Stinger

by Nancy Kress

  FBI SLOW TO INVESTIGATE MALARIA READING

  The Washington Post has learned that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had been informed of the increased stroke rate among African Americans two weeks before any full investigation was launched. This means that over three weeks elapsed before the public was alerted. A nurse at Dellridge Community Hospital in La Plata, Maryland, told the Post that she had spoken with an unidentified FBI agent on June 4, informing him of the increased stroke rate for African-American patients. The nurse, who did not want her name used, said that although the agent wrote down the information, “I never heard from him again.”

  Malaria reading, as it is now being called, attacks mostly African Americans carrying the sickle-cell trait, usually resulting in fatal cerebral stroke. Sickle-cell trait itself is not the cause of the disease, which …

  CDC/USPHS GUIDELINES CALLED IMPRACTICAL

  BY ACTIVIST GROUPS

  New York—The Coalition of African-American Activist Groups (CAAAG) today issued a strong condemnation of the guidelines issued jointly by the Centers for Disease Control and the United States Public Health Service. The guidelines are designed to protect African Americans against infection by malaria reading. “‘Stay indoors from dusk on, drain all pools of standing water, wear insect repellent and body-covering clothing”—those rules don’t make sense for real people,” said CAAAG Jesse Lawrence Arnold. “There’s a heat wave in Washington. If poor people stay indoors, they’re going to suffocate. Many can’t afford insect repellent, and how do you get kids to wear ‘body-covering clothing’ in a torrid summer? Not to mention the impossibility of ‘draining’ urban ditches, rain gutters, and roof puddles. Get real, CDC.”

  “WHO COULD DO SUCH A THING?”

  ASKS BEREAVED MOM

  La Plata, Maryland—The mother of six-year-old Thomas “Junior” Carter, who died yesterday of malaria reading, is fighting mad. “Somebody done this terrible thing to us,” said a tearful LaWanda Carter, interviewed yesterday at her home. “Who could do such a thing to a child? I ain’t going to rest” till I find out who killed my baby.”

  Many other people would also like the answer to that question. The FBI Office of Public Affairs says the list of possible suspects is long. Although the FBI has been reluctant to give out much information—“It might hamper the investigation”—they are reportedly investigating foreign governments’ espionage organizations, biotech companies in the area, animal research firms, and various “hate groups,” including the Ku Klux Klan. The white supremacist Caucasian Caucus, which yesterday claimed credit in an anonymous communication to the FBI and the Washington Post …

  I’m Special Agent Robert Cavanaugh, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

  “Go ahead,” Catherine Clarke said. To Cavanaugh, she didn’t look like the head of an important scientific supply house. About forty, no wedding ring, dumpy and round-shouldered, she wore a baggy brown suit that even Cavanaugh could see was a disaster. Had he passed her on the Baltimore street outside this building, he wouldn’t have noticed her. If he had noticed her, he would have assumed she was a low-level government clerk. So much for first impressions.

  “You sell, among other things, live insects for agricultural research, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is. Would you like a catalogue?”

  “Thank you,” Cavanaugh said. He leafed through it quickly, to show interest, although he couldn’t imagine himself ordering a shipment of milkweed bugs (“Ideal for physiological studies or demonstrations”) or fig wasps (“Hardy pollinators for your Smyrna figs”).

  “Do you sell any species of mosquitoes?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ms. Clarke said. She pulled at her suit jacket, which had somehow rucked itself up on one side. “We offer both adults and larvae, in seven different species. Although, of course, Culex is our big seller.”

  “Of course,” Cavanaugh said.

  “After fruit flies, I mean. Everybody wants fruit flies.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” he said, and she didn’t even blink. “Is one of your seven species Anopheles quadrimaculatus?”

  “No, it’s not. There’s very little call for any of the anophelines.”

  On his notepad Cavanaugh wrote “no an.” “Do you know of any other supply houses that offer Anopheles?”

  “Let me check.” She swiveled toward a computer and began to pull up files. Cavanaugh doodled. He turned the “o” and the “a” in “no an” into eyes, and both “n’s” into ears.

  “The only place on the East Coast that offers A. quadrimaculatus, both eggs and larvae, is Stanton Supply in Atlanta. Would you like the address?”

  “Yes,” Cavanaugh said. She gave it to him. He wrote it on his pad, then sketched a grinning face around the eyes and ears.

  “This must be about malaria reading,” Catherine Clarke said. Suddenly she straightened her hunched shoulders. “You’re the one who first noticed the case, aren’t you! If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all …”

  Cavanaugh had run into law-enforcement groupies before. They were an odd breed. Thrilled by what they imagined the job to include: danger, high action, split-second decisions. He said, “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been very hel—”

  “I could furnish you with other breeds of mosquitoes, if you’re trying to see what kind of cross-engineering produced these mutants. Free of charge, of course.”

  Cavanaugh pictured Jerry Dunbar’s office full of buzzing mosquitoes. They’d compete with the buzzing faxes and computers. “Thank you, but—”

  “We have lots of Toxorhynchites rutilus. Used in biological control of other species, you know, plus using the larvae as fodder. Very versatile. We can produce up to a million a day in our lab.”

  “The Bureau doesn’t—”

  “Or maybe some Aëdes taeniorhynchus? The salt marsh mosquito. Maybe the bad guys cross-engineered from those! The female is a notable blood sucker!”

  I’ll bet, Cavanaugh thought, but didn’t say aloud. Catherine Clarke had inched her chair closer to his. She put a hand on his arm.

  “I’ve always been a tremendous admirer of the FBI, although this is my first chance to become personally involved. Which I’m very eager to do.”

  “In that case, I’ll pass your name on to Dr. Melanie Anderson of the CDC, who’s coordinating the scientific end of the investigation. I’m sure she’ll welcome your kind donations of insect supplies! She’s an amazing woman.”

  Catherine Clarke removed her hand. She said colorlessly, “We already have an established contract with the CDC.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Cavanaugh said. To cover the sudden chilly silence, he finished his drawing: a body and wings around the grinning face. And then lipstick. The mosquito was female.

  “Best of luck in Atlanta then,” Catherine Clarke said, standing. She didn’t offer her hand.

  “Thank you,” Cavanaugh said. No more information here. He’d clearly turned off his informant. Too bad he didn’t have Seton’s touch.

  “Ms. Clarke—”

  “Please have Dr. Anderson contact me directly. My secretary will show you out.” She turned her back.

  It was always sex that screwed everything up. You could count on it.

  Interim

  “Hey, Charlotte! You want to go to the movies Friday night? To see Brad Pitt?”

  The girl looked up from stowing books inside her school locker. “Who’s going?”

  “Everybody. Cam and Sue and DeShaun and Tomiko and Bob and Carol Ann.”

  “Well … I don’t know.” She became very absorbed in finding the exact right place for her advanced physics textbook.

  The boy moved closer. He was tow-headed, thin and freckled, with the kind of intense awkwardness that would not seem attractive for another ten years. But Charlotte liked him. He was the smartest boy she’d ever met, in a magnet school designed for smart kids. And unlike some of them, he was kind.

  “Is there someth
ing wrong, Charlotte? You don’t seem like yourself lately.”

  “I’m all right,” she said, which was a lie.

  He touched her arm, and her belly shivered. Not a good idea, some of her neighborhood friends said. Let like keep to like. But if people all did that, how would the world ever change? And wasn’t change what a school like this was for?

  He withdrew his hand and his freckled skin mottled. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to go with me … with us … if you … I’m sorry.” He turned to go.

  “Bill, wait.” Now her hand was impulsively on his arm, chocolate on cream. “Don’t think that. It isn’t that I don’t want to go out with you. I mean … it isn’t you.” God, she sounded stupid! But at least she didn’t blush. “It’s just …”

  “Just what?”

  They stared at each other. The bell rang for class, but neither moved. His eyes were so beautiful … something in their depths let Charlotte blurt, “I’m afraid. To go out at night.”

  He understood instantly. “The mosquitoes.”

  “I’m probably being dumb.”

  “You could never be dumb. Then how about if I come over to your house tomorrow night, and we can study for the calculus exam? Inside?”

  “That’d be great. Oh, God, I’m late for French!”

  “A demain,” he said, and she couldn’t stop grinning as she flew down the deserted corridor to class.

  Seven

  Law enforcement’s mission is really very simple—to protect the people we serve.

  —Louis J. Freeh, Director, FBI, 1996

  * * *

  When Cavanaugh woke, he didn’t know where he was. He sat up in the darkened room, groping for his Smith & Wesson on the bedside table, which wasn’t there either. Then the smell hit him, and he remembered.

  Marcy’s perfume. Overlaid with the pungent doggy odor of Abigail. He was on the living room sofa in Marcy’s apartment, Abigail asleep at his feet. It had been two in the morning when he’d arrived back from Atlanta, where he’d fruitlessly interviewed people at Stanton Supply. Yes, they sold Anopheles among their standard insect stock. Yes, all their customers were reputable scientific establishments or universities. Yes, of course they could furnish Agent Cavanaugh with a list. Stanton Supply had been courteous and eager to help. The list had been completely useless.

  Cavanaugh had spent the next ten hours interviewing other respectable scientific establishments in Atlanta, and the three hours after that sitting in the airport while his flight was delayed, announced, delayed again, and finally rescheduled. He spent the time reading newspapers:

  FBI ACCUSED OF POINTLESS ACTIVITY

  IN MALARIA READING

  “Bureau should have time limit to show that somebody violated something,” says Congressman.

  Washington—James L. Winstead, House majority leader, told reporters today that the FBI investigation was “a joke. People are dying of disease, not felonies. The CDC is the appropriate agency to deal with this crisis, not the FBI. By generating public panic over unsubstantiated terrorism, the Bureau has only made it harder for health agencies to do their jobs.”

  Citing interviews with respected scientists stating that the malaria reading parasite is most likely a “natural mutation,” Winstead attacked the FBI for “trying to obtain evidence against Natural Tragedy.” His remarks came in response to a statement by FBI director Peter Broylin that more agents were being committed to …

  RIOT OUTSIDE WHITE HOUSE OVER

  MALARIA READING

  FOUR HURT, TEN ARRESTED

  Rioters outside the White House this morning protested government handling of the malaria reading crisis. “The death toll is over 200, and all but four are African Americans,” said one protestor. “The damn government don’t care.”

  The riot, which did not appear to be an organized or sponsored activity, allegedly began when a transient hurled a racial insult at a tourist. Abusive exchanges concerning malaria reading escalated into thrown punches. By the time police arrived, at least thirty people were involved, some of them hurling rocks or soda cans. Ten people were taken into custody on various charges from assault to resisting arrest.

  “This is just the beginning,” said patrolman Carl L. Brand of the D.C. police. “People are getting mad. We’re gearing up for a lot of civil unrest. It’s going to get a lot worse.”

  The White House declined to comment, even though the altercation was clearly visible from …

  When Cavanaugh ran out of Atlanta newspapers, he read the late editions of the Post and the Times. More of the same. The FBI wasn’t doing enough, the FBI was doing too much, the FBI didn’t know what it was doing, the FBI had damn well better do something. People were angry, people were dying, people were rioting, people wanted someone to blame and the Bureau was it. Nobody knew who or where the monsters were (if there were monsters), but everybody knew where the FBI was. Devil you know.

  When he finally reached Marcy’s apartment, bone-weary, Abigail greeted him frantically. She wanted a walk, needed a walk! Now! Now!

  “Hey, girl, good girl, not tonight, how about we wait till morning …” Abigail barked harder. Robert looked at Marcy’s carpets—white, naturally. How did you get dog pee stains off carpet? He didn’t know. He walked Abigail.

  By the time he returned, it was almost 3:00 A.M. There were three messages from Judy asking him to call her, each message more icily polite than the one before. Cavanaugh would have groaned, but he was too exhausted.

  Because of Judy, he slept on Marcy’s sofa, not in her bed. Somehow he owed Judy that; somehow that made it better. At some level he knew this made no sense. He fell asleep to Abigail’s happy snufflings beside the sofa, and awoke to the sound of the phone.

  “Cavanaugh,” Dunbar said, “where the hell are you?”

  “I’m … here,” Cavanaugh said, idiotically.

  “Yes,” Dunbar, said, with his special-agent-in-charge neutrality. “But you need to be here. Meeting this morning, remember?”

  Christ. What time was it? The room was pitch black. “Sorry, my plane was delayed in Atlanta, and then …” Cavanaugh trailed off. Dunbar didn’t want excuses. Nor should he.

  “We’ll start without you,” Dunbar said crisply. “But do come in as fast as possible. It’s not a routine meeting. They’re giving malaria reading to Division Five.”

  “Shit,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Yeah. Well, those are the rules.”

  This fatalism didn’t fool Cavanaugh. Dunbar, the rule man, nonetheless minded. Division Five was the National Security Division, sent in for cases bumped up from “criminal activity” to “international or domestic terrorism.” Theoretically, the Division Five agents would be working with the field office, but in actuality the Division Five guys would be the big cheeses, and the case as a whole would be micromanaged from Washington. It was no longer Dunbar’s case.

  Or Cavanaugh’s.

  “Oh, and another thing,” Dunbar said, “we’ve already taken two messages this morning from Judy Kozinski. She’s looking for you. Says it’s important.”

  “Okay,” Cavanaugh said.

  “The office has better things to do than track your personal life,” Dunbar said, and even though Cavanaugh knew it was just irritation at the world in general, Dunbar’s words stung.

  “Right,” Cavanaugh said. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll be there as soon as I can.” What time was it?

  It was nine o’clock. The room was still pitch black because of Marcy’s thick velvet draperies, so unlike the rough-weave burlap that Judy had hung in their perfect rustic house on the Patuxent. Oh, Christ, Judy. Two messages already today. And Division Five—they’d just steamroll over the local agents. This was the media’s fault, all the hype for the Bureau to do something, do something, do something … and Headquarters had caved in. Maybe Dunbar even had something to do with it. After all, Special Agents in Charge were rated partly on how well their offices handled the press.

  He rushed around Marcy’s
apartment. Within five minutes he’d brushed his teeth, changed his shirt, and was running for the car, leaving Abigail barking sadly after him. He’d listen to the radio news on the way in, see what fresh horrors had broken overnight, call Judy during the first meeting break … Division Five. Shit shit shit. He wouldn’t get to do anything now except what he was told to do. When Division Five moved in, they took over. Whatever they wanted, they got. Two agents on every tiny lead, priority lab work, planes, subpoenas and warrants in ten minutes at 4:00 A.M. … For a high-profile national-security terrorist case, the rest of the FBI just stopped. Malaria reading would definitely be taken seriously now. Which was, of course, the main thing Cavanaugh had wanted anyway.

  Wasn’t it?

  At least, don’t let there be one of those supercilious behavior profilists from Quantico, who thought they could solve crimes without so much as knocking on one lousy door themselves.

  The meeting had just reached the behavioral profilist from Quantico when Cavanaugh rushed in. Introductions were made, and Dr. Arnold Gissing resumed handing out his packets.

  “This is the probable profile,” Gissing said, as everyone except Cavanaugh started to read. Cavanaugh was still catching his breath, dazed from both the sprint from the parking lot and the size of the meeting. No more reluctant, part-time agents in a motel room. The conference room was jammed. Chairs jostled each other around the large oval table, with a second ring of chairs against the walls. Agents. Specialists. Dr. Farlow from the CDC, today in a suit and tie. The Baltimore Field Office media representative. Liaisons from federal agencies whose names Cavanaugh hadn’t caught. The two Division Five newcomers, Agents John Meath and Bruce Maloney, both sitting quietly and giving nothing away. And Dr. Gissing, whom Cavanaugh disliked even more for sounding reasonable and unpushy.