Calamity

by Gail McCormick

  “Remember, I finally had the sense to check you out.”

  “I’m no expert.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Experts can be hired.”

  “Well, okay.” Camellia was doubtful. “I guess. By the way, I meant to tell you about the oddest thing. I just got a call from Stacey. It seems that someone rifled my NIP office desk drawers, scattered papers all around and broke the lock on the only drawer with one. That was pulled out and turned upside down. No idea why anyone would do that. Some people don’t especially like me, but enough to tear my desk apart? I don’t think so. And no other desks were touched.”

  “That does seem strange. Maybe someone was looking for money, not a staff person.”

  “I don’t keep anything worth stealing in my desk. I did have some notes about the record increase in western wildfires that I wanted to discuss with you. Fortunately, they’re still intact. There was some indication an outsider got into the office in the middle of the night, but they weren’t able to be sure about that. The building’s security cameras weren’t working. And speaking of security, NIP is now posting guards outside the building. That’s pretty much what all the networks are doing what with all the Twitter attacks on the media. Sooner or later they’re going to get someone killed.”

  “You’re probably right. Well, hopefully they’ll find out what the story is with your desk. And I look forward to tackling wildfires with you. As for tomorrow, we could get together with Mom in the morning. I’ll pick you up at 10:30 if that works for you.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Upper East Side. Not all that far. I’ll let her know we’re coming.”

  “Okay, but I have to go down to D.C. in the afternoon. With any luck we’ll have good news about Frank and Conor by then,” Camellia said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EARLY NEXT MORNING

  BEDROOM

  CAMELLIA’S TOWNHOUSE

  CAMELLIA WAS AWAKENED BY THE SCREAMING SOUND OF HER BURGLAR ALARM. She rolled over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. 3:00 a.m. Grabbing a robe, she went down to the living room and keyed in the code to turn the alarm off. She could feel a breeze coming from the living room and went in to see why since she knew that shouldn’t be happening. The huge window facing the street was shattered with broken glass on the floor in front of it. A large rock had a piece of paper wrapped around it. She picked it up and smoothed it out. FINAL WARNING was printed with letters cut from magazines. Her alarm was sensitive to any disruption whether connected to a door or window.

  She called the alarm company and told them she’d taken care of the problem. Then she found packing tape and an empty carton in a closet which she flattened out, inserted in the window, and taped it on all sides to keep the still oppressive heat out. She went back upstairs, picked up her phone and left a message for the management company to repair the window in the morning. She shuddered as the effect of the frequent onslaughts finally sank in. This is much more than just creepy now. I’ll definitely call the police when I get up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  NEXT MORNING

  DOROTHY HARDIN’S CONDO

  UPPER EAST SIDE

  MANHATTAN

  CAMELLIA HAD MISGIVINGS ABOUT MEETING KYLE’S MOTHER.

  “I’m so glad you were able to make it,” Dorothy Hardin said as Kyle and Camellia entered her living room. At 71, she looked ten years younger. Her black hair had touches of gray at the temples and was about the same length as her son’s. Kyle’s resemblance to his mother was striking. She wore Ralph Lauren linen slacks and a pale blue Gucci blouse.

  They crossed the room and Kyle and Camellia sat down next to each other on a plush couch while his mother took a seat on a matching chair across from them.

  The huge room had floor to ceiling windows and a door to a balcony overlooking the East River. Original Audubon prints in walnut frames hung on one wall with a miniature Monet garden scene on another. A mahogany coffee table held a Wedgwood teapot and matching cups, sugar and creamer. Bagels and muffins shared a Wedgwood platter along with a dish of cream cheese and some small plates.

  Dorothy prepared to pour cups of tea. “Milk or lemon?” she asked Camellia. “I’ll bet you don’t want sugar.”

  “True. Just lemon please. Thank you, Mrs. Hardin.”

  “Call me Dorothy or Dotty. Half my friends think I’m dotty the way I carry on about bee loss, so the nickname is probably apt.” She poured tea, added a slice of lemon and handed it to Camellia. “Would you like a muffin or a bagel?”

  Camellia took the tea. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Kyle reached over, picked up a bagel, spread cream cheese on it, placed it on a plate, and handed it to her. “Eat this. It’s organic.”

  She scowled at him but accepted the bagel. “You are a pain, and in case your mother doesn’t know it, I’m telling her.”

  “I’m going to continue to be a pain. Eat it,” he repeated.

  She made a face and took a small bite, then put it down.

  He retrieved it and handed it back to her. “Your fans won’t be happy if you lose any more weight.”

  “How did you know I’ve lost weight?” she protested. But she took another bite.

  He simply raised his eyebrows.

  “And anyhow, since when did you start caring about my fans?” She took another few bites.

  “Never, but I knew it would get you.”

  “It’s your health he cares about,” Dorothy observed.

  “Your son can be as annoying as all get out,” Camellia replied. She finished the bagel. “It’s only four pounds. This will add one back.”

  “Not likely. Have a muffin,” Kyle said as he reached over for one. This has to be organic whole wheat with wild blueberries. It’s what Mom always buys.”

  She punched his arm. “I’m fixin to have a hissy fit with a tail on it, if you don’t give it a rest.”

  He ignored that and put the blueberry muffin on a plate, then passed it to her. “Eat,” he insisted.

  “We done plowed this furrow clean down to the bedrock! Time to rest the mule,” she said, but she accepted the muffin.

  “Hmm,” he mused. “I think that means I’ve said enough. Well, eat some more, and I’ll shut up.”

  She took another bite.

  Dorothy laughed. “Like mother, like son. Poor guy inherited my tenacity. I can see he’s prodding you. He badgers some of the deniers, and that gets their dander up too. But in their case, I wouldn’t mind if it actually did some good. Although he’s probably right that you’re not eating enough with what’s been happening.”

  Kyle took a cup of tea and added lemon to it. “Believe it or not, she’s twice as gutsy and pushy as either of us. Has her supporters, not to mention me, eating out of her hand. The biggest fan club of any of the anchors.”

  “Wait a cotton pickin’ minute,” Camellia protested. “No talkin’ about me in my presence.” She punched his arm again.

  Kyle laughed. “And don’t let that Southernese fool you. She’s just putting you on. But I’m betting you’ll guess that. Dad never would have.”

  “Why not?” Camellia asked.

  “Oh, he’s a corporate lawyer, takes everything literally. Doesn’t exactly share the concerns my mother and I have.”

  Dorothy poured herself a cup of tea and changed the subject. “Kyle tells me you’re concerned about pollinators too.”

  “We had a beehive when I was a child. Its honey was the only sweetener we could afford. I’ve loved bees ever since.”

  “Yes, the steep worldwide decline in honey bee populations is extremely worrisome,” Dorothy said. “I gather that bees and other pollinators make about one out of every three bites of food possible.”

  “I’ve noticed you have a beehive in your backyard and a watercolor with a bee in it,” Kyle said.

  “You really noticed all that?”

  “Yes. And these days some bees aren’t migrat
ing to cooler areas and establishing new hives. Flowers bloom earlier so when bees collect pollen and when they need to feed on it doesn’t match up,” Kyle added.

  “There you go again, know-it-all, preaching to the choir,” Camellia said.

  “Ah, but now I have you to keep me in line,” he replied.

  “Not working.”

  Kyle confirmed that with his next comment. “When bees get too hot the queen stops laying. Too much heat can kill immature bees.”

  “I know,” Camellia said. “I keep plenty of water near the hive when it’s this hot so my other bees can collect it and spread droplets in the hive. It’s fun to watch them fan their wings to ventilate the hive and cool it. But I’m worried since the awful heat has been going on so long. What is it? Eight straight days now?”

  “Right. Sorry to say, you might have cause to be worried,” Kyle said. “As for birds, migraters arrive at their summer breeding grounds earlier now, missing out on food and nesting places. It reduces their offsprings’ survival rate.”

  “Yep. As I said, not working.” She punched his arm yet again.

  “Here, try the other one. It feels neglected.” He turned toward her, exposing his other arm. That also moved him closer. She couldn’t move away since she was at the edge of the couch. He put his arm on the back of the couch and lowered it enough to stroke the back of her neck under her hair. She shivered and scowled even harder at him.

  Dorothy couldn’t see what he was doing, but guessed. She laughed. “You two are quite a pair.”

  “We need to do something about him,” Camellia said. “Everything he says is true, but it can feel like preaching to some people. Even if they agree with him, they don’t like to be lectured.”

  “True,” she agreed.

  “Maybe when he starts a sermon, we could say something like ‘cattawampus’.”

  “Cattawampus?”

  “Means askew or cockeyed, which would be the better definition in his case. It’s cockeyed to pound people with unpleasant facts.”

  “That sounds good,” Dorothy said.

  “Hey, wait a cotton pickin’ minute. No talkin’ about me in my presence,” Kyle protested. “You two are ganging up on me.”

  Camellia and Dorothy laughed.

  They talked a while longer about pollinators, and then Dorothy put her cup down and said, “Kyle told me you need to go down to D.C., so I won’t hold you, but I would love to continue this conversation in the future.”

  “Yes, that would be good,” Camellia replied, relieved to get up. He had continued to run his fingers up and down across the back of her neck and shoulders, and she was decidedly unnerved. It was a dirty trick she thought when he knew she wouldn’t make a scene in his mother’s home. She wasn’t going to think about the fact that it felt good.

  “Kyle also told me about your friend Frank. I do hope he recovers,” Dorothy said, unaware of Camellia’s consternation.

  “Thank you. Could you show me the powder room?”

  “It’s at the end of the hall on the right.”

  After Camellia left the room, Dorothy turned to her son. “She’s quite remarkable. I can see why she appeals to you.”

  “That she definitely does.” He sighed. “I can’t really tell how much progress I’m making, but I certainly plan to keep working on it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  SAME DAY

  U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

  IN FRONT

  WASHINGTON DC

  SAVE THE ARCTIC!, MAKE THE PLANET GREAT AGAIN, MONEY CORRUPTED CONGRESS, FOSSIL FUELS, THEY’RE FOR FOOLS!, and REPEAL CITIZENS UNITED signs were carried by a crowd of boisterous protesters. Huge handmade placards read QUARANTINE CONGRESS, METHANE MEANS MAYHEM, SACK TROTFORD! One protester wore a polar bear costume and held a sign above his head proclaiming SAVE THE HUMANS. Another was dressed in a cardboard contraption shaped like an oil rig with paper flames shooting out of the top. A third was encased in a cardboard tube with vertical letters that read NO MORE PIPELINES! His arms emerged from holes cut in the side of the tube. A separate group across from the first had assorted signs reading FAKE NEWS, BLESS OUR PRESIDENT, REST IN PEACE, AMERICA FIRST, NO MORE MONEY FOR SOLAR, MORE OIL, LOWER GAS PRICES, USA, USA, USA!, PROTECT THE 2ND AMENDMENT, and JOBS, JOBS, JOBS! One of those protestors wore a white sheet with a pointed hood, the eyes cut out unevenly. The sheet was tied around his waist with a rope. Both groups were surrounded by a large contingent of police keeping a watchful eye on them.

  The protestors were gathered on either side of Camellia and Owen who stood at the base of the massive staircase leading up to the U.S. Capitol building’s entrance where over a dozen ionic columns spread across its center section. The colossal wedding-cake style dome dominated the building.

  Owen was filming. Camellia wore black, her skirt meeting her knees and her blouse buttoned up. It was so hot and muggy she wished she would have preferred a bikini.

  She held up her mic. “I’m here because the Senate has called an emergency session to debate doing something to slow permafrost thaw. They’re being bombarded by constituents who know Senator Trotford caught the disease from a creature that emerged from the permafrost, and they want something done to prevent further thawing. They’re demanding that the Senate find a way to avoid a catastrophe. The ones who say it’s nonsense have lost this round so far. You can see the crowd is riled up.”

  Owen panned to the crowd. Some had started to chant over and over, “Pay the Price, Keep the Ice!” A few were holding hands and dancing in circles. The polar bears had joined them.

  Senators Conklin and Gomez emerged from the building and walked over to them followed by reporters from CNN, ABC, CBS and NBC, among others.

  “How did it go?” Camellia asked Senator Conklin. She held the mic so that the Senator could be heard.

  “That was some heated debate! Shouting, even shoving. Never saw anything like it. Simply unbelievable. I thought for a few minutes that Dudley Trotford would come to blows with me. He actually elbowed Senator Gomez in the ribs.”

  Camellia turned to Senator Gomez. “That must have hurt.”

  He was thin enough for there to be no extra fat to cushion the blow. He grimaced. “In fact, it did. The man is out of his mind. Fortunately, we did have some of the President and Speaker Blackman’s close friends arguing passionately for positive action. A letter written by Harold Meecher was even placed in the record. You know, the billionaire whose brother Ralph is still in intensive care.”

  “His letter plugged for substantial, not token, action,” Senator Conklin added. “And that’s despite the fact that those two generated their billions with coal, gas and oil profits. That was really helpful. It’s a good thing a number of us did agree we need serious action.”

  “But some of the ones lined up with the late President and not personally affected, maintained the cost will ruin the economy and kill jobs, especially coal mining jobs. Probably true although those jobs have been disappearing anyhow since gas is cheaper than coal now,” Senator Gomez added.

  “Senator Trotford was more adamant about the need to drill for oil and gas than usual, if that’s possible. You know where he gets his campaign money. That’s got to be part of it. But some of us want him to resign as a result of his infecting people with the disease, so maybe he’s just trying to promote whatever he can while he’s still in office. It’s not very encouraging at the moment,” Senator Conklin said. She shrugged, and they walked off to talk to reporters from other networks.

  Camellia readjusted her mic. “We understand a bill has been drafted by a combination of Democrats and Republicans with funds for mitigation and further investigation as well as money for more trips to Siberia. The Save The Arctic Act could make a real difference. You can see from the signs that opinions about that are divided.”

  Owen panned to the crowds again. The chanters and a group yelling, “USA, USA, USA!” were confronting each other, and the police were havin
g a problem separating them peacefully. The polar bear had dropped his SAVE THE HUMANS sign. A USA advocate was stomping on it. They were making so much noise that Camellia had to back up to be heard. “This is becoming really rowdy,” she said.

  Several MORE OIL, LOWER GAS PRICES protestors jostled a FOSSIL FUELS ARE FOR FOOLS! trio. It got ugly when they were joined by the NO MORE MONEY FOR SOLAR advocate who hit a PIPELINES activist with a sign attached to a metal pole. At that point, the police corralled this whole group and hauled them off. Then they tried to disperse the others.

  “Civility appears to be a thing of the past,” Camellia observed. “No doubt this heat isn’t helping. She looked at the crowd again. “Good heavens, someone is going to get hurt.”

  Owen zeroed in on the protestor in the cardboard tube with the sign that read NO MORE PIPELINES! Several of the JOBS, JOBS, JOBS! group had knocked him on the ground and were rolling him around. When the cardboard started to fall apart, they began to kick it with him still partly still inside. The police moved in. They collected this bunch too, cuffed them and put them in squad cars.

  “We’ll continue to report from Georgetown University Hospital in a few minutes,” Camellia told viewers.

  Owen packed up his equipment and wiped his own brow.

  “I’ll bet one of Kyle’s students created the METHANE sign. I know some of them are down here.” She looked around, but the crowd had already disbursed except for the individual in the white sheet who had gotten tangled up in it and was trying to untie the rope around his waist to extricate himself.

  Camellia gathered her things together. “I’m glad Dr. Varick has agreed to be interviewed again. Hopefully he can settle people down. If not, I’m afraid things might become increasingly, possibly dangerously ugly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SAME AFTERNOON

  GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON DC

  CAMELLIA COULD HEAR A SIREN BLARING in the distance. There were no ambulances in the emergency entrance area when Dr. Varick came out of the hospital. He looked exhausted. As Camellia held the mic out for him to be heard, he wiped his hands on his white coat.