Growth

by Jeff Jacobson

  The parts inside continued to move.

  Her radio crackled. It was Liz. “Chief, you there? Come back. Chief?”

  Sandy wanted to start shooting at the bag, to burn it, something. She hit the button on the radio. “Chisel here. Over.”

  “Chief, we’re getting a ton of calls about people not coming home last night. I’m forwarding them on to the county boys for now, but I just got one hell of a weird nine-one-one call, thought you should hear about this one first.” Liz either hadn’t heard about Sandy’s suspension, or more likely was simply choosing to ignore the command. “Male, says he’s under attack from some kind of monsters. I think he’s just some tweaker, wandered off the interstate and got lost. He’s freaking out, says he needs help.”

  “Monsters, huh?” Sandy said, watching the body bag.

  “His words, not mine. And you’ll never guess where he was calling from. The Einhorns’.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. When it rains it pours, huh?”

  The Einhorns. Mrs. Kobritz. And now Dr. Castle. All those missing people.

  “You want, I can let Sheriff Hoyt know, and he can send one of his boys out.”

  Sandy knew that she would have to bring Sheriff Hoyt into this mess, sooner than later, but if she could figure out at least a few pieces of the puzzle, it might go easier for her and Kevin later. Never mind that she was unable to act in any official capacity as the town’s chief. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got it. Let Sheriff Hoyt handle the parade for now. I’ll head out there, see what’s what.”

  “You gonna join us at the parade? I’m outta here in less than . . . twenty minutes. You want me to save you a spot?”

  “No, that’s okay, thanks. I’ll be there soon. I’ll find my boy and we’ll watch it together.”

  “See you then. Over and out.”

  Bob was proud of himself.

  It had been years since he’d personally driven the harvester up and down the rows, but the old skills had never left. Even as bad as he felt. Of course the technology had changed, made it easier for one man to do everything. Used to be, he had someone else to drive alongside the combine with a trailer to collect the grain. Now, the combine itself had a trailer, and so Bob could easily harvest acres and acres on his own.

  He remembered endless summer days of sitting on his father’s lap in the combine, bouncing through one field after another, back and forth, back and forth, as his father taught him what was important in life. God. Farming. Family. Back in those days, there wasn’t much to do in the cab of the combine. Now, he still couldn’t believe how it had more technology than his office at home. Air-conditioning, for one thing. They’d never had central air put in the house, and so Bob always felt a little guilty using it in the combine. A radio. He’d seen some models that even had little televisions, but he drew the line at that. No sir. You couldn’t work and watch TV at the same time.

  He didn’t bother closing the gate behind him. The field was done. Time to let it sit until next spring. It had been too early to harvest the corn, and it wouldn’t be as sweet as it should be, but that wasn’t the point. No, he’d harvested his son’s corn to show everyone that his son had been a farmer when he died. No one could take that away. No one. Not even Allagro.

  And now Bob had the evidence. Two acres of corn that half-filled the trailer behind the combine. That amount was nothing, of course, not when he was used to dealing with hundreds of acres, day after day. It was enough, though, to make sure everybody knew that the Mortons had farming in their blood.

  If Bob had turned around, he might have seen the lazy black cloud that jolted and swirled with every bump in the road as it hung like a fog over the trailer of corn.

  He passed Cochran’s rental car. It was empty. Bob hoped the son of a bitch had gotten lost out here looking for Bob Jr.’s two acres. He was in no hurry as he eased the massive combine and trailer up to the intersection of Road G and Highway 17. It only had a top speed of fifteen miles an hour anyway. He turned left, toward town.

  It didn’t matter anymore. Cochran was too late to do anything. Let him call his bosses. Let him make all the threats he wanted. Let him go give those condescending looks to somebody else. Bob had taken care of his farm.

  If nothing else, that’s what was truly important to Bob. No matter how he looked, or how he felt, he could still take care of his business, his home, his life. And by God, he was going to prove it to everybody. He couldn’t think of a better way to show everyone just what a genuine American farmer was made of.

  It was time to take the corn to the parade.

  CHAPTER 20

  Sandy didn’t see a car in the Einhorn driveway. It didn’t look much different from the last time she had been out here, except for the police tape on the front porch. They’d hauled Kurt’s truck back to the county lab to test for any bloodstains. As far as Sandy knew, they hadn’t found anything. She didn’t think they would.

  She pulled around the horseshoe driveway and parked in front of the steps. She got out and stood in the full morning sunlight, taking in the house for a moment. A breeze ruffled the plastic ribbons of yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front steps. All of the shells that had littered the driveway had been collected. She went up the front walk and saw that the bloodstains were almost gone. One good rain and you’d never know a man had been shot to death on his front lawn.

  She ripped the tape away, not worrying too much about disturbing a crime scene. Being suspended, she had no business being out here in the first place. She peered in the window. Nothing moved inside. Knocked on the front door. No answer.

  It didn’t surprise her. Whoever had been here had taken their car and left.

  Still, that comment about the “monsters” wouldn’t leave her alone. She couldn’t help but feel it had something to do with the missing people and that body bag back at Dr. Castle’s. She knocked again. “Hello? This is Chief Sandy Chisel. Anybody here call nine-one-one?”

  Still no answer.

  She tried the front door. It was open. As inept as the county guys could be, she didn’t think they would ever go off and leave the house of a crime scene unlocked. She pushed the door open a few inches. Called out, “Hello?” as she gently unsnapped her holster.

  She pushed the door but remained on the porch. The door swung open all the way, revealing a living room exactly the same as she remembered. Her gaze lingered on the kitchen doorway. Something was blocking the bottom of the doorway. Something big, like a metal box. She realized it was the fridge, lying on its side.

  Maybe someone had broken in, maybe kicked their way in through the back or broke a window. They could have left through the front door, which explained why it wasn’t locked. Still trying to figure out the scenarios, she stepped inside, intent on the overturned fridge in the kitchen.

  Something popped her in the back of the head and she felt what could have been a gun barrel jammed into the side of her neck, just under her right ear. A voice said, “On the fucking floor. Now!”

  Sandy never took her right hand from her pistol, but she nodded and said, “Okay, okay. No trouble.” She bent her knees, preparing to lie down.

  A man’s hand closed over her right hand, going for the pistol. She could tell it was his left hand because his right was holding his gun. He had been waiting to the right of the door, and was now behind her. That meant he was off-balance. So she dropped, tucking her head into her shoulder and angling out of the line of fire, and whirled, kicking out with her left leg. She brought her right forearm up and deflected the barrel even farther while rolling her hips at the same time. At this point, the top of her left boot whipped around and cracked the man’s knee, knocking him further off balance. With her left hand, her thumb and forefinger found the pressure points in his left wrist, pinning it to her hip.

  She crashed to the floor, landing on her back, pulling the man with her. Her right forearm continued up, sliding neatly into the groove between the man’s chest and chin, jammin
g her ulna bone into his throat, forcing him to land sideways next to her. He grunted harshly when he landed and Sandy rolled on top of him, driving her right knee into his groin for good measure.

  She saw his eyes go wide and for the first time realized he was wearing some kind of gas mask. Not only that, he was in some biohazard suit as well. The word “monsters” flashed across her mind as she ripped the face mask off and stood up, stomping her boot down on his gun hand.

  Without the mask, she recognized him as Bob Morton’s Allagro lawyer.

  She pried his gun away, tossed it on Kurt’s La-Z-Boy. It didn’t look like he cared much; both hands went immediately to his groin and cupped his balls. He groaned.

  Sandy gave him time to try and breathe. “We were never introduced formally, but you would be Mr. Cochran, I believe. Word gets around in a small town. Looks like you bit off more than you could chew. Should’ve known better. Been spending too much time in a suit is my guess.” She stood over him, hands on her hips. “You want to tell me what’s going on or should we head into town?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Sandy shrugged. “Town it is then. You can tell me later.” She put her boot on his neck, picked up his arm, torqued it, forcing him to roll over. Then she cuffed his hands.

  “Wait,” he gasped. “Just wait. You take me to town, I’m a dead man.”

  “That so?” Sandy wasn’t impressed.

  “You don’t understand. We are out of time.”

  “Maybe for you. I get the feeling you’re wasting my time.”

  “Men are on their way. And we do not want to be here when they come. Why do you think I called you? Jesus Christ, you think I want law enforcement involved if I can help it?”

  Sandy waited.

  “Look, I’ll tell you everything. Why I’m here, all of it. Help me sit up.” She helped him lean against the coffee table. He didn’t want to look at her. “What do you know about GMOs?”

  “Enough to stay out of any discussions about them in this town.”

  “You know who I work for. I’m not just here to help out Bob Morton.” He started with the island, explaining what they thought had happened, including the two scientists’ theories, and even what he thought was happening to Bob Morton, all of it leading to this morning, when he had escaped the basement.

  “Where did you say these things came from down there?”

  “Some kind of big hole. Smelled like shit.”

  The septic tank, Sandy thought. Maybe that’s where Ingrid had gone.

  She snuck a quick look out of the front windows, even though she had her doubts about his story. Never hurt to be cautious. The cruiser sat out there, alone. “Seems to me,” she said slowly, “the big question here is where are all of these things that chased you through the corn? Where’s all the bugs? What happened to all of them?”

  Cochran shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t like the sunlight.” He thought one of the scientists had said something about why fungus preferred dark, cool environments, and that was one of the reasons so many of them grew underground. “Look, either you believe me or you don’t. We have to get out of here. You want proof, stick your head in the basement. Leave me the keys though, so I can run like hell when you get swarmed.”

  Sandy didn’t want to admit it, but he had a point. Sounded simple enough. She couldn’t lift the fridge, so all she had to do was go out back and open the cellar doors. Of course, the smart thing to do would be to call Sheriff Hoyt and get his men out here so they could take Cochran into custody, and somebody with proper equipment could check out the basement.

  If things had turned out differently yesterday that’s what she would have done.

  Instead, she left Cochran in the living room and took one last look out the front windows. Still empty. She went to the kitchen doorway and examined the fridge that blocked it. She wondered if she could slide it over a little, just enough to see the hole. Maybe then she could shine her flashlight down there. She knelt down, squared her shoulder into the fridge, and braced her boots on the wood floor.

  “Please don’t,” Cochran said. “Please. Let’s just go.”

  Something in his voice gave her pause. She eased off the fridge and lowered her head to the floor, pressed her ear against the linoleum. She couldn’t hear anything but Cochran’s ragged breathing. Then, something else.

  It wasn’t coming from under the floor.

  It was an engine, coming up the driveway.

  Animals made Elliot’s parents nervous. Sandy hadn’t given them much choice about taking Mrs. Kobritz’s dog, though. She didn’t know how much of the news of the shooting had spread through the town, but she figured by now, everybody probably knew everything. She wanted Puffing Bill to stay with Kevin because the dog might be enough to keep people away from him. The last thing she wanted was some snotty bitch asking if he felt bad about all those people getting shot.

  Puffing Bill was more than happy to remain at Kevin’s side.

  After Sandy left, and they were packing up a picnic basket to take to the parade, Randy tried to convince Kevin to leave the dog in the backyard. “Only while we’re at the parade, okay? We’ll come straight home after. He’ll be happier out there, away from all the noise and people.” Elliot’s parents were convinced that a pit bull was one of the most dangerous animals in the world, and was only biding his time before sinking his jaws into their son.

  Kevin said, “He needs to stay with me. I’ll watch him. He’ll be good. I promise.”

  In the end, when it became clear that Kevin would rather stay behind with the dog than go to the parade without the animal, Randy and Patty relented. It was getting late, and if you didn’t stake a spot early along the route for Parker’s Mill’s annual Fourth of July celebration, you wouldn’t be able to see the parade, simple as that. So they made sure the leash was tight, forbid Elliot from petting the dog, gathered their supplies, and set off.

  They lived only three blocks from Main Street, and walked to Veterans’ Park, where the parade culminated. A stage had been erected for the city council and mayor, where they would present various awards and achievement medals after the parade. The park itself was full of local vendors selling everything from fruits and vegetables to corn dogs and pizza and tortilla chips to fresh-squeezed lemonade with more sugar than juice.

  Of course, no Fourth of July holiday was complete without buckets of corn on the cob, impaled on sticks, and dunked in vats of warm butter.

  The park itself wasn’t crowded as usual and when they reached Main Street, Randy frowned. The curbs were half empty. Every year since he could remember, there wasn’t a single free inch along the parade route. Residents, especially farmers who lived out of town, set out all their cheap plastic lawn chairs to save their places hours, sometimes even days, in advance. This year he couldn’t believe the size of the gaps between the sets of chairs.

  Maybe a lot of people were taking advantage of the holiday to go on vacation or visit relatives. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to complain. It just meant that his family had plenty of spots to choose where they wanted to watch the parade. They even passed up a few until finding a spot not too far down from the stage and got settled.

  The parade was almost ready to begin.

  Cochran heard the engine too, and struggled to get to his feet.

  Sandy went to the front windows. “Stay down and be quiet.” She went outside on the front porch and down the steps. Wondered if a little more peace of mind would perhaps be advisable. She didn’t want to trust Cochran, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to be prepared for anything. She unclipped the shotgun from the dash and stood it upright on the driver’s seat. She left the door open, crossed her arms, and leaned against the back door.

  A black car came out of the corn, rolling slowly up the driveway as if the driver wasn’t sure he was in the right place. As the car got closer, she counted three men inside. Sandy got a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach when the car stopped. It was start
ing to feel just like the time when she had to shoot those two men in the traffic stop.

  Except this time there were three men.

  The driver turned off the engine and held up his hand in a polite wave. None of the men went to climb out. They stayed put, talking things over. Finally, the driver got out. He was a barrel-chested guy with short cropped hair. Maybe early thirties. Hard to tell his age because of the wraparound sunglasses. It looked like he’d stopped at L.L. Bean during the drive and changed clothes. Brand-new flannel shirt and jeans. Sandy didn’t think it made much sense in the heat of summer.

  The other two watched her from behind tinted windows.

  “Morning,” Sandy said.

  “Morning.”

  She didn’t say anything else. She wanted to put the burden of explanation on him, instead of giving him a quick and easy excuse, like asking if he was lost.

  The man waited for the inevitable question, and when he realized that it wasn’t going to happen, that she was waiting him out, he said, “Nice day for the Fourth, huh?”

  Sandy gave a noncommittal nod.

  The man decided that being lost was the easiest choice. “You know how to get back to I-72 from here?”

  This was the moment Sandy realized that Cochran had been telling the truth. These men were not tourists. They were not fisherman. They were here to silence a man who had become a liability. And they would kill anyone who got in the way.

  She cocked her head, pretending to think about the question. Both the man in the passenger seat and the man in the back undoubtedly had their weapons out and ready, waiting for Sandy to lift her arm and point. When that happened, they would fire, and the driver would head into the house and finish Cochran.

  If she turned and reached for the shotgun in the cruiser behind her, they would shoot her in the back. She thought about dropping and rolling under their car, but they could try and shoot through the floorboards just as easily as she could try and shoot up through the bottom of the car. It wouldn’t take long for the driver to realize he could bend over and shoot her as easy as tying his shoes.