Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

“And after?”

“Diarrhea, of course.”

Before she could stop herself, Corrie burst out laughing. Ridder and Hazen looked at each other, not knowing how to respond. Chauncy’s face broke into a mirthless smile; he seemed to be recovering his equilibrium, if not his arrogance. Then he continued. “I inspected a field owned by Buswell Agricon, the agricultural combine, who are our partners in this venture.”

“Where?”

“Down by the creek.”

“Where exactly by the creek?”

“Township five, Range one, the northwest quadrant of Section nine.”

“What was involved in the inspection of these fields? How did you proceed?”

“On foot. I took samples of earth, corn, other samples.”

“Such as?”

“Water. Botanicals. Insects. Scientific samples. Things you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Pendergast.”

“What day, exactly, was this?”

“I’d have to check my diary.”

Pendergast folded his arms, waiting.

Scowling, Dr. Chauncy fished into his pocket, pulled out a diary, flipped the pages. “June eleven.”

“And did you see anything unusual? Out of the ordinary?”

“As I’ve said, I saw nothing.”

“Tell me, what exactly is this ‘experimental field’ going to experiment with?”

Chauncy drew himself up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but these scientific concepts are rather too complex for a non-scientist to comprehend. It’s pointless to answer questions along that line.”

Pendergast smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Well, then, perhaps you could simplify it in a way that any idiot could understand.”

“I suppose I could try. We’re trying to develop a strain of corn for gasohol production—you know what that is?”

Pendergast nodded.

“We need a strain that has high starch content and that produces a natural pesticide which eliminates the need for external pesticides. There’s the idiot explanation, Mr. Pendergast. I trust you followed it.” He gave a quick smile.

Pendergast leaned forward slightly, his face assuming a blank expression. He reminded Corrie of a cat about to pounce. “Dr. Chauncy, how do you plan to prevent cross-pollination? If your genetic strain escaped into this sea of corn around us, there would be no way of putting the genie back into the bottle, so to speak.”

Chauncy looked disconcerted. “We’ll create a buffer zone. We’ll plough a hundred-foot strip around the field and plant alfalfa.”

“And yet, Addison and Markham, in a paper published in the April 2002 issue of the Journal of Biomechanics, stated that cross-pollination by genetically modified corn had been shown to extend several miles beyond the target field. Surely you recall that paper, Dr. Chauncy? Addison and Markham, April—”

“I’m familiar with the paper!” Chauncy said.

“And then you must also know of the work of Engels, Traumerai, and Green, which demonstrated that the 3PJ-Strain 5 genetically modified plant produced a pollen toxic to monarch butterflies. Are you by chance working with the 3PJ strain?”

“Yes, but monarch mortality only occurs in concentrations greater than sixty pollen grains per square millimeter—”

“Which is present within at least three hundred yards downwind of the field, according to a University of Chicago study published in the Proceedings of the Third Annual —”

“I know the bloody paper! You don’t have to cite it to me!”

“Well, then, Dr. Chauncy. I ask again: how are you going to prevent cross-pollination, and how are you going to protect the local butterfly population?”

“That’s what this whole experiment is all about, Pendergast! Those are the very problems we’re trying to solve—”

“So Medicine Creek will be, in effect, a guinea pig location to test possible solutions to these problems?”

For a moment, Chauncy spluttered, unable to reply. He looked apoplectic. Corrie could see he had lost it completely. “Why should I have to justify my important work to a—a—a fucking cop— !”

There was a silence as Chauncy breathed heavily, the sweat pouring off his brow and creeping through the underarms of his suit jacket.

Pendergast turned to Corrie. “I think we’re done here. Did you get it all down, Miss Swanson?”

“Everything, sir, right down to the ‘fucking cop.’ ” She slapped the notebook shut with a satisfying crack and jammed the pen into one of her leather pockets, then gave the group at the table a broad smile. Pendergast nodded, turned to go.

“Pendergast,” Ridder said. His voice was low and very, very cold. Despite herself, Corrie shivered when she saw the look on his face.

Pendergast stopped. “Yes?”

Ridder’s eyes glittered like mica. “You’ve disturbed our lunch and agitated our guest. Isn’t there something you ought to say to him before you leave?”

“I don’t believe so.” Pendergast seemed to consider a moment. “Unless, perhaps, it is a quotation from Einstein: ‘The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is arrogance.’ I would suggest to Dr. Chauncy that in combination, the two qualities are even more alarming.”

Corrie followed Pendergast out through the darkened bowling alley and into the strong sun. As they climbed into the car she couldn’t hold herself back any longer and laughed.

Pendergast looked at her. “Amused?”

“Why not? You really ripped Chauncy a new one.”

“That is the second time I’ve heard that curious expression. What does it mean?”

“It means, well, you made him look like the fool he is.”

“If only it were so. Chauncy and his ilk are anything but fools and are, as such, decidedly more dangerous.”

Thirty

I t was nine o’clock when Corrie got back to Wyndham Parke Estates, the mobile home community just behind the bowling alley where she shared a double-wide with her mother. After leaving Pendergast she had driven to her secret reading place on the powerline road to kill time, but as soon as the sun had set she got spooked and decided to head on home.

She carefully opened the shabby front door and closed it behind her with a silence born of years of practice. By now, her mother should be out like a light. It was a Sunday, her mother’s day off, and she would have started hitting the bottle as soon as she was up. Still, silence was always the wisest policy.

She crept into the kitchen. The trailer had no AC and was stiflingly hot. She eased open a cupboard, took out a box of Cap’n Crunch and a bowl, and carefully filled it. She poured in milk from the refrigerator and began to eat. God, she was famished. A second bowl disappeared before she felt sated.

She carefully washed the bowl, dried it, put it away, put away the cereal and the milk, and erased any sign of her presence. If her mother was really out cold, she might even be able to play an hour or two of the latest Resident Evil on her Nintendo before going to bed. She took off her shoes and began to sneak down the hall.

“Corrie?”

She froze. What was her mother doing awake? The raspy voice that issued from the bedroom boded ill.

“Corrie, I know it’s you.”

“Yes, Mom?” She tried to make her voice as casual as possible.

There was a silence. God, it was hot in the trailer. She wondered how her mother could stand being in here all day, baking, sweating, drinking. It made her sad.

“I think you have something to tell me, young lady,” came the muffled voice.

“Like what?” Corrie tried to sound cheerful.

“Like your new job.”

Corrie’s heart fell. “What about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just that I’m your mother, and I think that gives me a right to know what’s going on in your life.”