Growth (6 page)

When the phone rang, the Mortons had just finished dinner. Belinda was in the kitchen, washing up, and Bob was settling into his chair with the paper and the remote.

Belinda knew better than to answer. Even though it was almost always for her, she would wait until her husband picked up the cordless phone they kept between his chair and the couch, and if it was for her, she would wait for him to call her name before she picked up the handset in the kitchen.

Bob said, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was no one he had heard before. “Mr. Morton?”

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Morton, this is Paul Cochran. I am the acting Vice President of Affairs for Allagro and I am afraid that it is my duty to call with unfortunate news.” Cochran waited a moment, giving Bob a moment to ask the obvious question.

Bob said, “What are you talking about?”

A sad, heavy sigh. “I wish I could be there in person to tell you. However, certain safety protocols are preventing any of us to travel at the moment. I will be there shortly. Tomorrow night at the latest.”

Bob repeated, “What are you talking about?”

“At approximately eleven-thirty a.m. local time, our Caribbean facility was targeted by an extremist environmental terrorist organization. Everyone on the island was killed, including your son.” The voice softened. “My deepest sympathies.”

Bob felt as if he was tipping forward into an impossible abyss and almost dropped the phone.

Cochran seemed to sense this and waited for a moment before resuming. “Of course, we will do everything within our power to find those responsible and bring them to justice. Your son was a valued member of the Allagro team. I hope that the knowledge that your son died defending his deepest beliefs makes this burden easier to bear.”

Bob did not know what to say. His involuntary Midwestern compulsion for politeness kicked in and he mumbled something like, “Thank you for letting us know.”

“Our thoughts and prayers are with you at this difficult time. As I said, I will be flying out at the earliest possible window . . . and I will be accompanying your son's remains. This information, at the moment at least, is still classified. I trust that it will remain so until Allagro is able to present the facts at a press conference tomorrow. Please, for the sake of your son, and the company he had devoted his life to, please do not speak to anyone from the media until I am there to assist you.”

“Of course not,” Bob said. His voice, his living room, everything, seemed very far away.

“I will be in touch shortly. If you need anything, call your son's office. They will put you in contact with me. I know this is terrible news, but your son would want all of us to remain strong and hunt down those responsible. Again, please do not speak about this with anyone. Can I count on your cooperation?” Cochran asked.

Bob managed a noise that sounded almost like a “Yes.”

Cochran said, “I will see you soon,” and the line went dead.

Bob let the phone fall in his lap, working at piecing together what he had just heard. The only thing he knew for certain was that his son was dead. Why he believed the man on the other end of the phone, he couldn't say. He believed the news nonetheless. His son was dead. He pushed his way past the questioning eyes of Belinda and stumbled out the back door, heading for his truck. He needed some time to process this, and he'd be damned if he was going to cry in front of his wife.

Now, surrounded by his son's corn, he finally succumbed completely to the anguish that had been struggling to explode since he dropped the phone. He screamed at the night sky. His howls echoed up and down the rows of corn that his son had promised would change everything. He could still hear Bob Jr.'s voice, saying, “Dad, trust me, these seeds, they're gonna revolutionize how the world farms. This corn, it's special. Really special. Get it in the ground. You'll see.”

Bob believed that genetically modified seeds would save the world. He believed this even more than he believed in his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And both were absolute truths. God had given Man the tools to feed himself. This was a fact.

Bob had no doubts. None.

Genetically modified seeds would save us all.

So Bob couldn't get his son's seeds in the ground fast enough. He'd watched the corn as it grew, nurtured it, handling everything personally, from the irrigation duties to spreading fertilizer. Getting close to being ripe, it didn't look any different from the regular corn he knew. Same ears. Same leaves. Same stalks. Kernels near bursting with a deep neon yellow.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe there was no difference. And right now, he didn't know, he didn't understand, and he didn't care. His son was dead. He rocked back and forth, until toppling over, face on the ground, dirt spilling into his open mouth. He sobbed. Gasped. He grabbed at the soil, let it run through his fingers.

He was not aware that when he sucked in yet one more gust of air to scream into the dirt, he inhaled a small number of microscopic fungus spores, which stuck to every wet surface they encountered. The inside of his mouth. His throat. His lungs.

They went to work, sending tiny, hairlike filaments deep into the tissue.

And started to grow.

When Bob's outpouring of agony had passed, when he could regain control, when he could gather all the strings of his pain and pull them even closer for a while, he swallowed, spit out some of the soil that had found its way into his mouth, and went back to his truck to drive back home and tell his wife their son was dead.

“He pukes back there, both of you are cleaning it up,” Sandy told Edgar and Charlie.

Axel had been trying to get the Mace out of his nose and throat the whole ride into town while Sandy followed Highway 100 north as it wound along the Mississippi River. He'd been using his T-shirt as a snot rag, and for a while it looked like he had everything under control, but the guttural retching sounds he made while trying to take a deep breath worried everybody in the car.

Edgar and Charlie hated Sandy and being stuck in the backseat with a vomiting Axel made it worse. Charlie was still pretending to be dazed and confused from the Taser, but Edgar was taking out his anger on his youngest brother. “You fucking puke in here, Axe, I'm gonna kick the living shit out of you. Swear to fucking Christ.”

Axel didn't act like he'd heard anything. He sat in the center, leaning over, one arm flat out against the clear, bulletproof partition, eyes screwed tight.

Sandy pulled to a stop at Parker's Mill's only stoplight, at the intersection of Highway 100 and Main Street. At this time of night, the intersection was utterly empty.

Located fifty miles east of Springfield, Parker's Mill had around a thousand citizens. Not too many of them were Bible-thumping evangelists like the Johnsons; they were mostly decent folks who sometimes got out of line. Some were more prone to finding trouble than others.

Main Street marched east for three blocks, with a few banks, a church, a car wash, a couple of gas stations, a combination video store and karate studio. The police station was two blocks down. The few other commercial buildings clustered a block or two along Main Street included a Moose Lodge, more churches, a library, a volunteer fire department, a Stop 'n Save grocery store, an empty hardware store. Every building and light post was covered in red, white, and blue bunting in preparation for the big Fourth of July Sweet Corn Jubilation.

It went without saying that Parker's Mill lived and died with the corn.

Only Edgar noticed that instead of turning right and heading to the police station, Sandy kept going north along Highway 67. He tried to get his brothers' attention. They ignored him. A mile later, she turned left on Highway 104 and they crossed over the river.

Edgar couldn't hold it in anymore and said, “I don't know what you think you're pullin'. It ain't gonna work.”

Sandy didn't answer, and turned off immediately after crossing the river, into the Fitzgimmon driveway. This was a long dirt road that wandered through the scrub along the river.

Edgar said in delight, “Oh, I get it. It's that time of the month, right? You're on the rag. Making you all screwy. Cause you, you have no idea what your fuckin' doing, do you?”

When the road abruptly turned into the foothills, the cruiser's headlights found a gate in the middle of the road. Beyond it lay the Fitzgimmon farmhouse. It was set back from the gate about fifty yards, surrounded by a dozen or so oak trees at least a hundred years old.

Sandy got out and found the gate locked. It didn't surprise her. Purcell didn't trust anybody outside of his own family. She waited a moment, knowing he'd damn well seen the headlights and was watching her, probably through a scope.

The porch light flicked on, and in the glow, the house didn't look like it had been painted or repaired since it had first been built, right around the time the trees had been planted. Purcell's rail-thin silhouette appeared in the doorway.

At least it wasn't obvious if he was carrying a firearm.

Sandy took that as a good sign.

Purcell was something of a dark legend in town. Everybody had heard about him, but few had seen him. He didn't like to leave his farm unless it was an emergency. He coaxed corn and soy out of the thin soil that covered the slanted creek beds and rolling hills. He lived off his own well, grew his own food, and crapped in his own septic tank. He sent his wife to the Costco once a month for staples like flour, coffee, and Pop-Tarts.

Everybody in town had their own stories. The only thing they agreed was that Purcell had done time. The stories ranged anywhere from six years in the easygoing county jail or ten years in nasty San Quentin. Beyond that, they said he was a gunrunner. He used his farm as a hideout for drug shipments. He'd found Jesus. He was in the witness-protection program. He was plotting something evil with Charlie Manson. He was ex-CIA.

To Sandy, it sounded like a small town with too much time.

She had checked one night, feeling that as the chief she should know as much as possible about any known lawbreakers in town. Purcell wasn't the only problem child, not by a long shot, but he was one of the most colorful, and in some ways he was downright alarming.

He had been part of a crew in St. Louis, taking down a Brink's armored car outside of the last grocery store stop of the day. They got five miles and it all ended in a roadblock. No shots were fired. Purcell served five years in the Chillicothe Correctional Center for armed robbery. Moved back to his parents' homestead when he got out. His parents were long gone. The house was barely habitable. He married a woman from Finland. Nobody knew a damn thing about her and either she didn't speak English or pretended not to when she came to town.

Nobody saw him or heard from him for years. That's why folks weren't sure about him. Until all three of his boys were the right age, and Purcell sprung them on the Parker's Mill public school district at the same time. Edgar went into the third grade, but was eventually moved down to the first grade so he could learn the basics of reading and arithmetic. He eventually caught up when he was in the fifth grade, but forever suffered being adrift, and never had any friends. Axel unleashed holy hell on the kindergarten and was eventually expelled in the first grade. His education came in the form of homeschooling until he was fifteen. Charlie's academic career began smoothly enough, until he managed to scandalize the entire town when he was arrested for releasing all of the animals tethered to the lawn of the First Baptist Church's nativity scene. Sheep, goats, and a blind mule went wandering through Parker's Mill in the early morning hours, while Charlie took the baby Jesus doll and sent him down the Mississippi River, much like Moses.

 

 

“Evenin'” said Purcell as he approached the gate.

“Evenin'” Sandy said. “How you doing?”

“Aw hell, you know. Can't complain. Well, I could, you know, but nobody'd listen,” Purcell laughed. “How's the new job working out for ya?”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

“I'll bet.”

“Heard you were working on an organic certification.”

“Yeah, yeah. They're makin' me jump through more hoops than a goddamn circus freak.” He rested his forearms on the gate and shook his head. “They got people crawling all over my farm, taking samples of everything, the soil, the water, the corn. Surprised they didn't want a sample of my piss.”

Neither Purcell nor Sandy acted as if the three brothers in the backseat of the cruiser even existed. They might have been two old friends shooting the shit on a slow Sunday afternoon.

“Still, it's worth it,” Purcell continued. “Seems to me it's maybe the last act of freedom we have left, not being forced to put all these asshole chemicals in our food.”

Sandy got a better look at the man. It looked like his wife had been keeping his hair short with the sheep shears. Ropy muscles slid and rolled under leathery skin. His eyes sparkled in the glow of the headlights. Purcell was getting old, but he was still tougher than tree bark.

“Well, best of luck to you,” Sandy said. “Suppose it's time we get down to the reason I'm out here.”

“Thought you might, sooner or later.”

“Your boys, they were causing the Whistle Stop some problems. Gave the bouncer a hard time. Now, he's a good guy. Not the kind of bouncer that picks on folks 'cause he gets bored.”

“Can't say I'm surprised. They been awful jumpy these past few days. Thought they might blow off some steam somewhere. So . . . why'd you bring 'em back here? Seems to me, folks like you think they belong in jail for a night or two, they cause that kind of ruckus. Ain't that what usually happens?”

“Usually.”

“Yeah, and you brought 'em back here. Why's that?”

Sandy shrugged. “You helped my dad out once. Figured I owed you one for my family.” Her family car's tire had blown out on the way for an Easter Sunday church service in 1994. Purcell, who had clearly spent the night in his pickup, was on his way home from a night out. He pulled over and helped Sandy's dad pull off the tire and even donated the spare tire when he discovered Sandy's dad didn't have one.

“Shit. I'll take your word for it.” He grinned in the headlights. “Don't remember much. That was what, twenty some-odd years ago? You been waiting all this time to say thanks? Coulda sent a thank-you card.”

Sandy didn't answer. It was difficult to explain. She just knew she would never forget the image of this man as he loped across the highway twenty years ago, long hair in his face, carrying the tire over his shoulder, hair sticking to both the tire and his tongue. He took the jack from Sandy's dad without a word and crawled under the car. Sandy and her mom waited way, way back, damn near in the freshly plowed field. It was still a little close for Sandy's mom, who wasn't sure if they should break into a run, fleeing to the nearest farmhouse, or offer the man some freshly baked cookies as a thank-you. Sandy didn't know why her mom was so nervous; she understood just fine that the man was helping them.

This wild man, this force of nature, this was her first real encounter with a human who had endured unthinkable violence as well as inflicted severe pain on others. At eight, she had listened keenly to her parents' private conversations and had heard of Purcell Fitzgimmon. He supposedly put a poor mail carrier in intensive care due to the unacceptable condition of a package.

And yet here he was, calm and collected and kind as Mr. Rogers. She would never forget his languid wave as he got back in his truck and pulled back onto the highway. She wasn't around when her dad returned the spare, but she didn't need to be. Purcell had already made a long-lasting impact. He taught her that the world could be gentle and beautiful and wild and vicious all at the same time.

The Chisels were on their way in less than ten minutes and even made it to church on time.

Sandy finally just said, “If your boys get out of line again, they will face some serious problems.” She wasn't kidding. If Charlie got arrested, he could get kicked out of the armed forces, or whatever the hell he was doing. Edgar and Axel had enough combined charges to put them in the state pen for a long time if they were unlucky enough to face a pissed-off judge who wanted to prove he was tough on crime.

“And I appreciate that,” Purcell said. “What happens next?”

“Up to you. They're your problem now.” Sandy went to the back door and pulled out the boys, one by one. They stood, a little too meek and mild, like they were trying not to laugh. Sandy unlocked the cuffs from Edgar and snipped through the zip ties on Charlie and Axel with her Leatherman.

Purcell never opened the gate. “Well then. It's gonna be like this. You three. You look at me. You too, Charlie. You ain't so big, boy. You get caught doing dumb shit and you're out with my vehicle, thought you were smarter'n that. We gonna have a
talk
when you get back.”

They flinched as if he'd thrown a punch.

Purcell's polite, civilized veneer was gone. His features had shifted slightly, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back, as the headlights lit his face from below, giving him a feral, savage look; Sandy understood she was looking at the real Purcell. The transformation unnerved her.

For a moment, she worried she had made a terrible mistake. If the Fitzgimmons wanted, they could be on her before she could reach her weapons, let alone her radio. And she was the one that had let them loose.

But Purcell never looked at her. His rage was aimed at his sons, every word a razor wrapped in barbed wire. “Right now, you gonna march on back down to the Whistle Stop and bring my truck back.” Sandy now understood why the brothers had reacted as if each word was a physical blow. God knew what this man had done to them as they grew up.

“The walk will sober you up and make you think,” Purcell said and gave Sandy a challenging look. She didn't object. It was a hell of a walk. The Whistle Stop was over twelve miles south. “And if there is one dent, one single hint of a scratch, when you get back here you will beat the living shit out of each other for my amusement.” It was not an idle threat.

They didn't argue, didn't glare at their old man—nothing. They waited silently, like cowed dogs that had the shit stomped out of them.

It was time to go. “Gentlemen.” Sandy nodded at them and their father and got back in the car. She backed up into a wide space, pulled around, and drove back down the driveway.

 

 

The spiders crept out of the darkness of the far southern edge of Bob Morton's private cornfield, drawn toward the movement and soft sounds inside the Einhorn henhouse. The sagging structure was built out of leftover scraps of lumber that Kurt had scavenged from construction sites. He'd thrown it together down at the edge of the huge backyard, where the grass ran up against the rows of crops. He sank a few fence posts, surrounded them with old chicken wire to encircle a ten-foot rectangular pen, and built a little house that sat unsteadily on stilts at the end. Thirteen hens called it home. There used to be a rooster, but when it wouldn't shut up early one dawn, Kurt, fighting a brutal hangover, trudged down the lawn, grabbed the rooster by the neck, and whipped the body around until its neck had snapped.

Under a perfectly curved sliver of a nearly blackened moon, the creatures scuttled into the cool grass and passed easily through the chicken wire. At first glance, they might have been mistaken for fat spiders. Spiders didn't quite move like these organisms, though. These blobs lurched along unsteadily on mismatched legs. They moved slowly.