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“Should we fly him home?”

“She, not he. No, the report said that she’s being treated there. There’s also a danger in spreading the disease to the United States.”

“That’s sad,” Kristen said. “Does she have family?”

“Yes, and they’re there with her. She was … is our lead researcher. She was making progress too. She had isolated the virus. She also discovered that the carrier was a special mosquito.”

“Special?”

“I’m not sure what to call it,” David said. “It seems to be a mutated form. It’s resistant to pesticides and lives longer than the typical mosquito. This is going to require that we act fast. If we could act fast, that is.”

David’s face clouded over with anger. “I don’t know who is doing this, but they’re not just hurting me and Barringston Relief, they’re killing innocent people abroad—in Belize and North Korea and Africa.”

“Maybe that’s what they’re after,” Kristen said. “Maybe it’s hatred for the work we do that motivates them.”

“How could they rationalize that?”

“How did Hitler rationalize the pogrom he led against the Jews? How is it millions of people can tolerate the cessation of unborn life and consider it a constitutional right? Every time the U.N. or the U.S. steps into another country to help a defenseless population like the Kurds, or the children of Bosnia, critics crawl out of every corner. How is it that U.S. citizens can arm themselves against their own government? People will believe anything and become anything to follow a cause.”

“You’re saying that someone is doing this to us because they hate some racial or political group?”

“It’s possible,” Kristen said.

“Possible, but not likely,” David answered. “Groups like that are just as interested in making a name for themselves as they are in inflicting harm on someone else. And as you said, there are no demands. Whoever is doing this is not trying to get us to back away from some area like North Korea. They’re attempting to put us out of business for good.”

“That seems true enough,” Kristen admitted. “But we still need a
why.
If we had a why, we might be able to come up with a
who.”

“Let’s go back to Belize for a moment,” Kristen said. “You said that there’s a new mosquito that is carrying this virus. Is that right?”

“
Mutated
is the word in the report,” David answered. “It’s basically the same mosquito that lives in the area, but it lives longer and is resistant to pesticides.”

“But you also said the dengue virus is different too.”

“That’s right. It’s more aggressive and more lethal than normal DHF. Apparently it mutated too.”

“A mutated mosquito
and
a mutated virus in the same area?” Kristen’s voice was laced with suspicion. “That seems odd, doesn’t it?”

“I’m no biologist, Kristen. That’s far from my specialty.” David thought for a moment. “It does seem unusual though.”

“Is there someone we can ask?”

“Most of the research teams have gone home. I suppose I could place a few calls.”

“What about Oz? I know he’s been staying in the building monitoring the storm. Do you think he might know?”

“His training is in the physical sciences, but he might.”

David walked over to the phone and placed a call. He found Osborn at his desk. David invited him up for leftovers and a serious conversation. Ten minutes later, Osborn Scott was seated in a recliner next to the couch, a plate of leftover pork chops and mashed potatoes on his lap.

“Well,” Osborn said between bites. “Entomology is not my specialty, but I do know something about mosquitoes. One doesn’t study catastrophes for long without realizing that the disaster isn’t over simply because the wind stops blowing or the earth stops shaking. Many more deaths occur after the event. In the case of earthquakes, deaths occur from aftershocks, fires, and damaged buildings. With hurricanes and flooding, there is also a problem with disease, especially in tropical areas. Large amounts of standing water are left and often overlooked by beleaguered officials. It’s hard to worry about insects when there is so much death and destruction around.”

He took another bite of his dinner and then continued. “I made a study of postcatastrophic complications in urban and rural settings. It was an interesting study, but frightening.

“How so?” Kristen asked.

“Living in the United States as we do, with all of our technology and easy access to medical help, we forget that many countries are still struggling to help their citizens. They are not equipped to spray insecticide over large areas to prevent the rise of mosquitoes or to treat cholera or to purify sufficient amounts of water. Such provisions are out of their reach.

“Take Cuba, for example,” Osborn continued. “The same hurricane that is blasting New Orleans as we sit here now has
devastated Havana. Which city do you think will recover more quickly?”

“New Orleans,” David answered.

“Right,” Osborn said, setting his plate down on the coffee table. “Why? It isn’t because Cuba is backward. They have some excellent scientists and doctors. But because of trade restrictions against them, they are undersupplied medically. New Orleans has the entire U.S. government to support it.”

“I want you to read something.” David handed the report folder to Osborn, who took it and glanced through the pages.

“Interesting,” Osborn said distractedly. “Insecticide-resistant mosquitoes and a variation of the dengue virus. Raises questions, doesn’t it?”

“It did with us,” Kristen answered. “Do mosquitoes and viruses mutate?”

“Oh, yes,” Osborn said. “Mutations are normal in nature and in the laboratory. Of course, less than 1 percent are useful to the species. Most are harmful, even deadly.”

“I don’t follow,” Kristen said.

“When I was in college,” Osborn explained, “I took a class in genetics. I was required to take some life science classes even though I was a physical science major. As part of the class work, we were required to raise
Drosophila melanogaster.

“What’s that?” Kristen said with a grimace.

“Fruit flies,” Osborn answered with a grin. “Sometimes called a vinegar fly. They’re used in genetic research because they have a ten-day life cycle, which makes it easy to see results. It’s easy to purchase mutated flies from several sources. By breeding nonmutated flies with those that have been altered by radiation, the student can actually see genetics at work.

“Anyway,” he continued, “we were given white-eyed flies. Normal fruit flies have ruby red eyes. The white-eyed fly is a mutation. It’s also blind. That’s the way it is with mutations; they almost always harm the creature.”

“So it is impossible for a mosquito to mutate and become stronger?” David asked.

“Not at all,” Osborn replied quickly. “I said that mutations were almost always harmful. Insects are adaptive. It seems the more insecticides we use, the stronger the insects become.”

“What about viruses?” Kristen asked seriously. “Do they mutate?”

“Absolutely,” Osborn replied. “Viruses are, by comparison to other biological things, very simple. They’re little more that DNA wrapped in protein. They mutate all the time, as do bacteria. That’s why every few years there’s a new flu bug out.”

“So it’s not unusual to see a new virus and a new mosquito in Belize?” David was feeling frustrated. He had hoped that they had found a connection. Something to go on, something to peruse.

“Now there’s the catch,” Osborn said. “If we were only talking about a heartier mosquito or a new virus, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but both appearing at the same time, well, it’s not impossible, but it is unlikely.”

“How unlikely?” Kristen asked.

“I couldn’t say. That’s a question for an entomologist and a microbiologist.”

David thought for a moment. There was something here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He felt as if he were attempting to catch a shadow.

“Let me ask this,” David began. “You said that the fruit flies you used in college were artificially mutated. Is it possible to do that with mosquitoes?”

“I don’t see why not,” Osborn answered. “But I don’t know why anyone would want to. The mosquito lives six times longer than the fruit fly. It would make genetic research too time-consuming.”

“But what if there was another reason?” David asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” David answered. “But assume that someone wanted mosquitoes to live longer and be resistant to pesticide. Could that be done?”

“Again,” Osborn said, “that’s not my field, but I imagine that it could be done.”

“And the virus?” Kristen asked.

“Possible,” Osborn said. “Does this have to do with the trouble you’re in, David?”

“It may, but I don’t know. Right now I’m grasping at straws. Is there any way we can find out if someone is doing research on mosquitoes?”

“I could make some calls,” Osborn said. “Surely there are scientists working with mosquitoes. There may be scores of them.”

“Find out what you can,” David said. “Maybe there is a tie to Belize.”

“It’s the least I can do for the man who shared his pork chops with me.”

“Kristen cooked them,” David said. “She’s a woman of great talent.”

“No doubt,” Osborn said.

David’s tone turned serious again. “Keep this under wraps,
Oz. Go ahead and ask around, but be careful how you phrase your questions.”

“I understand,” Osborn said. “I just hope it will help.”

“Me too, Oz. Me too.”

A
LDO
G
OLDONI WAS A MAN OF CUSTOM AND ROUTINE
. H
E
rose from bed at 5:45 every morning, regardless of the time he went to sleep. He jogged three miles every day but Sunday. He read a minimum of one newspaper each day and three newsmagazines each week. He seldom watched television. Instead, he chose to read. Three books a week was his average. He preferred the classics.

He was also a man of idiosyncrasy. He exercised one hour and fifteen minutes each morning, not a minute more and not a minute less. He maintained a weight of 152 pounds of trim but not bulging muscle. He washed his hands and face every two hours. His food consisted mostly of vegetables, rice, and beans with only the occasional chicken breast for protein.

Goldoni was a man who was in love with himself, and that love was so deep, so compelling, so powerful that he could love no one else. Not his mother who watched over him for the fifteen years after his cocaine-captive father deserted the two of them. He was only five years old at the time. It wasn’t that she was a bad mother, just incompetent. She knew nothing of boys and less of men. Over the years Aldo had come to understand that all men appeared stable and loving to his mother, when in fact none of them were capable of such legitimate behavior. The beatings that he and his mother
took at the hands of the men she brought home from the dance bar where she worked had repeatedly proved that point to him.

He was a skinny, timid sixteen-year-old when the most formative event of his life occurred. He had walked home from school as he did every day, his textbooks and at least two books from the library under his arm. His mind was elsewhere as it usually was, lost in the stories of fiction or the past lives of others forever recorded in biographies. He took only mild notice of the strange car parked at the curb. There was always a strange car.

As he approached the front door he heard loud voices. But then he always heard loud voices. Boisterousness was the natural product of booze and drugs. It didn’t matter to Aldo. He would walk through the door as he always did, go straight to his room as he always did, and lose himself in his books as he always did. He would avoid eye contact with his mother, maybe offering an unfeeling “Hi,” but nothing more. No hugs, no kisses, no “How was your day?” He would also avoid the man, whoever it might be this time.

That day, however, had been different.

No sooner had Aldo closed the door behind him than he noticed piercing voices. The cacophonous tumult he heard was not alcohol-saturated revelry. He heard hatred and fear locked in battle. There was no laughter, just cries of pain that were nearly drowned out by vicious, obnoxious, poisonous words.

Aldo had never come to fully understand why he did what he did that day. Perhaps it was because he had just grown tired of his life or because that week he had received at school two beatings by boys twice his size. Perhaps it was just time to make a change, to seize control of his life.

That day had been his epiphany, his birth, his awakening. That was the day his universe found order and his life found meaning. That day he learned that being a victim was a choice he no longer wished to make.

Dropping his books to the floor, Aldo walked from the small entryway down the hall to his mother’s bedroom. That is where he found her; that is where he found him. She was on the bed, her dress torn and her nose bleeding. A look of abject fear was draped across her face, the terror that death was just a blow away.

Standing above her was a monstrously large, ugly man with a pockmarked face. A sneer, the hybrid child of a grin and a snarl, was etched in his face. His shirt was unbuttoned, his trousers unsnapped.

The room was a shambles, the broken remains from a tornado of physical conflict. His mother’s makeup, perfume bottles, and pictures that she kept on the dresser were scattered about. The floor was riddled with sharp shards of glass from the shattered mirror that hung over the dresser.

Aldo looked at his mother. Her arms were bruised and bloody. It was clear that her attacker had thrown her into the dresser and then onto the bed.

“What do you want, boy?” the man shouted demonically, gutturally. “Are you a hero or something?”

A peace settled on Aldo. A pleasant, unexpected peace. He felt no fear. He was untouched by apprehension. He smiled.

“Are you crazy or somethin’?” the hippo of a man spat.

It all had become clear to Aldo. At that moment he knew who he was, what he would be. Slowly he squatted to the floor and picked up an unbroken bottle of the cheap perfume his mother always wore.

The man turned toward Aldo.