Deadout (22 page)

Jimmy took lots of notes, and when we were done he sat back and looked at Moose. “And that's everything?” Then he looked at me, letting me know that he seriously suspected I was leaving something out.

“He hasn't been on any social media,” Moose added. “And he hasn't replied to any texts or e-mails.”

Jimmy wrote that down, but he kept his eyes on me. “And that's everything?”

I nodded. “Everything that's relevant.”

“I'll decide what's relevant.”

I sat back, thinking. “I was born an only child…” I began.

“All right, smart-ass,” he said. “You know what I mean.”

“That's everything.”

He nodded dubiously. “Right. Well, I have to tell you, it sounds like he flaked out and took off. Maybe he met a girl, or a guy. Maybe he had a fight with a girl or a guy you don't know about. But we'll file a report. You have a photo of him?”

Moose said, “On my phone.”

Jimmy slid a business card across the table. “Send it to me.”

Moose swiped through a few pictures on his phone and tapped at it for a moment, then looked up and nodded.

“Good,” Jimmy said. “We'll send it around. Chances are pretty good he'll post something on Facebook, or he'll just show up with a new tattoo or something. But I'll send it out and we'll look into it.”

When we got up to go, Jimmy asked if he could talk to me alone. I told Moose I'd meet him out front.

“So you think Benjy is really missing?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “I doubt it. His mom's worried, but it hasn't been that long. Why?”

“We're stretched pretty thin right now, all this bee stuff going on and no summer help yet. So it's not like we can spare people we don't need to, you know? Every day they're talking about pressure from up high, pressure to keep things under control, and the tension is getting thicker and thicker.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, we'll take a look around for Benjy, but I just wanted to tell you cop-to-cop that we have a lot on our plates right now.”

As we left the police station, Moose asked how things had gone with Nola.

I told him. What I didn't tell him was that, when Nola said don't come back, I didn't know if she meant back to the farm or back to her.

“Yikes,” he said, wincing. “So, what were you doing following Teddy?”

I shrugged. “What can I say, the guy sets off buzzers and bells for me, and when he starts doing suspicious things, I get suspicious.”

He nodded absently, like he got it, even if he didn't approve. “So you were, like, douchebag profiling.”

I laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. I guess so.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I'm not trying to arrest him. I'm just trying to make sure people I care about don't get hurt by him.”

He nodded. “So what are you doing now? Want to get something to eat?”

Before I could answer, Moose's phone buzzed. A moment later, so did mine. A text from Annalisa.

“I need to talk to you. 6:00. State beach—Jaws bridge. Moose, too.”

Moose looked at his phone, and then at me, one eyebrow raised. “Meeting Annalisa at the beach?” He shrugged. “Okay.”

*   *   *

The place might have been crawling with paramilitary types, including at least one who had probably tried to kill me, but as I carried my duffel up the steps, I couldn't help thinking the Wesley Hotel was starting to feel like home. Coming back downstairs after showering with a chair propped under the door, though, it occurred to me I should look for less-threatening lodging.

The place was quieter than it had been, and I figured most of the lodgers were probably at Renfrew's soiree, making sure nothing bad happened.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching before slipping into the Jeep as quickly as I could, trying to preserve whatever anonymity I'd gained by switching vehicles.

State Beach was a narrow strip of sand on the east side of the island that separated Sengekontacket Pond from the ocean. Jaws Bridge, made famous by the movie, was roughly in the middle, separating Oak Bluffs from Edgartown. Annalisa was standing on the bridge. She turned to watch as I made a quick U-turn and parked. Moose arrived from the other direction and pulled in behind me.

Annalisa walked up with a tight smile, and gestured to the beach. “Let's walk,” she said, her voice almost wooden.

Moose gave me a questioning look and I shrugged in response as we fell in step behind her, between the shallow dunes and down onto the narrow beach. We walked in silence for twenty yards, the sun feeling lower the closer we got to the water. Finally, she turned and looked at us.

“Apart from Benjy, you two are the only people on the island I feel I can trust.”

Moose's eyes widened, like he hadn't expected to be on that list.

“I didn't feel like we could talk in my office, or in any of our homes, really, and corresponding electronically didn't seem smart.” She resumed walking, and after exchanging another glance, Moose and I walked along with her.

“I've been doing some digging,” she said, “and I need to bounce some ideas off you two, okay?” She glanced back at us, but didn't wait for a reply. “I know you don't entirely trust me, Moose, because of my employer. And I'm somewhat suspicious myself. But while you and Benjy have been working on the census—which is good science, by the way—I've been working on the problem, too. One thing bugging me is that whatever has been going on here lately has looked like colony collapse in some ways, but it is very different in others.” She sounded like she was still processing the information, saying it out loud to help herself think it through. “The mites are definitely involved and the hives aren't empty, so it's not classic CCD, not ‘Mary Celeste syndrome.' This is a lot of dead bees, and a lot of mites. So, I'm thinking, the mites are acting different, maybe they are different. So, I ran an analysis, and it came back no match, right?”

She paused and looked at each of us, waiting until we both nodded.

“I thought maybe there was something new,” she said. “But then I ran the analysis again, and it matched to normal Varroa.”

“But you suspected it had been tampered with, right?” I said, keeping my voice down and looking around me, my paranoia feeding off Annalisa's.

Moose shook his head. “I totally wouldn't doubt it.”

“So today, I ran another analysis,” she said. “Only this time I did it in Sumner's lab. I got hold of his assistant's ID, while she was at lunch.”

Moose's eyes went wide. “Really?”

She nodded. “The analysis came back just like the first one, not an exact match for anything else in the database.”

Moose slowed a step. “So it is something new.”

She nodded solemnly. “It looks like it, yes.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “You said it wasn't an ‘exact match.' Was there some sort of partial match?”

“Well, that's just it.” She took a deep breath. “Before I was just looking for a perfect match, a match for something we already know. But this time I asked the search algorithm to include partial matches.” She crouched down on the sand. “And look what I found.”

We crouched in a circle, and she pulled a manila envelope out of her jacket. The wind tried to grab it as she slipped out a piece of paper covered with a series of bars, maybe a dozen, each of them covered with little stripes of different colors. “Varroa Destructor” was printed across the top. “Here is a regular ‘Varroa Destructor' genome.” She handed it to me and pulled out another page, with the word “Sample” printed across the top. “Here is ‘Varroa Martha's Vineyard,' for lack of a better name.” It meant nothing to me until she lined them up. “See? Most of the DNA sequence is Varroa, but then there is a section that doesn't match at all.” With her finger, she circled a portion of one of the bars. “This part is totally different, right?”

We both nodded like we understood. Maybe Moose did; I was taking her word for it. “But this sequence,” she tapped the circle, “something about it looked familiar, or at least parts of it did. See these repetitive palindromic sequences? But I couldn't place it—at least, not until I looked at this.” She handed Varroa Martha's Vineyard to Moose and pulled out a third paper with the header folded over. It looked totally different, but then she pointed at one section of one of the printouts and held it next to the mystery portion of the other printout.

“Son of a bitch,” Moose whispered.

“Parts of that section match exactly, right?”

“What is it?” I asked.

She unfolded the top, revealing the header, and she read it aloud: “Stoma Corporation Proprietary Bee-Plus Engineered Honeybee.”

 

37

Moose shot to his feet, kicking up two little clouds of sand that were quickly carried away by the wind. “What the fuck?”

“I'm with him,” I said.

“I don't know,” she said. “There's at least one explanation, but I'd love to hear of another one.”

“Did it jump?” Moose asked. He looked scared.

She sighed. “It might have.”

“Jump?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

“A transposon,” Moose answered. “Once you start cutting and splicing genes, one of the many, many scary results is that it's not as stable anymore.”

“So what does that mean?”

Annalisa let out a sigh. “It means the gene could jump from the species into which it was inserted and become part of the DNA of another species. Mites are parasites, living off the bees, including now the genetically modified bees. The spliced gene could become integrated into the genetic material of the mites.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

Annalisa shook her head. “Who knows? I don't know what the gene is for, or how it expresses.” She took a couple of quick breaths, then slowed down with obvious effort. “I haven't been involved in the Bee-Plus project,” she said quietly. “I'm a researcher, in a different division, a different subsidiary. I don't know that side of things. But I'm sure they've invested many millions of dollars in those bees.”

Moose let out a low whistle. “If that splice has jumped, it'll cost them millions. Billions, if you count what they're hoping to earn from it. We need to tell someone.”

“I know,” Annalisa said quietly. Then she took a deep breath. “But we have to be damn sure. And even then … Stoma Corporation plays rough. They're known for it.”

I looked at my watch. I needed to go see Renfrew.

Annalisa stood, then so did I.

Moose looked up at me. “Do you think this could have anything to do with the guy who was shooting at you last night?”

Annalisa's head whipped around. “Shooting at you? What are you talking about?”

I glared at Moose.

He put up his hands as he stood. “Sorry, I didn't know it was a secret.”

“What happened?” Annalisa asked.

“It was nothing.” I started walking.

“It was not nothing,” Moose said, following along. “If someone was shooting at you, it was not nothing.”

Annalisa put her hand on my arm. “Did you tell the police?”

“The police know about it.”

“And what are they doing?”

“Well, they know there was a shooting. They just don't know it was directed at me.”

“Wait,” she said. “Was this in the Campgrounds?”

I glared at Moose, who was hurrying to catch up with us.

“Sorry,” he said. “Seriously, though, it could be related. I mean, it's a pretty peaceful little island. They don't have a whole lot of shootings here. Seems like a bit of a coincidence all this stuff going on at once.”

When we got to the car, Annalisa positioned herself in front of my car door, reached over, and pinched the skin on my ribs.

“Ouch!”

“Tell me what happened,” she insisted. “All of it.”

I told her about the incident at the Tabernacle, about Teddy and his shadowy friend, and then about Pug-face and his anger issues. When I got to the part about the muddy shoeprints at the Wesley Hotel, Annalisa practically shrieked, “And you stayed there?”

It did seem kind of foolhardy. I couldn't really change the subject, so I went on with the story, skipping ahead to the next day and Teddy's secret meeting in Menemsha. Then the motorcade out to Teddy's father's house.

“That reminds me,” I said. “Do you guys know anything about something called ASSP, A-S-S-P?”

Moose looked up. “The aid program?”

Annalisa scowled at my changing the subject, but she nodded. “It's a Stoma program. A food aid program.”

Moose shook his head. “It's bullshit is what it is, a way to get American taxpayers to subsidize Stoma's fucked-up GMO corn, and force developing nations to get on board with GMOs or watch their people starve.” He looked at Annalisa. “No offense.”

She waved him off. “No, you're right.”

I was shocked. “He's right?”

She shrugged. “Mostly. I mean, really, there's no reason they can't send any old corn, instead of Stoma's GMO corn. Moose is right. Stoma contributes all this money, makes friends in Congress, then the friends make sure the aid legislation specifies Stoma corn. All these poor countries who don't want GMOs have to choose between the GMO corn or nothing at all. It's probably harmless but—”

“Are you serious?” Moose shrieked. “There's no research to back that up.”

She shrugged. “Well, there's not enough, that's true, too. But regardless, it's a corrupt program. Helping the poor is definitely a secondary consideration at best.”

“What does Thompson Company have to do with it?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Thompson Company? Nothing, I don't think. Thompson Company is small potatoes compared to Stoma. I mean, the Renfrews are rich and everything, but not like Archie Pearce.”