All Over Creation (37 page)

From the playpen in the kitchen Poo could hear his mother's voice, and he started to screech. Yummy crossed the living room. “Hey,” she said. “Do you have a beer? I'm dying for a drink.”

“In the refrigerator,” Cass said. She picked up a few of Poo's toys and followed Yummy into the kitchen. Yummy was standing in front of the open refrigerator popping the top off the beer. She took a long swig.

“Close the door,” Cass said. “You're wasting electricity.”

Yummy looked at her. “Want one?”

Cass shook her head. Yummy closed the door. A calendar from the local feed store hung there from a magnet, and she started flipping back through the pages. “I've been here over three months! No wonder I'm going crazy.” She let the calendar pages fall and started walking restlessly around the kitchen.

Cass sat down at the table, folded her hands, and waited. Yummy bent over the edge of the playpen and let her hair fall in a curtain around her son. Poo reached up and grabbed it and pulled.

“Ouch. Cut it out, baby.” She untangled her hair from his fingers and looked up at Cass. “How was he today? Did you have fun?”

“Sure.”

“Did you get your errands done?”

“Sure,” Cass said. “We got a lot done.”

They heard Will's pickup truck pull into the drive.

Yummy sighed. “I better get going.” She reached into the playpen and hauled Poo up over the side. Will came in just as she finished getting the baby's coat on.

“Hey,” he said. “You coming or going?”

“She's leaving,” said Cass. Will looked tired. She reached up and patted his cheek. “I've got your dinner in the oven, hon. Wash your hands and you can sit right down.”

He gave Cass a kiss on the head, then turned back to Yummy. “Stay for dinner?”

“She has to go home,” Cass said. “Her kids are waiting.” She followed Yummy to the front door and opened it. “Drive carefully,” she said. “You've been drinking.”

Yummy paused and looked out at the yard. In the moonlight they could see the cars and the rusting skeletons of farm equipment and the rickety old swing set they'd played on as kids. “It's hardly changed at all,” Yummy said. “It looks just like it did when we were little.” She turned back to Cass. “Do people change?”

“No,” Cass said. “No they don't.” Even though she didn't quite believe it anymore.

Yummy nodded. She shifted Poo onto her other hip and walked down the path to the car. Cass closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment, pressing her head to the doorjamb, until she heard the car drive off. The wind had picked up again. They were in for some more weather.

“Problem is, we're not seeing the bigger picture. I was looking at the marketing reports on the Internet last night, and what we got now is low interest rates, low inflation, and a strong international dollar. The opposite of '74.”

Elliot looked up from a row of souvenir mugs at the men standing in line in front of him, waiting to pay for gas. He was surprised. It was not the kind of conversation he would have expected to hear. There were three of them, farmers, wearing caps with company logos and coveralls stiff with dirt. Just in from the fields. The big blond guy with a ponytail and a Spudee Seed Potato cap was talking, but now his friend in the FMC Fertilizer cap cut him off.

“I'm seeing the bigger picture all right,” Fertilizer grumbled. “The bigger picture is this damn weather. If the wind don't let up, I ain't gonna have any crop. The market ain't gonna hurt me if I can't keep the seed on the ground.”

“Can't do anything about the weather,” Spudee said doggedly. “But we can change our farm policy. With this kind of economy, it all comes down to whether we ought to be market driven or depending on government.”

The third man, in an Acme Metal Fab cap, spoke up. “I say the government
should
pay. They're the ones that go and make dumb-ass decisions like NAFTA, letting in all them Canuck spuds to drive the price down. I still got last year's crop in the cellars that I can't sell. Cheaper to dump it.”

Fertilizer paid for his gas. “And now with the Europeans boycotting the GMO crops . . . What did you decide about the NuLifes, Will? You planting them?”

Spudee stepped up to the cash register and laid down his quart of milk. He hesitated, eyeing the gum display, then extracted a beaten wallet from the back pocket of his coveralls, took out a twenty, and handed it over to the cashier. While he waited for her to make change, he massaged his knuckles.

“I don't know,” he said slowly. “There was a time I laid down my life for my government and was glad to do so.” He took off his cap and raked his fingers over his head, combing back the loose hair from his face. He looked exhausted, and even though most farmers looked tired at this time of year, it struck Elliot that there was something else, as if his worn face were at war with his basic good nature. Even his ponytail looked dispirited.

“In Vietnam, the government said spray and we sprayed. Never gave it another thought. Now I got this numbness in my arms that the doc says may be Agent Orange, only he can't tell for sure because of the exposure factor on the farm. It bugs me. Cynaco made Agent Orange for the army. They make GroundUp and now the NuLifes, too.”

He held out his hand and accepted his change. His brow was furrowed, giving him a faintly puzzled look, as though he didn't know where all these words were coming from, but he just couldn't stop them.

“The wife's had a bout with cancer,” he said. “Mother-in-law died of it. Old Fuller down the road had part of his colon removed.” He put the bills into his wallet and then stared at the coins in his palm. He shook his head. “Maybe it's related. Maybe it ain't. And maybe if I was a scientist I could give you a better answer. But I'm just a farmer, so I can't say. What it boils down to is we're sick of chemical inputs, and they say with the NuLifes you can cut back. But you ask where I stand? Damned if I know. So what the hell? We're gonna try a few acres. See what happens.”

He turned back to the register, selected a pack of spearmint gum and slapped the change on the counter to pay for it. He unwrapped the pack and offered it around, then the three walked out the door toward their pickups. Elliot watched them go, bending into the wind, then he placed his six-pack on the counter.

Duncan had been right, he thought. There was nothing like a little research in the field. He made a mental note to tell this story at the task force meeting on Monday. Maybe even pass it on to the client. He'd been stressing the environmental safety angle, and this was anecdotal support. It wasn't exactly a glowing endorsement of the NuLife, but at least the man was buying. He carried his beer to the rental car. He had just one more task to accomplish in Idaho.

 

 

The Pinkerton's name was Rodney Skeele. Ex-military, in his early sixties. Korean War perhaps. The kind who could sniff out Elliot's student deferment like a dog trained to hunt down land mines. Elliot spotted him sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall, hunkered over a cup of coffee. He knew that the man had sighted him, too. He could feel Rodney's trained eye as he crossed the room with his tray, taking in the Gore-Tex hiking boots, the Patagonia fleece sweater, the leather-trimmed oilskin Australian hunting jacket. When the data had been duly recorded, Elliot thought he detected a faint sneer, like a shadow, crossing the big man's spongy features.

“Hello there,” said Elliot. “You must be Rodney.”

Rodney grunted.

“Don't get up.” Elliot sat down across from him and held out his hand. “Thanks for taking this on such short notice.” He dumped his Supersized Fries into a large heap in the middle of his tray and rubbed his hands together. “Cold out there. Help yourself. Should be extra delicious, don't you think? This being Idaho and all . . .”

Rodney looked at him like he'd dropped off the moon.

Good, Elliot thought. He didn't need the man to like him. “So,” he said, inserting a bundle of fries into his mouth, “tell me about the work you do for Cynaco.”

Rodney did a quick scan of their immediate vicinity. There was a family sitting at the next booth. A mother with three enormous offspring, each facing off with a Supersized Happy Meal. He lowered his voice.

“Field testing mostly,” he said. “Corn. Some canola. Expect more this year, but can't really do anything until the crops are up.”

“I don't get out into the fields much. How does that work?”

Rodney shrugged. “Cynaco puts a marker gene in the plant, so you take samples, and the lab tests for that. You got a list of who's signed tech agreements, so if you find that gene in anyone else's field, it's infringement.”

“What happens then?”

“Confront 'em. Get a warrant and subpoena their receipts and invoices and look for discrepancies. Cynaco's got lawyers and a CPA who handles that end.”

“You ever catch anyone?”

“Bunch of minor cease and desists.”

“How come we don't press further?”

“We do.” Rodney sighed. “But most farmers settle. Guys around here operate on pretty tight margins. Can't afford to go up against a corporation like Cynaco, and they're not worth suing, not for damages anyway—they're so far in debt a court case would bankrupt them. The idea is to slap 'em back down but keep 'em in business. It's just maintenance.”

Elliot nodded and inspected a fry. “Never think to eat these in the city,” he said, twirling it and popping it into his mouth. “So basically you know who's planting what?”

“Pretty much. Why? You expecting trouble?”

“Could be. What did you find out?”

“They're hanging out on a farm about twenty miles northeast of Liberty Falls.”

“You learn whose farm?”

“Belongs to an old guy named Fuller. Used to farm spuds, but then he quit. Folks around town think he's pretty much of a crackpot these days. Married to a Jap lady he brought back from the war. Both been pretty sick. They got one kid, a daughter. She's back home taking care of them. Sheriff's been out to see her already, thinks maybe she's got connections with this gang of yours.”

“Good work,” said Elliot. “I'm already in contact with the daughter.”

Rodney gave him a long, cool stare. “So why'd you call me?”

“I wasn't at the time. But now that I am . . .”

“You don't need me.”

“On the contrary. These kids tore up a couple of fields back east that got major media coverage. If they stick around, these waving fields of genetically modified organisms might be too much for them to resist.”

“You want me to run them out of town?”

“No. Just keep an eye on them.” Elliot paused. “You a churchgoing man?”

“I'm not LDS, but I know people, if that's what you mean.”

“That'll do. You take a look at that Web site of theirs? Good stuff, huh?”

Rodney gave him another man-in-the-moon look. “You want to know what I think? These people are filthy scum.”

“Great. Down the line perhaps some of your more devout neighbors might be interested in that, too.” He finished off the last of the fries. “Well, that just hit the spot!”

“They put sugar in those,” Rodney said.

“Yeah?”

“And beef flavoring. Never used to let my kids eat that crap. But my grandkids, forget about it.”

 

 

“I ate at a McDonald's today,” Elliot said.

“Oh, my.” Jillie was not impressed.

“They put sugar and beef flavoring in the fries.”

“So?”

He was lying on his bed at the motel staring up at the ceiling, holding the phone as far away from his face as possible. The receiver smelled of onions and a floral-scent deodorizer.

“Elliot, I can barely hear you.”

“Sorry. This phone stinks. It's romantic, you know. Listening to your voice while inhaling a bouquet of aromatic hydrocarbons.”

“For God's sake, Elliot, you are mutating into some kind of hideous rube. When are you coming back here?”

“Do you miss me?”

“Desperately.” Her voice sounded far away.

“I bought you a present at the gas station today.” She didn't answer. “Don't you want to know what it is?”

“What is it?”

“A John Deere tractor mug.”

There was more silence. Outside, the wind howled, whistling through the open corridor of the motel.

“I'll be back on Sunday,” he said. “Can I come over?”