Old Poison

A Diana Hunter Thriller

by

Joan Francis

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Lobathian Publishers on Smashwords

Old Poison

A Diana Hunter Thriller

Paperback Copyright © 2003 by Joan
Francis

eBook Copyright © 2010 by Joan Francis

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9821370-4-8

For information

Lobthian Publishers

[email protected]

This book was originally published in trade
paperback by iUinverse in April of 2003.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
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* * * * *

Old Poison

A Diana Hunter Thriller

* * * * *

For Lucy, who taught me
nothing is ever
what it appears to be
and Charlie who taught me
never
assume
.

* * * * *

I opened the manila envelope and found a CD
and a small bundle of hundred dollar bills. At our last meeting his
envelope had contained only fifty dollars, the fee for one hour of
my time as a private investigator.

Mr. Borson had first approached me at the
courthouse after I had testified in a civil litigation case. He’d
seemed to be a quiet, normal, little man, with the demeanor of a
bookkeeper. He was about five nine, 145 pounds, with wavy dark
brown hair, and a small round face. Wearing plain wire-frame
glasses and an unremarkable business suit, he could fade into the
woodwork almost anywhere. However, for such a normal appearing man,
Mr. Borson was developing into one of my stranger clients. My first
clue should have been the fact that he insisted on meeting in the
park, but even this request had sounded reasonable when he
explained he wanted to get away from the office and phones and have
a pleasant lunch. My second clue should have been that he chose a
park and a picnic table I often used myself.

I held up the wad of cash and looked at him
for an explanation.

“That is an initial retainer for your first
assignment.”

“What’s on the CD?”

He hesitated, studying my face, then in a
matter-of-fact tone stated: “It is a diary, written on Mars. The
information on that disc was carried to Earth by the last wave of
colonists when Mars was a dying planet. It has been hidden and
handed down from one generation to another by a secret society that
is older than known human history.”

Oh, damn! Worst suspicions confirmed.

“Right,” I said. Noting the label on the CD,
a comment just sort of slipped out before I censored myself: “Wow,
Microsoft’s on Mars too. Does the Attorney General know about
this?” I put the cash back in the envelope and set it down on the
picnic table.

He smiled, then chuckled.

I stood up to leave.

“Wait, Ms. Hunter, please. Let me
explain.”

I hesitated. Ripping off some lunatic who
thinks the Martians are after him was outside my moral boundary,
though I knew one private eye who did just that. My concern was,
what would this guy do now? During our previous interview it had
become clear that he had done quite a detailed background check on
me. If I refused to work for him, would he decide I was one of
them
?

“Look, Mr. Borson, I’m sorry, but I don’t
think . . .”

“Ms. Hunter, I’m sorry I said it that way.
It was just my little joke. It’s actually a novel, a sci-fi novel.
The writer wants a little research assistance, that’s all.”

Somehow this sudden shift was as unsettling
as his first statement. “I still can’t help. I’m a private
investigator, not a research assistant.”

“The writer wants to present hard-hitting,
factual information to make a real statement regarding
environmental dangers. As I’m sure you know, power and money can
make it most difficult to obtain information regarding industrial
and military pollution of our environment.

“Now your diary or novel sounds like an
expose. If you’re looking for some sort of industrial espionage,
try one of the ex-CIA types invading my profession these days. They
are not as deterred by illegality as I would be.”

“You won’t be asked to do anything illegal,
but that doesn’t mean you won’t encounter powerful resistance that
will require more investigative skill than an ordinary research
assistant could deal with. It’s not really such an unusual request.
Other PIs help detective novelist all the time.”

“I would like to meet with this novelist of
yours.”

He shook his head. “She wants to remain
anonymous. That’s why she hired me.”

An anonymous writer? This is why I don’t
advertize in the yellow pages. I don’t want layman clients. You
have to investigate the client before you can investigate his case.
I preferred to work for attorneys in the familiar framework of laws
and forms and procedures.

Mr. Borson had been gathering up our picnic.
When he spoke again, the only item still on the table was the
envelope with the CD and money.

“Look, this is really a fairly simple
assignment. On the CD is one chapter of the book which describes a
fictional industrial waste product called Red 19. The author just
dreamed up Red 19, but I think she is a little obsessed by her own
fantasy. She wants to see if any of the new alternative fuels might
behave in a manner similar to her fiction. You probably won’t find
anything, but I promised her we would do a search.”

From his jacket pocket he took a white
envelope and handed it to me. “If you find the work acceptable, we
continue. If not, just send an email to me at the address on this
assignment letter, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

* * * * *

As I walked home, I wondered why I had
accepted the assignment. Admittedly, I was curious. Over the last
three weeks, Borson had done an extensive background on me and had
spent two lunch hours interviewing me for this project. No one had
ever concentrated that much effort on selecting me for a job. I did
want to find out what all the fuss was about.

I entered the lobby of my apartment
building, on the corner of Eighth and Ocean, which is in a seedy
little patch of the county known as Bluff Beach. After stepping
into the ancient manually-operated elevator, I waited for Merle to
put the thing in gear. She glared at me and said, “Floor”.

Merle is about five feet four, thin, and has
badly dyed red hair, which is also thin. Her small features are
highlighted with lipstick and eyebrow pencil in the same shade of
red as her hair. Every day she wears a shirtwaist dress with a
white pillbox hat, white cotton gloves, and a yellow cotton jacket
trimmed with white lapels and white buttons. This seems to be her
own idea of a proper uniform for an elevator lady rather than
anything specified by the management. I doubt the “management”
whoever they are, ever enter the building, much less Merle’s
elevator.

“Eighth floor, Merle, same as it’s been
every day for the last year.”

As she maneuvered the small box up to my
floor, she mumbled something inaudible. She has been the elevator
operator in this building for twenty-three years and seems to have
had too many ups and downs, though I have never had the courage to
pry into her personal life. She is not exactly friendly. In fact, I
am absolutely certain that one day she will quit mumbling angrily
to herself, pull a knife out of her pink plastic purse, and with
her white-gloved hands madly butcher everyone in the elevator with
her. I just hope it’s not on a day I ride with her. She jarred the
thing to a stop, approximately at the eighth floor. I stepped to
the door ledge and down five inches. “Thanks, Merle,” I said
cheerily.

“Your phone’s fixed.”

I hesitated and turned to look at her. Was
it more of her craziness or had she once again seen someone at my
apartment? The last time she said something like that it was the
first hint that someone had tried to break into my apartment. “What
was that?” She looked at me as if the question had offended her,
then shut the elevator door. I shrugged off the thought. Sam had
great security on my apartment now.

My apartment is a long, narrow loft, with
windows on the north wall. The kitchen and living room areas are
defined solely by the arrangement of furniture, and the decor is
early St. Vincent de Paul. The bedroom and bath are hidden behind a
plywood wall that is completely substandard. But, the place is
cheap and it has location. I’m six blocks from the Pacific.

I opened the blind over my desk and sat down
at my computer. Borson’s written instructions supplied a password
but said I was allowed to read only one chapter. Telling a PI not
to look at the whole file is like putting a T-bone in front of a
hound and telling him to play dead. I slipped the disc into my PC
and tried to pull up the directory. “Access Denied.” That exhausted
my computer hacking skills, so I gave up and typed the password,
rdskblu
. The screen opened silently.

15643-9-23

(47th language translation-English(Copy
2,783) (Caretaker-Nosha)

ESCAPE FROM THE BURROCITY

Squinted my eyes almost closed, did I. Harsh
red sunlight almost blinding, and blowing sand stinging exposed
skin on me. This sand, this thin oxygen, barely breathe, could I.
My lungs like drying Marto skin, did feel. Stopping running, must
I, slow to a walk, then stopping for rest. Never outrun them, would
I, without a Breather.

I have recently decided I must stop talking
to myself before I am mistaken for one of the nuts on the street,
but it’s a hard habit to break. I mumbled to the computer, “If this
writer keeps up this dialect I won’t even get through one chapter.”
The screen blinked, I read the next line, then I blinked.

Syntax adjusted to 20th century English

Though my skin prickled slightly, I
concluded that it was coincidence, not an interactive computer
program. Reading became much easier.

Would they simply confirm that I had gone
Nomad or would they follow my track in the sand? If I could make it
to the Great Drain the Enforcers would not follow because no one
ever knows when Red 19 residue will be released.

I tried to hold my breath so I could hear
something besides my own rasping gasps. At first I could hear
nothing but the wind, then I heard the high whine of their
Breathers, like a harmonic hum above the wail of the wind.

I adjusted the sand screen over my nose and
pulled my hood far down over my eyes. Running westward toward the
Great Drain, I prayed the wind would obliterate my tracks.

When I reached the edge of drain, I saw it
was at least a hundred feet straight down, no slope, no hand holds.
Shaka had said that it had been at least two centuries since there
had been any real bridges on the surface. Anything not salvaged by
the Protectors was salvaged by the Nomads or eroded by the
elements. Construction was now done with rock block and
anti-gravity lifters, and that was restricted to the underground
burrocities. To cross the drain and find the Nomads, I would have
to find a plastibag.

Legend said that the Great Drain had once
held rushing waters, but that was probably born of wishful thinking
and myths taught to gullible children. If our planet had ever
really had such treasure, where would it have gone? Not even the
greedy Protectors could have used so much water.

Feeling dizzy now, I could only manage a
stumbling walk, but I could see the shape of a plastibag a few
yards farther south. As I struggled toward it, the Enforcers’
combox voices sounded closer.

Having never seen a giant plastibag, I was
dismayed when I got close enough to see what it was really like. It
was nothing but a giant bag of sand encased in indestructible
Plastiform and placed at a slant against the rim of the drain.
Granted, this steep ramp did offer easier access than the straight
sides of the drain, but in my condition it looked daunting. The
Enforcers were within twenty yards. No choice. I stepped onto the
bag.

The Plastiform was covered with fine loose
sand, and instead of walking down the slope I found myself skidding
faster and faster toward the bottom. With no way to stop or slow my
pace, I concentrated on maintaining my balance. I tried to hit the
bottom running but landed too stiffly on my left leg, jammed my
knee socket, and fell in a heap on the rocky bottom.

Holding my knee, I looked to see if the
Enforcers were following. They laughed, pointed up the wash, then
turned to jog back to the burrocity. Looking where they pointed, I
saw a bright red circle that stained the eastern rim of the drain.
The burrocity was dumping Red 19 waste!