Stinger

by Nancy Kress

  “I’m not saying I believe it. It’s just a hunch. But everybody knows that Fort Detrick has a shady past.”

  “Which is in the past. Yeah, at one time the fort was used for developing biological warfare. It was supposed to develop them—FDR himself gave them the mission. And they did it. But that was forty years ago!”

  “Closer to sixty. And, yes, Nixon ordered the entire stock of bioweapons destroyed in 1970. But when a Select Committee of Congress looked into that in 1975, the CIA director testified that yes, well, whatdaya know, bioweapons are still present at Fort Detrick. Sorry about that. Along with some germ-warfare microbes that had been moved to commercial drug firms but were still accessible to a very few—very few—top CIA types, who were the only ones who knew about them.”

  Felders said, “And after that congressional hearing, the stuff was destroyed.”

  “Really? Given the CIA’s overall record, do we know that for sure?”

  Felders, however much he hated it, was fair in arguments. “No, we don’t. So maybe—just maybe—some of that old anthrax or whatever is still on ice somewhere. Hoarding old bioweapons is still a long way from developing new ones against direct executive order.”

  “Granted. But—”

  “You’re blowing smoke, Bob.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m asking you to get together anything you can about Fort Detrick. Anything covert, I mean. I have all the unclassified stuff. Use whatever channels you have.”

  A long silence. And then Felders said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Cavanaugh closed his eyes. Felders was not an ass-coverer. Not a misty-eyed Bureau worshipper. Not a one-track thinker. And, above all, not a coward. If Felders said no, it wasn’t because Cavanaugh’s request was dangerous, disloyal, or divisive. It was because Cavanaugh’s request was ridiculous.

  “Give it up, Bob,” Felders said. “It’s so far in left field it’s not even on this planet. I mean it.”

  “Your metaphors are mixed, Marty.”

  “Damn my metaphors! Listen, the FBI invested thirty thousand dollars in training you. You’re a good agent, no matter what the assholes in OPR eventually decide. And in ten years you’ll be even better. Don’t blow it for some paranoid nut theory you’ve got no solid evidence for. Zilch. Nada. Snake eyes. Don’t do it, Bob.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t got solid evidence.” He paused. “Yet.”

  “Goddamn it, Bob—”

  “Bye, Marty,” Cavanaugh said, and hung up before he damaged the only semigood relationship he had left with someone who didn’t drink from a toilet.

  After Melanie had spent three days back in Arlo, Mississippi, which she remembered as one of the most beautiful places on earth, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Arlo was still beautiful. Distant from the great river, and from everything else, there were no large industries, highways, or suburban sprawl to spoil the rural beauty. Trilliums grew in thick shade in the oak-and-pine woods. Columbine, scarlet and yellow, grew thickly up its own tough stalks. The hot air smelled of thunder and rain and pine needles and the thick, sweet, antebellum fragrance of magnolia. Under the persimmon trees, the sad, cool call of the mockingbird lingered in the stillness, just as Melanie remembered.

  The people, too, were just the same. Melanie’s grandmother, her old body fined down and twisted but still strong, reading the Bible every morning and going to church twice a week in a flowered hat and white gloves. Her mother, who waitressed at the Live Oak Inn, still pretty and still able to dance till 3:00 A.M. at the one tiny black “nightclub,” gyrations from the sixties that showed off her trim figure. Her brother, successful and expansive at the town’s one small factory, importantly overseeing the manufacture of glass bottles. Her best friend, who was the only one who’d changed. Coreen was pregnant with her fourth child, whose father had disappeared. She was defeated and bitter and poor, and she refused to admit any of these things, which made Melanie alternate between admiration and despair.

  Except for Coreen, nothing in Arlo had altered. But Melanie had.

  Still, she took long walks through the woods, well slathered with insect repellent, and conscientiously tried to manufacture the peace of mind that Farlow had told her she needed to acquire. She ate the sweet, sun-warm blackberries that tasted of her childhood. She fished for bluegill. She picked masses of bloodroot and arranged vases of them around the house, until her brother claimed they aggravated his allergies. She dutifully tried to dance with her mother, flinging herself around the living room in something improbably called the Mashed Potato.

  She didn’t tell her mother that her mother’s consciousness as a black woman was in a sub-subbasement of a deep mine. She didn’t tell her grandmother that Melanie didn’t believe in God. She didn’t tell her brother that the way he treated his women was sleazy and immature. She didn’t tell Coreen that wallowing in anger and self-delusion got you nowhere. Of all people, Melanie realized, she herself had the least right to deliver that message to anybody.

  And every day, every minute, she longed for Atlanta. For Africa. Even for the Weather Vane Motel.

  She had told her family no details of her “vacation,” merely saying that she’d been working too hard. If they knew more from the papers, they didn’t say. What they did do was give her advice.

  From her mother: “You gotta get out more, baby. Have yourself a little fun. Life too hard not to laugh when you can.”

  From her brother: “Your problem, girl, is you ain’t getting it. Find yourself a man and get you some.”

  From her grandmother: “Turn to the Lord, child. He always there when you need Him.”

  From Coreen: “You ain’t gonna get shit from your CDC, Mel. Or from nobody else. They gonna get you in the end anyways. But dragging your ass around this sorry place when you got someplace else to go—that be the worst. Get out while you still can.”

  So was she taking Coreen’s advice when she called back East? Or was she just hitting bottom in Arlo, like some cheap wino finally ready for AA? God, she hated that thought.

  It wasn’t true, anyway. She called Robert Cavanaugh because she owed him an apology. When he’d kissed her, he’d only been trying to comfort her (maybe). And she’d charged him with all the crimes of J. Edgar Hoover, all the crimes of every white man who believed black women were all easy nymphomaniacs, all the crimes of contemporary white America. Which was hardly fair. She’d only missed charging him with slavery because, in her distraught state, she hadn’t thought of it.

  Melanie waited until the house was empty. She billed the call to her phone card. “Robert? This is Melanie Anderson.”

  “Melanie.” His tone told her nothing.

  “Yes. I’m calling to apologize. When I shouted at you last week, I wasn’t … I wasn’t myself. I said some harsh things, I know, and blamed you for some things that weren’t your fault. I just want to say I’m sorry.”

  “Where are you?” he said, which wasn’t what she’d expected. Was he just going to brush aside her apology? Did he—God, no—mistake an apology for a come-on?

  But then he said, “Are you at the CDC?”

  “No. In Mississippi.”

  “Oh. Well, then, you need to come back. Listen to this, Melanie. I think you were right about Donohue’s being innocent, and also about a far more dangerous thing for black people.” And then he proceeded to talk for ten minutes straight about his partner Seton, the FBI, Farlow and Dunbar, USAMRIID, Fort Detrick, the CDC, Donohue, the search warrant, and the CIA.

  When he finally finished, she was stunned. “The CIA?”

  “You’re going to tell me you don’t believe the government is targeting its own black citizens.”

  “No, I don’t. A cover-up, yes, I could easily believe that. Foot-dragging because after all it’s only blacks—I could believe that, too. But not that the United States government is deliberately killing black citizens … Robert, that’s major paranoid. Somebody is targeting u
s, but it isn’t the United States government. Even I’m not that paranoid!”

  “Well, that’s where the evidence points at the moment. Although maybe there’s more to it. Come back to Maryland to help me get to the bottom of this, Melanie.”

  “Help you? What do you need my help for? The medical aspects are solved, the epidemic is over, and you have the entire FBI to ‘help you.’”

  “No, I don’t. I got removed from the case and suspended from the Bureau. Don’t you read the papers?”

  She hadn’t, since she’d arrived in Arlo. Not conducive to Farlow’s dictate to seek “peace of mind.”

  “What’d you get suspended for?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Something minor. They wanted me off this case, and that’s significant, too. But I’m not giving up. This is too important.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t just trying to prove the FBI wrong for having the gall to suspend Robert Cavanaugh?”

  “Don’t you want to prove the CDC wrong for daring to suspend Melanie Anderson?”

  She felt punched in the solar plexus. Damn, he wasn’t somebody you should mess with. She said coldly, “I was not suspended. I’m here visiting my family.”

  “Visit them some other time. This is important, Melanie. I don’t have to tell you that. And I think we can crack it. One thing about the military—if it is the military—they do things by the book. There’ll be a trail someplace.”

  “The CIA doesn’t do things by the book. That’s why they’re the CIA.” Listen to herself—she was actually getting sucked into this paranoid delusion.

  “We’ll see. Has anyone contacted you in Mississippi?”

  “What sort of ‘anyone’?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  She said, “Not in Mississippi. And not about malaria reading.”

  “Where then? About what?”

  God, he was persistent. She told him about the hate tapes. Why? Because she hadn’t been able to tell anyone else, except Joe Krovetz, whose calls she’d been refusing since she arrived. Robert listened, then said, “Bring the tapes with you.”

  “There is no ‘with me.’ I don’t believe your wild tale, and I don’t think it’s worth the time and effort to look into.”

  And then he said the one thing that could move her. How did he know?

  “All right Melanie, don’t come. But what else better have you got to do with your two weeks’ nonsuspension?”

  Melanie closed her eyes. This house, her family, the town closing in around her, suffocating her. And then, when her “vacation” was finally done, the sideways looks and too-hearty sympathy at the CDC.

  “Okay, Robert. I’ll come. What’s your address now?”

  He told her. She said good-bye and hung up. Her brother stood there, grinning.

  “How long have you been eavesdropping on a private conversation?” Melanie demanded.

  “I’ll just bet it’s private,” he said. “You goin’ to him? Good for you, girl. You finally gonna get some.”

  She thought of correcting him, or slapping him, or lecturing him. All of it would be wasted effort. She turned on her laptop to go on-line and book the earliest possible flight to Washington.

  Cavanaugh wasted a whole day trying to track down Earl Lester, the Insect Boy of Rivermount Junior High. The scrap of paper with Earl’s address, which Marcy had written down from Judy’s answering-machine message, had been lost somewhere during Cavanaugh’s residential musical chairs. He couldn’t call Judy. Or Marcy, who wouldn’t remember it anyway. The secretary at the junior high school said it was against school policy to give out students’ addresses. From her tone, she suspected that Cavanaugh was probably a child molester. The principal was on vacation in the Greek islands. The Lesters had no phone.

  He was finally reduced to driving to Rivermount and accosting groups of junior-high-looking kids to ask if they knew where Earl Lester lived. Cavanaugh stuck to large groups of kids, so that the secretary’s fears would not be duplicated. Despite the blazing sun, high humidity, and temperature over ninety, the kids all seemed to be outside: on basketball courts, down by the river, strolling Main Street. No one, however, gave him any useful information. Either they didn’t know where Earl Lester lived, or they didn’t want to say.

  He got back to The Pines motel at 4:00 P.M., sweaty and hot. The OPR investigators were waiting for him.

  “Agent Cavanaugh? We represent the Office of Professional Responsibility,” the older agent said formally.

  “Hi, Miguel.”

  Miguel Sierra nodded and looked briefly at the ground. Cavanaugh didn’t know him well, but he’d seen him around the Baltimore Field Office. Except for high-ranking officials charged with “allegations of misconduct,” the OPR used local agents to conduct internal-affairs investigations. An OPR agent at Headquarters would assign specific interviews and write the final report, but Cavanaugh’s peers would do the legwork. Which meant Miguel Sierra and the woman with him, whom Cavanaugh didn’t recognize.

  “This is Agent Eileen Morgan.”

  Cavanaugh nodded at Eileen, a small, unsmiling woman with the look favored by female trainees at Quantico: short hair, no makeup, no jewelry, conservative dark pants suit. They needed to strike the old-boy-network as serious individuals, not fluffy dating partners, and they knew it. “Come in, Miguel, Eileen.”

  Abigail bounded to meet him, and Sierra unbent enough to tousle her fur and run through the inanities people reserved for large dogs: “Hey, Abigail. What a dog. Yessir, she’s a dog all right, she is!” Eileen Morgan looked as if she’d like to do the same thing but found the cost in dignity too high. Instead she eyed Cavanaugh’s motel room, which looked even worse than yesterday. Housekeeping either had overlooked him or didn’t exist. The bed stood in all its unmade squalor, the paint still peeled, the curtain still sagged. Eileen Morgan pursed her pale lips. Cavanaugh was only glad his laptop hadn’t been stolen. His gun and FBI credentials were locked in his car, since he wasn’t allowed to use them while on suspension. The laptop, however, wouldn’t do well in the 140 degrees of a locked car standing in the Maryland sun.

  “We have some questions to ask you,” Miguel said, unnecessarily.

  Cavanaugh went through the incident with Mrs. Hattie Brown yet again, sticking to the bare facts. Miguel and Eileen asked a few questions. Everybody already knew everything said, so the interview didn’t last long. Cavanaugh was glad.

  When they left, Eileen with a last disapproving glance at the unmade bed, Cavanaugh felt depressed. He didn’t like living this way either. Basically, he was an orderly man. “Methodical” was the word he preferred, although Marcy had been known to use “compulsive.” He liked having a home, with cheerful fuzzy rugs underfoot and designated drawers for different kinds of silverware and shared meals and stuff stuck around the place. Female stuff: flowers and pitchers of ice water and throw pillows that matched the curtains. Even purple knitted things that no one could tell what they were.

  Everything, in fact, that had irritated him when he and Judy actually had it.

  He pressed Judy’s new number. He’d gotten it over a week ago from the phone company.

  “Judy? This is Robert.”

  Pause. Then, neutrally, “Hello, Robert.”

  “How are you?” God, that sounded feeble. And suddenly his heart was not behaving: beating too fast and arhythmically.

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Fine.” They sounded like they were at a tea party. Before he said something like Pass the scones, would you? which would really piss her off, he plunged into cold, deep water.

  “Judy, I’m calling to say I miss you. I know I acted like a lunatic. I was wrong. Really, really wrong, and I’m sorry. Marcy doesn’t mean anything to me, I know that now—” Was that true? He didn’t slow down to investigate “—but you do. You mean a lot. I want more than anything to see you. To be with you. Will you let me?”

  She said, “Are you asking me to marry you?”


  His breath imploded. Marry her? What was with these women? They gave no quarter, took no prisoners, showed no mercy. Melanie telling him he was only following up on malaria reading to help his OPR case. Marcy telling him he was more expendable than Abigail, although not a bad lay. Judy telling him to propose or disappear. Every single damn one of them would have made a good torturer.

  “Judy, I don’t think we’re … I mean …”

  “’Bye, Robert.”

  He listened to the click of the phone, and heard in it a door bolt sliding decisively shut.

  His depression deepened. He wasn’t hungry. It was too early to sleep—only 6:00 P.M. He couldn’t imagine himself going to a movie. He poured himself a beer from his cooler. The ice had melted and the bottles sloshed like so many desperate-message carriers from an island castaway. Cavanaugh turned on the motel TV. It didn’t work.

  He listened instead to the radio, and learned that Michael Sean Donohue had, according to the press conference held by his lawyer, passed two separate FBI polygraph tests, both with the most truthful rating possible.

  The next day Cavanaugh drove back to Rivermount. He’d been walking down Main Street for five minutes when he saw Earl Lester.

  No, it Wasn’t Earl. This kid was too small to be Earl. But he looked just like him: hair, skin, and eyes all the same color, a faded dun. Skin stretched over sharp bones, and none too clean. The child blinked twice as he stared back at Cavanaugh.

  Another miniature Earl Lester, female this time, came out of Wal-Mart. Then another, a tall young woman holding a tiny, skinny, faded-dun Earl in diapers and Baltimore Orioles T-shirt. Cavanaugh stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, miss, but are you Earl Lester’s … ah … sister?”

  She blinked twice at him. “Yeah. So?”

  “Is he here with you? My name is Robert Cavanaugh. I gave a lecture at Earl’s school in June, and he asked some questions I finally have answers to. Could I talk to him, please?”

  She said nothing, studying him, until she pushed past him on the sidewalk and walked on. The three small children followed.

  “Please, Miss Lester. It’s important.” She kept on walking. Cavanaugh was reluctant to identify himself as FBI because she might ask to see his credentials. Cavanaugh was not allowed to carry them, or his gun, while he was on suspension. He was not supposed to be investigating this case, or anything else. He was supposed to be repenting in sackcloth and ashes, which was what Miss Lester appeared to be wearing.