The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  She had no sense of time, or of will. Voices sounded in the distance, unintelligible. But her teeth stopped chattering, and she was soothed by the clap of water against canoe. The hull sanded the shore, and she tried to sit up.

  A large hand pressed her back. “Don’t move.”

  Someone appeared above, his hand on her forehead. He was speaking English. Moser, the bug man.

  “Hold it, now. Lie still. I think you have a concussion and bruised ribs. You may be going into shock.”

  He floated above her, blue sky behind, puffy clouds lazing by. Right or wrong about her injuries, Calvin Moser was very good to look at. Maybe it’s the head, she thought. No, he was beautiful and black.

  He looked down at her. “Karl thinks we should move you just like this.”

  As he draped a mosquito net over the canoe, she felt it being raised. He walked alongside as she was carried, his hand under the net, resting on her forehead.

  From this position, she had a gauzy, contortionist’s eye view. Palm trees, gonad clusters of coconuts tucked underneath. The canoe swayed and she felt sick. Soft brown children’s faces appeared, then disappeared as voices scolded. Sky threaded through palm fronds.

  From somewhere she heard more English. With a sinking feeling, Brenda recognized the sneering talk-show voice of Rush Limbaugh. He was denouncing climate change and “environmental wackos.” It disappointed her, like Lou Stock’s phone call. She had come so far. The downside of technology.

  The canoe was gently lowered.

  On her left stood a small house, the unpainted porch roofed with corrugated tin. “I can walk,” she said.

  Moser drew back the mosquito net and bent, studying her eyes. “Head still hurt?”

  “Yes, and my ribs.”

  “Okay, we’ll lift you. We’re going up two stairs.”

  Moser and an elderly islander helped her to sit, waited a moment, and then lifted her out of the canoe. Almost weightless between them, she floated the few feet over a coral yard, up raw lumber steps and into a dark room smelling of sawdust.

  They sat her on a bed, then Moser went behind a woven screen and the old man stepped away. She heard voices outside, movement. Moser came back holding a cup. “Ibuprofen,” he said. “It’ll relax you.”

  For a second she wondered whether to trust him, but her will had left her. She held out her hand, accepted the glass and pills. She swallowed, drank, and handed it back.

  “Now rest.”

  As she stretched out, Moser raised her legs onto the bed. The headache was still there, but more pulse beat than pain. The room emptied and grew quiet. Welcome to Paradise, she thought, looking up at the thatched roof. It was the color of coffee, and for no reason this comforted her.

  She didn’t sleep, nor was she really awake.

  When had it gotten dark? Someone had lighted a kerosene lantern. The dark walls were bare lumber, the roof made of thatch. Children’s faces stared back at her through the screen door and windows. She felt a dreamy sense of peace.

  Slowly this gave way to thirst and hunger. She smiled and waved; the kids giggled. Brenda noticed a light coming from behind a privacy screen of woven palm fronds. Computer keys clicked. For a moment she thought someone was writing copy for the eleven o’clock.

  The keys stopped, and Moser stepped around the screen. He took a seat beside her on a canvas stool, crossed his legs and arms and didn’t smile. “How’s the head?”

  “Fuzzy around the edges.” Feeling something wet and cold, Brenda looked down. She was in her bra and shorts, already dry. The left ribs were covered with a fibrous compress of some kind.

  “Wini,” he said. “Pirimese medicine. You bruised some ribs.”

  “It feels like a local.”

  “I fell shooting baskets last March and messed up my ankle. Karl used that stuff on me. I was back in business two days later. Don’t ask what it is, that’s a big trade secret.”

  She looked at his knees, crossed at eye level in front of her. They belonged to solid, well-shaped legs that were lighter where his drill shorts had hiked up on his thighs. The hair there, like the hair on his bare chest, formed tight curls like twists of tobacco. He was clean-shaven, and his chin had a pointlessly appealing dimple.

  “Did everyone make it?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you contacted Pohnpei?”

  “Not until we see if they can get the ship off the reef. Otherwise, salvage is finders-keepers. The captain gave permission to strip her tomorrow.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  He went outside and returned with a dipper. He held it for her, but she raised up and took it from him. The water was sweet.

  “Rainwater.” He took the ladle and set it on the table. “You’re a surprise.” He brightened the lamp. “Ehrlich didn’t say anything about bringing others.”

  “I bullied him into taking me. The district ship’s not running.”

  “He says you’re from a TV station.”

  “He doesn’t believe it, but I’m not here for that.”

  “I still don’t get why you came.”

  “Vince Soublik and I went to school together. Peace Corps got it wrong about the body not being recovered.”

  Moser nodded at this, still adjusting the lamp. “I didn’t handle that very well, my fault.” He came back and sat beside the bed. “So, you thought it was a story. The mix-up about the body.”

  “I quit my job and needed a break. If you want the truth, I came here to not do a story.”

  Unconvinced, Moser again folded his arms and said nothing. Whispers continued on the porch. The lamp’s flame threw shadows over the unpainted walls.

  “I heard a computer.”

  “Field notes,” he said. “I do research out here. How about some soup?” Moser stood and went back behind the divider. “Let’s see,” he called. “Split pea, chicken and rice, navy bean.”

  “Navy bean.”

  Seconds later he came back with a lighted camping stove, a bowl and a sauce pan. Setting the stove on his table, he lowered the pan and began stirring. A minute passed before he looked up.

  “So, TV. Are you good?”

  “I had my moments. Ehrlich seems to think I’m here to steal company secrets.”

  “Bob’s a real company man,” Moser said, stirring. “He’s out here every few months to re-supply me. I think GENE 2’s all he’s got. That’s why he’s gung-ho about protecting the research. Tell me how you got into reporting.”

  The best way to avoid questions was to get people talking about themselves. She gave him the boilerplate—described the scene in the station’s mailroom, the tractor pull and Blue Bird bus, little Amy. Moser acted interested and asked for details, but remained guarded.

  “Mostly, my career had to do with how my butt looks in Levis,” she said.

  “I doubt that. What’s your all-time favorite story?”

  “No, now it’s your turn.”

  Moser tested the soup, turned off the burner and poured the content of the pan into the bowl. He brought it over and she edged up with difficulty. “No, you take it easy.” He sat again, held the bowl under her chin and raised the spoon. “It’s not hot.”

  Trusting him, she opened her mouth and let him feed her. No one had done this since she had the mumps, when she was nine.

  “My story will help you fall asleep,” he said.

  He told her about his doctorate, taken at the University of Texas. “My dissertation was titled ‘Intron Coding in Insect Reproduction, colon, Effects on Conservative Replacement of the HGY 343 Promotor Sequence in the Common Fruit Fly.’” He spooned in more soup. “Feel sleepy yet?”

  “Go on.”

  “I spent a lot of time chasing flies around the lab at U.T. This was before we developed rapid sequencing. What I was doing was giving flies viral infections. We use viruses to insert new or altered genes into chromosomes. Viruses are essentially protein containing RNA or DNA. You inject the virus into a host cell, in my case fruit flies. Onc
e the DNA is in the host cell, it takes over that cell’s machinery. By inserting its DNA into the host chromosome. The cell becomes a virus-producing factory. In humans, this triggers the immune system. Antibodies. What I did was put altered genes into a virus and insert it into a fruit fly, along with some phenotypic expression.”

  Brenda closed her mouth. Moser balanced the spoon. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was with you up to ‘phenotypic expression.’”

  He nodded, motioning for her to open. “The only way to tell if the experimental gene got onto the host chromosome is by keeping track of some observable marker gene. You insert both at the same time. In my case, I was chasing fruit flies around to check the color of their eyes. That was the phenotypic expression, the marker gene. If the offspring’s eyes were the right color, it meant the experimental gene had taken.”

  She more or less understood, and remembered seeing blue-eyed islanders on Pohnpei. That would be the phenotypic expression left by Germans in the nineteenth century.

  “So, someone at GENE 2 saw your work and made an offer,” Brenda said.

  “Actually, they talked to me after my B.S. at Arizona State. I’m from Phoenix. Russ Minot said he heard good things about me, and to come see him when I finished. Know who he is?”

  “The way I know Bill Gates and Warren Buffett,” she said. “He owns companies.”

  “I went to work for GENE 2 right after grad school. For three years I worked on ways to alter the genes of pest populations. The point is to make bugs more susceptible to chemical control. So you don’t pollute the environment by having to go to higher levels of toxicity when the species mutate to protect themselves.” He scraped with the spoon and fed her the last of the soup.

  “Thank you,” Brenda said. He lowered the bowl. “When you took me off the beach, you put a mosquito net over the canoe. Did it have anything to do with wasps?”

  Moser set the bowl on the table and turned back. “Heard about that, did you?”

  “Vince wrote his family.”

  “Yes, it does, but you’ve had enough bug talk for now. I don’t think you have a concussion, but you need rest.”

  When he started to get up, she caught his arm. It was smooth and strong. She had understood most of what he’d told her, and it made him all the more attractive. But he was not telling her everything.

  “I want to know what happened to Vince.”

  Calvin Moser looked down at her hand on his forearm. She let go and he nodded, then stepped back behind the divider.

  She had seen him somewhere before, she was sure of it. But not on assignment. Not at the studio.

  He came back holding glossy photo enlargements, and put them face down on the table. As he sat, Brenda noticed a noise outside, similar to the sound of the power units used to run detour lights for road repairs.

  “What am I hearing?”

  “The generator for the TV. It was broken for a month. One of the ship’s crew just got it fixed. The people here are addicted, some of them watch all night. The thing stays on as long as the gas holds out.”

  “I think I’ve seen you somewhere,” she said, then added, “Don’t worry, I’m in no shape to pick you up.” She could smell alcohol.

  “Maybe the Essence magazine story,” he said. “They did a series on African Americans conducting research. It was reprinted in quite a few newspapers.”

  He reached for the photos and glanced through them, his jaw set. Brenda watched his broad, muscled chest rise and fall. At last he tossed the photos on the table and turned back to her.

  “We’ve accomplished something out here,” he said. “I’d hate to see it discredited.”

  “What are those photos?”

  “Now’s not a good time, we’ll talk tomorrow. You should try to sleep.”

  “After you tell me about Vince. I’d like to know what really happened.”

  Moser looked at her. “You don’t think I told Peace Corps what ‘really happened’?”

  “I mean details. You were here. You must know more, that’s all.”

  “What’s to tell? He went crazy,” Moser said defensively. “He ran into the lagoon and drowned before we knew he was in trouble. I should’ve told Peace Corps there was no body, I just radioed he drowned. They thought we had him.”

  He got up and went to the screen door, speaking softly in Pirimese. Bare feet scuffed on the raw boards of his porch as the children scattered. He stood looking out.

  “Look, I don’t suspect anything,” she said.

  “But you’re going to nose around here and ask,” he said. “Scratch around like reporters do. Come up with something you can turn into a story.”

  “You sound like Ehrlich. You want your research kept secret? Fine. And I happen to like The Peace Corps, I’m not interested in bashing their work.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  It angered her. She shoved up on her elbows with effort.

  “Thanks for the soup, but let’s get something straight.” She waited until he faced her. “You have a PhD, it ought to be easy for you. Think about it. A woman travels out here by herself. No camera operator, no translator. She hitches a ride on The Tuna Clipper and gets snagged on a reef. What do you think, Moser? I came out here to get the scoop on your twelve-ton fruit fly?”

  Surprised, he gave her a little smile. “No. It’s just this project’s important,” he said. “It has potential for helping people who might otherwise starve. That sounds arrogant, but it’s true. I’m very sorry about Vince. We were friends. When I publish my research, his name goes on it.”

  “You say he went nuts.”

  “Screaming, a seizure of some kind. I was over in the lab. People said they heard something, but it was raining. They thought it was some kind of joke. He sometimes got bad headaches, probably sinus trouble. All I had was phenobarbital. It helped him. That, and watching television. Phenobarb and TV seem to relieve the symptoms.”

  Brenda waited.

  “But you’re right about details,” Moser said finally. “I didn’t tell Peace Corps everything. I hope you’re being straight about not wanting to damage their work. I’m going to tell you because you’ll hear it from someone. It might as well be me.

  “These people love to drink,” he said. “It’s part of the culture. Anything they can get their hands on. Before I got here, two men went blind drinking ditto fluid from the school’s old mimeo machine. When they finish off the beer and Old Suntory, they make it up as they go along. The night Vince died, the chief said they were using fermented stamens from banana trees mixed with yeast. It gets you very high, but the hangovers are the worst.”

  “You think that’s what killed him?”

  “Hell, I warned him. I told him he wasn’t used to it. He got bad sinus headaches, there must’ve been a reaction. Karl said they started drinking after dark, and just kept going. The morning after a binge here, people look like zombies. The men he was with didn’t think anything was wrong. In the morning everyone went into the lagoon. Every canoe was out looking for him.”

  He shook his head. “That’s why I didn’t tell. None of us did. Lars Nohr flew out here. He interviewed the chief, me, the leadership. Before he arrived, we held a meeting. We agreed Vince Soublik didn’t need to be remembered that way. The Volunteer who drank himself nuts on home brew and swam for Australia. These people respected him. He succeeded, he really fit in. Peace Corps didn’t need it, everybody here felt responsible.”

  She wanted to believe him. Drunk drivers killed themselves all the time. Why not this? “I can understand,” she said. “The only thing is, telling what happened might make the next volunteer less vulnerable.”

  “Don’t worry, Peace Corps knows about the drinking on Pirim. It’s true other places. Vince just made a decision to live like the Pirimese. If it meant swilling that shit, so be it. I think that’s why Peace Corps didn’t pursue the inquiry. They had an idea what they’d find.”

  Moser went behind the divider, and came
back holding a small glass beaker. “Lab alcohol and Tang,” he said. “No side effects. I’d offer you one, but you should wait.” He drank, looking at her—serious, handsome.

  Moser lowered the beaker. “And since you know that, you might as well have all of it.” He downed what was left and sighed. “Vince drowned in the lagoon. He never made it beyond the reef. We found what was left two days later. Nothing big comes through the channel, but we have a lot of smaller nurse sharks. Barracuda, crabs. They didn’t leave much, just enough to bury.” He grabbed the photos and handed them to her.

  Sorry now to have pressed him, Brenda held them up to the light. The first showed islanders strung out in a line of canoes, forming a bridge halfway between the shore and barrier reef. “That’s how we looked for him,” Moser said. “At low tide.”

  Other shots showed men further out in the water, some on the exposed reef. Shuffling slowly through the glossies, Brenda stopped and caught her breath. The scene showed a tarp spread out on the beach, with what had been recovered from the water. The right upper arm and shoulder, the left bleached and torn thigh, and the head. She recognized Soublik’s close-cropped hair. The bloated features made her feel sick.

  The last photo showed a grave, marked by a cross and mounded with flowers. Flanking this were a young island woman and old man. The girl was the one in Mrs. Soublik’s photo. Behind her, other graves lay in short rows dappled with light. Patterns of sun and shade gave the scene a mood of peace and dignity.

  “That’s Chief Karl and his granddaughter Nauko,” Moser said. “I took those in case of another inquiry. If you look close, you can make out ‘Seyor’ on the marker. They gave him a title the night he died. They considered him Pirimese. It’s why they wanted him buried here.”

  Brenda handed up the glossies and lay back. The numbness in her ribs felt cold now. Moser leaned over the table and turned down the lantern.