Oath of Office (27 page)

“Darlene,” Lou said, “is there any way, any way at all, that you can tell me something about this man that would help to figure out who he is? It may be very important.”

Darlene sighed deeply. “I’ve met him, but it was pretty dark, and he had on glasses with heavy black frames and a baseball cap—a Nationals cap, I think. He spoke to me using an electrolarynx, even though there was nothing that I could see wrong with his neck.”

“Probably just distorting his voice,” Lou said. “Go on, please.”

“Well, he’s a big man—probably taller than you.”

“I’m almost six-one when I don’t slouch.”

“Okay, six-one and a little on the husky side. He had a full beard, but I thought it might be fake. I promised I wouldn’t push him to tell me who he was. He said he would be in great danger if his identity became known.”

“I won’t ask again. He wants the corn shipment stopped by the president? What could be wrong with it?”

“I don’t know,” Darlene said. “According to Double M, you might have the answer to that.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about any shipments.”

“No, but Double M says you know a lot about the residents of Kings Ridge exhibiting very strange behavior. Apparently he believes there’s a connection.”

Lou flipped through the people he had spoken to since Meacham’s killing spree, focusing on those who were above average height and husky—Gilbert Stone, employees at DeLand Regional, members of the police department, farmers he had met at the Grange Hall—where he also posted a notice asking for any information surrounding shootings in the Chester Enterprises fields, or any stories of severe lapses in reason or judgment. Then there were the politicians he had yet to meet, and others who might have feelings pro or con regarding Russell Evans. The list was already daunting. In fact, Lou realized, Double M could easily be an actor hired by Russ Evans, and the tape could be bogus.

Lou stopped as though he had just walked into a wall. “Hey, what if it’s the corn itself?” he asked.

“The corn?”

“The Frankencorn. What if it’s somehow toxic for people?”

“Meaning that this shipment of corn and John Meacham are connected?”

“Well, I didn’t think the killings had anything to do with corn until just now,” Lou said. “But I can see the possibility.” Then he related what he had observed about the corn—the unusual size and growth. “When we spoke with William Chester, he tried to convince us that the corn was just the by-product of a new type of fertilizer Chester Enterprises is patenting.”

“Genetically modified organism,” Darlene whispered. “So, do you think that Double M works for William Chester?”

“I don’t know,” Lou said. “There could be hundreds of corn shipments headed west.”

“Even if we narrow it down to a specific company, Double M is concerned about only one specific cargo train filled with corn.”

“So where does that leave us?” Lou asked. He realized he was intentionally avoiding too much eye contact with the woman, fearing she would feel, correctly, that he was staring.

“My instructions were to get you and Martin together. I guess Double M wants you to tell Martin what you’ve just told me.”

“Why? If Double M’s not going to tell us which train we’ve got to stop, what good will that do?”

“Maybe he’ll give us that information after you talk to Martin,” Darlene offered.

“Maybe. From what you’ve told me about your husband, I don’t think he’s going to do anything without demanding to know who Double M is.”

“If that’s the case, I will tell Martin what I know. I certainly understand there may be lives at stake, but I can’t begin to tell you the measures this man has taken to keep his identity a secret. Martin’s out of town right now. There’s no way I can get you a meeting with him until he gets back. Lou, if it is the corn, how do you think it’s affecting people?”

Lou shook his head. “I just don’t feel like I know enough, unless…”

“Go on, please.”

“From what we could tell, there are hundreds, probably thousands of acres of that GMO corn growing in Kings Ridge.”

“And?”

“And what if the problem is something airborne,” he said.

“Pollen?”

“Sure,” Lou said, “pollen! The tassels on the ears produce pollen that gets dispersed by the wind.”

“Airborne! That’s how people could be getting exposed. They could be inhaling the pollen and be allergic to it.”

“That would certainly explain some things I haven’t been able to understand.”

“Explain what things?” Darlene asked.

“The termites.”

Lou glanced back to ensure that his sudden enthusiasm hadn’t brought Victor any closer.

“Termites?” Darlene echoed. “What on earth do—?”

Lou put one foot up on a bench, leaned on his knee, and recounted the astounding setup at Joey Alderson’s small apartment, and the piranha-like efficiency with which his termites had totally dispatched a mouse.

Darlene listened wide-eyed, occasionally brushing her hands down the length of her arms, as though the termites Lou was describing were crawling there.

As he expected, Darlene gleaned the significance of the tale immediately. “You think this airborne toxin causes mutation in the insects?” Darlene asked.

“I think along with a number of other questions, it’s one worth answering.”

“And how do you propose to go about doing that?”

“Dr. Oliver Humphries,” Lou said.

“Who?”

“One of the world’s leading experts on termites. My smartphone and I are sort of joined at the hip. I found him while I was Googling ‘flesh-eating termites’ after my visit to Joey’s. I certainly hadn’t connected the little beasties to corn, but I was running out of paths to follow in investigating John Meacham’s rampage.”

“So you had already planned to speak with this bug man about these termites?”

“Yes. I have an appointment with him the day after tomorrow. Now I have more questions to ask him, such as whether some sort of airborne mutagen might be at work.”

“And if perhaps the effect on people is different from that on the termites, but caused by the pollen nonetheless,” she said with new excitement. “Where is he based?”

“He teaches entomology at Temple University in Philly.”

Darlene turned and beckoned Victor over. An exchange Lou could not hear followed, with Victor doing a lot of head nodding and Darlene a lot of talking. Victor ended the conversation with another quick nod, then retreated back to where he was. Darlene returned to Lou’s side.

“So,” Lou said, “did you tell him I was delusional and needed to be closely watched?”

Darlene smiled. “No, I don’t think you’re delusional at all. What I told Victor was to make arrangements.”

“Arrangements for what?”

“I’ve decided that we’re going to speak with your Dr. Humphries together.”

CHAPTER 39

Roberta Jennings was through being fat.

For the third time this week, she had overeaten at Millie’s and vomited up much of her meal. It was her ninth or tenth unintentional purge for the month. Even that would not have been so bad if she had just dropped a pound. One lousy pound. Instead, though, she had gained three.

It’s time for a change.

Roberta had survived a lifetime of obesity by internalizing her struggles. She endured endless taunts during her school years and later had learned to ignore the snickering at the office and whispers at restaurants. Her self-esteem was all but gone by the time she finished middle school. She chose the persona of a giggly, cheery friend to all. But in truth, the horrible ache inside her never abated. If not for meeting and marrying Terry, there was no telling what she might have done.

Now, with him gone, even the simple joys of life were lost to her. Magazines she’d once loved depressed her. She detested those emaciated waifs called models, so thin, they’d blow off the page in a strong wind. Still, though it sickened her even to inhale the aroma of fast food, or to gorge herself at Millie’s, she could not stop.

This is it.

If Terry were alive, perhaps he’d have been an inspiration to cut back. Even though it never seemed to be a big deal to him, he always told her to mind her weight, which she had failed to do to the tune of thirty new pounds since his passing. Several reassuring friends convinced her that she suffered from an addiction, like an alcohol or drug problem. She appreciated their opinions because addiction meant disease, and disease meant her weight problem was not entirely her fault. But her plunges into Weight Watchers and Overeaters Anonymous were utter failures, as was the drawer of half-empty pill bottles from various TV infomercials.

And blaming her condition on bad genetics was like blaming her parents, whom she loved, and who weren’t even alive to defend themselves. Making matters even worse, John Meacham, that sorry excuse for a doctor, had blown his top over
her
failure to lose weight. People who once were supportive and sympathetic to her now eyed her with contempt. She had actually gotten several notes—anonymous, of course, and simply left in her mailbox—blaming her for his death.

If you could have kept to your diet, those people would still have their lives,
one had actually written.

She simply could not stand being overweight another day.

Liposuction was clearly the answer. Roberta had arrived at this decision after extensive research and before the insurance company arrived at theirs. By the time her request was denied by them, she wanted liposuction more than she wanted air. But fighting Terry’s illness had taken all their savings, and the price tag of twelve to twenty thousand dollars was more than she could handle. She could sell all her figurines and still cover only a fraction of the cost. Then what? Sell all her furniture, too? Take out a third mortgage on the house?

Fortunately, there was another way.

She could quite literally cut out the fat without incurring any of the expense. She had found the answer on the Internet during her hours of research. Terry would have been so proud of her resourcefulness. He would never have approved of such an expenditure.

Never.

But free was a different story.

Roberta returned to the kitchen and the checklist she had meticulously put together. She then covered a portion of the linoleum floor with a faded bedsheet. She was not feeling the least bit nervous. The commitment to alter her life in dramatic fashion had replaced any fear and trepidation with euphoric waves of adrenaline.

After meticulously centering the sheet, she crossed over to the granite-topped island—the home improvement she and Terry had scrimped and saved for over five years ago. There, carefully laid out on a freshly laundered white towel, were long and short carving blades from her butcher block holder, and a gleaming X-Acto knife she had bought expressly for this procedure. Beside them were three of Terry’s Percocets and a glass with three fingers of brandy. There was also a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a cigarette lighter, several ice packs, and a pile of gauze pads.

Smiling excitedly, she set the pills on her tongue and washed them down with the brandy.

This is it.

The knife she selected for starters had a thick and meaty blade. It was deeply curved. Her excited expression reflected off its shiny surface. She grabbed the sterilization kit, a lighter, and some rubbing alcohol.

“I’m going to be thin!” she sang, testing the sharpness of the huge knife against the pad of her thumb. The tremor usually present in her hands actually seemed less than usual. Still, she applied only the slightest pressure and opened a thin sliver that promptly began oozing blood.

“I’m gonna be the biggest loser. The biggest loser is what I’m gonna be.…”

Roberta sucked the blood from her thumb.

Li-po-suc-tion.

She sang the word in her mind as she admired herself again in the knife’s gleaming blade.

The brandy and Percocets were kicking in faster than she had anticipated, and she realized she was having trouble controlling her tongue. Best to hurry.

She placed a kitchen chair on the bedsheet, grabbed a blue Rubbermaid bucket, and set it at the foot of the chair. “Be prepared for something of a mess,” one set of Internet instructions had warned. A few towels and some gauze, and she was all set. On the towel beside the X-Acto knife were several threaded needles.

Ready.

Oh, I wish Terry could see me,
Roberta lamented as she set a bath towel across her lap, unbuttoned her blouse, and pressed an ice pack against her belly to numb up the skin and constrict the blood vessels.

“Getting ready,” Roberta announced, though her speech now was quite thick and slurred.

She sat down on the chair and picked up the knife.

“I can do this,” she said, pressing the knife against her massive belly. “I can make it all go away.”

The huge blade easily sliced through skin. It hurt—more than she expected it to, and she cried out at the pain. But then, just as quickly, it went away. Roberta pressed on.

Her eyes rolled back. She cried out again as she forced the blade through half a foot of saffron-colored fat. Blood began to spray out onto the towel, the floor, and into the blue bucket.

I’m getting thinner already,
she thought.

She dug the knife in deeper, and began slicing away huge chunks of fatty tissue and dropping them to the floor and into the bucket. Her hands and arms were slimy with a shimmering mix of blood and grease. The terrible hurt accompanying each jab gave way to a dreamy light-headedness.

Barely looking down at what she was doing, Roberta widened the incision and continued carving away fistfuls of fat. Her dizziness intensified. The floor around her chair was awash in the slick mix of blood and adipose tissue.

Terry Jennings, wait until you see me. I’m going to be so beautiful … so thin and so beautiful.

Her vision began to blur. Still, she could make out the massive incision, and the intestines that had now slid out onto the blood-soaked towel. She felt confused—lost and uncertain what she had done or why. The large knife clattered to the floor. That was the problem, she realized. She had forgotten to sterilize the knife.