Dead of Night

14

LOG

14 Dec. Tuesday

Wind NW 18 knots.

Sunset 17:38.

Manatee w/calves under dock. Wood smoke strong, curing fish at marina.

Orders received: 30 Chordates-sea horses, file fish; live barnacle clusters; 24 horseshoe crabs; 24 brittle stars amp; anemones mix.

Low tide-0.9 @ noon.

Run, collect, windsurf late. Collect copepods. Mix w/Dracunculus.

– MDF

Early the next morning, I called Dewey. She was sleepy but civil. Sounded more like her old acerbic self.

“You keep forgetting the time difference, bonehead,” she yawned. “When it’s this damn cold, the roosters wait until they smell coffee before they crow. And it’s gonna be another hour before I start coffee.”

She had an appointment with her obstetrician that afternoon, she told me. So she was going to make the best of it while in town, and have some fun. “We’re going shopping.”

I nearly asked who her shopping partner was but decided not to risk this new civility.

For half an hour or so, I messed with my telescope, then walked to the marina, where I chatted with Mack as he loaded racks of fish into the smoker. When it was nearly 8 A.M., I clumped up the steps to Jeth’s apartment, where I awoke my sleepy-eyed son with a smothering grizzly bear hug.

Time for our morning workout. Five days a week, we jogged Tarpon Bay Road to the beach, swam to the NO WAKE ZONE buoys a quarter mile out and back, then jogged home to the pull-up bar that I’d rigged between braces beneath the house.

Let go of the bar, you get dropped into the water. It’s motivating.

We did descending sets. Ladders, they’re sometimes called: fifteen pull-ups, then fourteen, then thirteen, twelve, and on down to one. A little over a hundred in all for him. I did more because I’ve been working at it hard the last six months, beating the body into shape. Watching the food intake. Alcohol, too, especially alcohol. Running, swimming, and I’d bought a cross-trainer bike. During our pull-up marathons, I started at twenty, finished the descending repetitions, then did as many as I could on the ascending ladder.

It was brutal, but it was paying off. I much prefer administering my pain incrementally to the sad, sustained pain of a sedentary, undisciplined life.

On our runs, the kid had had trouble keeping up during the first week or so, but that didn’t last. Now I was the one who couldn’t keep pace. Not when he stretched those legs of his, and pushed it. He was going to be an athlete.

Sometimes we felt like talking, so we did. Other times we concentrated on the run, comfortable in silence.

On this Tuesday morning, Lake and I ran easy eight-minute miles. I wasn’t breathing too hard as we made small talk, traded marina gossip. Turning northwest along the beach, though, I risked a more serious topic. It’d been on my mind awhile.

“Last week, I was going through the garbage looking for a check I’d misplaced. No luck; still haven’t found it. But I did find a receipt, U.S. Mail, for something sent overnight to a DNA lab in Texas. A paternity test place. Your name was on it.”

The boy didn’t turn to look at me. “Were you searching or snooping?”

I said, “I’d just dumped that turtle embryo procedure I screwed up, all those bad eggs. If the missing check had been for less than five hundred dollars, I wouldn’t’ve bothered.”

That got a slight smile. “I told you the other night I’m aware there’s a chance you might not be my biological father. Mom and her chemical mood swings-I’m not holding it against her. You and I were talking about genetics. I’m curious, that’s all.”

“You sent in hair samples from all of us: you, me, and…?”

“You, me, and Tomlinson. Um-huh. And Mom, too-I want to be thorough. You’re the only one who knows about it, though.”

We ran another quarter mile in silence before I added, “Back in those days, before… before you were born, Tomlinson and I barely knew each other. We weren’t friends. And neither one of us is really sure that he… that he might have played a role. He has big blocks of amnesia from that time period.”

Laken said, “I know. You’ve told me before. I understand.”

“If we’d been friends, there’d of been no chance.”

“I know that, too.”

“I kinda wish you hadn’t gone to the trouble. Ordering the test, I mean. I don’t see the point.”

The boy turned then, smiling. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be back in Central America when I find out, so I’ll e-mail you the results, or call. Don’t sweat it, Dad.”

Laken had promised to help paint the bottom of Jeth’s boat, so, after our workout, I left him at the marina and returned to my house alone.

I showered, changed, then sat in the lab making occasional notes on the behavior of the five little bull sharks, while also researching the complex life cycle of guinea worms.

I had more than a personal interest now. It was part of an assignment. If some group of crazies was smuggling parasites and disease vectors into the country, the operation had to be pinpointed, then disrupted. Extreme action was now one of my legal options-if the crazies existed. If I found them.

Biovandalism or -terrorism? One was expensive, the other lethal.

Bioterrorism dates back to the Middle Ages, when attackers used catapults to lob the corpses of black plague victims over castle walls. Disease is an effective weapon. Nature employs it daily. For bad guys, it’s much easier to conceal and transport something like mosquito larva than ground-to-air missiles.

I wanted to learn all I could about their weapons. Understand the weaponry, understand the attackers. Where to find them, how to stop them.

I’d already had a look at a guinea worm through my old Wolfe stereo microscope, comparing it with a photo I found on the Internet. Imagine a one-eyed monster, its head covered with bristles. From that hairy head protruded two oversized scimitar teeth.

No mistaking what it was.

Tomlinson stopped by an hour or so later. He came on foot from the marina, not in his new Avon dinghy. Arrived with his salt-scraggly hair braided into Willie Nelson pigtails,

wearing Birkenstocks, yellow surfer baggies, and a muscle T-shirt that read: A BOTTLE IN FRONT OF ME IS CHEAPER THAN A FRONTAL LOBOTOMY.

I was happier than usual to see him. I’d taken a break from my research, and was reading a distressing article in a scientific journal. The piece presented more proof that our ocean’s shark populations are being exterminated for fins and liver. For commercial fishermen-particularly Japanese fishermen-it’s a quick, space-effective process because the shark’s carcass is then dumped overboard.

According to this study, the population of oceanic whitetip sharks, once among the world’s most common tropical species, had declined by 99 percent since the 1950s. They were now extinct in the Gulf of Mexico.

Ninety-nine percent?

Appalling.

The study blamed overfishing, and called for tougher restrictions. Federal fisheries officials, however, responded publicly, saying that the study was flawed. Further assessment was required.

The data I’d found on guinea worms was as unsettling. I’d printed several articles on Dracunculus medinensis. The sheath of papers lay on the table near my reading chair.

The derivative, Dracula, nailed it. Associated it with a monster who roams around in darkness, living off the blood of others.

Linnaeus, founder of the world system for naming plants and animals, might have found that amusing.

The parasite was also called “the fiery serpent” because of the burning pain victims suffered. To Africa’s Haile Selassie religious devotees, it was the Serpent of Israel. Apparently, any worm that generated spontaneously inside the human body was assigned divine status.

Nope, the parasites weren’t supposed to be found in lakes-or in human corpses-south of Disney World. Not in the Western Hemisphere, either. Except for a few remote villages in the Rajasthan Desert of India, guinea worms were found only in Africa. The most heavily infected regions lay between the Sahara and the equator.

Subtropical and tropical climate, just like Florida.

Nigeria, Guinea, Ghana, Uganda, Ethiopia, Chad, Senegal, and Cameroon all reported thousands of cases a year, mostly in poor rural villages seldom visited by tourists.

I also discovered an article that confirmed that, once infested, there’s no cure. The only treatment is to allow the worms to mature inside the human body, then deal with them as they exit. The parasite could sometimes be extracted within a few days. More often, though, the process took weeks.

During that period, the infected person suffered such agony that it was impossible to participate in normal activities. Pain continued for months. Infected African farmers couldn’t tend their crops, parents couldn’t care for children, victims couldn’t work or attend school, and were often left with permanent crippling.

Infection didn’t produce immunity. People in contaminated areas could be infected again, year after year.

A veterinarian journal suggested that some animals were also vulnerable. Dogs, horses, cows, wolves, leopards, monkeys, baboons-any mammal-could be infested.

I’d been wondering about that. Though it’s not widely known, Florida is among the nation’s leaders in cattle production. Central Florida is also the equestrian epicenter of a multimillion-dollar-a-year horse-breeding industry.

I remembered Harrington telling me that there were other indicators a bioterrorist group was in the States and active. Small-time regional economies were targets.

This wasn’t small-time.

I didn’t know how many thousands of animals were at risk. But I did know that much of the state’s interior is pastureland, open range that’s dotted and linked by ponds, lakes, rivers, and creeks. Natural watering holes for Brahma bulls worth ten thousand dollars a head, or a Thoroughbred stallion worth two million.

Along with a medical nightmare, there was also the potential for economic catastrophe.

As I finished reading, I couldn’t help imagining worldwide headlines: PARASITIC WORMS INFEST DISNEY VISITORS.

How much would that cost the tourist industry? Billions. Add a few more from the state’s agricultural losses.

So when Tomlinson came cruising in humming an old Beach Boys tune that I recognized but couldn’t name, I was more than happy to take a break from the morning’s research.

Tomlinson told me, “Hola, mi compadre, I got a present for you outside. It’s gonna put the zap on that blue-collar, pain-in-the-ass work ethic of yours. So I’m like warning you up front. You’re never gonna be the same again.”

He stood for a moment, peeping over my shoulder at the magazine I was reading; saw printouts stacked on the table. “Hey… a new research project?”

I told him I’d found an exotic parasite near the headwaters of the ’Glades, but I’d give him the details later. I’d dealt with the damn things enough for one morning. I was ready to move on to more pleasant subjects.

He whistled softly as he skimmed one of the articles. “What a buzz-robber this is, man. The worm they’re describing really tickles the ol’ gag reflex. Not that it’s any surprise to yours truly. This is the year for plague and pestilence. Some of the old hippie soothsayers, the LSD prophets, predicted it years ago. The year Mother Earth rallies her forces and fights back against the primates who are killing her. There was an article in Rolling Stone about it awhile back.”

“Rolling Stone?”

“One of the anniversary issues. Had all of the old hippie predications listed. They’ve been making the rounds on the Internet.”

I said, “Uh-huh,” not paying much attention, but then realized he was serious. “Predicted what?”

“It’s like the song ‘Aquarius.’ Remember? Only the prophecy’s a downer, not an upper. The LSD prophets figured it out from the lyrics. When the moon’s in the seventh house-everyone knows how it goes. And Jupiter is aligned with Mars? Well, this is the year. A planetary conjunction on the Winter Solstice, just a week from now. Seven planets in a line. They used star charts to fix the date, and now it’s really happening. Back then, it was a big deal.”

I said, “Oh,” already losing interest. I’d been out with my telescope on and off all month, tracking the rare conjunction of planets. But it was six, not seven-unless Uranus or Neptune could be counted. And it was Venus, not Jupiter, that appeared to be cojoined with Mars.

Even so, I hit the internal mute button. I always do when someone begins talking about astrology or prophetic signs.

“We’re entering a very heavy biblical phase, which I’ve been expecting. Read Revelations. The Seven Seals, man. It’ll begin with a celestial sign-think about the number of planets now in a line. The scripture says the sea will become like the blood of a dead man, and a third of the fishes will die. A red tide, Doc. Understand the meaning? An algae bloom that kills fish. I bet we’re in for a bad red tide very soon.”

I was covering the microscope, putting away instruments. “Nope, it’s been months since I’ve gotten any reports about red tide. Which is unusual.”

“But what about the parasite you found? It’s not the only one, you know. It’s been in the newspapers. All across the country, there’ve been demon exotics raining down out of heaven, stirring up all kind of crap.”

Harrington had mentioned small-time biovandalism in other parts of the country. Suddenly, I was interested again. “What exotics? Raining down where?”

“That’s why I read newspapers, man. One morning I’ll wake up, open the Miami Herald, and the first sign of the Apocalypse is gonna be grinning at me from between the lines. There’ve been four or five articles this month-a couple paragraphs buried inside-about what they call noxious exotics turning up in different areas. Outside New Orleans, they’re finding giant, poisonous toads, weighing nearly five pounds. Same type that about took over Australia.”

I seldom read papers but was familiar with the amphibian. “The Central American cane toad, if that’s the one you mean. They’re in Delta country? That could be a mess because it’s an ideal habitat. Just a few, or significant numbers?”

“Enough to poison a bunch of Cajuns who tried to fry up the legs; ate them with red beans and gumbo. Kept right on eating until their nervous systems shut down. And they breed like bunnies. Toads, not the Cajuns-though that may be true, too. Significant numbers, and in a bunch of parishes.”

I was thinking I’d ask Harrington to provide more details as Tomlinson said, “Another exotic I read about-this was just last week-they had to close a big lake near Houston ’cause some swimmers got various appendages eaten off-piranhas. Those little South American fish with great big teeth. They got their first taste of gringo.”

Before I could ask, he answered, “There’s a thriving population, according to the story. Like, maybe hundreds of the little darlings, if the first samples are accurate. But mostly immature, so the kimchi hadn’t hit the fan as far as tourist swimmers entering the food chain.”

I said, “That many fish, they had to be introduced intentionally. We find piranha in Florida occasionally, but pet store numbers, fish that get dumped from an aquarium because the kids are tired of them. But hundreds? It takes a special kind of nasty to do something like that.”

Tomlinson shrugged his bony shoulders, then told me he’d also read about exotic snakes-cobras, a couple of other poisonous African species-that had been found loose in Minneapolis, the Mall of the Americas, crawling around clothing stores, Ben amp; Jerry’s, a CD supermarket.

No one was bitten, but a couple of shoppers were trampled in the panic. And also about a hatch of what are commonly called “seventeen-year locusts” in some rural Southern California county. Cicadas, Tomlinson knew them to be. Their numbers, he said, were so enormous that they clogged village drains, caused cars to overheat.

“This was more than a year ago. They aren’t supposed to be in California, and the hatch timings are off,” he added. “Rolling Stone said that the old LSD prophets had predicted it. A very far-out story.”

I said softly, “African snakes in Minnesota, African parasites in Florida,” thinking about it.

“You’re wondering if it’s some kind of organized deal?”

“Yeah, I am. But I also know there are a couple hundred exotic plant and animal species introduced into this country annually. Usually accidentally. So it’s more likely coincidence.”

“Not according to Rolling Stone.”

“Ah. The final word on bio-anomalies and biblical prophecy.”

Tomlinson flipped his hands outward, a gesture that dismissed the sarcasm. “I don’t believe in coincidence, man. Related events, phenomenon, everyone involved-us-there’s linkage. A purpose.”

I said slowly, “Well… the timing’s interesting.”

“Are piranha found in Africa?”

“No, only South America. And cicadas? They’re in the northeastern United States, I think. Maybe Africa. I’m not sure. I don’t know much about them.”

Tomlinson said, “Females bite little slits in tree branches, then deposit thousands of eggs. Eggs hatch, the nymphs fall to the ground, and burrow deep. Seventeen years later, they hatch en masse. Clouds of flying grasshopper-looking things, a million to an acre. And you’re right, they don’t belong in Southern California. It’s a mystery how they got there.”

“Where in Southern California?”

“San Bernardino County. A couple little towns, Ludlow and Amboy, got the worst of it. I remember their names because, years back, there was a very cool commune nearAmboy where I crashed for a month or two. Called themselves the Rainbow Amish. A very far-out tribe of herbalists.”

I knew the area, too. Near the Mojave Desert, and home to the massive Marine Air Ground Task Force Training base.

“You don’t think there’s a chance they migrated, got caught in a big wind?”

He said, no, entomologists didn’t think that was likely. They believed the insects had been imported. Intentionally or unintentionally, they didn’t know.

I asked, “Then the LSD prophets are guilty. Maybe your commune friends, too. Maybe you-your memory’s so spotty. Make a prediction, then set it up to happen. Truck branches filled with eggs across the country. Political activism in a time capsule.”

“I don’t know, Doc. I think even I would remember smuggling bugs” He mulled it over for a moment. “There could be a connection. Not with me-the toads, the piranha, all the exotics. The Stone runs a story about the LSD prophets, which is read by a bunch of wannabe ecowarriors. It gets them stoked. Mother Earth fighting back. They love the idea, so they start doing the copycat gig. Releasing noxious exotics.”

Tomlinson took a slow breath, sighed, then sighed again. It pained him that his counterculture brethren may have behaved badly.

“How long ago did the story appear?”

“Maybe a year. More-could be. It’s not the sort of magazine where you fixate on dates.”

“Shortly after the locusts start hatching in California?”

“Yep. ‘Is Aquarius Dawning?’ That sort of piece.”

“There’s no room on your boat, so I know you don’t save magazines. If you have time, could you check the Sanibel Library?”

“Sure, dude. Get you acquainted with my fellow Lysergic Rangers. I can see you have a powerful interest.”

Rising out of my chair, I said, “Dude?”

He was chuckling, mood lightened. “I’ve spent the last four days hanging out with East Coast surfers. So, yeah, dude. You shoulda stuck around. The language, their tribal customs-bonfire beer bashes and sexual debauchery-I’ve been adopted. I’m still shredding on the whole gnarly scene. Which reminds me: You need to come look at your present.”

Following him across the room, I said, “Gnarly?” as he pushed open the screen door and stepped into the breezeway.