the redbuds when in full bloom. Given the wild bounce in temperatures, it was only now that the gorgeous trees opened their cerise buds.

"I never knew that. Is the pigment of the skin extracted when you make the wine?" Miranda, not a drinker at all, was nonetheless interested. She had just returned from a visit to Greenville, South Carolina.

Arch puffed on his Dunhill pipe, the burly bulldog bowl emitting a beguiling odor, a hint of spice among the rich dark tobacco. He found smoking just one pipe in the evening very relaxing. "You need the right kindof grape for your region, but the aging is every bit as important. The fruity reds, the ones so much in vogue," he shrugged, "I don't like them. Depth and complexity are the mark of a master and terroir —place. The grape, the wine, expresses the place. Americans don't understand that. We're so busy talking about the variety, the shape, the topography, the climate. People confuse soil with terroir. Terroir is soul. The wine—red, white, rose—expresses the soul of the place. The Italians and French I worked with in California taught me that."

Lingering by the bar, Harry and Susan drank Jim's special lemonade. "Are things settling down?" Susan asked, although she'd spoken to Harry that morning.

"Yeah, but the whole thing creeps me out." A piece of lemon pulp caught in her teeth.

"It would upset anyone." Susan pointed with her forefinger to her own tooth so Harry would remove the lemon pulp, which she did. "Look how upset Christy was when Toby was killed, and that wasn't even her property. Everyone's on pins and needles."

"When that happens other stuff surfaces, ever notice?"

"Yes." Susan smiled as Reverend Jonesapproached. "Soon time to go fishing, Herbie."

"It is." He smiled broadly. "You know, I believe Jesus favors fishing. After all, He went out as the men cast their nets."

"And as I recall, a great storm came up," Harry said.

"And He calmed the waters." Herb glanced outside as a stiff breeze zipped through the rooms at that moment. "And I think He might consider calming this one. Look."

The two women saw inky clouds swiftly moving from the west.

"You know, I think I was wrong. Jesus wasn't fishing when the storm arose. He went out after preaching. Miranda will know."

"She can quote the Good Book better than I can." Herb smiled, although he did know this story by heart. "Miranda, we need you."

Miranda left off Arch and joined them. "I'm so glad to be back from South Carolina, even if we are about to be blown off the map."

"Not the same without you." Susan genuinely complimented her.

"Okay, what's the story about Jesus calming the seas in a storm?" Harry, as usual, stuck to whatever was on her mind.

"Ah, yes, Matthew, Chapter eight, Verses twenty-three through twenty-seven, and the same story is also recounted in Mark and in Luke. John doesn't mention it, but he doesn't mention a lot of things." She jumped as a mighty clap of thunder rattled the china. "Must be right over the post office and soon to be here."

"But not a drop of rain—yet." Herb noticed Blair shutting up the doors and, out of the corner of his eye, Arch and Fair talking by the coffee table. "Excuse me, ladies, I'll help shut up the house before we get blown to kingdom come."