Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  Noah closed the laptop and reached for the paper notebook lying on the desk. With each new investigation, he started a fresh journal to document his brainstorming. Having already filled several pages, he opened the notebook to the next blank page, marked by the little purple happy-face bookmark Chloe had given him as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. He began scratching notes, bullet-style, with reminders to himself and questions to follow up on, glumly realizing he had few answers for his many questions. He had covered two more pages, and could have kept going, when he glanced at his watch and realized he was already late. He marked the new page with the bookmark and shut the book.

  By the time Noah reached the lobby, Elise and Duncan were waiting by the main door. As they headed out to Elise’s car, Noah was relieved to see that Duncan’s mood had brightened since the previous evening. “So we’re off to meet the farmers who breed cattle, sheep, and Armageddon, are we?” the Scotsman remarked with a mischievous grin as he climbed into the car. “Shite! Where would this world be without French ingenuity?”

  “Maybe then Scottish food would be considered a delicacy?” Noah deadpanned.

  Duncan laughed uproariously and smacked Noah’s headrest. “You have a point, Haldane. All things considered, we might be better off with Armageddon.”

  As the outskirts of Limoges gave way to the rural highway, Duncan said, “We better make short work of this visit. We’re expected in Paris soon.”

  “Why Paris?” Noah asked.

  “To see Dr. Émilie Gellier,” Duncan said.

  “Who?” Noah asked.

  “The neuropathologist who dissected the brains of the Limousin prion victims.”

  “Oh.” Noah nodded his approval. “That’s definitely worth a visit.”

  “Why?” Elise asked without taking her eyes off the road.

  “Pathologists are like the arson investigators who figure out from the ashes how a fire started,” Noah explained. “By examining the final pathology—or tissue damage—they usually can identify the exact disease process which caused it.”

  “I thought we already knew what caused it,” she pointed out.

  Duncan leaned between the seats. “Ah, but this prion isn’t playing by the rules so far.”

  “Exactly,” Noah said. “Dr. Gellier might be able to tell us if this really is vCJD or something altogether different.”

  Elise’s only response was a slight nod. Noah wasn’t surprised. She had been subdued during the entire drive. And while he was still bothered by how she had held out on him earlier, he was warming to Elise. Beyond her addictive accent and captivating blue-gray eyes, her no-nonsense style and confident intelligence had begun to impress him. The authorities at the E.U. had chosen her carefully for this assignment.

  A kilometer before Lac Noir, Elise slowed the car and then turned off on a gravel road leading to a complex of red-roofed stone buildings set back from the main road and larger than any farm they had yet seen in the region. A ceramic placard read FERME D’ALLAIRE, BIENVENUE. The car’s tires crunched on the gravel driveway as they rolled to a stop in front of the large padlocked gate. A guard in military fatigues hovered nearby.

  Elise rolled down her window and spoke to the guard in French before flashing her credentials. The guard leaned his head through the open window, and Noah caught a strong whiff of peppermint. The guard chomped his gum and studied Noah and Duncan for a long moment. Elise spoke up, but Noah caught only fragments of her clipped explanation.

  Without a word, the guard pulled his head back from the window. He turned and unlocked the gate, allowing them to pass through. Inside, they parked in the nearly empty gravel parking lot of the complex, whose grounds were clean but somehow struck Noah as looking abandoned. The three of them walked past three identical cattle barns. The large metallic folding doors on all of them were chained shut, and Noah heard nothing from within.

  Inside the main administrative building, a few clerical types milled around desks and filing cabinets, but no one spoke. A funereal pall hung over the room. Elise called out to a woman walking past them with her head almost buried in an open file. “Pardon, madame,” she said. “Où est Monsieur Robichard, s’il vous plaît?”

  The woman pointed to the hallway that led off the central reception area. Noah and Duncan followed Elise down the deserted hallway. They stopped outside the second-to-last office, and Elise rapped on the door.

  “Entrez!” a voice rumbled from the other side.

  Elise pushed the door open. The middle-aged man with slumped shoulders, wavy black hair, and puffy eyes didn’t budge from his chair behind the metallic desk. Peering over his computer screen, he stared up at them with the same indifference they had seen among the staff in the front office.

  Elise identified herself and introduced Duncan and Noah. Marcel Robichard merely grunted in response. They sat down in the rickety wooden chairs across from him. As Elise described their association with the case, Robichard reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk and lit one with a battered silver lighter that clicked loudly several times before finally flaming.

  The farm’s general manager exhaled a long mouthful of smoke. “I have spoken to the local authorities as well as representatives from the Ministry of Agriculture,” he said in English that flowed with a surprisingly soft French accent. “Our livestock has been confiscated. Ferme d’Allaire is closed. Probably forever.”

  “Probably,” Elise agreed. “M. Robichard, our job is to trace the source of the infected cattle. So far it leads directly back here.”

  Robichard stiffened in his chair and his puffy eyes narrowed. “We did nothing wrong,” he growled.

  “Perhaps, M. Robichard,” she said frostily. “But at least six of the seven infected cattle identified were calves Ferme d’Allaire sold in the past year. That’s more than just coincidence.”

  Robichard grunted disdainfully.

  “We are going to need to see your barns, of course,” she said.

  Robichard shrugged. “I will have someone show you.”

  Elise reached into her bag and extracted a neatly printed list with numbers, dates, and other French text that Noah could not read upside down. She passed it to Robichard, who glanced at it with little interest. “Here is a list of the six infected cows that originated from this ranch along with their identifier numbers,” she said. “We need the details of their genitors, siblings, and all calves born in the same season as them.”

  “Of course,” Robichard said with a trace of cynicism. “The others have requested the same. We should have it ready by this afternoon.”

  Elise nodded. “We will need a list of all medications and supplements used on your herd, any organic fertilizers on site, and a log of all the animal husbandry products such as frozen semen.”

  “Why not?” Robichard laughed humorlessly. “Tomorrow.”

  Recognizing that he was wading in unfamiliar waters, Noah listened without comment. Duncan didn’t say a word, either, but his amused eyes suggested he was enjoying the terse exchange.

  “From where do you buy your cattle feed?” Elise asked.

  “We use Marceau Alimentation Animale as our main supplier. Of course, we supplement with our own product.”

  “You make your own feed?” Noah piped up.

  Robichard shot him a fierce look. “Most farms do,” he said.

  Elise tapped the desk in front of her. “I want to see where and how the feed is produced and stored. As well, we will need to seize all your existing feed.”

  Robichard folded his arms across his chest. “Why are you so interested in it?”

  “With previous BSE outbreaks, the recycling of ruminants in the food chain has been a significant contributor to disease propagation.” Elise’s tone was clinical and icy.

  Robichard shot up from his seat. “That practice has been banned in France for over ten years!” He shook the lit cigarette in Elise’s direction. “Are you suggesting we use animal meat in our feed?”

  Duncan rubbed his be
ard. “A wee birdie told us you’re soft on that policy.”

  “What does that mean?” Robichard cried, waving the cigarette wildly.

  “An informer came forward,” Elise said.

  “Who?” Robichard demanded.

  “We do not know,” she admitted. “But he claims you put animal meat in the feed.”

  “He is lying!” Robichard gripped the back of his chair as if he might hurl it. “We have not done that in ten years!”

  The model of calm, Elise crossed her legs. “M. Robichard, perhaps it has happened without your knowledge,” she said.

  “Nothing happens here without me knowing about it,” he spat. “Nothing!”

  “Something is going on here,” Elise said with an edge of her own. “All evidence indicates that this epidemic originated from your farm.”

  Robichard leaned over the back of his chair. “If all the cases come from here, why have we not had one sick cow on this farm?” he snorted. “Tell me, Mlle. Renard, where are all our sick cows?”

  Duncan pointed out the dirty window beside the desk, through which a few yellowing fields could be seen beyond the parking lot. “Maybe they’re buried out there somewhere.”

  Robichard’s face drained of the last of its color. His eyes blackened. “We have lost everything!” he shouted, sweeping his hand over the three visitors. “And you come in here and accuse me of this. You have no proof. You have no right! So help me God, I will sue you.”

  The door opened behind them. “Ça va, Marcel?” a smooth female voice asked.

  Noah glanced over his shoulder to see a woman of Elise’s age and build standing in the doorway. With her blond hair tied in a ponytail, she wore a stylish black suit that accentuated her sculpted, Grace Kelly–like facial features.

  Robichard spat out an explanation in French that Noah didn’t even try to follow. The woman listened unfazed and then turned to the visitors with a polite smile. “Will you excuse us a moment?” she asked in English.

  Robichard lumbered out of the room without a glance in their direction. The woman followed him and gently closed the door behind them. Noah looked from Duncan to Elise. Duncan shrugged. Elise said nothing.

  They waited in silence for five minutes before the woman returned. Composed, she approached confidently. “I am Geneviève Allaire, the granddaughter of the farm’s found er, Henri Allaire. I am now president. Please excuse Marcel’s behavior. It is unlike him, but he has been under such enormous stress.” She paused. “We all have.”

  “I can imagine,” Noah said.

  Allaire closed her eyes, showing a momentary glimpse of fatigue. Then her smile re-emerged. “So the WHO and the E.U. also believe that we are responsible for this outbreak?”

  Elise shrugged unapologetically. “Mme. Allaire, are you as adamant as your general manager that it has nothing to do with Ferme d’Allaire?”

  She uttered a small sigh. “By training, I am a lawyer, so I find it hard to overlook all the evidence.” She held up a palm. “However, as I understand it, BSE can occur spontaneously on any farm, despite precautions.”

  “Certainly,” Duncan said. “But not six times in a year. That takes some shoddy farming practices.”

  “Ah…” Allaire toyed with the wedding band on her left ring finger. “So naturally you’ve concluded that we have recycled our contaminated meat through the feed?” She said it pleasantly enough, but her eyes had gone cold.

  “We did not say that,” Elise said. “We are following up on information—”

  “From your informant,” Allaire broke in.

  “Yes.”

  “Your anonymous informant.”

  Her skepticism was contagious enough that Noah again began to question the man’s motives. Elise showed no such doubt. “What could he hope to gain by accusing you?”

  Allaire shook her head. “Maybe he was an angry former employee set on revenge?”

  “Does anyone come to mind?” Noah asked.

  Allaire ignored the question. “Or maybe he wasn’t looking to gain anything. Maybe he was trying to divert your attention away from something else.”

  Duncan glanced at Noah. Even Elise was left without a reply.

  “You may have our feed, Mlle. Renard,” Allaire said softly. “Why not? After all, you have taken everything else.”

  11

  Lac Noir, France. January 17

  After the altercation with Marcel Robichard at Ferme d’Allaire, his staff’s attitude toward Noah and his team dipped from indifference to contempt. However, as Robichard promised, one of the farm employees reluctantly toured the visitors through the feed production plant and storage facility. The staff grew openly hostile when Elise insisted on staying in the storage room until the Ministry of Agriculture officials arrived to confiscate the feed. It was the longest three-quarters of an hour in Noah’s recent memory. Even Duncan, who usually thrived on conflict, was glad to be free of the toxic atmosphere. “Much warmer out here,” he muttered when they finally stepped from the heated building into the freezing wind.

  They had planned to go directly to Paris to interview the neuropathologist, Dr. Gellier, but Noah suggested that since they were near Lac Noir it might be worth dropping in on the family of the prion’s third known victim, Philippe Manet. The others agreed.

  They parked on the shoulder of the lakeshore road in front of the Manet property. Though not exactly black, from what Noah could see of Lac Noir the narrow tree-lined lake was dark, murky, and, perhaps because of the season, foreboding. A more welcoming two-story stone house, with light gray steps and groomed lawn, stood between the lake and them. He was surprised by how far it was set back from the road on the wooded property, making the house—the last one on the road—feel secluded.

  The skies were brighter now that the orange-yellow glow of the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, but the wind had not let up. Noah had forgotten his gloves at the farm, but he had no intention of going back to get them. As he walked up the long driveway, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them for warmth.

  A young woman answered the door. Dressed in dark jeans and a collared shirt, she was sinewy with a flat chest and narrow hips. Her short black hair and almond brown eyes complemented her androgynous features and gave her an air of stylish sophistication.

  After Elise showed her identification, the woman invited them in. She introduced herself in a fluid accent as Sylvie Manet, Philippe’s older sister. She led them into a stately living room finished with decorative moldings and wainscoting and furnished with ornate classical French chairs, chaises, and cabinets.

  “It’s a lovely house,” Elise said, glancing around.

  With a modest nod, Sylvie guided them to the chairs by the fireplace. Sinking into a wingback chair, Noah appreciated the warmth of the crackling fire.

  “My father was a collector,” Sylvie explained. “He was obsessed with the Louis XV period. I think it is a little…too much for my taste.”

  “Your father is not alive?” Elise asked.

  “He died ten years ago,” Sylvie said. “This is not really Maman’s taste either, but she will not change the décor out of respect for his memory. It’s too bad, really. People would pay good money for much of this.” She pointed to a few of the pieces.

  “Is your mother home?” Elise asked.

  Sylvie shook her head. “She’s in the hospital. She had a heart attack last week.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that.” Noah nodded sympathetically. “How is she doing?”

  “The doctors say her heart will be okay.” Her shoulders rose and fell slightly. “I am not so sure. I think it has been broken too many times now.”

  “Do you live here, too, Mlle. Manet?” Noah asked.

  “Sylvie, please,” she said. “No. I’m a biology researcher at the University of Bordeaux. I came back here to help Maman when my little brother became ill. And then when he died, and Maman had her heart problems…” Her words trailed off and her eyes focused on the flames.

&nbs
p; “Sylvie, can we talk about Philippe?” Noah said gently.

  “Of course,” she said, still staring at the fire. “What would you like to know?”

  “When did you first notice anything different about him?”

  “About two months ago, Maman said Philippe had begun to act peculiarly. He started to say all kinds of strange things. He became very suspicious of everyone and everything. We were concerned he had developed a mental disorder.” She looked suddenly sheepish. “I even thought he might have become mixed up with drugs.”

  Noah remembered Dr. Charron’s video clip of Philippe wrestling with the two orderlies while screaming about fire and water. “We were told he threatened someone with a knife,” he said.

  “Maman,” Sylvie said softly.

  “He threatened his own mother?” Elise blurted, drawing a glare from Duncan.

  Sylvie’s eyes darted to Elise. “That was not my brother!” she said. “His brain was diseased then. Before, Philippe was so calm. Always the good boy.” Eyes downcast, she smiled. “Georges and I were the wild ones.”

  “Georges?”

  “Our older brother.”

  Duncan repositioned himself in his chair. “How long before the knife incident would you say that you first noticed a change in your brother?” he asked.

  Sylvie considered the question. “Maman called me at work two or three days before to say Philippe was not himself.” She swallowed. “I would have come right away, but I did not realize it was so serious.”

  Two or three days from “not himself” to knife-wielding paranoia, Noah thought. Despite the fire’s warmth, he fought off the familiar chill. “Did Philippe live here, too?” he asked.