The Storm Murders (30 page)

The storm murders were especially perplexing.

She chose accommodation in Albertville for her own specific reasons. She preferred not to sleep and wake up in the same neighborhood where she was conducting an investigation. She preferred to keep her quiet time to herself across a physical boundary where people were unlikely to identify her as a special agent. Albertville was also significantly larger than Geraldine, which might permit her to go out at night and still stand a half decent chance of meeting people, men in particular, with whom she might converse and share a drink. Perhaps a liaison. She was not the first lady to whom men gravitated when she sat alone in a bar, so her odds improved when the bars were both plentiful and pleasantly populated. In a city as large as Albertville, should she find herself in company that pleased her, she might then venture an invitation back to her room without churning a small town’s rumor mill. Long before she arrived she was feeling that that’s how she wanted the evening to go, and Vira was pleased to be greeted by an abundance of twinkling lights along the strip where her motel was located.

Good. Promising.

First, a shower, a change of clothes, makeup that was apparent, yet subtle—she could manage that contradiction—then dinner.

Over honey-mustard chicken and roast potatoes,
É
mile Cinq-Mars and Agent Rand Dreher were discussing slime, and the biological stew in the earliest days of the fledging planet. Sandra objected to the subject matter. “Gentlemen, please! We’re eating!” Into their drinks—white wine, the Scotch put away—they cheerfully carried on.

“Here’s the thing, this is the thing,” Dreher was saying, in pursuit of a notion that kept slipping off his tongue. He couldn’t seem to get his head around his own thesis. “It’s been proven, I mean not
proven
,
per se
, but there’s been experiments—
experiments!
yes—to show that slime—pure simple slime, single cell slime, brainless heartless revolting slime—slippery gooey pungent—”

“Okay, thanks, I think we got it,” Sandra intoned.

“Slime thinks for itself. No, no,” Dreher protested to objections he only imagined as none were spoken in this room, and, indeed, Cinq-Mars knew of the experiments he referenced, “it’s true. I swear on my mother’s grave. Slime thinks.”

Sandra did not know what he was talking about and expressed curiosity and perhaps disbelief with a simple expression.

Cinq-Mars explained. “Slime, living slime, can follow a path to food. To sugar, let’s say. In an experiment, scientists blocked the path of slime, made it difficult, then let the slime try again. Even if its old trail was masked to a certain extent, slime figured out the route to food more quickly the second time than the first. Similar experiments have indicated—well, it depends on one’s analysis I’m sure—that slime thinks. I like the idea, although perhaps for different reasons than Rand here.”

“Slime thinks!” Rand postulated with inebriated enthusiasm. “That’s such a sublime thought! I’m in awe of that thought. Single-cell slime thinks! No wonder that the detritus of the earth, the bottom feeders, the night crawlers, and the slimiest of human specimens also think, enough to make things difficult for those of us charging with cleaning up their god-awful messes.”

Seconds were dished out. The chicken had been consumed, but Vira had plenty of roast spuds, caramelized onions, and Brussels sprouts drizzled with a secret sweet sauce, popular dishes all. Perhaps the presentation instigated Dreher to discuss life in a primordial slough. He attached himself to the subject with relish.

“This is the thing!” he sang out. “Organisms way back then in that fetid slush interchanged their cells and their DNA willy-nilly.”

“Meaning what?” Sandra asked, scooping.

“Meaning exactly that!” he enthused. “I’m talking about microorganisms, you understand, but if Polly wanted Molly’s mouth or Ralph thought that he might strike a more impressive figure in a bathing suit if only he had Harold’s pectorals, they’d just switch off. Just like that. None of this reproductive morass we’re subjected to.”

“Microorganisms have pecs? Cool.” They laughed, and drank, and dug in again. Sandra was alert to the possibilities. “Just think,
É
mile, you could’ve have had a new nose, on a daily basis if you wanted.”

“I’d probably wander the swamp looking for the culprit who made off with my perfectly good one.”

“Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find,” she put in, which scored a second chuckle from Dreher.

“But seriously, this is the thing. The thing!”

Apparently tipsy as well,
É
mile enjoyed a laugh at his guest’s expense. Sometimes, as he already cautioned himself, folks who normally embraced decorum, yet who easily succumbed to the influence of the grape, needed to be watched. And encouraged. “What, dear Rand, is the thing now? Pray tell.”

Cinq-Mars couldn’t be certain if the drink or the subject matter was the cause, but the fellow was having trouble lining up his words. “What life used to do on this planet was comparable to one massive, messy, all consuming, wet, slurping, unrepentant
orgy
. A ram’s horns on a monkey’s arse, that was the way of our fledgling planet. Difficult to sit, I agree, ha ha. But it was a free-for-all in those days! Cells and DNA were traded like penny stocks. You don’t like your skin? Try scales. Don’t like your monkey face? Become a goat. Metamorphically speaking, of course.”

“Of course. But metaphorically.”

“Of course. Metamor. No. Metaphor. Phic.” He gently burped and excused himself. “But this is where it gets interesting.”

“It’s all fascinating, Rand.”

“This is the moment,
É
mile,” Dreher insisted.

“The moment and the thing,”
É
mile emphasized, yet nothing in his tone indicated that he was having one over on him.

“One species.”

“Yes.”

“Nay. One individual within a species. One ego, perhaps. One jerk. Or one inspired and enlightened soul, who knows? But one specimen in that great global petri dish, decided, all on his own, or should I say, on
its
own, I mean we’re not talking people here—my god we’re probably talking faecal matter or what swam in and chewed on the faecal matter of the planet—”

“A fine meal. What else was there?”

“Gentlemen,” Sandra chastised them both.

Rand looked at him to ascertain
É
mile’s level of seriousness.

“Go on,”
É
mile encouraged.

“One specimen—perhaps thoughtful slime, but check that, the scientists would disagree—one primordial
slug
, say, put an end to this beautiful mucky orgy of life, and declared that he—sorry,
it
—was keeping its DNA and cells to
it
self, and henceforth—”

“Henceforth?”
É
mile egged him on when Dreher paused unexpectedly. Sandra could keep it in no longer, her giggles erupting into laughter at the two of them in concert.

“Henceforth, yes, henceforth—”

“This is the thing.”

“It
is
the thing. Henceforth that specimen, and consequently, that species, was keeping its—”

“You said that. Go on, Rand.”

“I said that? Okay. Henceforth, he—it, whatever—would only share it’s cell structure through copulation, that is, consequently, through procreation. I’ve got nothing against procreation, the way we do it, but once that selfishness, shall we say—shall we say that? Once that selfishness was observed, all the other species of the world cottoned on and they all, henceforth, kept their DNA to themselves and moved it along only to their offspring. All other species could suck lemons. That is, if they left themselves a mouth to suck lemons with when all their trading of orifices was completed, when their game of musical limbs came to a fast close.”

“Assuming they found a lemon,” Cinq-Mars added, and Dreher, confused for only a moment, concurred.

É
mile poured but the bottle was dry.

“Dessert is still to come,” Sandra mentioned, “but first, I’ll get a new bottle.”

“I can go!” Cinq-Mars intoned.

“Sit. I’m already up.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” chirped Cinq-Mars.

“Don’t mean to impose,” Dreher lamented.

“Rand, I may be living on a cop’s pension, but it’s not so bad, and anyway, my wine cellar is all but bottomless.”

“
É
mile,” Sandra chastised him. To hear him boasting sounded strange. She slipped free from her chair and the table, beckoned to Merlin, and went through to open the front door to let him romp outside. Then she headed for the basement door. The men observed her go, then gazed back drunkenly at each other.

“She’s right,” Cinq-Mars agreed, apropos nothing whatsoever. “I’m a rooster’s fetid ass. Rand, you’ve been drinking. You must stay the night.”

Dreher resisted the idea, but added, “Here’s the thing.” He whispered for emphasis,
“this is the thing!”

He was working toward a point he wished to convey, although he still had to muddle through significant mental flotsam to find its articulation. Finally, he broached his principal concern. “Before the dawn of our time,
É
mile, the worst and the best of swamp-dwellers commingled and exchanged their cells, their very DNA. After eons, millions of years, someone or something decided that that was a bad idea, or at least that he had enough. Perhaps he simply wanted to keep his own
nose
, even though no one else could comprehend why. Back then, we couldn’t talk about the best and the worst of things, because really we were all one thick soup. Interchanging our body parts and not necessarily trading up either. Just—everything goes. And that’s what’s persisted, it’s my belief. More evident in some than in others. That the best and worst of surviving cell material was passed along to us all. We’re a mishmash,
É
mile. And now, it’s becoming possible to take human embryos, different embryos, and mix them up in a petri dish. In a way, it’s going to be just like the old days,
É
mile. One big stew, except that it’s all being cooked in a lab instead of simmering out there in the orgy swamp. We’ll exchange DNA and cells and we’ll have no need to procreate. Why risk it? And this is my point,
É
mile.”

He seemed to be drawn to a serious moment, even a teary-eyed one.

“What’s your point, Rand?”

“Who will we reproduce? And who won’t we? The money people will have their preferences, which they may be able to bully through. Politicians will have their say, and let’s not forget the mad scientist, who might artfully trick us all. In the old days, the best and the worst commingled and thought nothing of it. I wonder what beasts such an impossible treaty will engender now, when people—
people
, that wretched tribe of mongoose—presume to
think
about it.”

“I know you’re drunk,”
É
mile stated. “So am I.” He paused to gather the gist of his unease. “But what is it that worries you, Rand?”

Dreher elected to mull it over awhile. “What happens,” he pondered at last, “to all the wonderful bad guys in this brave new world? What happens to us when there are no more of them? Does it not seem to you,
É
mile, a man of your intellectual pursuits and investigations, a man of your acumen and genius, that all of human life has been about striving and achieving amid a myriad of accidents and conflicts? We’re all about discovering. Awakening. Carrying on. And what are we to do when we mix our progeny up in a dish in a lab? Will we not pursue mediocrity with a passion? Here’s the thing. Rule out the bad guys, the villains, and without them, will we not rule out our better selves at the same time? For whose finger will be on the pulse? It’s all going to hell—may I resort to clich
é
,
É
mile? Will you allow me this one?”

His host gave him a nod of compliance.

“
É
mile, it’s all going to hell in a handbasket.”

They clinked glasses, before they realized again that they were still empty.

In the silence, they waited, forgetting for whom or why, perhaps. Then
É
mile asked, “What the hell is a handbasket anyway and why is it always hell-bound?”

Sergeant Pascal Dupree called ahead, putting on a professionally friendly voice over the phone to book an appointment with Everardo Flores when the man had an hour free. He waited for him at the taxi stand in front of the Hilton, half sitting on the rear bumper of his cruiser with his porkpie hat pushed back and small beads of perspiration spotting his brow in the warmth of the evening. Earlier, a cool rain tramped through New Orleans. Lamplights were reflected in the puddles left behind. Palm fronds caught by the breezes sashayed and rattled, then went limp once more, dormant before repeating the dance. Dupree desired a drink. He considered that he should have met the man on a barstool inside and, if it turned out that Flores could run up a bill on the Hilton’s tab, cadged a whiskey. But the spry man appeared in the front entrance patting the shoulder of a doorman who possessed the appropriate regal bearing for the task. Spotting Dupree, he jogged down the steps to greet him. Flores wore a quirky grin, as if any chance to talk cop business gave him such a thrill. Dupree felt himself weakening. He needed to boost his own resolve in order to take the man down a peg.

“Get in,” he ordered, a partial growl. “We’re going for a ride.”

“Cool,” Flores consented.

“Think that way,” Dupree warned him, “see what good it does you.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” Dupree asked him. “Something’s wrong with me now? If something’s wrong with anybody around here it’s totally with you.”

“I didn’t meant to—What’s going on, Dupree?”

“More questions out of your shit canal. But I want answers. Just get in.”

Less fond of the meeting now, Flores succumbed and got in the car.

Dupree still wanted that drink and wondered where he might go. His eyes scanned his passenger—the gelled hair, the mauve silk tie, the suit cut to a perfection that Dupree’s own slumping, big-bellied body would never permit—and hit upon the ideal spot. He had taken Cinq-Mars there for a different reason. Such a spiffy man wouldn’t feel at ease inside Sinners Too where only the tawdry and the smelly lamented their shabby lives. In there, Dupree would have him at a disadvantage, while the additional benefit of easy proximity to the back alley, what he liked to call
triage
, remained at his disposal.