The Exterminators

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “They were trying to kill us,” Bob said.

  “What do you think the terrorists are trying to do?”

  “I don’t think BeeBo’s with al Qaeda.”

  Treadwell squeezed off a smile. “If you don’t have the stomach to watch, by all means don’t.” He turned and walked away saying, “I’ve got a daughter like that. Loves her hamburgers but gets all teary about the slaughterhouse.”

  Bob saw no point in responding to the cheap shot about his masculinity. He was more concerned about what he could do to forestall the experiment. But he had to hurry. They were lowering the cage into the enclosure. The nano-tech guys transferred the venomized assassins into containers with remote control doors, then placed them at the far end of the miniature desert.

  A bullhorn squawked and someone said, “We’re hot! Everybody out!”

  The workers left the area and locked the small door behind them. Bob knew if he was going to do anything, he needed to do it before they released the bugs.

  Lloyd was hovering overhead in the basket of a cherry picker, ready to open the cage door. The guy on the bullhorn looked up and said, “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” Lloyd said, thumbs up. “Let’s do this.” With a little too much relish.

  “No.” Calmly at first, Bob moved toward the guy with the remote control, waving his hands, then shouting, “Whoa! Hold it!”

  Already aware of the futility of Bob’s protest, Klaus smiled and shook his head slowly in admiration. He stood ready to help, one way or the other, depending on how things played out.

  “Test’s off,” Bob said. “Everybody stop!” He tried to take to the remote control from the nano-tech guy but he pulled it out of Bob’s reach.

  Everybody looked toward Joshua Treadwell for direction.

  He circled his finger in the air. “Go!”

  Bob pointed sternly at the remote control guy. “Don’t do it,” he said as he turned and ran for the test area. He jumped, barely getting his hands over the top of the thick plexiglass wall.

  Klaus smiled more broadly now and looked skyward before heading over. He wasn’t sure if he was going to help Bob get over the wall or just help him get down. He’d have to play it by ear.

  With his grip tentative and his shoes slipping against the slick walls, Bob continued yelling, “Stop! Don’t release them!”

  Klaus thought it was a commendable, if pathetic, effort. But his friend looked like a four-legged bug squirming on a windshield. In the annals of protest, this wasn’t going down with Rosa Parks or the guy blocking tanks in Tiananmen Square.

  Treadwell looked up at Lloyd, pointed at Bob, and said, “Get him down!”

  Lloyd began to steer the bucket of the cherry picker over to where Bob was hanging on the wall. He waved the cattle prod. “I ain’t afraid to use this,” he said.

  Klaus reached up and grabbed a pants leg. “Bob, come down before you get hurt.”

  Bob tried to kick at him but, lacking leverage, it was a feeble attempt.

  Hanging there, his face pressed to the plexiglass, Bob saw BeeBo, hands high on the bars of his cage, as if mimicking his would-be savior. He put his lips together thoughtfully as if to blow a kiss, but blew a raspberry instead.

  Klaus got a better grip on the pants and pulled. They came down. Boxers. Bob came down next. “Good try,” Klaus said. “But it’s all over now.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Who in Christ’s name are you?” Mary turned to Father Paul and said, “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No.” He waved her off. “It’s a good question.”

  “I’m Agent Parker.” He flashed his identification. “CIA.” He was standing in the doorway between the living and dining rooms, his gun trained on Father Paul.

  This is about the point when most people would express some skepticism about a man who had broken into the house and claimed to be with the CIA. But Mary wasn’t most people. Bob and Klaus had told her the stories about the redoubtable CIA Agent Mike Wolfe, who had tried to kill them only to be done in by some African leaf beetles (Diamphidia simplex) in what would best be described as unlikely circumstances.

  It dawned on Mary at this moment that Klaus had been right. Just because a man is paranoid doesn’t mean people aren’t after him. Mary held her hands out for an explanation. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m here to help.” Parker wagged his gun at the priest. “Let’s go, padre. Real easy, just put it on the coffee table there.”

  Father Paul’s arthritic hip pained him as he reached behind and pulled out the .45. He set it gently on the table then leaned back in the sofa, calmly raising his hands.

  Mary looked at Father Paul, betrayed. “You had a gun?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure why I brought that.” Which was true. Standing at the trunk earlier, he’d had some vague notion of the possibility of running into trouble and as long as he had a sack full of weapons, well, it had seemed prudent and vaguely thrilling at the time.

  “Right,” Agent Parker said. “Had nothing to do with plans to kill Bob and Klaus.”

  “What? No! That’s nonsense.” He had to say something.

  “You’ve never crossed the Agency’s radar,” Agent Parker said as he picked up the .45. “So, who are you? Really?”

  Hand up as if taking an oath, he swore, “I’m Father Paul Anik. From St. Martin’s Catholic Church in Seattle.”

  Agent Parker shook his head and said, “Lying’s a sin, father.”

  “I can prove it.” His arthritis grabbed as reached for his wallet. He froze when Parker brought both guns his way. Wide-eyed, he said, “I have identification.”

  “Oh, I know you’ve got identification,” Parker said with a laugh. He walked back to the doorway between the two rooms. He leaned over and picked up the duffle bag which he’d left on a dining room chair. “You’re lousy with identification. And weapons and cash too.” He unzipped the bag to show the evidence. “Although I think it’s germane to point out that none of the passports were issued by The Holy See.” He pulled a Bible from the bag. “But this is a nice touch.”

  “I can explain all of that.” He paused, conflicted. “No, actually I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. No point in making up a story if you don’t tell it later.”

  Mary pointed at the duffle bag. “Where did all that come from?” she asked.

  “Found it in his trunk,” Parker said.

  “What about you?” Father Paul pointed at Agent Parker. “We should believe you’re with the CIA just because you have a gun and a cheap suit?” It was the hunger talking; he wouldn’t normally make derogatory comments about anyone’s clothes. Wasn’t his style.

  Agent Parker looked at his suit, a little rumpled maybe and certainly not expensive, but he didn’t think it deserved the insult. He looked at Mary who seemed to want a good answer to the question. So Parker said, “Who’re you going to believe, the guy with the duffle bag full of forged passports and a priest costume or the guy with a gun and a badge?”

  Mary gestured at the bag, then looked at Father Paul. “You have to admit, it looks funny.”

  He shrugged and said, “Nimium ne crede colori.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Latin,” Father Paul said. “Uh, more or less, appearances can be deceiving.”

  Agent Parker squinted his way. “Probably not your best idiom at the moment, padre.”

  “No, probably not, but who speaks Latin?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “Priests.”

  “I got a friend who can quote Cicero,” Agent Parker said. “Doesn’t make him the Pope.”

  The priest pointed at the phone. “Call St. Martin’s, ask for Father Paul. He won’t be there.”

  “So you know a church wi
th a Father Paul who’s on vacation.” Agent Parker laughed. “Or better yet, you actually are Father Paul. Perfect cover,” he said. “And it’s not as if you’d be the first priest to commit a federal crime. Hell, you probably wouldn’t be the first priest this week.”

  Father Paul closed his eyes and thought about the most recent headlines. Minors across a state line. Immoral purposes. He sighed. His hip hurt. “Don’t remind me.” He didn’t need this kind of grief.

  Mary wasn’t sure she wanted the answer, but she had to ask, “But why would he come here in the first place?”

  “Well, we’ve picked up some chatter recently and reread some old files and here’s what we know for sure,” Agent Parker said, taking a seat. “After he’d paid good money to have Bob killed, Miguel DeJesus Riviera…” he paused, then said, “…you remember him, don’t you?”

  Mary nodded.

  Parker continued, “Miguel was understandably upset to learn recently that Bob was still alive. So he took out a new contract on Bob and another one for the guy who took the money in the first place.” He looked at Mary to see if she would admit knowing anything.

  She played dumb.

  “That would be Klaus,” Parker said. “We suspect Miguel is going through Marcel Pétain to recruit a few assassins.” Agent Parker was, understandably, angry with Miguel for failing to honor his word about giving him an exclusive on the contract and next time he saw the toot kingpin, he’d let him know about that. Meanwhile, he pointed at Father Paul and said, “I think the fact this guy is here tends to support my theory.”

  “I can explain,” Father Thomas said. Some words tried to escape but he was suddenly struck mute. “No, I can’t say anything more.” Though it was riddled with faults, he loved the Church too much to risk excommunication.

  Mary was thinking about the last time this happened. Klaus having to kill that cowboy from Oklahoma and the others. This wasn’t a game. She said, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to get out of here pronto,” Parker said, glancing out the window. “If someone I’ve never heard of…” He pointed at Father Paul “…like the pistol-packing padre here, has tracked you down, others are certainly coming. We’re not safe here.”

  Father Paul touched his finger to the tip of his nose as if to say, that’s what I was going to tell them.

  “I’m calling Bob,” Mary said, moving for the phone.

  “No.” Agent Parker blocked her path. “Too dangerous. Your line could be tapped and, trust me, cells are easy to monitor. Simplest way for someone to find where they are. We don’t want that. You’ll just have to take me to wherever he is.”

  “Drop it!” Everyone turned to the voice. Katy stood in the doorway, leaning forward from her waist in a strong Weaver stance, a Walther P99 in her hand. “Now!”

  Agent Parker could tell by her posture that she’d fired the gun before. In fact she gave the impression of being a good shot. He doubted she’d ever fired at a live target but, with this family, he decided not to test it. He squatted and laid the gun at his feet, then stood with his hands raised and said, “You must be Katy.”

  She looked past him and said, “Way to go, Mom. I see you’re being real careful here.”

  “Honey, now is not the time.” She took the .45 off the coffee table. She kept it on Father Paul as she moved toward Agent Parker.

  “So,” Katy said. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Mary picked up Agent Parker’s gun and said, “We’re going to L.A.”

  “Really?” Katy smiled. “Cool!”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Lloyd steered the cherry picker back to hover above BeeBo’s cage. He reached down with a long gaffing hook, opening the door to let BeeBo out.

  It was as if the curtain had gone up. The moment seemed to transport BeeBo back to his glory days on the variety show circuit. He gathered himself and stood as tall as he could. He hitched up his holster and walked out of the cage, swaying side to side like John Wayne, into the desert.

  One of the nano-tech guys tested the Ro-bug. Left, right, forward, backward. He turned on the camera and, looking at the monitor, he saw things from the Ro-bug’s point-of-view. He zoomed in and out on BeeBo’s face. “It’s all good,” he said. “We’re set.”

  His partner triggered the hatchways on the assassin containers. They flipped open like angry garage doors. When BeeBo saw that, he did a back flip and drew his six shooters. Then he blew another raspberry.

  The transgenic assassins stalked out of their containers like soldiers. Big bugs. Half were greenish-black, spined and muscular, with those rotating eyes; the others were stealth gray with ruby red markings and those cog-like half-wheels splayed on their backs. Both had the razor sharp rostrum tucked underneath, ready to pierce, inject, and suck. Ready to kill.

  The bugs moved in all directions, probing their environment, paying no attention to the Ro-bug as it crisscrossed and circled in front of them.

  Treadwell pointed at them and said, “They’re ignoring it.”

  “Hang on.” The nano-tech pushed a button to release the first pheromone. It worked like a magic trick. The scattered insects suddenly scampered over to form an agitated group behind the machine. The guy said, “Ewww…nice.” He moved the joy stick forward and the insects followed. He led them around cacti, through tunnels, and over rocks.

  Treadwell looked on approvingly but didn’t speak.

  Unlike ants following a pheromone trail, single file and orderly, the assassins, who weren’t social insects, traveled in a broad pack behind the leader. Whenever a few of the transgenics would begin to stray, nano-guy released more pheromone and they immediately rejoined the pack.

  “Fantastic,” Treadwell said. “Now…the other test.”

  BeeBo took a keen interest in the tiny parade that was now heading his way. Despite having spent his entire his life in Hollywood, there was something buried deep in BeeBo’s brain stem that warned him about things with the color and movement of these six-legged creatures. As they came closer, BeeBo began to bark and threat slap the ground. Bad! No! But they kept coming. So he bared his teeth and let out a fearsome scream. Bad!

  The bugs showed no interest in the noisy primate. They were simply in lockstep behind their false leader. This calmed him somewhat. The Ro-bug grew closer and BeeBo, being a curious creature, leaned down to look at it, wondering if, perhaps, he’d misjudged.

  That’s when they released the second pheromone.

  BeeBo didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like it. He screamed and took off his hat, slapping it on the ground near the Ro-bug. Bad! The pheromone was all over him and the assassins were suddenly alert to the scent of Oriental cockroach (Blatta orientalis). They spread out, forming two groups according to species. Something about these movements frightened BeeBo and he leaped on top of the cage, barking, threat slapping his hands, and swaying side to side.

  Lloyd was watching from his perch in the cherry picker. “No sir,” he said. “You ain’t getting off that easy.” He lowered the basket to shoo BeeBo back to the ground. He didn’t want to get close enough to use the cattle prod—he wasn’t that stupid—so he swung the gaffing hook.

  BeeBo didn’t see it coming. It pissed him off when it hit him, but it didn’t knock him down. Lloyd reared back and swung it again but this time BeeBo caught it in a firm grip.

  No one was more surprised than Lloyd to discover that a chimp the size of BeeBo has the strength of four or five large men. When BeeBo pulled, Lloyd tumbled out of the basket like a ball of yarn, landing next to BeeBo who punched him once in the chest then jumped on him, ass first.

  “Jesus!” Bob said, “Stop the bugs!”

  The nano-tech guy looked at him, a little embarrassed. “Uhh, we don’t have, like, a stop pheromone. That wasn’t part of the contract.”

  No
one noticed the tiny smile as it crossed Treadwell’s face.

  “Lead them away,” Klaus said. “Quickly!”

  The guy sprayed the first pheromone and directed the Ro-bug away from the cage as fast as it would go. What they learned was that hunger and the drive for food trumps the drive to run away from food. The assassins began to circle the cage, a silent and relentless army.

  “Now what?”

  Treadwell walked away from the others, pulled his cell phone, and punched a preset number. He had a short conversation before disconnecting and returning to watch the experiment.

  Klauss went to the cherry picker to see if he could help. But Lloyd, on his way out of the basket, had inadvertently over-ridden control by the ground operator. Klaus turned and headed for the coffee room. Perhaps there was some Raid under the sink.

  Bob pointed at the test area and said, “If we don’t stop this, that man’s going to die.”

  Treadwell threw up his hands. “What can I do? Your bugs didn’t follow the leader.” He looked at Lloyd and shrugged. “The guy fell. Call OSHA; they’ll tell you, accidents happen. And we can’t send anyone in without putting them in danger.”

  “This is crazy. We’ve got to do something.” Bob pulled his cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  Treadwell grabbed his arm and said, “No you’re not. I’ve already called the proper authorities.” He nodded toward the door where half a dozen men were coming in, serious men in dark suits.

  “Those aren’t cops.”

  “This is a highly classified project,” Treadwell said. “City police don’t have the necessary security clearance.”

  The hungry venomized assassins were climbing the bars of the cage. As far as they knew, there was a meal up there. A big one.

  Lloyd scrambled to his feet, begging for help, while BeeBo slapped him with his cowboy hat, inadvertently transferring the essence of cockroach. When the first assassins grappled over the top of the cage, Lloyd began stomping them frantically, one at a time, with his work boots. But there were too many. As he tried to defend himself from one direction, he was attacked from the other. He’d spin and stomp and spin again.