Watermind (14 page)

“Hairy little mutants.” Peter snickered. “I think they're synthetic nanowhiskers fused to
Cryptosporidium
microbes. There's a little bit of everything in this freaky water.”

CJ heard her laptop chime. Roman had already responded. “Your field data is interesting, but your conclusions are invalid. Sorry, I do not believe in swamp creatures. Goal is neutralization. Go to work.”

Swamp creatures! She didn't speak aloud this time because she didn't want Peter to make fun of her. In grim fury, she closed her laptop, shoved it in her bag, and walked out of the lab. Swamp creatures indeed. Conclusions invalid. That's exactly what Harry would have said. How dare he dismiss her like that? She didn't need this damned job. She stomped out the front door, crossed the parking lot, and climbed into her Rover.

The outside air felt marginally warmer compared to the building's icy AC. Yanking off the lab coat, she thought of several incisive remarks she should have e-mailed back to Roman Sacony. She slapped the steering wheel. Then she opened three sticks of cherry-flavored gum, stuffed them in her mouth, and masticated.

 

Saturday, March 12

9:42
AM

 

As CJ sat in her car bickering with herself, another young woman sat in an air-conditioned cubicle in Building No. 2 monitoring Quimicron's local servers. Systems administrator Rayette Batiste liked the peace of Saturday mornings. Alone in her cube, without the distracting noise of
coworkers, she soaked in the cozy hum of her rack-mounted servers. Four screens glowed on her desk. An update was installing. In the chilly AC, she buttoned her old cardigan to her chin, sipped hot tea, and watched the update's progress. Between times, she kept a weather eye on employee e-mail.

Faithful Rayette had a mission: to defend Quimicron's local area network. She made it her aim to root out and expose every instance of phish, virus, spam, porn, or profanity that might besiege the corporate servers on her watch.

Thin, solitary, with straw-colored hair and sky-blue eyes, Rayette did not think of herself as a prude. She took innocent pleasure in the e-mail gossip that scrolled down her screen. It made her feel connected to the social web of her company. And though she rarely spoke to anyone face to face, she led an active anonymous life in the discussion forum sponsored by her church. Naturally, when her CEO, Roman Sacony, visited her parish, Rayette took special note of the e-mails he passed through her charge.

Rayette knew every detail of the operation unfolding in the swamp. She knew about the special gates Roman had ordered to seal off the canal entrance. She knew about the threatened lawsuits, the media embargo, the science team. She had read every word of CJ Reilly's report—three times. For, unlike Roman Sacony, faithful Rayette did believe in swamp creatures.

As a rule, she kept away from windows facing the unhallowed swamp. She didn't like that view. Since learning about the thing that killed Manuel de Silva, she'd been hiding in her cubicle, frightened and friendless, agonizing over what to do with her terrible knowledge. Imminent doom seemed to hang over her workplace like a monstrous cloud. Did her duty lie in speaking or keeping silent?

She launched a browser and entered the Holy Trinity discussion forum. Perhaps Jeremiah would be online. Rayette
always trusted Jeremiah's advice. While the page loaded, she prayed for guidance and opened her dog-eared King James. The pages fell open to the Book of Job.

“ ‘Behold now Behemoth . . . He lieth in the covert of the reed. The shady trees cover him with their shadows. The willows of the brook surround him. Behold, he drinketh up a river . . . He can draw up Jordan into his mouth.' ”

Rayette closed her volume, and her lips began to tremble. The Lord's Word was sometimes harsh but always clear. He was giving her a warning. He wanted her to speak. With shaky fingers, she tapped the keys to retrieve CJ's confidential report about the swamp beast. Hardly breathing, she posted the report online.

 

Saturday, March 12

12:45
PM

 

Rick Jarmond's voice burbled through the phone, “So how long are we talking about? A couple hours?”

Roman could hear him chewing and swallowing. His voice sounded young. He seemed to be speaking through a mouthful of bread dough.

“More like forty-eight hours,” Roman answered. “But this is a slow time of year, so it shouldn't cause a problem.” He held the cell phone away from his bruised ear.

He didn't enjoy calling Jarmond at home on Saturday to beg permission to close the canal, but it was necessary. He'd chosen Jarmond because the young man was low on the Corps of Engineers command chain, less experienced, therefore easier to manipulate. As a junior civilian manager in the regulatory office, Jarmond had just enough authority to grant the permit.

Roman looked at his watch, then paced to the window
to check the sky. Thunderheads were gathering. “Only five companies will be affected, Rick. I've spoken to the owners, and they've given the okay.”

“Well, that's a plus.” Rick Jarmond belched. “Sorry, Rome, you caught me having lunch. Now let me get online to look at my map and my regs. Sounds like you need a Section 10 permit. I'm gonna put you on hold a minute.”

Roman shut his eyes. He'd spent half his morning on hold, clutching this
maldito
cell phone. He'd left his Bluetooth ear loop in Miami—an unfortunate lapse. But who knew he'd spend four straight hours in conference calls?

His Styrofoam coffee cup held a dry brown ring at the bottom. It squeaked when he gripped it. His phone ticked static. He was beginning to see this entire
embrollo
as a personal war.

Roman longed for an assistant who could handle these minor emergencies, but to his regret, he had never found a man or woman worthy to be his second. Lawyers, accountants, technicians, administrators—he kept a full complement on staff. But none of them possessed the will to do what he would do. No one thought fast enough or pushed hard enough. Everyone let him down.

“Cabrón,”
he hissed. The vacant phone kept ticking.

Along this
Anglo
river, regulatory jurisdictions converged and overlapped with all the clarity of mud. To close the canal, he had garnered the consent of five other companies, as well as the Coast Guard, the EPA, the Mississippi River Commission, the sheriffs of both East and West Baton Rouge Parishes, and several departments of the Louisiana state government. On a Saturday.

He counted the seconds till Rick Jarmond came back on the phone.

“This toluene spill, my records show you used genetically modified bacteria to clean it up.
Deinococcus radiodurans.
Is that right?”

Roman ran a hand through his hair. “The EPA approved it.”

Another pause. Roman's nerves stretched taut.

“Okay, what's your fax number, Rome? There's a request form you need to fill out.”

Roman crushed the Styrofoam cup. Screw your form up the backside.

He didn't say it—in Spanish, English, or any other language. Instead, he laid the phone down and took a breath. The other officials had responded well to his calm reasoning. They'd accepted his apologies for troubling them on the weekend. This would be a temporary canal closure to finish his cleanup. Two days only. Commerce would not be affected, and the canal environment would benefit. Roman was a persuasive talker, despite his personal reserve. And his company paid hefty taxes. Most everyone was falling into line—all but this green kid, this
simplón
Rick Jarmond. Roman picked up the phone again.

“I need this closure today, Rick, within the hour. How can we expedite this?”

He heard the man slurping liquid through a straw. The
simplón
must be dining on takeout. Sneering, Roman opened his laptop to check the Corps organizational chart. He noted the name of Jarmond's superior. Col. Joshua Lima, the New Orleans district engineer.

“Well . . .” The young man took another bite of lunch, and Roman heard his wet grinding mouth sounds. “Tell you what, Rome. You fill out this form and get the Coast Guard's okay, and—”

“I'm holding the Coast Guard permit in my hand,” Roman said, only a mild lie.

“Well . . .” More chewing. Roman ground the Styrofoam cup under his heel.

 

Saturday, March 12

2:01
PM

 

Downstream from Baton Rouge, on a mud-red river inlet, stood the whitewashed cinderblock headquarters of Belle Chasse Marine. A fly-specked card taped to the front door announced, “Back in a Minute.” But CJ waited over an hour before a dark green Eldorado finally pulled up the gravel drive and an elderly man in sweat-stained work clothes shambled out with a ring of keys.

Pewter clouds brooded over the river, and the air hung breathless, waiting for rain. CJ jumped down from her Rover. The plunging barometric pressure made her temples throb. “I need to rent a boat. Small, quiet, and powerful, with plenty of room for equipment. Someone told me this was the place.” She had decided Max's pirogue was too slow.

“Ho-ho-hold up, missy. You speakin' too fast. Me, I'm Beauregard Chifferee, but you might as well call me Punch like ever'body else. Now, what was your name? I don' hear too good.”

The man's eyes were so glazed with cataracts, CJ wondered how he could drive a car. Rusty stains dribbled down over his shirt buttons, as if he'd just been chewing sugarcane or tobacco or some less licit flora. His skin was the color of bread mold.

“I'm CJ Reilly.” As she shook his pawlike hand, she reminded herself to decelerate. In this part of the country, conversations went more smoothly when she respected the local speed. She smiled at the old man. “Do you have anything like a cold drink? I'm parched.”

“Sure, Miss CJ. I got a refrigerator full of Diet Mountain Dew. All my doctor lets me drink anymore is that diet mess. Please, after you.”

As she passed into the cool shady interior of the concrete
shed, she smelled something sweet and musty. Damp dust and cobwebs had mingled to breed a fine gray skim over every surface—engine parts, vinyl chairs, decades-old catalogs, curling multipart forms. Even the lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling was flocked in gray. CJ had a feeling that if she stood still long enough, the gray skim would engulf her.

Punch's chair creaked under his weight. He leaned forward, opened a small refrigerator under the counter and drew out two frosty plastic bottles of green soda. Their Mountain Dew labels were smudged with fingerprints. CJ eyed them.

“This boat you need.” The old man winked. “Small, but plenty o' room. Quiet, but powerful. You don' want me thinking you're a drug runner.”

CJ opened her mouth. For someone who didn't hear well, he'd caught every word. She studied the mottled old man and wondered how much truth she should tell him. As little as possible, she decided. She perched on a greasy chair.

“I'm a photographer for
Wilderness
magazine, and we're doing a special on Louisiana marsh fowl. You know how skittish these marsh birds are. I have to sneak up on the little darlings to get close-ups.”

“Birds? Eh la, you probably looking for the green woodpecker. Ever'body want to see that sucker. Audubon. Sierra. He's a fast little demon. Tha's why you need all that power.”

“Exactly, the green woodpecker. I might have to chase him a long way.”

“Oh yeah, 'specially since he don' live on this continent. Green woodpecker live in France.”

CJ felt herself blushing. The old man swallowed his sugar-free soda, and a very large bug scuttled in the corner. Far away thunder rolled like breaking surf. She drew her knees together. On the shelf beside her, a stack of old batteries drooled ashy globs of corrosion. Punch took another swig and crackled his plastic soda bottle.

“Okay, I'm trying to bust a big polluter in Devil's Swamp,” she blurted. It was nearly true.

Punch watched her a few more seconds, then broke out with a howl of laughter. His chair squeaked as he chuckled. “Bust a polluter at Devil Swamp. Missy, tha's like sprinkling perfume in the outhouse. You're not from around here. How much you know about ol' Devil Swamp?”

“I've seen birds nesting there. It's not completely dead.”

“Dead, naw. Too much alive is what it is. Critters mixing and fornicating in all that slime. Unholy matrimonies.”

CJ felt an involuntary shudder. The approaching storm charged the air. She rubbed her arms.

The old man rocked back and scratched his stomach. “Animals in that place ain't natural. You seen them frogs with six hind legs.”

CJ nodded. Unfortunately, yes, she had seen the pitiful creatures kicking around in circles. Malformations were common in Devil's Swamp.

“And I guess you heard o' the skunk ape,” Punch went on. “Hairy demon, seven feet tall.”

She shifted nervously and tried to smile. “What are we playing, liar's poker?”

“This ain' no lie, missy. Skunk ape been living in that swamp for two hundred years. Lotta folks seen him. Smell like rotten egg and cow shit, pardon my terms.”

“Come on, Punch. Give me a break.”

“My theory is, he's a descendant of them outlaws that used to hide in there. Got lost in them bayous, got to living wild, crossbreeding with skunk and muskrat. Folks see lights at night, way back in them cypress thickets. Eh la, skunk ape still there.”

CJ fingered her sweating Mountain Dew. “I don't scare that easily.”

The old man's smile showed more gaps than teeth. “Long history in that place. Slave traders. Lynchin's. Murders. I seen a white woman in there once. Tied to a tree,
stabbed all up and down her arms and legs. Hair burned off her head. They say she had man parts and woman parts both.”