Bindweed

by Janis Harrison

  “Does this look like a tobacco plant to you?” I asked Abigail. She didn’t glance around. “I don’t know anything about tobacco, but listen to this.” Mumbling to herself, she ran a finger down a piece of paper, flipped it over, and finally said, “Here it is. ‘—consisting of stiff sheets of crystallized protein floating in an elastic rubbery matrix.’” She looked at me. “What’s that mean?”

  “It sounds like you’ve taken a sentence out of context. What does the rest of the paper say?”

  Abigail eyes zipped back and forth as they traveled down the page. “This is a letter addressed to Phillip from a molecular biology professor, and it’s talking about genetic engineering. I’m quoting the letter—‘Prospects include a possible gene insertion into fungi and soy plants. In Germany the genes have been spliced into potato plants after accomplishing the task in a mustard plant.’”

  “‘Mustard plant’?” I repeated. “I remember Leona talking about Phillip being at loose ends when he came back from Canada, so he raised mustard plants.”

  Abigail swiveled around. “Phillip was in Canada?”

  “He used to work there.”

  “Here’s a notebook imprinted by a company called Bio-Rite Technologies. Under the logo it says Canada.”

  I took the notebook and laid it on a corner of the table. I tried to read through the pages, but words like synthesize, genome, amino acids, alanine, repetitive sequences, and synchrotron kept me from absorbing any information.

  I pushed the notebook aside. “I can’t understand any of this without a dictionary. It’s out of my league. I don’t have a clue.”

  She handed a paper to me. “Read this.”

  I read the typed words aloud. “‘As spider silk is a protein, its chemical composition is encoded in the genes of the organisms that make it. The best approach is using that silk-producing gene and splicing it into another living organism. Plants could serve as hosts. If a robust plant expressed a silk gene, the fiber could be harvested in vast quantities.’”

  I stared off into space, taking what I’d read and adding it to the information I already had. Toby’s death was tied to the missing hibiscus. The missing hibiscus was tied to Phillip. I had to assume the “robust plant” mentioned in the notes was the hibiscus. Had Phillip taken the silk-producing gene from a spider and spliced it into the hibiscus that was in Toby’s garden? Had Phillip then harvested the hibiscus and woven it into a length of cloth?

  If this scenario was anywhere close to accurate, then what was the reason? Why commit murder for a piece of genetically engineered fabric?

  chapter Twenty-one

  My shoulders slumped wearily. “Let’s get out of here, Abigail. We’ve pushed our luck long enough.”

  “But we still don’t know what’s going on.”

  “We know more than we did. We know that Phillip is trying to use spider genes to change the genetic makeup of the hibiscus in Toby’s garden. I don’t know why he’s been working on this. I can’t believe the procedure is against the law, but something has made it necessary that he keep it highly secret. I say we take what we have to the sheriff and let him decide what should be done.”

  Abigail nodded reluctantly. “This info is fascinating. I just wish I could understand more.” She took the notebook I handed her and slid it in a drawer. After fussing with the papers on top of the desk, she said, “I think I’ve put everything back the way I found it.”

  I left that detail up to her. I’d been too busy looking at the plants and the table to notice how the papers had been arranged. I crossed the room to the door that would take us to the bottom floor. I opened the wooden panel a crack and peered out.

  The area in front of me was as black as pitch. I pushed the door wide open so the light behind me could shine out. My heart sank. This staircase was narrower than the one that had brought us to the second floor and it didn’t have any rope as a handrail.

  “Be careful,” I whispered. “Stay as close to the wall as possible. Try to get your bearings, then you’ll have to close this door or Phillip will know someone was here.”

  Abigail looked past me. “I don’t like this, Bretta. I could take all the other things because we could see what we were getting into, but this is frightening. We don’t know what’s below.”

  “I agree, but what choice do we have? I don’t want to go back up to the maggots or climb down the outside where anyone could see us. This is it. Let’s go.”

  Abigail took a shaky breath and eased the door shut. It was worse than I’d thought. The darkness closed around us. “One step at a time,” I whispered around the lump of fear in my throat. I pressed my hands to the brick wall and started down. There had been fifteen steps from the third floor to the second. I hadn’t been able to see how many steps we faced going from the second floor to the first, but I was betting on the same number.

  So I counted. One step. Two steps. Three steps. “Pretend you have your eyes closed,” I said.

  Abigail gave a nervous giggle. “Open. Closed. Who can tell? I feel as if I’m walking to my death.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. We’re fine.”

  “You might be, but I’m not. What if there are more spiders? What if there are rats running loose? What if—”

  “Stop it! That kind of talk doesn’t accomplish a damned thing.”

  Abigail’s useless chatter had made me lose count. Had I been on the eighth step or the sixth? Annoyed, I decided I’d better assume it was the sixth. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. It helped keep my mind off what I was doing if I counted to myself. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

  I eased my foot forward and couldn’t find the step’s edge. Hunkering down, I pushed my foot out farther and sighed. “I’m at the bottom.” I turned and groped in the dark for Abigail. My fingers brushed her leg. “Here I am,” I said. “Give me your hand. Let’s stay close together until we have a better idea of what we’re up against.”

  Abigail’s hand was cold and clammy. A perfect match for mine.

  “How will we ever find the door?” she whispered.

  I pulled her forward until we were standing side by side facing the brick wall. “We’ll feel our way around the room, starting right here at the end of the staircase.”

  The bricks were rough, the mortar lines smooth and slightly indented. It’s odd how little details escape you when you depend only on sight. With my vision obscured, my fingertips picked out minute deformities I might never have noticed. Besides touch, other senses slowly came into play. The smell was earthy and moist, mixed with the scent of plant juices. This aroma was agreeable. It was familiar, with pleasant memories attached. Newly mown grass. Freshly cut stems. I knew without seeing that I was in the area where Phillip had processed the hibiscus.

  As I led the way around the wall, I became more optimistic. Our adventure would soon be over. We’d find the door. It would open, and we’d be in the little alleyway that connected the silo to the barn. That door would open, and we’d make our way out of the barn and across the pasture to the fence. From there it was only a hop, skip, and jump back to my SUV. Freedom was so close I could practically taste it.

  Abigail’s hand was slippery. It was getting harder to hold. Pulling away, I said, “We’re fine now. Just stay close to me and near this wall.”

  Irritation and fear threaded her voice. “You keep saying we’re fine, but I don’t believe that for a second.”

  A hand clamped down on the nape of my neck. I tried to shrug it away, but the pressure increased. Annoyed, I said, “That hurts, Abigail. If you have to hang on to me, take my arm.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not touching you.”

  I twisted suddenly to the right, but the hand on my neck stayed where it was. My optimism took a nosedive. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I reached up and touched a thick, muscular wrist.

  With a cry of surprise, I kicked back and connected with a solid thud. There was a sharp groan of pain, and the grip on my neck loosened. I didn’t wait to see what
would happen next. I lowered my head and launched myself into the area behind me. I was amazed when I made contact. From the sound of it, I’d rammed my head into a stomach. Air swooshed out in a rush.

  Surprise was all I had on my side. Using both fists, I slammed and punched the air in front of me. Several times I connected. I couldn’t see if I was doing any damage, but with each moan, I took strength from the fact that I’d found my mark and was making progress.

  A sudden clout to the side of my head brought a bright burst of light. It wasn’t the kind that unveiled hidden secrets. I was still in the dark, but my eagerness to fight my way out of a harrowing situation had lessened.

  Staggering back against the wall, I fought the wave of nausea that rose in my throat. My ears rang, and Abigail’s screeching didn’t help matters.

  “Bretta! Bretta! What’s going on?”

  Her voice was like a knife to my befuddled brain, slicing and dicing the abused gray matter. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but I didn’t have the strength.

  Out of the gloom, Phillip’s voice overrode hers. “Shut up,” he said, slowly but distinctly.

  Abigail gasped. “Bretta?” she whispered.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced myself back into the thick of things. I had to swallow a couple of times before I could speak. “We have company, Abigail. Phillip has joined our party.” Thinking fast, I added, “Now would be an excellent time to scream.” I took a breath and shouted, “Scream!”

  Abigail cut loose with a mind-boggling shriek that echoed around our tiny chamber. I used the sound to mask my getaway. I scrambled farther down the wall, but kept my eyes pinned on the spot where I’d last heard Phillip’s voice.

  Groping in the dark for anything I could use as a weapon, I fumbled around and found a bucket. It was empty, but if I put enough oomph behind it, I could clobber him a good one. I just had to get within arm’s reach, and make sure I had Phillip in my line of fire and not Abigail.

  I didn’t know where she was. She’d stopped screaming. All was eerily quiet. If I spoke, I’d give away my new position, but if I didn’t locate her soon, I might slug her instead of my intended victim. What to do? What to do?

  Straining my ears, I listened. A whisper of movement. A mere breath of sound. It was just in front of me. I took a firm grip on the bucket’s handle and swung with all my might. Nothing. I swung again and again while advancing across the floor. Nothing. I turned and swung in that direction. Again nothing.

  I was making too much noise. My sneakers scuffed the grit on the floor. The bucket swooshed as it cut through the air. I kept moving, dodging and darting, but taking very small steps. I was afraid of Phillip, but I was also apprehensive of my surroundings. What kind of equipment did he use to prep the hibiscus for spinning and weaving? Somewhere in Phillip’s possession was the knife he’d used to chop down the hibiscus stalks. Was it the size of a machete? Was the cutting edge honed razor sharp?

  If I let it, my fear would consume me. Fighting kept the adrenaline pumping. I continued to work my way around the silo. Suddenly I had a horrendous thought. Why hadn’t Abigail called out again? Why wasn’t she saying anything?

  Lowering my arm, I set down the bucket. Resigned, I said, “You have Abigail, don’t you?”

  There was a faint click, and the lights came on. I had to blink several times before my eyes adjusted. My heart plummeted. Over by the staircase, Phillip held Abigail captive. Her back was pressed tightly against him. His hand was clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were filled with terror.

  “Let her go,” I said.

  Phillip’s voice trembled. “I can’t take any more screaming.”

  “She won’t scream,” I said. “Keep quiet, Abigail.”

  She tried to nod, but Phillip’s grip was tight. Tears welled up and dribbled down her face. When he felt the moisture, he dropped his hand and pushed Abigail away. She stumbled and would have fallen but I grabbed her arm. I gathered her close, patting her back, murmuring words of encouragement.

  Once she’d regained a measure of composure, we faced Phillip. I refused to cower. I forced my shoulders back and lifted my chin. Abigail took one look at my stoic expression and arranged her face in a similar fashion.

  I said, “What now? We know you killed Toby. We know just about everything.”

  Phillip shook his head. “You know nothing.”

  I cocked my head. “So enlighten us.”

  Phillip nodded to the door that led from the alleyway into the barn. “You were close, but the door has to have a key to be unlocked. The only key is always in my possession.”

  I waved a hand. “Fine. You’ve made your point. We’re trapped. As I said before, now what? Are you going to kill us?”

  Phillip hung his head. “Killing isn’t in my nature.”

  I snorted. “Tell that to Toby and Leona.” My tone was sarcastic. “Oh yeah. They’re dead. You can’t tell them anything.”

  Phillip looked like an old, old man. His movements were slow as he sat down on the staircase. “I haven’t got a gun or a knife. I’m weaponless, and that’s to your advantage. But I wouldn’t try to make a break for it. As I said, the door is locked, and I have the key.” He patted his pants pocket. “You could try to overpower me, but I’d put up a good fight.”

  I rubbed the side of my head. “I already know you’re capable of slugging a woman.”

  Phillip’s smile was sad. “I’m sorry I had to do that, but you were hurting me.” He gestured to the floor. “Have a seat. There isn’t much you can do in your present situation, so you might as well relax. Your fates are sealed. The decision has been made, but it’ll keep for a while.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’d just as soon stand.”

  Phillip leaned forward and bellowed, “This is my show. I said sit down, and I mean it.”

  There was no ignoring the ferociousness of his tone. Abigail and I dropped to the floor. Once we were settled, Phillip leaned back against the brick wall.

  “Have you ever had a dream?” he asked quietly. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “I’m not talking about building your fantasy home or winning the lottery. I mean that you could use your knowledge and abilities to save a life or better mankind.

  “For years I worked for a biotech company in Canada. Our objective was to produce artificial spider silk with the same strength and elasticity as the real thing.”

  I asked, “What would the artificial spider silk be used for?”

  “A diverse range of things. Because of its strength and elasticity, it’s a good candidate for both the medical and industrial fields. I’m talking ropes, nets, seat belts, parachute cords, even the cables that stop planes as they land on aircraft carriers, bulletproof vests, biodegradable bottles, bandages, surgical thread, artificial tendons or ligaments. The list is endless.”

  I nodded. “Tapping into either of those fields would make the money endless, as well.”

  “That’s correct. Within the research community, there’s a race to bio-mimic Mother Nature’s creation—the spider’s web. Billions of dollars are up for grabs.”

  Abigail said, “So why don’t you just gather up a bunch of spiders and let them do their thing, like the silkworms do theirs?”

  “I wish it were that simple. It takes four hundred spiders to make one square yard of cloth. However, spiders are territorial, as well as cannibalistic. In close quarters, they’ll eat each other.”

  “But what about your spiders upstairs?”

  “There are four, not four hundred, and I keep my ladies’ appetites well sated. They have no need to go hunting for more nourishment.”

  I rubbed my head where Phillip had hit me. “I’m not sure I understand. Where does Toby’s hibiscus fit into all of this?”

  Phillip sighed. “For you to understand fully, I need to go back to the artificial spider silk. Orb-weaving spiders generally produce seven different types of silk. The strongest is the dragline silk. It’s what the spider spins to construct the outermos
t circle of a web and all the radiating spokes. Decades have been spent on decoding the protein gene that makes up dragline silk. Once the sequence was cracked, the race was on to mass-produce it. The gene has been introduced into the cells of hamsters and mice. The results yielded a goodly amount of protein, which was placed in a syringe. Once the protein was squeezed though the syringe, we got a silk fiber that was thinner than a human hair, but it didn’t have the strength of spider silk.

  “While we were working with the hamsters and mice, another division of our company discovered that the silk gland of the spider and the milk gland of a goat are almost identical. By inserting the orb-weaver’s gene into the mammary glands of the goat, we were able to produce a complex protein that contained the spider silk. The next step was to spin the protein into a fiber, but more funding was needed. Our CEO took the news of our discovery to a substantial medical corporation. The result was a grant to our company to pursue the goat/milk research. But no matter what we did or how we approached the problem, spinning that protein into a viable fiber eluded us.”

  Phillip stopped to stare at us. “When you were upstairs, I heard you reading a letter from my coworker, a molecular biology professor. He tries to keep me updated on the most recent research breakthroughs because he feels as I do that my position with Bio-Rite was wrongfully terminated.”

  Abigail asked, “What did you do?”

  “As I said, the grant money was designated for learning more about the goat/milk protein. I used a portion of the money to pursue a line of research into plants as carriers of the spider-silk gene.”

  “Plants like Toby’s hibiscus,” I said.

  Phillip nodded. “It seems so obvious and feasible to me. Natural fibers are used for the spinning and weaving of fabric. I firmly believe that once the silk gene is spliced into the cell of a high-fiber plant, that gene will evolve. Given time, it’ll take over the host plant, and the molecular wall structure of that plant will undergo a metamorphosis. But new plants have to be started from the older one, either by tissue culture or by mature seeds that have been collected from last year’s plants.”