Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Yami and her tribe lived more than half way up the mighty Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta . From the occasional outsiders who were permitted entry to the Kogi’s aerial farmlands, she had learned that her mountain arose from the Caribbean Sea and the city of Santa Marta in Colombia.

For twenty-some years, Yami had exchanged information with Olimpia, who taught about plants at a great university on a distant mountain. In return for Olimpia’s facts about the world below, Yami taught her to make tonics from mountain herbs, set broken bones with the black roots of the bristly varu plant, remove the healing sap from mavaco trees during the full moon and many more of her ancient lessons.

Yami also told Olimpia about the warrior hunters who for centuries had arrived on horseback every third full moon and stayed two nights and three days in the stone hacienda in the high valley.

She warned Olimpia that only priestesses were permitted to descend through the clouds, down along the secret pathways during hunter visits. But Olimpia had not taken it to heart. And she bore the consequences.

Now, with a sigh, Yami looked through the glacier-capped mountains and listened to the world beyond. Another outsider would bring pain. But, again, the warrior hunters would prevail.

Vincent looked out at the water from his office window as a steady procession of Friday afternoon sailors—truants from their desks and cubicles—headed out the channel from Clear Lake into Galveston Bay. His gaze shifted to the BRI marina below where Woodwind tugged on her lines as if to say, “I want to go too. I want to go too.”

Along with the grand “treehouse” on stilts (their lakeside home nestled in the tall pines and left vacant by Dr. Harry Lee), Bellfort had given Vincent and Diane the sailboat as a sign-on incentive. She was a beautiful craft, and he was proud to own her. But as early as their first BRI business meeting, three months ago, Vincent suspected that the treehouse and the sailboat had been dangled as glittering lures in some elaborate game of bait and switch.

At that meeting, Raymond Bellfort reported that there was a short-term cash-flow problem. He said he was unable to fund both of their projects immediately; he’d have to go with the one that excited the investors most.

“Let’s jumpstart Diane’s program first. Then we’ll go with yours, Vincent,” he said, promising it was only a temporary setback.

Vincent was more than a little disturbed by the announcement. They were barely unpacked from their move to Texas, and already Bellfort had reneged on his “unlimited funding” pledge. But he didn’t want to rain on Diane’s parade. So, he became her “interim help.” He ordered laboratory equipment, interviewed lab assistants and fielded Diane’s phone calls in her absence. He stayed busy, but not gratified. And his dissatisfaction soon became apparent.

Diane complained that he was irritable around the office. She teased that he was “not being a team player,” a line borrowed from Vincent Rose, PhD, erstwhile department chair at a large university.

To keep his sanity intact that first month, Vincent began designing the next animal testing protocol for Peruvase. Then one afternoon, Raymond Bellfort stopped by Vincent’s office. He looked at his computer screen—he had the annoying habit of addressing Vincent’s monitor when he spoke to him—then took off in a flight of ideas.

“Ahh… You should take advantage of this slack time. I know you must be itching to get Woodwind back in shape. I’ll have Maxine give you the names of the engine people, the sail loft, woodworkers and so forth. Diane will be out of the country a lot more. Ahh… Why don’t you join the sailing club down the way?”

The barrage of suggestions roused Vincent’s suspicions that Diane had squealed on him. She must have told Bellfort that her husband was not working and playing well with others. He felt like the pesky child being bribed to run outside and play alone. So he did just that.

Maxine was helpful. She gave him the names and phone numbers of assorted vendors to the yachting community in triplicate. But she never looked him in the eye.

It was one thing when the boss didn’t make eye contact—he could have a thousand things on his mind or, as in Bellfort’s case, he could be just plain squirrelly. But it was another situation altogether when the executive assistant avoided your glance. She knew something.

Vincent felt the reason for Maxine’s reticence would surface eventually. In the meantime, he quietly worked on Peruvase and became a boat bum—ever watchful for pirates.

Vincent tore himself away from the view and walked to the doorway connecting his office with Diane’s. She looked up from her computer and said, “Did you know that Ecuador is southeast of here? I always pictured it more to the west.”

Diane was working on her trip to Quito. She had meetings scheduled with government officials there to negotiate a contract allowing BRI to explore Ecuador’s jungles and remove plant specimens.

Satisfied he was not interrupting any serious brain crunching, Vincent settled into a chair opposite her and studied the small jar of Peruvian balasi nuts she used as a paperweight.

“I never really thought about it,” he said. Then he looked up at his wife. “My turn for a question.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Do you know when Harry Lee left BRI?”

“I never really thought about it.” She smirked.

“He was here until mid-October. Something is rotten..”

“Who gave you that date?”

“Crowley.”

The set of Diane’s jaw told Vincent she had connected the dots: Bellfort’s pursuit of them had begun in September. He told them he had an empty lab and offices on the 4 thfloor. But Harry Lee was still at BRI at that time.

Diane’s voice took on an impatient tone. “No need to get paranoid about it. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” She refocused her attention on her computer screen. “I really need to get this done.”

Vincent shrugged and stood up. “Then going for an afternoon sail is out of the question, I guess?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

Vincent wiped down the cockpit, started Woodwind’s engine and set about removing sail covers. He was becoming efficient at solo sailing. He looked up at Diane’s corner office windows and wondered if she ever enjoyed the view.

He was concerned about her. Since their move to BRI she seemed driven to make these trips to Central and South America. In the past, at the university, she had set out on her semi-annual plant collecting expeditions as if compelled by some biological imperative. But here in Texas, it went beyond even that. She now anticipated her trips with the fervor of one going on a religious pilgrimage.

He heard a voice behind him. “Permission to come aboard Captain?”

Vincent turned and grinned at his wife who stood on the finger pier. She had changed into the jogging shorts and tee shirt she kept in her locker.

“Permission granted.” He gestured toward the cockpit.

Diane stepped onto the boat and looked up at him. “Would you mind if I took her out this time, Captain?”

“She’s all yours. I’ll get the lines.” Vincent walked forward to the bowline, his spirits buoyed.

Diane backed the sailboat out of the slip and negotiated the turn into the bay with ease. Vincent went to work raising the sails.

They cleared the far end of the BRI compound and waved at some of Vincent’s racing friends from the sailing club. It seemed everyone was starting the weekend early. And why not? It was one of those perfect days on the bay: low humidity, twelve-knot breeze, Texas bluebonnet sky.