by Mary Miller
“I wondered about that,” says Rummy. Kalee adjusts the gold necklace as his gaze shifts lower.
“It reminds me of a molecular structure, am I right?”
“It’s designed after the primary structure of human beta-endorphin," Kalee explains. "Each of the 31 amino acids are a separate link; joined at the peptide bonds. Amanda bought a matching necklace for herself. It was all part of the Mothra movie twins' thing. We would dress like twins, just to mess with the other lab rats’ heads. Was she wearing the necklace when you…found her?” Kalee asks.
“Whoever killed her must have taken it,” answers Johnnie. “We only found her watch.”
“How’s it coming Rummy?” asks Johnnie. '
“Got it. You can see her log coming up on my monitor,” Rummy gestures to the large flat screen.
“Scroll down,” says Johnnie. “Looks like texts and calls to this one number.” She calls the number on her cell. “It shows unlisted.”
A woman answers the call.
“Mallory Trent, Royce, Feinstein, Kurtz and Rialto. May I help you?”
“Yes," Johnnie says and coughs to buy time. “Pardon me.”
She holds the phone away and whispers to Auntie Gladys; “It’s Kate Mallory’s office!” and returns to the call.
“I have a delivery scheduled for your office; but I spilled coffee and can’t read this invoice. Can you tell me what client is associated with this number?”
“We represent Gulfstream Petroleum. Can I …”
Johnnie ends the call and turns to Auntie.
“Why does Gulfstream need Mallory? Mallory is Big Oil’s best friend. Jack-up rigs blow out a billion gallons? Call Mallory. She’s the environmental disaster cover up queen. Sunbathing beach goers get run over by front loaders scraping up red tide fish kill? Mallory makes it disappear. If Gulfstream is using Mallory to cover up those slime slinging Frankenskeeters; we’re going to need a lot more help,” says Johnnie.
“You're right about Mallory. Her team is ruthless,” says Auntie. “The Seminole started high stakes Bingo; and all the nations wanted in. Indian River hired Mallory and Trent to guarantee their gaming referendum. Rumor has it they strong-armed the gaming commissioner and threatened his family. By the time the bill passed, he had 9 fingers instead of 10.”
“Do you think they sent those men for Kalee?” asks Johnnie. “What do they want with Kalee’s data? If they’re willing to kill Amanda over this, what will they do next?”
“We need to move Kalee and the data to a safer place,” agrees Auntie.
“Wells is bringing Dr. San Paolo to Rico’s boat,” says Johnnie. “Let’s rendezvous there and sort this out."
She hands Rummy the data drive. “Let’s open this up here first. Can you display the contents on that second flat screen?”
Auntie slips off the boat bench and grabs her satchel.
“Keep an eye on Kalee. I need some fresh air. I’m going for a cold drink from that bait shop.”
“We’ll be right there, Auntie,” says Johnnie.
✽✽✽
Rummy waves a remote control at the monitor. “This is odd. That repeating string of numbers from the watch; they aren’t phone numbers.”
“It looks familiar,” says Kalee. “Could it be a genetic sequence? It reminds me of a modification we’re working on.”
“Is that what Amanda was hiding?” asks Johnnie.
Kalee points to the sequence.
“There’s a disruption here. Someone’s edited this. It’s similar to San Paulo's modifications that eliminated the mosquito's sense of smell, so they wouldn’t be attracted to people. But this is different."
“Didn’t that backfire?” Johnnie asks. “Aren’t those genetically modified mosquitoss resistant to DEET?”
“Something’s terribly wrong here,” muses Kalee.
“I’m sure Dr. San Paulo can explain,” says Johnnie.
“Wait a minute --- See this segment?” Kalee points to a string of numbers within the sequence. “This could be what Amanda was protecting.”
✽✽✽
Auntie watches a fisherman cleaning his catch at the bait shop’s fillet table. She’s about to question his technique, when two men on jet skis roar up to the docks. Their leather work boots are soaked with saltwater. Price tags flutter from one of the men’s Cuban guayabera shirts.
“My, my,” says Auntie. “Couple of roughnecks right off the oil rig. Looks like they got dressed in the airport gift shop!”
The men jump off their small craft onto the docks and race towards Rummy’s shack.
“They’re after Kalee!” Auntie cries and scrambles after the men.
✽✽✽
In the back corner of the shack; Johnnie, Rummy and Kalee track the sequence numbers on the monitor.
The shack’s door swings open, the gator skull drops and a ship’s bell clangs.
“We’re closed!” yells Rummy.
A compact, wiry Cajun man pushes through the door. His soggy work boots squish on the cement. A second muscled roughneck; gun drawn; stands guard in the doorway.
“Give me the data drive,” demands the first Cajun.
“Whoa pal,” says Rummy. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
The man startles as Kalee appears from behind the welding gear.
“You! I left you to rot in the swamp!”
“You bastard,” Kalee yells and sprays mosquito repellent in his face. “You killed Amanda!”
Rummy rushes the man. They struggle and knock over a stack of crab traps. Rummy throws a king shot at the man’s temple, forces him to the floor and pins his arms behind his back. Johnnie ducks behind the work bench and snatches the watch from the counter. She’s reaching for the data drive when the second man points his gun at her.
“Give me that data,” he tells Johnnie and motions at Rummy with his gun. "Let him loose!”
✽✽✽
From the doorway; Auntie launches the alligator skull at the gunman’s head. The man bobs and weaves; but the monofilament wraps around his neck. Kalee swings an oxygen tank at his stomach. He doubles over and drops his gun. The semiautomatic fires and its bullets ricochet off the sponge diver's helmet. Johnnie picks up the gun and holds it on the downed roughneck.
“Kalee throw me a line,” orders Rummy as he twists the first Cajun’s arm higher behind his back. She pulls a length of rope from a spool and tosses it to Rummy, who hogties the Cajun. Johnnie keeps the gun trained on the pair while Rummy binds the gunman’s wrists.
“What do we do with Thibodeaux and Fontenot?” Rummy asks.
“After what they did to Amanda?” says Kalee. “Chum ‘em! Feed ‘em to the sharks.”
“Immokalee!” says Auntie.
“I got some old fish coolers out back,” says Rummy. “Keep 'em quiet until we call the feds,” Rummy leads him to the cooler. Wells drags the unconscious Cajun inside; and they bar the door.
Auntie retrieves a crushed ballpoint pen from the floor. Ink spills over her hand as she reads the name imprinted on the pen’s leaky barrel.
“Mallory Trent, Royce, Feinstein Kurtz & Rialto! So Mallory sent these swamp rats. What do Mallory and Gulfstream want with the data? What could they possibly want with Frankenskeeters?”
“Dr. San Paulo should be here any minute,” says Kalee.
“Follow me to Rico’s boat!” says Johnnie.
✽✽✽
RICOCHET
A full moon bobs above the Sportfish’s tuna tower. Lights from within the lounge spill onto the dock. Among plush white leather couches, a series of equipment supports a mobile genetics lab. At the bar, Josh and Kalee profile genetic fragments of the slime samples with the mobile lab’s electrophoresis system. Dr. San Paolo reviews the results on the gel documentation system’s display monitor as Johnnie and Rico look over his shoulder.
“Doc,” asks Rico, “Johnnie got stung by these mutants. How can we be sure they didn’t inject her with some genetically engineered protein? H
ow do we know Johnnie’s not infected with some irreversible syndrome?”
“Her exposure was intense but limited. You’ll want to continue to monitor Johnnie, Flash and Ho Ho for any unusual symptoms until I can better understand what caused the Frankenskeeters to attack. I don’t have enough data to predict the long-term effects.”
San Paolo points to the display, “This encodes a transcription factor protein. It turns on other genes.”
The doctor’s text alert chimes.
“My colleagues at Cornell and Harvard Med agree,” San Paolo explains as he returns the text.
“We can create effective off-switches to counteract Gulfstream’s Crispr-Cas9 edits. We must activate anti-Crispr proteins to inhibit further harmful gene-editing actions.”
He reads another text.
“The UC Berkeley team concurs with my findings. We’ll engineer a daisy-chain drives to stop these things before they cause damage that’s impossible to reverse.”
“Say that in plain English, Doc!” insists Auntie.
“We’ll edit the edits, so the mutants burn themselves out. We get Gulfstream’s geneticists to stop releasing their Frankenskeeters and the mosquito population should reset to normal.”
“What about this nasty slime?” asks Auntie.
“Fascinating!” Dr. San Paolo stands. “I’m seeing an edit that influences melanin in the iris. Orlando International reported a purple glow along with the flight interference. Is it possible the glow was cast by runway lights refracting off 10,000 pairs of compound mosquito eyes? The modification may have impacted their saliva as well, thus the purple slime.”
“My nightmare vision came true,” says Auntie. “What would Gulfstream want with more slime?”
✽✽✽
“Wait a minute,” says the doctor. “I believe I’ve uncovered their intentions. Set our mini oil slick here.” Wells centers a 5-gallon bucket of saltwater mixed with heavy crude oil and on a low coffee table. Auntie stirs a handful of osprey feathers into the sludge.
“Josh, add 10cc of slime and set the timer,” directs the doctor.
“1-minute, Doc,” says Kalee. “2 minutes.”
The doctor retrieves an oil-free feather.
“Ingenious! They developed this mutation to act as a dispersant. It’s the dawn of a new age in spill cleanup. I thought we’d need to neutralize the slime, but the slime seems to neutralize other substances. It absorbs them like a giant sponge. I’ll need to study the slime’s interaction with a broad range of dispersants, of course.”
“So, you’re telling me, those bozos at Gulfstream tried to clean up their mess with mosquitos?” says Rico. “They could shine up their safety record in time to win this oil lease bid in the Elbow.”
He points to a flat screen TV above the bar.
“Blocks in NG16-03, The Elbow, come up for bid in early January. Auntie can you zoom in on that?”
Auntie enlarges the offshore drilling protraction diagrams.
“Here, you can see the Elbow west of Tampa Bay,” she says.
“You’re saying they could use the mosquitos and avoid the usual EPA paper trail?” asks Johnnie. “Could they avoid reporting spills altogether?”
“Hypothetically," agrees Doc. "The Frankenskeeters would do their dirty work and disappear. If they release these mutants over a spill; their typical flight range would prevent these mosquitos from coming ashore. No one would notice.”
“They escaped in Orlando. Could it could happen again?” Johnnie asks and struggles to not scratch the bites on her arms.
“Johnnie get a hold of your congressman buddy, we’ve got to turn this nightmare around,” says Auntie.
✽✽✽
FEDS
Johnnie calls in a favor from a congressman.
“I need your help Bill,” says Johnnie. “The situation’s ugly, but it could make you look good in the polls.”
“What are we talking about here?” asks the politician.
“Murder, assault and a potential environmental disaster.”
“Why haven’t you gone to the police with this?"
“It’s a cover-up, Bill,” answers Johnny. “We’re not sure how far up it goes. Do you still sit on the appropriations committee?”
“Environment and Natural Resources. What are we talking about disaster-wise?”
“There’s been an accidental release of a bio organism. A Frankenskeeter.”
“A Franken-what?” he asks.
“A new breed of genetically modified mosquito. The first infestation occurred in Orange County, Florida,” Johnnie explains.
“How big of a concern is this to public health?”
“Just how severe a threat? We don’t know; but it’s sure to disrupt tourism.”
“You’ve seen these…Frankenskeeters?”
“They attacked me Bill. I managed to escape; but so did the mutants.”
“Are you OK Johnnie? You say someone’s trying to cover this up?”
“We’re looking at one of the super-major oil producers and a local lobbying firm for starters.”
“Who else knows about this?” he asks.
“Orlando International responded to the first swarm by re-routing flights,” says Johnnie. “It’s inevitable that TSA and the Orange County Sheriff’s office become suspicious. The media hasn’t connected the dots yet.”
“How can you prove oil is involved?” asks the politician.
“We’ve detained the two men who attacked us. We believe they’re responsible for a murder and two other assaults. We’ve also got call logs detailing multiple calls to Mallory and her lobbyists. I wanted to contact you before we call in the feds.”
“What do you need from me, Johnnie?”
“We need a moratorium on pending offshore oil leases in the Gulf. And Bill, we need research funding for gene drive technology. We’re looking at DARPA level support.”
“I’ll get on it, Johnnie,” he says. “I can’t promise…”
“Lemme’ talk to him,” demands Auntie. “Listen up! We’re drownin’ in skeeter slime down here and somebody’s gotta’ pay! Put the stop on that oil lease in the Elbow and send us some cash for the doctor to put these freaks of nature back in their test tubes.”
“Alright, Auntie,” Johnnie says and takes the phone.
“Thanks, Bill, Auntie Gladys gets a little militant,” Johnnie apologizes.
“Auntie Gladys…you mean Gladys Frost? Oh yes, she’s a frequent caller, you might say. Listen Johnnie, contact my office tomorrow, I’ll have an update for you. Take care of yourself.”
✽✽✽
DEDICATION
Johnnie stokes the driftwood fire beneath today’s fresh catch. The fish are laid out to smoke and sizzle on the homemade grill. Plump snook, seatrout, snapper and reds criss cross the old-style bedspring beach barbecue. Grease from a slew of humble mullet crackles in the flames; coating the sugar sand below. Music drifts shoreward from the barge anchored off the beach. Ho Ho holds out a high note as his horn section wails across the water.
GulfWatch volunteers and Florida big shots gather dockside in the shade of the Egmont Key lighthouse and Johnnie joins Auntie Gladys at the microphone.
“Welcome to Egmont Key everyone. Thanks for showing your support,” says Johnnie.
A late afternoon breeze ripples the wide red ribbon tied across the dock, and blows Johnnie’s long hair across her face. Sandy-footed protesters raise Drill Free Zone and Stop the Skeeters signs for the 6 o’clock news crews.
“We’re here to celebrate a victory. For our Gulf and for Florida. With your help, and the efforts of Auntie Gladys and Kalee Frost, Dr. San Paolo and good friends; we will stop the Frankenskeeters and save our shores from Big Oil.”
Rico blows a fog horn, Rummy whistles and the crowd cheers.
“Today we break new ground on the Gladys Frost Research Center.”
Johnnie gives Auntie a gold-plated shovel.
“No drilling in our backyard!” Auntie shouts. “S
top the Frankenskeeters!” The crowd joins in the chant.
“Congressman Brett, will you do the honor?” Johnnie hands him a pair of shears for the ribbon cutting. Kalee, Josh, Flash and Wells lift their shovels skyward and thrust them into the sugar sand shoreline. The crowd cheers and Ho Ho’s band kicks in.
Kalee and Josh walk hand in hand along the pier. Pop and Dr. San Paolo tend the fish fry with a few Tampa Bay pilots who mingle with GulfWatch’s women volunteers. Greedy seagulls stand by for handouts.
“You saved my life Johnnie, I owe you one,” promises Flash.
“We need you Flash,” says Johnnie.
“Keep up the good fight Auntie,” Rico tells the Seminole matriarch.
“We’ll keep those bloodsuckers at bay,” Auntie says and winks. “The Frankenskeeters and the oil companies too.”
Johnnie reels up the Nola Devine’s anchor and frantically slaps her arms. Rico startles, worried.
“Just kidding,” she says and smiles as Rico pulls her in for a kiss. He throttles up the boat. They wave at the party in their wake; and head westward to the setting sun.
✽✽✽
Frankenskeeters!
A Lightning Capital Mystery
Mary Miller
Murder, Mystery and Madness
Florida Style.
