The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (14 page)

George lands the copter in a meadow near the feedlot. Jack and I run through the hole in the fence and through flattened manure created by the stampede, toward the long, endless rows of feed bunks.
 

Those cattle that haven’t stampeded are chomping on the tainted corn.

Others angrily rampage through the lot, slamming into other cows.

That is, the ones still standing.

“It’s like mad cow disease,” Jack shouts at me. “Donna, we have to cover these feed bunks.”

I follow his lead, shutting the gates that allow the cows to access the feed bunks. When the cows realize our game plan, they get huffy. One butts Jack’s back with his head. Another rams the gate beside me. I leap out of the way just in time.
 

That’s when we see the men—three of them, face down in the sludge.

From the looks of things, they were killed in the stampede. We kneel beside each one, placing two fingers on their necks hoping to find a pulse and not surprised when we don’t.

We look around us. What we see is scary. It’s as if the whole herd is watching our every move.

“It’s like that Hitchcock movie,
The Birds,
only it’s—
cows
,” I murmur.

Especially when the whole herd begins to move in our direction at once.

Over the snorts of angry cows headed our way, I can barely hear Jack shout, “Let’s get out of here!”

We don’t have much of a head start. Worse yet, the faster we run, the more cattle fall in behind the lead steer.

Jack grabs my hand and starts running toward the slaughterhouse and ranch office. We crest the hill—

To find a war zone in front of us. Fire leaps from the roof of the slaughterhouse. The sound of cattle mooing frantically fills the air. Trampled human bodies are all over the parking lot.

But we can’t turn around. The stampeding herd is just fifty yards away.

Jack slams into me. We fall to the ground.
 

No, into a culvert.

Just in time too. It’s deep enough that the cattle fly over, only to lose their balance and tumble down the hill. Some land hard, breaking their front legs. Those following fall on top of the lead steers.

Jack is draped over me. I close my eyes, and cover my ears. I pull my shirt up to cover my nose and mouth hoping to save myself from the dust and dirt. I lose my sense of place with the thunderous pounding and grunting of these beasts rushing past me. I only know I’m somewhere deep within this haze of dust swirling above us.

Suddenly, like a tornado, it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. I open my eyes to see that Jack’s are still closed. His face—all of him—is caked in dust. I’m sure I am too.

At least we’re still alive.

He rises slowly. Whatever he’s looking at has him shaking his head in wonder. Finally, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Ryan needs to know, so that this can be contained as soon as possible. Let’s get out of here. No sudden moves. If one comes after us, shoot to kill.”
 

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

We make our way back through that same spot where the fence had been torn open, and return to our helicopter.

Thankfully, George had already called Ryan with a heads-up on what was happening on the highway, so the call to Ryan is quick and dirty.

“A HazMat battalion is on its way,” he barks. “Donna, POTUS needs to be briefed as soon as possible.”

In other words, put in a call.

Lee isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. I try his number.
 

It immediately rolls over into voice mail. “We’ve had a development.”

George starts the engine. He doesn’t ask questions. Even if he had, we’d have a hard time explaining what we just saw:

Cowmageddon.

Chapter 9

Germination

The process that transports the embryo within a seed into its next step—sprouting into a seedling—is called germination. Seed germination depends on both internal and external factors. Internally, all fully developed seeds contain embryos, as well as a place to store food reserves, usually wrapped in a seed coat. Externally, germination is affected by such factors as oxygen, water, light, and temperature.
 

This is not the same as the process of human germination, which usually takes place when one comes in contact with something that makes one ill. However, there are ways to live germ-free. For example, you can:
 

1: Carry a surgical mask. True, you’ll look silly and paranoid. To deflect pitying glances, wear surgical scrubs too. That way, you can claim, “The operation was a success.” Or:

2: Carry hand sanitizer. Most come as scented gels, foams or liquids that can be applied right on the fingers and palms. Note of caution: whereas the base of most hand sanitizers is alcohol, resist the urge to guzzle the stuff. This type of alcohol—isopropyl—will do worse than give you a hangover. It’ll be the death of you.

“What’s for dinner?” Jeff asks. Up until now, he’s been shooting hoops in the driveway with Morton and Cheever.

“Eggplant lasagna,” I declare. As proof, I hold up the eggplant slices in my hands, which I’ve been scattering over layers of noodles and ricotta cheese.

Jeff heads back out the kitchen door to yell, “
It’s eggplant lasagna!
”

Even from where I’m standing, I hear Cheever gagging.
 

I guess we won’t be having dinner guests. Fine by me.

Trisha wrinkles her nose. “I’m glad I’m eating out.”

I turn to my youngest. “Whoa, whoa! Says who?”
 

“Janie’s in town. Aunt Phyllis said it was okay!”

“Did…did Janie’s mother call to invite you?”
 

“No. It was somebody called an aide.” Trisha wrinkles up her nose. “Mommy, what’s an aide?”

Mary looks up from her
Vogue
magazine. “It’s a person whose job is to help someone more important.”

“Janie isn’t important. Why would she have an aide?”

“Maybe it’s her mother’s aide,” I explain. “Or…her father’s.” Is Lee in town too? That would be convenient—

For him and Acme, if not for me.

“I’m eating out tonight too. Everyone was invited to sleep over at Sara’s. I cleared it with Aunt Phyllis.” Mary folds her arms at her waist, as if bracing for a fight.

Yes, she’ll certainly get one from me. “By ‘everyone,’ I presume you mean Tara and Cara too?” I know trouble when I smell it. This stinks as badly as Farris Ranch. “Earth to Aunt Phyllis!” I shout loud enough for my aunt to hear me in the great room. She’s enthralled in a rerun of
Antiques Roadshow.

When she doesn’t respond, I walk over and click off the television with the remote.

Phyllis practically leaps off the couch. “Why did you do that?
 
Leigh Keno was going to tell that woman how much that piece of crap table of hers is worth!”

“More importantly, why would you allow the girls to go to sleepovers? Have you forgotten that it’s a school night, and they have homework?”

“No, I didn’t forget,” Aunt Phyllis sniffs. “Girls, who’s finished her homework?”

Mary and Trisha raise their hands.

Aunt Phyllis points to the girls. “Satisfied?”
 

“No, not really.” I turn to Mary. “I’d like to speak with Sara’s mother, to make sure she’s onboard with this.”

“Sure, okay,” Mary says uncertainly. She picks up her cell phone and punches just one digit. To my chagrin, Sara has earned an autodial.

“Sara, hi! Um…listen, my mom wants to check with your mom, to see if sleeping over tonight is okay…Oh! Sure, I’ll put her on.” Mary thrusts the phone practically in my face.
 

“Hello, this is Brenda Lowell. And you are?” Now I know where Sara gets her imperious manner.

“I’m Mary’s mother, Donna. I want to confirm that my daughter sleeping over tonight will in no way inconvenience you.”

“Not at all.” I shiver at the frost in her voice. “If you don’t mind, I have to ring off. I was making hamburger patties for the girls. The others are already here.”
 

Yuck.
 

I bite my lip before asking her where it came from. If what Ryan says is true—that for what we know, no beef left Farris Ranch—they’re in the clear. “I’ll drop her off in half an hour. Thanks ag—” She hangs up before I can finish my sentence.

The nut doesn’t fall far from the other nut.

I look down at my eggplant. So much for a healthy meal with the whole family.

That’s okay. It should be ready by the time Jack gets home with Evan from lacrosse practice. Jack is at Acme, briefing Ryan on the Exodus situation.
 

I turn to the girls. “Grab your overnight gear. I’ll take you as soon as I’ve put the lasagna in the oven. Aunt Phyllis, will you listen for the timer?”

She waves from the couch. Leigh and his twin, Leslie, are one-upping each other on the historical significance of a Louis XIV side chair owned by a clueless retiree in Sarasota.

Yeah, okay, we’ll see if she’s paying attention.

I hope I don’t come home to a four-alarm fire.

I pull up to Sara’s house first. She lives in the far end of Hilldale, in a three-story Mediterranean stucco, fronted by a velvety lawn dotted with birches, and edged by a box hedge. The driveway juts out to accommodate a half-court basketball hoop, where Sara, Cara, and Tara are taking turns doing jump shots.

Before Mary hops out of the car, she turns to me, “Would you care to come in and meet Sara’s mom?”

I force a smile on my lips as I consider her proposal. The advantage of saying yes is that I might get over my qualms that I’m leaving my daughter with a coven of bitches. On the other hand, I already don’t like the woman, and I’d hate for Mary to see the evidence of that on my face. I don’t need her being even more defensive of Sara. “No, it’s not necessary. Please thank her again for me.”

“Mom”—Mary hesitates as she searches for her words—“I know Sara and the others can be a little…catty—even with me. But I’m part of the team now. We’ve all got to trust each other, both on and off the court.”

I take hold of her hand. “No matter where you are in life, no matter who it is, trust has to be earned. Please, Mary, never forget that.”

I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, and I’ll do anything to keep my children from making the same mistake.

Mary frowns, but she nods nonetheless. She kisses me before bounding out of the car.
 

The girls run up to her for a group hug.

Sara catches my eye and waves goodbye.

There is nothing I can do but wave back.

Next up for the Stone shuttle service: Dropping Trisha at Lion’s Lair, Hilldale’s most palatial estate, which the fourth estate has dubbed, “the Western White House.” I guess I shouldn’t complain, since that distinction by the media has doubled home prices in Hilldale.

“You remember what we’ll be doing this weekend, right?” Trisha asks.

I hate to tell her that I may be visiting a killer in a minimum-security prison. Instead, I say, “Working on your plant project?”

“Yes, but what else?” she prods gently.

“Okay, I give up.”