Wounded Earth (7 page)

But there was one more reason, and Larabeth was woman enough to admit it. Babykiller had said that it would be fascinating to cross swords with a woman like her. Well, Babykiller wasn't the only one who liked to fence.

J.D.
watched Larabeth kneel among withered corn stalks. She had donned a BioHeal-blue, disposable jumpsuit designed to protect her skin from contact with herbicide residuals. Her hands were covered with protective gloves. She probed thoughtfully into the first few inches of soil. It was dry as dust. Standing up, she shook the earth off her trowel. She walked further into the affected area and J.D. followed her.

“What are we looking for?” He moved awkwardly in the protective jumpsuit. It constricted the movement of his knees and was beginning to stick to various areas of perspiring skin.

“I just wanted to see for myself what the maps and soil surveys have already told me.”

“And that is—?”

“Herbicides tend to adhere strongly to surface soils and I don't see anything unusual about these soils to suggest anything different. So, I expect any soil contamination is very shallow.”

“Is that good? It sounds good.”

“Well, soil contamination is expensive to clean up so, yes, it's good in that respect.”

“I think I hear a ‘but’ coming on.”

Larabeth strode ahead, selecting her path by going down any slight hill she encountered. J.D. expelled a long breath. By the time they turned around, he would be stuck to each square inch of the infernal jumpsuit, and the return trip would be uphill all the way.

“Very good,” Larabeth was saying. “Limited soil contamination is a good thing, but—”. She leaned on the word and glanced at him. “But I doubt that every drop of Agent Blue adhered to the soils. The excess has to go somewhere. If it doesn't adhere to the soil or the corn and it doesn't evaporate, what happens?”

“Stop behaving like a schoolteacher.”

Larabeth ignored him and continued. “If it doesn't stick to something and it doesn't evaporate, then it travels downhill, carried by gravity, and by rain or irrigation water. In this case, it doesn't travel far.”

“Am I supposed to be holding my breath, waiting for the answer?”

“My, aren't we cranky? Has your antiperspirant failed you?” She stopped and waited for him to catch up. “In this case, most of the runoff—probably all of the runoff—flows into the Platte River. It's not very far from here in that direction,” she said, gesturing ahead of them. “And that's a bad thing. The Platte is shallow and slow-moving. We're dealing with a long-lasting, arsenic-based contaminant—”

“Arsenic? Yuck.”

“Yes, yuck, and I'd bet we're going to find it sticking to the river grasses, clinging to the bottom sands, and flowing ever-so-slowly downstream.”

They turned around and began walking back. Uphill.

“If Babykiller did this,” Larabeth continued, “and if his intent was to wreak some long-lasting environmental havoc, he picked an excellent spot.”

* * *

Mac MacGowan shut off the vacuum cleaner he was using to clean the cockpit of his Cessna Ag Trucks one-seater and watched the rental car pull alongside the aviation terminal. A tall, dark-haired woman slammed the driver's door shut. She and her companion, an athletic-looking man with light hair and an easy saunter, walked toward the hangar where he was waiting for them.

“So, you think somebody did this thing on purpose?” he said, gesturing toward a couple of folding chairs.

Larabeth and J.D. settled themselves in the chairs. “Maybe,” J.D. said. “It's a long shot, but we've had some dealings with a character, a real lunatic, who might have had something to do with it.”

“I don't like being used to hurt people. Some of the farmers that lost their crops, they were my friends. I want to see the bastard pay.”

“Then, please, Mr. Malone,” Larabeth said. “Tell us what you know.”

“Not much. On Thursday morning, I picked up a load of pesticide from The Happy Farmer. That's a wholesale agricultural supply place. I went to grade school with Ben, the owner. I do all my business with Ben.”

Mac pulled a cigarette from a pack of Kools in his shirt pocket, then grunted in disgust. “Wouldn't be too smart to light this thing up in here,” he said, gesturing around the hangar at the paints and solvents and oils stored willy-nilly around the walls. “If I did that, we'd probably go sky-high, what with the fuels and all.” He began shredding the cigarette, throwing bits of tobacco on the oily concrete floor.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I got a pesticide shipment from Ben—not the usual brand, just something some of my customers wanted to try. Then I came back here, loaded up, and got ready to spray. I didn't waste any time, never do, not when I've got work to do. It seemed like a real good day. I flew a pretty big area—well, I guess you know how big an area if you've been looking around at all the dead corn.”

“And you had no idea anything was wrong?” Larabeth asked.

“No, ma'am. When I landed for lunch on Friday, there was a whole passel of folks waiting for me. I think they were mostly environmental people. Maybe from the EPA, maybe from the state, it was hard to tell the difference. Could have been some FBI agents with them, too. And lawyers. The place has been buzzing with lawyers ever since this thing started. I couldn't tell if I was going to be arrested or what.” Suddenly aware of his hands, Mac looked the shredded cigarette over carefully, then pitched it with a grunt onto a pile of paper trash in the corner.

“They poked around the hangar and came up with the empty drums I'd unloaded that morning. The EPA people called me back late Friday afternoon and told me that they had been full of cacko-something acid, for sure. The newspapers call it Agent Blue. I dunno. The labels said Asanta—that's what I thought I was buying—but the environmental people said the drums didn't show any signs of ever holding Asanta. Being as how I had the receipt to show I'd just bought a bunch of regular old pesticide, the government people went away, probably to talk to Ben. I hear tell there was some more Agent Blue at Ben's store, still on the shipping pallets, and more of it coming in. And it's all labeled Asanta. The lawyers—I don't think they'll ever go away. My little plane and me seem to have given them plenty of lawsuit fodder.”

“Ignore the lawyers for now. What did the government people say?” J.D. asked, taking notes.

“They think it was an accident, that the manufacturer just made a mistake in packaging the stuff.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Larabeth interrupted. “Where would the mistake have been made? At the manufacturing plant? I don't think so. Cacodylic acid and Asanta aren't at all chemically similar. I would lay odds that they aren't manufactured at the same plant. Although—”

“Although what?” J.D. asked.

“Although they may be shipped in bulk from the manufacturing plant to a packaging and shipping warehouse. You know, in railroad cars, transport trucks, something like that. Then the bulk products would be packaged into manageable sizes. There could have been an error there, but I doubt it.”

“Why?” Mac asked. “People make mistakes. It happens all the time.”

“Yeah,” Larabeth said. “People make easy mistakes, lazy mistakes. They don't go out of their way to make mistakes. And usually, when a mistake is easy to make, it happens more than once. Have you ever heard of something like this happening before?”

“Never.”

“I think we should talk to your friend, the Happy Farmer,” J.D. said. “I hope we can get to him before the lawyers do.”

Mac snorted. “Ben? He owns the place, but he ain't no happy farmer. He don't care to get his hands dirty.”

“Anyway,” J.D. said, “he'll know who packaged his Asanta and maybe we can figure out how this mistake got made. If it was a mistake.” He rose and shook Mac's hand. "Thank you, sir, for your help.”

“It wasn't nothing,” Mac said. “But I hope you find out whether someone did this on purpose. It would help. It won't help those farmers that lost their crops and don't know when their land will be fit to plant. But I worry about people blaming me. Maybe finding the answers will help me stop blaming myself.”

Mac's visitors made their good-byes short. It was late and they had a long drive back to the motel in Lincoln. Mac busied himself getting his plane into tip-top shape. He neatened the maintenance area of the hangar a bit. When he left, it still had the cluttered feel of a place where men perform meticulous work, then throw their refuse on the floor. He climbed into his pickup and headed west toward home.

As he neared the bridge over the Platte, he pulled his truck onto the shoulder of the road. Traffic was light, so he walked onto the bridge and leaned on the railing. Everything looked the same.

Wading birds glided down to the river. Their feet broke the surface with a smack. One of them—he thought it was a heron—ducked its head into the water and came up with a minnow that was evidently not too big to swallow whole since the heron proceeded to do so.

Tall grasses thrust their blades up through the water. He was fisherman enough to know that fish and insects and all manner of creatures hid in the shelter of emergent plants. He wondered if the grasses, and maybe their inhabitants, would soon be dead.

Sometime soon, the deer would come out for their evening drink. They might wait until he was safely gone, but they would come. He couldn't bear the thought of them drinking poisoned water. It was sickening to think that the fish now lodged in the heron's crop might be toxic.

Mac didn't want the deer to go thirsty waiting for him to leave, so he went back to his truck. Nobody could make the poisons go away, but he could at least give the deer some privacy.

Mac didn't crank the truck right away. He just sat there and rested his arms on the steering wheel. It was a safe place to cry before he tried to drive home.

* * *

J.D. sat with Larabeth in the restaurant of the Lincoln Log Lodge. The conversation had stalled. The Lincoln Log was a pretty good hotel, definitely better than okay, but it wasn't a top-of-the-line facility by any stretch of the imagination.

J.D. was a little surprised, but not much. When he was on assignment, he generally arranged for accommodations no more expensive than his clients used for themselves. He knew a company the size of BioHeal would do better than this, even for its run-of-the-mill employees. As for the CEO—well, the CEO of any comparable company would have had top-flight accommodations. And she certainly wouldn't have been driving herself around in an economy rental car.

That was Larabeth. Maybe he hadn't seen her in five years, but he had worked for her, off and on, for seven years before that. Even in the early days, she'd made plenty of money, enough to pay a green-as-grass private investigator to do work that was interesting but didn't add a cent to the bottom line.

As her business grew and she got wealthier, nothing changed. He thought she was fairly healthy about money—she had everything she needed and most of what she wanted—but Larabeth didn't seem to want things like Lamborghinis or diamonds.

Fine with him. He admired that. His parents were Lamborghini-and-diamond-type people, and they were tiresome on their best days. But he was a teeny bit frustrated to go jetting off to a region famous for nothing so much as corn and corn-fed beef, only to find that his steak was tough. It was also garnished with a sprig of parsley, a cherry tomato, and a wisp of white iceberg lettuce

But J.D. could never stay irritated with Larabeth for long. He had stopped being irritated with her about two days after their last argument, but he'd been too proud to call. Since she also had more than her share of pride, they had lost five years of—five years of what? Friendship? Cordial business ties? Unconsummated sexual banter?

It was best not to let his thoughts stray down sexual paths. She might notice. He cast about for a neutral topic.

“So, do you still have that ugly car?”

Larabeth bristled. “My car was never ugly. It was a classic Mustang, playboy pink with a black interior. A real ‘girl car’ from the ‘Sixties. I have another one just like it now.”

“What happened to the old one? Did you finally run its tires off?” How many times had he baited her about that silly car?

“Oh, I still have it.”

“You have two identical ugly pink cars.”

“They're getting old, you know. I drive one while the other visits my mechanic for pampering. I pay a fortune in maintenance, but what's money for?”

Oh, he did prefer her attitude to gotta-drive-a-brand-new-Beamer snobbery.

“Good Lord,” he snorted. “I suppose they have matching vanity plates: “LARABETH1 and LARABETH2?”

“No. I hate vanity plates. They're so. . .vain. Jean-Pierre thinks their license plates should say SALLY1 and SALLY2. He named them after that song ‘Mustang Sally.’”

J.D. groaned. ”Jean-Pierre. Would he be your Parisian lover?”

“No. My Cajun auto mechanic. I think he'd work on the Sallies for free, but he doesn't. My maintenance bills will probably put his kids through college.”

“She pays a fortune to keep two identical ugly cars,” he said. “I wish I had that kind of money.”

“I notice that you're still driving an anonymous beige car. Where's your imagination?”