Randy White - Dead of Night

They both had a good laugh. The man could be funny on occasion.

Her advice didn’t seem so extreme now, sitting alone in a locked room with Jason Reynolds, one of the overeducated American brats. Doctor Reynolds, he reminded her, when he got tired of playing his flaky, nice-guy role. Scraggly-haired with a goatee, wearing a silly tie-dyed T-shirt, sitting there with his scrawny arms telling her he was concerned for the environment, doing his humanitarian duty, that’s all. And didn’t appreciate being interrogated by a company security hack.

It was in his attitude. Dasha, with her accent, her spotty grammar, irritated him.

“I’ve already talked to the official fuzz. Why do I have to answer the same questions from you?”

He’d said that several times, several ways.

“Fuzz,” he explained to her, rolling his eyes, was another word for “cop.”

Dasha knew that. She’d asked just to piss the kid off. Giving him rope.

She’d given him plenty.

On the table between them was a little silver tape recorder. The same one she’d used when she’d try to get information out of Jobe Applebee.

“Remember how that one went,” Mr. Earl reminded her before she took Reynolds into the room. “Come up with a secondary plan in case he won’t cooperate.”

She already had: In exchange for not prosecuting, she’d tell the kid he had an hour to collect his things, kiss his commune family good-bye, and they’d escort him off the property.

Actually, she’d stick him with the knockout drug, have Aleski load his body and belongings into a plane. Then dump everything halfway between the Florida Keys and Cuba from nine thousand feet.

“Very workable,” Mr. Earl told her, adding that he’d decided to fly back in the DC-3 earlier than planned. He’d be waiting in the Bahamas, interested to see what she decided.

Washing his hands of the matter, in other words.

“No,” Dasha told him. “We leave together. We’re partners now. Am I correct? Besides, the DC-3’s bigger. We may be taking two extra people back to the island. Ford and that idiot kid.”

She put it out there experimentally, not expecting him to go along with it. But Mr. Earl did. Seemed almost meek.

Signing those orders, then fucking the old man-a very smart thing to do.

Now Mr. Earl was somewhere upstairs, stirring up a fresh pitcher of martinis, probably, while Dasha sat across the table from Jason Reynolds. She had the recorder, and also a notebook, but only pretended to write in it.

On the floor beside her was a canvas purse that contained four vials of Versed, a box of disposable hypodermics, duct tape, and a rolled-up copy of the Tampa Tribune.

She used her toe to nudge the bag closer as she listened to Jason Reynolds say, “How many times do I have to tell you this? Look, sister, yes, I released guinea larvae into water systems that connect to Disney. Several thousand catfish hatchlings, too. Candiru. But I never really believed the fish would attack a human being. It’s just too far-out, man-scientifically speaking.

“Even so, I stand by my decision. It was the right thing to do. It’s not ecoterrorism. We call it ‘ecotage’-‘ecosalvage’ -another term to describe a proactive way to help save a planet that’s being gutted and poisoned.”

In her flat cop’s voice, Dasha said, “You were aware that you were breaking the law?”

The kid sighed. “Like a broken record, you keep asking the same shit.”

“You were aware that it’s a felony? A federal crime.”

Bigger sigh. “Yes! Sister, do you have any idea how much destruction that damn theme park has caused this state? Any idea how many more housing units they’ll build in the Everglades if the sugar companies sell their land to developers?”

Dasha was briefly interested. “How much money you think that land’s worth? Millions?”

“Millions?” Reynolds snorted. “Construction conglomerates have already run the figures. Billions. That’s why we… why people like me are taking action. Doing things like releasing parasites into the water system. Earth’s natural guardians-what do you think mosquitoes are? Scare the hell out of potential buyers, make the land worthless as a commodity. But for a reason-create a haven for wildlife.”

Billions. Dasha felt her abdomen flutter. The kid seemed to know what he was talking about. She really was going to be rich.

“The activist group you mentioned, the Albedo Society, has a few hundred thousand members. How many of them have been doing this sort of crap-”

“Whoa, sister, I won’t talk about anyone’s involvement but my own. Nationwide, though? Good people, righteous organizations, are finally standing up, taking an activist approach.” The kid had his martyr’s speech down. He sounded like Mr. Sweet-only this kid actually believed.

“Putting worms in the water that eat through people’s skin-you see that as a good thing.”

“The parasites are a total gross-out, I agree. But they don’t take lives. They don’t cause any more misery than overdevelopment has caused our environment. That’s why I went to Mr. Hartman-I’ve never said he’s not just as guilty as I am, remember. Dig what I’m telling you? I’m the one who insisted on talking to police.”

Dasha said, “More of your sabotage-to give Tropicane a bad name.”

“No. Just like I told the detective: I don’t participate in activities that kill people. Someone murdered Dr. Matthews. Probably Dr. Applebee, too. Someone who works for Tropicane, I think. Secretly, I’d been wondering about it. There are a couple of dudes here on the Chicken Farm who’re wrapped too tight. Wiccans, a Pagan-I have my own ideas, but that’s all I’m going to say.

“Today, though, I saw proof that the woman was murdered. And I saw a very good man-a spiritual man-in terrible pain that I’m partially responsible for.” The kid threw his hands up. “No more. I’m done with it. Inflicting pain is very negative karma.”

He’d said that before, too.

The Russian looked at the desk clock: 6:20 P.M. Time to invite some negative karma of her own.

“A couple times, I’ve asked you to telephone the man you mentioned. Ford? Asked you to tell me details about him. Each time, you refuse to do me this small favor.”

“Dr. Ford is a fairly well-known biologist-although I personally find his papers middle-of-the-road. He refuses to take an advocacy position in his work. You want me to lie to him-that’s why I won’t call. I don’t kill, and I won’t lie!” Reynolds’s superior tone was infuriating.

“Not a lie. Tell the man to drive to the canal where you found the phone. Detective Heller says the police are still searching.”

“No, they’re not, and you know it. I got the phone; gave it to Heller myself. I panicked, thinking I might be implicated in Dr. Matthews’s murder. That’s why I went back and fished the thing out. The cops have no reason to keep searching.”

“Maybe they’re trying to find something else.”

“Bullshit.”

Dasha had the rolled-up newspaper in her hand. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble beating this little idiot into submission, but Aleski was outside the door just in case. Unless he’d snuck off to drink vodka with Mr. Earl. He’d been doing that more and more lately.

She stood; walked around the desk toward Reynolds. “Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Strip down. Pants first, then your shirt.” She had no interest in Reynolds, but making a prisoner strip was the first procedural step in a hostile interrogation. The beginning of the dehumanization process.

“Screw you, lady! I’m walking out of here. I’m calling an attorney.” Reynolds was standing, chin out-You can’t intimidate me-didn’t flinch when she drew her arm back because he didn’t believe she’d hit him.