Watermind (7 page)

The man seemed bewildered. “Carolyn, I promise, there will be no lies.”

“And don't call me that. I'm CJ.” She pointed to the phone on Meir's desk. “If you're not lying, phone the newspapers. Let people know about this.”

He rose and lifted the desk phone receiver. “What shall I tell them? Shall I say we've found a lethal material six miles from Baton Rouge, that we don't know where it came from, or how widespread it is, or how to neutralize it? Shall I tell them how de Silva died? Maybe we should evacuate the area, do you think?”

CJ opened her mouth, but his questions confused her. She righted her chair and sat down.

“Even in Boston, you must have read about the hurricanes.” His voice carried an edge. “The first one was called Katrina, remember? The governor ordered an evacuation, but thousands were left behind. They were trapped and terrified, and that's an ugly combination. It turns decent people into savages.”

He circled behind her and grabbed the back of her chair. She sat paralyzed, trying to process what he was saying.

“Surely you remember the looting and burning? Everyone
in Louisiana remembers, I promise you that.” He let go of her chair and began to pace. “People here are teetering on the edge of a maelstrom. Every year, the Mississippi runs higher, and the hurricanes blow harder, and the local citizens are trapped between. Meanwhile, the entire southern edge of this state is sinking into the Gulf. Thousands of acres have gone under, and I'll tell you an open secret, Carolyn. The next public scare may start a bloodbath.”

When he paused, CJ bit her thumbnail. He gestured toward the phone. “Do you still want me to call the media?”

She kicked Meir's desk with her bare foot. After a moment, she spat out three words as if they burned her mouth. “I don't know.”

“Help us, Carolyn. We have the material contained in an isolated pond. This is our chance to study it and plan a sensible response.” He put the sample jar in her hands. Then he clipped his own ID badge to her shoulder strap. When his hand brushed her bare skin, she reddened. He said, “You know where the lab is. Tell me what's in this jar, and I'll give you a job on our science team.”

She read the name on his badge, then glanced up. “Roman Sacony?”

He nodded.

She read the badge again. “You're the Quimicron CEO?”

“Correct.” His face was unreadable.

She held the jar against her chest, imagining the well equipped lab waiting down the hall. “I'll do it on one condition. Max Pottevents keeps his job.”

 

Thursday, March 10

11:15
AM

 

Roman Sacony glanced at his watch, then squinted up at the sun, a pale white glare behind a film of haze. Cold rain in the morning. Clammy heat at noon. This was spring in Louisiana. The day was getting away from him. He strode quickly through the waist-high weeds, automatically counting strides to measure the distance, a habit he'd developed in youth. He'd ordered the site of the migrant's death to be cordoned off, and he was hiking through the swamp to have a firsthand look at this mysterious quick-freeze pond. Trouble, that's what he expected, and logic told him it might be expensive.

He still didn't know what substance the pond contained. Carolyn Reilly had not yet begun her analysis. After her long night, Dan Meir insisted on driving her home for a shower and rest. Good administrator, Meir, but too sentimental.

Roman jumped over a weed-choked ditch and pondered the bizarre coincidence of the late Dr. Harriman Reilly's daughter working on his cleanup crew. Roman had reviewed her file. He knew about her astonishing IQ, her top grades at MIT, her interrupted studies, and checkered job history. He'd also seen the video of her work in the lab yesterday. The girl knew chemistry. It nettled him that the plant's regular chemist had fallen ill. When Roman needed data, he didn't like to wait.

A white-tailed doe broke through the brush and leaped across his path, heading for the river. He pursed his lips at the pair of spotted fawns that galloped after her. Ahead, machinery droned. This de Silva episode would stir an investigation. Since his company had expanded from Argentina into the US, he could hardly move without exciting
some regulatory investigation. Workplace accidents were the worst.

Carolyn Reilly was holding back information. Spoiled white brat. Why couldn't she tell the truth? Still, there was something appealing about her bright hazel eyes. Yes, she was pretty, in a vanilla-crème sort of way. Her short reddish hair reminded him of a feather duster, the way it stuck out from her head. But what was she hiding?

When he mentioned the migrant's death, her cheeks had flushed, and her pupils had dilated, classic signs of deception. Oh yes, she knew something. He counted his steps and analyzed possible scenarios. He had the kind of mind that wouldn't let go of a problem till he'd sliced it a dozen ways and forced a solution.

No one paid him special notice when he approached the trampled area around the pond. In his coverall, breathing mask, and Devil Rays baseball cap, he looked no different from the rank-and-file workers, which was what he preferred. Incognito, he could move about and observe more freely, though the heavy clothing made him sweat.

He watched his field hands. Mexicans, Haitians, dark-skinned Creoles, they were southern people like himself. He squinted across the canal at Building No. 2. Meir's office staff were mostly
Anglos
. That would have to change. He adjusted his breather and resumed pacing.

The crew was just getting started. He counted eighteen rolls of black filter cloth piled up and steaming in the sun. Next to the rolls lay a heap of T-shaped steel posts, too disorganized to quantify. From these materials, and from a load of hay bales that Meir had ordered, his workers were rapidly erecting a silt fence to contain whatever pollutants had coagulated in the pond.

He studied the shallow crescent pool—liquid now, no trace of the alleged ice that had flash-frozen Manuel de Silva. After careful examination and a few measured strides along one bank, he estimated its surface area and guessed at its average depth from the height of protruding
tree trunks. Then he did a rough mental calculation of its volume, less than a thousand gallons, maybe four liquid tons. He broke off a willow branch and poked experimentally at the ooze.

Roman knew a lot about manipulating chemical compounds, but only through years of hard study had he learned to maneuver people. That morning, he'd seen the Reilly girl struggling over whether to trust him. He stabbed the mud with his branch and sneered. How predictably these
Anglos
misjudged his accent and his Latin skin. He relished proving them wrong.

To maneuver Reilly, he had used the seductive approach. His wealth and power beguiled women—it was a simple fact that he accepted at face value and used to his advantage. He had calculated its effect on Carolyn Reilly, and already, it was working.

At the pond's edge, he stirred the water with his willow branch and watched brown particles circulate up from the bottom. At heart, he cared more about tasks than people. Yet for all his chilly exterior, Roman didn't see himself as a heartless man. He lived ascetically, ate simple food, rarely drank alcohol. His two vices were dark rich coffee and rough sex. He preferred prostitutes, where the exchange was unambiguous. Only one woman had ever gotten close, and that was long ago.

He adjusted his respirator and thought of Harriman Reilly's daughter. The girl interested him, but she lacked discipline. She splashed her feelings around like heavy perfume, and logic warned him to avoid getting doused.

When his phone vibrated, he unzipped his coverall and reached into his pocket. The Miami office was calling—appointments to be rescheduled, flights to be rearranged. He yearned for a cup of Argentinean espresso, but more than anything, he yearned for the lab report. Waiting irked him.

Strands of green algae caught on his willow branch as he stirred the pond. Certainly, he was eager to learn what pollutants had intersected here in his swamp. If this liquid
had indeed formed ice, what extraordinary chemical reaction had absorbed the heat?

The question intrigued him, but pressing business demanded his attention elsewhere, and this pond was not in his schedule. The strands of algae streamed through the water like a dead girl's hair, twisting and writhing in whatever direction he chose to move his branch.

Dr. Harriman Reilly had lectured at the
Universidad de Buenos Aires
. Roman remembered him well. A harsh brilliant man with searing hazel eyes—the kind of eyes Lucifer must have turned on God. Roman hadn't lied when he said the Reilly girl looked like her father. She called him a liar. He tore the algae out by its roots and almost smiled. He had been called worse.

 

Thursday, March 10

5:32
PM

 

Dan Meir signed the papers for the transfer of de Silva's body back to his family in Oaxaca. Cause of death was given as “accident,” nothing more specific. The parish coroner was Dan's old fishing buddy, so between them, they worked out the details.

Elaine Guidry, the personnel officer, sat nearby addressing the manila envelope. Along with the letter of condolence, Meir had written a check for $20,000 to de Silva's wife. He wanted to send more. Contract workers were not covered by life insurance, but Meir had found surplus funds in his supplies budget.

He reached for his box of cigars, then changed his mind. Rich sepia sunlight angled through his window, and gulls wheeled over the canal seeking crawfish. Their squawks sounded peaceful. Halcyon, he thought, a word from one of Elaine's perfume bottles.

“That's about it,” Elaine said as she jogged the pages together and stuffed them in the envelope with the check.

When she got up to file the copies, Dan watched her move. Elaine was his second in command at Quimicron. They'd worked hand-in-glove for years, and on days like this, they sometimes talked about retiring. Maybe he could guide fishermen up the bayous. Maybe she could open a day spa. Yeah. Sometimes they liked to dream.

Elaine's full figure gave Dan a comfortable place to rest his attention. She had tanning-bed skin, brassy curls, and eyes as blue as steel. He liked the way her body jiggled like a cluster of plump grapes. He especially favored her derriere. She noticed where he was looking and gave him a better show by bending over the file cabinet. She took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured two glasses and handed him one.

“Thank you, doll.” He held the glass without drinking.

She said, “Rory's got three shifts working out there. Do we know any more than we did?”

She watched him swirl the brown liquor in his glass, then she moved behind his chair and rubbed his knotted shoulders. With his silver hair and permanent squint, she thought he looked like Clint Eastwood, only shorter. Elaine had been seeing Dan Meir on the sly for sixteen years. Though he had a wife, two grown children, dozens of friends, and a new grandbaby, still no one understood as well as Elaine did how he took things to heart.

Usually she tried to make him forget his worries, but today, an uneasy tension pervaded the entire plant. Word was spreading about de Silva's strange death in the unnatural ice. Along the corridors of Building No. 2, people gathered in clumps and whispered. There were no jokes in the break room. Meetings were canceled. Healthy people called in sick. And this morning, one of the computer programmers tried to sneak a handgun past the security station. He claimed it was for self-defense.

So instead of distracting her lover with funny anecdotes
and gossip, today Elaine couldn't refrain from asking again, “Dan, do we know any more?”

But the answer he gave didn't settle her mind at all. He gulped half his drink and said, “Not a blessed thing.”

 

Thursday, March 10

9:05
PM

 

Roman Sacony. CJ had heard stories about Quimicron's chief executive. He was said to own a penthouse bordello in downtown Miami where he entertained cabinet members and admirals. Cunning, that's what she sensed about him. Devious. But that image didn't square with the solemn man working beside her in the lab.

Sheathed in a white smock and latex gloves, he handled the equipment as if the lab were his second home. He'd studied science in school and liked to keep his hand in, that's what he told her. From the way he rushed her along, though, she assumed his real motive was to get the results in a hurry. Roman Sacony came on smooth as glass, but she suspected he was hiding sharper facets.

The unpadded work stool cut off circulation in her bum, and the climate-controlled air felt too still and dry. She straightened and stretched, knocking the rack of tubes at her elbow. Roman glanced up briefly. The pond water in the tubes sifted like pearly milk.

He returned to his task, operating the laser nephelometer to analyze the water's turbidity. His dark profile cast a trim silhouette against the wall as he measured the light scattered through a droplet. She watched him scribble notes on a clipboard.

Slim and wiry-muscled, he must work out, she decided. She didn't realize that she could smell his pheromones
and that he could smell hers. Their molecules of sexual scent wafted on air currents too fine for conscious awareness, but in the shadowy subliminal undersides of their brains, both of them recognized the chemical code.

They exchanged sidelong glances. CJ was the first to look away.

Her tight-fitting latex gloves were making her hands sweat. She and Roman had been working for hours, both absorbed by the riddle. She'd been analyzing the sample with a technique called FAIMS—field asymmetric waveform ion mobility spectrometry. But now her test was growing tedious. The electrode probe rested in a small beaker of the pearly colloidal fluid, and as it scanned for ions, the screen painted repetitious, hypnotic line graphs. Her eyelids grew heavy. She toyed with the rack of tubes at her elbow. Some of them had frosted.