Second Horseman Out of Eden

2

The New York Botanical Garden, located next to the Bronx Zoo, occupies two hundred and fifty acres along the banks of the Bronx River. That was where we were headed, hoping that our cabdriver could find a way through and around the traffic tieup on the Harlem River Drive so that we'd be on time for our two o'clock appointment with one Dr. Samuel Zelaskowich, the Botanical Garden's top expert on tropical soils and plants.

It had taken the better part of the morning to take care of our business-which in our case had meant giving it away, assigning some to our staff and farming out the rest to people in other agencies with whom we had worked well in the past, and whom we trusted to do a good job. None of our clients had been too pleased to have anyone but Frederickson and Frederickson handling their account, but all had eventually agreed to the arrangement after we'd explained the situation. Three of the corporations had offered money or services to help us in our search for Vicky Brown; we'd declined the money, told them we'd be in touch if there was any other way they could help. We were leaving in our wake clean desks and a number of very happy competitors.

Driving us on were the haunting images of a little girl being repeatedly brutalized and sodomized in some "secret place" which we had to find, a secret place where a child played in dirt from the floor of the Amazon rain forest.

It was rough going all through upper Manhattan, but our driver made some fancy detours once we reached the Bronx, and we arrived at the Botanical Garden with minutes to spare. We paid the driver, gave him a fat tip, then made our way through an eerie, improbable, snow-covered jungle of shrubbery and trees to the main administration building.

We found Dr. Zelaskowich in his office-a cramped cubicle not much bigger than a walk-in closet-with his broad back and shoulders hunched forward as he bent over and peered at a computer terminal. The walls of the office were papered with an odd mixture of graphs and charts, family photographs and what appeared to be personal memorabilia. I had a sense that the big man did not feel comfortable here, and that his discomfort did not have anything to do with the confined space.

He was a big, rangy man with a high dome of a forehead which was particularly pronounced when viewed in profile. He had a receding hairline, and a wispy, light brown beard. The thick-lensed eyeglasses he had propped up on his forehead kept slipping down over the bridge of his nose, and he kept pushing them back up as he peered intently at the symbol-filled monitor above the computer keyboard. He wore a white lab coat covered with dirt smudges, and there was dirt under his thick fingernails. I put him in his early thirties, and I thought he looked rather young for the hotshot expert he was supposed to be-but then, I'd met more than my share of young-genius types during my aborted career as a university professor.

"Be right with you," Zelaskowich called over his shoulder when I knocked on his open office door. "Please find a place for yourselves to sit."

We stepped into the tiny office and, at my insistence, Garth sat down on the only chair in the room-a high metal stool which looked as if it might have been appropriated from some ice cream parlor. I leaned against the wall by the door and watched Zelaskowich punch a button on the computer keyboard with one of his thick fingers, activating a printer which began to clatter and spew out paper. The man punched a few more buttons, and a fresh set of symbols appeared on the screen of the monitor.

"I really hate these damn things," the man continued good-naturedly, darting us a quick glance and revealing a boyish grin. "Botanists aren't supposed to work on computers; we're supposed to be down on our hands and knees in the dirt. But a few months ago our board of directors got the bright idea that we should take a census of everything we have growing here, and put it all in a computer. It's a bear, let me tell you."

Garth and I glanced at each other. "You people don't know what you have growing here?" I asked Zelaskowich.

The botanist's glasses had once again slipped down over his nose. He pushed them back up, looked at me, and shrugged. "Oh, no, Dr. Frederickson," he said with great gravity. "I imagine you must find that surprising, since this is the New York Botanical Garden, but the problem of identifying everything that's here is much more complex than you might think. It's not a matter of simply looking in the records to see what's been planted over the years, but of determining precisely what's growing there now. This census is going to take years, with dozens of us working on our hands and knees-and then we may miss a lot. You see, sometimes an entirely new genus can spring up without anyone noticing. I mean, we have more than five hundred types of hemerocallis alone; we're not certain, but it's possible that we may have more than two hundred and fifty thousand varieties of plants here. You see the problem, of course."

"Uh. . I'm not sure we do, Doctor."

"Well, let's take an example. Let's say you plant a dryopteris clintoniana next to a dryopteris goldiana before you know it-maybe in a year or two-you may very well have an entirely new plant growing between them, a sterile hybrid we call a dryopteris clintoniana x goldiana. Now, this isn't a separate species, but for the purpose of our census it is considered a different type of plant from either of its parents. Multiply that example by the thousands of plants we have here, and you begin to see the problem we're up against."

"You're right," Garth said dryly. "It does sound like a bear."

Zelaskowich tapped a key firmly with his index finger, and the printer ceased its clatter; another tap, and the monitor screen went blank. He spun around on his stool, a satisfied grin on his face. "There!" he exclaimed. "Now I can get back to where I belong-with my plants. At least for a little while." He rose, shook Garth's hand, then mine. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I really did have to finish that little bit of mechanical business while the mood was on me. I must say that it's quite a thrill to meet the famous Frederickson brothers, and I'm flattered that you should be coming to see me; botanists rarely get to meet real-life private detectives, especially such distinguished ones, and I must say that it's quite exciting. Now, how can I help you?"

"We appreciate your time, Dr. Zelaskowich," Garth said as he rose from the stool, reached into his jacket pocket, and drew out the police lab report. He handed the paper to the young botanist. "This is an analysis of a soil sample. Can you punch that up on your computer?"

Zelaskowich adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, held the computer printout at arm's length as he studied the columns of chemical symbols, grunted. "I don't need the computer for this," he said. "This is incredibly rich soil, teeming with microbial life. It's certain that you didn't pick up this soil sample in New York-not the city, and not the state. In fact, I can't think offhand of any site in the United States where you'd find soil like this."

Garth said, "The technicians in the police lab who did that analysis tell me there's only one place in the world where that kind of soil is found: the Amazon rain forest. But we found the traces of soil that were used for the analysis in an envelope, and that envelope had been dropped into a mailbox somewhere in the greater New York metropolitan region. We're a long way from Brazil, Doctor, and it occurred to Mongo and me that there might be one other place where that kind of soil might be found-right here, at the Botanical Garden. We were hoping you might know if there's soil like that here; and, if so, who might be working with the plants that are growing in it."

Zelaskowich pushed his glasses back up on his forehead, pursed his lips, then shook his head. "No, Mr. Frederickson," he said after a few moments. "I would say not."

"Are you sure, Doctor?" I asked. "It's very important. If that didn't come from here, Garth and I don't have the slightest idea where to start looking next. We've checked with some florists, but they tell us that there's virtually no chance that a tropical plant sold here would have been potted in its native soil. This is the only place we could think of that might use it. You yourself said that you don't know how many plants you have here. Isn't it possible that there's some rain forest soil dumped someplace and you don't know about it?"

Again, the botanist shook his head. "If tropical plants potted in soil like this were left out in the open, they wouldn't survive; and there is no soil in any of our terrariums that resembles this. You see, we just have no need for this kind of soil-and, if we did, we would have a good deal of trouble obtaining it."

"Why?" I persisted. "Why couldn't you just have someone over there dig up a barrel or two of the stuff and ship it to you? I can't imagine that there's a shortage of dirt in Brazil."

"Indeed not, but the very high microbial count would present a problem. The Customs Service would frown on the importation of such soil in even relatively small amounts. In fact, that's just about what happened a few months ago."

"What happened a few months ago, Doctor?" Garth asked, his sudden excitement and tension clearly evident in his voice even as I felt my own heart begin to beat more rapidly.

Samuel Zelaskowich shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, you see, for some years a number of our staff members have served as consultants to a company called Nuvironment, Incorporated."

I asked, "Is that normal procedure for you people to do outside consulting work?"

"Actually, it's rather unusual. But this is a rather special circumstance. Nuvironment happens to be owned by a very rich-and, I'm told, very eccentric-man by the name of Henry Blaisdel. I'm sure you've both heard of him."

I'd heard of him, all right-as had anybody who even occasionally scanned the business pages of any newspaper or magazine, or read the kinds of tabloids that specialize in fantastic stories, virtually all of them made up, about bizarre personalities. According to Fortune magazine's last compilation, Henry Blaisdel ranked in the top ten of the world's billionaires, having just been nudged out of the top five by a couple of members of the Saudi royal family. Blaisdel owned lots of things-corporations, land, and people-all over the world, including a sixty-eight-story skyscraper, the Blaisdel Building, on the primest real estate in America, Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan. The building, among other things, was the corporate headquarters of the Blaisdel Holding Corporation, an umbrella company that coordinated Blaisdel's global operations. The fact that he hadn't been seen in public for almost a decade only increased the legendary aura that had grown up around him. His aversion to the public obviously hadn't affected his business acumen; his holdings, his fortune, just kept growing..

"Nuvironment, apparently, is Henry Blaisdel's pet company," Zelaskowich continued. "It would certainly have to be, considering the tens of millions of dollars he's poured into it over the years."

"You seem very well informed about the company, Doctor," Garth said in a neutral tone.

"Well, that's because Nuvironment has been using various members of the staff here as consultants since the company's founding-which was before I got here, but I'm well aware of the importance our board places on cooperating with the Nuvironment people. Henry Blaisdel is our biggest benefactor-as he is for many of the large cultural and scientific institutions in the city. In any case, about six or seven months ago we were asked to allow them to import one hundred tons or more of that particular type of soil under our aegis-using our contacts and knowledge, that sort of thing."

I asked, "Why couldn't they just import it themselves?"

"Soil is considered an agricultural commodity, or component, and special clearances and permits would be required for a shipment of that quantity. In effect, we were asked to serve as importing agent for the shipment, the reasoning being that our stature would make it easier to get the various permits required. Well, it just couldn't be done, even under our aegis. The Customs Service frowns on the importation, in large quantities, of any foreign soil, and the high microbial count in this particular soil led to adamant objections. Nuvironment dropped its request." Zelaskowich paused, raised his thin eyebrows slightly. "That makes this analysis you've brought me most curious. You're absolutely certain it was obtained from a sample found in this country?"

"Yes," Garth replied.

"Then it appears that the Customs Service must have relented and given Nuvironment itself the permits, and they used a different purchasing and shipping agent."

"What if they just went ahead and imported it without the Customs Service even knowing about it?" I asked. "Blaisdel certainly has the resources-probably including his own piece of jungle-to do it himself, without ever going outside Blaisdel Holding Company."

Zelaskowich pursed his lips and grimaced slightly, as if I had said something that wasn't fit to be heard by decent company. "That's certainly true, Dr. Frederickson, but Nuvironment is an outstanding company, with an impeccable reputation. They just wouldn't do something like that."

It was clear that Samuel Zelaskowich had spent a lot more time on his hands and knees in the dirt than he ever had in the business community, but I decided not to tarnish his illusions. "Maybe some other company imported the soil."

The botanist tentatively scratched his left temple, shrugged. "I suppose anything is possible, but if that's the case I'm afraid I can't be of much help to you. Nuvironment is the only concern I know of that would have any possible use for that type of soil in such large quantities."

I glanced at Garth, who seemed to be only half listening. My brother had taken Vicky Brown's letter out of his pocket and was rereading it yet again. I wished he would stop; I didn't think it was good for him.

"What did Nuvironment plan to do with the soil, Dr. Zelaskowich?"

"Please, call me Samuel."

"All right, Samuel. I'm Mongo, and my brother's name is Garth. What use would Nuvironment have for soil from the Amazon?"

"Nuvironment is not a profit-making corporation, Mongo; indeed, I suspect that it must draw financing from other Blaisdel holdings-lots of financing-in order to maintain its operations. It exists for the sole purpose of researching-and one day, hopefully, building-biospheres."

"Biospheres?" It was Garth; it seemed my brother was paying attention after all.

"Yes," Samuel Zelaskowich replied. "Biospheres are totally self-contained, self-sustaining environments-small worlds, really, that regulate themselves much as the earth does, producing and recycling everything from oxygen, food, and water, to waste. Someday, Nuvironment hopes to be able to produce such biospheres on a massive scale, each one encompassing many acres. It's theoretically possible to construct such a facility, which would be enclosed under a giant plastic dome that would let in only sunlight, if you had all the necessary components in exactly the right proportions. You see, a very delicate balance would have to be maintained if one cycle was not to eventually overwhelm the others-production of waste overwhelming the system's capacity to biodegrade, for example, or an incorrect ratio of air-breathing, carbon-dioxide-producing animals to plants that would absorb the carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. Nutrients would have to be able to sustain life inside the biosphere, while at the same time there must be resources-microbes, for example-available to biodegrade and recycle those things that die. It's a very complex problem, this finding of just the right balance, especially when you plan to maintain human life inside the biosphere. Fruit bats and hummingbirds would be natural choices to pollinate various plants, but you would need more than three thousand blooming plants just to supply the nectar needed to sustain a single pair of hummingbirds. And you can't use just any species of hummingbird; your hummingbirds would have to be low fliers, so that they wouldn't bump into the top of the dome and injure themselves. Even termites, which you would need for the proper balance of life forms, could pose special problems; certain species might develop a taste for the epoxy compound which would be needed for properly sealing the various plastic and glass panels to each other and to a steel supporting structure."

"So the soil would be used to degrade waste products?" I asked.

"Yes. But there's more to it. In theory, you would also need the rain forest itself, albeit on a very small scale, to produce both sufficient oxygen and rain."

"Rain?"

Zelaskowich nodded. "Yes; produced by condensing coils mounted in the top of the dome, over your rain forest. Naturally, this rain forest would produce a great deal of organic waste, and that particular type of soil, with its high microbial count, would be required to break down the waste."

"You're saying this company planned to build a jungle under glass?" Garth asked, making no effort to mask his skepticism.

"Or plastic. Yes, Garth. And not only a rain forest, but also a desert, an ocean, a freshwater lake, and saltwater marshes as well; all of these things would be needed if they hoped to maintain a proper ecological balance inside the biosphere."

"To what end? What would be the point?"

"One day-and that day could be far in the future-Nuvironment hopes to be the sole supplier of such biospheres to the world's space agencies. Such a biosphere would enable humans to live on and colonize not only, say, the moon, but other planets as well. If and when that day comes, Henry Blaisdel's long-term investment will, of course, be repaid many times over. But I don't really think he worries about what Nuvironment is costing him, or future profits; after all, he'll be dead for years, perhaps centuries, before biospheres could be in use throughout the solar system-if that day ever comes. Blaisdel is a philanthropist, with an apparently highly developed social consciousness. In my opinion, he sees Nuvironment, with its sole function of finding a way to build biospheres, as his bid for immortality. After all, there are lots of billionaires in the world, so that simply amassing great sums of money is not sufficient to guarantee that you will even be remembered, much less honored. For example, Howard Hughes is remembered by most people for his eccentricities, not his accomplishments. I suspect Henry Blaisdel doesn't want to make the same mistake-although that's only my opinion, as I say."

Garth and I exchanged glances, and then Garth stepped up to the botanist and shook his hand. "Thank you, Samuel. You've been very helpful, and I can't tell you how much Mongo and I appreciate your taking the time to share this information with us."

Zelaskowich looked back and forth between us, a puzzled expression on his face. "But I haven't been able to tell you where the soil sample could have come from."

"You've shown us where to look next," I said.

"Oh dear," the botanist said, and he flushed slightly. "Are you going to question the people at Nuvironment?"

"Is that a problem?"

Samuel Zelaskowich took off his glasses and began to fumble with them; he looked decidedly uncomfortable. "It's just that. . well, I'm afraid they tend to be very secretive about their research activities; they want outsiders to know as little as possible about what they're doing. In my enthusiasm to share my knowledge with you, I may have been indiscreet. Actually, I rather doubt that anyone there will even agree to talk to you, and the fact that I've leaked-that's the word they'll surely think of-information to you could reflect badly on the. . Botanical Garden." He paused, flushed again, put his glasses back on and pulled himself up straight. "What I really mean is that it could cause me some personal difficulties if you talk to the people at Nuvironment."

"Don't worry, Samuel. Neither Garth nor I will say where we got our information; your name won't be mentioned."

"But they will most definitely speak to us," Garth murmured in a low, flat voice that was almost inaudible.

"Thank you," Zelaskowich said, visibly relieved. "Uh, may I inquire as to just why it is that this information is so important to you?"

"We're trying to find a little girl who's in danger," Garth replied simply as he headed for the door. "Merry Christmas," he called over his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, Samuel," I said, and headed after Garth.

Zelaskowich caught up with us just as we were leaving the building. He'd been running. "Excuse me," he said, red-faced and panting. "Can you wait just a minute? I may have something else for you."

"What is it, Samuel?" I asked.

The botanist took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "Garth, you said there's a little girl in danger?"

"A great deal of danger," my brother replied evenly. "And she's hurting very badly. Mongo and I have to find her in order to stop that hurting."

"Oh, my," the moon-faced man said as he made a birdlike motion with his hands that seemed surprisingly delicate for such a big man. "That's terrible."

"Yes," Garth said in the same flat tone. "That's terrible."

"And you think that soil sample is a key to finding her?"

I nodded. "We're certain of it, Samuel."

"In that case, you don't have to concern yourselves with keeping my name out of any discussions you may have. I wanted you to know that. And I'll be happy to do whatever else I can to help, if you need me."

"You've already helped, Samuel. Garth and I will have no need to mention your name. But thanks for the offer."

"I thank you, but what I'm most concerned about right now is the possibility that nobody at Nuvironment will agree to talk to you. Perhaps I should call them and try to do something to pave the way."

Garth shook his head. "The people at Nuvironment will be our concern, Samuel."

"Well, there is somebody else who might know something about that soil sample."

My brother glanced quickly at me, grunted slightly. "And who would that be, Samuel?"

"Craig Valley; Dr. Craig Valley."

"Does Valley work here?"

"Craig used to, but I'm afraid he was fired about three months ago. He was our curator of orchids. As I mentioned, many staff members here have done consulting work for Nuvironment at one time or another, but Craig was the primary liaison between the company and the Botanical Garden. Indeed, more than a few of us suspected that Craig considered his efforts on behalf of Nuvironment more important than his regular duties. All requests from Nuvironment came through him, and he doled out the consulting assignments-which could be quite lucrative. It was Craig who received the initial request from Nuvironment for the rain forest soil; indeed, he'd already made preliminary shipping arrangements when the Customs Service intervened and stopped him. He took it personally; he was quite upset. I'm thinking that it's possible Craig may have continued to work for Nuvironment after he left here, and that he may have finally persuaded the Customs Service to give him the required permits. In any case, he may have information that could prove useful to you." Zelaskowich paused, looked down at the floor, continued quietly, "Craig is a rather. . uh, strange man. He can be very difficult to talk to, but I don't see how he could refuse to cooperate with you on a matter of this importance, something that concerns the well-being of a child."

"We'll see," I said.

"The personnel department may have his address and phone number, and I'd be happy to check it out for you. I seem to recall that he lives in a town house on the East Side of Manhattan, somewhere in the sixties or seventies."

"We'll find him."

Garth asked, "Why did Valley get fired?"

Again, the botanist lowered his gaze. "I don't like to gossip, Garth. Do you really need to know that?"

"At the moment it's difficult for us to be certain just what it is we'll need to know in order to find the girl," I answered. "Knowing something about Craig Valley before we go to talk to him might be helpful to us in ways we can't anticipate now. You described him as a 'strange man.' Why? In what way is he 'strange'?"

Zelaskowich sighed, then shoved his large hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "Well, in my opinion it was his religious zealotry that got him fired-although that wasn't the official reason given; after all, the city and the Botanical Garden wouldn't want to be charged with religious discrimination."

"He was fired for religious reasons?"

"He was fired for incompetence and inattention to his duties."

"But you said that the real reason may have been his religious zealotry."

Zelaskowich shrugged. "I think it was a factor that, in the end, weighed against him. It wasn't so much his religious beliefs in themselves so much as the way he tried to foist them on others. His behavior could make Craig. . well, obnoxious on occasion. I believe he was one of those. . what do you call them? Charismatics? Pentecostals? Whatever he is, I believe it's much more fanatic than simple Christian Fundamentalism; that's just my opinion, though, and I don't claim to know that much about any religion. Craig was always warning us that we were going to be sent to hell very soon if we didn't accept Jesus Christ as our savior and if we weren't, as he put it, 'born again.' It seemed to me very odd behavior for an educated man. There are a number of Jews on the staff here, and a few Muslims. I'm a humanist, myself. At first, we used to dismiss Craig-condescend to him, and laugh among ourselves behind his back. I'm afraid that didn't stop him from trying to 'save us,' if you will. I really believe that the man thinks the world is going to end soon, within our lifetimes, and that all sorts of demons are going to pop up out of the ground to make mischief. Then, it seems, Jesus Christ is going to descend from heaven to defeat the demons and start a new world in which only people who believe like Craig will be allowed to live. I know it sounds absolutely lunatic, but I think the man actually believes these things."

"Did Dr. Valley ever mention somebody named William Kenecky to you?" I asked, catching Garth's curt nod of approval out of the corner of my eye.

"Kenecky? You mean the crazy television preacher who's on the run from the tax people?"

"That's him."

Zelaskowich thought about it, shook his head. "No, Craig never mentioned him to me. But now that you bring it up, it occurs to me that a lot of the nonsense Craig used to spout sounds like the nonsense Kenecky spouted. Maybe that's where Craig got his silly notions from. I still can't understand how somebody who's been to college-and earned a doctorate, no less-could believe such ignorant, vicious stuff. It's very sad."

But not nearly as sad as what somebody-maybe William Kenecky-was doing to a little girl named Vicky Brown. "Was Valley really incompetent as well as obnoxious?"

"He became so, yes. I think his belief that the world was going to end about the day after tomorrow finally sort of infected his brain. Obviously, he's one of the world's leading experts on orchids; if he weren't, he wouldn't have been our curator. However, in the last few months he simply let his work go. In fact, he was warned about it; and he was so bold-or stupid-as to say that it didn't matter if all his orchids died because Jesus was on His way. Can you imagine?"

"Religious zealotry can do strange things to people," I said as I glanced at Garth, who smiled thinly and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Zelaskowich nodded. "Indeed. In any case, Craig had been steadily neglecting his work for some time, but in somewhat subtle ways. However, after the Customs Service interfered with the importation of the rain forest soil, he became positively unhinged. Then the administration had to let him go. You'd have expected him to be upset, but he really wasn't. In fact, he told me that it was almost a relief not to be distracted by work while he was waiting for Jesus to come, and that now we'd see he was right about the imminent end of the world and the rising of demons." The botanist paused, shook his head sadly. "Poor Craig. On his last day I came across him in one of the gardens. He was down on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth, babbling absolute nonsense in a very loud voice. He seemed almost hysterical. In fact, I think there's a name for that sort of thing."

"There is," I said. "It's called glossolalia-'speaking in tongues.' "