The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “This must be so difficult for your people,” she said.

  “Yes.” Johnson said simply, but allowed a tortured sigh to escape his lips. He needed to check on the time. And he probably should call Douglas Anderson and tell him about the lab.

  “I must leave now.” His voice had that ‘chief of the tribe’ resonance.

  Nancy was beginning to look awestruck.

  “Anytime you’d like to drop by the lab, I’ll be glad to show you what we’re working on.”

  “Maybe next week,” he said.

  She opened the door and Johnson stepped out. He had taken a few steps when he saw the feather. Stooping, he picked it up, turned to face Nancy, and twirled it between his fingers, his eyes closed, lips moving.

  “May your work travel on the wings of the eagle. Be thorough in your hunt; be swift in your flight.”

  He handed the feather to Nancy and turned to walk back to the hospital. He didn’t glance back. He didn’t have to. He knew that she stood in the doorway clutching a piece of plumage from the back end of a pigeon and gazed after him, mesmerized. He’d make that appointment to see the psychologist next week.

  + + +

  “I’m making a scrapbook.” Gloria sat in the chair next to his desk eating her lunch. Sandy found the smells of the Navajo taco distracting.

  “A scrapbook? About what?” he asked.

  “The deaths and stuff that people are saying. It might be helpful.”

  “You’re right. Good idea.”

  “I even checked out that Sinclair Lewis book.”

  “What Sinclair Lewis book?” Sandy was having trouble following this conversation.

  “The one about the illness that sounds almost exactly like what’s happening now.”

  Sandy racked his memory, but this was not a day that he’d choose Great Literature as an easy category. “What’s the title?”

  “Arrowsmith. It’s all in the book. The tourism problem. How people don’t want to talk about an epidemic and scare visitors away. How it’s caused because someone fired the rat catcher.”

  “Rat catcher?”

  “Umhmm. The population becomes overrun with rats when the person who usually controls them is let go. Local religious beliefs are threatened. It’s all there.”

  “Sounds prophetic.”

  “It is.” Gloria snapped the top on the round Tupperware canister that had contained her lunch, then handed him the scrapbook. “I like the article on page twenty-seven.”

  Sandy waited until she had gone back to her office before succumbing to curiosity. Each page of the scrapbook held one to five articles or pictures having to do with the epidemic. Pictures were labeled and all articles had dates and sources. Amazing. The one on page twenty-seven told how a man still talked with his dead aunt every night. She had been one of the very first to die and had foretold her own death. She had warned her nephew that she would be “going on soon” and he should prepare. This was two weeks before she died. Gloria probably believed that someone could forecast the future. Did he? The phone kept him from any further soul searching.

  The message was brief. “He’s going to be all right” Great news, Sandy thought as he put the phone down. Some unlucky man in the wrong place at the wrong time but, thank God, this time it wasn’t fatal. The UPS driver had delivered some traps to Tewa. There was that common link again. Thanks to a concerned wife, he was rushed to the hospital and put on a ventilator at the first signs of illness. The second survivor. He’d get someone over to interview him, but now he needed to fill in on the floor. Lunch hours were never long enough.

  “I’ll be seeing patients on two.”

  Gloria nodded but continued to talk on the phone. Sandy could see the office’s two other lines blinking. He stopped to check with the receptionist and look at the sign-in sheet.

  “How are we doing?”

  “Not good. I’ve been telling people to bring a book, bring a library, you’ll be here for hours.”

  Outpatient visits were up fifty percent the last two weeks. The waiting room smelled of dirty diapers and Vicks. Not two of his favorites. Everyone with a runny nose was coming in for X-rays. And they wouldn’t be turned away. If the crowds continued, Sandy would ask for federal reinforcements.

  He looked around the room, felt the uneasiness, and thought of the irony. The same day news of the mystery illness hit the press, it shared space with a budget-cut proposal for Indian health. A thirty-six percent budget cut from the service that provides medical care to one million American Indians. No one could even estimate how much the epidemic would cost. Fifty dollars per person for lab work, X-rays another twenty dollars. Since Jennifer’s death, the waiting room was full even on Saturdays. A small fortune had already been spent on tests.

  “How long has the baby been coughing?” Sandy followed the mother holding the feverish baby into the examining room, which was now a screened corner at the end of the hall, one of twelve makeshift examining cubicles that lined the hallway.

  “One night, maybe two.” The mother held the baby tightly. Sandy knew that this was her first child. She’d had the baby on the reservation with Twila’s help. The little guy must be six months old now.

  “Let’s keep him overnight for observation.” The only problem would be room. With the common cold getting a person X-rays and an overnight, there were cots in offices.

  “We may be able to squeeze him into the nursery.”

  “Will he be okay?” Fear had turned her voice into a whisper.

  “We’re going to do everything we can.” It sounded lame—it was lame. He took the baby from his mother and started toward the door. “I’ll show you where he’ll be tonight. Will you be able to stay with him?” Sandy couldn’t remember whether she had said she was nursing.

  He was so tired, he was losing it. He’d have to ask again.

  It was three hours before he returned to his desk to catch up on paperwork. In the meantime, Gloria had fielded twenty-seven calls.

  “Anything important?” Sandy asked.

  “A psychic called from Iowa.”

  “A psychic?”

  “Yeah. She said the problem was sheep. She told me to stop eating lamb and make the herd sleep outside.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I didn’t like lamb and that she had us confused with the Navajo.”

  “And?”

  “She hung up.”

  “Any other important calls?” Sandy asked and knew the sarcasm would be lost.

  “A senator.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was upset about this month’s Scientific American. I got a copy for you. Here’s the article. It says the illness is caused by biological warfare. I’ll put it in the scrapbook.”

  “Let me see that. Good God. I suppose we have to cover all our bases. And, Gloria, thanks for getting the magazine. That was really helpful.”

  Sandy leaned back in his desk chair and read the article. The author was respected in the scientific community. But germ warfare or chemicals? Too preposterous. Next, there’d be an Elvis sighting in the pueblo and the National Enquirer would get involved.

  EIGHT

  Julie switched on her computer and clicked the mouse to open the mystery illness file. Ten deaths. She needed to get out something fresh by tomorrow. She had borrowed copies of the interviews that Ben had conducted with some of the families. She was looking for a human interest angle, something other than how star-crossed lovers die before life begins, or thirteen year old misses chance to become star soccer player.

  The screen was showing ‘new file.’ There was no file named “mys.ill.” She tried another approach. Same result. How could her file be gone? She checked the electronic program manager. Nothing. The mystery illness file didn’t exist. Don’t panic. She also had her files on her computer at home. And, thank God, she’d kept that file updated. But to lose everything? She hated to think what would happen if she didn’t have a copy at home. All that time and materi
al lost. Maybe, if she looked one more time ... Julie electronically traced her steps back through the files and prompts and backup copies. Nothing. It wasn’t there. Maybe there’d been a power failure. She walked out to the lobby.

  “Anyone complain about problems with his computer?” The receptionist shook her head.

  “Are you sure? I’ve lost a big chunk of my research on the mystery illness for no apparent reason. It seems strange that I’d be the only one on the network to get dumped.”

  “No one’s said anything to me.”

  “I’ll report it. But let me know if you hear about it happening to anyone else.”

  “Speaking of the mystery illness, have you heard from Ben Pecos again? After you interviewed him? He is so gorgeous.” The receptionist held up a copy of the Journal that featured an article on trapping. Ben was standing beside two uniformed men from Fish and Wildlife.

  “A couple times, I guess.”

  “I knew it. You’re blushing. You’re dating him, aren’t you?”

  “I blush if you ask me the time.” Julie turned to walk back to her office.

  “You’re too single. You should be dating someone,” the receptionist called after her.

  Too single? There would be plenty of time to remedy that after she made anchor. First things first. Now where was the file folder with Ben’s interviews? She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and scanned the tabs. No file with the interview copy. Where had she put it? She checked three drawers of the standing file. The folder simply didn’t exist. Odd. She’d taken some folders home, but she was certain that wasn’t one of them.

  Who could want it? There wasn’t any competition. Bob had given her the story and seemed pleased with her results. She must have misplaced it. It was already after five. She’d check her apartment. But how could she have dumped her computer files and misplaced the folder more or less on the same day?

  “Hot date tonight?” the receptionist asked then rolled her eyes as Julie walked by.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just me and a good book this evening. I’ll let you know the minute my love life gets interesting.” Like hell, Julie added under her breath.

  + + +

  She pressed the garage door opener and maneuvered the Miata between two rows of packing crates. Whoever advised throwing out anything not unpacked in six months would have a field day with her. She pushed open the kitchen door and stifling hot air pushed back. Damn. She’d forgotten to turn on the air conditioning. Maybe she’d opt for a quick swim before dinner. Part of the allure of this townhouse was the Olympic-sized pool. Along with the car, the townhouse had been a graduation present from Mom and Dad.

  She pressed the message button on her answering machine, turned up the volume and headed upstairs to change. One thing she was thankful for—Wayne had stopped calling. Probably had hocked the ring and was outlining up the next Mrs. almost-to-be. None of the messages was urgent. Dentist appointment on Friday. Call her mother. Put out clothes for local charity to pick up in the morning. Pretty dull stuff. Pretty dull life. No. It was the life she wanted. Career first. Speaking of which, she’d better try to find that folder.

  It wasn’t on top of her desk. She flipped through a stack of marked folders beside the computer. Not there. She didn’t lose things. Things could remain packed for awhile, but they weren’t lost. She flipped on the computer. Her information file on the mystery illness was intact. She’d print out a hard copy and make another disk back-up. She was only out Ben’s interviews. She’d decide later whether to ask to copy them again.

  She tugged her swim suit in place. The doorbell. Must be the paperboy to collect for this month.

  “Hi. Someone at your office assured me you were home alone.” Ben stepped back and Julie felt herself blushing as he took in the swimsuit.

  “Wow. My timing is great. You should always wear that color. For that matter, maybe you should always wear that outfit.”

  “What are you doing here?” Julie tried to sound upset, but it wasn’t working.

  “Home delivery. Five kinds of Chinese and fortune cookies.” He held open a large sack. “Okay? Can I come in now?”

  Julie smiled at him. “Of course. Dining room’s that way. Give me a minute to change.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No shirt, no shoes, no service. Isn’t that how it goes?”

  Ten minutes later, Julie sat across from him at the table and watched him pile food on his plate.

  “I only have a couple hours before I need to get back.”

  “How’s the trapping going?”

  “Okay. I’ve sent the lab somewhere around 250 critters. I expect another good-sized haul over the next two days.”

  “Let me go with you.” She said it on impulse. Ben stopped eating and sat looking at her. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “You may not believe this, but I was shot at the other night.”

  “Shot at?” Her chopsticks clattered against her plate.

  “I reported it to the Fish and Wildlife guys and they seemed to think it might have been a poacher, someone who thought I was trapping beaver or muskrat. But that doesn’t make sense. Not this time of year. Pelts would be thin, just beginning to grow thick for winter. And what’s really weird, I caught him putting one of the trapped mice in his pocket.”

  “He kept a mouse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t have a story to top that one, but this afternoon when I got back to the office, my computer file on the mystery illness was gone. Didn’t exist. And the folder of interview notes that I’d borrowed from you is missing.”

  “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  “It never has before.”

  “Makes you think somebody out there wants to know what we’re doing.”

  “Yes, but why?” Julie asked.

  “Maybe someone who wants to find out what’s causing the illness, so he can publish the results first?”

  “But shooting at someone for a Pulitzer?”

  “Probably worse has been done. Do you still want to spend a night in the woods?”

  + + +

  There was an hour of light left before the sun would slip behind the mesas. Julie dipped the steel bristled brush into the Lysol mixture and scrubbed and rinsed another trap. They were almost finished. They would set around a hundred-fifty traps, about half of those in new areas, and collect the rodents from the traps set last night.

  There was a touch of fall in the air. Tonight would be chilly. Julie brought her thoughts back from thinking about shootings to lingering on her surroundings. A pale peach glow was spreading across the sky becoming more intense as the sun sank lower. She could hear frogs and crickets, slower now with their songs. Sitting on the sandy soil outside Ben’s tent, she leaned back and felt the warmth of the desert floor travel up her arms and legs.

  “Hey, no slacking off.” Ben had walked up behind her, then grinned as he squatted down beside her.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” Julie said.

  “I know. Come with me. I want to show you something.” Ben pulled her to her feet and walked ahead toward the river.

  At first, she could only see the pile of jumbled sticks spread across one end of the pool.

  “There. At the far end. There’re two of them.” Julie felt Ben’s arm around her pointing at something in the shadows. Beaver. Probably a pair. Ben folded his arms around her waist and rested his chin on the top of her head. They watched the two animals swim lazily then dive and disappear.

  Ben pulled her tighter against him, and Julie bit back her favorite Mae West line, “You packin’ a pistol or just glad to see me?” She liked feeling his excitement. Wanted to feel it. She wanted a physical relationship. She just didn’t want one now. She turned to face Ben. The first kiss was gentle, a brush of lips. Then she reached up and, with her hands behind his head, pulled him toward her and kissed him harder.

  When he drew back, he gently pushed her hair away from her face, kiss
ed the corners of her eyes, the tip of her nose, then traced the outline of her open lips with his tongue. He pressed her into him. His mouth covered hers, his tongue teasing, thrusting. At first the sounds didn’t register. The crack of a branch. The rustle of leaves. Someone was walking toward them through the underbrush. Ben’s reflexes were trigger quick. He pushed her to the ground and whirled to confront the intruder.

  “Ben. No. It’s Lorenzo.” Julie struggled to her feet and hurried toward the old man. “He’s cold. He must have lost his blanket. Keep him here. I’ll be right back.”

  Julie ran back to the tent and returned with her new Pendleton poncho.

  “You can’t give him that.”

  “Yes, I can. It will keep him warm.” She slipped the poncho over Lorenzo’s head. The dusk made it difficult to see the brightness of the turquoise and gold pattern, but she watched as he stroked the softness with arthritic fingers.

  “He likes it.” Julie stepped back, and Lorenzo looked at her. He tried to say something as he continued to push his fingers into the blanket’s thickness. He patted the blanket on his chest and over his arms, then turned to walk toward the river.

  “You’re going to get cold tonight,” Ben said.

  “Not if you have a spare blanket.”

  “How about sharing one?” Ben was teasing but the idea appealed to her—very much—more than she wanted to admit.

  Think “anchor,” Julie admonished herself. You don’t want a relationship now, no matter how much you like this man.

  + + +

  “They want you out back.” Gloria stood in the doorway to his office.

  Sandy had asked her once why she didn’t use the intercom and she said she needed the exercise. Hard to argue with that, he decided. But it was a little disconcerting to have her make announcements from the doorway.