 
Poison Harvest

By

Paul Sean Grieve

Published by Paul Sean Grieve at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Paul S Grieve

ISBN: 978-1-987917-06-2

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

Acknowledgements
Chapter 1

Drew sensed something was wrong even before he opened the door. His professor's house stood in total darkness, along with the rest of the neighborhood, and he could hear nothing except the creaking of tree branches as they whipped and rattled in the ferocious December wind. Having found his way up the snow covered path in the gloomy light of dusk, he'd seen no footprints besides his own, suggesting no one had come or gone since it had fallen a few days ago. On his way up the driveway, he'd noticed bootprints leading to the front door, but as Chaplain never used that entrance, they likely belonged to the postman or some courier. The layer of snow on the windshield of Chaplain's rusted old Civic, along with the absence of tire tracks meant it hadn't been moved in a while. Feeling his way along the wall, his gloved hand breaking off filthy chips of curling paint, he paused at the back door, listening for sounds from within the structure.

He tapped gingerly on the window. When no response came, he tapped again a little harder.

"Professor Chaplain?" he asked. "Are you home?"

When he got no response, he reached into the pocket of his tattered coat for his cell phone and dialed the professor's number. Unable to see through the drawn curtains, he listened for any sign of movement in the house as the phone rang inside. It rang until the answering service finally clicked on and Drew hung up. Still listening, he looked at his watch. 6:23pm.

Was it possible Chaplain had gone to bed? No, it was too early. And, forgetful as he'd become lately, he must have known that Drew would be arriving at 6:30. Though spritely for his age, Chaplain was over 70 and, as Drew recalled, his physical coordination seemed to be in decline. He was also unnaturally thin and frail, having inexplicably lost a lot of weight in the last couple of months. The thought that Chaplain might have fallen and broken a hip motivated Drew to reach for the door handle. The handle turned, meaning the door was unlocked. Gently, he leaned his shoulder against the peeling wooden panel and the hinges whined it popped open.

"Dr. Chaplain?"

Again, no answer.

Drew opened the door wider, straining to see into in the darkened kitchen at the top of the short stairwell into which the door opened. As he did, he noticed an unwelcome odour, horrific, like a toilet that hadn't been flushed for a week. There was no sound from inside except for the rhythmic ticking of a clock, almost drowned out by the hollering wind.

Stepping forward onto the landing, kicking the snow off his boots on the outside wall, he removed his footwear, ascended the stairs in his socks and reached for the light switch. When it didn't come on, he chided himself for forgetting about the blackout, no doubt due to the ferocious wind, which had plunged the surrounding blocks into darkness. Fumbling through the kitchen drawers, he found a wind-up LCD flashlight and flicked the switch, illuminating flecks of dust that swirled in the air.

It seemed clear there was no one home. Perhaps Chaplain had gone away and forgotten to tell him. But then why would he have left the door unlocked, particularly in this neighborhood? And why that God-awful smell?

Drew stepped through the kitchen toward the living room. At the door, he shone the light around and examined the room. Stacks of books and papers were piled all over the coffee table and chairs, along with stained glasses and chipped plates with the remnants of half-eaten meals. Turning the corner into the corridor that led to the bathroom, Drew shone the light down the hallway. The bathroom door at the end of the hall had been left open.

The floor creaking beneath his stocking feet, he crept down the hall. As he inched toward the bathroom, he could feel his heartbeat getting louder in his chest.

"Is anyone home?" he croaked, his voice faltering.

Coming up to the bathroom, he noticed the smell getting stronger. Entering the room, he slowly reached out to the toilet and reluctantly lifted the lid. Scrunching his face, he bent over and looked through the beam of the flashlight over the rim. Nothing but water and the stains of many years of use.

Straightening up, he turned and stepped out of the room, the beam of his flashlight illuminating swirls of airborne dust in the hallway. Turning to face the bedroom door, he knocked quietly.

"Professor Chaplain?" he gasped. "Are you in there?"

He knocked again, this time louder, and again he called out. Slowly, he extended a hand toward the handle. It turned in his hand and when the door came open, he slowly pushed his way in. The stench became unbearable and he buried his face in his sleeve. He shone the beam of his flashlight down the short corridor that led into the room. He could just make out the foot of the bed, which he could see was not made. The silver supports of a camera tripod glistened at the far corner of the bed and junk was strewn around the room. Knees shaking and teeth chattering in the cold, he stepped forward hesitantly.

As he paced apprehensively along the creaking floor of the bedroom corridor, the beam of the flashlight revealed two hoary bare feet at the foot of the bed, motionless and white as a ghost. Stepping into the room, his flashlight followed the legs up to find the bottom of a brown housecoat, then an outstretched arm laid over an open tourniquet, a large epidermic needle to one side. Drew forced himself to look at the pallid white face, is mouth open and twisted above a course white beard, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His heart pounded in his head like a sledge hammer. It was Professor Chaplain, and he was dead.

Drew jumped with fright as the room lit up and the television flipped on. Feeling his stomach turn at the sight of Chaplain's body, purple blood pooled at the bottom of his lifeless extremities, he stumbled back toward the bathroom, crouched in front of the toilet and retched loudly. The remains of his meager supper spewed out of his mouth into the toilet bowl. Hands shaking, tears welling in his eyes, he retched again.

His head still pounding, having coughed up everything in his stomach, Drew flushed the toilet, forced himself to his feet and rinsed his mouth out at the sink. In spite of the cold wind, he stumbled back outside for some fresh air. His instinct was to call 911, but he knew it would be pointless to activate emergency services. Chaplain was long dead, beyond any hope of revival. Instead, he called the operator and, voice shaking, informed them he'd discovered a body.

"Will there be an autopsy?" Drew asked a young female officer as he tensed to stop his body from shivering in the cold.

She answered in the affirmative. "We may have some more questions when we get the results."

That made sense. Judging by the needle and tourniquet, Chaplain's death appeared to be suicide, but Drew could think of no reason why he'd want to kill himself. At least, no specific reason. He'd known his mentor as an outstandingly driven man with incredible focus, yet his advanced age had seemed to be taking its toll, and his worsening social isolation must not have made him feel any better.

Drew had no choice but to place his trust in the coroner, whose team had carried out the body and taken the video camera he had seen as he entered the room, as well as an unlabeled bottle they found on Chaplain's night table. Only time would tell what had actually happened.

With nothing left to be done for his mentor, Drew stepped out of the shelter of the car port and set out on foot for home. Bracing himself against the icy wind as he stumbled along the darkened sidewalk, he pulled a frayed woolen toque out of his pocket and set it on his head, taking care to pull it down over his ears, then lifted the frayed hood of his worn duffle coat over his head. He felt his cell phone vibrate and heard the familiar clink that let him know he'd received a text message. With frozen fingers, he reached into his breast pocket. The text was from his friend Lars: Come to Freddy's. Dinner's on me.

Drew needed no second bidding. As he trudged northward toward Bloor Street, his stomach growled in anticipation of the first true meal he'd eaten in well over two weeks, having been forced for financial reasons to observe a strict diet of macaroni and cheese. The only respite he could generally expect from this sparse diet would come in the form of tidbits served at various university functions that took place from time to time, some of which were open to the public. Even if the presentation was closed, the receptions that followed were often conducted in unrestricted lobbies and corridors and, necessity being the mother of invention, Drew had learned the art of showing up at just the right moment. Unfortunately, budgets being as tight as they were, events offering more than a handful of stale and sugary biscuits were rare and even when he managed to gain access to the more upscale functions, there were only so many grapes and slices of camembert he could down at one time. So, he considered himself fortunate to have a friend like Lars.

This was far from the first time Lars had treated him and, in all likelihood, would not be the last. Drew swore to himself that someday he'd return these favours with interest. How, he had no idea. Truth be told, he had no idea how he was going to find the money to pay his rent for January. Already in arrears for electricity, which he used as sparingly as he could, the lights remained on only by virtue of a law that prevented the utility from cutting off power in winter.

The only way he might climb out of arrears and pull enough together by January was the possibility that the grant he'd been promised would come though, but that was looking worse by the day and Chaplain's departure wouldn't help one bit. The first year chemistry exams were three days away and he had about a half dozen students already scheduled for tutoring sessions ranging from one to four hours. But more than likely, at least one would cancel, another would no-show and a third would inform him at the start of the lesson that he couldn't pay. This problem arose often enough that Drew started insisting on payment at the beginning of each lesson, a move which resulted in a sharp decline in bookings.

There was nothing to do but hope he'd catch a break somehow, thought Drew as he braced himself against the frosty wind that blew into his face and under his hood, chilling the back of his neck and tensing his muscles. As the cold began to seep into the cracks of his clothing, he quickened his pace, dodging oncoming pedestrians and weaving around less hurried people walking ahead of him until a traffic light stopped him. Waiting impatiently, hands in his pockets as the wind whipped drifting snow around his pant-legs, he took in the menagerie that was downtown Toronto in the winter: cars sliding on the ice and snow, Christmas decorations and other pedestrians bundled against the cold. A slender woman in a green dress coat with long, windblown blonde hair protruding from beneath a wooly white toque caught his eye and suddenly his body tingled. For a split second, he thought it might be Claire. But even with his poor vision, degraded by countless hours spent reading science journals on computer monitors, he could see that it wasn't. Just as well, he thought to himself. Claire was the last person he needed to see now, really.

As the light turned green and the wave of pedestrians spilled over the opposite curve, Drew stepped forward and picked his way through the oncoming crowd. Peering from under his hood through the windows of the narrow shops and restaurants that lined the sidewalk, the scenes therein melded into a surreal collage: the bedazzling radiance of precious gems in a jewelry store, trendy young Asians slurping pho from oversized bowls in a neon drenched noodle shop, shadows dancing on the walls of an upscale bistro as candlelight warmed the smiling faces of stylish patrons, reddened by spicy food and expensive cocktails. Ahead of him ambled a young couple strolling arm in arm, the woman's sleek black hair dangling behind her as she leaned her head on the man's shoulder, her body pressing into his. Passing them briskly, he craned his neck to steal a glance at their young faces, their breath illuminated in the brightness of the streetlight as they whispered softly to one another.

Pressing on, Drew willed himself not to think of Claire and the love that almost was. He cursed himself for entertaining thoughts so unbecoming of a man of science, a PhD candidate at a respected university, an activist committed to environmental protection and social justice. Crossing Spadina Avenue as he made his way eastward, he swore he'd banish all unhappy thoughts and allow himself to savour the hot meal Lars had offered to pay for. Arriving at Freddy's, he pulled hard on the handle to open the cracked wooden door against the ferocious wind and, as the door slammed behind him, descended the stairs, relieved to be out of the cold.

"Ridicule is the last refuge of the desperate!" chortled Lars above the din of the grungy basement bar, his thick Swiss German accent adding a whiff of exotic authenticity to the words, uttered with his characteristic sly smile. "Words like paranoid and conspiracy freak, carry no intellectual weight."

"It's not ridicule," rejoined the business student sitting across from him, raising his voice to compete with a group of increasingly rowdy young women at the table beside them, who themselves struggled to be heard above the indie-rock music that rattled from the speakers. "It's skepticism."

"No, it's dogma," shouted Lars. "And you're not a skeptic, you're a sucker."

Taking his seat, Drew listened patiently as Lars and the undergraduate squabbled back and forth about everything from government cyber-spying to the suppression of climate science by oil companies. While Drew cringed at how readily the business student lapped up industry propaganda, the debate provided a welcome distraction from thoughts that swirled in his mind. Hearing his cell phone ring, Drew looked down and fumbled around in the left pocket of his coat, which he'd thrown over the back of his wooden chair.

Lars paused. "Is it her?"

"Yeah, it's her," answered Drew sheepishly, fishing the phone out of his pocket and looking at the number.

"Don't answer it," Lars advised, then turned back to the undergrad and continued.

Drew contemplated the ringing phone as the argument raged on. He hadn't heard from Claire in three months and it had taken every bit of self-discipline he had not to call her. He let it ring a few more times, unable to bring himself to silence it. When it stopped ringing, he waited to see if she'd leave a message. When it became clear she hadn't, he dropped the phone back into his coat pocket.

"What do you think?" asked Lars.

Drew suddenly realized that Lars was talking to him, then noticed the undergraduate looking on expectantly, confidant that Drew would jump in on his side.

"I'm too tired to think," replied Drew, as a waitress set a steaming plate on the table in front of him. Lars had already ordered his favourite.

"Then eat up," Lars laughed. "You need the energy."

Before Lars finished his sentence, Drew had poked his fork into one of the slabs of battered fish on his plate. Slicing off a hefty chunk with his knife, stuffed it in his mouth. His prolonged poverty had given rise to a hunger so intense that found himself thinking about food practically every waking moment. The welcome explosion of flavor in his mouth almost bowled him over.

"I should have done my PhD in Comp Sci," he wryly observed, swallowing a mouthful of fries.

"Your field of study isn't the problem" observed Lars as he shook hands amicably with the undergraduate, who'd gotten up to leave. "You just hooked up with the wrong supervisor."

"Chaplain's dead," Drew blurted out.

Lars winced. "I'm sorry."

"I found his body about two hours ago," explained Drew. "The coroner's got it now."

"How did he die?" asked Lars.

"I'm pretty sure he took his own life."

Lars shook his head sadly. The waitress showed up with a second plate which she placed on the table in front of Lars. By the time Lars took his first bite, Drew was scraping up the remainder of the tartar sauce with the last French fry on his plate. Drew and Lars caught up on all the grad school gossip. Government funding cuts, the union threatening labour action against an administration bent on reducing costs, out of control debt financing costs, hushed rumors of a shotgun merger of several departments, even growing concern over the possibility of an all-out declaration of bankruptcy.

"I truly feel for him," stated Lars, referring to Chaplain. "He was a good man crushed under the weight of an evil system."

"He fought the good fight," agreed Drew.

When Lars finished, he summoned the waitress, asked for the bill and dropped four twenties on the table before standing up and putting on his coat and hat. "That should cover it," he said.

Drew stood up, the two shook hands, then Lars turned and ascended the narrow staircase to the street.

"I'll be back with change," said the waitress, picking up the bills and heading back toward the register.

Drew was putting on his coat when she returned, placing the change on the table along with the receipt. Noticing the pile of money on the table, Drew picked up the bill and saw that the total had come to less than $39, taxes in. Even a $7 dollar tip would be generous, he thought as he scanned the figures to be sure the total was correct. After a moment's contemplation, he picked up the extra money, $34 in all, and stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans. Drew was almost certain that Lars intended the money as a subtle gift, or, more likely knowing Lars, a test of character (which Lars would say he passed).

Lars would be proud, he thought to himself, as he ascended the stairs. Lars was always riding him for being too honest for his own good and too proud to ask for financial help he desperately needed. Drew was certain this was his way of driving both points home without having to argue. Regardless, he now had enough money in his pocket that he could supplement his next few meals of mac and cheese with some sliced vegetables and perhaps even some fish sticks. He might even splurge on half a banana for desert.

Before braving the cold, he decided to check his phone one last time. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw there was a text message waiting. It was from Claire: Need more ref's for job app. Can U snd a ltr?
Chapter 2

Claire slammed down the shower faucet and shivered in the cold air as she let the drops run down her body onto the cracked enamel of the aging iron tub. Pulling the mildewed plastic shower curtain back and reaching for her bath towel, she felt the chill intensify. Located over an old pawn shop on Queen Street east near Broadview, the apartment was so drafty her roommate ruefully joked it was like living in a wind tunnel.

Donning her housecoat and stepping into her slippers, she opened the bathroom door to let the steam clear, allowing the frigid air to enter from the hallway. Patting her long blonde hair dry with the towel, Claire heard her phone vibrate. She dashed over to the kitchen table where she'd left it and looked at the screen. It was Drew: Sure, send details. Her instinct was to text back and thank him right away, but she was running out of time. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she felt a twinge of panic. Having been delayed for half an hour on the subway, she was behind schedule for what might be the most important interview of her life.

Racing back to the bathroom, she snatched her hairdryer from the wicker shelf and turned it on. Bending over and bushing her hair with short strokes, she breathed deeply in an effort to calm her fraying nerves.

"You're not late," she repeated to herself intently.

She put down the brush, picked up the hair straightener she'd plugged in before getting into the shower and clasped a lock of her hair in it. There came a muffled jingling from outside, then the sound of the lock turning. Krista, her roommate, pushed open the door, wrestling with four cloth grocery bags, two in her left hand, the others over her right arm.

"You're still here?" she asked.

"Can you call a taxi?" asked Claire.

"Sure thing." Krista dropped the bags, closed the door and pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket. After dialing, she held the phone to her ear and gave directions. "Five minutes," she said.

"You're a saint," replied Claire, working away at her hair, now on the other side. Setting the appliance down, she went to her closet, and took out the business suit she'd bought just for the occasion.

"You look awesome!" exclaimed Krista, examining Claire as she bolted out of her room toward the coat hook by the door.

"Thank you," replied Claire gratefully, buttoning up the front of her coat.

Krista removed Claire's long green woolen scarf from the hanger and handed it to Claire. "Go knock 'em dead."

"Cross your fingers."

"Oh, I will."

"And your toes."

The two women pretend kissed on both sides, then Claire darted out the door, scurried along the narrow dimly lit hallway and flew down the creaking wooden stairs toward the exit. When she pushed on the chipped and dented wooden door, something soft blocked it from opening. She pulled it back then pushed again. The stench of stale urine and stale alcohol wafted through the opening, followed by indiscernible words mumbled through a toothless mouth.

"Not now!" cried Claire. "Absolutely not now!" She brought the door back then pushed it forward again as hard as she could, this time shoving her whole weight against it. The door gave way as a disheveled old vagrant tumbled off the step onto the sidewalk, babbling incoherently.

"I'm sorry," said Claire, stepping over the man as passing couple gawked at the spectacle.

The taxi pulled up to the curb and Claire got in, instructing the driver to head for Yorkville. As the taxi lurched and halted in traffic, she carefully applied her makeup with the aid of a mirror she took from her purse. Only minutes away from her destination, she could finally begin to relax. Or so she told herself. In reality, she had not been able to relax for months. After finishing her masters degree in the spring, she'd been on the job hunt ever since. But the economy was in a tailspin and in spite of her top grades in school, she managed to score nothing more promising than a part-time job as a hostess at a big chain restaurant. To add insult to injury, shifts were sparse and the tips not particularly good. Yet witnessing the flood of super-qualified job seekers come in with resumes day after day, she began to wonder how she'd managed to land even the meager job she had. The fact that most of her friends and former classmates were no better off had only dimmed her hopes.

Claire bristled at the thought of her student loans, the payments of which were scheduled to kick in the following month, and if she couldn't find better employment before then, she didn't know what she'd do. Her wages would barely cover the loan payments. How would she pay Krista for her rent? What would she eat? With no other prospects on the horizon, she was under no illusion as to how badly she needed the job for which she was to be interviewed that evening.

Putting her makeup away, she glanced out the window at the hardscrabble neighborhood that was Queen Street east: scruffy residents bundled against the cold in ragged coats plodding along past dilapidated shops with peeling paint on the walls and doors, street-gang graffiti defacing signs and mailboxes and rough plywood covering the growing numbers of boarded up windows where businesses had gone under. Moving west along Queen, the ramshackle thrift shops and gritty convenience stores gave way to wood paneled cafes, organic grocers and up-market salons nestled in renovated brownstones. As she crossed Yonge Street, the brownstones gave way to the glass and steel towers of the financial district.

Claire's phone rang and she answered it.

"Ms LeBraun?" asked the male voice.

"Yes," replied Claire.

"I'm here from Futura to pick you up."

"I'm so sorry," she replied sheepishly, "but I've been a bit delayed. I'll be down in a few minutes if, that's alright."

"Quite alright," answered the voice. "I'll be waiting in the driveway."

"Thank you," said Claire, feeling panic rising up in her. She pulled back the sleeve of her coat and looked at her watch.

"Almost there," said the driver, sensing her concern.

The taxi flew past the courthouses at Old City Hall and rounded the corner fast enough to throw Claire off balance. Heading northward past skaters braving the cold under the dazzling Christmas lights of Nathan Phillips Square, the car sped toward her destination.

"Keep going," Claire ordered as the taxi passed the semicircular driveway of the up-scale condo at which she'd arranged to meet the driver. Behind a long, black stretch limousine idled a green Audi, caked with road salt, exhaust spewing from the tailpipe as a dark haired man in a navy suit sat reading a newspaper in the driver's seat. She crossed her fingers that the man wouldn't see her arriving.

"Here is fine," Claire said as the taxi came to a stop at the dead end of the street, safely out of view of the driveway.

"$21.25," said the driver.

"It's all yours," replied Claire, handing the driver $30.

As Claire opened the door, a gust of wind channeled by the tall buildings around her almost ripped the money out of her hand. Holding her toque, she slammed the door shut and, waving thanks to the driver, snuck around the building to the opposite side from where the Audi was parked. She reached for the brass handle on the teak trimmed entrance, pulled hard against the wind and stepped inside. As the door closed behind her she took a key out of her coat pocket, opened the inside door and strode into the lobby.

Taking off her toque, she quickly brushed her hair and checked her makeup one last time in her mirror. Then she centered herself, took a breath and strode from behind the wall through the elevator corridor out the door of the lobby where the Audi idled. Walking purposefully to the car as if she'd just come down from one of the million dollar condos above, she stopped in front of the passenger side door and bent over slightly to make eye contact with the driver.

Strangely, he appeared to ignore her. She moved a bit closer and, when he didn't look up, she tapped gingerly on the window with one knuckle, smiling. The driver looked up from his newspaper, surprised.

"Can I help you?" he asked curtly after opening the window.

"I'm Claire."

"Excuse me?" replied the driver.

Claire glared at him, perplexed. Even if she was just an interviewee, wasn't his tone a bit rude? She was about to politely remind him that she was to be the guest of both the CEO and Director of Public Relations, but as she opened her mouth to speak, she heard a voice from beside her.

"Ms LeBraun?"

Claire turned her head to see a tall man in a dark grey suit, black driver's cap and white gloves. He was standing beside the limousine, holding the rear door open.

"This way please." He gestured with his gloved hand toward the inside of the limo.

Claire glanced at the driver of the Audi, who rolled up the window in a huff, then back at the limo driver, who waited patiently. Speechless and more than a little embarrassed, Claire stepped tentatively toward the open door.

"I apologize," said the driver. "I should have waited for you in the lobby."

"No!" replied Claire. "I mean, that's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

The driver smiled, but said nothing. Lowering her head and entering through the door, Claire straightened her coat and sat on the plush leather seat.

"Please, help yourself to anything," offered the driver as he gently closed the door behind her.

Claire looked around the posh interior of the limo as the vehicle eased forward. The last time she'd been in a limousine was her high-school prom when she and her friends had pooled resources to rent one. It hadn't been cheap, yet it certainly wasn't as well appointed as this. Quietly opening the latch on the mini-bar, she peeped at the broad selection of drinks, which included single malt scotch, rum, vodka and a variety of liquors, none of the brands less than premium. Closing the cabinet, she ran her hand along the polished walnut paneling.

There was only one reason why the company would extend such luxury to her, but she dare not let herself think it, lest she jinx herself. She fought to control her enthusiasm. But if they were going to offer her the job, she thought, why had HR asked for more reference letters only this afternoon? Could it be that they'd narrowed the candidates down to a short list and this was all part of the selection procedure? And if there were other candidates, how many? Oh my God \- could they be coming tonight?

The butterflies in Claire's stomach took flight as the limousine came to a gentle stop at the entrance of the newly constructed Embassy Hotel on Queen's Quay. On the other side of the revolving glass doors waited Evan Wheeler, the Director of Public Relations and the man who first invited her to apply for the job. Breathing deeply to calm her nerves as the driver opened her door and held it against the bristling wind, Claire stepped out of the vehicle. Thanking the driver, she strode toward the entrance as Evan watched, smiling broadly. After passing through the door, she extended her right hand.

"Nice to see you again," said Evan warmly as he took her hand gently and leaned forward to give her a kiss on each cheek.

"Likewise," replied Claire.

Evan gestured with his hand toward the elevator dedicated solely to the restaurant, which occupied the entire penthouse floor.

"Michelangelo's, I presume?" she asked.

"Nothing less."

Stepping into the elevator, the doors closed behind them and she felt the floor rise. Ascending skyward, she gazed at the shimmering lights of the city through the floor-to-ceiling window of the elevator, which travelled through a column of glass, a feature that had garnered the architect a prestigious international prize, Evan explained. In a few brief seconds, the elevator slowed to a halt at the 52nd story. Claire and Evan stepped out onto a marble floor in a spacious lobby, the enticing aroma of gourmet cooking wafting through the warm air. Claire steadied herself as she looked around at the continuous panes of the enormous windows which surrounded the entire restaurant, all set against brushed aluminum frames built three stories high.

"This way please," said a dashing young host in a black shirt and a red bow tie. Pointing the way with an open hand, he half bowed to the pair as they walked by.

Following a path marked by inset red LDC lamps, the host led them toward a table by the window. A broad shouldered, balding man of about 60, dressed impeccably in a well tailored suit, chatted amicably with a red-headed lady, perhaps 10 years her junior. When the man noticed Evan he pushed his chair back and stood up, extending a hand. Claire felt a lump rise in her throat as she recognized the man from pictures. It had to be Winston Knox, CEO of Futura Organic Systems. Evan smiled warmly, his own hand extended, and the two embraced enthusiastically. Even shook the woman's hand politely then turned to Claire.

"Claire, I'd like you to meet Deborah Mews, Vice President of Human Resources," said Evan as the redhead extended her hand to Claire.

"And I'm Winston," said the CEO, humbly extending his own hand before Evan could introduce them. He bid Claire and the others to be seated.

After a few moments of obligatory small talk, Evan noted the waiter watching them and suggested they have a look at the menu.

"The monkfish is out of this world," said Knox to Claire.

Claire froze inside. Monkfish was a threatened species and she'd made a practice of avoiding it for that reason, but it would be outstandingly imprudent to say so now. Or would it? She knew her strong green credentials had everything to do with why she'd gotten this far in the hiring process and it was possible that remaining silent could tarnish that image.

"Actually," she hesitated as she pondered the correct answer, "I've never tried it."

"Not a fish eater?"

"I love fish," replied Claire. She decided to take a calculated risk. "But I've resolved not to eat anything on the endangered list." Trying not to tense, she could feel Evan's eyes upon her.

"I wasn't aware monkfish was endangered," replied Knox quizzically. "The chef told me himself that everything he serves is certified as sustainably caught."

"That type of certification has been sharply criticized," Claire answered, trying to suppress the waiver in her voice. "In fact, the directors of one certifying agency were recently brought up on charges for accepting payments from companies they were supposedly trying to regulate."

"Is that so?" asked Knox in a tone Claire found hard to read.

Claire felt her heart beat pounding in her chest. She knew she was being evaluated, whether by design or happenstance, and it was a test she could not afford to fail.

"Of course there's a great deal of controversy," she continued, hedging her bet. "It may well be that the chef is correct, that this variety of monkfish is not endangered and was indeed harvested in a sustainable manner."

Knox pondered her remarks silently, scanning the menu. "Well," he said, "since the matter appears to be in doubt, I'd best order something else."

Claire relaxed.

"I'll look into the matter more deeply," continued Knox. "If your concerns about monkfish turn out to be correct, I'll have to find a new favourite dish."

When the waiter returned, Knox insisted that Claire order first. She took the filet mignon, Deborah ordered roasted Guinea fowl and Evan had wild Atlantic salmon. Knox, ordering last, chose the organic grass-fed New York sirloin.

As they waited for their meals to arrive, they discussed sports, national politics and other light topics. As their plates came and they settled into their meals, the conversation turned toward the struggling economy and its impact on sales of the organic produce the company grew.

Claire gently probed Knox about his goals in taking the company forward. Of particular concern to him was the tarnished image the company had earned when news emerged of the atrocious treatment of farm labourers at the hands of the company's foreign suppliers.

"The company lost its moral compass," admitted Knox.

Outlining the company's new strategy, he explained that they had decided to oversee vegetable production directly and go 100% organic.

Claire struggled to contain her excitement. This was exactly the kind of corporate transformation she had set out to study in her masters thesis - and she was on the cusp of having a chance to be directly involved with it.

"That's an incredible change of direction," she noted quietly, straining to prevent her voice from quivering with excitement.

Knox agreed. "If the turnaround is going to work, it's got to be about more than glitzy PR. The change has to be fundamental."

As the conversation drifted from topic to topic, Knox took an interest in Claire's journalism background and her volunteer work with environmental charities. They were hitting it off, bonding. Once the plates had been cleared away, Claire politely excused herself, placing her napkin gently on the table. As the washroom door closed behind her, she looked at herself in the mirror. Smiling, she clenched her hands in fists and raised them above her head in triumph. This was going as well as she could have hoped. Suddenly, the door opened behind her and she pretended to fix her hair.

Back at the table, Knox congratulated Evan. "She's everything you said."

"We'll let her know late next week," replied Evan, "after she's had a chance to stew for a bit."

"My only concern is that she's got too much of the journalist in her," warned Knox. "She's potentially a loose cannon."

"No," said Evan confidently. "She'll do her homework, but she won't scuttle her own ship."

"What do you think?" asked Knox, turning to Deborah.

"I sense overconfidence," replied the HR director. "I know she's nervous inside, but I think she's overcompensating."

"She's got to be able to stand her ground," advised Evan.

"I'm still a bit surprised that a person with her green background is so keen to go corporate," wondered Knox.

"Ambition plus poverty equals an open mind," observed Evan.

"When the poverty is alleviated, will the mind stay open?"

"A golden face, a silver tongue and a green background," said Evan firmly. "You get two if you're lucky and with her, we've got three."

"If she should find out?" asked Knox quietly.

"We have to see that she doesn't," replied Evan, "and we take the same risk with anyone."

"I agree with Evan," said Deborah. "Have her jump through more hoops, let her smolder for a week, then give her the job."

They changed the subject when Evan noticed Claire coming back. They enjoyed light conversation over tiramisu, then Knox decided it was time to wrap things up. After handshakes, Evan agreed to walk Claire to the elevator.

"You made an impression," Evan assured her, sensing her growing unease with Knox's speedy departure.

"A good one?" she asked.

Evan chuckled. "I think so."

As they reached the elevator, Claire pushed the button.

"The only concern Winston expressed directly was the little fib about your address," he continued. "You specifically set out to deceive the company."

"I'm sorry," Claire apologized, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"It's not that big a deal," said Evan. "Just understand that our corporate culture is built around honesty and trust."

The elevator arrived and Claire stepped in. "I suppose you'll call me?"

"Make sure to get your new reference letters in as soon as possible," Evan reminded her, smiling kindly.

"Thank you," she said as the doors closed.

Claire gazed out at the shimmering city skyline as the elevator descended, the knot in her stomach tightening. She cursed herself for listing the Yorkville condo as her address. She'd been given the key to a penthouse suite by the owner, whose poodle she'd been paid to walk a few days a week. Sympathetic with her plight, the owner had allowed Claire to use the address on her application. In fact, she'd suggested it. It had seemed so innocuous. Watching the city lights rise as the elevator sank to the ground floor, she wondered how the company had discovered that it wasn't her true address. She prayed she hadn't blown her chances.
Chapter 3

At 5:30 am, Drew awoke to the sound of his radio alarm, stretching as he listened to the chatter of the morning DJs. As his head cleared, he threw back the covers and braced himself for the shock of cold air, stepped into his slippers and sauntered out of the bedroom across the rug that covered the concrete floor of his dingy basement apartment. From the otherwise empty fridge he extracted half a bowl of two-day-old pasta that would have been his dinner the night before had it not been for Lars. He popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds then plunked himself down on the moldy green cannabis-reeking futon the previous tenant had abandoned there. He opened his laptop and logged onto the Wi-Fi signal from an unknown neighbor, who, fortunately for him, had left his network unencrypted.

He checked his email, hoping as always to hear good news about his grant and, as always, he was disappointed. All he got was an email from Claire providing the contact info for her reference letter. As he ate his meager breakfast, he composed the document, writing of her dedication to environmental causes, her lofty values, her positive outlook, can-do attitude and strong work ethic. As he wrote, his mind drifted back to the time he and Claire spent together. She was a top-of-her-class masters student volunteering with a local environmental organization he helped to found. They'd hit if off well and he couldn't believe that a woman with Claire's beauty and charisma had taken such an interest in him. They dated for a while and his hopes were high that they might have something special together. But it wasn't to be. Claire admitted she did like him, sort of, but just wasn't ready for a relationship with him.

He should have seen that coming and prepared himself for it. Who was he kidding? Her professional options were limitless - and she was stunningly beautiful. He was a starving PhD student who might aspire to become a low-paying adjunct professor, if he was lucky. And he wasn't exactly a Calvin Klein model.

Having finished the text of the letter, he glanced back at Claire's email to find the name of the recipient company. Futura Organic Systems Ltd. Where had he heard that name before? He opened his web browser and typed in the name. Nothing, so he typed in the company's King Street West address. When the results came, the blood drained out of his face. Great Southern Foods. She couldn't! She wouldn't!! He looked at her email again and double checked the address. There was no mistake, the address was registered to Great Southern Foods, otherwise known as "Great Satan."

The company had earned that name as a result of its treatment of farmers in foreign countries to whom it had sold genetically engineered breeds of corn, soybeans, wheat and cotton. Touted as being drought resistant and impervious to insects, farmers clamored for access to their bio-technology. Unfortunately, under real-world conditions, yields were utterly disastrous, with most stands failing completely. When famers demanded compensation, the company blamed them for improper farming practices and, in addition to refusing any refunds for the defective seeds, they successfully sued the farmers for libel. Further, when an American journalist discovered that the company's internal seed-trial results had been falsified, the company convinced the supreme court to issue an injunction preventing publication of the findings. Later, a documentary revealed that the supreme court judge presiding over the case had once been chief legal counsel for the company.

Drew resolved that he would warn Claire before he sent the letter. He typed: Are you aware that Futura's address is the same as Great Satan Foods? Then he hit send, got up, changed and prepared to walk to the university. As he was putting on his coat, he heard a pair of boots thumping down the back stairs outside. There came a loud rap at the door.

"I know you're home so open up!" thundered his landlord in his thick Romanian accent.

There was no way Drew could pay the rent in arrears and still eat for the rest of the month, so he remained quiet in the hopes the landlord would give up and leave.

The landlord pounded again. "You don't pay. You're gonna be out of here! You got it?"

Drew's instinct was to open the door and face the matter squarely, but he knew it would only lead to a standoff he was bound to lose, so he stood quietly out of view from the window. He waited. The landlord waited. Finally, he heard the landlord thump back up the stairs. Drew waited another 10 minutes, then went out the door, locking it as quietly as possible. Gingerly ascending the stairs, he peered slowly around the corner then tiptoed along the path. When he was certain the way was clear, he walked down the driveway to Brunswick Avenue and headed south toward the university.

Arriving at the office of the dean of science, Drew informed his secretary of Chaplain's recent death. Without even the pretense of sympathy, she asked if Drew had finished packing up Chaplain's lab, a task he'd been assigned two weeks previous when it had been announced that the room was to be repurposed. Marveling at her gall, he politely informed her that, yes, he was almost finished. Cursing her under his breath after closing the door behind him, Drew despised the contempt with which Chaplain had been routinely treated by the faculty. It wasn't enough to cut his funding, or bar him from using university letterhead on his communications. They had to take his only remaining lab away, even though they hadn't even decided who they were going to give it to. It wasn't a decision made on the basis of practicality. It was a symbolic maneuver, a slap in the face.

Entering the lab with his key, the rows of fluorescent lights buzzing over his head, Drew threw on his lab coat and packed up the last pieces of equipment. Carefully putting away the beakers of various sizes, flasks, mismatched test tubes, pipettes, graduated cylinders, half-used rolls of litmus paper and the rest of the odds and ends, he methodically labeled the boxes. By 5pm he was finished. Wiggling out of his lab coat, he crammed it into his tattered green duffle bag and threw on his worn-out winter jacket.

Utterly depressed, his stomach growling, Drew trundled home in the cold grayness of the encroaching dusk. Checking that the landlord's car wasn't anywhere in sight, he rounded the corner onto his street and ambled towards his basement apartment. As he stepped onto the driveway, he heard a voice behind him call his name.

"Drew Freeman?"

Drew spun around to see a stalky man in a black woolen sailor's jacket and a brown poor boy cap approaching him with an electronic scanner in one hand and a white letter sized envelope in the other.

"Who wants to know?" Drew had the man pegged for a collection agent and he psyched himself up for a verbal sparring match.

"I've got a document from a guy named Chaplain," said the man, extending the electronic pad.

Drew took the pad and signed his name. The man carefully checked the signature.

"And if it's alright, I'll need to see some ID."

Drew took out his wallet and showed the man his driver's license. The man reached for it and Drew pulled it away.

"Closer," the man said, and Drew held it up so the man could see it. The courier examined it carefully, handed Drew the envelope, then turned away.

Drew stared at the envelope. The word "CONFIDENTIAL" was typed in block capitals beside his name. No return address was provided. He decided he'd best get into the relative safety of his apartment and out of sight of the landlord. Once inside, he kicked off his boots, sat down on the cannabis-reeking futon in the centre of the room and opened the envelope. The one-page letter inside was hand-written in Chaplain's unmistakable cursive.

Drew,

If you are reading this in private, all has gone according to plan. There is a safety deposit box at the Confederation Trust branch near College and Spadina. To access it you will need your driver's license and another piece of government issued photo ID. You'll need to sign, and enter a four digit combination on the box (hint: TCDD/2)

Go alone to the bank, be certain you are not followed and destroy this letter once you are in possession of the contents of the box. It is critical that you and only you gain access to its contents.

Please accept my apologies for the sudden nature of my departure. I took the fight as far as I could. Now, if you're willing, it's up to you.

Sincerely,

Mark Chaplain

Drew sat motionless on the futon, questions swirling in his head. What fight was he talking about? Whatever was in the deposit box, why hadn't Chaplain said anything about it while he was still alive? And even though Chaplain insisted the note remain private, shouldn't he deliver it to the police, or the medical examiner? It did corroborate the physical evidence that his death was a suicide. Drew wondered what could possibly be so private that he would want it kept secret even after his death. He began to worry it was something truly sordid.

And why me anyway? he thought. Why not a family member, or another faculty member? Then Drew remembered Chaplain had no family in the province and practically no friends on campus. In fact, he was surrounded by enemies.

He resolved to access the box the next day. There was only one problem - the code. Why hadn't Chaplain just given him the numbers directly? Perhaps he thought the letter would be intercepted. But by whom? And if Drew needed ID anyway, who else would be able to get it even if they had the numbers? Whatever was in there must be incredibly sensitive.

The only thing to do was to figure out the access code. Drew looked at the paper again. TCDD. What could that mean? Toronto Council... Toronto Chamber... No.

What did he and Chaplain have in common? Science. Chemistry. Pollution. Toxicology. TCDD? Then it hit him. Tetrachlorodibenzodioxin! How could he possibly miss that? TCDD was one of the most toxic of the dioxins, something every toxicologist would know about. But what were the code numbers? The chemical formula? If so, which, IUPAC or molecular? He turned and faced the sagging bookshelf that groaned with the volumes of texts which had seen him through his long university career. He pulled out a volume on organic toxicology. The molecular formula was C12H4Cl4O2. 12-4-4-2. That was four digits. The IUPAC formula was 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzodioxin. Four digits. That was a better fit, but what about the "/2" part. Divide by two? Each number? 2,3,7,8 wouldn't work because three and seven are prime. So, 12-4-4-2? That would be 6-2-2-1. It might work. But if not, what would happen? Could he keep going back until he got it right? The only thing to do was try it and see.

The next day, he set out on foot. Remembering Chaplain's insistence that he not be followed, he decided to take the least direct route possible. Putting Lars' tip money to good use, he bought a day pass and got on the subway at Spadina, transferred to the Yonge line and rode south, got off at Wellesley and rode the bus to a discount supermarket where he stocked up on pasta which was on sale. Riding the bus back, groceries in hand, he scanned the other passengers, taking extra care to get off at a random stop, exiting the bus the last second before it started to move again. Nobody else got off at that stop, so he presumed he was safe. Walking a circuitous route back to the subway he, rode the loop and got off at Queen's Park station where he crossed the street and boarded the College streetcar westbound. Though loathed to admit it, he enjoyed the feeling of being sneaky, like a character in a spy movie (cue the James Bond music).

Double checking behind him as he walked through the revolving door of the bank, he approached the receptionist and asked how he would go about accessing the contents of a safety deposit box. She asked if he had a key, and he explained that he'd been told to present ID. She directed him to a different desk, where a tall, black haired female clerk in a gray suit took his name and asked him politely to wait while she drew a file.

The receptionist asked to see his two pieces of government ID. She got him to sign a form, then carefully matched his signature with his license.

"Please follow me." She led Drew to a private room where she asked him to have a seat on one of the leather chairs that surrounded a rectangular wooden table. She left the room, then returned and ushered him along a corridor and through the open steel door of a walk-in safe.

"Your box is number 569. Take as long as you need, and let me know when you're finished," she said before exiting the room once again.

Drew looked for box 569, tried the code. 6-2-2-1 and was relieved when the box popped open. Inside was a piece of paper folded like a letter, a white envelope bulging with some mysterious contents, a set of three different keys and a small silver flash drive. He picked up the letter and unfolded it, scanning the text.

Drew,

Go to the address indicated. Again, be absolutely certain you are not followed. Make multiple copies of the contents of the drive and hide them all in safe places.

The money is yours. It isn't much, but it's the best I could do under the circumstances.

I know you're wondering what this is about. The answer will reveal itself soon.

Mark Chaplain

Drew looked at the address, which he didn't recognize, then opened the envelope to find a thick wad of $20 bills. He counted them out and the total came to $2,000. My rent! He berated himself for feeling elated at this windfall, which had come at Chaplain's expense.

Stuffing the money, the keys and the letter in his pockets, his mind was ablaze with questions. Why had Chaplain given this money to him and not his daughter in British Columbia. And why had he chosen to die? Certainly he'd been a lonely man, as whistleblowers invariably are, but Drew couldn't imagine Chaplain taking his own life for emotional reasons. He just wasn't a sentimental man. There had to be more to it.

As bewildering as it all was, Drew's curiosity was trumped by more practical concerns. He now had two thousand dollars. He could eat! Drew informed the clerk that he was ready to leave and, totally forgetting about the James Bond routine, he burst out the front door with one thing on his mind – food! Now, the world was his oyster – yeah, oysters! No, steak! No... Now that he had options, he almost couldn't make up his mind. Realizing the money had to be made to last, he opted for what he thought was the best value - all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet! He hopped on the Spadina street car, rode south to Dundas then walked through Chinatown, barely able to restrain himself from breaking into a run. Entering the least expensive place he knew, he ordered and headed straight for the buffet. He ate, and ate, and when he was finally full, he paid and donned his coat for a contented streetcar ride back to Bloor.

When Drew arrived, the landlord was there, chatting with the tenant who lived above him on the main floor. The tenant saw Drew first and the landlord turned to see what he was looking at. When he saw Drew, he raised his index finger, ready to give him hell, but Drew beat him to the punch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the $200 he owed in arrears and, at the same time, gave him January's rent in advance. Caught off guard, the landlord took the money, sternly warned Drew about future late payments, then got into his car and drove off.

Drew dropped his shopping bags on the floor and headed back out. Thrilled to be off the landlord's most wanted list, Drew's next stop was the power company, where he paid off his $296 debt. That left him with less than $900 out of the original $2,000, but he felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

His stomach full and secure in the knowledge of having enough to eat for the foreseeable future, Drew entered his apartment, sat down at his computer and plugged in the flash drive. A set of folders came up, along with a "read me" file. He opened the file, expecting to find another set of instructions, but the file was no more than a plain text document that appeared to be a master log of the folder's contents. The folders contained notes from what he assumed were lab experiments, recorded in meticulous detail, along with spreadsheets and outputs of statistical analyses. The volume of data was incredible. It wasn't a single experiment, or even one series. It was many dozens of trials, performed over a period of what must have been years.

Drew realized it would take time to get his head around it, but curiosity drove him forward. He read snippets of the lab notes, kept in spreadsheet format:

Wistar Rat Trial A-04. Results Summary

-Control Group: Stillbirths (2), 37 out of 39 born live. No defects in offspring

-Exposed Group: Stillbirths (34), 2 out of 36 born live. Defects noted in logs.

Rabbit Trial D-04. Day 34

-Control Group: Stillbirths (1), 14 out of 15 born live. No defects visible.

-Exposed Group: Stillbirths (11), 2 out of 13 born live. Defects noted in logs.

Drew understood Chaplain's notation. The experiment appeared to be tracking the death rates of unborn Wistar rats exposed to a toxin vs those unexposed in comparable sample sizes. The identity of the poison, the dose and the method of administration wasn't clear. He opened the read-me file and scrolled to the log entry for Wistar Trial A-4.

Test Solution: Runoff, 1wk post spray

-Teratogen: Unknown

-Formula: Unknown

-Administration: via drinking water, concentration consistent through gestation

-Concentration: 1ml/ 250ml

"That's helpful," he muttered sarcastically. He scanned the file for information about the source of this unknown chemical, but found none, which made no sense for toxicology research. A toxicologist would have to be clear about what it was he was testing. Yet, according to the spreadsheet, whatever the toxic agent, there was a clear toxic effect as evidenced by the death rate of the offspring.

He opened some of the other files, Wistar A-1 through A-6, B-1 through B-6, etc, all the way to E, then looked at the read-me for those files. Chaplain was running trials to test dose-response relationships, appearing to find that greater doses given to a group of pregnant rats led to higher stillbirth rates of their offspring. But without knowledge of the chemical in question, he could only guess at the concentration.

If Chaplain had done all this work himself, how could he possibly have kept it under wraps? How could he have gotten past the ethics committee on animal care without raising a flag somewhere? And again, why hadn't he shared any of it? Didn't he trust me?

The only way to find the answer was to go to the address Chaplain had left and see what was there. He looked it up on Google Maps and found it was an old storage locker in a converted warehouse near the railroad tracks at Weston and Rogers roads. Before he went, he copied the contents of the flash drive onto his own computer, saved it on another flash drive and burned a CD. He'd eventually have to make more copies, but these would do for a start. He stashed the flash drives and CD in different places in his apartment, put on his coat and left, grabbing a small flashlight from a table beside the door on his way out.

Drew felt a sense of trepidation as he locked the door of his apartment and ascended the stairs in the cold evening wind. What sort of mess might he be getting himself into? Was he truly ready for it? What was so secret about it that Chaplain couldn't just have come clean and told him straight up? And why was Chaplain so paranoid about him being followed? That creeped him out more than anything. Whatever Chaplain was up to must have had serious implications.

As much as that frightened Drew, it also exhilarated him. His decision to study with Chaplain was motivated by his own desire to produce the kind of earth-shattering research that had catapulted his mentor to world fame – or, more to the point, infamy. While the scientific community had lauded Chaplain for his fearless and rigorous work, industry loathed him. As painful and lonely as Chaplain's life had become as a result of his politically inconvenient findings, Drew had admired him fiercely and if this was his chance to carry on Chaplain's legacy, he was going to take it.

As he set out along the path to the driveway, his mind turned to the practical considerations of the task at hand. How could he be sure he wasn't being followed? He stealthily glanced left and right at the bottom of the driveway, looking for any passer-by that might take an interest in him and scanning parked cars for anyone inside. With no one in sight, he turned north, resolving to wind his way through the backstreets to Rosedale Station, which had a small outdoor platform from which he could see anyone potentially in pursuit. With no one taking any apparent interest in him as he descended the stairs to the platform, Drew waited for the southbound train, his eyes scanning for any hint of a follower. An elderly lady waited on the opposite platform across from him and two teenage boys in hip hop clothes paced about at the far end. As the train clattered into the station and ground to a halt, Drew stepped aboard. By the time he'd boarded the bus that would take him to the storage unit, he was confident that no one was on his tail, but just as a precaution, he got off two stops after his destination and purposefully walked in the wrong direction until the bus was safely out of sight. With absolutely no one around, he doubled back. A few cars motored by, none of them slowing. Drew gave one final look around as he walked up the driveway to the storage building. No one that he could see.

Approaching the tall fence-link gate, Drew removed his gloves and took out the keys he'd found in the storage locker, trying the larger one in the lock. It worked and he opened the gate just wide enough to let himself in, then locked it behind himself. He listened for sounds that would alert him to the presence of others in the complex. Nothing but the icy wind rustling the bare branches of the trees. Reaching into his pocket as he crept into the complex, he took out the paper on which he'd written the locker number: C-196. He passed block A, block B and finally came to block C, at which he rounded the corner and walked parallel with the building. A single floodlight mounted on the corner of the building opposite provided the only illumination, bathing the pavement in dim yellow light and casting a long shadow of his body ahead of him. His teeth chattered in the cold as he inched forward. 193, 194, 195... He took out the other key and tried it in the lock. After some wiggling, it popped open.

Drew found his knees wobbling as he stared at the open lock. He tried to tell himself it was just the cold, but the lump in his throat told him otherwise. Steadying himself, he grabbed the rope at the bottom of the large metal door and yanked upward, revealing three large square shapes, barely visible in the darkness. He fumbled around the inside edges of the doorway for a light switch. When none presented itself, he reached into his pocket for the flashlight he'd brought from home.

In the beam of the flashlight, he saw that the large shapes were black metal cabinets, secured with key locks. To get out of the wind, he stepped inside and tugged on the rope, bringing the door to the ground with a heavy metallic thud. Drew shone the light on the lock of the first cabinet, which was thick and robust and probably made of hardened steel, just like the lock on the overhead door. If anyone wanted in to these, they'd have to mean business. He took out the third key and tried it in the leftmost cabinet. It didn't work, so he tried it in the middle cabinet, also to no avail. He wiggled it in the third lock and it opened.

Drew hesitated before opening the latch. He knew it was silly, but he couldn't repress the macabre images from all the horror movies that had frightened him as a boy: severed heads, chopped up intestines or rotting limbs blackened and crawling with maggots.

"Stop it!" He hissed out loud, cursing himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. With a burst of will, he cranked open the door, sending up swirls of dust, which became illuminated in the beam of the flashlight.

Before him were shelves packed tightly with 500 ml sealed jars, each filled to the top with a liquid and labeled with a number. Drew leaned in and looked more closely, angling the light so the glare didn't reflect off the glass. In each jar, immersed in the liquid, there appeared to be the remains of preserved rats, only claws and tails visible behind the labels. He took a jar off the middle shelf in front of him, turned it around and examined it more closely.

"God!" he exclaimed, as he examined the preserved rat carcass. It was a fetus, birth weight, it's eyes still shut. Drew looked more closely. Out of the dead animal's belly grew what appeared to be a second head, malformed and asymmetrical, but unmistakable with its tiny ears, snout and whiskers.

He put the jar back and picked up another. It was another rat, this time with long tails growing out of its eye sockets. A third jar contained another rat fetus, its malformed body like a slug, tapering into a long tail and with minuscule clawed flippers where its legs should be. He searched through the jars, examining all the hideous malformations, no two exactly the same. He opened the middle cabinet to find more jars, this time containing salamanders and frogs, with all the same mutations. On the bottom shelf were what appeared to be stillborn rabbits, twisted and garbled like the rats.

Drew opened the third cabinet, which contained more jars, along with several stacks of notebooks. He reached for one of the jars through the swirling of dust and held the flashlight to it.

Startled, he hit his head on the shelf above. A wave of nausea swelled in his stomach and, involuntarily, he retched so hard he almost dropped the jar. Inside was a tiny human fetus, so deformed it would have been hard to identify but for the multiple human-like heads. He examined a second jar and a third, all with human fetuses, all repulsively deformed, each in different ways.

Drew's whole body began to shake from the combination of cold, fright and exhilaration. It was now perfectly clear why Chaplain had kept this under wraps. Whatever had caused these deformities, it was certain that very powerful people would go to great lengths to keep it from coming to light.
Chapter 4

"Checked the mail yet?" Claire called to Krista from her bedroom.

"No mail," Krista replied.

Claire cursed under her breath. When she'd given her real address to the company, Evan had informed her by email to keep an eye on her mailbox, which she'd taken as a hint of good news to come. She'd been desperately hoping that the letter would arrive before she went home for the holidays, but since she was leaving in half an hour, that was looking less and less likely. With her roommate also going home for Christmas, whatever mail came would have to remain unopened until she got back.

No matter, she told herself as she packed the one small suitcase she'd be taking home on the bus. Good things come to those who wait. At least, that's what she told herself. If the news were bad, they'd have sent an email: We regret to inform you... Claire had received so many rejection emails since graduating that she was beginning to think her masters degree was more of an impediment than an asset. Discouragingly, her classmates all seemed to have had the same experience. The job market was so tight that even the part-time hostess job had taken a small miracle to procure. Though her address book was bursting with the names of non-profit board members who would certainly have taken her on as a volunteer, as well as head-hunters looking to staff unpaid internships, it was well known that such positions increasingly failed to lead to paying jobs.

For that reason, it would not be wrong to say that Claire was getting desperate. Desperate enough, in fact, that she'd allowed herself the indulgence of experimenting with less high-minded alternatives. Having frequently been told her looks would all but guarantee her a job serving drinks in some of the city's swankier night clubs, she'd taken steps in that direction. However, as she soon realized, not everyone was cut out for that kind of work. While looks had certainly gotten her in the door, fierce competition from women every bit as attractive and no less motivated ensured that keeping such jobs was a different matter.

Which was why, in the absence of a written offer, she was actually dreading the trip home. She knew the first thing her father would ask when he picked her up in his rusted out 4x4 was whether she'd heard any news about the job. She'd be obligated to watch his aging heart break as she told him that nothing had come yet. Upon arriving at the house, her mother would ask the same question and it would be no consolation to her that Claire had a good feeling about it \- the same good feeling she'd experienced more times than she cared to remember. Only her brother, no stranger to the challenges of youth unemployment, would truly understand what she was up against.

She zipped up her suitcase, laid it down in the hallway and sighed. Deciding to use the washroom before setting out, she sat down on the toilet and kicked the door closed. Then the doorbell rang. Claire felt the floor vibrate as Krista's creaking footsteps echoed through the apartment and down the stairs. After drying her hands, Claire emerged from the washroom to find Krista sorting through the mail. Claire looked at Krista eagerly.

"Just bills," said Krista.

Claire pouted, looking down.

"And a Christmas card from my aunt," continued Krista as Claire put her coat on. "And this totally unimportant registered letter from a company called Futura Org-- "

Before she could finish Claire bounded toward her. Beaming cheerfully, Krista held out the letter as Claire snatched it from her hand. Claire examined the letter, almost incredulous. A registered letter. A registered letter!

"Are you going to open it?" asked Krista, a little surprised that Claire hadn't done so already.

Claire's face drained of blood and her expression turned to fear.

"Want me to do it?"

Claire handed over the letter and Krista gingerly tore the flap. Claire crossed her fingers and toes on both hands and feet. Holding her breath, she glared at her roommate. Krista pulled out a single page letter.

"A single page?" whimpered Claire. "That's not good. Thick is good. Lots of pages are good."

Krista's expression became somber. She opened the folds and read the letter to herself, her eyes tracking back and forth as she scanned the text. Claire could feel her heart beating in her throat. Krista looked up as if she'd seen a ghost. Claire knew what that meant. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to burst into tears.

"Want me to read it?" asked Krista gingerly.

Her eyes moistening, Claire summoned her courage and forced herself to nod yes.

Krista drew a breath. "Dear Ms. LeBraun," she began in a serious tone. "We would like to thank you for your interest in becoming a member of our corporate team."

Claire sniffled and stared at her feet as a drop from her eye hit the floorboards.

Krista went on. "It is now our great pleasure to inform you that you have been selected to fill the position of corporate spokesperson at Futura Organic Systems Limited."

Claire looked up at Krista in shock.

"Are you alright?" asked Krista.

No answer.

"Claire?"

Claire's lower lip started to quiver and tears rolled out of the corners of her eyes. She stretched her arms out to Krista and Krista stepped forward. Claire fell into Krista's embrace and burst into a fit of relieved sobs. Krista hugged her tightly.

"You did it girl," she whispered proudly, rubbing Claire's back.

Claire cried, letting out all the frustrations of her long and difficult job hunt, all her fears of financial penury. When the tsunami of emotions finally subsided, she drew a breath and leaned back, holding Krista at arm's length and looking into her eyes.

"You did it," Krista reassured her again, handing her the letter.

Claire took the letter from Krista and read it over, almost unable to believe that it really contained the words she'd just heard. Tears drying on her face, she reached out for her roommate and again they embraced tightly.

"Thank you!" Claire gushed.

Krista smiled, glad to be the bearer of good news. She'd lived with Claire throughout her whole time as a masters student and had developed an appreciation for her work ethic. Claire deserved success more than anyone she knew, and it pleased her to see Claire attain it.

Realizing she was running late for her bus out of the city, Claire released her roommate, threw on her coat and collected her bag, checking that she had her phone and her wallet. She burst out the front door just in time to catch the Queen street car. Taking her seat, she couldn't wait to tell someone and the first someone to cross her mind was Drew. He'd jumped to write a reference letter for her, even though he had misgivings about the company. But given their history together, Claire had to think carefully about how to word it. She just wanted to say thanks for his support, but knowing that his financial situation was worse even than hers and his job prospects even more limited, she didn't want to come across as if she was gloating. She settled on the briefest and simplest text she could come up with. Hi Drew, Just wanted to let you know I got the job!! Thank you so much for your letter!

She pressed send and relaxed in her seat.

Chapter 5

Claire's text message found Drew reclining on his moldy futon, pouring over Chaplain's handwritten notes.

"Perfectly unintelligible", he grumbled, trying to decipher the ragged cursive that sprawled over the pages. The contents were a muddled blend of lab notes and journal entries that read more like fragments of a rambling professional diary. For all his scientific brilliance, Chaplain was not renown for his organizational skills and his notes reflected the chaotic workings of his frenzied mind. Drew had struggled all morning with the task of assimilating it.

But Claire's text message had broken his concentration. It had been like that since they went their separate ways. One call, one text, or just one stray memory bubbling up out of the depths of his unconscious and it was instant ADD. He berated himself for not having better self-discipline, and for feeling what could only be described as jealousy. Not professional jealousy. Hers wasn't a job he coveted, but, as petty and shallow as it was, it burned him that Claire had managed to pull it all together while his life remained a mess.

Unable to refocus his mind on Chaplain's notes, he decided to check his email. There was the usual spam, announcements from the faculty regarding grading deadlines, a few Facebook updates from people he barely remembered meeting... and a message from a guy named Raul Valdez. The subject line read Evidence. Drew opened the message:

I knew your professor. Please accept my condolences. I can help you find what you are looking for.

And that was all.

"Raul Valdez?" Drew asked out loud. He tried hard to remember anyone by that name, but couldn't. As to the evidence he was looking for, could it be related to Chaplain's secret research? Not knowing who Valdez was or whether he could be trusted, he decided to respond in a manner as cryptic as that of the original email.

Condolences accepted. I've found what I was meant to find. What does it mean?

If Valdez knew of Chaplain's research, he'd know what that meant. The only risk was that for all Drew knew, Valdez might the very person Chaplain was hiding the research from. He hit the send button and hoped that if Valdez was on the right side, he'd find a way to make clear what he knew.

His interest in Chaplain's secret work renewed, he went back to reading his late professor's notes. He'd ascertained so far that the deformities in the animals he'd seen in the storage locker were produced by varying concentrations of agricultural run-off in their drinking water rations. The problem was, Chaplain didn't know what the offending chemical could be, and admitted as much in his notes. There were numerous entries about lab tests attempting to identify it, but all tests for known teratogens had come back negative. Interestingly, there were no negative effects observed on the animals that directly consumed the water, even at high concentrations. That indicated that the chemical, whatever it was, acted on developing mammalian fetuses and not adults.

What surprised Drew was that some samples of runoff water produced severe deformities, while others produced none, even though these samples were taken from the same fields at the same time. This was utterly confounding, and not at all characteristic of geographical distribution patterns of typical agricultural genotoxins.

More confusing was the fact that some of the samples taken from stagnant wetlands near the fields directly after spraying produced no mutations, but samples taken from the same water bodies several weeks after spraying did. This finding suggested that if the spray was indeed the culprit, it was not a chemical present in the spray, but rather a breakdown product that only becomes active when the chemical degrades or interacts with environmental agents. It would take weeks and weeks of analysis to sort out how much Chaplain had learned about this.

Regardless of the details, two things were clear. One, an agricultural producer somewhere was using an unknown chemical with powerful teratogenic properties and two, there were human victims. If only he knew which producer, and where. Why had Chaplain said nothing in his notes about who he was investigating? Was he afraid that his research would be compromised if the notes fell into the wrong hands? He hoped that Valdez, whoever he was, held the key that would unlock the puzzle.

A week passed and, having submitted all the marks for his tutorial students, Drew focused entirely on deciphering Chaplain's hieroglyphs, working from early morning until late at night until, on Christmas morning, he allowed himself to sleep in. In celebration of the occasion, he'd turned on the portable radiator that usually remained buried deep in his bedroom closet. Warm and therefore uncharacteristically comfortable, he rolled out of bed and stretched, relishing the absence of frigid air that usually greeted him when he threw back the covers.

Turning off the heater on his way to the kitchen, he tempted himself with the thought of using it more often, but banished the idea when he calculated the impact on his power bill. Still relishing the warmth, he got dressed, sauntered over to the kitchen and pan-fried the side pork he'd bought from a specialty butcher the day before. It cost him a fortune by his standards, but it was Christmas. He made sure the turkey leg he planned to roast in the oven that night had thawed in the fridge. Along with some stovetop stuffing, a sweet potato he planned to mash and a can of cranberry sauce, that would be Christmas dinner, and he could barely wait.

Sitting down on the futon with a plate on his lap, Drew dug into the side pork, savoring every bite as if it were a spoonful of the finest caviar. He made the meal last as long as he could, cutting the strips of unsmoked bacon into tiny pieces. Before he was finished, his computer blipped, signaling that an email had arrived.

"Nope," he said to himself. "This is my day off." But curiosity got the better of him and as he hoisted the last bite to his lips, he got up and looked at the screen. It was from Valdez.

Merry Christmas, said the subject line. Drew opened it. The email contained nothing but three links, the first to a mapping site, the second to a photo page and third to an FTP document server. He started with the document server. The link took him to a page looking for a user name and password. Same with the photo site and the map server. He logged into each as a new user, creating a user name and password, but to no avail.

Drew emailed back asking for details. Can you send login info? The response came back almost right away. Your professor had it.

Drew turned and gazed loathingly at the stack of journals beside the futon. Not in there! Then he remembered the ReadMe file on the flash drive Chaplain left. He took out the drive from under a stack of papers in his desk drawer and popped it into his computer's USB slot. Opening the ReadMe file, he scanned it for indications of what the passwords might be.

At the very bottom of the page, following the master list of files, were two sentence fragments, each followed by numbers in brackets, which, on their own, made no sense. Drew had noticed these before, but had no idea what they had meant. Looking at them more closely, he realized they had a similar format to the coded hints Chaplain had used for the safety deposit box at the bank. The first:

Single cell electrophresis. (5 letters)

Single cell elecrophresis was the technical term for what is casually known as a "comet assay", a sophisticated method of measuring the extent of cellular DNA fragmentation. C-O-M-E-T, five letters. Maybe that's not what he was thinking, but it fit. The second proved more cryptic:

Page number of "While the stochastic spatial deposition patterns of Hg, Cu and Ni concentrations suggest multiple sources, analyses of isotopic ratios confirm a single point of origin."(4 digits)

Presumably this meant that the page number of the source in which this quote could be found. The first thing Drew did was Google the sentence, putting it in quotes, but nothing came up. He removed the quotes, but none of the hits appeared relevant. Google was the wrong tool, he thought. If the page number was part of a password he was trying to communicate in code, it would do no good to use a sentence anyone could search. But if not online, then where? He didn't even know whose quote it was or what kind of source to go looking for. Was it a book? A scholastic journal? The term needle in a haystack didn't begin to do this justice. Unless...

Unless it was one of Chaplain's own articles. That would narrow the field considerably, although Chaplain did publish an incredible number of articles in his long and distinguished career. Drew had a hard copy of Chaplain's professional CV, on which were itemized all of his academic publications. He pulled it out and highlighted titles relating to heavy metals, atmospheric deposition, isotopes. Having gained a feel for Chaplain's cloak and dagger tactics, he figured the sentence must be in one of the more obscure publications, likely one that could only be found in print. Cross-referencing these left at least eleven possible articles. Since Chaplain's personal collection of journals was now deep in the bowels of the university, this meant a trip to the university library, which was closed until classes resumed in January.

Drew decided it was better to email Valdez to ask again than to wait that long. The response came back:

If you don't have the password, I cannot trust you.

So, he had no choice but to wait. He ventured to the library as soon as it opened in the New Year and started tracking down the articles, one by one. He stacked the volumes in a study carrel as he retrieved them from different sections of the shelves, then returned to go through them. Working in order of most to least likely, he scanned the abstracts, then the articles themselves, keeping his eyes peeled for the key words and phrases: stochastic, spatial deposition, isotope ratios. Nothing in the first. Nothing in the second, nor the third, nor the fourth. By the time he'd reached the ninth he found himself wondering if he was going to find what he was looking for. He kept reading until the end of the eleventh article, and found nothing. He pulled out Chaplain's CV again and looked at it more closely. If not journal articles, what about book chapters?

It just so happened that Chaplain had contributed no less than 14 chapters to various published scientific books, only three of which had anything to do with heavy metals. Fortunately, all three were in the stacks. He scanned the first, then the second, then started on the third. When he reached the end, his heart sank. He'd found nothing resembling the quote he was looking for. Standing up, he closed the book. If Chaplain had really wanted him to find it, he could have made it a bit more accessible. Clearly, he was trying to prevent the codes from falling into the wrong hands, but this was ridiculous.

Drew gathered the books and journal volumes and was about to leave them on a desk from which the librarian would collect them when an idle thought occurred to him. Endnotes. The books all had endnote sections which did not immediately follow the chapters to which they were linked. Drew sat at the desk and flipped to the endnotes for Chaplain's chapters. The first book didn't contain the sentence and neither did the second. He scanned the third.

Halfway through the first page of notes, his heart jumped a beat. There it was in extremely small print. While the stochastic spatial deposition patterns of Hg, Cu and Ni concentrations suggest multiple sources, analyses of isotopic ratios confirm a single point of origin. Page number... A-497. Drew prayed this was it. He closed the book, stood up and was about to leave when he remembered that Chaplain had warned him about being followed. If anyone had followed him here, they would know he'd looked at these books... unless he reshelved them himself. He took the time to do so, just in case.

When he descended the stairs, he sat down at one of the computer consoles at which he intended to log on to his email account and open the links Valdez had provided. But the same paranoid concern that had led him to reshelf the books made him hesitate. What if someone was watching him now? Or worse, what if someone had hacked his account? Of course, if somebody had accessed his university email, they would know all about Valdez. But his exchanges had been so cryptic that it would be hard to guess the passwords. That must have been why Valdez had sent no hints.

Drew tensed his body as a sense of dread rose within him. If people really were following him, they wouldn't just watch where he went physically. They'd track all his activity online. To thwart their efforts, he decided that he'd access the data from computers unassociated with his university account. He went home, copied the links onto a flash drive, wrote down the passwords on paper and headed out again to the Toronto Reference Library at Yonge and Bloor.

At the library, he opened an internet browser and set up two new Google accounts using aliases and stored Chaplain's data on one, the links on the other. Then he copied the first link into the browser's ULR bar. In the password box that came up he typed "cometa497", hoping that after all that work it was not wasted. But what about the user name? He tried Chaplain's university email and the combination was rejected. Next he tried his own personal email. Same result. He tried other potential user names until, running out of ideas, he tried Chaplain's personal email. He typed... he waited... and he was in!

The link took Drew to a collection of maps in Google Earth, apparently displaying part of an agricultural region in Honduras. Each map featured a number of markers, coded alphanumerically. He recognized this instantly as Chaplain's format for sample labeling. The first few digits represented the date on which the sample was taken, a letter identified the sample technician and the final three digits were the unique number of each sample.

After carefully examining the data, Drew was confident that the maps recorded the geospatial coordinates of each sample, although how accurate they were he wasn't sure. What wasn't explained was the colour coding on the map. Drew looked at the spreadsheet data, but it provided no clue as to what they represented.

He went back to the email from Valdez and clicked on the second link. When prompted, he input the same username and password he had before and a new window opened in his browser. On it were collections of thumbnail photos of what appeared to be agricultural operations. In the first gallery, there were workers planting seedlings, weeding, harvesting vegetables and sorting them. The photos, many of which were blurry and out of focus, looked like they'd been taken by people with very little photographic experience, or perhaps by people who didn't want to be seen taking pictures so had to snap them surreptitiously. The second gallery featured a combine working its way through a cornfield. The third gallery, in which all the photos were shot on a telephoto lens from what appeared to be a great distance, showed workers with backpack mounted tanks spraying rows of seedlings. There were no labels on the photos, no dates and no notes. Drew hypothesized that the photographs must be of the fields from which the data was taken.

Next, Drew followed the link to the FTP server. The password worked again and the window filled with a PDF document featuring a key to the colour coding, indicating that each colour was associated with a different crop. All this gave him valuable information, but as always in science, the data spoke in riddles. Finding the right answers meant asking the right questions.

First, what do I know for sure? He knew exactly where the samples were taken, what crops were being grown around them and what teratogenic effects the samples had on the offspring of animals on which they were tested. Most importantly, he knew that human fetuses had shown similar defects, though the link with the samples was not clear.

Second, what do I suspect on the basis of evidence? From Chaplain's notes and the supporting data, he understood that these effects were somewhat dose related and that the window of action appeared to be early in the gestational period.

Third, what don't I know? He didn't know what was being sprayed, or whether anything in the spray was truly the agent that produced the deformities in the animals.

Drew invested as much time as he could spare on the weekend before classes began. He learned that Chaplain had paid for soil tests that ruled out atrazine, glyphosate, 2,4-D, 2,4,5-T, or any known herbicide. There was no imidacloprid or any neonicotinoid. There were no forms of dioxin above background levels, no fumigant, no anti-fungal with known teratogenic effects, no heavy metals beyond base line concentrations considered normal in that part of the world. What surprised Drew was how many individual tests had been performed. To the list of things he didn't know, he added how Chaplain had managed to pay for them all.

The answer to that question revealed itself shortly after classes started for the winter term. The officer who questioned Drew at the scene mailed him a copy of the coroner's report, which had formally ruled Chaplain's death a suicide. Video footage from the camera had confirmed that he was alone when he died and that he'd done everything himself. The toxicology report revealed the presence of a chemical commonly used to euthanize lab animals. Once the investigation had been closed and the results made official, the lawyer executing Chaplain's estate mailed a copy of his will to all the beneficiaries. Apparently, he'd left his collection of academic journals to Drew. At the lawyer's office, Drew learned from another beneficiary that Chaplain's house had been put up for sale by the estate to clear numerous debts incurred on credit cards, in addition to a hefty second mortgage. Knowing Chaplain as one of the most frugal people he'd ever met, Drew connected the dots. His professor had literally spent his last dollar trying to unravel the mystery he'd ultimately passed on to Drew.

The coroner's report had also revealed Chaplain had also suffered from an untreatable form of lymphoma. A specialist had informed him several months prior to his death that, without treatment, he had at most a year to live. Drew had wondered what might have compelled Chaplain to kill himself. He'd feared it might have been a solitary protest against the isolation and the loneliness that defined his professional existence and he felt guilty over whatever role he might have played in that. Maybe he could have been more social and gone over just to visit sometimes. But Chaplain simply wasn't a sentimental man. The cancer revelation suggested that his decision to commit suicide had been the outcome of a careful, rational analysis of all his options and their likely outcomes. He knew he had cancer, he knew it would cost a fortune to fight and he knew that the best he could hope for was to prolong his life by a few months, if even that. So he decided to ignore the disease and channel his all efforts into one final push to bring an evil company to justice.

Drew was deeply impressed by Chaplain's dedication. Instead of flying off to some tropical paradise to live out his last days in peace and warmth, like so many people in his situation might, he'd invested every minute of his time and every cent he had left fighting the fight to which he'd devoted his whole academic life, even though he must have known he'd never live to see the victory he longed for.

Chaplain's bravery could not help but remind Drew of a painting his father displayed over their basement fireplace. The painting was of the raging sea battle that resulted in the sinking of HMS Hood by the Nazi battleship Bismarck. Reports by sailors on a nearby British ship confirmed that HMS Hood, sinking fast after being blown in two a mere eight minutes into the battle, managed to fire one final salvo even as her broken hull sank beneath the heaving seas. Just as the brave crewmen of HMS Hood never lived to see Bismarck ravaged by the guns of the British fleet days later, Chaplain would never see the results of his hard work and sacrifice.

Unable to attend the funeral, which Chaplain's daughter had elected to hold in British Columbia where most of the family lived, Drew silently vowed to see justice done. Mark Chaplain, may you rest in peace.

Chapter 6

As the first week of class got underway for the winter term, Drew had to cut back on his research to accommodate the tutorials he was required to conduct. While he generally enjoyed teaching, the import of his new project made the banalities of university life seem trivial.

On the Friday of the first week of the term, he received an unexpected letter in his mailbox. He had been formally invited to a reception hosted jointly by the faculties of science and business, sponsored by none other than Claire's new employer, Futura Organic Systems Ltd.

Drew laughed when he read the invitation and decided on the spot that he wouldn't legitimize the event by attending, but changed his mind after Claire told him she'd personally arranged his invitation. That and the fact that there was sure to be a bountiful snack table. While he had no love for "Great Satan", a free meal was a free meal. So, when the night came, he took the one suit he owned out of his closet.

Looking out the window, he cursed the weather. The one day he had to wear his formal shoes there had to be a blizzard. His options were to take a cab or wear his causals to the building and change in the washroom, and he opted for the latter. There was no way he was parting with a week's pasta money just to save a walk in the snow. Then, realizing how awkward it would be to change into his suit in the washroom, he grudgingly dialed the taxi company.

Waiting for the cab under the shelter of the front porch, he looked at his watch. The taxi was late, but that was no problem. While an early arrival might give him more time at the snack table, it would also lead to awkward conversations with the self-important blowhards faculty events invariably attract. Being fully aware of the low esteem in which both he and his late professor were held by all the posers didn't make socializing with them any easier.

Flashing his invitation to the attendants as he entered the reception room, he was handed a name tag, which he dutifully applied to the breast of his suit jacket. Glancing furtively around the room as he made a not-so-subtle B-line to the food table, he began to worry he was underdressed. Everyone looked so slick and polished that he felt like a ragamuffin in his worn-out $80 suit. On second thought, considering the reputation of Futura's sister company, he began to regret not strutting in wearing torn jeans and a Greenpeace T-Shirt. He took a plate from the stack at the end of the table and loaded it with an assortment of cheeses, grapes, strawberries, melons and as many crackers as he could balance on the plate.

"Make hay while the sun shines," came a familiar voice behind him.

Drew turned to see Lars standing behind him, wine glass in hand. "I didn't know you got an invitation."

"I thought you could use a wing man," Lars winked.

"Always," Drew chuckled, thrilled to see his friend. He'd crashed enough of these events himself to know that unless a formal meal was served, it wasn't difficult to get in on the action.

"Come on. I'll introduce you to the cutest pre-med in the city," Lars beckoned with a toss of the head. "But first, you need a drink."

"I think I'm gonna lay low tonight," muttered Drew.

"Because of her?" Lars raised a brow.

"No," answered Drew, "It's just..."

"Liar!" quipped Lars.

Drew clenched his teeth.

"Ditch the sell-out bitch," Lars admonished him. "We'll pick up the hottest women in the room, right under her nose."

"Claire is the hottest woman in the room," Drew reminded Lars. "And flirting with undergrads won't make her want me back."

"Forget undergrads!" laughed Lars. "How about a lab tech with the most stunning green eyes you could imagine."

"You're right, I need a drink."

They walked to the bar together and Drew ordered a rum and coke. Walking back into the crowd, Lars spotted a female social science post-doc he knew gossiping with an attractive young woman. Lars tapped the post-doc on the back and she turned around, smiling brightly when she saw it was him. She reached out with her arms and gave him a hug. Drew knew Lars wanted him to introduce himself to the post-doc's companion, but her demeanor suggested she wanted nothing to do with him. He tried anyway.

"Nice to meet you," said Drew, extending his hand.

"Uh-huh," she grunted, looking away, her arms crossed.

Not sure what to say next, Drew asked all the standard questions about her program, her supervisor and other things students chat about when they first meet. Without making eye contact, she replied in monotone, single-word answers designed to obviate her disinterest. When a female friend of hers walked in the door, the woman abruptly turned and sashayed away, leaving Drew in mid sentence.

"Don't you hate women who do that?" remarked Lars, whose conversation partner had much more politely broken off their discussion to follow her friend.

"So much for chatting up the hotties."

"The night is young."

"I'm getting more food."

Lars mingled with other guests as Drew trudged back to the food table. Stacking his plate a second time, Drew looked back at his tall, handsome friend. He envied how at ease Lars was in social settings. He was no Don Juan, but he attracted women as naturally as Drew repelled them, and this, in Drew's eyes, was something to be admired. There was a lot to admire about Lars - his amazing generosity, his uncanny ability to be there for Drew just when the world was caving in on him, and his insistence on a frugal lifestyle far less extravagant than what he could afford. Drew wished he could be more like his friend in so many ways.

The chatter died down as somebody clinked repeatedly on a glass. Drew turned to see the dean of science standing on a raised portion of the floor, his back straightened and his shoulders back in the pose assumed by an important man about to address an appreciative audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please," said the dean as the last of the conversations subsided. "First of all, I'd like to thank you all for joining us on this rather snowy evening. Second, I'd like to express how proud I am to be able to make the official announcement of a new research partnership between the Faculty of Science and Futura Organic Systems Limited."

The dean paused as applause erupted throughout the room. "Futura's involvement with the University of Southern Ontario is emblematic of the growing interdependency between the corporations that drive economic growth and the universities that prepare students to take leadership roles in those corporations."

The dean continued, heaping praise on Futura to rounds of appreciative applause from the audience. As he spoke, Drew gazed at Claire standing behind him, a step to the side. Beside her was a tall blonde man in a well tailored suit. His narrow eyes, well defined cheekbones and strong jaw made Drew think of a young Robert Redford. Arms at his side, he smiled assuredly as the dean delivered his speech.

When the dean of science finished his speech to rousing applause, the dean of business stepped forward and expanded on the critical need for interdisciplinary approaches in solving the "wicked problems" that define the 21st century business environment and explained how Futura was a world leader in that regard.

When the dean of business finished and the applause died down, the Robert Redford look-alike stepped forward. "As a proud employee of Futura Organic Systems, I'm thrilled that we've been afforded the opportunity to partner with so venerable an institution as the University of Southern Ontario." After returning the flattery bestowed on his company by the two deans and reaffirming the importance of the new partnership, he turned to Claire.

"As much as I enjoy being the bearer of good news," he continued, "Today, I must leave that honor to someone else. It is my great pleasure to introduce a woman many of you already know quite well. An outstanding role model for aspiring students, Claire LeBraun has proven her commitment to social justice and environmental sustainability, both core values of Futura. "

"I'm gonna puke," Drew whispered to Lars, who chortled quietly.

"A recent graduate of the faculty of business," the man went on, "Claire is a shining example of the kind of young professional who will lead the way toward our glowing future. Without further delay, I give you Claire LeBraun."

Rousing applause erupted throughout the room and Claire felt adrenaline surge through her as she stepped forward. She took a deep breath, then, as the applause died away, she began.

"Thank you very much Evan, for that most flattering introduction. I'm very humbled to have been given the opportunity to work for a company so deeply committed to the kind of transformation our business culture desperately needs right now. It is no exaggeration to say that our collective relationship with food and the people who produce it has become dysfunctional. I'm delighted that along with my new colleagues at Futura, I will have the opportunity to play a vital role in bringing about a genuine and lasting renewal in this relationship. As an important step in this direction, it is my sincere pleasure to announce the creation of an endowed graduate scholarship fund to be jointly administered by the faculties of business and science."

A deafening applause broke out and Claire paused, enjoying the effect of her words.

"This fund will enable the kind of interdisciplinary research that straddles the boundaries separating science and business. By recognizing the value of strategic partnerships, the fund seeks to harness intellectual capital for the deployment of innovative, environmentally sound and economically viable solutions to the challenges facing this planet and the people who inhabit it."

Claire looked directly at Drew. "The fund will provide tuition support, generous living allowances and research dollars for masters and PhD students with strong credentials. It will favour proposals with demonstrable relevance to both technological progress and environmental sustainability and will be administered jointly by Futura Organic Systems Ltd and the university. A minimum of 10 grants will be distributed this year and current students of USO are strongly encouraged to apply."

Claire smiled proudly as the audience burst into excited cheers. Lars motioned to Drew to follow him to the bar.

"Gotta hand it to her," came a voice in Drew's ear, the smell of vodka permeating the speaker's hot breath. "She can handle herself in front of a crowd." It was a fellow PhD student in the faculty of science, also a former director of the organization through which Drew and Claire had met. He knew them both and enjoyed a front row seat to the saga of their almost-romance.

"It's the journalist in her," Drew replied.

"So how do you feel now that she's sleeping with the enemy?" he joked sarcastically, elbowing Drew a bit too hard in the ribs.

Drew stiffened. "The funding is great news," he admitted. "I just wish it wasn't from them."

"Beggars can't be choosers," replied Drew's friend.

"We're not begging," argued Drew. "We're sucking corporate dick."

Drew's friend rolled his eyes. "I know you've got a beef with 'Great Satan' Foods and I totally get it, but without their money, we're cooked."

"So welcome to Greenwash U."

"At least I've got a lab to work in," he smirked, slapping Drew on the back. "Sorry to hear about Chaplain." The student tossed back his drink and stumbled to the bar for another, glad-handing his way through the crowd.

Drew festered inside as he watched the student go. Drunk is drunk, but that remark about the lab was too much.

Drew felt a gentle hand on his opposite shoulder. He turned to see Dr. Akintola, Professor Emeritus of evolutionary biology and quite literally Chaplain's only remaining friend in the faculty of science.

"It was Mark Twain who observed that a man's principles are of no real force unless he is well fed," quipped Akintola in his deep African accent.

"Money may not be the root of all evil," whispered Drew, paraphrasing Twain in response, "but the lack of it tends to loosen one's morals."

"Twain might well have had this university in mind," the professor joked darkly.

"Dr. Chaplain must be rolling in his grave."

"How will you complete your research now that Mark has passed on?" asked Akintola. "I'm not sure you'll find a suitable supervisor here."

"If I go to another school I start from scratch," replied Drew, "and there aren't many professors round like Chaplain."

"Did you ever get that grant?"

"Not yet."

Akintola winced, the wrinkles on his forehead forming deep crevices in his dark black skin. "Under the circumstances, I'm not sure if you can count on it."

"And my tuition installment is due next week," added Drew.

"Can you pay it?"

"On plastic."

"I wish there was something I could do," the professor frowned, "but I have no budget now that I'm officially retired."

"My TA salary keeps me in the game for now." Drew neglected to tell Akintola about Chaplain's small gift of cash.

"I will keep my fingers crossed for you."

Noting Claire and Robert Redford approach, Akintola alerted Drew and moved on. Drew watched them as they worked their way through the crowd. Something about the two of them together made Drew bristle. The way she leaned into him when they spoke, how he let his hand linger for a split second too long when he touched her arm. Perhaps he was projecting, but it just seemed like there was something one layer deeper than their professional relationship, and he burned inside.

"Drew," called Claire, when they got close enough. "I'd like you to meet Evan, head of PR at Futura."

Smiling broadly, Evan extended a hand. "I recall reading your very enthusiastic letter in support of Claire."

"I'm sure that's what clinched the deal," smiled Drew.

"No doubt about it," Evan returned the joke.

"Enjoying the new job?" Drew asked Claire.

"I've only just started," Claire replied, "but so far, it's amazing."

"She's about to be a busy woman," Evan added, "traveling all over the world."

"Where to?" asked Drew, impressed.

"Central and South America," replied Claire. "I'm touring our farms, meeting our farmers. I'll even get to try working in the fields."

"Right up your alley."

Claire smiled in agreement, then something in her expression changed. She put a hand on Drew's arm, making his whole body tingle.

"I'm going to make my way to the bar," said Evan, sensing the need to let Claire finish some business.

Claire looked into Drew's eyes, her face so gentle, so beautiful that his heart was about to burst. "Honestly," she said in a quieter voice, "thank you so much."

"All I did was write a letter," protested Drew.

"No," replied Claire. "You know what I'm talking about."

Drew didn't know for sure, but he'd feel silly asking. He surmised that she was referring to his generosity toward her in general after their breakup. Of course, it wasn't really a breakup, because they weren't really together. But once it had become obvious how he felt about her, and equally obvious that the feeling wasn't entirely mutual, there wasn't much to do but go their separate ways. While Claire had far more character than to take advantage of Drew, she had asked for his help professionally on a number of occasions and he had never withheld it nor asked her for anything in return.

"Congratulations," stated Drew, trying hard to sound like he meant it.

"Can I give you a hug?" she asked him.

Drew opened his arms and the two embraced. He breathed in her scent deeply, wishing he could hold her forever, take her home, make her all his. Far too soon, she pulled away.

"Go work the room," said Drew, struggling to keep his voice from trembling.

Claire smiled and turned away.

Drew looked around the room for Lars, who he found near the bar flirting in his ever so casual way with a group of adoring young women. His height, his chiseled features, his breezy confidence, his way with words - in several languages no less - all gave him an edge Drew knew he would never possess.

Defeated and deflated, Drew sulked to the door. He'd had his fill of snack food and it was time to go home.

"Drew," called a young female voice from behind him. Turning, he saw it was a student from the course he'd assisted with the preceding semester. After exchanging pleasantries and making their way through the obligatory small-talk, she mentioned that she had a friend who, having bombed first year chemistry, was desperately in need of a tutor for her second attempt.

"She needs the credit," the student said, "but she doesn't have the science background."

"Mature student?" asked Drew.

The woman nodded yes. "She's trying really hard."

"She knows my rate?"

"I told her."

"Have her send me an email."

Chapter 7

The following morning when Drew woke up, there was an email from the student's friend in his inbox.

Hello,

My friend from your tutorial said you might take on another private student. Can you tutor me in first year chem? I need lots of help and I can pay.

Scarlett

Drew wrote back, explaining his rate and his terms, hopeful that she meant what she said about being able to pay. Immediately, he received another email asking if he could meet that afternoon at the Starbucks on the corner of Queen and John. He agreed, giving her his cell number.

He arrived early, claiming a plush easy-chair in the corner opposite the door, warming in the afternoon sun. Reviewing material for the botany course he was assisting with this semester, he occasionally scanned the entrance for people fitting the description Scarlett had provided: five foot five, long dark brown hair, red North Face coat. They'd arranged to meet at 2 pm, and his watch said five past. Then 10 past, then quarter past. Lateness being anything but rare among his tutoring students, he resolved to wait, but after another15 minutes Drew was beginning to wonder if Scarlett would show. Absorbing himself in his reading, he lost interest in watching for her.

Suddenly, he heard a soft, slightly raspy voice beside him.

"Excuse me, are you Drew Freeman?"

Drew looked up into the eyes of a youthful brunette in a red North Face coat, her long, straight hair cascading over her shoulders from beneath a white knitted hat.

"Scarlett, I presume?"

"I'm so sorry for being late," she gushed, taking off her coat to reveal a beige, woolen turtle-neck sweater that hugged her slender waist and broadened gently at her hips.

"It's alright," he said.

"No, it isn't, and I'm going to pay for your time."

"You don't have to do that." Drew couldn't help but notice the way the garment bulged over a pair of breasts that seemed large for her petite frame. Though nothing had been said about her looks, she was far more attractive than he'd imagined.

"I feel so bad, because honestly, I'm never late." She threw her coat over the armchair opposite Drew. "It's just that my cat knocked over a glass just as I was going out and it broke and I had to clean it up or he'd cut his paws on the glass, you know?"

"I understand," Drew assured her.

"At least let me get you something,"

"It's quite alright."

"Then I'll get myself something."

She went to order, then returned with a small tea and a chocolate chip cookie, placing them both on the table in between the two chairs. She sat down with a little bounce."The cookie's for you. I figured everyone likes chocolate, right?"

"Actually I'm allergic," replied Drew.

"Are you serious?"

"Not remotely."

Scarlett laughed.

"Thank you," replied Drew.

"So, think you can help me?"

"That depends on you."

"I promise to work really hard."

"Then I can almost certainly help," affirmed Drew.

"God I hope so!" she explained.

"How are your math skills?" he asked.

Scarlett replied with a silent wince accompanied by a "so-so" wave of the hand.

"Then that's where we start." Drew reached into his laptop case and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in half.

Scarlett took it from his outstretched hand and opened it. "A math test?" she cringed.

"I need to see where your skills are."

"You want me to do it now?"

"It's homework, but I want you to do it completely on your own."

"What if I can't?" she asked, a little uneasy.

"Go as far as you can." Drew watched Scarlett as she looked the paper over. "Have you had tutoring before?"

"I worked with a tutor last semester."

"I assume your assignment marks were good, but you bombed the exams."

"How did you know?" wondered Scarlett.

"Did you feel like you understood the material when your tutor was there, but couldn't bring it together when he wasn't?"

"On my God, that's exactly what happened!"

"He helped you with the assignment questions directly," guessed Drew. "I'll help you with the concepts so you can do the questions on your own. Then when the test comes, you'll be ready."

"When can we start?" asked Scarlett in a tone that signaled eagerness and determination.

"How about tomorrow? We can meet at the University of Toronto library."

"Deal," said Scarlett, extending a hand.

As they shook, Drew decided to make a final point. "If it's alright, I'd like to ask you to pay for each lesson in advance."

"You've had some problems?"

"You have no idea."

Scarlett agreed, promised to do her homework and Drew watched as she put her coat back on. Raising her arms to put through the sleeves, the bottom of her sweater rose above the top of her black tights to reveal a taught stomach adorned with a tiny butterfly tattoo and belly button piercing. She smiled and waved goodbye as she left. Drew stole a final glance at her shapely legs and firm behind as she went out the door.

When she was gone, Drew opened his laptop and checked his email. There was a message from Valdez.

Have you found the password?

Drew replied:

Yes. I've seen the map, the photos and the documents. You can trust me. How do I know I can I trust you?

He knew it sounded curt, but he was sick of being on the defensive. He waited for a few minutes while he finished preparing his lessons, then checked again. There was no email, so he packed up and left.

On his way home, he stopped in at the discount supermarket to buy some provisions. Cabbage, onions, carrots and more mac-and-cheese. The $200 in his wallet was all he had left from what Chaplain had willed him, after making a payment toward the mountain of credit card debt he knew would grow even larger when he paid his next tuition installment.

Groceries in hand, he trudged back to his apartment. When he'd put the food away, he sat down and picked up Chaplain's journals. It puzzled him that there was no mention of anyone named Valdez in any of the volumes. There were references to a female student from Honduras and a Mexican professor, but never by name. He clearly wanted to protect their identities, the question was, from whom?

Chaplain's almost absurd level of secrecy suggested that whoever it may be had the power to sabotage his research. Having been harassed by companies throughout his career, Chaplain had become well versed in their tactics. Their first line of defense was to cast doubt on his research by calling on scientists dependent on funding they provided to criticize it. If that failed, the same scientists would be engaged to write scathing attacks in academic journals, taking exception to his methods and calling into question his personal objectivity. If that didn't work, the next step would be to harass him at conferences, attempting to gun him down with a withering barrage of skeptical questions. If he still persisted in being a thorn in their sides - and he always did - they'd threaten to sue the university for defamation, or use even more underhanded means.

In one case, a chemical company secretly offered the dean of science at his former university $500,000 towards a new lab complex if he fired Chaplain outright. Unfortunately for the company, the dean's friendship with Chaplain went all the way back to their undergrad years and not only was the offer rejected, but the company was banned from contributing financially to the university for a decade. Rumors that the dean's sudden death was not of natural causes gained traction when the new dean fired Chaplain on the grounds of alleged safety violations in his lab (tenure notwithstanding). Though nothing was ever proven, the unexplained reversal of the funding ban and construction of a $2.5 million dollar toxicology lab named after the company raised eyebrows.

In that context, there was no doubt that Chaplain had anticipated sabotage in this case. This led Drew to wonder if the company Claire had just hired on with might have at least some involvement. It would explain all the secrecy. And she'd said at the reception that she'd be touring fields in Central and South America, but there was no direct evidence linking Futura or Great Southern with any of Chaplain's research. There was no mention of either Chaplain's notes, so until such evidence surfaced, he would make no assumptions.

Drew checked his email again. Valdez had responded.

If you have the password, you know what Professor Chaplain has been hiding. One of the specimens would have been my child.

A chill ran down Drew's spine. If that was true, this wasn't just scientific research to Raul Valdez. It was deeply personal, and Drew vowed to respect that. The reference to the specimen was cryptic, but it proved Valdez knew about the preserved fetuses. Drew wrote back:

I'm very sorry for your loss. I will do my best to help you.

Drew wanted to express his sympathy more deeply, but what was he supposed to say to a person he didn't even know? He decided to get right down to business by asking the identity of the company managing the fields from which the samples were taken. Many conglomerates operating in Latin America and other regions worked through locally based subsidiaries or contractors, meaning whatever leads Valdez might produce could well lead up a blind alley, but it was worth a shot.

His next question pertained to Chaplain's notes, which contained a timeline and the geospatial distributions of miscarriages with confirmed deformities, but they lacked information on potential teratogens to which the women in question were exposed. Did Valdez see a pattern Chaplain had missed, or omitted to discuss? This was critical, since the degree of exposure to toxic agricultural chemicals was often mediated by one's proximity to the fields. In most cases, children of agricultural workers were far more likely to exhibit physical deformities or mental disabilities than non-agricultural workers who lived in the same village, yet this did not seem to be the case here. Admittedly, the sample size was small, but if no similar pattern emerged as the number of known cases grew, a case could be made that the source of the teratogen was not the agricultural operation, but some nearby industry.

In reality, the source didn't have to be close at all. Drew's own field research proved that atmospheric deposition gradients of industrial pollutants were nowhere near as linear as was widely thought. A field closer to the source might be less saturated with the pollutant than a field far away. It depended on the wind, the timing of the release, the weight of the molecules and dozens of other factors.

Barring a miracle, this was going to be an uphill battle. To pinpoint the chemical source of the deformities and actually prove it would require a degree of scientific rigor that was beyond his present resources. Even if he had millions of dollars of funding, state-of-the-art lab facilities and an interdisciplinary team of crackerjack scientists, the truth might still prove elusive. And even if he found it, he'd face the same barrage of criticism to which Chaplain had been repeatedly subjected. If he went public, the company's lawyers would have him for breakfast.

Chaplain had to have known all this. He had to have understood what a long shot it would be to bring the polluter, whoever it was, to justice. Yet, he'd done it before. His work had been the basis for successful lawsuits and even criminal prosecutions. But he hadn't done it alone. He'd had collaborators, funding and, at the very least, the salary of a tenured professor.

And Drew had... nothing. He felt his whole body tense up at the thought of the sheer futility of the mission Chaplain had assigned him from beyond the grave. He sat back on his futon and breathed deeply, trying to relax and vent the tension before the all-too-familiar cycle kicked in. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself in a forest, or swimming in the ocean, anywhere pleasant and relaxing. But it was no use. Suddenly his chest began to constrict he couldn't breathe. It was like an elephant was standing on his rib cage. His hands clutched at the fabric of his seat as his heart palpitated. Opening his eyes, he stood up and stumbled toward the door, desperate to get some fresh air, but even as he moved, bright flashes filled his narrowing peripheral vision. He fell to his knees, grasping the door handle in a final attempt to remain upright, then hit the floor with a thud. Finally, his world went dark.

By the time he awoke, half an hour had passed. He had no memory of falling to the floor, although he understood how he'd gotten there. He breathed as deeply as he could, wheezing as he inhaled dust and mold from the throw rug on which he lay. When he regained his strength, he slowly pushed himself onto his knees, then carefully crawled to the futon, crashing face down on it.

He found himself wishing Claire would come in, sit beside him and stroke his hair, the way she did once before when a similar spell had come on. They'd been working in the office of the NGO of which he was briefly a director when the same combined feeling of urgency and futility had driven him to tense up and collapse. He remembered waking up in the "recovery position", with Claire beside him, looking supportively into his eyes. The paramedics insisted he go with them and Claire rode in the ambulance, stroking his hair to comfort him. As he waited to be seen by the doctor, Claire told Drew she was deeply moved by his visceral compassion for the people their organization was trying to help, and Drew confessed that he was in love with her. She kissed him on the forehead, then on the cheek, then ever so gently on the lips. He'd never felt happier in his life.

Only it wasn't to last. As profoundly as Claire respected Drew and was impressed by his passion and dedication, she didn't love him, not the way she understood love. And while she would never have admitted it, even to herself, she knew her ambition would always be at odds with his idealism. Her roommate Krista, herself a great admirer of Drew's commitment, had told her as much.

"You can't be with a guy who's always tilting at windmills," she advised her. Claire had used these words to explain why their relationship would never work out, and Drew had understood. Yet as hard as he worked to convince himself she was right, that they were not meant for each other, he could not help but feel a sense of deep and personal failure. Was that the role he'd have to play all his life? The guy who tilts at windmills? Driven by a passionate obsession with righting the wrongs of the world, yet constantly overwhelmed by the futility of his efforts, it was looking that way.

How he wished Claire were there to comfort him in his moment of need... but she wasn't, and she wouldn't be. Ever.
Chapter 8

After another restless sleep, Drew awoke to the high-pitched squeal of his alarm and stumbled out of bed. Checking his email, he read a message from Valdez, customarily brief.

Something is happening. Check the photos.

Drew logged onto the photo site to find that something was definitely happening. The photos revealed jeeps and trucks, tractors, a couple of black SUV's and a bunch of white skinned people in colourful clothing. He scanned the photos for any sign of who they might be. He looked for logos or insignias on vehicles, coats or t-shirts, but there was nothing he could identify. Most of the photos were taken with a wide angle lens, likely from a cell phone, from too far away. He needed more to go on.

He replied to Valdez.

Can you get closer?

Before he pressed send, he considered whether he should be communicating with Valdez over his university email. The alternative would be to use one of the aliases he'd set up, but Valdez wouldn't know who it was unless he identified himself and might think it's a trap. If anyone had gained access to his account, they'd already know about Valdez. No doubt this was why Valdez was so cryptic. Drew decided that as long as the data remained private, a few cryptic emails wouldn't give anything away. He hit send and resolved to spend the morning dealing with more practical matters.

In the time he had before his lesson with Scarlett, he started marking the semester's first assignments and prepared his tutorial lessons for the following week. When afternoon came and Drew arrived at the library, Scarlett was already there, chemistry and math books sprawling across the table.

"That's the spirit," chirped Drew enthusiastically.

"Thought I'd get a head start."

"Have you done the homework?" Drew asked as he took off his coat.

"As best I could." Scarlett placed the paper on the table in front of Drew, along with his money for the lesson.

After seating himself and pulling up the chair, Drew picked up the papers and scanned the first page, then the second. He looked over the rest of the pages carefully, folded them, then placed them on the table in front of Scarlett.

"I really did try my best," said Scarlett gravely.

"We're going to have to work on your math skills."

Scarlett hung her head. "I know."

Drew enquired about her math marks in high school, which he was not surprised to hear were dismal, then asked if her last tutor had worked on basic math at all.

"Nope, just chem," she replied.

"What was your grade on the final?"

"Seven percent," Scarlett answered sheepishly.

Drew tried hard not to wince.

"You're aware you need to pass the average of the two exams to pass the course," he advised her.

"I am."

"Then we have to go right back to basics and build your foundation," Drew advised her.

"I know."

"A lot of students in your situation don't have the patience to work on calculation skills, but those who succeed stick it out."

"I'll do whatever I have to do."

Drew nodded in recognition. "Close your eyes," he ordered her.

Scarlett complied.

"Count from 1 to 20 fast and stop."

She counted to 20.

"Now count backwards by twos."

"20, 18, 16, 14..." She stopped at zero.

"Now count upwards by threes."

"3, 6, 9, 12..." She stopped at 30.

"Now, start at 37 and count backward by twos."

"37, 35, 33, 31..." She hesitated. She repeated the count and stopped at the same place. She opened her eyes, took out her hands and started counting on her fingers.

"No hands!"

Laughing, Scarlett sat on her palms. "31... 29, 27, 25..." Still smiling, she went all the way back to zero.

"Start at 100 and count back by 7's, eyes still closed."

She complied, with much greater difficulty. Drew stopped her at 51.

"Now count backwards from there by 13's."

"Thirteens?" she gasped.

"I know it's tough, but it's a good exercise."

Scarlett took in a deep breath and stiffened her body. "51...51..." She scrunched up her face. "I can't!" she exclaimed, letting out her breath and opening her eyes.

Drew smiled at her. "Let me teach you a trick. What's 51 subtract 10?"

"41."

"And what's 41 subtract 3?"

She counted back three under her breath. "38."

"Now take away 13 again by first taking 10, then taking three."

"38 minus 10 is 28, minus 3 is... 25?"

"Right."

"Yes!" chirped Scarlett.

"Now try it again the same way."

"25 minus 10 is 15, minus 3 is...12."

"And again."

"I can't do it again."

"Why not?"

"Cause you can't subtract 13 from 12."

"Sure you can."

"What?" cracked Scarlet, confused.

"Negative 1."

"Negative? How can you have negative anything?"

"What was the temperature yesterday?" asked Drew.

"I don't remember."

"Warmer than freezing or colder?"

"Colder for sure."

"Take a guess."

"Maybe four or five below?"

"That's a negative number."

"Oh my God!" Screamed Scarlett, a bit too loud for a library.

"Shhh," Drew reminded her.

Scarlet covered her mouth and ducked her head. "Sorry," she whispered. "It's just that no one ever explained to me that before."

"So if the temperature is negative two in the morning, then it goes up by five degrees, how warm is it?"

Scarlett started to count on her hands again.

"No hands."

"I need hands for this."

"Okay," Drew relented. He waited for her response.

Counting on her fingers, Scarlett made multiple attempts. "I give up," she winced.

Drew got out a piece of blank paper and drew a diagram of a thermometer, indicating the zero point and all the degrees, calibrated in ones. "Show me negative 2."

Scarlett pointed to the correct number.

"Now, if it gets five degrees warmer, you need to count up by five degrees."

Scarlett counted up. "Three degrees," she proclaimed.

"Right."

"Try another one!" she beamed, ecstatic that she was starting to understand.

"It's 6 degrees above zero and the temperature falls by 9 degrees. How cold is it?"

Scarlett repeated the procedure. "3 degrees below zero."

"Right again."

"Yes!" she cheered.

Scarlett's enthusiasm grew with each exercise as Drew gradually ramped up the level of difficulty, each problem building on skills developed in the last. As Scarlett worked diligently on the problems he set for her, he noticed the way her straight black hair fell so captivatingly over her shoulders, how her gently v-shaped upper body leaned forward toward him, her tiny waist twisting ever so slightly. All her colourful expressions and every little gesture she made seemed to bring out a new detail of her beauty. Drew couldn't help but feel drawn to her, berating himself for idly wondering if she was seeing anyone. He'd never gotten involved with a student and never planned to. None the less, he allowed himself the harmless indulgence of stealing the odd glance. It would help take his mind off Claire.

"Enough math," declared Drew. "Now it's time for chem."

When Drew asked her for some elementary definitions and tried a few very simple problems, she was stumped. He'd had enough experience to know that Scarlett had no realistic chance of catching up with her classmates, certainly not with four other courses to contend with. When the two hours were over, he decided to make a suggestion.

"Have you thought about taking this course next summer, when it's the only thing you have to do?" he asked.

"I have to work in the summer," she replied firmly.

"I've got to be honest with you..." started Drew.

"I need this credit."

"You'd have time to build up the foundation of knowledge you need."

"What I need is to pass this course, this semester," she insisted.

Drew relented. "It's going to be a long, hard road. And an expensive one for you."

Scarlett reached into her purse and pulled out three $20's, which she held out at arm's length. She looked determinedly into Drew's eyes. "This is for tomorrow."

Drew accepted the bills. "What time?"

He felt a tinge of guilt as he stood up. She was so far behind in her basic skills that she was almost certainly going to fail no matter how hard she worked. He could work through the assignments and labs with her and ensure she got decent marks on them, but the exams would destroy her. As badly as he needed the money, he felt terrible taking it from her. On the other hand, he'd advised her of his honest opinion and told her straight up that her chances weren't good. What could be more honest than that? If she chose to waste her money pursuing a fool's errand, that clearly wasn't his responsibility.

The next session went well. After the first two hours Scarlett paid for another two and in spite of her weak foundation, she made progress \- nowhere near enough, but at least her money wasn't totally wasted. And as much as Drew loathed to admit it, he enjoyed spending time with a woman so physically appealing. The gentle curves of her petite body, her well defined features, the subtle fragrance of her perfume. Everything about her was... intoxicating.

The newly earned $120 tucked safely in his wallet, Drew ambled out of the U of T library and up to Bloor Street, stepping lightly through the new-fallen snow, feeling as if he was walking on a cloud. He resolved that after he downloaded the new photos from the site to his Google alias at the reference library, he'd treat himself to a bowl of noodles at his favourite Vietnamese restaurant.

At the library, he found an available computer, logged onto the photo site and copied the pictures into folders he set up. He noticed that Valdez had posted more. There were shots of a video crew setting up, the same black SUVs as before, but no indication of exactly what they were up to. Drew downloaded these photos as well, then logged on to his university email, hoping for some good news about the grant he hoped to receive soon. But there was no word about his grant, only an email that sent his relatively high spirits crashing to the ground. It was a notice from the union representing teaching assistants and certain other support staff at the university that the membership had voted to accept an across-the-board pay cut, effectively immediately, as one of the university's continuing efforts to stave off bankruptcy. The hourly rate of teaching assistants was to be cut by 20%, retroactively from the beginning of the current pay period, meaning the paycheque for January would be about almost $200 less than expected.

Drew felt the muscles in his rib cage tensing like they had the night before. He breathed deeply, trying to ward off a spell. Not here! He closed his eyes and rested his head on his arms. Clenching his fists as a wave of nausea swelled in his abdomen, he reversed his decision to indulge in Vietnamese. There was no way he could splurge on that, even if he felt up to it. He'd have to make due with the stale bread in his cupboard. Thank God for Scarlett, he thought as his head spun in the darkness.

Drew said a silent prayer of thanks when Scarlett paid him up front the next day. They worked on her first lab, which was due the next week, then went over practice questions in her textbook. She showed him her efforts toward completing the first assignment.

"A very good first attempt," confirmed Drew.

"But...?" replied Scarlett.

"There's work to be done."

That was an understatement. The opening questions on the first chemistry assignment were simple enough that a student with rudimentary problem solving skills and a basic grasp of the periodic table could work them out on the back of a napkin. But Scarlett had gotten many of them wrong. Drew went over the assignment question by question, checking understanding, patiently building her knowledge and helping her apply it.

"You are such a good teacher," she complimented him.

Rather than pride, Drew felt pangs of guilt. While she was progressing, there's no way she was going to pass the midterm, let alone the final. But there was now no getting around the fact that he needed the money, so he smiled and played the game.

"You're a good student," he replied.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes, really," answered Drew, cursing himself.

They worked some more, Scarlett got a run of questions correct and they agreed to take a break. Stretching, her eyes twinkled.

"I have a suggestion," she said, "and I completely understand if you say no."

"Alright," said Drew skeptically, wary of what might be coming.

"If you come to my apartment tonight, I'll make you a really nice dinner, you give me an hour for free, and I pay for the next hour"

"An hour in exchange for a meal?"

"A really good meal."

"Why not?" Drew agreed. He could use a good home cooked meal and, frankly, the trade eased his conscience. However, this was not the first time he'd accepted this sort of offer from a student and it concerned him because it suggested Scarlett was running out of funds.

That evening, Drew braced himself against a stiff wind as he walked down Beverly Street toward Scarlett's apartment. The building was a high-rise standing where John Street ends at Grange Park. It was an aging grey building that was nothing special even when it was new, but the trendy Queen West location ensured a premium rent. Maybe Scarlett had more money than he'd thought. More likely she blew the wad on her apartment and had nothing left.

He keyed in the code she'd given him and she buzzed him in. Riding the elevator to the 25th floor, Drew stepped out to a faint but magnificent aroma wafting through the hall. He crossed his fingers that this was from the meal Scarlett was preparing and felt encouraged that the smell was getting stronger as he approached her door. Before knocking, he stood in silence, listening to the sounds emanating from within. Something was sizzling on the stove. The tap ran intermittently. He could hear her footsteps. Gently, he tapped on the door and the footsteps came closer. The door opened to reveal Scarlett in a pink apron, hair in a ponytail, ladle in hand.

"Perfect timing," she beamed, waving for him to enter.

"Smells delicious," replied Drew as he stepped through the door. As always when they met, he was rendered breathless by her physical beauty. He looked into her eyes and felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach as she unabashedly returned his gaze, smiling softly. It reminded him of when he started to get close to Claire, a fact that both thrilled and frightened him.

"You can hang your coat in here," said Scarlett as she slid open the door of the closet. "You can wash up in the bathroom."

Drew washed up and returned to the table, where scarlet was serving a plate of broad noodles in a carbonara sauce, thick with chunks of chicken and vegetables. A tossed salad waited in the middle of the table in a wooden bowl, tongs at the side. Scarlett went back to the kitchen and returned with two bowls of orange coloured soup, each with shreds of green on top. Drew knew it was carrot and dill from the smell.

"Looks like you went all out," commented Drew.

"I promised it would be worth your while."

Drew seated himself and folded the napkin on his lap.

"I hope passion-fruit juice is alright," she continued.

"Perfect," replied Drew.

"I'd have served wine, but..."

Drew waved off her remarks. "No explanation necessary."

Drew ate to his satisfaction, then Scarlett brought out cheesecake for desert.

"This is too much!" Drew complimented her.

"Worth an hour of tutoring?"

"At least," replied Drew, not caring that he'd made a negotiation faux pas that would likely cost him. But it was the truth. He was thoroughly impressed by the care Scarlett had taken in preparing the meal. It made him feel she valued his services, and perhaps even his company.

The first hour of study passed in no time, as did the second and the third. Drew asked if she was getting tired and she replied that she wanted to go for another hour. Seeing that she was slowing down, Drew insisted that they take a break, offering to help her wash and dry the pile of dishes in her sink. From the kitchen window, Drew noticed that freezing rain had started falling.

"That's gonna be a lousy walk home," remarked Scarlett.

"I'll take a cab," replied Drew.

"If you want to stay the night, you could sleep on the sofa."

Drew thought about it. "Maybe it's better if I went home."

"Your choice," Scarlett shrugged, putting the last of the dishes in the cupboard.

They studied for another hour, which turned into two and by the time they were finished, it was past 1AM. As Drew took a final look over her assignment, Scarlett stood up and stretched. She went over to the window and pulled back the blinds, then went into the hall towards her bedroom. Drew heard a closet door opening, then the rustling of plastic, then the door closed. Scarlett returned with a pillow and duvet.

Instinctively, Drew stood up. "I should be going," he proclaimed as he stepped toward the door.

Scarlett jumped into his path and placed her palm firmly against his chest, looking into his eyes. Drew froze, searching for words. Then he exhaled deeply and his shoulders slumped forward. Saying nothing, he took the pillow and duvet.

"What time do you have to be up tomorrow?" asked Scarlett.

"I have tutorial at nine."

"I'll wake you up at 7."

Drew stripped down to his boxers, leaving his jeans on the arm of the sofa. Exhausted from hours of tutoring, he was asleep as soon has his head hit the pillow. In the morning, he awoke to the alarm in Scarlett's bedroom. Slipping into his jeans and t-shirt after folding the blankets, he entered the bathroom. Staring at his face in the mirror he regretted not shaving the day before. Fortunately, if he hurried, he'd have time to get home for a quick shave and change before class. When he emerged from the bathroom, he walked directly to the closet and removed his coat from the hanger.

"No time for breakfast?" asked Scarlett.

Drew whirled around to see her standing in the living room in a white housecoat.

"I've got to get ready for class," he replied. "But thanks."

Scarlet went to her room and returned with $90. "I hope it's enough."

"Thank you," Drew replied. It was $60 short, but he wasn't about to make an issue of it.

"Again tonight?" Scarlett asked.

"What about your other courses?"

"I'll work on them today."

"Are you sure you can afford more tutoring?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Can we start a bit earlier?" asked Drew.

"Dinner at six?" replied Scarlet.

"Deal."

Scarlet smiled as she let him out. As Drew made his way toward the elevator, he tried to focus his thoughts on his tutorial, but couldn't take his mind off what had happened between him and Scarlett. Pushing the down button, he wondered if she'd really lost track of the hours he'd spent tutoring her, or whether she'd purposely shortchanged him. He told himself it didn't matter - she was buying enough hours that a volume discount was in order. And he was aware he was tutoring a woman who wouldn't give him the time of day if he'd approached her in a nightclub, but in this context, she was putty in his hands, and truth be told, he relished every second of it.

Drew taught his class, marked the rest of his assignments and spent the rest of the day deciphering Chaplain's hieroglyphs. On his walk to Scarlett's apartment later that evening, he pondered the difficulty of the challenge he'd accepted from Chaplain. If he could identify a specific chemical he thought was involved, in theory he could isolate it and test it on animals to determine the effects on their unborn offspring. But this was no easy task in the real world. The tests had to be conducted under the auspices of both a university ethics committee and a bio-security supervisor, approvals from which were never guaranteed. Then there was the problem of securing access to what may be a proprietary chemical. If the company refused, they'd have to be forced by the courts to provide it, and even if they complied on paper, the chemical they provided would likely be a neutralized version of what they use in the field (i.e. no toxic effects show up in the lab). Then they'd insist that they complied with the court's orders and claim that their enemies are never satisfied. And of course, if Drew ever did manage to prove something in the lab, it was assured that he'd be subjected to withering media attacks by the company he accused and, more than likely, he'd be sued. With no one to stand in his corner to protect him, he'd be easy prey.

The whole project started to seem more hopeless than ever. Without Chaplain's credibility behind the research, whoever was profiting from the chemical could stave off action for years, possibly forever. As Drew dodged puddles on the slushy sidewalk, he breathed deeply, trying to ward off another dizzy spell.

"You don't look so good," observed Scarlett as she opened the door of her unit.

"It's a long story," Drew muttered.

"Dinner's ready."

After removing his shoes and hanging up his coat, Drew sat down to a plate of steaming brown rice covered in a thick white sauce dotted with squares of chicken breast and chunks of cooked broccoli. Scarlett brought two bowls of vegetable soup and placed one beside his plate. The food helped him regain his balance and he ate heartily. But as he was scraping up the final morsels of the cheesecake Scarlett had made for desert, she dropped the bomb he'd been fearing.

"Drew, I need to level with you about something," she said.

"About money?" he asked.

"Yes."

"If you need to reduce the time we spend together, that's okay by me."

"Actually," she replied, "That's not what I was going to suggest."

Drew waited in silence for what he knew was coming next.

"If it's alright..." she paused.

Here it comes, he thought.

"I'd like to know if you'd be open to doing a bit more barter."

"Maybe," Drew replied cautiously.

"If you don't mind me saying, I can see you're really up-tight," she observed, "and I can help you fix that."

"How?"

"I'm a trained massage therapist, and, if I say so myself, I'm a really good one."

Drew felt his body start to tingle. One of the sexiest women he'd ever been in a room with was offering to give him a massage. The thought was tantalizing.

"So, massage in lieu of money?" he asked.

"You won't regret it."

"How much tutoring for how much massage?"

"Three hours tutoring for one hour massage."

Drew broke out laughing and Scarlet frowned.

"Don't laugh at me!" she scowled, slamming her fork down on the table.

"I'm sorry, " Drew apologized, "but $90 for a one hour massage?"

"That's the going rate," she fumed.

"I'm sure you're good, but I'd never pay that for a massage."

Scarlet raised a brow. Drew tried to interpret what she meant by the gesture.

"How about two hours for one hour?" she asked.

"I need the money more than I need a massage."

"You know I'm no mathematician, but to me, one gourmet dinner, plus one really good massage equals one hell of a deal for a night's tutoring."

Drew did a quick calculation. Even if Scarlet paid him for just one hour a day, every day, that would amount to $900 a month - and she'd been averaging four. He knew he was at risk of losing her unless he made some kind of concession.

"There has to be some money," he said, "but I'm open to suggestions.

Scarlett looked calculatingly at him. "Dinner, plus massage, plus $30."

"For four hours?"

Scarlet nodded yes.

"Alright," agreed Drew. "Let's get to work."

They cleared the table and Scarlett paid Drew the $30 up front. She opened her books and he helped her with her lab, corrected her homework and taught her some calculation short cuts. While Scarlett was by no means a gifted pupil, he was impressed with how she was improving. With a lot more hard work - and a few lucky guesses - she might have a fighting chance on exam day. After two hours, they took a break.

"I wish I had your brain!" croaked Scarlett, stretching her body. She yawned widely.

"Be careful what you wish for," muttered Drew.

"Honestly, you could be some big-time corporate science guy."

"It's not about how smart you are, " Drew corrected her. "It's about how well you're prepared to behave."

"You strike me as very well behaved," Scarlett smiled.

"I mean, they want people who won't ask the wrong questions."

"Then don't ask the wrong questions," she rebuked him.

"If only it were that simple."

They worked for another two hours and when they were finished, Scarlett stretched again, then stood up, asking Drew to wait at the kitchen table. She returned with a pair of light purple bed sheets, a flaccid faux-suede air mattress and an electric pump. Asking Drew to plug in the pump, Scarlett spread the mattress on the floor. Drew worked the pump as Scarlett went into her bedroom and returned with her hair held up loosely with a pink elastic. Reaching into the creaky drawer of her battered coffee table, she extracted an incense stick, a wooden tray and a lighter. Placing the tray on the coffee table and inserting the stick into the tiny hole at one end, she lit the stick and blew until it glowed. From the end of the stick rose a thread thin column of smoke, which bent and swayed in the turbulence as Scarlett stood up.

Drew unplugged the pump after it shut off automatically and pulled out the attachment. Scarlett laid one of the sheets over the mattress, set the other one on top of it, then folded it back.

"I'm going to change," said Scarlett quietly. "You strip to your undies and lay between the sheets."

After Scarlett went around the corner, Drew got out of his pants and shirt, laying them over the side of the sofa as he had the night before. He pulled back the top sheet, slipped beneath it in his underwear, then pulled it over himself. Noticing his body was trembling, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to relax. Through his closed eyelids, he felt the room go dark. Inhaling the exotic aroma of the burning incense, he felt Scarlett's footsteps approach.

Without a word, Scarlett knelt beside him and pulled back the sheet. He heard the sound of a plastic bottle being squeezed and he exhaled as she rubbed warm oil over his back and shoulders. Feeling his body tense and quiver, she leaned down and put her lips beside his ear.

"Relax," she whispered.

Drew took a deep breath and exhaled again as Scarlett ran her hands gently up and down his back, her thumbs bearing down on the muscles to either side of his spine.

"You're so tense," she said.

Scarlett pressed firmly into his muscles. Drew groaned as the joints of her thumbs worked through the tightness in his tissues.

"Turn on your back," she whispered into his ear, and he complied.

Scarlett knelt on the floor behind his head, which rested on the pillow of the air mattress. She massaged the front of his shoulders in broader and broader circles, then, reaching over his face, placed the flat of her hands on his chest, running the palms of her hands gently over his pectoral muscles. He breathed deeply, his trembling increasing as he felt himself become hard.

Scarlett repositioned herself and pulled the sheet back to below his abdomen. Placing both hands on his chest again, she ran them gently down the centre of his torso, stopping over his stomach.

He felt a drop wet his underwear at the tip of his penis as he imagined her hand stroking his hardness beneath the sheets. As Scarlett ran the flat of her hands from the centre of his abdomen out to his sides, he allowed his fantasy to continue. He imagined her holding him gently, squeezing lightly with pulsating fingers.

Scarlett's hands ran lower and lower on his abdomen as she continued her outward strokes, eventually finding the elastic at the top of his underwear. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine his fantasy would come true. But she removed her hands and covered his chest with the sheet, tucking it in around his shoulders. Scarlett moved to the bottom of the mattress and lifted the sheet off his left leg, folding it back. She poured more oil on her hands, then placed her palms ever so lightly over his calf. His erection became unbearably hard. Gradually, she worked her way up his leg with long strokes, then repositioned herself on his other side and did the same with the other. When she was finished, she covered his legs and, kneeling once again at his head, she placed her hands tenderly under his head and held them in position, gently massaging his tense neck muscles.

Drew's spine tingled. It was the most relaxing sensation he'd ever felt, even better than Claire stroking his head at the hospital. His erection melted away as all the tension drained out of his body. Scarlett's nimble hands cradling his head from behind, Drew drifted blissfully off to sleep.

Chapter 9

Drew's eyes opened to find the room in total darkness. When his vision adjusted, he stared at the clock, but it was too dark to see the hands. Propping himself up on his elbows, he wiggled out from under the blankets and reached for the phone he'd left in the pocket of his pants. 4:15 am. Deciding it was best if he left before Scarlett awoke, Drew quietly folded the sheets on top of the air mattress and put on his clothes. Tiptoeing to the closet, he took out his coat, stepped into his boots and, making sure he had everything that was his, let himself out.

The night outside was still and cold, the crunch of his footsteps in the frozen snow the only sound as he traced his steps back home. He felt physically and emotionally recharged, awake and alive despite the early hour. Yet his body and his soul felt an emptiness that made him ache. Lying on the mattress as Scarlett touched him, he realized how strongly attracted to her he really was. But rather than thrill at the possibility of a sexual encounter, Drew mentally whipped himself for having the audacity to hope. Women like Scarlett don't sleep with science geeks, Drew reminded himself. They lead us on while we do their homework.

Not for the first time, Drew began to question his life choices. If he'd gone corporate, he'd have had a shot at pulling down a decent income. He could have been a consultant, or even just a high-end lab technician, paid to bury inconvenient results with statistical tricks and technobabble. He could have bought a swanky condo in a trendy neighborhood, drive a snazzy import and dress himself up in designer clothes in the hopes that women might forget that he was just a nerdy toxicologist. He'd accepted that women like Claire would never love him. She was way out of his league. But he wondered what his love life might have been like if he'd sold out like she did. Would he strut about town with women like Scarlett on his arm? Would the yearning he felt go away if he could?

But he'd never know. He'd taken a different path. By associating with the likes of Chaplain and Akintola, he'd joined the wrong club. The thing was, if he could make a real difference in the world, actually stop companies from poisoning fetuses like those in Chaplain's locker, he might be okay without sex or money or even good food. At least this is what he told himself. But the odds were that he wouldn't stop any company from doing anything. If that was so, the thought of having nothing to look forward to but a life of penury and yearning for women he could never possess was too much to bear.

Arriving home, he took the $30 he'd earned out of his pocket and added it to the stack of bills he'd collected over the previous few days. He knew she was done with paying him and he cursed himself for being so weak. He took a long hot shower to clear his mind then emailed Scarlett, thanking her for an amazing experience, but gently reminding her that while the massage was amazing, he had to pay the rent. Later in the afternoon a response came back:

You're not the only one struggling with the rent. Come tomorrow and I promise to make it worth your while.

Worth his while? What did that mean? He mailed back asking for details. Her response came: Help me and you won't regret it.

Drew felt a rush in his loins. Maybe he'd been a little hasty. They agreed to meet late in the afternoon the following day, when Drew arrived, Scarlett had apparently been studying for hours. Numerous math and chemistry books were spread out on the table and paper littered the floor.

"I'm impressed," smiled Drew.

"I've been at it all day," she huffed.

"Assignment two?"

"It's so hard!"

"How far have you gotten?"

She handed him the assignment, looking increasing anxious as he examined her work.

"Tell me it's not all wrong," she winced.

"Not all of it," he assured her.

They sat down and after Scarlett tidied up the table, they got to work. Drew made Scarlett work through every step herself, showing her the right way only after she'd tried on her own, then drilling the concept with related examples. When Drew had finally looked at his watch, it was 9pm. They'd been going for five hours straight.

"Feeding time," said Scarlett, getting up and rifling through the fridge.

"We need to talk about our arrangement," said Drew as gently as he could.

"Don't worry about a thing."

"My rent is due this week."

"Mine too."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"I'm going to pay."

"Really?" asked Drew, a note of skepticism in his voice.

Watching Scarlett work in the kitchen, he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He was relieved to hear he might be going home with some desperately needed cash, but he also felt a hint of sadness, almost like being dumped.

"I figured we'll eat quickly, then go for another three hours," she called over the rattle of the kitchen fan.

"Have you got that much stamina?" asked Drew.

"Have you?"

After wolfing down a vegetable stir fry on rice, Scarlett rinsed the dishes in the sink and suggested they get back to business. Drew was amazed at her dedication. The material was so challenging for her it was like watching a third-rate amateur boxer getting pummeled by the world heavyweight champ in a charity match, yet she stood up for round after round. Drew truly admired her grit, and he told her so.

"Think I'm gonna pass?" she asked point blank.

"Like I said, you've got a fighting chance."

After another hour, they agreed it was time to stop. Scarlett got up and went to the kitchen, offering to make some chamomile tea. Drew accepted and she put on the kettle, asking him to pour it into the tea pot while she had a shower. Drew agreed, a bit perplexed. She entered the bathroom, leaving the door open just enough that he could see her removing her clothes. Pretending not to, he watched out of the corner of his eye. Steam wafted out of the room as the water came on. The kettle boiled and Drew made the tea. Surprisingly soon, the shower went off and Scarlett came out in a tight blue tracksuit, zipped provocatively low at the top, her still-dry hair in a bun. She poured the tea into two mugs and handed one to Drew. She sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs and motioned for him to sit beside her. There was something different in her demeanor, he thought to himself as they chatted about the upcoming exam, something he couldn't quite articulate.

"I'm going to make it, you know," insisted Scarlett.

"I have a feeling you will."

Scarlett smiled. "I've had other tutors, but nobody's ever helped me the way you have."

"I know," said Drew confidently.

Scarlett looked deeply into his eyes. In figure hugging tracksuit, strands of hair falling out of the bun over her shoulder, she was so desirable to Drew that he felt almost ashamed to look at her. Her face aglow, she put her cup down on the end table, stood up and turned the corner. Drew heard the closed door open and Scarlett returned with the blankets and the air mattress, which was already pumped up.

"I thought I was going to get paid," said Drew.

"You will," replied Scarlett.

"In cash," he added.

"Do you want a massage or not?"

"I'd love a massage," he answered, his voice cracking like a teenage boy's, "but I've gotta pay my rent."

Scarlett knelt in front of Drew, and rested her hands on his thighs. "Lay down," she said softly. Catching a whiff of her ever so feminine perfume and feeling the gentle grip of her hands on his thighs, Drew was helpless. He got up from the chair and Scarlett stood up with him, taking hold of his sweater at the bottom and pulling upwards. Drew raised his arms and the sweater came over his head, the t-shirt underneath along with it. He stood shirtless before her.

Scarlett looked down at Drew's belt buckle. She reached out and grasped the end of the belt in her fingers, gently tugging on it until it came undone. Drew felt a wave of warmth rush though him as Scarlett unhooked the button that held his pants together and slid the sipper down. She looked into his eyes.

"Take them off and lay down," she whispered.

Drew bent over and pulled his jeans down, stepping out of them. An erection coming on fast, he scurried to the mattress and lay down on his stomach, pulling the blanket over himself.

Scarlett lit the incense and put on some quiet meditation music. She knelt beside him as she did last time and pulled the blanket down to below his waist. But this time, there was something different about her touch. Beginning at his head, her fingers found his hairline and her hands hovered just above his neck, touching him so gently the hairs stood up. As she ran her hands ever so softly over his back, he felt a rush of sensual pleasure so intense it made him shiver. Scarlett lifted her leg and straddled Drew, resting her weight on his bottom, and continued her gentle stroking. Drew was so hard that her weight pushing him into the mattress almost hurt. Scarlett poured oil on her palm, spread it over Drew's back and began to rub him with her fingers. He groaned with pleasure as her hands glided over his muscles. She continued like this for a while, then suddenly stopped.

Drew felt Scarlett's weight shift and heard the rustling of clothes and the sound of a zipper being undone. For a moment, her weight came off him entirely. Then Scarlett lay down on top of him. He could feel the fabric of her bra on his skin and the moist heat of her breath in his ear. Drew lay motionless, ecstatic, paralyzed with a sense of non-reality. He prayed he wasn't dreaming.

"Turn over," whispered Scarlett.

She lifted her weight off Drew and he complied. Scarlett pulled the covers back, exposing the wet spot at the top of the bulge beneath his boxers, then sat on Drew's pelvis, the soft, warm folds of her vulva pressing purposefully against his hard penis. She flattened her hands on his chest and gazed into his eyes. Gently and subtly, she gyrated her hips, pressing her weight firmly downward. Drew began to tremble. She reached behind her back with her hands, unclipped her bra strap and pulled the garment away, revealing her full, rounded breasts. Drew breathed heavily as Scarlett began grinding harder and faster in a back and forth motion. Suddenly the grinding slowed and she stopped, then stood up. Instinctively, he protected himself with his hands, ashamed of the growing wet spot on his underwear.

Scarlett turned her back to Drew, bent over, then tucked her fingers under her panties and dropped them to the floor as she twisted her body provocatively. As she turned to face him, legs apart, Drew gazed at her neatly trimmed landing strip of pubic hair. She got down on her knees straddling Drew's legs and removed his hands, pinning them to the mattress beside him. She leaned down toward his erection and, looking into his eyes as her hair tickled his abdomen, she blew softly on the wet spot.

Drew's body pulsed as if he'd been plugged into an electric socket. Leaving his hands at his side, Scarlett stroked his erection with the index finder of her hand and more wetness oozed out. She took hold of his underwear and pulled downward, letting his hard penis spring back toward him. Again Drew covered himself and Scarlett pulled his hands away.

"Relax," she commanded gently, taking his erection in her hand and squeezing with a gentle pulsating motion eerily similar to what he'd imagined when she last massaged him. She continued this as she bent forward and kissed his abdomen. Drew's legs shook with excitement. He lifted his head and gazed at Scarlett's V-shaped back, tiny waist and rounded bottom. He could barely believe this was happening to him.

Slowly, Scarlett stopped and sat back, resting her naked bottom on is legs.

"Don't move," she whispered.

Scarlett reached into her purse on the end table and pulled out a small package. Gently ripping it open, she pulled out a condom and expertly rolled it on. Then she brought herself forward and took his erection in one hand while she opened her folds with the other. Slowly, she lowered herself down.

Feeling her tight, wet opening slide down on him, Drew was bursting with excitement. Scarlett began to gyrate, then she gently moved up and down in slow, short strokes. The strokes lengthened, the intensity increased and Drew knew he was close. Taking hold of her waist, he thrust upward to her rhythm, faster and faster until he could hold off no longer. Scarlett pushed herself down onto him as he exploded inside her, convulsing with ecstasy. As the waves of pleasure subsided, Drew lay back, his peripheral vision narrowing as sparks danced before his eyes like a thousand shooting stars. Scarlett pressed down, remaining still until Drew's involuntary thrusts were finished. With him still hard insider her, she lay down on him, her head on his chest.

His arms around Scarlett, Drew lay on the mattress breathing, stars dancing in the darkness. Finally Scarlett lifted her head and slid up Drew's body, his still erect penis falling out of her. She lowered her lips to his ear and kissed it.

"Give me all the help I need," she whispered, "and you get as much of this as you want."

Her words were more soothing than the call of a loon on a placid northern lake, sweeter than honey, more intoxicating than opium. Overwhelmed with elation, it was more than he could do to force out words, so he merely nodded yes. Floating on a cloud of ecstasy, he drifted off into a trance.

Drew awoke to the gentle clinking of utensils in the kitchen, the savory aroma of frying bacon wafting into his nostrils. When his vision cleared, he glanced around the room. It looked so different in the early morning, golden rays of the rising sun beaming through the slits in the window blinds. He stretched and sat up, realizing he was still naked under the cover.

"You sleep like a log," joked Scarlett, peering out of the kitchen in the tracksuit she'd worn the night before. Beating an egg with a whisk, her long black hair damp and wavy and not a hint of makeup on, Scarlett was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

"My clothes?" he asked.

"In the bathroom," she replied as she dropped the egg in the frying pan. It bubbled up with a sizzle and a plume of steam. "I figured you'd want a shower."

Drew wrapped the blanket around his waist and stood up.

"Breakfast in 10," Scarlett advised, grinning.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"You're rather shy all of a sudden."

Drew shrugged as he turned and hobbled to the bathroom. Turning on the water and letting it stream over his head, there was still a sense of non-reality to the scene around him. He'd just had a night of amazing sex with the sort of woman he'd previously only dreamed about. Scrubbing his head, he realized how fundamentally his life had changed. The thought of Claire no longer felt like a punch in the stomach. Though Scarlett was not Claire's intellectual equal, she was just as sexy, in her own way. Comparing the two, he figured that if Claire were Victoria's Secret, Scarlett would be Penthouse.

When Drew emerged from the bathroom, Scarlett was pouring orange juice at the kitchen table, having placed two plates of bacon and eggs on placemats.

"That was quick," she remarked.

"Wouldn't want to miss breakfast."

The two of them ate, making small talk as Scarlett wolfed down her meal.

"I don't mean to rush you," she said, picking up her plate before Drew was finished, "but I have a 10 am class."

Drew picked up the pace, forking bigger chunks of meat into his mouth and chewing faster as Scarlett cleaned up. He watched her, amazed at how quickly she moved about the room, doing three things at once without seeming rushed. When Drew finished his meal, he took the plate into the kitchen and placed it gently in the sink.

"What's the soonest we can do more chem?" Scarlett asked.

They agreed to meet the following night and Drew left the apartment. Waiting for the elevator, he let his mind wander, mulling over the events of the night before. He wasn't at all sure how he was going to pay his bills, let alone his debts, but his newly invigorated sex-life somehow made those problems seem inconsequential.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a mirror along the back wall in which he saw his own reflection. Stepping in, he stared into his own eyes, the doors closing behind him. He examined his messy hair, stubbly chin, a hint of crow's feet forming around his eyes. He grinned. Somehow, he felt a bit sexier than he had the day before.

Walking home, Drew barely felt the cold, his boots skipping lightly over the icy sidewalk as if he were dancing on a cloud. He knew there'd be nothing in the fridge for him when he got to his apartment, but he didn't care. Arriving home, Drew opened the door, kicked off his boots and tossed his coat, mitts and hat on the futon. After taking a drink of cold water, he opened his computer and checked his email, finding a message from Valdez advising him there were more photos.

With renewed mental energy and focus, he logged onto the server. Valdez had been busy. There were loads of new pictures. More black SUVs, the film crew, armed men in jeeps and... eureka! A gallery of photos of what appeared to be a terribly deformed kid goat! This was the kind of proof he needed. Whatever was causing the deformties in humans must certainly affect other mammals, but he'd seen no direct evidence of deformities in large farm animals and Chaplain had no documented cases in his records. Understandably, the reluctance of highly superstitious farmers to have such things photographed, or even discussed openly, meant such evidence was hard to come by. But here it was, the first documented case!

Drew continued to click his way though the photographs looking for other shots of the baby goat, but there were none that he could see. Mostly, there were pictures of white people talking to Latino farmers. One of the white people, a man, looked vaguely familiar. He tried to place the face, but was unable to see it clearly enough. He clicked through some more photos, looking for a closer shot of the man. The images suggested it was some kind of event, perhaps the grand opening of a new facility.

Then something caught his attention. A tiny face in the corner of a thumbnail of what appeared to be an official cutting a red ribbon. Drew looked closely at the tiny face in the corner. The smiling woman wore a business suit, her straight blond locks falling neatly to the sides of her head.

It can't be! Drew felt bile starting to rise in his throat. He clicked on the thumbnail of the official, praying his mind was playing tricks on him, but when the large photo came up, his body turned cold, his limbs went weak and his heart pounded in his chest. There was no mistake. The woman in the corner was Claire.
Chapter 10

The driver grinned fiendishly as the SUV sailed aloft on exit from a deep pothole. Claire tightened her grasp on the leather handle above the rear door, clenching her teeth as the vehicle crashed back to the ground.

"Aren't we going a little fast for these roads?" she warned.

"There are three ways to drive in Honduras," laughed Evan, clinging to the headrest of the seat in front of him. "Fast, faster and homicidal!"

Claire held her breath as the back wheels spun out on a tight corner, sending up a cloud of swirling dust. The SUV bounced and shuttered and, for a long second, she thought it would roll. When the tires found their grip, the driver hit the accelerator.

"Don't worry Señorita," the mustachioed driver assured her, his brown eyes sparkling. "Four wheel drive."

The vehicle bounced along for another few kilometers, then slowed and turned onto a long driveway with thick tropical forest on either side. Looking back uneasily, Claire saw the last vehicle in their convoy make the turn behind them. The green jeep carried part of their private security detail, a group of burly ex-soldiers in paramilitary gear, armed to the teeth. Their presence was both a concern and a relief to Claire, who had researched the political and social instability of the region. According to news reports and travel advisories, it wasn't uncommon for foreign nationals to be kidnapped and held for ransom, particularly when those nationals were employees of wealthy corporations with deep pockets and generous insurance policies. Being young, female, fair-skinned and blonde, she knew she'd be a prime target.

Another pothole jolted Claire and she turned to face the front.

"Don't worry," smiled Evan. "We're almost there."

The vehicle slowed to a crawl as it arrived at the top of a steep hill. Rolling slowly over the summit, Claire had the eerie feeling of being at the top of a roller-coaster. Looking through the windshield, she could see the end of the forest at the bottom of the hill. As the SUV bumped and rocked down the slope, she was able to see into the clearing beyond, which appeared to stretch far into the distance. As the road leveled out and the vehicle crossed the tree line, Claire looked out her window across a great vista. A complex of agricultural fields, crisscrossed by a wide, shallow river, stretched for miles into the distance. In the fields, small tractors traversed the crop rows or tilled bare soil. Workers with back mounted packs sprayed rows of seedlings.

"What are they spraying?" Claire asked Evan.

"Organic compost tea," he replied. "Brewed from our own trimmings."

Claire watched the sprayers work their way along the rows. "What crop is that?" she asked.

"Not sure," replied Evan.

Ahead of the SUV, Claire noticed a tractor chugging along the side of the field parallel to the road, pulling a trailer upon which a team of farm workers busily prepared seedlings for planting as others below them at the very rear tucked the tiny plants into the ground. Claire watched them as the SUV drew closer, their hands working together in sync like a well-oiled machine. Knowing that the video the company was here to make would feature her planting seedlings along with the farmhands, she wondered how she'd ever keep up. As the SUV passed, a female farmhand looked up. Claire waved to her and she smiled, saying something to the others, who all looked up and smiled brightly and waved back, their busy hands not missing a beat.

A way down the road, Claire noticed an assemblage of tents pitched on a grassy clearing she later learned served as an improvised soccer pitch the workers used on break. The tents, she knew, would serve as their makeup area, a lunchroom and place for the fair-skinned "gringos" to get out of the sun. Their convoy pulled up beside the tents, two black SUVs and two jeeps in all, and Claire watched the guards leap off the jeeps as they rolled to a stop, paying close attention to their body language. As long as they stayed relaxed, she figured she was safe.

When Claire opened the door, the blast of heat from outside was so intense it felt like someone had opened the door of a kiln. As she got out, the rays of the morning sun scorched her fair skin and she donned her broad-rimmed hat. The driver motioned for them to walk toward the tents, which were open at two sides to let the breeze through.

"Sorry to put you to work right away," said the director, "but we've got to hit the ground running."

Claire obediently settled into the chair and the makeup artist went to work.

"Interviews first," called the director, going over a checklist on a clipboard, "then the cover shots."

The makeup was finished more quickly than Claire had anticipated and when she exited the tent, the camera crew was ready for her. She stood on her mark opposite one of the farmhands who had been selected to speak. She took the microphone from the camerawoman's hand and they conducted a sound test. The interviews had been carefully scripted by the PR team, but she understood they needed to look as though they were impromptu. She was grateful for her formal training in journalism, as well as her experience on cable TV news, which helped make her feel at ease in front of a camera.

The interview began with her asking a question in English, which the interpreter would translate and the interviewee would answer. Then the interpreter would translate the answer and the process would begin again for the next question. Claire was encouraged to improvise and try to draw out the best possible answers. She was a master of the open question and the PR team had done a terrific job of selecting subjects who were talkative. Not speaking Spanish, Claire had no idea what the subjects were saying, but they were so animated and so impassioned that she found them quite convincing none the less.

The camerawoman directed them as she shot cover footage, telling them where to walk, asking the interviewees to point into the distance and talk about something. Claire knew to nod in response to what the interviewees said, even though she didn't understand a word. When the director was satisfied, they went on to shoot more cover footage of the interviewees doing whatever jobs they did on the farm. Then it was Claire's turn to learn how to do the same jobs. The crew filmed her attempting to drive the tractor, preparing seedlings, planting them, all with emphasis on her trying to keep up. Claire hammed it up and made a big deal out of how fast the workers' hands could go. The idea, as explained to her by Evan, was to glorify the contributions made by the hard-working farmhands and to showcase their pride in their jobs. The idea that the workers were happy and well treated was a cornerstone of the new PR campaign, of which the video was as vital part.

They retired to the tents for lunch, a catered affair featuring local meats and the company's own vegetables, prepared by the executive chef of a renowned international hotel in Tegucigalpa. Discussion centered on plans for the afternoon and the next day.

"Why not film the village?" asked Claire.

"It's not our focus," replied Evan.

"Still, it would be great to include some dimension of their home lives," insisted Claire. "Happy spouses, happy children."

Evan shook his head no. "It's a great idea," but we're concerned that the physical homes they live in might come across as a shock to more affluent viewers."

"That bad?" asked Claire.

"Not bad by their standards," answered Evan. "But housing here is nothing like what suburban families in North American and European cities are used to. The images evoke notions of third-world poverty, which is a bit off-message."

"These people are not poor by Honduran standards," added the director, "but clapboard huts with thatch roofs would create the wrong impression, no matter how many smiling children we show."

"We'll focus on the school," said Evan. "And the medical clinic. That's the centerpiece."

Claire knew that the medical clinics had been financed directly by Futura as a key element of its ramped up CSR campaign. Corporate Social Responsibility was the cornerstone of the company's marketing platform. It's difficult to build a brand on vegetables and the company was betting heavily that feel-good messaging would drive sales at the consumer level. All indications were that the plan was working.

What impressed Claire was how far the company had come in such a short time. A recent spate of books, documentaries and news programs had incited popular interest in the plight of farm workers, who were correctly identified as being underpaid and maltreated by the conglomerates who dominated the international food market. Although Futura didn't even exist then, Futura's parent company Great Southern Foods – the one Drew called "Great Satan" - had been identified as one of the worst offenders. The company's share price took a nosedive after executives were convicted of ordering the physical harassment of American farmers who staged protests after the company's signature pesticide was implicated in stillbirths of infants. When the company tried to sue the farmers for libel, the press turned against it and managed to stir up enough of a fuss that a successful boycott of the company's products took hold. The company was so weakened that a controlling interest was purchased for a song by a holding company interested in some of its assets, patents and distribution networks. The new parent company settled the lawsuits, transferred some physical assets to the newly formed Futura, and appointed Knox to the office of CEO. His job was to use existing distribution networks to transform Futura into a market leader in organic foods, with sales efforts driven by the Corporate Social Responsibility campaign, which was placed in Evan's hands.

When lunch was over, Claire had her makeup freshened and the crew put her back to work. They filmed her harvesting vegetables, washing them, chatting with the farmhands in the few words of English they knew and trying out the few phrases of Spanish she'd learned, all to the great amusement of the workers. She did some more interviews, posed for some still photos, then the director called wrap. Claire bid farewell to the workers and got back into the black SUV, which took her and Evan back through the rolling hills to their hotel near La Cieba.

"That was great work today," beamed Evan, to Claire's great delight.

The sun hung low in the western sky as the SUV pulled up in the semi-circular driveway of the hotel where they'd stayed for the last two nights. As soon as the vehicle stopped, the guide leaped out and opened the door for Claire. A youthful, red-uniformed bellhop appeared and took the backpacks and camera bags the driver handed him from the trunk, placing it on a cart with polished brass handles. The hotel was a large stone building, designed to present what North Americans would call a colonial feel. The inside was ultra modern, with carpeted floors, dark wood-paneled walls and mirrors lining the corridors to give the impression of spaciousness. The bellhop ushered Claire to the elevator as Evan followed, carrying his luggage.

"Feel like a swim before dinner?" asked Evan.

"Sounds amazing," answered Claire.

When the elevator doors opened, they walked in opposite directions to their rooms and the bellhop deposited the bags in Claire's room. Evan had told her hotel policy was that staff were well paid and not to be tipped, but Claire, feeling obliged, handed him enough Lempiras to buy a round of Salva Vidas for his friends.

As the door closed behind her, Claire crossed the room to the window, which overlooked the hills to the west and offered a spectacular view of the setting sun. She opened the glass doors and stepped out on the balcony, glancing at the guests relaxing on the patio around the hotel's blue swimming pool four floors down. The blazing heat of the afternoon sun had subsided, leaving the gentle warmth of the tropical sunset.

Turning back to her room, she drew the white curtains closed and removed her top then her pants, then her bra and panties. She walked naked into the bathroom where she'd hung her bikini and got dressed, threw on a robe and stepped into her flip-flops. Exiting the doors to the patio, she saw Evan already seated on a deck chair in his trunks. He stood up, revealing his thin, muscular form.

"Ready?" he asked.

Claire undid the belt of her robe and let it fall off her shoulders. As she walked along the edge of the pool toward the deep end, she could sense heads turning. This was a feeling to which Claire was accustomed. At beaches, pools or anywhere she donned swimwear, men and women alike found it hard not to gaze at her stunning body. There was no denying she loved the attention, which is why it bothered her that Evan seemed not to notice her. He'd walked ahead of her and when he turned to face her at the deep end, his eyes met hers, rather than her breasts. Even Drew, for all his high-minded man- of-science asceticism, had been so unwittingly obvious in the way he'd gaped at her.

Evan hopped on the diving board and without hesitation, dove in head first. Claire mounted the board and let herself bounce a few times as she waited for Evan to surface at the shallow end.

You will look at me, she silently commanded as his submerged figure traversed the pool beneath the ripples. Her toes over the edge, Claire surreptitiously shifted her gaze, looking around the pool. So many guests stared back that she felt almost like a performer on stage in a packed auditorium. She relished the attention, but it wasn't enough. Evan had to look.

When his head finally bobbed up at the other end, he shook the water out of his ears, brushed the hair out of his eyes, and looked back. "Coming in?" he enquired.

The tropical breeze gently caressing her body, Claire tentatively bounced a few more times, the orange glow of the setting sun illuminating her skin. Saying nothing, she smiled at Evan and he back at her. She watched his eyes carefully, standing motionless at the edge of the board. Look, she willed him. And he did. After she saw his eyes dart downward, then back up, she followed Evan's lead and dove in head first. She swept her arms under water, glided across the pool and came up beside him.

"The water's nice," remarked Claire.

"It's perfect," Evan smiled. He lay back and swept his arms, swimming toward the deep end. Claire followed him with a leisurely breast stroke.

Evan tread water, his chiseled features illuminated by the glowing sky. His face was so perfect she couldn't help but stare.

"What?" he asked playfully.

"Nothing," she laughed.

It occurred to Claire that other guests might think they were a couple on their honeymoon, and the notion thrilled her. Claire had thought long and hard about the kind of man she intended to marry, and Evan fit the mould as closely as anyone she'd met. Of course, a relationship with him was out of the question, at least for as long as she worked with the company. But a bit of innocent fantasy was harmless, or so she told herself.

Chatting idly, they treaded water, playfully splashing each other until the glow went off the clouds and hotel staff lit flames all around the patio. Finally, Evan paddled toward the ladder and hauled himself out. Turning back, he extended a hand to Claire and helped her up. She caught him sneaking a peek at her ample cleavage, purposefully made more obvious by the unapologetic cut of her bikini top. As she stood upright, her shoulder brushed his chest and a warm shudder went through her body. Walking ahead of him toward the deck chairs, she was sure she felt his eyes on her body, and the thought made her buzz with excitement.

Back in her room, the slightly cooler evening breeze wafting through the window, Claire wiggled out of her wet bikini and hung it on the hook outside of the bathroom door. Naked, her long blonde hair falling in wet curls about her shoulders, she stood before the full length mirror examining her body in the fading light. Running her fingers over her symmetrical breasts, she gazed at the subtle V-shape of her upper body, the gentle curve of her tiny waist as it widened into her hips, her tight abdomen and the triangle of neatly trimmed blonde pubic hair. She was as hot as any Playboy centerfold and there was little doubt that he'd noticed. Though she knew nothing could ever happen, the thought of it drove her wild with desire.

Stepping into the shower and turning on the hot water, Claire replayed the memory of standing on the diving board, how Evan's eyes had flashed down for that brief second. Through the stream of water that ran down her sides, around her waist and between her legs, Claire stroked the tops of her pubic hairs. Closing her eyes, she ran her finger slowly along the length of her opening, breathing deeply. Her inner wetness growing more intense, she inserted a finger, her breathing deepening. She thought of Evan walking behind her his eyes on her body. She imagined him drawing back the curtain, stepping into the shower behind her and pressing his naked body against hers. A warm sensation filled her as his strong hands ran up her thighs, along her waist and up toward her breasts. She felt his manhood harden as he took her breasts gently in his hands, kissing her neck and shoulder. Then he ran his hand down her front and through her pubic hair, caressing her gently with his finger. Her body convulsed and she came in an explosion of pleasure.

The orgasm pulsed through her body, then gradually faded, leaving a sensation of deep calm. Basking in the afterglow, Claire washed her hair and soaped her body, then rinsed, turned off the water and picked a clean towel from the rack. Stepping out of the steamy bathroom, she dropped her towel to let the cool evening air dry her skin as she brushed her hair. Putting on a dark blue summer dress and a pair of gold earrings, Claire applied the finishing touches of her makeup, picked up her purse and left the room. Evan was waiting in the dining room when she arrived, wearing a white collared shirt, open at the neck. He smiled as she waited behind another couple waiting to be seated, a portly young man and a rather rotund woman, both about her age. Standing hand in hand, the young couple smiled, whispered to one another and kissed, looking incredibly happy. Before the young Honduran hostess came to seat them, Claire learned from the ensuing discussion that this was the last night of their honeymoon and that they'd spend the last three weeks scuba diving on the island of Utila. When they followed the hostess, the way was clear and Claire moved to join Evan.

"You look delightful," he remarked.

"Likewise," Claire replied, wondering idly if he'd enjoyed a similar fantasy in his shower.

As they looked over the menu, Claire couldn't help listening to the newlyweds, who'd been seated within earshot. They were talking about returning to their jobs upon arrival back in their hometown in the US midwest, she as a checkout clerk and he, as far as she could tell, in an agricultural co-op. She stole a glance at the woman's face, her broad jowls hanging low beneath a double chin. What if this woman had applied for my job, Claire found herself wondering. Even if her resume was identical, would she have had a shot? Claire knew the answer. She knew that she'd never have a sexy boss who would invite her swimming and surmised that even if he did, when people around the pool gawked at her, it would be for a whole different reason. As happy as this woman seemed, Claire couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to live her life. While there was no doubt that hard work and perseverance had gone a long way toward landing Claire this job, the years of preparation in school, NGO volunteer work, countless articles for green publications and all the networking she'd done would have counted for nothing were it not for her looks. She counted her blessings.

As Evan and Claire were enjoying a shared appetizer, the camerawoman came by with her laptop and showed them a rough cut of the day's footage. Claire laughed at how inept she looked trying to put the tractor in gear, dropping seedlings and failing to keep up with the crew.

"The goal is to showcase how valuable our farmworkers are to the operation," Evan explained.

"And I made them look great!" chuckled Claire.

Evan, Claire and the camerawoman discussed the next day's schedule, which revolved around the official opening of the clinic. The facility itself had been treating patients for almost two years, but the grand opening had been delayed until Claire could be there with the video crew. The master shot was to feature a local dignitary cutting the ribbon across the front door as Claire applauded in the background with several of the locals. This was to be cut against interviews, the most important with a pregnant woman who was to be shown getting an ultrasound by one of the technicians and the doctor who headed up the company's medical program nation wide. After a light meal, they decided to retire to their rooms, since they had an early morning and a long day ahead of them.

The next day began with the same car ride as before, except that instead of ending up at the fields, they went to the nearby village. When the SUV slowed as it approached the first houses, Claire put away her camera, as Evan had asked. Rolling through the rough, dusty streets, she understood why. The village was the kind of shantytown very few people in the industrialized world would ever have the occasion to see except on documentaries about poverty in Latin America. It was everything one would expect. The houses, if you could call them that, were cobbled together using whatever scraps of wood, rubber or metal could be found along the roadside, which was littered with all manner of refuse. Children clothed in filthy rags ran through the streets unattended as dust swirled in the breeze and chickens ran amok. There were no signs of the kind of widespread starvation she'd witnessed on a trip to Africa with an NGO in her third year as an undergrad, but nor was there evidence of any great prosperity either. A woman hanging laundry on a line looked blankly at them, as did another who cooked over an open fire. The driver honked his horn at a scrawny goat that stubbornly refused to give way.

After driving about 10 minutes at a crawl, the guards' jeep rolled to a halt in front of a cinder brick building ringed with a tall chain-link fence. Clair's SUV stopped behind it and the camera crew's vehicle parked behind hers. As the camerawoman instructed the crew, the metal doors at the front of the clinic opened and a rotund middle aged woman in a white uniform descended the concrete steps.

"Buenos dias," she said approaching Evan. She shook his hand appreciatively.

"This is Nurse Gonzales," said the interpreter to Claire, who introduced Claire in Spanish.

"Ms. Gonzales runs the day to day business of the clinic," Evan explained.

As the nurse ushered them up the stairs and into the building, the interpreter explained that she wanted to give a brief tour. Evan held the door for her and she crossed the threshold into the foyer. The nurses high heels clicked on the stone tiled floor as she walked ahead of them. Claire would have had no idea what the nurse was saying were it not for the interpreter, but there was no doubt she spoke with great pride about the clinic and held the company, and Evan, in very high regard.

The interior of the building was remarkably well appointed, a sharp contrast with the squalid hovels which comprised the rest of the town. Plush sofas lined the walls of the spacious waiting room and wood-framed photographs of local scenery adorned the walls above fabric examination beds. There was a dentist's chair in one of the rooms and an eye doctor's lab in another. The obstetrics rooms were the most impressive, equipped with the latest imaging equipment. After the nurse took them through the lab, which belonged more in an episode of CSI than a Honduran medical clinic, they returned to the foyer.

The front door opened and in walked a tall, balding olive skinned man with a thick mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles. The nurse walked over and introduced him to the crowd.

"This is Dr. Juan Hernandez," said the interpreter, "the director of Futura's medical programs."

After warm greetings and introductions all around, the camera crew lit the room in which the interviews would take place and the makeup artist went to work on Claire, spending a lot more time than she did in the field the day before. The interpreter translated the director's instructions as Evan listened carefully. Claire took her seat opposite the doctor and the camerawoman set the frame and got focus. The director instructed Claire to begin and she rolled through the questions in the script, improvising and probing for more detail. She got him to explain how the clinic has made a measurable difference in the quality of the lives of the people in the surrounding villages and how grateful the villagers were toward the company which had provided for them so generously.

The nurse was next and her words were no less exuberant. At one point in the interview she even burst into tears describing how a young boy's life had been saved by medicine he would never have received if not for Futura's kind support.

The final interview was with a woman from a neighboring village. Six and a half months pregnant, she spoke of how grateful she was to the doctors. Right after her interview, the camerawoman shot cover footage of Dr Hernandez examining her and the technician performing an ultrasound. The camerawoman zoomed in on the screen to reveal the unborn infant's beating heart, then took a closeup of joyful tears running down the woman's face. After staged footage of Claire getting a tour of the facility by Dr. Hernandez, they wrapped for lunch. Having acquired most of what they needed in the morning, the first part of the afternoon was spent shooting direct address in which Claire explained how Futura was in the process of setting up clinics like this in every region in which they farm. As Claire was finishing her last take, townspeople started to assemble around the building for the official opening. A catering service provided free snacks and refreshments to participants as a ribbon was tied across the front door. The camerawoman set up the frame and had all hands shooting with cameras from different angles, some hand held and some on tripods. This was only going to happen once, so they had to get all the coverage they needed in one go. The dignitaries arrived, gave speeches thanking Futura for their generous support of the community, then the ribbon was cut in a grand ceremony, followed by lots of hugs and kisses. Evan and the director were thrilled.

Finished at the clinic, they moved on to the soccer pitch Futura had paid to have flattened and planted with turf grass. The children played with soccer balls donated by the company and the camerawoman took some impromptu footage. Some of the younger boys invited Claire to play and she joined them on the pitch. The camerawoman captured the boys' ear to ear smiles as they ran circles around her with the ball. Claire suggested interviewing some of the boys and Evan agreed.

Last up was the feast to which everyone in the village was invited. It was prepared by caterers hired by the company, but many villagers volunteered their time to help. By the time the farm workers had returned from the fields the dinner was almost ready. The camerawoman raced around capturing all the antics as Claire helped set tables and prepare vegetables. Some of the farmhands insisted she drink tequila with them and she agreed. Evan suggested shooting it to showcase how well Claire, symbolic of the company, had been accepted by the workers as one of them. Of course, when the alcohol really started to flow, Evan insisted that the cameras go away, partially to prevent shooting compromising footage, and partially to let the hard working camera crew finally let off some steam. The shoot was over, everything had gone smoothly and it was time to relax.

As the evening progressed, Claire found herself seated near a bonfire lit by some of the locals near the edge of the village. Enjoying the freedom the flames provided from insects, she watched Evan try out his comically pathetic Spanish on some of the local women, who giggled with delight.

Basking in the glow of the fire, Claire felt a gentle tug at her sweater. She turned to see one of the young boys she'd played soccer with smiling at her.

He said something in Spanish and took her by the finger, pulling her toward the village.

Intrigued, Claire followed him. Noting the streets were dark and deserted with everyone at the party, she looked back at Evan. He broke off his conversation and walked after them.

"Everything okay?" he called to Claire.

"I think so," she called back. "I'm not sure what he wants."

The boy spoke again in Spanish.

"He want to show you baby goat," called a woman's voice from the darkness. "He show you baby goat, just born."

Claire looked at Evan, who shrugged and sauntered along behind them, hands in his pockets. One of the armed security guards had noticed Claire going with the boy and had decided to tag along at a distance. He looked at Evan, who motioned with his head for the guard to come along. The boy led them along a debris littered driveway that narrowed to a path that ran alongside of an old ramshackle barn with a thatched roof. From behind the barn, hushed murmurs of male voices floated through the silence as airborne dust swirled like ghosts in the dim yellow light of a flickering lantern.

The boy led Claire around the end of the barn and in the light, Claire could see some men hunched around something on the ground, two of them with their backs to her. A female goat, presumably the mother, limped around in the straw beside the men, casting ominous shadows against the trees in the glow of the lantern. One of the men turned and saw the boy coming. His face twisted in fear, cursed at the boy in Spanish and the boy jumped back. Claire examined the half-illuminated faces of the men facing her. Their darkened eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill through her body.

"Santa Madre de Dios!" muttered one of the men hoarsely, his voice trembling as he traced a cross in the air in front of his chest.

The boy wandered over to look at the newborn goat, but again the man forcefully pushed him away. What was wrong? Was it still born? Growing up on a cattle farm, Claire was no stranger to the early death of farm animals and certainly neither were these men.

"We'd better go," warned Evan.

Claire looked at Evan, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. She stepped forward and peaked over the shoulder of the man who knelt with his back toward her. Suddenly, she jumped backward in shock. On the ground between the men was the most horrifying sight she had ever witnessed, a slimy, mangled bundle of twisted legs and multiple heads, all different sizes and hideously contorted.

"Oh my god!" she gasped, covering her cheeks with her hands.

The boy, who'd finally managed a peak at what was supposed to have been his family's newborn goat, began to wail.

"Come on," said Evan, more firmly. "This isn't our concern."

Without hesitation, Claire backed away and followed Evan around the barn. She'd witnessed countless births of farm animals of all kinds, some of which had gone bad in one way or another, but she'd never encountered anything like that. Animals were very occasionally born with minor deformities, but nothing remotely like the kid goat she'd just seen.

"Did you get a look?" she whispered as they hobbled back to the bonfire over the uneven ground, careful to avoid the refuse that seemed to litter the ground everywhere.

"Not a pretty sight," replied Evan.

Feeling the chill in the evening breeze, Claire began to shiver. Grateful to be back by the fire, she sat down on the bench and accepted a hot drink offered by one of the local women. Evan sat beside her, silently for a while.

"I want you to know you did an amazing job here," he said when he finally spoke.

"Thank you," Claire smiled, her mind still on what she'd witnessed by the barn.

"I've got a little surprise planned tomorrow," he said. "Actually, it's a big surprise."

"I thought we were getting cover footage of La Cieba tomorrow?"

"The crew can do that," answered Evan.

"Do I have to wait to tomorrow 'til learn what the surprise is?"

"We should get an early night," he smiled. "And I recommend you don't drink too much."

Evan left Claire by the fire and retired to the room in the Clinic that had been assigned to him for the night in order to avoid the dangers of driving in the dark. Claire sat alone, unable to rid her mind of the twisted figure of that tiny kid goat. She had no idea how it had come to be that way, but she was sure it was not a product of nature. She'd read news stories about deformities found in animals and children around certain conventional agricultural operations, but Futura was organic - tested, inspected and certified. If the culprit was a pesticide or something like that, it would have to be a legacy issue. But could chemical residue from the previous company still be that active? She considered asking her friend Drew, who was an expert on this very matter, but she thought better of it. There was no way this could have anything to do with her company and she knew better than to light a fire under Drew.

She decided to call it a night and retired to a room across from Evan's. The bed was comfortable and the sheets kept her warm, but sleep took a long time to come. When her alarm went off at 5 AM the next morning, she awoke to a start. The dull ache she felt in her limbs indicated that she hadn't slept well. She could hear the sound of rustling from Evan's room, clothes being stuffed in a bag and zippers pulled shut. She got changed, brushed her teeth in the sink and ventured out into the hall, where Evan was placing his bags.

"Do I get to find out what the surprise is?"

"In due time."

They ate a quick breakfast of bread and fruit, then got into the SUV, which was already running. Accompanied by a jeep full of guards, they snaked through the winding roads, ending up at a small private airport where a tiny four-seat aircraft awaited.

"We're flying somewhere?" she asked.

"Roatan," he replied. "We're going scuba diving."

Claire smiled. "Tell me you're serious!"

"Dead serious."

"Am I allowed to hug my boss?"

Evan widened his arms and Claire wrapped hers around him, giving his body a tight squeeze. Claire had done some diving in the past and even earned her PADI Rescue Diver certification, but that had been years ago. Time constraints and financial pressures had forced diving far into the background of her life's priorities. But today, thanks to Evan, it was time to get back in the water.

The plane landed, a taxi took them to the dive shop and Claire got fitted with equipment by the Divemaster, who gave her a refresher in the pool before they headed out in the boat. Claire was thrilled, but also nervous, having been away from the sport for so long. But as she leaped into the water and descended on the first dive, it all came back to her. Breath control, buoyancy - just like riding a bike. The Divemaster gave her the okay sign as they cruised through schools of exotic fish darting in and out of colorful coral. She was in heaven. When they got back on the boat, they had a snack of pineapple and a drink of water, then discussed their next dive. They had two options - check out a shallow shipwreck, or dive with sharks. It was no difficult choice.

When they got to the site, the Divemaster explained the rules carefully. Keep all limbs close to the torso, let him handle the bait and do not attempt to touch the sharks. Claire and Evan agreed, then changed tanks and waited out their surface interval. Looking at the sky, the Divemaster pointed out a group of birds circling overhead. He explained that that they were searching for a school of fish and that any moment, they would dive down under the water one by one. Sure enough, the first bird tucked in its wings and dove under the surface and the others followed suit. The Divemaster told them of how they hunted cooperatively, some corralling the fish while the others darted into the school and fed, taking turns until the school was fished out.

"It sucks to be a fish," mused Claire.

"It sucks to be a small fish," Evan corrected her.

They donned their equipment and on the count of three, rolled backward into the water and descended to the sandy bottom. The Divemaster tapped on the metal bait-box with a hollow rod and almost instantly, sleek grey reef sharks surrounded them from out of the depths, circling warily.

Claire knew the stats. She had more chance of being injured in a boating accident on the way to the dive site than she did by the sharks, but the sight of their razor sharp teeth, their lithe bodies effortlessly cruising through the water, and their cold, emotionless eyes which stared at her unceasingly, sent shivers through her body. The Divemaster reached into the box and took out a chunk of fish, which he held out at arm's length and let float for a split second before it was snatched and devoured by a shark. The second piece disappeared even more quickly. Piece by piece the sharks devoured the bait, two of them occasionally darting for the same chunk and tearing it in half. When the bait was finished, the Divemsater closed the box and let the sharks circle around and between them. In a few minutes, the sharks realized mealtime was over and cruised away in search of other morsels. The Divemaster gave the thumbs-up, which meant it was time to ascend for a three minute safety stop at 15 feet before returning to the surface. It was the best dive Claire had ever experienced. Maybe the most exciting thing she'd ever seen.

They did one more dive in the afternoon, then returned to the dock. At the hotel, Claire showered, put on the same blue dress as she'd worn two nights before, then met Evan for dinner at a restaurant overlooking the ocean.

"How was that for a day on the job?" he asked.

"I don't know what to say," she answered.

They discussed the whole tour, which had started in Mexico and taken them to Ecuador and Guatemala before ending in Honduras, and agreed it had been a great success. All the footage would soon be in the hands of the editors and the rough cut would be ready for viewing by Knox within a week. Still photos would soon be on the company website and the social media platforms of charities and organizations the company supports. PR teams at the large supermarket chains who were their main customers eagerly awaited the uploads so that they could link to them. The PR campaign was shaping up to be a huge success.

"To the bright future ahead of us," Evan toasted when their drinks arrived.

They clinked glasses and drank, then the conversation turned back to the diving. Claire swore she was going to do more of it. Evan, who years ago had briefly worked as a scuba instructor in Thailand, vowed the same.

"Do you ever wish you'd chosen that life?" she asked.

"Chuck it all and be a diving instructor?" he chortled. "Not with my school debts."

"How much, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Around $70,000."

"Ouch!"

Evan advised Claire not to be too paranoid about owing money. Being in a state of manageable debt was a pre-condition of modern living. On top of school debts he had a mortgage, and a car loan, all of which he could easily manage on his salary.

"Do you ever worry what would happen if, God forbid, something happened and you lost your paycheque?" asked Claire.

"I don't lose any sleep over it," he answered.

"I worry," admitted Claire.

"Maybe that's a good thing," mused Evan. "Because the truth is, we all live closer to the edge than most of us like to think."

Claire enjoyed Evan's philosophical musings and waited for him to continue.

"And not just humans. I'm prepared to bet that more than a few of the fish we saw today are already dead," he went on. "Some eaten by other fish, some on people's dinner plates. And the coral? Most divers think of a reef as peaceful and harmonious, but in reality, it's a war zone. Corals fight over every square millimeter of real estate. And they're ruthless. Some launch poison cells at one another, just like armies firing ballistic missiles. Some secrete digestive acids as they expand on their neighbor's turf."

"Sounds like corporate warfare," Claire quipped.

"You understand perfectly."

They dined on the day's catch as they watched the sun set over the gentle waves. Claire contemplated the three weeks she'd just spent in Latin America, all expenses paid, while collecting a generous paycheck. The whole world was hers.

When she returned to her room she checked her cell phone for messages. Among notes from the office and a few queries from media was a text from Drew: We have to talk.

Chapter 11

Meandering through the night time crowds on King Street , Drew cursed himself for not giving Claire any details. All he'd said when she responded to his text was that he needed to see her about a matter of urgent interest to her, leaving out any mention of what the matter was. He broke out in a cold sweat every time he thought about how to tell her what was going on. The evidence was still circumstantial, but the odds were lining up in favor of a link between Futura and the deformed fetuses, and he felt compelled to warn her.

He knew it was risky. Breathing so much as a word about Chaplain's research could jeopardize everything, especially if Futura really was behind it. The question was, how would she take it? Given their history - and his passionate hatred of Great Southern - he had his doubts she'd view his warning as an act of concern. Worst case, she'd see it as an attempt at sabotage by a jealous ex-lover. Rather, ex-would-be lover, which was even worse. If so, could he trust her not to tell anyone about their conversation? Even if she kept her mouth shut, might she betray something in her demeanor? Might she ask a question that gives away that she knows something? It was a real risk, but one he couldn't bring himself not to take.

He entered the restaurant where they'd agreed to meet, and found an empty seat from which he could watch the entrance. It was dark and busy and the music that poured from speakers was loud enough to give them some privacy. When Claire entered, he waved at her and she acknowledged. She threw her coat and scarf over the back of her chair opposite his.

"So," Drew opened, "I guess the job is going well?"

"Oh my God!" Claire beamed. "It's my dream."

"Awesome!" replied Drew, trying hard to feign enthusiasm.

The waiter came by and Drew ordered for both of them.

"The trip was like nothing I've ever experienced," Claire continued. "I mean, I've travelled a lot, but never for a paying job. It was like..." She threw up her hands as she searched for words.

"I can't even imagine," Drew jumped in.

Claire looked sympathetically at Drew. "One day you won't have to imagine," she said, regretting how patronizing it sounded.

"One can always hope."

"If you'd work in the private sector..."

Drew bristled.

"It's not selling out," Claire assured him. "You've got a right to make a living."

"By helping companies poison the planet?"

"Not all companies do that."

This was Drew's chance. "I suppose yours doesn't?" he baited her.

"Not at all."

"Do you know anything about Futura's sister company?"

"The one you call Great Satan Foods?" Claire quipped disapprovingly.

"Do you know how the company earned that name?"

"I'm aware of the legacy issues," replied Claire, "but Futura's whole purpose is to make a clean break."

"Is that so?"

"Yes!" Claire insisted. "I've met the CEO. He has good values, and he lives by them." She explained his insistence that Futura and all its employees embody strong environmental values and even told him about how he'd refused the monkfish once she warned him it was endangered.

"Whatever happened to that spunky, skeptical reporter I used to know?" asked Drew.

"I'm not a reporter now."

"So you've turned off your BS detector?"

The waiter came and placed the drinks on the table. Drew took a sip.

"It's important to be skeptical," replied Claire, "but you also need to give people a chance."

"I wish you could hear yourself."

"I know you think I've sold out," said Claire, "but everything I've seen so far indicates the company is trying to do good. It's all organic - every last field. And the workers are so happy!"

"Great Southern doesn't know the meaning of organic," protested Drew. "And I wonder how happy the workers really are."

"I spoke to them Drew, I worked along side of them."

"Did you see their living conditions?"

"They don't live affluent lifestyles," admitted Claire, "at least not by our standards. But the company provides free healthcare for everyone in the villages. Not just the workers. Everyone."

"Free healthcare?" probed Drew.

"They've built full-spectrum medical centers. They've got dental services, pediatrics, maternity care. I even interviewed a women getting ultrasound."

"Tell me about the ultrasound," Drew asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

"The woman was six months pregnant," answered Claire. "She was so grateful for the care she received at the clinic she cried."

"Was their anything different about the fetus?"

"The technician said everything looked fine."

Drew took a long sip of his drink as he pondered what Claire was telling him. "Is it possible that some of what you saw might have been staged?"

Claire considered her response carefully. She knew that Drew was given to conspiracy theory and that he could be incredibly persistent in his views, so she didn't want to encourage him.

"There's a certain amount of preparation that goes into making videos like this and I suppose you could call that staging if you wanted to."

"Is it possible there might be some things going on they don't want you to know about?"

Claire had no idea what Drew was talking about, but she didn't like where the conversation was heading. One of the reasons she'd decided not to pursue a relationship with Drew was his unshakable mistrust of business in general. As a reporter, Claire had shared his skepticism, but if there was one thing she'd learned in business school it was that too much skepticism did her career prospects no good what so ever. If Drew wanted to kick the hornets' nest, fine, but she wasn't going to let him drag her into it.

"I'm not sure what this is about," Claire stated firmly, "but I'm certain everything is on the up and up."

"I'm afraid it might not be," remarked Drew.

"Is this just a nagging suspicion," asked Claire, or do you have some sort of evidence?"

Drew reminded himself that if Futura was the culprit - and it was looking that way - opening his mouth now could alert the company that he was onto them. But there was no going back now. He'd called Claire here for a reason, and he was going to go through with it.

"I have evidence," he replied.

"So what do you plan to do with this evidence?" Claire inquired.

"I need to do more research before I can be sure," Drew hedged, "but it looks like a chemical Futura uses is causing deformities in fetuses."

"And you believe this because?"

"There have been a number of miscarriages around the areas where Futura grows," stated Drew. "I've seen preserved samples with awful mutations."

"How do you know where Futura grows its produce?"

"I can't tell you that," he replied, aware of how hackneyed his words must have sounded.

"Then how can you be sure these are related to Futura?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"What can you tell me?"

"I just wanted you to know that things might not be as they seem."

"Well," Claire began, "I can tell you with total certainty that Futura is organically certified. No pesticides, no herbicides, no fungicides, no GMO's."

"At least that's what the paperwork says."

"It's more than paperwork," snapped Claire, who was fast approaching her limit. "I've been there, I've spoken to the workers and their families. I've helped plant seedlings and weed the fields and harvest vegetables. It's the greenest operation I've ever seen."

"I'm just saying you should be careful, that's all."

In spite of her frustration, Claire felt an upwelling of sympathy for Drew. His heart was in the right place, but he was so far off track. Maybe the stress of his dire financial situation was getting to him.

"I know things are tough right now," Claire consoled him. "It was tough for me before I landed this job, but things will get better."

Drew knew he was losing the battle. She probably figured that all this was just another zany conspiracy theory with no basis in fact. Or worse, maybe she thought he was jealous of her success and this was an attempt to make her feel guilty. Either way, it was time to change tactics. Silently, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small cardboard box. From the box he removed an object enfolded in layers of bubble wrap. As Claire watched, he opened the bubble wrap, revealing a jar with a white lid and a handwritten label.

Claire's stomach tightened. She couldn't see the contents of the jar, which were blocked by the label, but she feared the worst. Her eyes locked with Drew's as he set the jar gently on the table in front of her and turned it so that the label didn't obscure her view.

"Look." He commanded her, his gaze unflinching.

Claire hesitated. Her body tensed as her eyes dropped. She felt her stomach turn even before she could make out what was in the jar. Instinctively she clenched the arms of her chair as her eyes focused. Putting her hands to her mouth, she gasped loudly, averting her eyes.

Drew picked up a menu and shielded the jar from the view of other patrons, who craned their necks too look at Claire. Claire closed her eyes and fought the urge to gasp again. She breathed deeply through her nose and managed to calm herself. She opened her eyes slowly and let them focus on the object in the jar. It was more grotesque than anything she'd seen in her life, or had ever wanted to see – a ball of purple tissue out of which extended multiple heads and limbs, all twisted and contorted, but unmistakably human.

"Where did you get that?" she whispered hoarsely.

"It's from Honduras," Drew replied.

Claire shook her head in denial.

"Before he died, Chaplain did some tests on animals. I can't tell you the details, but samples taken from the company's fields in Honduras produced similar effects on their offspring."

"It's not possible," insisted Claire, still shaking her head.

Drew repackaged the jar and put it back in his bag. He'd made his point. It was time to leave "I showed you this for your own benefit. It's up to you how you handle it, put please keep it to yourself." He tossed some bills onto the table to pay for their drinks, then stood up and put his coat on.

Claire didn't look up from the table as he went. She simply sat in her chair, motionless, until the waiter came by and collected the money, asking if she wanted change. Waving him off, she picked up her coat, slipped her arms through the sleeves and tried to close the front, her trembling hands fumbling with the buttons. What she'd seen had shaken her deeply, and not merely because of how gruesome a sight it had been. The specific way the fetus was deformed reminded her of the newborn goat she'd seen in Honduras, so much so that the two images practically fused in her mind.

Standing up, she felt as though she was barely in control of her own body, like she was watching a movie, a long-take POV through the eyes of a young woman leaving a restaurant. The POV shot continued as she floated out onto the sidewalk, her head swimming. All sounds were echoes, all lights overexposed smudges across the screen. Black crept in from the corners to the centre until it all started to blur. Steadying herself against a lamppost, Claire tried to take a deep breath, but she couldn't draw air. She felt her pulse like thunder in her head and her knees buckled beneath her, then everything went silent.

Out of the darkness came a voice.

"Miss, can you hear me?"

A gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Miss, can you open your eyes?"

The wide, black, bearded face of an elderly man came into focus.

"Do you know where you are?"

As Claire's vision cleared she lifted her head and looked around, noting that a crowd had assembled around her.

"Just relax," the man said. "We've called an ambulance."

Claire lay her head back. Someone had placed a rolled up sweater under her head and another person had spread a coat over top of her. The cold night air filled her nostrils. Paramedics arrived, asked her all the standard questions and insisted she go with them to the emergency room. She knew they'd persist until she relented, so she agreed. She felt better having others around her. The antiseptic odor of the ambulance, the feel of the IV drip in her arm and the reassuring voice of the attendant all helped calibrate her senses. This was reality. She was here, now.

Yet even as her mind cleared and she regained her strength, she could not banish the image of that thing Drew had shown her. It floated in the center of her mind's eye, cast on screen by an unseen projectionist. She didn't know where in Honduras that thing came from, but there was no way Futura was responsible for it. No way! Drew was a good scientist, an amazing scientist, but he was wrong this time. He had to be wrong! Because if he was right... No! He had to be wrong!

He was under too much pressure, financial pressure. She knew what financial pressure was like, the effect it has on a person's ability to think straight, make good decisions. It wreaked havoc, total havoc, and that's why he thought Futura was somehow responsible for that... thing. But her company wasn't responsible. Of course it wasn't! Even if that thing had come from Honduras - which it might not have for all she knew - there were all kinds of explanations that didn't involve her company.

Poor Drew. So alone, living on the edge of dire poverty, fighting unwinnable fights with no one in his corner, no one to keep him on track. He needed help. He needed her help. Maybe she could help him in a way that would set his thinking straight, encourage him to see the truth - that her company wasn't what he thought, that there was no way, no way at all, that Futura could be responsible for whatever caused that... that...thing. Poor Drew.

As the paramedics spoke to her, she pondered the problem of how to help Drew all the way to the hospital, in the back of her mind. She thought about it while she waited for the doctor and while she rode home in a taxi. After a week back at work, a week of attending fundraisers, handing out cheques to charities and making announcements at galas, Claire finally thought she had a solution. She decided to bring it up with Evan in his office one afternoon after concluding some other business.

"I was wondering if it might be appropriate for me to ask you for a personal favour," she enquired.

"That depends on the favour."

"If it's not too much, I was wondering if you might be willing to pull some strings to help a friend at the university."
Chapter 12

Drew awoke to the vibration of his cell phone on the floor beside his bed. The text was from Scarlett, who wanted another session that night. The midterm exam was the following week and she was stressing over her lack of progress. With Drew's help, she'd earned stellar grades on her lab and assignment marks, but if she bombed the exam, it was all for nothing. Drew texted back, assuring her that he'd be there.

He got up, stretched and went right to his computer, his stomach growling, pangs of hunger haunting him as he checked his email. He'd asked Valdez for more photos of deformed animals. If those deformities could be geographically linked to fields where Futura grew produce, that would be one more piece of evidence.

Of course it wouldn't "prove" anything. Futura would argue that deformities were found around their farms only because that's where he looked and that unless he conducted a rigorous survey encompassing the entire region and found that rates of deformities were higher around Futura's fields - something he obviously didn't have the resources to do - there was nothing more to say about the matter. This was standard practice for any company facing trial by science – make demands for an extremely high standard of proof. But it was only the first line of defense. If he published anything at all, no matter how well supported by evidence, they'd sue him for libel, a tactic its sister company had refined to an art. Lawyers working for Great Southern Foods had literally built their careers by picking off scientists who sought to publish academic work opposed to their client's interests. Most of the time the scientists rolled over and withdrew their articles - if not out of fear of the lawsuit, then in response to pressure from university administrators fearful of becoming embroiled in career-shattering controversies. Drew was under no illusion that anyone at the university would stand in his corner. In fact, he was certain the new dean of science, who'd been instrumental in reassigning Chaplain's lab, would hang him out to dry at the first opportunity.

He fought back the rising sense of futility and focused on reading his email. There was one from Claire.

Meet with Professor Schaffer today. He's going to make you an offer. I know he had his differences with your supervisor, but don't write him off. Whatever happens, just keep an open mind.

To put it mildly, he was shocked. Carl Schaffer had been the lead author of a high-profile journal article Chaplain's work had torpedoed, ultimately forcing an embarrassing retraction. At the time of Chaplain's death, the two had not been on speaking terms and the animosity between them was so intense that only one of them at a time had been allowed to attend faculty meetings. It was almost unimaginable that he would be making Drew an offer of any sort. It was even more unimaginable that Claire thought Drew would accept, given that Schaffer was openly on the payroll of agrochemical industry organizations, having provided paid consulting services to companies and industry organizations which, not incidentally, generously supported his labs. He wondered if Claire knew that Futura's sister company had hired him as an expert witness in a civil trial in which they were being sued for the effects of a pesticide they'd sold to farmers in the US Midwest. The plaintiffs ultimately accepted a paltry settlement after Schaffer bamboozled the jury with statistical technobabble based on company-funded experiments employing dubious methodologies. The result was that thousands of children continued to suffer severe respiratory distress in the regions where the chemicals were used. It would take a uniquely naïve person to believe that the new Mercedes Benz which later appeared in Schaffer's reserved parking spot wasn't purchased with proceeds from his work on this case and others like it.

Drew emailed Claire asking her for more details, but she insisted that he just listen to what Schaffer had to say. So, if only to humor Claire, he made up his mind to hear the man out. But first, he needed advice from the only person on faculty he could trust.

He took a long, cold walk to the science complex and, his face still raw from the icy wind, knocked gently on Akintola's door. After they shook hands and exchanged warm greetings, Drew explained what Claire had told him about the offer, saying nothing about the surrounding circumstances. Akintola didn't even try to suppress a cynical laugh.

"Naturally, Carl is always looking for the best and brightest young minds," said the aging scientist.

Drew smiled at Akintola's sarcasm. Schaffer had recently come under fire after an investigation by a major Toronto newspaper revealed that he'd made use of unpaid foreign doctoral students in a lab offering service for a fee to industry. After insisting that the students were not performing tasks related to commercial projects, a university audit commissioned in response to the investigation found numerous irregularities in how they recorded their time. While the incident didn't stop Schaffer from being promoted to full-professor the following year, he was burned about having been investigated in the first place and the fact that Akintola had encouraged some of the foreign students to speak out didn't help already strained relations.

"I'm supposed to go in and hear him out," said Drew.

"And you think Futura put him up to it?"

"I can't see any other reason Schaffer would reach out to me."

"It is rather a curious turn of events," observed Akintola.

"Did Dr. Chaplain ever talk to you about research he was doing on the side?"

"What sort of research?"

"Field work in teratology."

"Mark always had lots of irons in the fire."

"This was big."

"Do you feel comfortable talking about it?"

If there was one person on campus Chaplain had trusted, it was Akintola, but how deep had that trust run? Had he shared anything with his long time friend? It was time to find out.

"Some kind of agricultural chemical has been deforming human fetuses in Honduras," Drew said directly.

Akintola looked silently into Drew's eyes, studying them with a quiet but unnerving intensity.

"Chaplain has all the evidence," he continued, "but we don't know what the chemical is."

"Then how do you know it's linked to agriculture?"

"Water taken from the fields caused deformities in the offspring of rabbits and mice."

"These mutations are somehow connected with Dr. Schaffer?"

"Not Schaffer, Claire."

"How?"

"In strict confidence," said Drew in the quietest voice he could as he leaned forward, "I saw pictures of Claire on the same field where the water samples were taken."

"The samples that caused the mutations?" Akintola clarified.

"Yes," replied Drew.

Akintola bowed his head sadly.

"I showed her one of the fetuses," Drew continued.

"How long ago?"

"A bit more than a week."

"And out of the blue she asks you to meet with Chaplain's sworn enemy?"

From Akintola's questions, Drew inferred that he had no knowledge of Chaplain's research. He began to wonder why such a close friend had been left out of the loop, then it occurred to him that he too had been kept in the dark until the day Chaplain's death had become known to the public.

"You're sure Dr. Chaplain said nothing about this?"

"He clearly confided in you," Akintola replied with a proud smile. "Go find out what Schaffer has to say, but be cautious."

Drew approached Schaffer's office with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, as if he were a kid in junior high school being called to the vice-principal's office. He reminded himself he had the right to refuse the offer, but the mere fact that it was coming from a man who wouldn't so much as nod if they passed in the hall gave the situation an eerie feeling. At the door, which was slightly ajar, he stood and listened. The sound of fingers tapping briskly on a computer keyboard mingled with an interview on CBC radio. He rapped lightly on the door.

"Come in," grunted Schaffer.

Drew pushed the door open and stepped gingerly into the office. Schaffer ignored his presence, concentrating on his screen as he continued to type on his laptop. Drew waited patiently for what seemed an inappropriately long interval. He knew the professor was making a point. When at last Schaffer had finished, he motioned to a chair behind Drew and asked him to be seated. Drew lowered himself into the chair as Schaffer turned off the radio.

"Do you know why you're here?" asked Schaffer bluntly.

"Claire LeBraun said I should meet with you."

"Her company has suggested directing one of their research grants toward hiring a new lab tech, and I'm offering you the position."

The way Schaffer clenched his teeth as he spoke gave Drew an indication of how enthusiastic he was about the whole matter.

"Is there a job description you could give me?"

"I think you know what being a lab tech is all about."

"I'm just wondering what I'd have to sign."

"All the standard documents."

"Like a confidentiality agreement."

"Most definitely."

"Would I be able to use the lab for my PhD research?"

"No," replied Schaffer curtly. "It's a commercial lab."

"What sort of compensation are we talking about?" asked Drew.

"$45,000 a year to start," replied Schaffer. "Plus benefits. Future raises commensurate with performance."

The figure hit Drew like a soccer ball to the face. He'd gone in expecting that the "offer" would relate to work as some sort of research assistant, with pay closer to $18,000 a year. The salary was more than four times what Drew was earning as a TA. He could afford fresh vegetables for lunch and dinner, even go back to three meals a day! He could pay his rent - maybe even turn on the baseboard heating!

"And because my commercial lab is exempt from on-campus working hour limitations," added Schaffer, "you could maintain your TA assignments."

That would effectively put his income well above $50,000 a year. Sign on the dotted line and his financial problems were solved.

"By what date do I have to decide?" asked Drew.

"I'd like an answer by the end of the week," replied Schaffer.

They discussed the terms in a bit more detail and when the professor indicated it was time he was on his way, Drew obediently stood up. Before he left the office, he couldn't resist asking a question that had been nagging him.

"I'm sorry to ask so blunt a question, but..." Drew hesitated, "given what happened between Professor Chaplain and yourself--"

"My issues with your late supervisor were between him and me," Schaffer cut him off. "They don't need to concern you at all."

On his way through the hall, Drew imagined himself arriving at work every day with a full breakfast in his stomach and taking lunch breaks at the student-run organic coop. He thought about inviting Lars out to dinner and paying for both of them, as Lars had done so many times for him. He thought about being able to afford a Metropass so he could go anywhere the bus, streetcar and subway would take him. Life would be so easy! He didn't want a car, didn't care for expensive vacations, didn't need anything more than the second hand clothes he was quite comfortable wearing, but the prospect of a warm apartment, a full stomach and the ability to afford transportation was so appealing he couldn't help but walk out of the building with a snap in his gait. And all he had to do was say yes to an offer that was right in front of him. No stalled grant applications, no rejection letters from government funding agencies.

He was so enamored with the possibility of financial security that he forgot to put on his hat and gloves before he went outside. But he hardly felt the blistering cold on his way back up Huron Street. On Bloor he passed a hotdog vendor and drank in the savory aroma. Commercial street food was by no means his idea of the perfect meal, but the knowledge that he might soon be able to buy a sausage just because he felt like it filled him with joy. Passing the restaurants and cafes that lined the street, he imagined being able to plop himself down in any one of them and order whatever he wanted off the menu without counting the cost in foregone boxes of mac and cheese.

But that was the future. The present reality was that he still had quite literally no cash in his wallet and enjoying even so much as a street sausage right now was not an option. His rent was due and the pay cheque that was supposed to be coming next week would barely cover it. Stopping in front of a discount grocery store, he picked up a flyer from a dispenser outside and saw that no-name mac and cheese was going for $0.35 a box. He decided to enter and when he saw that there were only half a dozen boxes left, he scooped them all up, dropping one when he saw the sign that limited purchases to six per customer. Returning home, he carefully measured out half a box of macaroni, cooked it, mixed in half a package of cheese and peeled a single carrot. That would be his only food until he met Scarlett that night, who he knew he could count on to feed him something.

His stomach at least partially full, he sat on his rancid futon and pondered Schaffer's offer. He looked at the cabinet in which he kept Chaplain's journals. His late mentor would roll over in his grave if he accepted, but what else was he supposed to do? He could hope against hope for another job somewhere in the city, and pray that if he got one the university wouldn't find out, or it wouldn't conflict with his TA duties. Akintola would surely admonish him, but he'd almost certainly understand.

And who was he to pass judgment anyway? On top of a very reasonable pension, Akintola held a sessional position paying him far better than any TA could hope to earn. It was all too easy for him to advise caution, but Drew was not so fortunate. In need of an objective opinion, he texted Lars: Free this afternoon? I need some advice. Lars texted back, inviting him over.

"Promise you won't breathe a word," Drew implored as he seated himself on a stool in Lars' rented bachelor condo.

"Who in the world can you trust more than me?" grinned Lars.

Drew explained the situation, reviewing Chaplain's research, telling of his emails with Valdez and recounting his conversations with Schaffer and Akintola in detail. Lars listened intently, stopping him when he got to the part about showing Claire the Fetus.

"You showed her the evidence?" he clarified.

"She won't admit any possibility of a connection to her company."

'You said you weren't sure yourself."

"No smoking gun in a scientific sense."

"Could it be a legacy issue, residue from a previous grower?"

"The samples that caused the deformities were taken after they sprayed. Samples taken before spraying caused few mutations, even at high doses."

"Then it has to be the spray."

"The problem is that samples taken within a window of two to three weeks after spraying also caused few mutations."

"Could it be a breakdown product?"

"That's a logical inference, but there's no known teratogenic component in the samples," explained Drew. "And developmental toxins tend to persist in the environment. If it wasn't in the spray to begin with it almost certainly wouldn't be there weeks later."

"Unless there's an environmental factor at work in the field that's not present in the lab," countered Lars, "an interaction with something in the environment maybe?"

"Chaplain said so in his notes," agreed Drew. "But there's no indication of what it might be."

"You've uncovered a genuine puzzle," declared Lars. "But it's no mystery why Claire won't see it."

"If this goes public, she'll be known as the spokeswoman for a company that deforms babies in the womb," said Drew. "I had to warn her."

"That was noble, but you know what she's thinking now."

"She thinks I'm a conspiracy nut."

"She knows you are," laughed Lars. "But she also knows you're a brilliant scientist capable of evaluating evidence."

"You think she's afraid?" asked Drew.

"She's not the only one. It's pretty clear somebody's twisting Schaffer's arm."

"The question is, what did she tell her colleagues?"

"They must know something," he reasoned. "This Schaffer thing is all about trying to satisfy you. They want to bind you with a contract and give you incentive not to ask inconvenient questions."

"And sell out like Claire."

"If you take the job, you might get closer to the action," mused Lars.

"Schaffer won't let me anywhere near Futura."

"So if you accept, you'll have to find a new enemy."

"I can't accept," lamented Drew, whose stomach growled as he said the words. As warm as he was to the prospect of a steady income, the thought of abandoning the war Chaplain literally gave his life to fight was more than he could bear. If the job in Schaffer's lab meant betraying Chaplain, there was no way he could take it.

"Then if you don't mind me saying, you need to be very concerned about their next move."

"What will that be?" asked Drew.

"I have no idea," replied Lars. "I just know you won't like it one little bit."
Chapter 13

Claire's phone chimed with a text from Evan, asking if she'd be interested in joining him for lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant around the corner from the office. She agreed and when lunchtime arrived, she stepped into her boots, donned her coat and rode the elevator to the lobby. Opening her umbrella as she stepped out into the cold drizzle, she made her way through the salty slush up to Queen Street.

"What's on the agenda?" she asked, seating herself across from Evan.

"No agenda," said Evan. "I just thought you'd like to join me for lunch."

"Any time," beamed Claire.

"Ever been here before?"

"Can't say I have."

"They serve our produce."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"It's just that I'm not sure how they can make a profit on organic for these prices," said Claire, glancing at the menu.

"You thought the sign out front was a lie?" Evan was referring to the word "organic" written carefully on the chalkboard out front.

"Honestly, I was suspicious."

"I don't blame you. It's easy to write the word on a sign. It's another thing to follow through."

"This type of restaurant doesn't usually target the organic customer," noted Claire, "but if a small Vietnamese chain can afford organic for its regular menu, we're doing something right!"

"Damn straight," agreed Evan. "And the place is bustling. They do make a lower margin on organic, but business really picked up as soon as they made the switch."

Claire looked around noting how busy it was, even at 2pm.

"You know why I scheduled for 2:00?" he asked.

Claire shrugged.

"Because you can't get a seat at noon."

"Popular place," Claire agreed.

"Why do you think it's so popular?"

"Good food, good location, reasonable prices."

"Everything on the menu is less than $10, tax included."

Claire picked up the menu and read it carefully.

"When you offer organic produce for less than $10 a plate, you can't help but succeed," continued Evan.

"We must be giving them a decent price," reasoned Claire.

"We're the only organic producer that can compete in this niche."

The waiter took their orders and Evan reclined in his seat.

"Remember the reefs around Roatan?" he asked, seeming to change the subject.

"Oh my God, how could I forget!" gushed Claire.

"This street is a lot like those reefs and all the restaurants on it are like the coral."

Claire shot Evan a quizzical glance.

"Think about it," he continued. "A reef provides habitat for ocean life to hang out, feed and do what living things do."

Claire smiled at Evan's remarkable gift for metaphor. "Just like a restaurant provides habitat for all kinds of city life."

"And, just like the reef," he said, "there is an amazing level of biodiversity."

Claire looked around at the various people in the room. A businessman holding a folded newspaper over an empty plate, a heavily made up young woman working her way through a bowl of pho as she listened to music, a couple of tattoo-covered hippies arguing about politics. A buzz-cut woman in a hemp jacket studying a textbook.

"The only difference," continued Evan, "is that in the ocean, a clam is a clam, an eel is an eel and neither aspires to be anything else. People aspire to be all kinds of things."

"We can't all be rock stars," agreed Claire.

"Or company spokespersons," added Evan.

Suddenly, Claire looked at the people around her in a different way. How many of them, she wondered, got to travel all over Central America at their company's expense? How many could afford the downtown apartments she'd been looking at renting? Claire looked into the kitchen at the cabal of kitchen staff, buzzing about like a hive of busy worker bees, chattering away in a language that sounded more like birdsong than words. What choices did they have in life? Were they truly content, or, even if they didn't talk about it, did they aspire to something greater?

"Just out of interest..." began Claire.

"How many people applied for your job?" Evan cut in.

"Tell me."

"Over a thousand."

"Seriously?"

"It wasn't hard to cut that down to a few dozen," admitted Evan.

"What put me on the short list?" asked Claire.

"First of all your looks," replied Evan frankly. "And second, your journalistic experience."

"Third?"

"A glowing recommendation from the dean of business. He went to school with Winston back in the day."

"And what about me clinched it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"We were confident you were an outstanding team player."

The waiter placed Evan's plate in front of him.

"Please start," insisted Claire.

Evan picked up a piece of steaming broccoli in his chopsticks. "Remember the seabirds hunting just before we dove with the sharks?"

Claire shuttered. Though she'd said nothing to Evan, Claire remembered feeling a burning anger at the birds that day, the same feeling she experienced watching TV shows of lions taking down their prey on the African savannah. It was a deeply felt revulsion against predation itself, at the inherent unfairness of life and the utter futility of setting things right. She understood the vital ecological roles played by predators and how death was a part of the cycle of life. It just enraged her that nature could be so cruel.

"For what it's worth, I understand," Evan said, as if he could read her mind.

"You were cheering for the birds!" Claire pointed her chopsticks accusingly at him as the waiter delivered her meal.

"Seabirds have to eat too," he shrugged, nimbly picking up a shrimp.

"Yeah, but give the poor fish a chance!"

"What do you think would happen to a seabird who suddenly developed feelings of guilt and stopped hunting with her colleagues?" he asked.

"I'm not sure what she'd eat."

"I don't know either," mused Evan, "considering that a seabird's diet consists almost entirely of fish."

"I guess it would be a toss-up between guilt and hunger."

"Which do you think would prevail?"

"Hunger, ultimately."

"I think so too," agreed Evan.

"That's why a seabird would be unwise to let her feelings of sympathy interfere with being a team player."

Claire pondered Evan's words carefully. "Do I sense a hidden message?"

Evan shifted gears. "How well do you know that science student you asked me to help out with a grant?"

"Well enough to know he's a brilliant researcher."

"Do you know anything about his late supervisor?"

"He was a bit of a maverick," answered Claire.

"Loose cannon is more like it," said Evan. "I have nothing against him personally, but he built a career on making life difficult for our sister company."

"So I've heard."

"Apparently the seed doesn't fall far from the tree."

"What do you mean?" asked Claire, playing innocent and hoping Evan would buy it.

"There's some indication that Professor Chaplain was mounting a new offensive against Futura," replied Evan "And we think Drew Freeman may be involved."

"Why would you assume that?" Claire prayed her words sounded sincere.

"I'm not at liberty to provide details," Evan said, "but there's evidence that Mr. Freeman has been colluding with individuals whose interests run contrary to those of the company."

"If that's true, why you were willing to fund him?" asked Claire, surprised.

"I was hoping to neutralize him," answered Evan.

Claire knew only too well what Evan meant. Once, when she was a reporter investigating the exploitation of foreign workers, she was laughed out of her editor's office one day and told her story would never run. On the advice of a more experienced colleague, she looked up the list of corporate supporters of the NGO that funded the paper. The company she'd been investigating was a major benefactor of the NGO. After many such experiences, thoroughly disabused of any belief in freedom of the press, Claire had come to understand how effectively money brought idealism to heel.

"Carl Schaffer has proven a long-time ally," continued Evan. If anyone could have kept Freeman in line, it would have been him. But Freeman is too idealistic for his own good."

Claire's stomach tightened at Evan's words. "Are you saying he turned down the job?"

"After our discussion, I directed some of the new grant money toward Dr. Schaffer for the purpose of making a research position available in his lab," explained Evan, "and Freeman turned his nose up at it."

Claire was shocked at the news. Anyone in Drew's financial position should have leaped at the opportunity. Certainly Chaplain and Schaffer had their differences, but Drew was starving.

"I don't understand," Claire wondered. "I was just trying to help him."

"You did the right thing," replied Evan, "but he's got an axe to grind and everything else takes a back seat to that."

Drew clearly had an axe to grind, thought Claire, recalling how he referred to the sister company as Great Satan Foods. And Evan was right. Drew was a loose cannon, just like Chaplain. But surely he could be convinced to see that he was on the wrong path and that the company had no hand in producing that thing. Why did he have to be so headstrong!

"Now that he's turned down our offer," continued Evan, "we have to protect ourselves in other ways."

"What ways?" asked Claire.

"It's best you don't worry about it," advised Evan. "But I'd like to ask you to distance yourself from him."

"Why not do the opposite?" suggested Claire. "Prove how we're different from Great Southern and that everything's above board."

Evan shook his head. "If he's anything like his mentor, there's no reasoning with him."

"I admit he's ideological," agreed Claire, "but he's also totally honest, to himself and everyone. If we show him the truth and prove it, he'll accept it and move on."

"I'm asking you not to communicate with him."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," said Evan. "I don't know how well you know him and I hope this isn't too much of an imposition, but it's very important right now that you distance yourself."

"Let me talk to him again," begged Claire. "I can change his mind about the grant. I know I can."

"We extended an olive branch and he slapped it away. Let his folly reflect on him and not on you."

Evan decided to let the matter rest and changed the subject, bringing up other PR matters including upcoming events and a sales tour of East Asia. They finished their meals and parted ways, Evan heading to a conference call with Knox and Claire going back to her desk. She worked on some press releases, edited a speech she'd written for a charity fundraiser and filed some internal paperwork. In the back of her mind, she pondered one question. Why ask me not to see him? There was no denying the animosity between the sister company and Drew's professor, but an outright order not to communicate?

Finishing for the day, Claire shut down her computer and locked her desk, her mind still spinning. What had really deformed that human fetus Drew had shown her? Why were the fetus and the newborn goat so similar, with their twisted limbs, multiple heads of different sizes, growing haphazardly from all parts of a ball-like torso, faces misshapen and contorted? She fought a growing sensation of nausea as she rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Unable to banish the hideous images from her mind, she crossed the lobby, did up her coat and pushed through the rotating door, bracing herself against the cold.

"The similarities were merely coincidental," she said under her breath. And even if they weren't what did they prove? Nothing, of course. Whatever tests Chaplain had done were obviously inconclusive, because if they were conclusive he'd have published them. And he can't publish them because he's dead.

Claire stepped out onto the road and jumped back at the blast of a car horn and a screech of breaks. Caught up in thought, she'd stepped out into the street without looking.

"Sorry," she shouted, waving at the driver, who shot her a dirty look as he sped off.

She waited for the light to change then crossed at the walk signal. She entered the station, slipped her Metropass through the turnstile and descended the stairs to the platform, a rush of cold wind greeting her as the train thundered into the station. Jostled by the crowd, Claire tried again to banish the image of the twisted fetus from her mind. She thought of the reef off Roatan, the sharks and the seabirds.

The seabirds. The importance of being a team player. Team player. Teaming up for the hunt. Hunting Drew, the research scientist with an axe to grind. Or at least not interfering with the hunt. Being a team player and avoiding Drew. Don't communicate with him. Let his folly reflect on him.

His folly. That's right, his folly! How dare he. How dare he do this to her! Showing her that hideous, twisted thing that looked so much like the baby goat. How dare he refuse a job - a good job - even when he's starving! Why couldn't he just forget about the bad blood between Chaplain and Schaffer and take the damn job?! That prick! That asshole!!

Claire stormed off the train and stomped up the stairs to Queen Street.

Asshole!

The streetcar arrived and Claire clomped aboard, plunking herself down in a huff. Why would he do this? Because I didn't love him! Because I rejected him. That's what this was about - revenge! He wanted revenge. Well to hell with him! To hell with him!!

By the time she arrived home, she'd seen Drew for what he really was - a selfish, vindictive little prick who was jealous of her success, envious that she'd entered the fast lane while he was only spinning his wheels, eating her dust. Well, he could keep spinning them for all she cared. She'd tried to help, and he'd turned her down. Let his folly reflect on him!

At her apartment, she opened the door, stormed in and wrestled off her coat.

"Tough day?" asked Krista, who was working at her laptop.

Claire clomped over to the sofa and plunked herself down. "I can't talk about it," she huffed.

"Okay." Krista remained silent as Claire fumed.

"Do you know what that prick did?"

"Which prick would that be?"

"Drew!" hissed Claire.

"Oh."

"It's not what you think."

"What do I think?"

"That it's something like that."

"Like what?"

"Like..."

"Like when the two of you broke up."

"We were never together!"

"Right."

"We weren't!"

"I know."

"Anyway, I can't talk about it," mumbled Claire mellowing somewhat.

"Of course."

"It's confidential."

"I understand."

"I mean, I signed a contract."

"Totally get it."

Claire's breathing became faster and shallower. Krista stopped typing and turned to face her roommate.

"I can't tell you anything," Claire insisted. "I could be fired. I could be sued."

Krista waited patiently.

"He's trying to ruin my career," huffed Claire.

"What did he do?" asked Krista.

"He showed me something... grotesque... and suggested my company was responsible."

"Is it?"

"Of course not!" snapped Claire.

Krista waited.

"Why would he say that?" sniffed Claire. "Why would he show me that thing?"

"What thing?"

"A fetus," Claire said, shaking her head, her voice breaking up. "It was like in some horror movie. And the goat in Honduras!"

"What goat?" wondered Krista.

Claire explained what she'd seen in Honduras, told Krista about the fetus Drew had shown her, then explained how Evan had insisted that she have no more contact with Drew. Krista listened patiently.

"Did Evan see the goat too?"

"He saw it."

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"He just suggested we leave the farmers alone."

"Did you tell Drew about the goat?" asked Krista.

"No," replied Claire.

"So, just to make sure I get it, Drew showed you a deformed human fetus?"

"Yes."

"And he said that something your company did caused it to be that way?"

"That's what he said."

"And before that, you also saw a deformed baby goat in Honduras, right by the fields where your company grows produce?"

Claire started to shake. Tears formed silently in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

"And the specific deformities of the human fetus were very similar to the deformities of the goat?" continued Krista.

Claire's trembling intensified and tears fell from her cheeks, wetting her blouse.

"Then the PR guy at your company forbids you from seeing Drew?"

Krista stood up and fetched a box of tissues from the kitchen table, placing them beside Claire. She sat on the arm of the chair in which Claire sat sobbing and stroked Claire's back gently.

"Whatever happens," advised Krista, "don't do anything right now."

"What if Drew calls me?"

"Don't answer."

"And if he emails?"

"Ignore it."

"Just cut him off?"

"I know how hard you worked to get this job," remarked Krista. "And I know how tough it is out there. I might be unemployed soon too."

Claire looked up in surprise.

"Don't worry about that now," insisted Krista. "I'll be alright. But you've got to play this smart."

"What if Drew's right?" whispered Claire.

"Then you'll have to make some decisions," advised Krista. "But for God's sake, don't react until you get the facts."
Chapter 14

Drew paced uneasily around the library, fingers on both hands crossed, waiting for word from Scarlett. After several marathon study sessions, she'd written the exam on the Wednesday before reading week and it was the department's policy to publish the results on Friday. Everything depended on her grade. If it was too low, she'd have no realistic chance of passing the course, since the department required students to earn a grade of at least 50% on the non-weighted average of the two exams. His phone pinged and he read Scarlet's text message, which was one word long: 48%. It took every bit of self-discipline he could muster not to do backflips down the hallway. It was far better than he'd expected.

Immediately, he called Scarlett, only to find she was beside herself with grief. He'd gone over to console her and ended up making her dinner in her own apartment while she cried hysterically. Her confidence at rock bottom, she confided in him that this most recent attempt at a degree was in fact her third and that the other two had ended in disaster. He knelt beside her, stroking her back as she sobbed. As if confessing a crime, she told him that for almost a decade, she'd earned her living as an exotic dancer in another city, that she'd come to Toronto hoping to make a clean break and that if she didn't make it this time - at 28 years old - she had no idea what she'd do.

Drew listened patiently, finally understanding how it had been so easy for Scarlett to offer up her sexuality as payment for his services. When she'd at last cried herself out, she thanked him profusely for his help, apologized, then went to the washroom to freshen up. Returning, she insisted that in spite of her current mood, he deserved a little "bonus" for his incredibly hard work. Drew was torn. Under the circumstances, it felt cheap. Yet he realized that as their relationship had developed, he'd been surprisingly undemanding of her. Sure they'd had sex on several occasions, but he'd also given incredibly generously of his time. So, they undressed, and when it was over and they lay naked in bed, Drew told her he'd be happy to help her any time during reading week. He advised her to get a good sleep, take the weekend off, then hit the books early on Monday. She agreed and said she'd call on Sunday to set up their next session.

Drew left, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. Yes, she'd failed the exam, but whether or not she knew it - or even cared - she'd gained a much better grasp of the material and she really did have a fighting chance on the final. If she could pull off 52%, she'd have her credit.

But when Sunday came, she didn't call. Drew dialed her number, but she didn't pick up. He texted her, but she didn't respond for two days. Wondering what was going on, he sent an email, which also went unreturned. When reading week had passed and he still hadn't heard from her, he went to her apartment, followed another resident into the lobby and took the elevator up to her floor. Approaching her door he heard the radio and smelled the familiar aroma of her cooking. He knocked on the door. Listening carefully, he heard the clinking of cutlery and the sound of distant footsteps. Air moved through the aging plumbing as the kitchen faucet went on and off. He knocked again, louder, but there was still no response.

A lump formed in his throat. It was a familiar feeling, one he'd felt each time a woman he'd gotten involved with had decided she was done with him. He cursed himself the way he did when it became clear Claire "needed her space." He thought about calling her through the door, but something held him back. Instead, he swallowed, turned and left. It was a Sunday night and he had class early the next morning. It was time to get some sleep.

After a restless night, he awoke and checked his email, hoping to find something from Scarlett. Instead, there was a letter from the secretary of the dean of science, asking him to attend an urgent meeting the following day. He replied that he was free and enquired what it was about. Later that day, the secretary replied that she wasn't certain, but stressed the urgency.

The next day, Drew left his house for the meeting. He'd never met directly with the dean before and he hoped it was good news. Maybe a lead on a scholarship he could apply for, or perhaps an introduction to a professor at another university whose research interests were closer to his than anyone in the faculty.

The secretary looked up as he entered and she motioned toward the leather sofa in the anteroom. He took a seat and waited, flipping through a copy of the journal Nature which had been on the end table. Through the door he could hear the dean's voice talking to an unknown person on the phone. He heard the receiver go down, sensed approaching footsteps, then the handle turned and the door opened. The dean stared coldly down at Drew, who put the magazine back on the end table and stood up, watching the tall, elderly academic as he crossed the room and sat down behind his big oak desk. The dean pulled out a folder. As Drew sat down at a chair facing the desk, he was beset with an uneasy feeling. Though the dean was known to be a perennially serious man, his uncommonly brusque demeanor suggested all was not well.

"I assume you're familiar with a student named Scarlett Brenner?"

"I've tutored her in chemistry," Drew answered.

"She's filed a sexual harassment complaint against you."

Drew's heart stopped. He felt dizzy and his peripheral vision started to blacken.

"She's filed an affidavit," the dean continued, "alleging that you coerced her to engage in acts of sexual intercourse and that you promised to intervene with faculty members capable of boosting her exam grades if she complied. I'd like to know what you have to say for yourself."

Drew felt as if he was going to throw up. He tried to breath, but he was winded, as if he'd fallen from a height onto his back. He tried to speak, but he couldn't force air through his trachea. The dean waited until Drew caught his breath.

"I...That's..." stammered Drew.

"Take your time."

"That's not what happened" he choked.

"I'd like to hear your side of the story."

"There was no coercion and I made no threats what so ever."

"But you did have sexual relations with her?"

"It was her idea," Drew understood immediately how ridiculous that sounded, true though he knew it was. "She didn't have money to pay for lessons," he continued, "so..."

"So?"

"So she offered something else." Drew hung his head and blushed.

"You're aware that it doesn't matter whose idea it was," stated the dean. "University policy strictly forbids tutorial leaders from engaging in sexual relations with students."

"She's not in my tutorial," Drew shot back. "I'm not even teaching first year chem this semester."

"I find it deeply concerning that any teaching assistant would use his influence to coerce vulnerable students into sexual acts," declared the dean.

"That's not what happened!" snapped Drew. "And if she says so, she's lying!"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Freeman, the university's sexual harassment policy calls for your mandatory suspension, without pay, until the matter can be dealt with by the appropriate body."

"You can't do that!" cried Drew.

"I have no choice," replied the dean.

"I never told her I could influence her grade - and you know very well how little influence I have around here!"

"You'll have the opportunity to appeal," the dean advised as he stood up and motioned toward the door.

"So that's it?"

"For your own sake, you'd be well advised to remain away from the faculty buildings until further notice. And I'm sure you know better than to contact Ms. Brenner."

Drew stood up and stormed out, putting on his coat as he stomped down the hall. Burning with a nauseating mixture of rage and shame, he burst out the front door. This can't be happening! It can't be can't be real!

One question spun around in his head like a whirling dervish - why? Marching intensely along the street, his breathing became faster and faster until he was almost hyperventilating. He wanted to call a lawyer, but he knew he couldn't afford one. And what would his defense be? That is was her idea? He'd get laughed out of court!

Then his mind turned to violence. He imagined ripping Scarlett's throat out with his bare hands. He imagined bludgeoning her with a crow bar, striking her head until her skull caved in. He imagined throwing acid in her face and watching her eyes melt away then drowning her in a bucket of....

He decided he'd better go home and cool down before he did anything stupid. Fists clenched, he stormed toward his apartment under a fine but constant sleet which drenched him to the bone before he reached Brunswick Avenue. Turning the corner around the back of the house, he froze when he reached the top of the stairs and a new rush of adrenaline flooded his system. The door was wide open, its frame splintered, and sets of muddy boot prints led into the apartment. Descending the stairs and stepping inside, he saw that his desk had been knocked over, the old futon ripped up and... the filing cabinet had been jimmied open!

Opening the blinds to let in more light, he bent down in front of the broken filing cabinet and righted it, gazing at its former contents, which were strewn about the floor. Suddenly, his legs became weak and his knees gave way. Crashing to the floor, he crawled around, frantically searching the four corners of the room and cursing loudly. Chaplain's journals were missing.

Looking around his overturned desk, he noticed that his laptop, the only thing of any value he owned, was also gone. Totally overwhelmed, he sat bewildered on the floor. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his cell phone and dialed the one person he knew would have the clarity of mind to see him through all this.

Lars descended the steps to find Drew seated cross-legged on the bare cement. Another man, almost as tall as Lars but a bit more stalky, entered behind him. "Maybe it's a stupid question under the circumstances, but I feel obligated to ask if you're alright," he said.

"Physically," grumbled Drew.

"Have you called your landlord?"

"What am I supposed to tell him?"

"You could ask him to get the door fixed so you can close it properly."

"He'll try to make me pay for it," complained Drew, "And there's no way I can afford it now."

Drew realized that he hadn't told Lars about his suspension, or even about his former arrangement with Scarlett. As it was a relatively complicated situation, he decided to leave the explanation to a more convenient opportunity.

"Have you catalogued what you know for sure is missing?" asked Lars. "Other than your computer and the journals, that is."

"No," replied Drew.

"You're in bad shape."

Drew extended his legs and wearily got to his feet. He gazed at the mess that was all around him and walked into the bedroom. Lars helped him right the old dresser that had been pushed over and they sorted through the pile of clothes and other items strewn all over on the floor.

"My passport," cried Drew, picking up a small empty metal tin. "It was in this box."

They sorted through the rest of the pile and made a list of everything that was missing, then did the same with the rest of the apartment. Drew's computer, his passport, a credit card and a bit of cash. Drew called to cancel the credit card as Lars and his friend righted the desk and picked up the papers on the floor. When Drew finished on the phone, he plunked himself down on his desk chair.

"Chaplain's notebooks are gone," stated Drew, alarmed at the realization.

Lars carefully pondered his friend's comments. "Then I think we know what this is all about," commented Lars.

"You should call the police," advised Lars' friend, examining the damage to the door frame.

Lars agreed. "We need this on record," he said.

The police came and took a report. When they left, it was agreed that Lars' associate would stay and mind the apartment while Drew went with Lars.

"I assume you haven't eaten yet," quipped Lars.

As they dined at a local greasy spoon on the corner of College and Bathurst, Lars theorized about what had happened. It was abundantly clear that the journals where the object of the invasion and that the company, or someone connected to it, was responsible. The fact that they had his computer meant they had access to all the data on it and it had to be assumed that the company had access to Drew's email account at the university, meaning they knew about Valdez.

"Tell me you made copies of the journals," said Lars.

"Of course I did," replied Drew. "They're in the locker with the evidence."

Lars said he'd have a trusted friend go to minimize the chances of the locker being discovered if anyone was tailing Drew, then asked if anything else out of the ordinary had happened. Drew took this as an opportunity to tell him about Scarlett and his suspension. Lars studied his friend silently as Drew explained the situation.

"Why do you think she made the complaint?" asked Lars.

"Revenge?" shrugged Drew.

"For what?" he asked. "Unless you really did promise you could fix her grades."

"She knew very well I couldn't!" huffed Drew.

Lars pondered the sequence of events as Drew shoveled the last of the fries into his mouth.

"There's something that stinks about the timing," he mused. "A few weeks ago, you're offered a full-time lab-tech position, now all of a sudden you're suspended."

"There's no way the harassment policy could apply," added Drew. "If I were the TA for her section, okay, but I don't even know her TA. I'm not even teaching chem!"

"Nothing has teeth like sexual harassment," argued Lars.

"If I had money, I'd get a lawyer and sue the pants off them," grunted Drew.

"They're trying to discredit you," explained Lars. "That'd be their wet dream."

Drew clenched his fists in frustration. "So what do I do now?"

"First, talk to the girl."

"I doubt she'll speak to me," Drew lamented. "She didn't open her door last time I knocked."

"Meet her where she can't ignore you."

"You think she'll talk?"

"It's worth a shot."

In spite of the dean's warning, Drew tried to call Scarlett, blocking his number in the hopes that she wouldn't reject the call, but she didn't pick up. He didn't leave a message. He emailed asking her again what happened, but there was no response. He tried waiting outside her chemistry lecture, the only part of her schedule he knew, but in spite of seeing her in the class, he lost her in the crowd.

The following week, he was summoned to the dean's office again, at which point he was informed that an ad-hock committee had voted in favour of his immediate expulsion on the grounds of academic misconduct and that his only potential recourse was to appeal to the university senate.

Drew slammed the door on the way out of the dean's office, now with no doubt in his mind that the whole affair was a set-up. He'd followed stories of alleged sexual harassment and even rape in the university paper and never had a decision to expel been rendered this quickly. This wasn't just a case of Chaplain's enemies cleaning house. The company somehow knew he was onto them and they leaned on the administration to do their dirty work. If Scarlett stuck to her story, it was her word against his and there was little doubt as to how the appeal would end. All she had to do was turn on the water-works and his goose was cooked. The question was, why had she made the false statement in the first place?

She had to have been bribed or coerced by the company. He had to find out what happened. Now with nothing to lose, Drew sat two rows behind her at the chemistry lecture. When she got up to leave, he marched right over and took her by the arm. She turned to see who was there and when she realized it was him, she shook loose and stormed away in quick, giant steps. Drew followed her out the door of the building, racing around in front of her, blocking her path.

"I need to talk to you!" he said.

"Leave me alone!" she snapped, attempting to dodge him.

Drew jumped in her way again.

"It's over. I get it. But at least tell me what the hell is going on."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"At least tell me what the affidavit was about?"

"The what?"

"The document you signed," spat Drew. "Why did you lie?"

Scarlett looked at the ground "I promised them I wouldn't talk to you," she whispered.

"Promised who?"

"I can't tell you."

"Someone at the university?"

"I told you I can't talk about it." Scarlett shoved him out of the way and started to walk again.

"I've been expelled," cried Drew.

Scarlett stopped in her tracks.

"Do you know what that means?" Drew asked, walking toward her. "It means my life is ruined! It's on my record, forever. I'll never be a professor, probably never get my phD."

"They threatened me last week," she whispered quietly. "They said if I didn't sign, they'd have me expelled for cheating."

"Cheating?"

"They said I had somebody else do my assignments for me."

"That's crap! Who said that?"

"The prof and the TA."

"Did they make you sign the document?'

"No."

"Then who did?"

"Two men," replied Scarlett. "Then they gave me a thousand dollars in cash and told me there was more if I signed a letter."

"They just gave you a letter to sign, already written?

Scarlett nodded yes. "They said if I didn't sign I'd get kicked out of school."

"I need to know who these men were!" pleaded Drew.

"I told you, I don't know, but when I signed they gave me another $5,000 and said they'd guarantee I'd pass chemistry as long as I never talked to you." Scarlett abruptly started walking again.

"You could have passed on your own," said Drew, keeping pace.

"Not if I got expelled."

"I got expelled!" hissed Drew ruefully.

"I'm sorry," Scarlett apologized.

Scarlett reversed direction abruptly and darted across the street. A driver hit the brakes and leaned on his horn, narrowly missing her. Watching her go, Drew stood helplessly on the sidewalk, the cold wind whipping through his hair as he was bumped by students hustling by. He had his answer. It clearly was a setup, and there was nothing he could do to fight it.

Instinctively, he examined faces in the crowd around him to see if anyone was watching him, but it was no use. If anyone was following him in such a crowded place, he'd never know. That night, he returned to Lars' apartment, where he'd been staying since the break-in.

"So, we have our answer," said Lars.

"What do I do now?"

"What you can't do is take it sitting down."

"You think I should appeal?"

"The girl will lie and you'll lose."

"Where does that leave me?

"With the freedom to act as you know you must."

"I don't understand," said Drew.

"Futura has put you in the enviable position of having nothing more to lose."

"Great to be me," quipped Drew sarcastically.

"Just realize you're a marked man. Everywhere you go, you'll be followed. Everything you do on-line will be tracked - unless you're very careful."

Drew thought of Valdez. He'd been locked out of his university account immediately following his expulsion and he was concerned he'd lost contact. He'd sent an email through an alternate address, but had received no response, probably because Valdez didn't know the email was authentic.

"You think they know I'm here?" asked Drew.

"I'm certain," replied Lars.

"And that doesn't freak you out?"

Lars turned up the radio. "I've fought a few battles."

"Is that why you always turn on the radio when we talk, so they can't listen in?"

"Paranoia has served me well."

"So what's our next move?"

"Build a case against Futura."

"With what resources?"

"I can get you resources," said Lars. "You need to formulate a strategy."

"I need to do research on the ground in Honduras, and ideally everywhere else they farm."

"Then go there."

"With what passport?" enquired Drew. "They took it, remember?"

"Of course," mused Lars. "They're trying to clip your wings."

"I can apply for a new one, but it could take weeks."

Lars casually reached into a drawer and extracted an envelope, tossing it on the table in front of Drew. Drew opened it. It was a passport, the photo in which looked remarkably like himself.

"Who's Duncan James?" asked Drew.

"You are."

"No way," Drew raised his hands.

"You wouldn't want to travel on your own passport anyway," advised Lars. "There'd be a record of where you've been, and when, and you can be sure they'd find a way to use it against you."

"How do I know this guy isn't wanted by interpol?"

"He doesn't exist," replied Lars. "He's a ghost."

"A ghost who looks a lot like me."

"It's a computer generated image based on your faculty ID. Child's play for the artist who did it."

"But don't I have to put my fingerprint in a scanner when I cross borders?"

"Are your prints in the system?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then you've got nothing to worry about."

"There's only one problem," warned Drew. "I've lost contact with Valdez."

"You know his email address?"

Drew repeated it and Lars wrote it down.

"He asked you for a password," recalled Lars. "Your turn to ask him for one. I'll make sure what you send can't be traced."

Drew thought about what he could write that would let Valdez know it was him. The problem was, there was no obvious question. He had to assume all their emails had been intercepted. He wondered how safe the server data was. He'd never downloaded it and it was unlikely that whoever had his computer would extract the passwords. The backups of Chaplain's flash drive were probably also safe, since he'd deleted them from his computer, meaning he could use the data as the basis for a password query. With Lars' help, he set up an encrypted text file to be emailed to Valdez, explaining the situation. The only way Valdez could gain access was to input key words from the server data. Drew composed the email, carefully framing the questions.

The next day, he logged on to the server URLs Valdez had given him and found that all data had been deleted. Two days later, a response came back from an unfamiliar address with all the correct answers. Either it really was Valdez, or an outstandingly intelligent operative had made some incredible guesses. The email in turn asked Drew questions that only he would know. Drew emailed his answers and the next email asked if he could come to Honduras. Drew agreed.

"Before I go, I've got to tell Claire about what's happened," Drew said.

"How do you know she wasn't involved in your expulsion?" asked Lars.

"She'd never do that," insisted Drew.

"Wasn't it her who set you up with Schaffer? Right after you showed her the evidence, no less."

"She was trying to help me."

Lars sneered. "What do you want to bet that if you'd never shown Claire the fetus you'd still be a PhD student with a TA job?"

There was no point arguing. Lars was right. He'd known that going to Claire had been an incredible risk - in retrospect, it had been a terrible lapse in judgment. If he'd kept quiet, he'd have stayed off the company's radar. But whatever happened, he refused to believe that Claire was involved in his expulsion.

"I need to find out what she knows," reasoned Drew.

"She'll never tell you."

"I have to at least try."

"Let me handle Claire. You go south and find out what's going on."
Chapter 15

Drew's plane touched down with a thud and he felt himself thrust forward as the pilot applied the breaks. Stepping out onto the burning tarmac, the intense heat of the Honduran sun seared his face. Following the flight attendant's directions toward customs and immigration, he felt a twinge of adrenaline. There had been no problems with the passport leaving Pearson Airport in Toronto, but entering a foreign country might be more challenging. Taking out his passport, he repeated his alias to himself: Duncan James, Duncan James, Duncan James. His story: he was here to meet a fellow grad student to plan some joint research into invasive plant species. Raul Valdez was the name of his colleague.

Passing customs with a sigh of relief, he rode a cab to the hotel he'd booked for the night. Exhausted, he took a nap, had a shower, then ate dinner alone at the hotel restaurant. Retiring for the evening, he slept a fitful sleep, apprehensive about the events of the next day. He was to meet Valdez at a bar named El Tanino, where he would walk up to the bartender and ask for Valdez by name. Having refused to send a picture, Valdez had insisted on meeting this way, probably to avoid being seen by anyone who might be following Drew.

At the arranged time, Drew stepped into the bar, which looked like it could have been made for the set of an old spaghetti western. Loud Spanish rap music blasting from speakers, the establishment obviously didn't cater to English speaking tourists. A dozen pairs of mistrustful eyes glared at him through a thick fog of cigarette smoke, heads turning as he made his way toward the back of the room over the creaking floor. Summoning every bit of courage he had, he suppressed the urge to turn and bolt out the door. Nervously, he approached a slender young woman at the bar. As she glowered coldly at him, he asked quietly in rehearsed Spanish for Valdez. She said something he didn't understand and, unsure of what to do, Drew repeated his question. The woman called loudly to another person and Drew heard heavy footsteps approaching. A muscular, balding man with a thick black mustache confidently pushed his way through the two-way kitchen door and stood beside the woman, eyeing Drew warily up and down as he folded his massive arms across his broad chest.

"You look for Valdez?"

"Si," replied Drew, ashamed that his voice came out as high as a choir boy.

Without averting his piercing gaze, the balding man motioned for Drew to follow him, then turned and led him down a short flight of stairs into a musty, back room. Sunlight poking through cracks in the clapboard siding was the only illumination.

"Wait," grunted the man, who turned and thumped back into the kitchen.

Drew listened to the rap song playing on the radio in the front room, muffled by the wooden wall. He hoped to goodness he was in the right place and that Valdez would show up and everything would be okay. Most of all, he hoped Valdez was who he said he was and that this wasn't a ruse by Futura to lure him to a place where they could do worse things than have him expelled.

Suddenly, he heard two sets of footsteps approaching from the back alley. The door swung open and a pair of wiry men entered, one holding a backpack in his left hand. Both stared at Drew icily.

"Señor Freeman?" one of them asked, walking up to Drew and staring him in the face.

"Si," Drew replied, his voice cracking.

"Come," the man ordered, walking toward the staircase.

Drew complied, turning his back on the man with the pack. Suddenly, his world went dark and he felt himself being pulled to the floor backwards by the throat. The smell of musty canvass filling his nostrils as the black hood stretched against his face, he kicked wildly trying to free himself until one of the men booted him hard in the side and he twisted in pain. Another boot connected with his lower back and the agony was so intense he thought he would black out. Laying motionless on the floor, Drew heard the ripping sound of duct tape being pulled off a role and felt arms being jerked rearward as his hands were bound tightly behind his back. The men pulled him to his feet, but his knees buckled.

"Move!" ordered the man.

Dazed and still aching from the blows, Drew tried to comply, stumbling blindly forward. Half walking half being dragged, he heard the door open and felt the sun on his arms and back. The men pushed him to his knees again and he heard the sound of a car approaching. He felt the heat of the engine as it passed him. The pungent odour of unburned gasoline hung in the air as the vehicle went out of gear and the engine idled. Drew was pulled to his feet and stuffed head-first into what he feared was the trunk. A door slammed down inches from his face and the vehicle took off with a squeal of tires. Shuttering with the vibration of the transmission as it geared up and down, he bumped around in the dark as the vehicle careened through the streets.

This is it, he thought to himself. They've got me! Someone at the company had intercepted his emails, posed as Valdez and lured him here. This was how it was all going to end. He found himself praying to a god he didn't believe in that his death would somehow be quick and merciful.

Drew braced himself with his feet as the vehicle continued to bump along the road, traveling at what seemed like great speed. It wound through the streets for what seemed like a long time, curving along twisting roads, up and down steep hills until finally it came to an screeching halt, tires grinding into the dust. The men got out, the rear door opened and Drew was hauled out by the arms. Stumbling up some stairs, he felt his feet gain traction on wooden floor boards. The hands on his arms stopped him and he heard a chair being pulled across the floor behind him. The hands pulled him backwards and thrust him hard into the chair.

His hands still tied, the hood was jerked off his head. The room spinning, he realized he was dizzy. He noticed a young, olive skinned woman with long, straight black hair. Seated across the room, she glared coldly at him. The two men who'd abducted him stood sternly on either side of him.

"What is your name?" the woman asked with a strong Spanish accent.

"My name is Duncan James," Drew replied. Unsure of who the woman was, he thought it best to give the answer that matched the passport the men had pulled from his rear pocket.

"Why have you come here?"

"I'm a student," he answered. "I'm working on a biological research project."

"Why are you looking for Raul Valdez?"

"He has data I need for my thesis."

The woman looked blankly at Drew. "You are lying," she snapped.

Stick to your script, he thought to himself, his mouth drying as he tried to swallow. "Raul Valdez has information vital to my professor's research."

The woman's expression suggested she wasn't buying it. Drew thought hard about what to say next, but a feeling of helplessness came over him. The game was up. Agents of the company had him in their clutches, in a country where he had no rights and no recourse. And because he was traveling on a false passport, they could slit his throat, dump his body in the jungle and no one would ever know what had become of Drew Freeman. He decided that if he was going to die, he'd do it with dignity.

"Okay," he sneered, staring the woman in the eyes. "My name isn't Duncan James. It's Drew Freeman, and you can go straight to hell."

The woman looked back at him stoically.

"Did Professor Chaplain have any children?" she asked coldly.

"Who the hell are you and how do you know Valdez?" asked Drew.

"Answer!" warned the man to his right.

"There's no way I'm going to help you," Drew insisted. If the company was so ruthless as to harass the family of a dead man, they could count on no help from him.

"I need to know you are who you claim to be so I can introduce you to Raul Valdez."

"Who are you?" asked Drew.

"Does professor Chaplain have any children?" the woman asked again.

"A daughter," replied Drew. It occurred to him that anyone wanting to harm Chaplain's daughter need only look her up in the Vancouver phonebook. Something else was going on here.

"What is her name?"

"Jacqueline."

"Is she married?"

"Yes."

"Does she have any children?"

"Not that I know of."

"What's her favourite colour?"

"How the hell should I know her favourite colour?"

"If you are really Drew Freeman, you will know her favourite colour."

Drew wondered how this woman, her stern eyes glowering at him from across the room could seriously expect him to know such a trivial thing.

"You have one chance," said the man beside him. "If you are wrong, you die."

The man to the other side of him pulled a revolver from under the back of his pants and held the barrel threateningly against Drew's head. Drew felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead.

"I am Drew Freeman," whimpered Drew, "and I studied under Mark Chaplain, but swear I don't know his daughter's favourite colour!"

The man with the gun pulled back the hammer. Drew closed his eyes and racked his brain. Chaplain was a straight-to-business sort of man who almost never spoke of his family and certainly never made a big deal about such trivial matters as people's favourite colours.

"If you cannot answer this, you do not know Professor Chaplain."

"He never talked about his daughter!" snapped Drew.

Then suddenly, he remembered. Chaplain used a pink keyboard cover on his laptop. He was notorious for spilling things on the keyboard and his daughter had given him the cover from her own keyboard while she was visiting, then forgotten to take it back. When people looked strangely at a distinguished male professor with a girly-pink keyboard cover, he made a point of explaining it was from his daughter... and that pink had always been her favourite colour.

"Pink," blurted Drew, praying this was the answer they were looking for.

"How do you know?"

His voice quivering, Drew explained, studying the woman in search of any hint as to her intentions. But her demeanor remained cold and expressionless. The woman asked him more questions about obscure aspects of the professor and his research data that only a person well acquainted with Chaplain and his life's work would be able to answer. Though her English was strong, her questions were so detailed Drew had to listen hard to understand what she was after.

Every time he prepared to speak, he couldn't help but visualize the gun aimed at his brain - the bullet in the chamber, the hammer pulled all the way back, the man's finder poised on the trigger. One wrong answer and death would come so quickly he wouldn't hear the sound.

Finally, after several more questions, the woman nodded at the men, who released Drew from their iron grip. A sensation of euphoria washed over him as he felt the gun come away from his head and heard the action of the revolver as the hammer was released.

"I am sorry for putting you through this," said the woman as the men untied Drew. "We needed to be certain you were telling the truth."

"Do I get to meet Raul Valdez?" ventured Drew, fighting to control his shaking voice.

"I am Raul Valdez," the woman answered.

Drew hesitated, confused.

"More precisely," she added, "Raul Valdez is to me what Duncan James is to you."

The woman stood up and motioned for Drew to follower her. Instinctively, he looked to the men for permission. The man with the gun motioned curtly with his head for Drew to follow, his expression still cold but much less hostile than before. His legs shaking so badly he feared he might collapse, Drew pushed himself off the chair with his hands.

"The company is powerful here," declared the woman, waiting for Drew as he gained his balance. "And they know we are trying to expose them."

"They know more than you think," added Drew, who hobbled in the woman's direction as she lead him through a rustic wooden hallway, then outside through a dusty screen door onto a stone patio shaded by a thick canopy of palm trees. Taking a seat on a rattan chair to which the woman pointed, he explained how Chaplain's notes had been stolen. The woman cursed in Spanish.

"That's what you meant when you said we've been compromised," she realized. "Now they're on guard."

"That may be a good thing," advised Drew. "Trying to cover everything up, they might make mistakes."

"How do you think we should proceed?" asked the woman.

"You can start by telling me your real name."

"Ana Luisa," she replied, smiling at herself for forgetting.

"How did you get involved in all this?"

"What I told you about my baby was true," she said. "When I miscarried, we knew from the fetus something was wrong. When one of my former professors learned that other women in my village experienced the same phenomenon, he began to investigate."

"What did you study in university?"

"Genetics."

"Did you learn about Teratology?"

"Yes," Ana Luisa replied.

"Then we have something in common," said Drew.

They discussed their theses and Drew was impressed with the breadth and depth of her knowledge. He asked how a woman from a tiny agricultural village in Honduras could end up with a masters degree in science and she informed him she'd won a national scholarship to study at an American university in Mexico city. Her professor had asked Chaplain for his help.

"Mark Chaplain was one of the most amazing people I've ever met," declared Ana Luisa, her eyes welling with tears. "He gave everything to help us."

"He was singularly focused," replied Drew.

The conversation turned to the matters at hand and Drew and Ana Luisa reviewed the data, trying to piece together the mystery. They agreed that they lacked the scientific smoking gun needed to prove that Futura was responsible for the mutations. They also agreed that everything depended on finding the formula of the chemical.

"Maybe we're working this the wrong way," mused Drew. "Chaplain's approach was teratological. We need to do some epidemiology."

"With what data?" asked Ana Luisa. "The mutations have disappeared almost completely for the last eight months."

"Maybe they've stopped spraying it."

"But the mutations still happen in animals," she disagreed. "If animals are born with defects, something is still going on."

"Which animals?" enquired Drew.

"Farm animals. Maybe wild animals too, but they would mostly die before anyone sees them."

"Every teratogenic chemical has a window of time during which it can effect an embryo," said Drew. "We don't know when that window is, for humans or farm animals, but if animals with short gestations are still being born with deformities we can link to the chemical, it proves they're still using it."

"Chaplain has samples of rabbits," recalled Ana Luisa. "He took them from farms around the village."

"He had samples of rabbits from local farms as well as lab rabbits, side by side," added Drew. "Same mutation patterns in each with observable dose/response characteristics. Rabbits gestate for 8 weeks, so if we find deformities, we know they're spraying."

"Then why no more miscarriages in humans?"

"Let's go looking for the rabbits first," advised Drew. "If we don't find them, we have our answer."

"That's not as easy as it sounds," Ana Luisa admonished him. "Farmers are very superstitious. They won't talk about it and certainly won't open up to us.

Suddenly, Drew began to appreciate the immense challenges they were facing with respect to data collection. With no central data registry, no easy way to relay information to and from distant villages and a general taboo against discussing the mutations openly, they were fighting an uphill battle. Drew asked how Chaplain had gotten the samples of the rabbits he had in storage. Ana Luisa answered that the taboo had not always been so strong and that she had gone to a number of farmers directly and asked them to inform her of any unusual animal births. All had gone well until strange things started happening to the farmers who had given the samples. One of them had his house burnt to the ground, another was injured in a vehicle accident and a third was fired from his job in the processing centre after being accused of stealing. There was no way to prove the company was behind any of those events, but the villagers began to see the deformities as bad omens. Farmers who had spoken openly about the mutations were shunned, as were women who miscarried deformed fetuses.

"They don't understand about teratogenic chemicals," lamented Drew.

"At some level, everyone suspects the company is responsible," replied Ana Luisa, "but their jobs, their lives - everything depends on the company. They want to believe the company's word about organic farming."

"There have to be some people who know what's going on," insisted Drew. "People inside the company."

"Some of the bosses maybe, but not the workers."

"We need to find out who's in charge," suggested Drew.

"You think they will tell us anything?" Ana Luisa asked skeptically.

"Maybe one of your contacts can ask them about the spray," asked Drew. "Who makes it, where it comes from?"

"We've tried," protested Ana Luisa. "The details are confidential."

"We need to get some of the spray ourselves," said Drew. "Chaplain could never get the raw spray, so he couldn't test it directly."

"It's used under tight security."

Drew's phone vibrated in his pant-leg pocket. Amazed that he had reception in the Honduran countryside, he checked the message. It was a texted link from Lars. Have a look at you-know-who on Futura's website. Drew followed the link and he and Ana Luisa watched the video of Claire, filmed on the very fields they were discussing. Drew explained who the blonde woman in the video was and Ana Luisa's face lit up.

"You can get information from her!" she beamed.

"It's not that simple," explained Drew. He told her how Claire had attempted to find him a job with Chaplain's enemy and how refusing it had ultimately gotten him expelled.

"It's always the same for people who fight back," frowned Ana Luisa.

"Claire's aware of that," Drew warned her. He explained how standing up for her beliefs had torched her promising career in journalism. "She won't make the same mistake twice."

"But she's our best chance!"

"I'll talk to her when the time is right," agreed Drew, "but right now, we need to find the animals."
Chapter 16

Claire gazed out the window of the Tokyo Park Hyatt, mesmerized by the glittering night skyline that sparkled before her. Her window faced east toward Yoyogi Kyouen, where she'd spent the afternoon enjoying a traditional Japanese hanami party, in which people gather under the cherry blossoms and sip sake in celebration of the arrival of spring. The whole experience had been almost surreal, with teenage musicians improvising by the fountain, women kneeling sei-za in formal kimono and young couples strolling hand in hand as children danced under the sakura petals which fluttered to the ground in the gentle breeze.

The party had been arranged by the produce buyer of a newly established chain of grocery stores which focused on selling to suburban Japanese. Eager to negotiate an exclusive contract that would see his chain dominate the market in organic vegetables, he had pulled out all the stops to entertain his guests. Sensing how entranced the buyer was by Claire's beauty, Evan had excused himself from the day's festivities and let her take the lead. She'd performed admirably, acting just flirtatious enough to woo the smitten buyer, without suggesting he could obtain more from her than organic produce.

Claire understood that Japanese custom required the details of the business at hand not to be discussed in formal meetings, but rather during social gatherings like the hanami party, so when the buyer confided that his interest in Futura went beyond the quality of the vegetables, she knew it was an invitation to get to work. Tactfully questioning him through an interpreter, she gleaned that his company was in public relations trouble. Having been embroiled in recent tainted food scandals involving contaminated produce from China, the company was now doing serious damage control. Moreover, the influx of documentaries from Europe and North America about the dangers of conventionally produced foods and the exploitation of impoverished farm workers had stoked interest in organic produce. Claire strategically suggested that Futura's unique public relations platform and strong social values would help to win back some of the media influencers who held sway over an increasingly ethically minded consumer base. While farmers' markets were booming in Japan, there was a very significant segment of the market interested in buying organic vegetables from the grocery store, where better selection could be found. Futura's salesmen had made it clear that there were very few producers who could supply the volume that would allow the buyer's chain to stock the shelves with 100% organic, and absolutely none who could match their very reasonable prices. The buyer subtly suggested that if Futura would be willing to make available the considerable experience of it's PR department, a very lucrative arrangement could be worked out. The deal was closed, and Claire let him know that their sales department would be thrilled to take his order.

In celebration of their new alliance, the buyer had treated Claire, Evan and the handful of sales people who accompanied them on their trade mission to dinner at one of the city's most exclusive restaurants, where they'd eaten the finest cuts of sushi and been entertained by Geisha. After dinner was Karaoke, in which the buyer treated them to a series of off-key renditions of 90's pop hits. Claire, to everyone's surprise, belted out such a crisp version of a Celine Dion tune that one of Futura's salesmen asked her why she hadn't considered a career in music. At the buyer's behest, alcohol flowing, they performed a duet. As the evening came to a close, the buyer turned to Evan and invited him to a "gentleman's club", an offer which would have been quite rude to refuse, and Claire accepted a limousine ride back to the hotel.

But instead of retiring to her room, Claire had decided to take the opportunity to walk the streets of Shinjuku. She'd heard from a friend who'd taught business English in Tokyo about the notoriously seedy district of Kabukicho and she felt the urge to experience it for herself. Bathed in the neon glow from six floors of vertical signs on either side, she picked her way through the torrent of human bodies flowing through the streets. Inhaling the exotic scents, absorbing the frenetic energy, it was all she imagined it would be. Orange lanterns swayed in the breeze at the doorways of an izakaya as salarymen in dark suits guzzled beer within. Next door, women with glossy makeup and long lashes reached for plates of sushi from a conveyer belt. People swarmed all around her as J-pop blasted from various sets of competing speakers. Buskers crooned on street corners as salesmen hawked clothes, jewelry and electronics. Back in her hotel, Claire stood at the window transfixed, staring at the massive city, awed by the immense scale of it.

Suddenly, there was a rap at the door. Her reverie interrupted, Claire crossed the room and looked through the peep-glass. A fresh-faced young Japanese man in a suit stood ramrod straight at the door, his eyes looking downward. Claire noted the time. It was quarter past one in the morning. What could be so important that somebody would need to disturb her at that time? The man knocked again and, figuring it had to be important, Claire opened the door.

"Sumimasen!" the man whispered, bowing deeply and offering a sealed letter sized envelope, which he held in both hands.

Claire took the envelope and examined it, noting it was totally blank.

"Shitsurei-shimasu," the man said, bowing again. He turned and scurried determinedly down the hall.

Claire closed the door gently and opened the envelope with a wooden letter opener on the desk. Inside was a piece of white, letter sized paper, folded in three. She unfolded the paper and saw that the page was almost blank, save for a few typed sentences in the centre.

Shortly after showing you a deformed fetus linked to your company, Drew gets an employment offer from his mentor's sworn enemy. Coincidence? He rejects Schaffer's offer and immediately gets suspended by the Dean on false allegations. Coincidence? He returns from the dean's office to find his apartment vandalized and Chaplain's research notes stolen. Coincidence? A week later, he's summarily expelled and his accuser admits privately that she lied under duress. You connect the dots.

Claire read the lines again in disbelief. Drew expelled? Who accused him of what? And his apartment vandalized? Chaplain's notes stolen? Who would want Chaplain's notes? She felt an uneasy sensation in her stomach and her knees went weak as she recalled Evan's instructions to distance herself from Drew. Let his folly reflect on him, and not you. Coincidence?

Claire examined the letter again, turning the paper over looking for any clue as to its origin. She double checked the envelope, then glanced back at the closed door of her hotel room. Who was the messenger? Did he have any idea what the note was about or who sent it?

She pulled out a chair and sat down, turning on the desk light. Whoever sent this clearly knew she was staying at the hotel. Who had her itinerary? People at the company, her roommate. Krista knew Drew and might have spoken to him, but she wouldn't send a message this way, would she? Had Krista told Drew where she was staying? And if Drew sent it, why would he refer to himself in third person?

But why not just text or email? That would certainly have been easier. But then, of course, there'd be an electronic record of the message, something the sender didn't want. The only person paranoid enough to go to this much trouble was Drew's friend Lars, the conspiracy freak from Switzerland. If he'd spoken to Krista, maybe she'd told him what hotel she was at. She thought of emailing Krista, but if anyone really was monitoring her communications, there would be a record, and if Evan found out that Krista was talking to someone so close to Drew, things could get awkward. She put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it deeply into a compartment in her laptop case, resolving to settle the matter when she returned to Toronto.

The next morning when she met Evan and the salesman for a late breakfast, she must have been quieter than normal. When Evan asked her if everything was alright, she replied that it must be the jet lag, then asked him how his evening at the gentleman's club went.

"What happens in Tokyo stays in Tokyo," he replied cryptically, to the delight of the male salesmen, who chortled mischievously.

Claire smiled as well, though inside she felt pangs of jealousy. From her friend's stories, she knew all too well what sort of adventures high-status Japanese businessmen got up to in the wee hours of the morning and the thought of Evan flirting with submissive Asian "hostesses" was enough to make her burn inside.

The conversation turned to their afternoon flight to Pusan and their strategy for penetrating the Korean market, which was not expected to be such a push-over. Food prices in Korean cities were nowhere near as high as in Japan and food activism had not flourished, meaning that they'd have to compete head-on with discount produce for space in the supermarkets. None the less, their director of sales felt that ignoring the market might create an opportunity for competitors to gain a foothold and reasoned that it made sense to invest some energy in scoping it out as a defensive strategy. So off to Narita Airport they went on the Keisei Skyliner.

As the train pulled out of Nippori station, Claire considered whether she should broach the subject of Drew's expulsion, but realized she had no way of doing so without raising alarms. As Evan listened carefully to the salesmen discussing the impact of the company's stepped-up CSR campaign, Claire found herself wondering about Drew and his mysterious expulsion. Looking at Evan, she realized she somehow felt differently about him. There was no evidence Evan had any knowledge of Drew's expulsion, but her gut churned none the less. Let his folly reflect on him. Was this what Evan had meant?

Claire's mind wandered back to the time when she resigned from the paper after the editor refused to publish a piece that would compromise one of their funders. Reporters wax poetic about freedom of the press and journalistic integrity, but in the end it all came down to money, even on the far left. Was the academic world any different? It was no secret that Futura was a major benefactor of the university, nor that the university was in financial trouble so deep its survival depended totally on private sector partnerships. With so much at stake, what administration wouldn't cast out a "loose cannon" whose work threatened to upset the apple cart?

That thought opened up a whole new can of worms. What if Drew was right and Futura was somehow responsible for the fetus he'd shown her. Would she resign? How would she pay off the tens of thousands of dollars in school debts she'd accumulated? Maybe there was another good job out there, but wouldn't the hiring committee want to know why she'd left such a promising job as the one she now held? What would she tell them? And what if the new company was no better? Worse, what if she couldn't land another job at all? In this economy, that was not just a possibility – it was to be expected.

But she was getting ahead of herself. There was no proof of wrongdoing, and for that reason it was clearly in her best interest to keep her mouth shut, forget about Drew and stay on course with the company. Or was it? If Drew was right and he somehow managed to prove that Futura had caused those deformities, she couldn't duck and hide like some back office accountant. She was the face of the company and she'd be the one called upon to stand up and deny everything in front of the press - even if she knew in her heart it was true.

Claire remained silent for the rest of the train ride and slept through most of the brief flight to Pusan. But it wasn't a restful sleep. As the plane bumped and rattled through the turbulent sky, fragments of recent memories bubbled up from the depths of her mind. The multiple heads and limbs of the baby goat, the monstrosity Drew showed her after she returned, Evan forbidding her to speak to Drew, Drew's expulsion.

Coincidence? The word echoed in her mind. She began to feel nauseous and instinctively reached for the sick bag as she breathed deeply, focusing her mind on comforting thoughts. She remembered lying on the grass as a young girl on her family's farm, looking up at the blue August sky through leafy branches waving gently in the breeze. The cicadas joined the birds in song as the sun came out and she breathed in the earthy aroma of the forest. At peace, she drifted off.

And then she woke up, late for the presentation she was to give about Futura's commitment to environmental sustainability and its deep interest in the wellness of its farm workers. All eyes on her, she stumbled to the podium and nervously began to speak. Noting the disbelieving scowls on the faces of her audience, her voice trembled, perspiration rolling into her eyes from her forehead. Trying desperately to stay on message, she clicked through the presentation slides featuring smiling workers in the fields, children at play on the soccer pitch, a baby nestled in a blanket beside a sleeping kid goat. Suddenly the audience gasped and Claire jumped. Looking back at the slide, she saw that it was somehow changing. The baby was morphing into something like the fetus Drew had shown her, with many heads, faces twisted, features out of proportion, skin botchy and slimy. And the kid goat was no longer an adorable sleeping ball of fur, but rather a hideous blob of random limbs and heads. Voices erupted in anger as she frantically clicked through slide after slide, of twisted fetuses. Her clothing drenched in sweat, she looked toward Evan for support, but he only frowned back at her, shaking his head in stark disapproval. Suddenly the floor rattled beneath her and she fell to the ground. Was it an earthquake? The room shook violently and as she reached out her hands, clinging hard to the carpet, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Claire!"

It was Evan's voice. She looked up into his eyes, which scolded her from above as he bent down beside her.

"I'm sorry," she blurted as the room spun.

"Claire, you're dreaming!"

Claire opened her eyes, her hands gripping the seat in front of her with ferocious intensity. Her head had fallen forward onto Evan's tray and he put his hand on her shoulder trying to prop her up. Her dream fading, she straightened in her seat and let go of the fabric.

"I had no idea you were such a nervous flyer," smiled Evan.

"I'm not generally," mumbled Claire, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

After a series of meetings that went better than expected, the sales team remained to negotiate details and Evan went to Thailand and Laos to inspect PR related details of the company's operations in those countries. Claire returned to Toronto alone. Arriving at her apartment, exhausted from jet lag, she went to bed early and when she awoke the next morning, her eyelids still heavy, she decided to take the day off to recover. That afternoon Krista was thrilled to hear about Claire's adventures in Japan, a country she'd always dreamt of visiting.

"Have you heard anything about Drew being expelled?" Claire asked out of the blue.

"What?" cried Krista, unable to believe it. "Why?"

"I don't know why. I haven't spoken to him."

"Then how do you know he was expelled?"

Claire took the letter she'd received in the Tokyo hotel room out of her computer bag and handed it to her roommate. Krista examined it as Claire explained how it came to her.

"No indication of who it was from?" Krista asked.

"Did you give anyone my itinerary?"

"No," answered Krista. "But come to think of it one of your masters classmates called and said he had an urgent message for you."

"Who?"

Krista got up and retrieved the note she'd written. Claire read the name.

"I didn't graduate with this person," she said.

"He said that one of your graduating class had passed away and he wanted to inform everyone of the funeral details in person."

"Did you tell him where I was staying?"

"I said you were in Tokyo and that you'd be back at the end of the week."

"But you didn't name the hotel?"

"No. He said he'd call back when you returned."

Claire read the note again, then picked up her phone and dialed the number. A recorded message said the number was out of service. She dialed again to be sure, then hung up.

"I have a gut feeling the note is from Lars," said Claire.

"How do you know?" asked Krista.

"Who else would go to the trouble of sending it to Tokyo?"

"Drew?"

"It isn't something he'd do," remarked Claire. "And why would he speak of himself in third person?"

"To disguise the fact that he sent it."

"He's not that shifty," insisted Claire. "And the call about my classmate is exactly the sort of trick Lars would pull."

"It wasn't Lars' voice."

"He'd never do it himself, for that reason."

Krista thought for a moment. "If you knew for a fact it was Lars, what would you do?"

"What can I do?" answered Claire. "I'm supposed to distance myself from Drew."

"Would you trust me to go to him?" Krista offered.

"Are you sure that's wise? I mean, you said yourself I should obey the company's orders."

"100% you should," agreed Krista. "But something is going on here and you owe it to yourself to find out what."

"It's probably nothing," Claire insisted. "You know how paranoid Lars is. And Drew too, for that matter."

"He was a superstar student," Krista reminded Claire. "People like that don't get expelled, even if everyone hates their mentor's guts."

"I know," agreed Claire.

"So let me get in touch with Lars," Krista insisted. "If he's involved, he won't hide it from me."

Claire agreed and Krista went to the computer science building where she knew she'd have a chance of running into Lars, or at least someone who could let her know where he could be found. Being a bit paranoid herself, she understood the importance of keeping her meeting with Lars off the record. She could easily have emailed him, or called his cell phone. It was no secret that they knew each other. In fact, it was widely known that Drew and Claire had met when Lars dragged Drew to a party Krista organized as a fundraising event for a campus charity. But now that Claire was prohibited from associating with Drew, the optics of Claire's roommate openly contacting Drew's best friend were not good. So, a quiet meeting in person was in order.

Or so she thought. When she finally did track down Lars, he refused to discuss anything to do with Drew. While admitting he sent the note, he insisted on speaking directly with Claire, promising to arrange the rendezvous in such a way that Claire had no chance of being seen with him. Krista knew what that meant. That night, she gave some instructions to Claire, who set out from the apartment on foot. Entering the cafe on the first floor of the hospital at Queen and Church, she ordered a drink and took a seat facing the window. A staff member brought her a sample of chocolate brownie, placing a napkin on the table in front of her. He turned over the napkin to reveal something written on the other side. Finish what you ordered, walk into the parking garage across the street and descend the stairs. She folded the napkin and placed it in her coat pocket, then slowly consumed her drink. When she was finished, she put her coat on and walked out the door.

Entering the garage, Claire descended the stairs to the next level. She heard a car idling on the other side of the door and as she reached forward to press the handle the door opened. Standing in front of her was a stalky bearded man who ushered her into the back seat of a BMW.

"Lars is waiting," he said in a think Russian accent.

Claire got into the car and closed the door. The man sat in the front passenger seat and the driver put the car in gear. As the vehicle crept forward, Claire noticed a blanket on the seat beside her, neatly folded.

"Please, for your own protection, cover yourself," the bearded man said.

"It is really necessary?" asked Claire skeptically.

"We must assume you're being followed," the bearded man said.

"It's only a short distance," added the driver, a thin Scandinavian whose gaze flitted nervously around the garage.

Claire sighed and did as she was told. Laying on the seat, she felt the car lurch forward. They turned, went up a ramp, and stopped. The car turned left, then right, then she lost track of its movements through the city.

"Don't worry, almost there," said the Russian.

She felt the car go down another ramp and from the echo of the engine, she knew they were entering another garage. The car descended two levels, then turned and came to an abrupt stop. The Russian pulled the blanket off Claire then asked her to get out. She opened the door and stepped out to find a van waiting, its rear doors open. The cargo compartment was windowless and the metal floor was covered only with a rubber mat.

"I'm sorry," said the Russian, "but it's necessary."

Claire humored them, stepping into the van. When the doors were closed, she heard the car drive slowly away. After waiting for what seemed like a long time, the van's engine started and it rolled forward. It bumped along the road as it lumbered through the streets, then turned slowly and stopped. As the engine idled, she heard the driver's door open, then slam shut. The side door slid open and a tall, gaunt man she'd never seen before motioned for her to follow. She stepped out into an alleyway between two brownstone buildings and the man pointed toward a metal door.

"In there," he said.

Claire complied.

Descending the dingy steps toward a closed door, Claire heard the voices of a pair of radio talk-show hosts booming from speakers as they conducted an interview of some minor literary celebrity. She marveled about how much trust she was placing his Lars and his companions. Nobody knew where she was going, not even Krista, and she didn't know any of the men who'd teamed up to bring her here. If someone wanted to kidnap her, rape her or even kill her without leaving a trace, this would be the way. But Lars was no rapist - or so she hoped. If these men were with him, she told herself, she had nothing to worry about. Banishing the worse case scenarios that popped up in her mind, Claire descended the final few steps, arriving at a dark, musty landing. Reaching for the handle, she turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The voices thumped against her eardrums. Amid a room full of tables with the chairs upturned sat Lars, characteristically laid back with one leg resting over the other, a half empty beer mug on the table in front of him. Smiling curtly at Claire, he motioned for her to be seated in the chair beside him.

"Beer?" he offered, shouting over a particularly loud commercial which had just started.

"Do you mind if we turn that down?" she asked, looking at the oversized speakers embedded in the moldy walls.

Lars shook his head no and motioned for Claire to come closer. "The radio fouls listening devices," he said right in her ear before pushing a chair out for her.

"Bugs?" asked Claire, throwing her coat over the seat.

"Everything you say and do is almost certainly being monitored."

"By whom?"

"You can assume your cell-phone is tapped too," continued Lars, making no attempt to hide his frustration over her naivety. "Your electronic communications are being intercepted and you are probably being followed."

"Hence, all the sneaking around?"

"You'd rather the Robert Redford clone find out what you're doing now?"

"His name is Evan," spat Claire.

"The one you were flirting with at the party," mused Lars. "What's it like, sleeping with Robert Redford?"

"We weren't flirting," countered Claire, "and you know nothing about him!"

"I know he got Drew expelled."

"No, you don't know that."

"I never understood what Drew saw in you," Lars shook his head, "besides your obvious... attributes."

"I didn't come here so you could stare at my breasts."

"Drew needs your help," stated Lars, taking a long sip of beer.

"I tried to help him and he chose not to take it," insisted Claire. "There's nothing I can do now."

"You can't reverse his expulsion," agreed Lars, "but that's not what he needs."

"What does he need?"

"The precise locations of all your company's farm operations."

"I'm not sure I can get that."

"All you have to do is tell me where you went on your travels."

"That's confidential."

"No one needs to know you told me."

"I could be fired for giving you that information."

"You're going to have to make a decision," advised Lars, "between acting prudently and acting ethically."

"I'm not sure you understand," replied Claire. "I've signed a confidentiality agreement."

"You'd be prudent to honor it," teased Lars, sarcastically.

"If you're Mr. Ethics," Claire challenged Lars, "where does all your money come from?"

"All my money?" protested Lars. "You think I'm a wealthy man?"

"Come on," chortled Claire. "Maybe you've got a tiny apartment and you don't drive a car, but everyone knows about your travels - and it's no secret how often you've bailed out Drew."

"Those trips are for my research and at most I've bought Drew a few meals out." Lars neglected to mention the rather more generous sums he'd provided Drew for his current sojourn in Honduras.

"Where is Drew now?"

"Hiding."

"He hardly needs to do that."

"If a company as powerful as Futura's parent had you in their sights, I imagine you'd want to lay low too."

"Do you have any hard proof that Futura's involved?"

Lars laughed cynically. "It's amazing how stupid people get when the truth threatens their income."

"If you're going to insult me, I'm leaving," huffed Claire, picking up her coat and pushing her chair back with a screech as she stood up.

"They took Chaplain's journals," Lars informed her. "What sort of thief lugs around volumes of handwritten notebooks?"

"Chaplain made a career of pissing off big companies," Claire protested. "Any one of them could have done it."

Lars hung his head in disbelief. "During the Nuremberg Trials," he said looking up at her through the corner of his eye "a rank-and-file foot soldier could squirm off the hook by insisting he was simply following orders had no choice but to obey. But Nazi officers were granted no such lenience."

"What's your point?" Claire asked, a little incredulous.

"Years later, Adolf Eichmann attempted the Nuremberg Defense at his trial in Israel," Lars continued. "But the jury held that just following orders was no defense for an officer with rank and title."

"Could you explain what this has to do with me?"

"It should be obvious," Lars chastised her, "that you are no foot soldier within the Futura Empire. You are the face and voice of the company."

"It's a little unfair to compare me to Adolf Eichmann, don't you think?"

"True," admitted Lars. "You're more like Goebbels, the propaganda mastermind - or at least, his whore."

"That's it," exclaimed Claire as she turned for the door.

"When you decide to do the right thing you know how to find me," yelled Lars, watching her storm up the stairs.
Chapter 17

In an effort to find the evidence Drew was looking for, Ana Luisa had gone directly to a number of villagers she knew kept small animals like rabbits. She managed to bring back two very recent specimens of stillborn bunnies, both deformed in a manner consistent with Chaplain's specimens. She'd heard there were rumors of goats and even larger animals, but had found no physical evidence as of yet, besides the one a friend had managed to photograph. Returning to her parents' home, where Drew remained in hiding, she presented the specimens to Drew, who preserved them in tequila for lack of pure ethanol.

"These strongly suggest that the poison is still active in the environment," Drew reasoned.

"Then why no human miscarriages?"

The answer was to reveal itself in the form of a call from Ana Luisa's cousin, who'd recently returned from the new clinic, to which she'd been invited for a medical checkup. The invitation had come after she'd exuberantly revealed to the local nurse that she was pregnant with her first child. At least, so she'd thought, until the doctor examined her. After performing a series of tests, they informed her that she had not, in fact, been pregnant.

"She's sure she was pregnant to begin with?" asked Drew, after Ana Luisa explained the situation.

"She used a pregnancy test."

"Had she missed a cycle?"

"Yes."

"Morning sickness?"

"Severe," answered Ana Luisa. "She said two of her friends had the same experience."

"They used pregnancy tests?" asked Drew.

"She didn't say," replied Ana Luisa.

"Can we talk to your cousin?"

Ana Luisa agreed and they set out for her cousin's village, Drew hidden under blankets in the back seat. Knowing that some off-brand home pregnancy tests were prone to false positives, Drew wanted to find out more about the kits the women had used. If they were defective, that could explain the difference in results, but if the kits were reliable and the women had shown clear symptoms of early pregnancy before entering the clinic, it was possible that a disturbing pattern was emerging.

To her young husband's great consternation, Ana Luisa's cousin proved to be a fountain of information. Unlike Ana Luisa, who had spent considerable time away from her family's home during her studies, her cousin had lived in her village without interruption and was current on all the local gossip. It turned out that some of the villagers were skeptical of the doctors at the clinic and, as Ana Luisa had said, some suspected the company was somehow behind the miscarriages and stillbirths of deformed babies. She also confirmed what Ana Luisa had told him about the strong taboo associated with open discussion of the subject.

Ana Luisa's cousin fetched the pregnancy test kit she'd used. Drew looked at the kit, a blue-label considered one of the most reliable. He directed Ana Luisa to ask if her cousin's friends had used the same test kits and she said they had. She explained that the kits had been given out free to women of the surrounding villages by a government nurse.

"What are you thinking?" asked Ana Luisa, noticing Drew's expression.

"When did the nurse hand out the tests?" he asked.

Ana Luisa translated and her cousin gave a date. "A bit less than a year ago."

"And when did reports of the miscarriages stop?"

"Eight months ago."

"Coincidence?" Drew asked Ana Luisa.

"The authorities hand out test kits, then pregnant women get invited to the new clinic and..." Ana Luisa's voice trailed off. She could barely allow herself to think the thought, let alone speak the words.

"...and suddenly no more miscarriages," Drew finished her sentence.

It was so inhuman, so cruel that Ana Luisa could not, would not, let herself believe it was possible.

"They couldn't!" she gasped.

Her cousin looked at Drew, wondering what he'd said that had made Ana Luisa visibly upset. But Drew stared at the floor.

"They couldn't. It's not possible!" croaked Ana Luisa, her body starting to quiver.

"It's just a hypothesis," Drew tried to comfort her. "Maybe it's not correct."

Ana Luisa began to shake violently.

"Tomorrow, see if you can find any other women who fit the pattern," continued Drew, trying to encourage her scientific mind to take control, but it was too late. The floodgates were opening.

Ana Luisa continued to tremble. Her eyes scrunched up and her lower lip began to quiver. Her face contorting, she puckered and tears gushed down her cheeks.

Her cousin became more agitated. Not knowing what to say, Drew placed his hand on Ana Luisa's shoulder. Bent over in her chair, fists clenched and her whole body convulsing, she let out a deep, guttural scream.

"They are demons!" she cursed. "They are from hell!"

Her cousin leapt up and dashed out of the room to fetch her husband and his parents.

"We'll stop them," Drew tried to reassure her.

"They killed my baby!" she screeched. "They killed my husband!"

Her cousin came back with her parents behind her. Drew stepped back as the mother took Ana Luisa by the shoulders and comforted her from behind. The father signaled for Drew to wait there as they took Ana Luisa out of the room. Waiting alone while Ana Luisa wailed in the next room made him realize just how personal this matter was for her and all the families affected.

He wondered why no one had noticed this pattern before. But, thinking about it carefully, he realized that few residents of the villages surrounding the farms were truly convinced of the connection between Futura and the deformed fetuses. The company was the bread and butter of the people and, as poor as the region appeared to Drew's eyes, he was informed it was actually considered prosperous by rural Honduran standards. As long as this prosperity depended on the company, few residents had much incentive to ask inconvenient questions.

Drew ate dinner with her cousin's family while Ana Luisa recovered on her own, as per her wishes. Having exhausted their few phrases of English, the family dined in silence. Later that evening, Ana Luisa joined Drew on the porch.

"I'm sorry for earlier," she said quietly.

"No need," he replied.

They sat in silence for a long while until Ana Luisa spoke again.

"My husband was a good man," she said with a smile. "He was always helping people. He studied animal husbandry, hoping to help small farmers become more productive."

Drew listened in silence, knowing she had more to say.

"We came back here to help the small farmers of my village improve the quality of their goat milk to get better prices at market," she continued. "It was his gift to them before we went back to Mexico where he would earn his PhD. When we found out I was pregnant, everyone was so happy."

Tears began rolling down her face.

"What happened?" asked Drew.

"When we went to a clinic in Tegucigalpa for an ultrasound, they told us something was wrong. They said the child would be born severely deformed, if it survived until birth. We were devastated. We did everything we could to try to protect it, to give it a chance, but it was hopeless. One day I started bleeding and..."

Her voice trailed off.

"We knew other women in the villages had miscarried and that there were rumors of other deformed fetuses. I called my professor and he asked me to put the fetus in alcohol until he could get there. He came all the way from Mexico City as fast as he could. He took our baby, preserved it in a jar and called Dr. Chaplain. He and your professor worked together for months, trying to find out what all the miscarriages had in common. They thought it was the company, from something they sprayed on the fields. My husband collected water samples and Chaplain did the lab research in Mexico. When the results came back, my husband tried to find out what was going on. He went to the company and demanded answers. They sent him away. He tried to get the families organized, he called the newspapers, he called the politicians, but nobody would talk to him. No one would believe him. Then one day, we found his jeep rolled over in the ditch. He was crushed under it."

Ana Luisa's throat constricted and again she started to cry.

"It was them!" she spat. "I knew it was. We all knew it!"

"We're going to stop them," Drew promised. "Whatever it takes."

Ana Luisa sobbed and Drew put his hand on her shoulder again.

"I will go to the midwives tomorrow," she croaked through her tears.

Drew decided it was best to leave her alone, so he retired for the night. Unable to sleep, his mind processed what he'd witnessed earlier. He considered the implications of his hunch - and despite Ana Luisa's reaction, it was still just a hunch. If he was correct, Futura was using the clinic as a way to suppress the human effects of its chemical program by aborting pregnancies of affected mothers. No deformed fetuses carried to third trimester equals no ugly miscarriages.

At first Drew had wondered why a woman of Ana Luisa's intelligence hadn't pieced it together herself, but upon reflection, he understood perfectly. It was unthinkable that a company would stoop so low. She suspected agents of the company had killed her husband, but surreptitiously aborting the children of a whole village? It was beyond comprehension.

Tossing and turning in his bed, he pondered the moral depravity of it all and vowed to fight the company by any means, even killing, if he had to. But who would he kill? A corporation in Futura's league was like the hydra of Greek myth - a beast with many heads. Cut one off and two grow in its place. He could kill every executive in the company and they'd just be replaced, like the rows of teeth in a shark's mouth. To fight back against Futura, he needed incontrovertible proof based on evidence that would stand up to intense scientific scrutiny. Every one of his assumptions would have to be thoroughly grounded in established knowledge and he knew that every aspect of his methodology would be rigorously examined. The slightest oversight would result in withering criticism and, likely, the outright rejection of his arguments. Futura would fight back by enlisting armies of hired-gun academics like Schaffer to lob grenades at anything he published. Oil companies did this with climate research, cigarette companies did it with cancer research. Manufacturing doubt had proved to be an incredibly successful play for companies trying to weasel out of responsibility. Any scientist attempting to expose the truth can expect, at the very least, to get bogged down in pseudo-controversy. If that doesn't work, professional disgrace on trumped up allegations will surely follow \- as Drew knew only too well. If that failed, physical threats were the next stage and if Ana Luisa was right about her husband, the company was not above outright murder. Drew knew all too well that expulsion wasn't the worst they could do to him. He could face lawsuits, criminal charges, perhaps even violence against him or his family. Was he ready?

The next day, Ana Luisa set out of find some facts. Not wanting to raise alarms, she asked friends to speak quietly to the local midwives. There were only two in town and both reported that business had suddenly slowed several months ago. With the help of her cousin's friends, finding women who had undergone pregnancy tests and visited the clinic, only to be told they were not pregnant, proved easy. Not every woman who had gone to the clinic after taking a home test had been told it was a false positive, and babies were still being born without incident, some even delivered right at the clinic, but a strong enough pattern was emerging to conclude that something was definitely wrong. Ana Luisa reported these findings to Drew, who had been combing through Chaplain's data on a computer.

"Do the women who thought they were pregnant suspect anything?'' he asked.

"If they do, they are keeping it to themselves."

"Your cousin said there were people who believe the miscarriages are linked to the agricultural operations," Drew reminded her. "Do you think we could talk to some of them?"

"Most will say nothing."

"Has anything suspicious happened to anyone else, other than your husband?"

"There have been accidents on the fields," Ana Luisa confirmed. "They happened to people who supported him or who asked questions about the spray. The people who spoke in defense of the company got promoted. They are the bosses on the fields now."

Drew had a sinking feeling in his gut. It was one thing to acquire information off the record, but this would never be given weight in scientific or even legal circles and only the most rabidly anti-corporate journalists would print stories based on hearsay.

Suddenly Drew had a thought. "How did Chaplain get hold of the human fetuses, besides yours?" he asked. "There were six that I saw."

"Same way he got mine," explained Ana Luisa. "My professor took them and gave them to Dr Chaplain."

"So Chaplain never met the women?"

"My professor swore he would never reveal their identity."

"Not even to you?"

Ana Luisa shook her head.

"Can we contact your professor?"

"Nobody knows where he is."

"When did you last speak to him?"

"More than a year ago," replied Ana Luisa. "I tried to call, but the university said he had resigned suddenly."

"Did he really resign," enquired Drew, "or was he fired?"

"I don't know what happened," said Ana Luisa, "but there were rumors that he had an affair with a female student."

"Do you believe them?" Drew asked.

"No," she replied.

Drew decided it was the time to divulge what happened with Scarlett. Ana Luisa listened carefully as he explained.

"Did you try to fight back?" she asked.

"The deck was stacked," answered Drew, "like it was with your professor, and your husband."

Ana Luisa's face contorted and Drew thought she was going to cry. Instead, she scrunched her hand into a tight fist. In her eyes rose a fiery intensity that unnerved him.

"I will kill them," she declared, her face hard and her jaw set.

"I'll help."

Ana Luisa's head turned and she stared coldly into Drew's eyes. He'd meant his remark as a sarcastic joke, a way to diffuse the tension, but Ana Luisa seemed to take it literally.

"Before we kill anyone," backpedaled Drew, "we need to know for sure what's going on, and we have to be able to prove it beyond any doubt."

"How?" she demanded.

"I need to get on the fields."
Chapter 18

"This won't be easy," warned Ana Luisa.

"I know," answered Drew.

"The only way to get to the fields is through the jungle."

"I assume that's why Chaplain never went."

"He would never have made it," said Ana Luisa, "and honestly, I'm concerned about you."

Drew shared her concern, but he knew there was no other way. They planned to go as far as it was safe by jeep. When they were still out of sight, the driver would quietly let them out and they'd steal into the bush, trekking in a big circle around the steep hills until they reached the field they'd chosen. They'd have to go well before dawn so as to minimize the risk of being spotted, and they'd wear camouflage that helped them blend into the vegetation.

Donning his pack and clipping canteens of water to his belt, Drew felt more like a commando than a scientist. While part of him secretly enjoyed the thrill, he knew the dangers they'd face if spotted were all too real. But the prize was worth the risk. Once they got to the fields, Drew would hopefully be able to glean clues that would help unravel the mystery.

After a week of meticulous planning and rehearsal, they set off in the black of night. Under a cover in the back of the jeep they crouched as the vehicle rumbled along the stony road. When the vehicle slowed to a stop, the driver knocked quietly on the fender. It was their cue to get out. Adrenaline surging through his veins, Drew threw off the blanket and rolled out, gently closing the door. The vehicle rolled forward and Ana Luisa scurried across the road to join him. Pointing with a gloved finger, she indicated the direction in which they were to set out, then beckoning for him to follow, she led the way.

Inhaling the putrid scent of rotting vegetation, Drew kept his eyes on his accomplice as she crept nimbly through the thick brush, her tiny frame barely visible in the moonless night. Branches cracking and thorns scratching his face as he forced his way through the dense vegetation, the rustling of his feet on the jungle floor sounded to his heightened senses like it could wake the dead. After what seemed like an endless journey, they reached the edge of the jungle.

Drew gazed out over the great expanse of fields, which appeared like a great black sea extending to the mountains in the distance. Squatting motionless in the darkness, the sounds of the jungle drowned out by the throbbing rhythm of his own pounding pulse he waited in silence. When the first rays of the morning sun peaked over the mountains to the east, Ana Luisa signaled it was time to move forward.

Leaving the relative safety of the wild vegetation, they crept forward on their hands and knees through the grass buffer at the edge of the field, keeping as low to the ground as they could. Approached the first crop rows, Drew examined the ground for telltale signs of herbicide use, but found none. Between the rows of eggplants, which stretched as far into the distance as he could see from his low vantage point, was a low understory of weeds and grasses consistent with an organic field. What surprised him was the degree to which the weeds had been decimated by herbivorous insects, while the eggplants and their ripe fruits were entirely untouched.

Impossible, he thought. Maybe the eggplants, normally extremely vulnerable to insect pressure, had been selectively sprayed with a powerful insecticide, but the patterns of insect damage weren't consistent with that style of farming. The bugs were just too selective in their feeding, attacking only the weeds and leaving the crops alone. Yet besides genetic engineering of the eggplants for insect resistance, there was no explanation. But it was virtually impossible to engineer palatable nightshades, of which family eggplants were a member. Animals might eat them, but the taste was so off that people could barely be persuaded to buy and they had no commercial appeal. There had to be another explanation, but what?

He called Ana Luisa forward and they crept carefully through the rows of eggplants toward another grassy buffer, after which they entered a stand of mature tomato plants, staked five feet above the soil. Approaching, the unmistakable drone of bees could be heard and Drew looked up to see the tiny dark silhouettes of the insects zipping busily around the plants as they collected nectar. He was impressed with the very large number of them, far more than he'd seen on any other vegetable field at any one time, particularly this early in the morning.

"Be careful," Ana Luisa said, gesturing with her head to the growing number of bees. "These are not like the honeybees up north."

Drew understood what she meant. The honey bees dominant in the Honduran lowlands were a cross-breed resulting from the unintentional release of an African sub-species in South America many years ago. The highly aggressive 'Africanized' bees literally terrorized farmers who were unaccustomed to their poisonous venom and an inordinate number of human deaths from swarmings earned them the monicker "killer bees". While it was rare for bees to swarm on the open fields, Drew moved cautiously none the less.

Examining the tomatoes closely, he observed a similar pattern to the eggplants - pristine fruits above, insect bitten understory of weeds. He inspected the tomatoes one by one, looking carefully at the ripest. The condition was so free from insect, bacterial and fungal blemishes that genetic engineering was the only explanation that fit. He sniffed the vines and inhaled the characteristically pungent aroma associated with organic production. He hated to admit it, but they looked downright appealing.

Ana Luisa came up behind him and he started to share his thoughts.

"We don't have much time," she cut him off.

Drew nodded in acknowledgement and they pressed forward. Reaching the end of the tomatoes, they lay prone behind the grass buffer. Across the field, they saw the first workers arriving by bus, with more buses winding along the road. Slithering across the grass on their stomachs, they inched toward the next stand, a patch of squash just starting to flower. As they got closer, the cacophonous drone of bees became louder. Arriving at the edge of the row, Drew was dumbstruck by the sheer number of bees crawling on the plants. The flowers absolutely teemed with them, stems bowing and groaning under their weight. Every single flower was the same.

"This can't be normal," Drew said to Ana Luisa, feeling as if he had to shout over the bees even though he was speaking right into her ear.

"I've never seen this many before," she replied.

"Did your husband say anything about the bees when he took the samples?"

"He said there were swarms of bees, but I had no idea he meant this many."

Off in the distance, they heard the sound of a tractor engine sputtering to life, barely audible over the din of the bees.

"Time to go," warned Ana Luisa, motioning back to the forest.

Drew followed her back through the tomatoes and across the buffer toward the eggplants. On their hands and knees they crawled, until suddenly, Drew felt Ana Luisa shove him hard to the ground.

"Quiet!" she whispered in his ear, holding his head down firmly with her hand.

In the distance, he heard the revving two-stroke engine of an all-terrain-vehicle, coughing and wheezing as it bounced along the rough ground. Frozen, they waited as the sound of the engine became louder and louder. Drew heard Ana Luisa's breathing in his ear and felt his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. He strained to look up, but Ana Luisa pressed his head down. The vehicle's engine was so loud it seemed as if it was about to run them over and Drew fought the overwhelming urge to bolt into the jungle, which was more than 100 meters away.

Then he heard a gear click and the engine sped up as it idled in neutral. He heard two male voices speaking in Spanish. They talked for a while, then the engine turned off and Drew could hear boots clomping heavily through the tall grass, close enough that he could feel the vibrations of their steps. Holding Drew firmly down, Ana Luisa slowly raised her head and peeked over the tops of the eggplants. She brought her head back down to Drew and mouthed the words "Don't move."

Drew remained motionless, breathing deeply to calm his racing pulse. The footsteps in the grass got closer and the pressure of Ana Luisa's hand on his head increased. The footsteps stopped and Drew clutched the ground in an effort to fight his almost irrepressible desire to run. Motionless, they waited.

The wind picked up and whistled through the grass as bees whizzed overhead. Slowly, the footsteps started again and Drew prayed they wouldn't come closer. The rustling receded, then the ATV's suspension compressed, followed by a halted rotation of the engine as someone tried to kick start it. Suddenly, the engine roared to life, someone shifted the gears and the engine revved as it strained against the clutch. Drew breathed a sigh of relief as the ATV rumbled off.

Ana Luisa continued to hold Drew down. "Wait," she whispered as quietly as she could.

So they waited, listening, as the sound of the vehicle disappeared into the distance. Unsure of whether one of the men had stayed behind, Ana Luisa listened for a long time, then finally lifted her head and peered through the plants. Sensing they were alone again, she motioned for him to follow her and she crawled cautiously forward. Drew wanted nothing more than to run for the safety of the trees, but he followed Ana Luisa on his hands and knees, inching ever so slowly to the edge. He was thrilled when they finally reached the protection of the thick forest understory.

Silently, they picked their way through the vegetation up the side of the hill, finding a spot from which they could overlook the field. As they watched the farmhands going about their work, Drew detailed the significance of his observations about the weeds and Ana Luisa agreed with his conclusions. What neither of them could explain was the presence of so many bees. It was unnatural and totally unique and Drew wondered if there could be any connection to the spray.

Suddenly, he was struck by a possibility that electrified him like a bolt of lightning. It was only a hunch, but if it was true, it accounted for the time lag between spraying and the appearance of toxic effects. What if the toxic substance wasn't in the spray at all, but was somehow produced by the plants themselves. If the plants themselves were somehow different, that would explain why Chaplain had found no toxic effect in the spray runoff. It may also explain the bees. But what chemical could tomatoes and other nightshades produce that would be teratogentic enough to produce such grotesque mutations? Drew communicated his thoughts to Ana Luisa, who shared his skepticism, but understood how such a hypothesis could explain the known facts.

"We have to get some samples," declared Drew.

"We can't go back now!" warned Ana Luisa.

"Tonight, when they sun goes down."

Ana Luisa reluctantly agreed and when the sun finally set and the workers went home, Drew and Ana Luisa set out again onto the field. Their plan had been to remain under cover until well after dark, then meet up with their driver in the same place he'd dropped them off. They could still meet him on time, but they had to get the samples quickly.

Drew and Ana Luisa crept along the ground in the grey twilight, filling plastic sample bags with specimens. They took leaves, fruits and flowers, particularly from the plants on which all the bees had been swarming. Fortunate that this strain of Africanized bees shared the diurnal habits of their northern counterparts, he clipped dozens of flowers, gently setting each in its own bag,

"We have to go!" Ana Luisa warned him.

But Drew refused to leave before he'd taken every sample he could carry. Ana Luisa's anxious prodding failed to persuade him of the urgency and he continued until he ran out of bags.

Finally signaling to Ana Luisa that he was finished, he turned back toward the jungle. They crept together toward the edge of the field, taking no chances with noise or fast movements. Suddenly, at the other end of the field, a vehicle's headlights could be seen coming toward them along the road. Since it was far off in the distance, they were at no risk of being illuminated, but they lay flat on the ground none the less. The vehicle stopped, the engine went quiet and the lights went out. Unable to see in the dark, they heard the door open, the sound carrying perfectly through the still night air. Another door opened and the next sound they heard made the hair on the back of Drew's neck stand up. It was the rattle of a chain, followed by the low, gruff barking of dogs.

Ana Luisa had warned Drew that the fields were patrolled at night and that the guards, who were always armed to the teeth, often brought dobermans. Drew had chosen to return to the fields at night knowing they were risking an encounter with canines, but the needs of his research outweighed thoughts of his safety. Now that the danger was real, Drew regretted his decision.

"Quietly!" warned Ana Luisa, her eyes wide with fear.

They crawled toward the jungle as quickly as they could, fighting the temptation to run. Ana Luisa told Drew they'd be safe if they could make it to the jungle, since the dogs were trained not to charge blindly into the forest for their own safety, lest they run into a jaguar or something nastier. But on the field, they were vulnerable.

Realizing they were upwind from the dogs, Drew felt the sweat collecting on his brow. A drop rolled down his forehead. His pack, full of samples, weighed him down as he moved through the grass. They were almost half way to the tree-line when, suddenly, one of the men yelled a command and dogs began barking savagely. The frenzied rustle of canine feet mixed with the rattle of chains as the barking got closer.

"Run!" screamed Ana Luisa.

Drew lunged forward across the field. His legs stumbling on the uneven ground beneath him, his heart pounded in his chest as adrenaline cursed through his veins. Crashing through the rows of plants, he tripped and hit the ground. Racing past him, Ana Luisa slowed and turned to help him.

"Go!" he screamed, but she grabbed his pack, jerking him upward off the ground. The snarling dogs fast approaching, he launched himself forward again. Running harder than he'd run in his entire life, his mind swirled with horrific visions of his limbs being torn to shreds by ravenous jaws. The barking getting closer and closer, Drew and Ana Luisa scrambled for the tree line.

Charging with every bit of energy he had, something inside Drew told him it was too late. Even if the dogs would stop at the forest, which he doubted, they would never make it. They were still a hundred meters away and the dogs were closing quickly. Drew looked back, and saw that Ana Luisa was several paces behind him. It was too dark to see her face, but he knew that she was exhausted. Almost a full foot shorter than him, there was no way her legs could keep up.

Suddenly, Ana Luisa tripped and fell to the ground.

"Go!" she yelled at Drew.

But he ignored her. He raced back in her direction, looking for anything on the field he could use as a weapon against the approaching dogs. Picking up a rock and using his pack as a shield, he jumped in front of Ana Luisa just as the dogs reached them. He swung the pack hard at the first dog and knocked it out of the way, but the second lurched forward and grasped the fabric of his left sleeve. Frantically, he swung the rock at it's skull and when it let go, he kicked at its face with his boot. But the doberman was undeterred. Without a second's hesitation, it opened its jaws and lunged forward so fast he barely saw it move. Drew felt the dog's teeth rip through the flesh of his left arm as hot blood oozed out. The pressure of the dog's teeth was so intense he thought his forearm was going to break. In excruciating pain, he felt his back hit the ground. Kicking frantically at the animal's stomach, he felt his shoulder strain as the dog twisted its head. Then another set of jaws ripped savagely into his calf and he felt his leg being stretched violently. In incredible pain and completely overwhelmed, he felt his body go limp. The world began to move in slow motion. His resolve to live waning in the grip of death, his body had given up on its own, against his will. Unable to move, unable to think, flashes of light filled his eyes and his vision began to go black.

Suddenly, in his right ear, came a deafening pop, then a second and a third, and the jaws of both dogs went slack. Another pop sounded, then another. His mind clearing, he saw Ana Luisa, illuminated in the moonlight, holding a revolver in two shaking hands, her arms straight out in front of her. Eyes wide, she stared intently at the dark writhing shadows to Drew's side. The dobermans, whined pitifully as the life drained out of their bodies.

The sound of men's voices carried across the field and Ana Luisa leaped to her feet. Still holding the revolver, she stepped forward and bent over to pick up Drew's pack.

"We have to hurry!" she whispered urgently.

Drew tried to move his leg, which throbbed with pain as his muscled tensed. Rolling over onto this stomach, he was able to push himself up with his good arm and get his good leg underneath him. Ana Luisa pulled him up. He reached for his pack.

"No," she snapped."

Lifting Drew's pack in one arm and steadying him with the other, Ana Luisa soldiered on across the field. Drew winced in excruciating pain as he limped beside her, trying desperately to keep up.

"If I can't make it--" he started.

"Shut up!" she ordered him.

They hobbled together in silence. In his condition, the forest seemed so far away, but he forced himself to keep moving. The loud blast of a shotgun startled them both and sent shivers down Drew's spine.

"Come on!" cried Ana Luisa.

After another blast, they heard the sound of an ATV starting behind them.

"They won't follow us into the forest," huffed Ana Luisa, out of breath. "They know we're armed."

Drew was in too much pain to respond, the flesh of his leg ripping with every step, blood coursing out of the wound. The ATV went into gear as they reached the edge of the field. Carefully, Ana Luisa pulled Drew through the thick brush. Drew grabbed his pack, using it as a prop to hold himself up. Lifting it with his good arm and placing it ahead of him, he jumped a step, then repeated the process. Ana Luisa pushed branches out of the way, yanking him up the steep hill behind her. When they went over the peak, Drew watched in horror as Ana Luisa pulled the revolver out from her belt and reloaded with bullets she took from a pouch in her pack.

"You're going to fight them?" he gasped, totally out of breath.

"If I have to," she replied.

Exhausted and in agonizing pain, Drew asked no more questions. They rested as the ATV rattled closer. It slowed as it approached the dying dogs, illuminating their bloody carcasses in its headlight, then continued toward the edge of the jungle. The ATV stopped and the men got off, and stood in the darkness behind the headlight.

"Stay perfectly still," she ordered.

The light shone into the brush at the base of the hill. Drew could hear the men speaking in Spanish, then the squawk of a radio. An electronic sounding voice could be heard, then the men spoke again.

Peering over an outcropping of bare rock, Ana Luisa waited for the men to move on, but they didn't leave. The ATV engine shut off and silence filled the air . The men's footsteps could be heard in the grass and the glow of two flashlights could be seen as they scanned the trees above them. Drew's pulse quickened as he heard the pump action of a shotgun. He held his breath as the beam of a flashlight illuminated the rock face behind which he and Ana Luisa hid, spilling light into the trees above.

Laying flat on her back against the hill, Ana Luisa gripped the revolver tightly, holding it against her chest as she tried to remain hidden from the lights. If it came down to it, would she use it? If they were caught, they'd be in heaps of trouble already, but add the murder of two guards? Drew envisioned himself standing trial in some kangaroo-court being sentenced to death row in a Honduran jail. Despite his wounds, his urge to flee grew more intense.

The men spoke some more, urgency apparent in their voices as their lights probed the grass at the edge of the forest. The flashlights went in different directions as the men scrutinized the edge of the tree line. The men clearly knew the intruders they pursued were armed and that was likely what stopped them from pursuing. They had to know their flashlights would make them perfect targets in the darkness of night. They probably also calculated that the intruders didn't come to kill them and wouldn't risk a potentially lethal confrontation unless all other options were taken away. Drew glanced at Ana Luisa, praying that she was reasoning along the same lines.

The men's voices got quieter, their footsteps receded and the lights turned away from the forest and back to the field. Drew and Ana Luisa breathed a sigh of relief as the ATV started up and the engine faded into the distance. Ana Luisa unclipped a pocket of her pack. Drew heard a click and the faintest blue light came on. She aimed it at his leg.

"Aren't you afraid they'll see us?" asked Drew, fearing a trap.

"Shhh!" whispered Ana Luisa.

Fiddling with her pack again, she extracted a package that glowed faintly in the beam of her light. With a white cross on the side, it appeared to be a small first-aid kit. Ana Luisa extracted a bandage, tape, hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors. Drew winced as she cut open his pant leg. She handed him a wooden tongue depressor.

"Bite this," she said.

Drew put the tongue depressor in his mouth and braced himself for what he knew was coming. Holding the tiny flashlight between her teeth, Ana Luisa opened the bottle of peroxide and poured it over Drew's wound. His body tensed as he writhed in pain so intense he thought he'd pass out. His hands clawing at the ground, he felt Ana Luisa wrap the bandage tightly around his calf and tape it in place. They both listened for any sound from the field as Ana Luisa tended to Drew's arm in the same manner. Confident that both men had gone, Ana Luisa motioned that it was time to go.

"Can you move?" asked Ana Luisa as quietly as she could.

"I think so," answered Drew, by no means certain his words were true.

They set off, retracing their steps through the jungle, Drew in incredible pain.

"They'll be looking for us," warned Ana Luisa as they picked their way through the brush. "The police might stop the jeep."

"If they do, they'll find us," reasoned Drew. "We can't go the meeting point."

"You will die of infection if you don't get treatment," protested Ana Luisa.

Drew knew she was right. Together, they hobbled back through the brush, which seemed so much thicker than it did on the way in. Barely able to withstand the pain, Drew leaned heavily on Ana Luisa, who stoically bore his weight. How such a tiny woman found the strength to carry him and both their packs he couldn't imagine. Stopping to rest only briefly, she soldiered on, knowing they risked being late for the pick-up, which was to take place an hour before dawn.

Arriving at the pick-up point, Ana Luisa gently lay Drew down on his side in a patch of thick grass, where he would be invisible from the road. She dropped their packs behind him and crouched low. Looking at her watch, she sighed in relief. They were just in time. But the jeep didn't come at the scheduled time.15 minutes, half an hour, then an hour went by. The sky began to lighten in the east. Keeping their eyes to the ground as a vehicle rattled by, they crouched low.

"Those were the guards," Ana Luisa whispered as the military green truck rolled into the distance, its covered back flapping in the wind.

Drew knew the company would be looking for the intruders. While they likely had no idea who they were looking for, the company's contacts in the military and police would have security patrols all over the roads. Through the throbbing pain, he tried to formulate a plan. Anywhere he went, he'd stand out like a sore thumb, and a caucasian with severe dog bites on his arm and calf would be certain to raise red flags.

They ducked again as a large company truck carrying workers rumbled past. When the dust it sent up behind it caught the first rays of sunlight, Ana Luisa began to fear something was wrong. But all they could do was wait and hide from approaching vehicles. So they waited. Hours went by, the day began to heat up and Ana Luisa helped Drew into the shade. Finally, just before noon, the jeep came bouncing along the road, rolling to a stop and waiting 20 feet in front of them. Ana Luisa stood up and got out of the brush, leaving Drew behind. Crouching at the side of the road, she signaled the driver to come forward. The jeep stopped right in front of Drew and Ana Luisa exchanged words with the driver in Spanish.

"There are patrols on the roads," Ana Luisa translated. "We have to be careful."

Ana Luisa and the driver helped Drew into the rear of the jeep and covered him over with a tarp, then Ana Luisa joined him.

"How is it?" she asked.

"I'll be okay," Drew replied bravely, though the truth was he'd never felt worse in his life.

"We'll get you to a hospital," she promised.

"I can't go to a hospital," he protested. "They'll connect the dog bites with what happened on the field."

Ana Luisa realized he was right. "We'll bring a doctor we can trust," she assured him.

The jeep bumped along the winding roads. When they reached Ana Luisa's home, the driver pulled the tarp off of Drew and, behind the screen of vegetation, a group of men carried him into the house.
Chapter 19

Awakening on the sofa in Ana Luisa's parents' living room, Drew had no memory of the drive back from Tegucigalpa. By the light entering the window, it appeared to be late afternoon. He shifted to sit up, but the stitches in his leg tore painfully and his head began to spin from the powerful painkillers he'd been given. With nothing to do, he drifted back to sleep.

It was a full week before the pain subsided enough that he was able to resume his work. With Ana Luisa's help, he removed the field samples from the refrigerator and set them out on a table. Most interested in the nectar and pollen, he extracted it carefully from the flowers, mixed it with distilled water, and stored it in the test tubes Ana Luisa had ordered along with other scientific equipment he'd requested. Next, he ground up pieces of unwashed tomatoes and eggplant and mixed the resulting suspension with water in another set of test tubes, carefully recording the masses and volumes of each. Finally, he took some of the remaining vegetables and washed them carefully, then ground them to an emulsion and filled yet another set of test tubes. Everything went back in the freezer awaiting the next step, which was to feed the samples to pregnant rabbits and determine the effect on their offspring.

Since the gestation time of rabbits was between 28 and 31 days, he would not have to wait long for the results. Ana Luisa had purchased a dozen female meat rabbits from a local farmer along with a couple of bucks. She'd set the does out separately in improvised cages, awaiting Drew's instructions. Drew and Ana Luisa began feeding the does controlled doses of the test tube mixtures three days prior to introduction of the bucks to make sure whatever teratogen was in the mixture would be in the doe's system at conception, then the does were mated with the bucks as they came in season.

Keeping meticulous records and noting their observations carefully, Drew and Ana Luisa waited expectantly for results. They were not disappointed. The first female to deliver produced a litter of three severely deformed bunnies, all stillborn and all of which Drew quickly preserved in ethanol. The second delivered another two and the third delivered four. Without fail, every single doe given water contaminated with the pollen/nectar mix produced deformed offspring. The emulsified, unwashed vegetable samples also produced deformities in most offspring, though much less severe and the bunnies survived for several days. The washed vegetable emulsions in bottled water produced no deformities at all.

Though the results were statistically inconclusive due to small sample sizes, Drew was certain he'd made the first of two breakthroughs he was looking for. The mystery of the delay between the application of the spray and potency of water samples from the field was explained by the fact that it wasn't the spray, but rather something in the plants themselves - specifically the pollen or nectar - that caused the deformities.

On the other hand, he still hadn't a clue what the formula for the offending chemical was. He couldn't even make an educated guess, since, in theory, what he was witnessing was scientifically impossible. There was no known plant based chemical which could possibly cause such strong teratogenic effects. Of course, lots of plants produced chemicals with mild mutagenic properties – salicylic acid and certain alkaloids among them – but there was no way such chemicals would produce deformities of the kinds they were witnessing, not even in mammoth doses. Time would tell if the results were reproducible, but without some idea of the chemical's formula, there was no way Drew could publish. Not even the most rabid anti-establishment tabloids would pick it up, forget about credible science journals. It would never pass peer review.

This problem proved difficult to convey to Ana Luisa, who was convinced they were on the cusp of being able to break the story that would finally expose the truth.

"All we've got are a few twisted bunnies," Drew declared. "You and I know what's going on, but the scientific community will be very skeptical."

"We can prove the plants cause deformities!" she protested. "And we have all the human fetuses."

"Unless we know exactly what thechemical is, we can't demonstrate that the human deformities were caused by it."

Ana Luisa's hands clenched into fists. "How much proof do you think we need?"

"If we knew what chemical we were looking for, we could test for it in the water. If it's there, we've got suggestive evidence. We could also test the blood or urine of women going to the clinic. If it's present in women who test positive but get told they're not pregnant and not present in the others, that's strong circumstantial evidence of what's going on."

"Do you know how hard that will be?" asked Ana Luisa, her heart sinking."

"Yes," confirmed Drew, "but if we want scientists to take this seriously, it's got to be iron clad."

Ana Luisa frowned. "Somebody inside the clinic has to know what's going on," she reasoned.

"I'm prepared to bet very few people are involved," advised Drew.

"But if they're giving abortions to so many women--"

"We're talking 30 to 40 days after conception," Drew cut her off. "It's a matter of giving a pill."

"But why would she take it?" Ana Luisa enquired, perplexed.

"If she thinks she's taking a vitamin or some other medication, why wouldn't she?"

Ana Luisa realized what Drew was talking about. Nurses or even doctors at the clinic could be instructed to give pills or injections without knowing their true purpose.

"But if the woman went in all excited, thinking she was pregnant," reasoned Ana Luisa, "whoever told her she wasn't would have to be in on the secret."

"One doctor at each clinic," said Drew. "That's all it would take."

"But how do they know which pregnancies to abort and which not to?" wondered Ana Luisa. "Some women carry to term."

"They must have a way of knowing who's been exposed and who hasn't."

"How could they test so quickly?"

"If they've got a lab with the right equipment," said Drew, "they could do it in minutes."

"But how long would a woman be in the clinic?" argued Ana Luisa.

"With a pre-calibrated mass spectrometer and an optimized workflow, they'd know very quickly."

"Bastards!" fumed Ana Luisa.

"If we can isolate the chemical and show that pregnant women who test positive end up losing their babies, we've got them."

"But wait!" Ana Luisa exclaimed. "When women realize what's happening they won't go to the clinics."

"And they'll miscarry, at great risk to themselves."

"But if they do go, they lose their babies."

"If they've been exposed, yes."

"Oh God!" gasped Ana Luisa, grasping the moral implications of what she and Drew were about to undertake. If the women learned the truth, they would never consent to abortions, certainly not in a deeply Catholic community where abortion is considered a mortal sin. But those who were exposed would certainly end up miscarrying, and possibly even dying from the physical trauma.

Ana Luisa lowered herself into a chair, a tear forming in her eye. "How can we make this choice?" she asked.

"We're not making choices," replied Drew. "We're exposing the truth."

Tears rolled down Ana Luisa's cheeks and she buried her head in her hands. Knowing what she went through when she miscarried, there was no way she could inflict that pain on other women. Yet once the truth was exposed, women who would have unknowingly undergone abortions would stay away from the clinics and the miscarriages would start all over again.

"Bastards!" she cried.

Then she stopped crying and her expression turned to ice. Drew couldn't read what she was thinking, but the intensity of her expression chilled him to the bone.

* * * * *

As they conducted the next round of rabbit trials, Ana Luisa had her contacts covertly watch the clinic while Drew went through every scrap of published material he could find about the company's ostensible rational for establishing the clinics. Most of the material was published by the company itself. Not surprisingly, there was very little information on the inner workings of the clinic and the only people about which information could be found were with the nurse and the doctor on Claire's video, neither of which had been seen around the village recently. Drew wondered if the interviewees were even medical professionals at all, or just hired-gun actors brought in as window dressing, not unlike Claire herself. All he knew was that the doctor's name was purported to be Hernandez and that, according to the video, he was the man in charge of Futura's medical outreach program.

Ana Luisa asked questions about the doctor, trying to uncover any gossip that might give them a lead. One item of interest she managed to turn up, besides the consensus that Hernandez was apparently real, was that his eldest daughter was rumored to be studying at Harvard medical school. A flag went up in Drew's mind.

"Do you know what it costs to attend an Ivy League medical faculty?" he asked, incredulous.

"Maybe she won a scholarship," reasoned Ana Luisa, who herself had attended university by such means.

"We need to find out who's paying the bills," mused Drew. "I doubt the doctor himself would have the means to pay himself."

"You think the company is involved?"

"If it's true, I'm sure of it."

Emailing Lars, with whom he'd been in frequent contact since leaving Toronto, Drew explained the situation and Lars promised to dig up what he could. In agreement with Ana Luisa, Lars also felt it was time to start putting out the word to some of the more receptive media outlets. He knew the mainstream press would ignore the story until it wasn't news any more. The place to start was the alternate press. If the right reporters were to ask the right questions in the right forums, interest in the story had the potential to catch like wildfire. Even if the standard of proof didn't meet rigorous scientific standards, the court of public opinion had the power to hang the company high.

Reluctantly, Drew agreed to talk to whatever journalists Lars' network of contacts sent his way, on the proviso that he would state explicitly the gaps in his knowledge. This frustrated Lars, but he understood that Drew's fixation on truth above spin was at the core of his good character.

It was left that for the time being, he should remain anonymous in order to protect his safety, but would eventually come forward and identify himself. Drew knew the company would attack him personally, making public the details of his expulsion from the university, and that they would pull out all the stops in the PR war against anyone else who opposed them. What tricks they had up their sleeves he could only imagine.

Leaving the PR war to Lars, Drew went back to what he did best - his research. In an effort to identify the teratogenic agent, he carefully reexamined all of Chaplain's findings. One day while pouring over the dozens of mass spectrometry tests Chaplain had commissioned, Ana Luisa burst in.

"There's been a miscarriage!" she cried, catching her breath.

"In town?" asked Drew, feeling his stitches tighten as the muscles contracted around his wounds when he leaped from his seat.

"Not here," panted Ana Luisa, out of breath from running. "Nobody here knew she was pregnant, except for her mother and her aunt."

"Where is she?"

"On her way to the clinic. She's bleeding badly."

"We've got to get there!" Drew said, wincing in pain as he tried to stand on his healing leg.

"No!" she warned. "Only me."

Drew realized there was no way he could allow himself to be seen in town. All he could do was hope Ana Luisa could get there before she arrived at the clinic. The woman would need treatment right away, but if Ana Luisa got there in time, she might learn some vital information. Pacing around the room unable to concentrate on his research, Drew waited for her to return. When she did, she stormed into the room with Carlos, one of the men who'd abducted Drew. She headed straight for Drew's computer.

"Show me the video of the doctor!" she demanded.

Drew pulled up a still of Hernandez and Ana Luisa snatched the laptop from his hands. She and Carlos examined it carefully, exchanging urgent words in Spanish.

"We saw him," she said to Drew.

"Hernandez?"

"He arrived at the clinic while we were waiting outside. He had guards."

"How is the woman?" asked Drew.

"I don't know. They took her right in."

"How bad was the bleeding?"

Terrible," replied Ana Luisa. "It was all over her dress and the back seat of the car." Ana Luisa explained that the girl, who was only 16, had been sent to her sister's house in another village to downplay rumors about her pregnancy. She had never gone to the clinic because of her mother's fear of shaming the family.

The telephone rang in another room. The house creaked with rapid footsteps as her mother ran to answer it, then called Ana Luisa. Drew followed at a distance. A tear formed in Ana Luisa's eye. She said some quiet words in Spanish, then hung up.

"She died," explained Ana Luisa.

"The baby?"

"The doctor said it couldn't be saved and suggested it be buried along with the mother. The family agreed."

"Why would they agree?" snapped Drew

"Why wouldn't they?" Ana Luisa shot back. "Just the fact that she was pregnant at that age was scandalous. If the fetus were deformed, it would bring shame on the family."

"How long had she been pregnant?" asked Drew.

"About six months."

Drew's growing frustration was obvious. There was no way he was about to let evidence he needed slip out of his hands.

"If someone in the family were to ask to see the fetus, would the doctor allow it?" he asked.

"They will never ask."

Drew threw his hands up in frustration. "Don't they know what's at stake?"

Ana Luisa's mother scowled at Drew's insensitivity.

"Even if we walked right into the clinic and they gave us the fetus outright, what then?" asked Ana Luisa. "You said that unless we know the chemical formula, we can't prove anything."

It was true. His fixation on seeing the fetus was misguided. There was no way the clinic would show a deformed fetus to a family who didn't want to see it and unless they could establish that the mother had been exposed to the chemical, whatever it was, they had nothing to go on.

"So, we missed our chance," sulked Drew.

The man muttered something in Spanish to Ana Luisa and her eyes widened slightly.

"There may be a way we can get what you need," said Ana Luisa darkly.

"What is it?"

"Better you don't ask," she replied. "But you need to help."

"In what way?"

"We need money."

"What for?"

"I told you, better you don't know."

"How much do you need?"

"Maybe $10,000, all cash in US funds."

"What are you planning?"

"If I tell you, you won't agree."

"I can't justify $10,000 unless I have some idea what it's for."

"The secrecy is for your own protection," she insisted. "If you don't know, you can't be held responsible."

"Whatever you're planning, I can't imagine it's a good idea."

"It may be the only way."

Drew had no inkling of what she was planning, but he was sure it involved things that could get him in deep trouble, whether he knew about them or not. But the fact remained he'd gone as far as he could go without knowledge of what chemical he was dealing with. In spite of his fears, he had little choice but to trust her. After discussing it with Lars, he decided to withdraw the money from his accounts and hope Ana Luisa could deliver on her promise.

Chapter 20

"Where are we going?" asked Drew.

"You will know soon," replied Ana Luisa as she stepped into an old pickup truck.

Her instructions were for Drew to wait at her parents' house for another vehicle, which would take him to an undisclosed destination.

As always, Drew had to travel under the tarp to avoid being seen and, battling carsickness the whole way, he felt incredibly relieved when the ride through the winding back roads was over. The instant the tarp was pulled away, he stumbled out of the back seat. Gradually regaining his balance, he propped himself up against the fender of the jeep. Xavier, the other of the men who'd originally abducted him, led him along a rocky path under a canopy of trees as scant rays of sunlight illuminated pollen in the air. The whole jungle seemed to buzz, a dissonant ensemble of insect voices. At the end of the path stood a disheveled old shed about 20 feet long, it's thatch roof drooping, grey wooden sides splintered and cracked. The rumble of a tiny generator resonated from around the other side.

Xavier pounded on the door and Drew heard motion within. The door opened to reveal Ana Luisa, squinting even against the dim light of the forest. Putting her fingers to her lips to signify silence, she motioned for them to enter. Drew found himself in a tiny room that occupied only a small section of the shed. From beyond a ramshackle wooden door, he heard the sound of a fan running full tilt in the heat, and some other sound he couldn't identify, like a repetitive dull thud. Looking at Ana Luisa, he noticed she was trembling. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, like a bat hitting a baseball, followed by an earsplitting high pitched whine, the likes of which he'd never heard. Ana Luisa winced and closed her eyes as she steadied herself against the wall. Drew looked at her for an explanation, but her blinking eyes remained firmly set on the dirt floor.

Suddenly, another thud, the whine turned into a deep, low groan, then a hyperventilating sob. Drew's stomach churned and despite the heat, a chill ran through his body. Muffled footsteps approached from inside, then suddenly the door swung inward. Carlos glared at him from the other room, the side of his face illuminated by a dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Drew looked down and saw in Carlos' hand a wooden baseball bat, splattered with blood. Carlos pointed with the bat toward the floor on the other side of the room. When Drew looked past a rough wooden table in the centre of the room, blood rushed from his head. Laying curled up on the floor, drenched in blood and naked from the waist up, was a man likely in his 50's, his hands bound tightly behind his back and a black hood over his head.

Carlos yelled savagely at him in Spanish and the man writhed into the corner, pleading. Carlos kicked him hard in the stomach with his heavy boot. The man kicked and shuttered, curling up tightly and letting out a deep cough.

Xavier handed Drew a black hooded mask and motioned for him to put it on. He tossed one to Carlos and another to Ana Luisa. Holding the mask, Drew hesitated, watching Xavier and Carlos don theirs. They pulled the bleeding man to his feet then shoved him back down into a chair. Carlos looked back to see Drew holding the mask and yelled at him to put it on, fiery eyes glowering from behind the mask.

His knees shaking, Drew looked back at Ana Luisa, who'd already put her mask on. Carlos turned on a bright spotlight, which he aimed at the man's face and Xavier looked back at Drew and Ana Luisa. When he was sure their masks were on, he motioned to Carlos and the two of them pulled the man into a chair. Carlos reached out and yanked the hood off of the man. Drew jumped back, gasping in disbelief. The man in the chair was Hernandez, the doctor Claire had interviewed in the film.

"Ask him what you need to know," Ana Luisa instructed him quietly. "I will translate."

Drew couldn't speak. He could barely think. His instinct was to bolt out the door and run, to where he had no clue.

"Ask him," Ana Luisa urged.

Carlos barked at him to do as she said.

Totally unprepared, Drew tried to clear his mind. Banishing thoughts of Honduran prisons, he started to ask the questions which had stymied his scientific progress.

"What is the formula of the phyto-chemical which deforms fetuses?" he asked, putting it as succinctly as possible.

Ana Luisa began to translate, but the doctor answered in English.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he pleaded, speaking with difficulty through a bruised and swollen jaw that appeared to have been srtuck repeatedly.

"We know the clinics abort fetuses affected by the chemical," Ana Luisa informed him in English. "And we know chemicals from the fields are poisoning mothers."

"We have never performed an abortion," insisted Hernandez in perfect English. "We do ultrasounds, provide pre-natal care."

"Why are so many told they weren't pregnant?" she asked.

"Most pregnancies fail within the first month, more than 50%."

Drew knew it was true that a large number of embryos self-terminate in as little as a few days after fertilization and far more pregnancies auto-terminated within the first trimester than was generally understood. But the evidence was suspicious enough to warrant a better answer.

"There was an undeniable epidemic of miscarriages among women in the village which ended about a year ago," ventured Drew hesitantly, "and the fetuses were hideously deformed. What do you know about it?"

"The company was concerned about the trend. They wanted to help the villagers. It was one of the reasons they set up the clinics."

"Why did the miscarriages stop?"

"We suspect the problem was malnutrition," he doctor replied enthusiastically, hoping that Drew might believe him. "If you know about pregnancy, you must understand that nutrient deficiencies are a significant cause of fetal deformities."

"Nutrient deficiencies don't produce seven heads," countered Drew.

"From whom did you hear of such things?" demanded Hernandez.

"I have a room full of specimens," Drew replied. "All from around Futura's fields."

The doctor hung his head, his long torso slumping forward. Carlos and Xavier pulled him upright and Carlos punched him hard in the sternum. His body convulsed and his shoulders lurched forward, his head hanging again. Carlos placed the bat under his nose and yanked him upward. Pushing the doctor's head back, Carlos snapped the bat upward and slammed it down on the doctor's knee. Doubling forward and falling off the chair, the doctor cried out in pain. The two men picked him up and shoved him back in the chair.

Still trembling, but feeling a rush of power he'd never imagined possible, Drew was emboldened.

"We know the teratogenic agent is a phyto-toxin," he explained. "Tell us the formula of this chemical."

"The deformities you talk about have no connection to the clinics," whined the doctor. "There have been miscarriages, but we haven't identified a causal agent."

"I have," said Drew. "I can prove the toxin is present in the pollen of nightshades on the company's fields and I can show that ingestion produces deformities in mammalian offspring.

"I told you I don't know what you're talking about!" the doctor snapped.

Carlos grabbed the doctor's head and brought his face down forcefully on the table. Xavier yanked the doctor's body upward from the shoulder and straightened him up. The doctor's nose was crooked and blood gushed down into his mouth.

The rush of power Drew felt withered at the sight of the doctor writing in pain. What if he was telling the truth? What if he really didn't know and Drew was wrong about everything? The thought that he may be participating in the torture of a totally innocent man made Drew's stomach contract violently. He turned to the corner and tore off his hood. Falling on his knees, the contents of his stomach splattered onto the dirt.

Ana Luisa rushed over to Drew and knelt beside him.

"We need you to do this," she whispered in his ear. "It's our only chance."

Drew vomited again, heaving up more. Ana Luisa pulled him back into the other room and closed the door.

"We can't let him sense weakness, not now."

"I'm not sure he knows."

"He has to know!"

"Then why hasn't he told us?" asked Drew, fighting waves of nausea.

"Because he knows he'll go to prison if he does," replied Ana Luisa. "When the secret comes out, the company is finished."

"What if he really doesn't know?" asked Drew. "What if he just looks after all the medical stuff that has nothing to do with abortions?"

"He came in a hurry when there was a miscarriage!" cried Ana Luisa. "He was there. He has to know something!"

Drew slowly lowered himself down onto the floor, turning to seat himself on his rear and leaning against the wall. "If he tells us what we want to hear, how do we know it's for real?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do we know he isn't just making it up to stop the torture?"

"Because if he lies we'll kill him!"

"How do we know he's lying until we do tests?" reasoned Drew. "And that'll take months."

The sudden change in Ana Luisa's expression told Drew he'd reached her.

"We'd have to hold him until we verify everything," Drew continued. "Are you prepared to do that?"

"Yes," Ana Luisa replied. "If we have to."

That wasn't what Drew wanted to hear. In frustration, he buried his face in his hands. The consequences of what they were doing could be monumental. He was already party to kidnapping and torture, but what he feared most was that no matter what the doctor said, they would never let him leave alive.

"You need to go back in there!" ordered Ana Luisa.

"I need to talk to Lars," Drew replied.

"No!" she screamed at him. "We have to do this now!"

"I won't do anything until I've spoken to Lars," declared Drew.

"What are we supposed to do with him?"

"Tend to his wounds and give him food and water."

"We won't untie him," insisted Ana Luisa.

"Give me a day to talk to Lars and figure this out."

Ana Luisa thought about it, then reluctantly agreed. Leaving Drew where he sat, she went back into the other room. From the harshness of Carlos' voice, it sounded like he disagreed with her. After a vigorous discussion, she returned and informed Drew that he could take the time he needed. Xavier drove him back to the village where he could get on his computer and videoconference with Lars via satellite phone.

When Lars heard about what happened, he practically fell off his seat laughing.

"You think this is funny?" snapped Drew.

"I can just imagine you in that room!" chortled Lars. "I bet you puked your guts out!"

"What should we do?" asked Drew, embarrassed.

"Remember what you told me about his daughter attending Harvard medical?"

"Yes."

"I'm sending you some photos of a woman we're positive is her. There are three students named Hernandez enrolled at that school and one is male. The other female is a US born citizen. This one is here on a student visa - from Honduras. If that really is his daughter," said Lars, "you've got all the leverage you need."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply show him the pictures," explained Lars. "He knows you know where to find her, he can't contact her to see if she's safe and thanks to your friends, he knows you're quite ruthless."

Suddenly, the dime dropped. As distasteful as the torture of the doctor was, Drew understood the profound advantage he now had over the man his colleagues held in custody.

"What's her first name?" asked Drew.

"Celine."

Amazed by Lars incredible resourcefulness, he printed the pictures. Likely snapped via cell phone camera, there was a shot of her in class, a shot of her at a restaurant, a shot of her walking alone, even one of her sleeping in a white tank top on a sofa. The shot Drew liked the best was one of her working alone at her desk at night. It was taken through a window, probably from across the street and definitely with a telephoto lens. If Lars was right, and if the doctor truly loved his daughter, these pictures could help to change his tune. But there was one piece missing and when Drew explained his idea was to Lars, his friend's face lit up.

"Give me two days," said Lars.

When Drew returned to the shed in the jungle, the stench of the room was unbearable. Against his protestations, it was clear that Carlos and Xavier had continued their torture of the doctor. Dried blood was caked all over his face and body, his nose was broken and he was missing an entire row of teeth. Drew's knees went weak at the sight of the bloody teeth scattered on the table, a set of bloodied pliers beside them.

Fighting hard to stop shaking, Drew sat down across from the doctor. He'd rehearsed the lines he was about to say and prayed they'd have the impact he was hoping for. Adjusting the hood he wore over his head Drew let the Doctor adjust to his presence.

"Since you speak English," he began, working hard to suppress the waver in his voice, "I've dispensed with the translator."

"Please understand," sobbed Hernandez through his swollen, bloody face, "I know nothing of toxins or abortions!"

"If we believed that we'd have let you go," replied Drew. "But we think you know exactly what the toxin is and you are going to tell us, one way or another."

"I swear I don't know!"

"I think the reason you haven't told us is that you're afraid we'll kill you once we get the answer."

"No," Hernandez shook his head vigorously as his body trembled.

Drew held up an envelope for the doctor to see. Slowly and methodically, he extracted the printouts one by one, placed them picture side down on the table, then waited, allowing Hernandez to wonder what he was about to see. Like a card dealer in a Hollywood movie poker game, Drew revealed the first photo, in which the woman was seated in class taking notes.

The doctor looked stoically at the picture. "Who is this woman?" he asked.

Drew turned over the next picture, in which she was walking. The doctor stared blankly at the two photos. Then Drew revealed the third picture, the telephoto of the woman studying alone.

"Why are you showing me these?" he gulped in a trembling voice, a new kind of fear audible in his voice.

Then, slowly, Drew turned over the final picture. Suddenly, the doctor began to shake uncontrollably. Gasps turned to sobs and sobs to a deep, low wail.

"Celine!" he whimpered.

Drew carefully picked up the photo and examined it proudly. God bless Lars, he thought to himself, referring to the way the picture of Celine sleeping on the sofa had been digitally transformed to appear that she'd been brutally beaten, lips bleeding and eyes swollen. The digital artist, whoever he was, had somehow removed the white tank top which had been visible in the original, replacing it with what appeared to be naked skin, badly bruised.

"Please," sobbed Hernandez. "Please release her!"

"You said you didn't know this woman?"

"She is innocent!" screamed Hernandez. "Please, I beg you! I will tell you everything about the toxin!"

"I thought you didn't know anything?"

"Please," he whined. "Don't hurt my daughter."

Drew let the doctor beg some more, hating himself for how much he enjoyed the rush, then stood up and strode slowly to the opposite corner of the room, picking up a pad of paper and pen.

"You are going to write down everything you know about the toxin, its effects in utero, the abortions. Everything."

"Si," Hernandez nodded gratefully.

Carlos cut the ropes that tied the doctor's hands and shoved him forward, pressing the bat threateningly against the side of his head. His hand trembling, Hernandez picked up the pen.

"This is the chemical which causes the deformities," he muttered. "It is a metabolic byproduct of an epigenetic synergist. The synergist boosts the plant's immune system more than one thousand fold."

Drew watched as Hernandez' trembling hand traced out the contours of the molecular diagram. Chiral structure, 14 carbons and... a chlorinated aromatic ring? Impossible! There was no way this was produced by a plant. When the doctor finished, Drew snatched the bloodied sheet of paper from the table and studied it carefully.

"I don't believe you," declared Drew.

As if on cue, Xavier raised his leg and shoved the doctor forcefully backwards onto the ground with boot to his naked chest and Carlos stepped on the side of his head.

"I swear it's correct!"" cried the doctor, convulsing in anticipation of the blows he was sure was coming.

"This is not from a vegetable!" huffed Drew.

Carlos took his boot off the doctor's head, drew his leg back and let him have the steel toe hard in the kidney. Xavier followed with a series of kicks to the abdomen.

"The synergist contains a chlorinated precursor," the doctor whined through coughs and hyperventilations as Carlos ground his face into the dirt once again.

"What's the formula for the synergist?"

"I don't know."

Carlos brought the bat down hard on Hernandez' shoulder and a loud crack echoed throughout the room as his arm fell limply sideways in an unnatural position. The doctor's face contorted in agony so severe he couldn't muster a scream. The doctor began to sob, quietly at first, then loudly as he regained his breath.

Slowly, Drew went down on a knee beside the doctor and leaned over, looking through the slits in his hood into Hernandez' swollen eyes. Methodically, like an actor in a Hollywood movie, Drew removed his hood. The doctor's bloodshot eyes flicked back and forth, studying Drew's face.

"You've probably figured out by now that your life is almost over," whispered Drew, "I'm a scientist, not an executioner, and I'm sorry for my part in your misfortune."

The doctor stared back from under the weight of Carlos' boot, his body trembling.

"But," continued Drew, "you need to understand that the man standing with his boot on your face lost his wife and his severely deformed unborn child to a miscarriage caused by your company... and he's very angry."

A tear ran down the doctor's twitching face and wetted the stale blood in the dirt.

"You can't save yourself now," admitted Drew, "but you can save Celine."

"I swear on my mother's grave I don't know the formula for the synergist!" whispered the doctor. "It's top secret."

Drew signaled to Carlos to let Hernandez stand. Too weak to move, he had to be picked up and seated on the chair. Watching the will to live slowly drain out of the doctor, Drew knew this was his only chance. He grilled Hernandez incessantly for hours, learning everything he could about the company, the chemical, procedures at the clinic. The interrogation ending only when the doctor collapsed with exhaustion, Drew arranged all the loose pages Hernandez had written in a blood-caked stack.

He had learned that the synergist was engineered by a team of chemists and botanists with expertise in epigenetic manipulation of plant characteristics and referred to by the cryptic moniker "T-107". It was a synthetic molecule so top-secret there was not even a patent. Clandestine human tests performed by the parent company on prisoners in Africa and South Asia showed that the dosage required to produce toxicity in humans was high enough that the raw chemical itself posed no threat, but its beneficial effects on certain families of commercial plant varieties were so profound that the company knew they were sitting on a gold mine. Field trials proved successful and the company founded Futura Organic Systems to exploit the incredible advantage they now had over competitors. The chemical rendered plants' immune systems virtually impervious to insects, bacteria or fungi and made them so strong that they could outcompete native weeds on their own turf. Best of all, the company could certify the fields as organic because the chemical, unknown outside the company, was not banned by certifying agencies and not detectible by their tests. Able to produce "organic" vegetables profitably on a scale and price-point previous unheard of, Futura began to dominate the North American and European markets, relocating to Toronto to take advantage of Canada's reputation as a tough regulator of organic producers.

But soon after the vegetables went to market, reports of miscarriages began to surface around the fields where the produce was grown. At first, the company was baffled, until a bright young toxicologist on the company payroll decided to test the pollen on a hunch. He found the same effects as Drew had and brought it to the company's attention. The company realized that if they continued, they'd have a public relations nightmare on their hands. They paid the toxicologist a generous sum to conduct more tests, which confirmed that the phytotoxin produced by the plants was effectual only in the first eighteen days of a human pregnancy. After that, exposure to any amount would not result in fetal deformities. At the behest of a newly-hired public relations executive, the company sought ways to contain the problem and the clinics were founded. Petrified by accounts of miscarriages and deformed babies, women flocked to the clinics as soon as they thought they were pregnant. Their blood was screened for the phytotoxin and any woman with levels beyond a very low threshold were orally administered a proprietary chemical which would cause their embryos to self-terminate. As long as they got to women early enough for the pill to work, there would be no deformed fetus and the abortion chemical would be undetectable in their systems after 6 hours.

The company's gamble paid off. Rates of miscarriage plummeted to 1/1000th of what they had seen initially and the clinics boosted the company's image in the community. The women whose pregnancies were aborted early - when the embryo was no larger than a quarter of an inch at most - were none the wiser and only the very few women they missed had to go through the agony of a miscarriage.

The plan was working. Protestors upset about the deformities had been silenced and the company was scoring international acclaim by showing it cared deeply about its workers and their villages. The soccer pitches, schools and clinics they financed helped to raise their profile to the point where grocery chains, desperate for a competitive edge in an age of growing social and environmental awareness, were literally fighting for Futura's produce.

The one fly in the ointment came when a pesky Canadian professor renowned for shooting down the lies of corporate polluters got involved. Hernandez knew little about, him except that the company had been terrified he would expose them. After Chaplain's suicide, the company thought they were in the clear.

"They were wrong," proclaimed Ana Luisa upon hearing Drew's recounting of Hernandez' confession as the jeep bumped and rattled along the road toward the setting sun.

"We've got a lot of work to do," insisted Drew, poking his head cautiously out from under the tarp that protected him from the view of passers by. "We have to identify the chemical in the blood of mammals which produce deformed offspring. And we need several cycles of tests performed over months."

"You're way to cautious," complained Ana Luisa, reclining triumphantly in the back seat of the jeep.

"That's what Lars would say," admitted Drew, "but the science has to be iron clad."

They discussed their options, the jeep winding through the dusty roads, until, approaching the outskirts of the village where Ana Luisa's parents' house stood, they noticed great plumes of black smoke billowing into the sky.

"Something's on fire," remarked Ana Luisa, sitting up in her seat, trying to look over the tree line.

Unable to see, Drew developed a tightness in the pit of his stomach. As they turned the corner onto the dirt road leading to Ana Luisa's house, her eyes widened and she shouted something urgently in Spanish. Rolling over the top of the hill, the situation became clear. Ana Luisa's house was ablaze.

Not waiting for the jeep to stop, she leaped out of the front seat and charged toward the burning building. Drew threw off the tarp and followed, knowing his cover would be blown. Ana Luisa's mother lay on the ground wailing inconsolably in the arms of a neighbor. When Ana Luisa arrived, she fell to her knees and they embraced.

Drew looked around for her father, hoping to God that he wasn't in the burning house, but the man was nowhere to be seen. From what little Spanish he understood, he'd pieced together that Ana Luisa's father had ushered her mother out, then gone back in to fight the blaze. Around them was total pandemonium as a ramshackle group of villagers did their best to form a bucket brigade, drawing from a low-flow well nearby.

Tears streaming down her face, Ana Luisa fought off her mother's embrace and stumbled hurriedly toward the front steps. Though black smoke billowed from the open windows, she made a break for the front door in a desperate attempt to save her father. She'd made it almost half way before Drew realized what she was planning to do. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he launched himself forward. Stepping in front of her, he tried to block her way, but she dodged him and charged for the steps. With all the force he had, he hurled himself forward, grabbing her by the waist and bringing her to the ground in a football tackle.

Screaming, she fought him, throwing hysterical punches and trying to kick herself free. Wrapping his arms around hers, he squeezed as tightly as he could, pinning her to the ground until other villagers came to assist. In agony she howled as Xavier and another man pulled her up and dragged her kicking and screaming back to her mother. Falling to her knees on the dusty road, she shrieked in Spanish as her mother held her tightly.

Desperate to help in some way, Drew limped over to the bucket brigade, but almost as soon as he started, a massive plume of flames burst skyward as the roof of the house caved in with a loud crash. There was nothing to be done. The house, and Ana Luisa's father, were lost.

As the members of the bucket brigade reluctantly gave up, Drew noticed people in the crowd staring at him, their perplexed gazes and quiet whispers suggesting that dangerous rumors were about to start flying. He glanced back at Ana Luisa, who wept in her mother's arms, then at the burning house. Watching flames engulf the walls, it occurred to him that all the physical evidence he'd accumulated since his arrival had gone up in smoke.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Xavier approach, his expression cold.

"People in the village said they saw men drive up in a jeep, light torches and set the house on fire."

"Who?"

"You know who!" snapped Xavier, the flames of the burning house reflecting in his eyes. "And we all know why."

There was no proof, but it seemed abundantly clear this was retaliation for kidnapping the doctor. Exactly whom Ana Luisa had hired to help her and her colleagues, Drew had no idea, but his gut told him the secret had not been well kept. If the company had any inkling he was involved, he was in grave danger, and so was Ana Luisa. He explained this to Xavier, who nodded knowingly.

With nothing but the clothes on his back, his wallet and - thank goodness - his fake passport, Drew and Xavier set off immediately for Tegucigalpa, even without saying goodbye to Ana Luisa. He booked a room in an upscale hotel where security would be tight and contacted Lars via email. Lars told him there was nothing he could do there now and insisted he take the first flight out of the country. Lars gave Drew a secure email address at which Ana Luisa could contact them and Drew handed this to Xavier along with some cash and access codes to a bank account that still had significant funds in it. With Hernandez' bloodstained papers tucked safely away in a body pack and multiple copies left in Honduras, Drew boarded the plane back to Toronto.
Chapter 21

Claire's footsteps on the hollow riser resonated throughout the packed middle-school gymnasium as she wrote words on a whiteboard. She'd asked members of the audience to brainstorm about what the word organic meant to them and the students in the crowd eagerly took the lead calling out words. Eventually teachers contributed, then parents, then even some of the school trustees in attendance. The school had won a healthy-food innovation contest, sponsored by Futura at Claire's behest, and the event celebrated the introduction of Futura's organic produce to cafeterias across the whole school board.

When the brainstorming was over, Claire asked the audience to expand on some of the ideas, such as social responsibility, environmental stewardship and food sovereignty, then masterfully segued into a discussion of how Futura's proud involvement with the school board bolstered all three. She finished to rousing applause, then took questions from the audience. The first few were routine queries from inquisitive students, which she answered with her usual aplomb. Then suddenly, out of the blue, came a question that just about knocked her off her feet.

"Is there any truth to reports of miscarriages and deformed babies in villages around Futura's Central American fields?"

The question hit Claire like a punch to the stomach. Other reporters and audience members craned their necks to see who had asked it as Claire thought quickly, searching for the correct response. More important than her words was her tone. If she came across as the least bit defensive, the event could turn into a media feeding frenzy.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I'm not aware of any such reports."

Immediately, she looked at the next reporter, whose saucer shaped eyes indicated she was as surprised as Claire.

The reporter who asked the difficult question seized the opportunity and jumped in again. "I have sources who say Futura sprays a chemical that produces severe deformities in human fetuses and that the medical clinics were built to cover up the problem."

Murmurs arose from the crowd as Claire considered her response. Against her will, the memory of Drew slamming the jar with a deformed human fetus down on the table flashed through her mind. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she fought to maintain her composure.

"I've been to one of the clinics personally," Claire informed the reporter, "and I assure you it isn't used for that purpose."

Claire desperately needed an out. She pointed to a reporter with a local paper she supported by a foundation Futura generously sponsored. He drew a breath to speak but the other reporter cut him off.

"My source claims the clinics secretly abort fetuses of mothers whose blood tests positive for the chemical."

Gasps arose from the audience and Claire knew that she had to change tactics.

"You have the right to ask whatever questions you see fit," she said politely, " but if it's alright, I'd like to focus on the program we're here to launch."

"Can you confirm that the clinics offer obstetric care?"

"Please go ahead," smiled Claire, pointing to the reporter who'd been cut off.

"Um," he began sheepishly, his voice cracking, "I'd like to ask why the company chose this school for the pilot project?"

The question fell flat as the murmurs got louder, almost drowning Claire out as she tried to answer. It was clear she no longer controlled the room. The reporter who'd asked the questions was herself taking questions from other reporters, who furiously scribbled notes. Aware of how jealously reporters tend to guard information, Claire wondered what this woman had to gain by sharing.

"Futura chose this school because of its track record in service to the surrounding community," she replied, projecting her voice over the din as she expanded on her answer.

Other members of the press raised their hands and Claire took their questions one by one, thankful the audience was starting to settle down. The reporter who'd asked the questions stuffed her pad and tape recorder in her bag and swaggered up the stairs to the exit at the rear of the auditorium.

On her drive back to the office, Claire thought about the difficult questions, which were so out of place at an event like that. Where had the reporter gotten that information? She knew very well Drew was involved somehow, and almost definitely Lars too.

She wished she could banish the image of the deformed fetus from her mind, along with kid goat she'd seen in Honduras. Had she never seen them, she could have dismissed the reporter's questions as a bizarre mud-slinging ploy by some radical protest group, or even a desperate competitor. But in light of what she'd seen with her own eyes, the possibility that the reporter spoke the truth had to be considered. She had to talk to Evan immediately.

As expected, his response was to write it off as a baseless attempt at sabotage and suggest she leave it alone. While she was happy he'd praised her for handling it well, she felt she had to probe more deeply.

"May I ask a potentially uncomfortable question?" she enquired, sitting across from him in his office as he finished typing an email.

Evan's expression suggested she was treading on thin ice.

"Could there be any truth at all to what the reporter was talking about?"

"Of course not," he replied bluntly.

"Do you have any idea who her source might be?"

"Probably one of our competitors desperate to take us down a notch."

"If there's no basis in fact, why not combat lies with openness?" suggested Claire. "Offer total transparency."

"Meaning?"

"Let people tour the clinics."

Evan shook his head no. "Any information we give can potentially be used against us."

"We have to do better than just put up a wall of denial."

"Science is on our side," Evan reminded her. "Whoever is making these allegations has to prove his case with evidence, and there is none."

"What about the deformed baby goat?" asked Claire. "The one we saw during the field party?"

"What baby goat?" Evan squinted.

"The one that boy showed us."

"I don't remember," he replied.

"You saw it!" insisted Claire. "You were right beside me."

"I have no recollection of a deformed goat," declared Evan. "And, frankly, neither do you."

Claire stared at Evan in disbelief. Evan gazed back calmly. Not anticipating such an awkward outcome, Claire had no idea what to say, so she simply stood up.

"Let me know if anything else like this comes up," Evan instructed her on her way out the door.

A little off-balance, she walked carefully down the hall, her mind replaying the conversation which had just transpired. Evan certainly remembered the deformed goat. No one could forget something like that. But the fact that he'd straight up ordered her to do so took her by complete surprise. She tried to put it in perspective, to find an alternative explanation, but in the context of what Drew had shown her, what she'd seen with her own eyes, there was only one plausible explanation.

But she couldn't let herself think it. Stepping out of the elevator, she rushed toward her desk. Who knew when next she'd have to face more difficult questions? What was she supposed to say? She plunked herself down into her chair and hit the space bar on her computer, bringing it out of sleep mode. Looking at the screen, she saw she had several new emails, some from reporters who'd attended the charity event. Can you explain what all that was about today? Is there anything to this?

There were also emails from journalists who weren't even at the event, one of which was particularly troubling.

I've been approached by a scientist about experiments linking residue from Futura's crops to deformities in animal and human embryos. I'd like to hear your side.

The email was from Sharon Singh, a reporter for the Toronto Banner whose column appeared in dozens of publications all over North America and Europe and whose blog was read by millions.

She inhaled deeply to calm herself. Before responding to Singh, she needed to plan her next move. She decided to turn off her computer and go for a walk downtown. Stepping out of the building into the mid-May sunshine, she reasoned that her duty to the company was clearly to tow the line and deny everything. Again, she cursed Drew for showing her the fetus. If it wasn't for that, Evan's convenient memory lapse might have been easier to deal with. But now, there was no simple way out.

The rhythm of her footsteps clicking on the wet sidewalk amid the chaotic rush of pedestrian traffic, Claire mulled the timeline of events. She returns from Central America and Drew shows her a deformed fetus he claims is connected to her company. She tries to get him some funding and he turns down the offer. Evan forbids her from communicating with him, then almost immediately he's expelled on charges Lars says are false. Lars asks her for locations of the clinics, months go by without incident and, suddenly, she's blindsided by questions about toxic chemicals then ordered by her boss - who doesn't know she's seen Drew's specimen - to forget about evidence she's witnessed herself.

If she were a journalist piecing together a story, these events would strongly suggest a cover-up. No doubt that's why Sharon Singh wanted to talk to her. But why talk to the company spokesperson and not someone more likely to dish dirt? Then it occurred to Claire that Singh had already found an inside informant and was contacting Claire to get the official story. This was worrisome, because if the truth wasn't on her side, Singh would drag her through the mud.

Returning to her desk, she decided she needed to arm herself with information that only an insider could possess. It was obvious why Lars had asked for the location of the clinics. That would enable him and Drew to know where to look for other miscarriages and deformities and if they found what they were after, she was doomed. Claire needed to know what they might find. She reviewed her itinerary, piecing together as precisely as possible where she'd been, then looked up the email address for the director of field operations and asked for the locations of all the company's fields in those areas. She asked specifically what crops were being grown where, explaining that she needed the information to respond to media inquiries.

This turned out to be a mistake. A few days after she sent the email, Evan called her into his office to ask what the inquiry was really about. From his tone she surmised that she'd transgressed.

"I just wanted to understand more about our geographical presence," Claire explained.

"Study the documents we've posted on-line."

"I have," she replied. "They're vague about precise locations."

"That's for security reasons."

"Surely you're not going to limit my research to publicly available information."

"In this case, absolutely." Getting up from his desk, Evan zipped up his case and motioned for Claire to follow him through the hall.

"Would keeping me in the loop really compromise security?" asked Claire, walking quickly to keep pace beside her boss.

"You're not a journalist any more," replied Evan. "The rules are different on this side of the fence."

"Given the kind of questions we've been getting recently, I'm just wondering if there might be something coming down the pipe I need to prepare for."

"There isn't," Evan declared, "and if there were, the less you know the better."

"Exactly how so?"

"Quick," said Evan, startling Claire as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned toward her. "Don't think of an elephant!"

"I've heard this one," said Claire, repressing the urge to sigh out loud.

"What did you think of?"

"Obviously, an elephant."

"In the event we ever do have a PR meltdown," Evan said as he resumed walking, "the last thing you need is to face a media scrum with elephants trampling your brain."

"Media scrums notwithstanding," Claire pressed on, following him, "if there's an elephant in the room, I'd like to know it's there."

"Claire, you know what the job market's like these days," warned Evan as he strode forward determinedly.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"I'm pretty sure you do," Evan said as he shifted his computer bag to his left hand, freeing his right to reach for the door handle of the conference room.

"Could you spell it out for me?" requested Claire politely as she stopped behind Evan.

Evan turned, his hand on the door, looking Claire in the eye. "I'm reminding you that there are only so many good jobs and only so many good lives. One of them can be yours, or not."

He pulled open the door to enter, briefly revealing a group of men and women, suited and coiffed, seated on high-back leather chairs around a dark mahogany conference table, chatting casually as they waited for the meeting to begin. The door closed gently behind him.

Stunned, Claire stood in place, feeling like she'd been slapped across the face. Picking her way down the hall, through the suits, the shoes and the careful hairdos, she began to tremble. Her colleagues greeting her with perfunctory smiles, she tried to retain her composure. She bit her lip, tensed her jaw and turned down the hall toward the washroom. Once through the door, she bent down in search of pairs of feet beneath the stalls. Finding none, she shoved open a stall, locked the door and exhaled deeply. Trying to push images of Drew's fetus and the goat out of her mind, she sat on the seat, resting her face in her hands.

There has to be some other explanation! What Evan said made perfect sense, really. He understood communication, spoken and unspoken. And he understood journalists. He was right that Sharon Singh and her colleagues would read her like an open book. If Claire had information the company wanted to conceal, it would literally ooze out of her pores. And, after all, information didn't have to be damning for it to be kept private. It just had to be sensitive, prone to being misunderstood or misused. Maybe it had nothing to do with the deformities. And maybe the deformities had nothing to do with Futura.

Then why order me not to see Drew? And why order me to forget the goat? These were the questions that made her journalistic nerves tingle. Of course, if false rumors of deformities were being circulated by a competitor or someone with a grudge against the company, that would be one thing. But Evan saw the goat himself! And, if she understood him correctly, he threatened her job.

But, this was life in PR, she mused. Tight information control was the name of the game. Would any of her colleagues feel the slightest moral impetus to seek out the truth, especially if it promised to be inconvenient? She already knew the answer. These were all people with good jobs and good lives. If they were inclined to act like activists, they'd be activists – and they wouldn't have nice cars, luxury condos, exotic vacations or even any savings. They'd be like... Drew. Alone, destitute, and shamed for something he almost certainly didn't do.

Claire startled as the washroom door opened. As a pair of high-heeled shoes clicked into the stall beside her, she decided to leave, her private sanctuary compromised. Washing her hands, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, staring deeply into her own eyes. She wanted - no, needed - to make a living. Whatever the truth was, if she jeopardized her income, she couldn't imagine how she'd cover her student debts, pay Krista the rent and still have enough to live on. But did she have the gall to stand up in public and sing the praises of a company so morally bankrupt it defied words?

Taking a seat at her desk, looking around at her fashionably dressed, upwardly-mobile colleagues, she felt sick to her stomach. What would they do if they were in my shoes? She knew the answer. And she knew that if Drew was right, she was now an accessory to a moral crime so audacious she could scarcely comprehend it. Whatever the risk, it was time she found out the truth.
Chapter 22

Drew crouched over his laptop on the table of his dingy hotel room on the Danforth and shook his head in disbelief at the traction the story had gained in the left-wing media. The company's strategy had been to ignore the stories, exclude maverick reporters from events whenever possible and have Claire gently put down tough questions as they came up. So far, she'd done an amazing job of damage control. Looking over videos guerrilla reporters had posted on YouTube, Drew was in awe of how she handled it all. She answered so guilelessly that even the most skeptical of viewers couldn't fail to be swayed. Her sincerity seemed so genuine he would have believed her himself had he not seen the truth first hand. The one piece of good news was that the grocery chains carrying Futura's produce were beginning to receive queries from customers and negative comments were appearing on their websites. If that trend intensified, it could spell trouble for the company.

On the other hand, if all he had was Chaplain's specimens, with no direct proof of the causal agent and its origin, whatever rumors were circulating about Futura's practices would be put down quickly. It appeared from media reports that Schaffer had overseen some studies "debunk" claims about teratogenic agents. While the results weren't yet published, it was pretty clear what they would be: "No teratogenic effects found." Drew knew that once these studies were made public, he'd have to counter with his own research, all of which had gone up in flames. If Chaplain were alive, he'd have eaten Schaffer for breakfast, but the unsupervised work of a "disgraced" PhD student would get laughed out of the room. Drew's only option was to seek out the help of Chaplain's strongest ally at the university, professor Akintola.

"You're playing a dangerous game," warned Akintola, reclining in his leather desk chair. "The company will fight like a cornered animal."

"Can I count on your help?"

"What do you need me to do?"

"Go on the record about Schaffer's consulting contracts with Futura."

"I don't have access to the details," Akintola advised him. "I know only that such contracts are in place."

"It's a battle of my credentials against his," insisted Drew, "and if my word is going to hold up, we have to let the world know that he's bought and paid for by the company."

"I'll think about it."

Knowing the faith that Akintola and Chaplain had placed in one another, he was sure the professor would come through.

In preparation for the looming media war, Drew explained to Lars that he needed to do more tests and rebuild the body of evidence he'd lost in Honduras. That would mean asking Ana Luisa to collect more samples from the fields, at great risk to herself and her colleagues, as well as blood samples from pregnant women going to the clinic. He'd bring the samples to Canada and have them tested at a university lab, with duplicates performed at a commercial lab, so that results could be confirmed. Now that he knew the formula of the toxin, his case would be iron clad.

Drew and Lars decided the lab tests would be performed in Peterborough, Ontario, where Trent University operated a water quality lab considered one of the best in the world. A post-doc he knew there could quietly run the tests to see if the chemical was present in the samples and controls. The animal studies would be conducted secretly in rented industrial space. Lacking ethics board approval, absolutely nothing he discovered would be publishable in science journals, but with results as dramatic as he expected, the media might not even care.

Almost everything went precisely as planned. While the blood samples proved difficult to obtain, the pollen came quickly. By the time Drew had finished his second set of tests, he had dozens of deformed baby rabbits and proof that the chemical was present in the blood of their pregnant mothers. The control group, not exposed to the chemical, showed not a single deformity. Case closed.

Unfortunately, before he was ready to go public, the media war started going south. Schaffer had published his paper and, as expected, his conclusion stated that no teratogenic effects were associated with Futura's produce. The irony was, the study seemed perfectly legitimate. Reading Schaffer's methodology carefully, Drew noted that he had used the vegetables themselves, well washed, which he had fed directly to the animals. His own research had also shown the vegetables not to contain the toxin. It was in the pollen and unless the vegetables contained pollen residue (like his own unwashed samples) feeding them to test animals would not produce deformities.

Of course, Schaffer knew this. There was no doubt the study was designed to mislead the scientific community, the media and the public and it was gut wrenching for Drew to watch Claire on the TV news cite these reports as "evidence" of the safety of Futura's products. It was even more difficult to see supermarkets come out on the side of Futura, claiming that sales of their brands were soaring. He prayed that would change once photos of the deformities started circulating. But before that happened, they had to strike at Schaffer.

Drew sent Akintola a text asking him to put their plan into action. The next week, the left-wing papers featured interviews with Akintola, who explained how Schaffer had been caught using grad students' labour inappropriately and revealing that he'd signed a consulting contract with Futura. He also explained how Schaffer had purposely misled the public with his paper and the experiments on which they were based. While the mainstream media wouldn't publish Akintola's allegations and generally took the side of the company, the blogoshpere was abuzz and at least one well known food-justice activist was actively attempting to organize a boycott. It was time to go public with the lab trials.

"We've got to strike while the iron's hot," declared Lars, informing Drew that his associates had managed to set up an interview with no one less significant than Sharon Singh of the Toronto Banner.

Drew's whole body tingled when he heard the name. Sharon Singh had risen to fame several years earlier for her fearless reporting on a mining giant which polluted groundwater used by residents of a native reserve in the north. Her stories were credited with forcing reluctant regulators to act. Sued for defamation, she managed to sway public opinion so strongly against the company that it lost its social license to operate. Not only was the suit dropped, but the company admitted its responsibility and vowed to clean up the mess. After that victory, she bravely and tirelessly took on corporate wrongdoing of all kinds, the cornerstone of her success being her detailed research and painstaking vetting of facts.

His hands literally shaking, Drew dialed the number Lars gave him. Singh's voicemail answered and he left his name and number, trying to sound as professional as he could. Moments after hanging up, his phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Singh!

"Drew Freeman," he answered.

"This is Sharon Singh returning your call," said the voice at the other end in the faintly British accent he remembered from seeing her on television. "I got your message a moment ago."

"I'm thrilled to hear from you," replied Drew.

They got quickly down to business and Drew was surprised at her level of knowledge and the quality of the questions she asked. She zeroed right in on the causal chain - how did he know for sure what the chemical was, where it came from and what its effects were? Of course, he couldn't tell her that he'd tortured the director of the company's medical program, so he explained that contacts in Honduras had provided the information and that it all checked out in the lab. He did tell her about visiting the fields and being attacked by dogs, offering to show her the scars to prove it. He also told her about the allegations regarding Ana Luisa's husband's death and the burning of her home. To her credit, she cared only about the science. Drew agreed to forward a summary he had written, as well as the mass spectrometry findings and all of his lab notes, key sections highlighted. He also said he'd send pictures of the deformed stillborn rabbits and the human fetuses Chaplain had collected. In particular, she wanted to know why the miscarriages had slowed and when he explained about the abortions, she demanded incontrovertible proof.

"If this is true, it's absolutely explosive!" she exclaimed. She advised that if she couldn't prove every bit of what she printed, she and the paper would be ruined in court. The mining company was nothing compared to Futura, Great Southern Foods and their famously vindictive parent company. One slip and her career was over.

"The only thing left to establish is the presence of the abortion chemical in women returning from the clinic, which we know is taken orally," explained Drew. "The abortion chemical degrades too quickly to trace unless we intercept the women on their way out."

"What do you have to do to prove it?" asked Singh.

"I'd need to test the blood fresh," he explained. "It has to go into a field lab within 6 hours, and that's hard to do when the locals won't cooperate."

"Without that kind of proof," advised Singh, "the abortions are just a wild allegation. There's no way we print."

"What if you printed the allegations, admitting they were unproven, and demanded access to the clinics?" asked Drew.

"The company will deny everything and correctly point to the fact that there are no recent miscarriages on record," the reporter replied.

"There was a miscarriage while I was there!" proclaimed Drew. If enough pressure was brought to bear, maybe medical NGOs could test women and if word got out and women stopped going to the clinic, there'd be a spike in miscarriages and we'd have our proof."

"That's what you're hoping for?" Singh asked, incredulous.

Drew mentally whipped himself for sounding so callous. "The only way to stop what they're doing is to expose it."

"Get me irrefutable proof of the abortions and I promise this will headline the front page. Otherwise, we can't touch it."

Drew discussed the situation with Lars in one of his favourite underground hideaways, music blaring in the background.

"I thought Singh had backbone!" Lars snapped, clawing the table with his hand.

"I understand her position," countered Drew. "We can prove everything, but not the abortions."

"What standard of proof is she looking for?"

"Higher than we can provide."

"We've got a narrow window of time to get this into the mainstream press!" exclaimed Lars.

"There's a way we can do it," explained Drew, "but it's risky and it'll cost a fortune."

"Tell me."

"We put the word on the street in the village that we'll pay $100 US to every woman going to Futura's clinics. We test their blood going in and coming out, and we do it right in the open under the auspices of an international agency."

Lars eyes gleamed. "You said before it had to be done fast, before the chemical is broken down in the body."

"We've got six hours. If we set up a portable lab in each town where there's a clinic..."

"Except we don't know where the other clinics are," Lars reminded him. "And as soon as word got out, they'd stop the abortions."

"There'd be a tsunami of miscarriages," Drew reminded him. "We'd just have to wait a few months."

Lars' eyes flitted about as he performed the calculations in his head. "Write me a list of everything and everyone you need to make this happen."

"Step one is the location of the other clinics."

"Short of hacking their servers, I'm not sure how we'll get that," lamented Lars. "Unless Little-Miss-Sell-out has a change of heart."

"If we showed her the evidence--"

"Remember what happened last time?"

"They've already shot that bullet," quipped Drew.

"You can be sure they've reloaded."

The image of Ana Luisa's house ablaze forced itself on Drew. If they were capable of that, there was no telling what they might do next.

"I need to talk to Claire," he said. "Can you make it happen without raising alarms?"

The gleam in Lars' eye told Drew he'd already hatched a plan.

Days later, Drew received a text telling him to wait at his industrial lab space in Peterborough and to be certain to have all his specimens ready. The next call informed him to open the overhead door to the facility right away. Barely a minute later, a panel van with no windows in the cargo hold drove in and shut off its engine. The burly driver, who Drew recognized as the man who'd guarded his apartment after the break in, got out and opened the rear doors. On the floor of the cargo hold sat one very miffed Claire.

"Tell me you didn't ride in there all the way from Toronto," gasped Drew as he reached forward to help her out of the vehicle.

"He never said how far it was!" she fumed, scowling at the driver as she stepped down onto the floor.

Drew fought hard to stifle a laugh at Lars' sense of humor.

"Do you know what city you're in?" asked the driver.

"No. And a blindfold would have been quite sufficient," snapped Claire, stretching her back.

The driver glared at her silently. Drew ushered her toward another room and held the door for her as she walked through. What she saw stopped her dead in her tracks. On a table in front of her were jars of preserved baby rabbits, all twisted and contorted, just like the human fetus Drew had shown her. She was relieved to see no human specimens.

"The deformities in these animals were all produced by a chemical in the pollen of plants on Futura's fields," explained Drew, wasting no time.

"The pollen?" asked Claire, not certain she'd heard him correctly.

"This is the formula." He picked up a paper from the table and handed it to her. "The chemical is a metabolite produced from an epigenetic agent in the spray. The agent itself is harmless, at least in the short term, but its function of boosting the immune systems of plants produces epigenetic side-effects."

"How did you learn this?" she asked.

"Field research in Honduras," he said, leaving out the sordid details. "The pollen came from the same fields you stood on in Futura's video."

"If this toxin is so bad, why has no one except you found deformities in humans?" she asked skeptically.

"Lots of people have seen them," Drew corrected her, "but it's an open secret in the village. And the company solved the issue before you signed on."

"If they solved it, where's the problem?" she demanded, her shoulders slumping in frustration.

"The problem is how they solved it," he answered. "They terminate the pregnancies of all the women who've been exposed to the toxin."

Claire was all set to defend the company, when it sunk in what Drew was saying.

Why do the women consent to this?" she asked.

"The women have no idea it's going on."

"How could the doctors perform abortions without the women knowing?" she huffed.

"The toxin is only active in the first three weeks of a pregnancy," he explained. "The abortions are done chemically within the first 40 days, using a pill that leaves no trace after 6 hours."

"You can prove all this?"

"I can prove that the chemical causes deformities in mammals," he said. "And I can prove that it's present in Futura's plants."

"The abortions?"

"It's only a matter of time," he answered. "If you care at all about the truth, you have the power to shorten that time considerably."

"How?"

"By telling us where Futura's clinics are. All of them."

"I don't even know that myself."

"There has to be a way to find out."

"It's top secret. I jeopardized my job by asking."

"The part of the video where they showed you laying cement bricks," said Drew. "Was that in Honduras?"

"Guatemala," she replied.

"To the best of your knowledge, where?"

"I can give you an approximate map."

"What about your itinerary?" asked Drew.

"I'll give it to you," offered Claire, "but you have to make me a promise."

"What?"

"Keep me in the loop, no secrets."

"Done," said Drew, lying through his teeth.

"And, there's one other thing," insisted Claire.

"Name it."

She drew a breath, bracing herself for what she was about to ask. "I need a human fetus, as deformed as they get."

Drew was stunned.

"I can't tell you why," said Claire, "I just need it."

"So much for no secrets."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"The human samples aren't here, for security reasons," said Drew, but I can send one. And I'll give you the same info I gave Sharon Singh."

Claire's heart almost jumped out of her throat.

"You've been talking to Sharon Singh?" asked Claire, trying to conceal her concern.

"I told you last time," warned Drew, "it's only a matter of time until this research goes mainstream."

Drew gave Claire a secure web address she could access for the information and informed her a new Tablet would be arriving the following day. She was to use this exclusively to communicate with him and she was to delete all communications as soon as they were sent and received.

Seconds after Claire left, Drew's phone buzzed. Nice work, Lars congratulated him via text. Drew called back.

"How long until you crack the login codes?" he asked.

"Days, possibly a week, depending on how often she leaves her company phone on."

"Can't they trace the data feed?"

"They won't know what hit them," laughed Lars. "At best, they'll know some data was transferred out, but they won't know what data or the destination."

"Are we putting Claire at risk?"

"They won't link the breach with her account."

"You think we'll get what we're after?"

"It depends how secure their servers are."

Their plan went into action. When Claire logged on to the website, software on the tablet established a secret link with her company phone, which, in turn, was recruited to dial in to the company's intranet. An encrypted data stream was then routed to a stand-alone code-breaking server Lars had set up remotely. Days later, Lars summoned Drew to Toronto. After all the requisite sneakiness, they met in the back of a van deep beneath an office tower in the city's north end. Lars informed Drew that they'd secured logistics data that appeared to corroborate Claire's information as well as identify three more locations in which the company operated clinics. They were using code names, stick handling shipments through a web of suppliers and their subsidiaries, meaning there was no hard proof of what was being shipped, but they got what they were after - the general locations.

Drew immediately contacted Ana Luisa, who promised to have her contacts check out all of the clinics while Drew rounded up the scientists and technicians needed to pull off the abortion chemical testing. Lars just about fell off his chair when he heard how much it would cost, but he agreed without hesitation. Drew had no idea where Lars' money came from, but in spite of well justified fears that it involved some shadowy connections, he wasn't about to start asking questions now. He was so close to taking down Futura's corporate empire he could hardly contain his excitement. Ana Luisa would have her revenge for the murder of her husband and her father, and he'd get even for his expulsion. And, Professor Chaplain would be vindicated, even if he never lived to see the day. All the pieces were falling into place.

Yet even as he inched closer to victory, trouble brewed on another front. The tide of the media war was turning against them. The left-wing papers had all but lost interest as scientist after scientist came out on the side of the company. The idea that a phytotoxin could produce deformities like those in the photos they'd seen was sheer nonsense, they all agreed. To make matters worse, Schaffer had published another paper, "proving" there were no teratogenic chemicals in the pollen - a bare faced lie. Reporters who'd at first trusted Drew bitterly turned against him. Right-wingers on the blogosphere gloated about how anti-corporate "conspiracy freaks" were grasping at straws now that their "hoax" had been put to death. Drew tore his hair out in frustration as scientists penned article after article decrying his "shoddy" research and "unprofessional" methods, insisting this was all a case of sour grapes over his expulsion for sexual misdeeds.

How many of these scientists were on Futura's payroll he could hardly guess, but the fact that the scientific community appeared to be uniting against him was a bad omen. He had to find absolute proof of the abortions, in a hurry. Everything depended on Ana Luisa and Drew knew that because of this, she was in grave danger.
Chapter 23

Claire worked into the wee hours of the morning studying the materials Drew had given her on the tablet, which had arrived almost the minute she got home from his lab, along with the specimen she'd requested. She dutifully resisted the temptation to download what was on the server and made sure to clear her caches before logging out every time she used it. She admired Drew for his ability to translate difficult scientific concepts into language understandable to non-experts. Yet as much as she trusted his scientific acumen, she found herself cursing him once again. She knew it was he and Lars who'd started the media fire, stoking the very flames it was her job to extinguish. Had it not been for them, her job would be easy and her conscience clean.

She heard the bedsprings creak in Krista's room, followed by the clomp of sleep-laden footsteps. Shielding her eyes on the way to the bathroom, Krista stopped in the hallway.

"Don't you work tomorrow?"

"I can't sleep."

"Drew's research?"

"I hate him," cursed Claire.

Krista used the washroom, then returned, the noise of the flushing toilet getting louder as she opened the door. More awake, she clomped over to the kitchen table across which Claire had spread a growing pile of handwritten notes.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, pulling out a chair and seating herself wearily on it.

"When I was a reporter, I'd have killed for this story."

"May I?" Krista reached for the tablet.

"Be my guest," offered Claire. "It'll be all over the news in a few days."

Krista glanced at Drew's summary, then flipped through the supporting documentation. Having already heard the basics from Lars, there were no surprises with respect to the content. What impressed her was how thoroughly the research had been conducted. Drew had anticipated every possible objection, every angle from which an attack could come.

"What does all this mean for you?" Krista asked Claire.

"It means I'm screwed," Claire whimpered.

"You could always resign."

"And how will I pay your rent?"

"You'll get a job somewhere," Krista encouraged her.

"In the PR world, jumping ship when the going gets tough is a career buster."

"Go back to journalism," Krista advised. "Team up with Drew instead of fighting him."

"There's still that rent thing," complained Claire. "And journalism is hardly a bastion of truth-seeking."

"And science is?" quipped Krista.

"There are a million Schaffers," Claire replied with a tired sigh. "And very few Drews."

Claire studied the material through the night and when the sun came up, she realized she was in no condition to go to work. She called in sick, took a brief nap and began studying again. Without taking breakfast or lunch, she delved more deeply into Drew's science, carefully scrutinizing the data, searching for anything he'd missed, any alternate explanation for the facts that could allow her to believe he was wrong. Using her own computer, since the tablet blocked any communication except to the sites Lars had approved, she researched every scientific term, every supporting fact, all in an effort to understand the matter deeply. Comparing his work to Schaffer's, she was infuriated at how two scientists could perform the same tests and end up with diametrically opposite results. Was Drew motivated by sour grapes and Schaffer by money? Was it that simple? Were both sets of studies scientifically valid or was one an outright fabrication? If one was lying, which one?

The controversy triggered her journalistic instincts, which compelled her to delve more deeply into her own research and find the facts for herself. Over the internet and at university libraries around the city, she dove as deeply as time allowed into the science behind embryonic development and the mechanisms by which various chemicals disrupt it. Nowhere did she find an example of a plant-produced toxin that could generate the effects she'd seen in Drew's lab. Was it possible he hated the company so much that it clouded his judgment?

Claire carefully removed the specimen Drew had sent from its packing and placed it on the desk in front of her. The curved glass and preserving liquid distorted the hideously twisted figure even more than it was already. She fought the nausea that welled up within her gut.

The specimen triggered memories of the newborn goat, the one Evan ordered her to forget about. It was just like this. There was no way Drew could have had anything to do with that goat. He didn't even know she'd seen it. Yet it was right there in the village Drew said this fetus had come from.

And what about the abortions? There was no hard proof that this was happening and frankly, it was so far fetched that it strained the limits of credulity. But suppose for a second it was true. And suppose that Drew found a way to prove it and that this proof became public. Having denied it to the press, her personal credibility would be blown to shreds. Not only would she be finished in PR, she'd burn every last bridge she might have back into the field of journalism.

After a week of playing hooky and canceling meetings with reporters she simply couldn't bring herself to face, Claire returned to work looking so exhausted her colleagues were worried about her health. Word of her condition got to Evan and he asked her to meet him in his office.

"I've never seen you like this," he observed, motioning for her to take a seat on one of the leather chairs in his office. "Is everything alright?"

"I've just been under the weather," she replied, seating herself heavily.

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"I think it'll pass on it's own."

"Is it possible there might be something else going on?" asked Evan, his tone suggesting to Claire he might be concerned about more than her health.

"Why would you say that?"

"Honestly," said Evan, "I'm beginning to wonder if your journalistic instincts might be harder to restrain than I realized."

"I don't understand." Claire felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.

"How did you spend the last few days away from work?"

"At home in bed."

"Surfing the net?"

"Sometimes."

"Researching embryology, teratogenic chemicals, human birth defects?"

Claire was stunned. How could he know what sites she'd visited on her own computer. Then she remembered Lars' warning. They'd been eavesdropping on her. She had no idea how they discovered what she was doing on-line, but she now had to assume they knew everything. It was best to come clean. She drew a breath and steeled her nerves.

"I know about T-107," she proclaimed.

Evan's eyes widened. Evidently he wasn't aware of just how much she'd learned. He stood up from his chair, strode across his office and opened the door, calmly but urgently speaking an order to his assistant. Claire made out the word "security".

"I know what it does to the plants and how they produce pollen that disrupts tissue differentiation in the earliest stages of pregnancy," she continued, standing up before Evan had a chance to sit down.

"If you know what it does to plants, you understand the advantage it gives us," explained Evan.

"I know about the abortions," stated Claire, her voice wavering against her will.

"Keep your voice down," Evan warned her.

"How could you be so cold?" demanded Claire, pent up frustration rising uncontrollably to the surface.

"Take a moment to think about what you're doing," advised Evan, trying to suppress the rising tension in his voice.

"Was this your idea?"

"Just stay calm," Evan said, gesturing downward with his palm.

"Using the clinics to perform secret abortions? Was it your idea?"

"How did you find out about T-107?" he asked firmly.

"You know the answer," snapped Claire, running out of patience.

"Freeman?"

Claire glared at Evan, refusing to divulge the answer.

"I told you not to communicate with him," Evan admonished Claire.

"You knew he had the truth."

"He's got a hate-on for the company, just like his professor."

"So you had him expelled?"

"He coerced an undergrad into sleeping with him."

"Right after he turned down Schaffer's offer," Claire said sarcastically.

"Don't play innocent," laughed Evan. "You knew he was a threat, so you asked me to give him a reason not to rock the boat."

"He needed help financially."

"And he could have had it!" insisted Evan. "If he'd made better choices, he'd be rolling in money - and still on track for his PhD."

"He chose the truth."

"The truth has more layers that ideologues like Freeman understand."

"Is that how you rationalize it?"

"The sanitized ideas people harbor about how the world works aren't suitable for business leaders."

"Reality sucks, so it's okay to poison babies in the womb?" Claire mocked him.

"If you want to buy organic tomatoes without mortgaging the house, it pretty well has to be."

"This, from the architect of our CSR platform," huffed Claire indignantly as she started toward the door.

"Try to broaden your mind," he urged as he rushed to cut off her path, blocking the door.

"I'd like to leave now,"

"Think this through," ordered Evan.

"I have."

"We sell pesticide free produce affordably to the masses, not just to the rich. T-107 makes that possible."

"At what cost to the workers?"

"You want to talk cost?" snapped Evan. "Organic canned tomatoes cost three times the price of conventional, and conventional contain enough pesticide to be classed as toxic waste! If our produce gives the average family a better option, I can deal with a handful of farm-workers having reproductive issues."

"Reproductive issues?" gasped Claire, incredulous. "Have you seen the results?"

"Where else can a farmhand in Central America access the standard of medical and dental care we give them, for free?"

"Have you seen what T-107 does to fetuses?" demanded Claire again.

"It's a trade off," admitted Evan, "but overall the workers come out ahead."

"Have you, personally, witnessed the human cost?"

"Try to see the big picture."

Claire yanked her handbag off her shoulder and angrily ripped open the zipper. Reaching in, she grasped an object inside and shoved it hard onto Evan's chest. Evan instinctively cupped his hands around it. He held it out in front of him. As his eyes focused on the object, his face went cold. It was the jar Drew had given Claire, containing a four and a half month old fetus. Evan's gaze shifted among the seven misshapen heads, spindly arms and elongated fingers growing out of the eye sockets. From the look of shock on his face, Claire was certain he'd never seen the miscarried fetuses personally. His eyes on the jar, Evan's mouth opened as he searched for words that refused to come.

There was a brisk knock at the door and Evan quickly hid the jar behind his back as two burly security guards entered and stood like soldiers in the doorway.

"Starting immediately, you're on medical leave," choked Evan, realizing that his voice was shaking. "All your meetings are cancelled and you are not to call anyone."

"I'd like to leave," said Claire, glancing back at the security guards who blocked her way.

"I'm very politely asking you to take some time to think," replied Evan, working hard to regain his composure.

"I can think at home."

"Please, take a paid vacation," insisted Evan. "These gentlemen will escort you to our suite at the Embassy Hotel."

"I said, I'd rather go home," stated Claire more firmly.

"The stakes are higher than you realize right now," declared Evan. "For your own sake, please take this opportunity to cool down."

Claire turned toward the door, eyeing a security guard as if daring him to stop her.

"Wait!" cried Evan, reaching out to take her arm.

Claire brushed his hand away and the guards bristled.

"It's totally voluntary," he continued. "The company pays for everything. Order in food, get a massage, a facial, whatever you want. Just don't talk to anyone until you've taken some time."

Claire hesitated.

"Nobody has to know about the conversation we've just had," Evan assured her, his voice softening as he stepped closer. "Your job is as safe as it's ever been. Please, enjoy a relaxing long weekend on the company dime - and think very carefully about your next move."

Claire weighed Evan's words. She knew he was lying about her job security. The second she left, he'd be on the phone with the CEO, who in turn would rally their legal team. They'd stay up late on conference calls deciding what they should do and they wanted her in a safe place while they make up their minds. Her career was very likely finished, but morally, she felt as if a massive weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

"Please see that Ms. LeBraun gets comfortably to our suite at the Embassy," said Evan to one of the security guards before Claire had a chance to respond. "The limo's waiting in the garage."

One of the security guards stepped aside to let Claire by, the other led the way.

"Claire?" called Evan as she stepped toward the door.

She looked back.

"Your phone."

With an expression cold as ice, Claire reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, handing it to Evan. She turned and strode out of the office, the two security guards accompanying as she walked briskly to the elevator.

Claire rode silently in the limousine and got out before the driver had a chance to open the door, walking so determinedly into the hotel that the security guards had to scramble to follow her. A concierge rushed forward and greeted her in the lobby with a magnetic card, which she snatched from his hand. She and the guards rode the elevator up to the company's suite. When they got off, one of the guards waited at the elevator and the other followed her to the room, where a female guard stood waiting.

"I gather you're not supposed to let me out of your sight," cracked Claire.

"I'll be right here if you need me," replied the female guard in a gentle voice.

Opening the door to the suite, Claire barely noticed the spectacular view of Toronto harbourfront through the window on the other side of the cavernous room. She kicked off her high heels, dropped her bag and collapsed onto the plush suede sofa, her mind spinning like a whirling carousel. What sort of catastrophe had she set in motion? Would she be fired? Sued? They wouldn't risk the negative publicity of a suit - unless she went public - which she hadn't, and wouldn't.

Her mind ablaze, she stared out the window at the gleaming reflection of the sun on the multitudes of condos and office towers. She'd take the weekend to think, like Evan ordered. She picked up the phone and ordered room service and after she finished the meal, she decided to go to one of the high-end stores in the retail mall adjoining the lobby to purchase some clothes, since she only had with her what she was wearing. The guard insisted on escorting her. She bought a gym bag, track pants, a couple of t-shirts, a few changes of underwear, a bikini, a housecoat and some toiletries. She returned to her room to change, then went to the gym. The guard waited at the entrance. Claire stretched, went on the stair-master, lifted some weights, then took a cool shower and changed into her new bikini. Tiptoeing out of the change room onto the deck of the pool, she noticed heads turning, just like at the hotel in Honduras and practically everywhere else she went. But she was in no mood to bask in the attention. She jumped off the diving board into the pool, swimming length after length, trying to clear her mind. Finally, exhausted, she wrapped a towel around herself and went to the sauna.

Sitting alone on the bench, her mind wandered back to her time in Central America and considered how the little luxuries she got to enjoy every day, like the spa she was in, were out of reach for the workers her company employed - the foods she ate, the clothing she wore, the travel she experienced, and the freedom from exploitation she'd been raised to expect as a right.

Suddenly the door opened with a blast of cool air and in waddled a short, tubby woman with frizzy brown hair and severe acne on her face and back. Closing the door behind her and taking a deep breath, she hauled herself up on the bench across from Claire and let out a deep sigh as she plunked herself down. Noticing Claire, she smiled pleasantly. Claire smiled back, then averted her eyes. The other woman continued to gaze at Claire.

"I know this is kind of weird," the woman began, "but if you don't mind me saying, you're absolutely stunning."

Claire felt herself blush.

"I don't mean anything," beamed the woman. "I just had to say it."

"Thank you," Claire replied, smiling shyly.

The two sat in silence for a moment until others started to trickle in. Deciding the small sauna was too full, Claire stood up and smiled at the woman on the way out. Standing in the shower, she wondered why some women felt compelled to bestow such compliments. This was by no means the first time a woman had made similar remarks to Claire and the phenomenon puzzled her. She had a suspicion that the women were motivated by envy more than anything. Being un-beautiful themselves, they obsessed over beauty the way a starving person obsesses over food.

Then a though struck her. Was it possible the farm workers in Central America envied her in a similar way? Their personal warmth felt more than perfunctory, but was it all just an act? She wondered how many of the women she met would trade places with her if they could. Probably a lot of them.

But what if they were in a position to know about T-107? What would they do if they were really faced with a choice between affluence or poverty, but choosing affluence meant actively poisoning the fetuses of other women half way around the planet? Would they make a deal with the devil? Would she?

Her stomach turning at the thought, Claire decided that she wasn't prepared to face the world just yet. Putting on a complimentary housecoat, she decided to enter the spa attached to the change room and charge a $200 massage to the company card. That was what Evan told her to do, wasn't it? But it didn't help clear her conscience. Laying on the table as a well-muscled masseur worked the knots out of her muscles, Claire couldn't help but think about the brazen hypocrisy of living a charmed Fortune 500 life while women in Central America paid for it with the blood of their wombs.

She made up her mind then and there to quit. But as soon as she did, she began to have doubts. What would she do next? Try to parlay the experience she'd gained into another job at a different company? But how would she know the next company wasn't just as bad, or even worse? What if every company was just as malfeasant in its own way? Could she really go back into journalism, like Krista suggested? Even if she did, she knew very well that journalism was rife with corruption. Outside of a handful of disestablishmentarian websites on the extreme political left, the press was a wholly owned subsidiary of the advertising industry. And even not-for-profit publications who featured no advertising desperately needed funding to survive. All Futura would have to do to buy their silence was become a generous benefactor.

Her mind spinning like the wheels of a car stuck in the mud, she decided to stop thinking and simply enjoy the massage. She tried to imagine herself having romantic sex on the beach with her masseur, until the fantasy triggered thoughts of Evan by the poolside in Honduras. Despite herself, she still felt attracted to him at a visceral level. And now she hated herself for it.

When the massage was over, Claire enjoyed a facial and a pedicure. Feeling relaxed physically, if not mentally, she got dressed and made her way back to her room, followed by the guard. Unable to put her mind at ease, she paced about the room, gazing out the window as the last light of the fading day drained from the sky. She took one of the books she'd bought and asked the security guard to follow her to the lounge upstairs, where she took a seat overlooking the skyline. Slowly sipping the Amaretto she ordered, the hours slipped away until finally, tired enough to sleep, Claire paid her bill on the company credit card, leaving a massive tip, then ambled back to her room.

After the guard bid her goodnight, Claire brushed her teeth, took off her clothes and climbed under the sheets. Drifting off into sleep, her mind flooded with a stream of images - Evan's disturbed look as he saw the fetus, the twisted limbs of the kid goat in Honduras. Still conscious enough to direct her thoughts, she forced herself to think of beautiful things. The lush green forest on her parent's farm where she grew up, the stony brook that ran through it, the majestic peaks of the rocky mountains where she'd travelled on holiday, the dazzling fish around the reefs of Roatan. Floating on the shimmering ocean under a clear blue sky, Claire drifted off into the sweetest of dreams.

Bubbles trailing from her regulator as she propelled herself forward with graceful frog kicks, she cruised through schools of brightly coloured butterfly fish, whirling and tumbling through the turquoise water. Massive sea fans reached out from between anemones bustling with clownfish, soft corals swayed in the gentle surge and rays of the mid-day sun danced on the white sands beneath her as she cruised past the towering reef. Slowly ascending through mounds of coral teeming with life, she surfaced. Reaching for the ladder at the stern of the boat, a surge of adrenaline passed through her as she looked up at Evan's smiling face Handing her fins to a crew member, she pulled herself up the ladder, feeling the ocean breeze in her hair and the hot sun on the back of her neck. The dive crew took her equipment and she followed Evan up to the upper deck, where she dried herself with a warm towel as a waiter offered them glasses of ice water and freshly cut slices of pineapple. Seating herself on one of the soft white seats, Claire gazed across the sparkling blue ocean as the boat's motor engaged and the vessel began to move.

Off in the distance, Claire spotted what she thought was a group of people frolicking in the waves, but as the boat came closer, she noticed that the people were terrified, calling out for help, their arms waiving frantically above their heads. She alerted Evan, but he just shrugged and sipped his drink. She turned to the deckhands, who pretended not to notice. In desperation, she descended the ladder from the upper deck and ran into the bridge begging the captain for help, but he insisted there was nothing he could do.

As the boat crested the waves, Claire searched the deck for anything she could throw to them, but she found nothing. The drowning people in the water glowered at Claire as the boat approached, clinging in groups to pieces of rotten woody debris which floated around them. The clear ocean water turned brown and putrid, it's foul stench filling her nostrils as plumes of fetid gas bubbled up from the deep. The boat slowed to navigate the field of debris and the captain ordered everyone below decks, but Claire rushed to the railing as the people in the water called her name. Whimpering children huddled on rotten timbers as their parents furiously tread water, fighting to keep their mouths and noses above the reeking, filthy sea. More sternly, the captain once again ordered her below decks. Evan gently took her arm, trying to take her with him, concern in his eyes. But she shook her arm loose and hopped over the railing, landing in an inflatable life-raft rigged to the vessel. Seeing an opportunity, the swimmers splashed toward Claire as they saw her let the raft she was in down into the water. By the time the raft hit the waves, the ocean around it was teeming with people, all sputtering and gasping, desperate for a chance to climb to safety.

Suddenly, Claire noticed movement in the water around the swimmers. The fin of a massive bull shark emerged, followed by another, then another. She looked up at the deck of the boat where Evan stood, reaching for her, imploring her to take is hand, his eyes filled with terror. But instead of letting him haul her to safety, she reached out and tried to help the drowning people aboard the inflatable raft. Yet even as the first of the drowning people came aboard, covered in putrid muck from the filthy water, she knew her efforts were futile. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. There was no way they could all fit on the life raft, or even on the yacht. As more and more people piled aboard, Claire felt putrid water wash against her legs as it spilled over the gunnel. A woman tried to hand Claire a young child, but as Claire reached out, she felt the raft begin to capsize. She leaned hard on the opposite gunnel, trying to balance the raft, but it was no use. Overloaded on one end, the raft capsized, pitching Claire into the putrid water.

As the panicking swimmers battled for space on the overturned raft, Claire turned toward the yacht. But as she swam through the reeking muck toward the ladder, she saw it being hauled upward. Looking up at the disapproving crew members, she was shocked to see them dressed in green uniforms. Red armbands with black swastikas adorned their arms, jackboots covered their feet. Evan, also in Nazi regalia, stared coldly down at her from the deck along with the captain, who barked an order. Hearing the engines drop into gear, she swam hard in pursuit, but the distance grew as the first mate hit the throttle and the yacht picked up speed. Evan and the captain turned away as the boat rumbled off.

Claire instinctively jerked her foot upward as something bumped her leg under the surface. She turned back toward the raft and another bump against her leg filled Claire with dread. Swimming hard toward a piece of abandoned debris, she felt a strong pair of hands grab her from behind and shove her downward. When she surfaced, the swimmer who had pulled her away was already on top of the debris, kicked hysterically at her face with his legs to defend his new perch.

In a panic, Claire searched frantically for anything she could climb out on. Then suddenly, the sharpest pain she'd ever felt ripped through her calf. The water churned red with blood as she rolled onto her back and tried to kick furiously. Looking down she saw the bloody stump of a leg she couldn't believe was hers. Then, from beneath her, emerged a ferocious set of jaws. She snapped her knees toward her body and sculled with her arms, trying desperately to escape the creature's bite, but rows of razor sharp teeth closed around her other leg. Claire wailed in agony as the shark thrashed its body. Sinking downward through swirling blood and putrid water, she felt the pressure increase in her ears as she was pulled into the deep. Finally, the flesh and bone gave way and the remainder of her leg tore off. Strands of bloodied pulp trailing from the stumps of both legs, she sculled frantically to the surface. But just as her head broke out of the water, a set of ravenous jaws engulfed her torso. She writhed and fought as the jagged teeth punctured her flesh and the shark dragged her beneath the waves. Down and down she went in the grip of the shark's jagged teeth. The pressure forcing her eardrums to implode, she struggled to hold her breath. Finally, her chest aching for air, she gasped, inhaling the putrid water laced with her own blood.

Claire sprang up in bed, her blankets drenched in sweat. Gasping, she kicked violently, clutching the sodden sheets. Ever so gradually, her dream faded and the outlines of objects in the room began to emerge from the darkness. Finally, realizing her body was intact and she was not immersed in water, she let out her breath. Running her hands gratefully over her intact legs, the tension drained from her body. Claire allowed her eyes to focus on the clock radio. 6:30am. Gaining control of her breathing, she got up, staggered naked to the bathroom and turned on the bright fluorescent light. Pulling back the shower curtain, she turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature and stepped in. Standing motionless, her arms about her torso, the warm water caressed her hair like the hand of a gentle lover. She'd never been so happy just to be alive.
Chapter 24

Drew awoke to the ring of his cell phone. Reaching for his clock-radio, he hit the button and turned it on prior to answering, as Lars insisted he always do. It was Ana Luisa, and the word from Honduras was bad. The NGOs Drew had contacted to do the blood tests had been unable to gain the proper permissions from the authorities. Guatemalan and El Salvadoran authorities had been no more receptive.

"Is no one willing to forget about the red tape and just do it?" cried Drew.

"No one with the credibility we need."

"We've got to go with whoever's willing."

"You said yourself it won't work," protested Ana Luisa. "Without the credibility of agencies with core expertise, it's not evidence, it's just their word."

Drew was so frustrated he almost smashed the phone against the wall. The media had turned completely against them, with more and more scientists heaping scorn on Drew's results. Economists, food activists and even anti-poverty crusaders were condemning the "unfounded accusations" against a company trying to do the right thing and supermarket chains insisted sales of Futura's brands were as strong as ever. The blood testing had been Drew's last refuge of hope.

"There's been one development you should know about," Ana Luisa continued. "We've located a number of pregnant women who've lived near the fields but haven't been to the clinics."

"How did you find them?" asked Drew.

"We offered to pay them for talking to us."

"How do you know they didn't visit the clinics?"

"We're not sure," she replied, but they've all given us blood samples. "They're on their way to you."

"Do they know about the miscarriages?" asked Drew.

"They're terrified," answered Ana Luisa. "I told them we could help."

The blood samples arrived and three of them tested positive for the chemical. Drew informed Lars, who asked Ana Luisa to send official passport photos according to Canadian specifications. Not wanting to risk word leaking out to Futura through gossip in their villages, he insisted on brining them to Toronto. Drew practically wore a hole in the floor of his lab pacing back and forth in anticipation as Lars arranged the travel documents. When the women arrived, all on separate flights going through different airports, Drew insisted that they undergo ultrasound as soon as possible. With blood tests confirming the presence of the phytotoxin and living, breathing women carrying deformed fetuses at four, five and seven months, he'd have undeniable proof. Lars arranged for the women to be tested separately, all at private clinics in Toronto.

Drew waited impatiently in the humid June morning as a silver BMW with deep tinted windows pulled up at the clinic. Ana Luisa got out of the back seat and walked around the car, opening the door for the other woman. The driver got out to help but by then the woman was already on her feet. Drew held the door for them as they entered. After a warm embrace, Ana Luisa introduced Drew to the 23 year old Honduran woman, whose name was Belen.

The ultrasound technician welcomed them and ushered Belen into the room immediately. Once Belen was ready, the technician applied the gel to her swollen abdomen as she explained the procedure. Ana Luisa translated and Belen nodded in acknowledgement. Drew, Ana Luisa and Belen all watched the screen intently as the image began to form.

In spite of her training, the technician's face drained of blood. She checked the settings on the machine then looked back at the image, then at Belen, whose eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Ana Luisa held her hand tightly as the technician changed a setting on the machine. Belen began to shiver. She said something in Spanish and Ana Luisa whispered a gentle reply. Trying hard to hold her hand steady, the technician began to quiver.

"She doesn't speak English," said Ana Luisa to the technician. "You can say what you like."

"I've never seen anything like this," stammered the technician.

Drew put his hand on her shoulder.

"I know, you warned me, but..." her voice trailed off.

"Besides the obvious, what can you tell us?" asked Drew.

"There are four hearts that I can see," she replied, "all of them beating. The internal organs are..." Her voice trailed off again as she shook her head.

Drew asked her to keep the results confidential. The technician said she would have to inform her obstetrician, and Drew gave her a name and number Lars had provided.

Exiting the clinic, Drew explained to Ana Luisa how rare it was for a fetus so severely deformed to remain alive in the womb for seven months. Ana Luisa understood. She helped Belen back into the car and the driver backed out of the driveway. The other two ultrasounds produced similar results and Drew made sure that the women were provided accommodation close to hospitals with good obstetric wards in preparation for the eventual miscarriages.

"There's been a development in the media war," Lars advised Drew as they discussed the results over the phone, asking him to read a link he sent.

Drew opened the link to find an article quoting Professor Akintola's University of Southern Ontario website, with a link to a non-university site on which all the supporting data could be read. The quote was to the effect that many of the scientists coming out against Drew's research had done consulting work for Futura or its parent company and a number of the so-called activists were either direct or indirect beneficiaries of grants from the same. The article featuring the quote was on the front page of USO's student paper and was written by a Professor Emeritus of philosophy who had once been the chair of the department. The final paragraphs were absolutely damning.

If evil marched through the front gates of our campus in jackboots, we would surely resist. But when evil slips quietly through the back door, wearing a three-piece suit and bearing a briefcase of money, would we have the resolve to send him, and him money, away? I fear that the deeds of our leaders have spoken.

I fear also that those among us who would resist evil have witnessed the example of their peers who have endured funding cuts, cancellation of tenure or even summary expulsion on false charges. Yet in spite of such all-too-justified fears, I call on truth tellers not to be cowed into silence. Rise up and, like Professor Akintola, our late colleague Professor Chaplain and his fearless student Drew Freeman, speak truth to power.

These words so moved and inspired Drew that tears welled in his eyes. Clicking on the link in the article, he noted that Akintola's university webpage had been taken down. The link to the off-campus site was active and when Drew clicked it, it took him to a collection of scanned documents proving every single allegation Akintola made about who was on Futura's dole. Drew felt a wave of excitement swelling within him. This information could certainly help to tip the media war in their favour, but it would need to go far beyond the student body of the University of Southern Ontario.

Drew picked up his phone and called Sharon Singh. Getting her voice mail, he left a message asking her to call back. He also texted her the links to the article and the supporting documents. He called Lars again to get the green light to tell her about the ultrasound results, which Lars gave him without hesitation.

"Just be prepared when they return fire," Lars warned Drew. "There's no way they'll take this sitting down."

A few hours later, Drew was thrilled to receive a text from Sharon Singh asking him to meet her at a cafe on Queen's Quay the next day. Standing up to shake her hand when she arrived, Drew was impressed by how strikingly beautiful she was in person. But contrary to his hopes, she was far from receptive to his arguments. In fact, her demeanor seemed downright hostile.

"You've shown me some deformed fetuses and produced similar results in lab animals," she remarked, "but you've shown me no credible evidence that Futura is involved in any way."

Drew just about fell off his chair.

"The chemical which causes the deformities is produced by the plants on Futura's fields," he insisted.

"Notwithstanding Professor Akintola's publication, a lot of reputable scientists have said that's impossible."

"Such as?"

"Such as professor Carl Schaffer, at your very own university."

"Schaffer makes a fortune consulting for Futura!" protested Drew.

"His publication record is impressive," argued Singh.

"Did he tell you that?"

"I've read his research."

"His research is bogus!"

"Peer reviewers didn't seem to think so."

"Do you recall the scandal involving fraudulent logging of his grad-students' time?"

"Do you recall being expelled for coercing a female student into sex?"

"That was a trumped up lie!" snapped Drew, his face flushing with anger.

Sharon Singh stared at him blankly as he explained the situation.

"Try to understand what this looks like from my perspective," she said. "The only real evidence connecting the company with the deformities is a toxin that nobody's ever heard of, identified by a sex offender and, according to anyone with credentials, cannot be produced by plants no matter what you spray on them."

Drew's heart sank.

"And," Singh continued, "your research was performed without proper academic oversight."

This can't be happening, Drew thought to himself as he fought hard to stop his hands from shaking. Singh was known to be sympathetic with guerrilla scientists like him. She'd written high-profile articles based on far weaker evidence - and she had to know Futura was behind his expulsion. He had to turn this around.

"You understand how companies like Futura operate," argued Drew. "They practically own the university and everyone condemning my research is somehow on their gravy train."

"As I told you over the phone," said Singh, slinging her designer handbag over her shoulder as she stood up, "show me hard evidence and I'll publish, but please don't call me until you can."

Drew watched Singh exit and cross the street. She took out her keys and the lights flashed on a silver Porsche parked in a lot across the road.

Had they gotten to her too? Had they bribed her? Threatened her? Or were her editors paranoid about lawsuits? Regardless, he thought, Singh's demand for a ridiculously high standard of proof was a serious blow. Drew cursed under his breath, then texted Lars the bad news.

Drew's phone rang just as he was about to get on the subway. It was Lars.

"Where are you?" he asked.

Drew told him.

"Go to the underground garage at Queen and Church and meet my man there."

"What's going on?" asked Drew.

"I'll explain later."

As Drew entered the garage, a van pulled up, the side door opened and a man he recognized opened the door, motioning for him to get in. After a number of twists and turns, the van stopped and the man opened the door. Drew got out into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, where Lars stood waiting.

"Akintola's been arrested," stated Lars, wasting no time.

"What for?"

"Possession of child pornography."

Drew stared back in disbelief.

"Apparently there were news cameras waiting when they took him in," continued Lars. "It was obviously a set up."

"Where is he now?"

"At the police station."

"Does he have a lawyer?"

"I've made some calls."

There was no doubt this was retaliation for Akintola's publication. What amazed Drew was the speed of their response, and how well coordinated it was. It was as if the whole operation had been pre-planned and left on the shelf until Akintola presented a threat serious enough to warrant action. Police claimed to have been given download records from Akintola's office computer at the university, which purportedly showed that child pornography was downloaded on a number of occasions. Drew would have laughed if the consequences weren't so serious.

Lars explained how easy it would be to plant this evidence. Any reasonably competent technician with access to his account could have done it. Slightly harder to accomplish was the disclosure that child pornography had also been found on his home computer, which police had seized on a simultaneously executed warrant.

Lars and Akintola's lawyer had no doubt that he would beat the trumped up charges in court. His defense would revolve around demonstrating that his home computer was accessed remotely and that his university account was breeched internally, both of which Lars said would ultimately be easy to prove. Of greater concern to the already disastrous media campaign was the timing, not to mention the devastating nature of the allegations. Discrediting Akintola in this way served the dual purpose of deflecting his revelations and frightening potential supporters out of coming forward with evidence. Look what happened to that guy! Later that evening, when Drew and Lars watched the footage of the arrest on the evening news, the chill was palpable.

"They've taken this to a new level," Lars grumbled darkly over the din of the radio, as he paced the Toronto apartment in which he'd arranged for Drew to stay the night.

"I told you they'd retaliate!" fumed Lars.

"Why haven't they attacked you?" asked Drew. "They know we're friends."

"I've managed to conceal how deeply involved I am," replied Lars. "And they haven't got a clue the resources I've brought to bear."

Drew took the opportunity to bring up a matter he felt needed to be addressed. "Exactly where does all your money come from?"

"We'll have that conversation soon enough," Lars said evasively.

"Is it legal?"

"I don't want you distracted by that now."

Drew was about to probe more deeply when Lars changed the subject.

"Tell me about Singh," he demanded.

"She said there's no credible evidence."

Drew had barely finished when Lars kicked a trash can so hard across the room that Drew leapt off the sofa in terror.

"I though she had a spine!" sneered Lars as the can rolled around on the wooden floor.

"You think they paid her off?" asked Drew, adrenaline still pumping through his system.

"Of course!" thundered Lars. He took a breath and settled down again. "They probably threatened her family overseas."

"So what now?" asked Drew. "The NGO backed out of the blood testing and all we've got on our side are the words of a sex offender and a child pornographer."

Lars slumped and plunked himself down into a chair across from Drew.

"We need a plan," he sputtered.
Chapter 25

Claire sat in the back of the limousine, confused and terrified, as the vehicle stopped and started in early rush hour traffic. After another day sequestered in the hotel suite, she'd been summoned back to the office where she was to have a heart to heart with Winston Knox, the CEO, who Evan informed her he'd notified. Trying to anticipate how the meeting would unfold, her mind raced through a thousand permutations.

According to Evan, Knox had viewed this a sufficiently important matter to bring to the attention of the president of the parent company, who had convened an emergency meeting with the firm's legal department. To put it mildly, the brown-matter had hit the fan.

When the vehicle stopped in front of the building, the driver opened the door and Claire stepped out into the bright spring morning. Surrounded by security, she strode into the lobby, projecting as much confidence as she could muster. Riding up the elevator, she told herself, as she'd done two hundred times, that no matter what happened, she'd keep her chin up and hold her head high.

One of the guards led Claire into the boardroom, where she was asked to wait. She sat down on a chair, placing her briefcase on the floor beside her. Staring at a box of tissues conspicuously left in the centre of the table, she let out a long breath to calm her quivering nerves. Then the door opened and in walked Deborah Mews, the head of Human Resources she'd met at the first dinner with Knox. Behind her, entered a tall man in an expensive suit, his thick greying hair slicked straight back.

"Claire, I'd like you to meet Desmond Lewis," said Deborah. "His firm handles the parent company's legal matters."

Lewis extended a ring-adorned hand, which Claire shook firmly as she rose from her seat. Trembling inside, Claire fought to maintain her composure.

"Forgive me for skipping the pleasantries, Ms. LeBraun" said Lewis as he took a seat, "but we understand you've come across some sensitive information pertaining to Futuras's field operations."

"Disturbing information," Claire corrected him, tensing her body to keep her voice from shaking.

"We'd like to clarify why it's in your best interest to keep this information out of the public realm," Lewis continued, handing Claire a folder he drew from his case. "This is a list of people my firm has successfully sued for libel on behalf of various clients. The numbers to the right are the damages awarded in each case."

Claire scanned the list, noting the alarming frequency of seven and even eight digit judgments.

"These represent only the cases that went to trial," Lewis continued. "The majority were settled out of court and are not subject to disclosure."

"So, you came to threaten me," remarked Claire.

"We're hoping to preclude the necessity of threats," explained Lewis. "It's been our experience that by explaining the consequences in advance, we can prevent people from taking actions that would invite disastrous outcomes."

"Do you know what T-107 does?" asked Claire.

"Any discussion of such matters outside or even within the company would be considered a breach of confidentiality."

"Everything I know about T-107 and the abortions was learned from sources outside the company," Claire replied. "Confidentiality doesn't apply."

"Think very carefully before you roll the dice on that."

"You don't feel the least bit of concern for the people we've hurt?"

"My personal feelings are irrelevant, as are yours," explained Lewis. "What you need to understand is that the company will protect its reputation by any means necessary. If that means securing judgments against you or members of your family--

"Leave my family out of this!" Claire snapped.

"The way to protect your family is to exercise appropriate discretion," advised the lawyer.

Claire breathed deeply to control her rising anxiety. "Nobody in my family knows anything about this," she said.

"Knowledge or involvement is immaterial," explained Lewis. "We've found that drawing family members into the matter is an effective deterrent."

"They've done nothing you could sue them for."

"We won't have to sue them," Lewis corrected her, his lips smugly curling into a grin at Claire's naivety. "We'll just draw attention to all the things they currently get away with because no one's watching."

Beads of perspiration appeared at Claire's hairline as she thought about how her immediate family might be vulnerable.

"For example," continued Lewis, "it would be very inconvenient if your father lost his license for impaired driving."

Claire was about to insist that her father never drove drunk, when she realized that he commonly cruised the back roads with an open beer in his pickup, as did many farmers of his generation. She'd warned him repeatedly, but he'd always waived her off. One complaint to the Ontario Provincial Police and he'd be through. Without his license, he and Claire's mother, whose glaucoma prevented her from driving, would be stranded on the farm.

"And I'm sure your brother wouldn't fare well in a tax audit," added the Lawyer.

Claire thought of her brother, who worked hard to scrape together a meager living out of odd jobs he did for friends and neighbors, all of whom paid him in cash. Everyone knew he never declared the income. He hardly ever used his bank account, paying all his bills in cash. If he faced an audit, the burden of years of unpaid taxes could ruin him.

"And of course," continued Lewis, "it would be a shame if the authorities were to learn that your mother's chiropractic treatments was were being paid for through her sister's benefits plan."

"Excuse me?" Claire asked. She knew her mother had been going to a chiropractor in town, but nothing had ever been said about using her sister's insurance.

"You didn't know?" enquired Lewis, with feigned surprised.

"My mother wouldn't do that."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Lewis informed her, "but your mother registered under your aunt's name and has been receiving reimbursements illegally through your aunt's insurance plan."

Claire swallowed hard. She wanted to believe it was a bluff and that her mother and her aunt would both know better than to commit brazen insurance fraud. But if it was true, her mother could face criminal charges, perhaps even go to prison. The thought pushed Claire over the edge and in spite of her best efforts to hold it back, a tear rolled down her cheek. In shame, her lip trembling, she stared at her feet under the table.

Lewis slowly pushed the box of tissues on the table her way.

"Your father doesn't have to lose his license, your brother doesn't have to face an audit and your mother doesn't have to go to prison," he said. "We're confident that in spite of your present misgivings you'll see your way to remaining with the company and continuing on your current path to a successful career."

Claire looked up, perplexed. She glanced at the HR executive, who looked back stoically.

"I know you're worried about the prospect of losing your job," continued Lewis. "But there's no reason why that has to be a concern at this point. However, should you choose to deviate from the path your duties require, I'd like to leave you with one thought. My colleagues and I specialize in ruining the lives of people who threaten our clients' interests, and we're very good at it."

Lewis signaled to Deborah that it was time to go and the two of them quietly stood up, picked up their cases and walked to the exit.

"Please wait here for Winston," said Deborah, as Lewis held the door for her.

Claire drew another tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes. Shortly after, the door opened and in walked Winston Knox, the CEO of the company, carrying an expensive designer handbag.

"Before we begin, I'd like to congratulate you," stated Knox coldly as he extended his hand to shake hers.

"I don't understand," replied Claire.

"You might be the best negotiator I've ever met," Knox continued as he took a seat beside her, rather than across from her as she'd expected. He placed the handbag gently on the floor, then reached into it and brought out a folder, passing it to Claire. "Read this," he said.

Bristling as the contents of the previous folder flashed through her mind, Claire reluctantly accepted the new folder and examined its contents. The documents inside were a statement of her student loan accounts from the institutions at which she'd earned her bachelors and masters degrees, the bottom lines of which, to her great surprise, read zero. She looked up at the expressionless CEO.

"You'll note that you're no longer in debt," said Knox, allowing himself a faint smile.

Claire fought to suppress the elation she felt welling within her. Thoroughly confused, she watched as Knox picked up the designer handbag and placed it on the table.

"Open it," he encouraged her.

Claire opened the flap and unzipped the bag to reveal numerous thick wads of bills, held together with elastics. Knox nodded to her and she reached in to pick one up. Turning it over in her hands, she saw that it was a stack of $50's.

"How much is in here?" she asked.

"You can count it later," answered Knox.

He pulled another folder from the bottom of the handbag and passed it to Claire. She opened it.

"Your new employment contract," he said.

Claire skimmed the document and saw that her already generous salary had been tripled.

"Is this serious?" she asked, embarrassed at how immature the question must have sounded.

"We're quite serious," Knox replied stoically.

Reading on, Claire saw that going forward, she would have the benefit of a company car and be permitted to occupy a luxury two bedroom downtown condominium owned by the company, starting immediately. She struggled to keep her hands from trembling with excitement.

"I know you might be having trouble processing all this," said Knox, "especially following your meeting with Mr. Lewis, so I'm going to give you some time alone."

He stood up and walked quietly out of the room,"

"Oh, and the handbag is yours too."

When the door closed behind him, Claire buried her face in her hands and bawled. What she felt, she could not have explained if her life depended on it. Euphoria, guilt, relief, shame, all at the same moment, all mixed and interwoven. She despised herself for feeling so, yet she was relieved, so relieved. Her crushing financial burdens had been lifted in one stroke. She could help her brother pay for college, buy her aging father the new truck he desperately needed and pay directly for all her mother's chiropractor appointments. Then Claire thought of the fetus she'd shoved into Evan's hands, twisted and vulgar and hideous. She scrunched her eyes, trying to force the image out of her mind. And she cried even harder.

After she'd settled down, the door opened again and Evan stepped in gingerly, smiling sympathetically.

"Hey," he said softly.

Her eyes still red from the tears, she was ashamed to look up at him. She tracked his feet as he approached the table and sat down gently where Knox had been.

"I know this must be confusing for you," he observed.

Claire nodded in recognition.

"The reality is, the world is a confusing place," he continued. "It took incredible courage to say what you did and I admire your sense of moral conviction, but morals have to be tempered with judgment."

"Does nobody else at the company think this is wrong?"

"In a perfect world, the line between right and wrong would be well defined, but this world is far from perfect, and part of having good judgment is understanding how blurred that line really is."

"We're killing their babies," countered Claire. "There's nothing blurry about how wrong that is."

"We're saving their children from the ravages of toxic pesticides. Go to a village near any conventional farming operation in the Americas and you'll find deformed or retarded children everywhere. Fused eyelids, elongated limbs, malformed organs, learning disabilities. Nothing quite like T-107, I admit, but at least we've found a way to mitigate the problems."

Claire wanted to argue, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. Her own research into Central American agriculture proved Evan correct. Working and living conditions of farm workers were appalling and the health impacts of pesticide use were a part of their daily lives.

"We had a rough start," Evan continued, "but now that the clinics are up and running, we're the best thing that's ever happened to those workers and their families.

"Were the clinics your idea?" asked Claire, summoning the courage to look up into Evan's eyes.

"T-107 has catapulted the company to market leader status. There was no way they were going to give up on it, no matter what the side effects. The clinics gave us a way to manage the downside."

"It's so easy for you."

"It isn't easy at all," explained Evan. "What's easy is to sit back and condemn companies like Futura without seeing the big picture. Everyone thinks healthy food should be affordable and they're right, it should. But those same people insist farm workers should earn decent wages, and you know what? I agree totally. But there's a direct trade-off between the two and I promise you, outside of a tiny handful of committed activists, people won't pay an extra dime for ethically grown produce."

"Futura staked its brand on ethics," claimed Claire.

"Green messaging gave us an edge in PR," explained Evan, "but sales growth was driven by prices our competitors couldn't touch and T-107 is what made that possible."

Claire shook her head sadly. "It always ends in a price war."

"Business is war," said Evan, "and every warrior absolutely must come to terms with the reality that war is always a zero-sum-game. Every victory is a defeat for someone else."

"I guess I should consider myself lucky to be one of the winners," lamented Claire.

"Luck just put you in the right place at the right time," Evan advised. "Hard work and talent got you this job. Good judgment will ensure you keep it."

Claire nodded her agreement.

"If you feel guilty about your good fortune compared to some of our farm workers, that's perfectly understandable. Just remember that throwing away everything you've worked so hard for won't make life better for them."

"I know."

Evan sat forward on his seat and looked Claire deeply in the eyes. "Claire, you and I are not perfect, but Futura's workers and their families are much better off because of what we do. Please, help me to keep helping them."

Handing back her phone, along with the keys to her new downtown condo, Evan left Claire at the table, insisting she take the rest of the day off. Dropping the keys in her purse, she picked up the new handbag, put the folders in her briefcase and exited the boardroom. On the elevator, she steadied herself, fighting back tears she knew she couldn't hold back for long. On the first floor, she strode quickly out of the lobby and into a coffee shop. Fortunately the washroom was free. Locking the door behind her, she dumped her bags on the floor and doubled over. Leaning her back against the door, she gripped strands of long blonde hair in her fists.

Sliding to the floor, she couldn't force the terrifying nightmare she'd had at the hotel out of her mind. There was only one interpretation that made sense to her: join the Nazis on the boat, or be torn apart by sharks in putrid waters. As a student of journalism years ago, she'd sworn never to stand idly by while the rich raped the poor and the north pillaged the south. And in her brief career as a reporter, she fought to lift the curtain on abuse and injustice wherever she found it. When corruption clashed with her convictions, she'd taken the high road and quit a promising job. But now, her options were more tightly constrained: ally with the forces she'd railed against, or set in motion the ruination of everyone she loved.

Standing up, she looked at her face in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes were swollen and red and her makeup was a mess. She freshened herself up as quickly as she could, put on her sunglasses, then collected her bags and left the washroom. Walking along King Street, her arms laden with Knox's blood money, she fought to keep herself steady. Men and women in slick business suits and perfect hair strode confidently past her on the sidewalk as luxury cars idled at traffic lights. Sidewalk cafes were abuzz with the pre-lunch crowd.

Would any of the people around her burden themselves with guilt like she did? Probably not. They were business people. Warriors, who knew nothing of ethics, only winning and losing. Was she really one of them? She glanced at a salad carried by waiters to a cafe patron. Who actually grew those vegetables? Did they live in desperate poverty and suffer from chemical poisoning? She forced her legs to move faster, heels clicking on the sidewalk.

At her apartment that evening, she explained to Krista where she'd been and what had happened. Outwardly, Krista assured her that whatever she chose, they would remain friends, but inside, she was burning with rage, not at her room mate, but at the company, the lawyer, Knox and Evan. There was no low to which they wouldn't stoop.

The doorbell rang and before Krista could get up to answer, it rang again. Krista pressed the intercom button and the voice at the other end asked for Claire.

"It's an emergency," he said. "She has to come right now."

"Who are you?" asked Krista, turning to look at Claire, who waved at Krista to tell him she wasn't home.

"We know Claire is home. It's very important that she comes right now."

"I'm sorry," replied Krista, who pressed the button to hang up.

Krista was about to sit back down with Claire when she heard a banging sound at the outside door, then two sets of heavy boots hurried up the stairs, followed by a loud knock at the apartment door.

"Claire?" came an urgent voice through the door.

Krista and Claire looked at each other with concern.

"You've got to come with us!" said the voice urgently.

"I told you she's not in!" yelled Krista.

The door handle shook and a rattling sound echoed through the building. Krista raced over to close the deadbolt but just as she got there, the door burst open, knocking her backward.

"Excuse me!" demanded Krista as a strong, dark haired man forced his way through the door.

"I'm sorry Claire," said the man. "But you have to come with us."

"I'm calling the police," said Krista, reaching for the telephone.

The man reached over and pulled the phone cord out of the wall. Another man entered. Krista reached into her pocket for her cell, but the second man grabbed her arm and spun her around, pushing her face down to the ground with an expert kick to the rear of the knee. Before she could scream for help, the first man pulled her head back by the hair and held a cloth to her mouth and nose. Claire backed into the corner, eyeing the cell phone she'd left on the table.

"You can walk out, or we can take you like that," said the other man, referring to Krista, who's body suddenly went limp on the floor.

Suddenly, an apartment door opened in the hallway and a tall, wiry man of about 25 stormed in carrying a crow bar.

"Krista? Claire?" he called out.

Seeing a strang man standing over Krista, he raised the crowbar intending to swing, but in the blink of an eye he was disarmed and knocked face down to the ground, the crowbar hard against the back of his neck. The burly man moved toward Claire.

"Okay!" she cried. "I'll go."

The burly man's accomplice placed a cloth over the mouth and nose of the young man on the floor and, after he passed out, rolled him onto his side and placed his arm under his head, as he did with Krista. Claire hurriedly followed the other men down the stairs into an idling van which sped away the instant the door was closed.

"Do you know Lars Jaeger?" asked Claire.

"No," said one of the men.

"Drew Freeman?" she asked.

"No."

A knot tightened in Claire's stomach.

"You are not in danger," said the driver, an older East Indian man with graying hair and a severely wrinkled face.

As the van sped through the darkened streets, Claire's mind raced. Who was behind this? These men were nowhere careful enough to be linked to Lars, and Drew wouldn't even think of pulling something like this. She began to wonder if somebody at the company had second thoughts and decided to silence her before she caused any more trouble. But if that was true, why give her all the money? Why have the lawyer threaten her? Then it occurred to her, the meetings might have been a cover. What better way to appear innocent than to show that she was a favoured employee who'd just been offered a weekend of pampering and a bunch of perks. No one knew about what had happened - except Krista. Oh God!

Claire suddenly felt sick. Somehow, she had to get away. Her heart beating hard in her chest, she tried to think of a plan. But the door was locked and she was being guarded by two strong men, both probably ex-military, and she could hardly jump from a speeding vehicle. Her only chance was to use her mind. She tried to calm herself.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"A hospital," answered the driver.

"Why?"

"You will understand when you get there."

The vehicle screeched around the corner and into the long driveway of the hospital. Looking through the windshield, Claire glimpsed a dark figure she thought she recognized. As the van rolled to a stop, the figure stepped out of the shadows toward the van. Drew! Feelings of intense relief mixed with uncontrollable anger. The man to her right opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. As soon as Claire was out, the man leapt back in and slammed the door, then with a screech of tires, the vehicle sped off.

"What the hell what that?" demanded Claire.

"Follow me," said Drew as he jogged toward the front door. "There's a woman from Central America about to give birth."

They ran through the doors into the lobby, then walked as quickly as they could through the corridors. Turning a corner, Claire spotted Lars standing by a doorway fussing with a digital camera. She charged straight at him, her hands curled into fists, and took a swing at his jaw. His neck stretching at the blow, he backed up and Drew grabbed her, pulling her back.

"Not now!" he warned her.

Ana Luisa came running. "It's coming!" she panted through her surgical mask.

Claire followed Drew into the room where a female doctor and several nurses worked busily around a Latin American woman, her legs spread wide. The stress in their faces told Claire all was not well.

"It's alive," whispered Ana Luisa, handing masks to Drew and Claire.

Drew nodded his understanding. When he'd gotten her call informing him Belen's water had broken without copious blood, he couldn't believe his ears. The medical team had confirmed that in spite of its unbelievable deformities, the baby's multiple hearts were still beating.

"Fully dilated!" cried the doctor.

Belen screamed and pushed as a nurse held her hand.

"How far along is the pregnancy?" asked Claire.

"Seven and a half months," replied Drew.

"Get her to push," the doctor yelled at Ana Luisa.

Ana Luisa spoke to Belen in Spanish. Belen pushed hard, straining, then sobbing.

"I've got its--" the doctor stopped in mid sentence. "Push!" she commanded.

Belen strained.

"Again," cried the doctor.

Belen pushed.

Gently the doctor pulled her arms back and everyone in the room knew what that meant. The baby was born. But the room was silent. There was no crying. The medical team stood in perplexed silence.

"My God!" whispered the doctor.

Belen called out to Ana Luisa and Drew nudged Claire forward. Reluctantly, Claire stepped toward the newborn. The doctor barked commands which the nurses scrambled to follow. A technician hurried in with a machine, followed by another with what looked like an oxygen chamber for premature babies. But as the technicians converged on the baby, they froze in horrified disbelief.

Glimpsing their expressions, Claire looked down. Reflexively raising her hands to her mouth, she gasped. Tears welled in her eyes. In the doctor's hands lay a squirming purple mass of partially formed human heads, misshapen arms and legs growing out of some of the eye sockets. A legless torso jutted out from one of the heads, fingers of different sizes sprouting from where the shoulders should have been.

"This isn't possible," whispered the doctor.

One of the nurses prepared to cut the umbilical cord. The doctor nodded and she did so. Then Belen said something to Ana Luisa.

"She wants to hold her baby," whispered Ana Luisa.

The doctor looked at the technicians, who stood poised to take the mass of purple flesh. They stared back.

"It's not breathing," said the doctor.

Suddenly a camera flash went off and everyone looked up. Lars stood beside Drew, his long arms outstretched.

"Get out of here!" screamed one of the technicians.

"No!" rejoined Lars, snapping another photo.

One of the male nurses made his way toward Lars, who snapped a third photo.

"Great," bellowed Lars, "help bury the evidence."

"It's alright," the doctor called out and the male nurse backed off.

Lars took more photos and Belen began to cry.

"Can she hold the baby?" asked Ana Luisa.

The doctor held her stethoscope on the baby's tiny torso, listening to the fading beats of its multiple hearts. The baby wasn't moving and there was no evidence of breathing. Blood began to pool in the lowest part of the torso.

"We have to give it a chance!" cried one of the nurses.

The doctor looked down at the tiny, twisted infant in her arms. She listened carefully through he stethoscope as the heartbeats stopped. "This baby is dead," she stated quietly with an heir of authority she expected would not be challenged. "Time of death, 11:13 pm."

One of the nurses wrote down the information and another brought a towel, bent over and began wrapping the baby. She took the bundle over to Ana Luisa.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Ana Luisa nodded yes.

The technician leaned over and handed the bundle to Belen, who tearfully reached out. Pulling back the towel, the twisted mass of purple flesh came into view. Belen's chin trembled, tears rolled down her cheeks and, gently rocking the baby as if it were alive, she let out a deep, low cry.

It was more than Claire could take. Her hands over her face, she bolted from the room and across the hall. Placing her hand on the wall for support, her knees buckled beneath her and she fell to the floor. Drew raced out to her and knelt behind her, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. Claire sobbed deeply, tears rolling down her face to the floor.

Lars stepped out of the room and pulled off his mask. Drew could see tears forming in his eyes too. Then the doctor came out, exhaustion and bewilderment visible in her face . She knelt beside Drew.

"I want to know everything you can tell me about that toxin," she said.

Drew helped Claire up to a bench, where she slumped, hyperventilating. He stroked her back gently until she regained her breath.

"Bring Lars here," she whispered hoarsely in Drew's ear.

Drew went to fetch Lars, who came and knelt down in front of Claire on the other side from Drew.

"I'm going to take down Futura," she whispered, shaking violently. "I know how to do it, but both of you have to do exactly what I say."

Drew nodded in agreement.

"That means you too," she insisted, looking coldly at Lars.

Lars agreed and the two men helped Claire to her feet.

Chapter 26

In the days following the birth and immediate death of Belen's deformed baby, Claire's work life returned to its regular rhythms. After finessing what had happened to Krista and her well-meaning neighbor (aided by generous sums of money arranged by Lars), she moved into the luxurious down-town condo the company provided. She also picked out a company car, turning in her leased compact. Every day, she gave up-beat speeches and handed out cheques to non-profit groups and university researchers around the country, a remarkable number of which had made it onto Akintola's list.

Noting the overlap, in light of the criminal charges the professor was battling, Claire tactfully brought the issue to Evan's attention. Evan remarked how imprudent Akintola's publication had been. Claire nodded and continued on with her work.

However, the issue had ignited somewhat of a controversy. Even as media interest in Drew's research was dying, a wave of protest was erupting on university campuses all over the country. The ethics professor's open letter in the student paper had gone viral and in spite of the icy silence of academics and administrators, student groups were starting to make noise. Akintola, released on bail, had given several speeches asserting his innocence and, citing several instances in which Futura and other companies had framed academics whose work threatened their interests, his message was resonating. Akintola's students at the University of Southern Ontario had organized a surprisingly successful boycott of campus cafeterias using Futura's produce and their efforts were gaining traction with activist groups in the broader community. The media was starting to take interest in the issue and, concerned that continued silence would tilt public opinion against them, Futura's PR team decided it was best to hold a press conference to deny involvement in the Akintola affair, and to highlight the salient points of scientific papers by Schaffer and others demonstrating the safety of Futura's produce.

The conference was originally scheduled to take place at an auditorium on the University of Southern Ontario campus, but as confirmed attendance grew, security concerns became more prominent and the venue was changed to the Toronto Convention Centre on Front Street. Evan insisted that all company personnel arrive under guard in small, nondescript vehicles that would not invite attention and would send the message of frugality and environmental responsibility.

Seated in the rear of her rented Prius, a brawny security guard in the front, Claire looked up at the gleaming glass facade of the conference centre, her eyes darting around beneath dark glasses. Her vehicle passed a gray van parked meters from the front entrance. In the driver's seat, wearing a suit and tie, sat a man she recognized as one of Lars' confederates. He and she made fleeting eye contact as her vehicle inched by in heavy traffic. After her Prius descended the ramp into the parking garage and pulled up to the elevator, Claire stepped out and was joined by two security guards in three-piece suits and earpieces. Entering the lobby, one guard ahead and another behind, she noticed a tall man in khakis and a polo shirt standing against a wall, a large black suitcase on the floor beside him. Wearing sunglasses and holding the white cane of a blind man, he stared blankly off into the distance as Claire passed.

Turning toward the conference room and passing through the set of double doors one of the guards held open, she saw the room was abuzz with local and national media. She recognized reporters from CBC, CTV, CP24 and dozens of other TV stations, as well as correspondents from the Toronto Star, the Globe and Mail and other major dailies.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she walked along the side of the room, past the stage and into the secured backstage area where she knew Evan would be waiting. He smiled at her as she approached.

"All set?" he asked.

"I'm ready," she replied.

"Want to run the intro again?"

Claire nodded, then took a breath and began her speech on the spot. As with most of the presentations she gave, she'd memorized the words cold. When she was finished, Evan nodded in satisfaction.

"Remember the sparring sessions," he advised her. "Don't get cornered, and stay right on message."

"We'll be here for moral support," added Knox, who Claire had not known was standing behind her, "but the show is yours."

"Break a leg," Evan wished her with a kind wink.

Claire went to the computer backstage and walked through her slides again while Evan spoke with Knox. From her pocket, Claire surreptitiously removed a flash drive and transferred a file to the desktop. When finished, the flash drive went quietly back in her suit pocket. The technician gave her the cue, the house lights dimmed and Claire took a deep breath to calm her breathing. Striding confidently out on stage, an image of Futura's logo projected on the massive screen behind her, she took her place at the podium. Centering herself, she began.

"Good afternoon. My name is Claire LeBraun and on behalf of Futura Organic Systems Limited, I'd like to thank you for your interest in matters of food safety and corporate citizenship."

On a closed-circuit signal transmitted from a camera held by an independent reporter, Drew watched nervously from a room in the hotel next door. Claire had secretly given him two versions of her speech, the one Evan thought she would give and the one she planned to deliver. The two started the same way, but diverged about a minute in.

"Futura wishes to demonstrate that the company takes these matters seriously and will continue to ensure the quality of its produce and the well-being of those who grow it."

Evan and Knox stood confidently in the wings of the makeshift stage. Besides a few verbal heckles from student protestors, the presentation seemed to be going over well.

"The company would like to assure customers, retailers and other stakeholders that its products are certified organic and meet all," continued Claire, "and that all allegations stating otherwise are false."

Drew leaned forward in anticipation.

Claire took a breath to steady herself, but her voice began to waver. "Futura also strenuously denies any suggestion that the company has ever, in any way, interfered with the work of scientists or other academics conducting their research."

Evan clenched his fists at his sides. He knew something was wrong.

In the hotel room, Drew gnashed his teeth, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow.

Claire paused, breathing. This was it. After what she was about to do, there would be no turning back. She knew Desmond Lewis and his team of litigators and private investigators would bring the fist of God down on her and her family, but there was too much at stake for her to back down now. She took a final deep breath.

"But it's my moral duty to inform you... that these statements are lies."

Drew leapt to his feet, a fist raised above his head in excitement.

Knox glared at Evan, who swallowed hard.

Claire hit a button on her computer and the screen behind her lit up with one of the photos Lars took of Belen's hideously deformed newborn, seconds before its death. The audience gasped in horror, some members covering their eyes, others staring in disbelief.

"Futura sprays a chemical named T-107 which makes plants produce a genetic toxin mutating the DNA of human embryos in their first three weeks of life. This baby was stillborn to a mother who lived in a village near one of the company's fields in Central America."

Audience members took out their phone cameras and started snapping pictures. Evan charged toward the technician and ordered him to turn off the screen and the microphone. Claire heard the speakers click as the microphone went off. She raised her voice and addressed the audience directly.

"Around the room are people with actual human fetuses miscarried by women living near the fields," she screamed. "Some of the women died as a result."

"Right here!" called a voice from the rear of the auditorium. The man with the white cane, suitcase open at his feet, held a deformed fetus in a jar.

Another man called out from the left side of the room, then another from the right. Some of them carried fetuses, some handed out one-page brochures with photos and links to websites.

Elated, his eyes welling with tears, Drew fell to his knees. "Thank you Claire! Thank you!"

"Get her out of here!" Evan screamed to the guards.

Knox, felt the room start to spin. Trembling, he clutched his aching chest and stumbled forward, weak in the knees.

The guards charged toward Claire. She knew she was running out of time.

"The studies purporting to show the safety of Futura's food are based on false research!" she screamed. "And the clinics Futura built were intended to hide the problem by performing forced abortions on the village women!"

The doors at the other side of the room burst open and Claire pointed to a man and a woman carrying what appeared to be a stretcher covered in a blanket.

"Over there is a deformed bovine calf that died moments after it was born. The toxin was found in its blood and the blood of its mother."

The carriers pulled off the blanket, uncovering the calf. People jumped back in horror at the sight of the twisted mass of malformed heads and gangly limbs. An older woman standing right beside it fainted and collapsed to the ground. There was a frenzy of camera flashes as reporters converged to take photos.

As the security guards approached Claire from both sides of the stage, she kicked off her high heels and jumped off the front. Reporters and cameramen clambered over chairs to get to her. Charging into the middle of the frenzy Claire continued.

"Look on the pamphlets for a website detailing everything we currently know about the chemical!"

"How long have you known the truth?" a reporter screamed, jostling for position, a microphone in her outstretched hand.

"Are the accusations against Professor Akintola false?" asked another.

Security guards pushed their way toward Claire, grabbing reporters and throwing them out of the way.

"The charges against professor Akintola are a ploy designed to shred his credibility," Claire answered. "Drew Freeman was wrongly expelled for the same reason."

Drew was so happy he jumped up and down in the hotel room.

At the corner of the stage, Evan screamed at security to shut Claire up by any means necessary. Knox stumbled forward, his body stiff, peripheral vision darkening and a debilitating pain enveloping his upper body. He took a final step, then keeled over like a plank face first onto the floor.

Throwing a male reporter out of the way, a security guard managed to grasp Claire's arm.

"Let go of me!" she screeched.

The guard hooked her other arm and began dragging her toward the exit. The cameraman whose transmitter sent the video signal to Drew's TV stepped forward. He lifted his tripod off the ground and shoved it hard into the face of the security guard. As the guard released his grip, Claire lurched forward into the crowd. Guards converged from all directions and activists did their best to hold them back.

"Let her speak!" one of them ordered.

More security came and the scrum turned into a brawl. Protected by a ring of reporters and activists, Claire tried to answer questions, but was almost trampled. At the edges of the commotion she noticed police officers approaching. Unsure of whether they'd protect her or arrest her, Claire fought to stay on her feet. The police, growing in number, began pulling the brawlers apart.

Suddenly, the television image went dead. Drew charged out of his hotel room and bolted down the stairs. Racing out onto the sidewalk, he arrived as the brawl spilled out onto the street. Claire, still fighting to answer questions, was being jostled through the doorway.

A security guard managed to grasp her again and she struggled to break free. Along with several news camera crews, dozens of people were filming the action on their phone cameras.

"You have no right to silence me!" Claire screamed. "This is assault!"

A police officer new to the scene saw Claire struggling with the uniformed guard and tried to slap cuffs on her.

"You will not silence me!" screamed Claire.

Drew instinctively rushed in to help her.

"Don't arrest her!" he screamed at the officer. "Arrest him!" He pointed to the guard.

Reporters and audience members tried to explain to the police what was happening, but as more officers arrived, many protestors and even some media found themselves face down on the ground in cuffs. A bystander brought a chair down on the head of the officer who was cuffing Claire and he collapsed. Another officer wrestled the bystander to the ground, striking him with a baton.

Hands cuffed behind her back, Claire stood up, her face bleeding from a deep graze from the rough pavement. Reporters and camera crews converged on her like a pack of hungry wolves. Security guards began pulling them away.

"The company threatened my family," Claire shouted. "They said if I told the truth, they'd sue me and ruin everyone I loved! If anything happens to my family, it's their fault."

On Evan's orders, a wave of security guards charged toward the crowd. Shoving their way toward Claire, they pushed the whole scrum forward toward the street. They tumbled against Claire and knocked her toward the roadway. Handcuffed and unable to keep her balance, Claire stumbled.

Drew reached out, trying desperately to pull her back. His fingers brushed the sleeve of her jacket as a cameraman stumbled in front of him, knocking him to the ground. Helplessly, he watched as Claire fell backward into traffic. There was a screech of breaks, then the crack of breaking glass as Claire's head struck the windshield of a moving car.

Suddenly, for an instant, everything stopped. The brawlers froze as if in a theatrical tableaux. Reporters and guards looked on, incredulous. Then an officer ran forward to help Claire. A paramedic who'd been dispatched to the site joined him. The passenger of the car gazed horrified at the cracked, blood-spattered glass in front of him as the driver unhooked his seat belt and opened his door.

Drew scrambled over the cameraman who'd knocked him down and crawled toward Claire.

"No!" he cried, as dark red blood oozed out of her smashed head, pooling on the road.

"Sir, stand back," the officer ordered.

Drew knelt motionless.

"I said get back!" yelled the officer.

Another police officer pulled Drew to his feet and dragged him away. At the edge of the fray he stood, dazed, broken hearted. He fell to his knees. The pain within him was like nothing he'd ever known. Doubling over, his chest so tight he couldn't breathe, he wept.
Chapter 27

Two weeks after Claire's death, Drew sat at a table in a crowded Yorkville cafe, surfing the web on a new laptop. The website he, Claire and Lars had set up to publicize the data had received well over 7 million unique visitors. Private cell phone footage of Claire's gruesome death had gone viral on streaming sites all over the world and traffic was so heavy at times that some servers crashed. Linked from those videos were clips of Claire giving her presentation, speaking to the press and being "brutalized" by police. Drew's methodical explanation of the science behind the chemicals, accompanied by photos, videos and slideshows explaining the science behind the deformities were downloaded by hundreds of thousands of interested people and were heavily quoted in the mainstream media.

"Such a tragedy," the waitress remarked, seeing a picture of Claire on Drew's computer screen as she served him an organic salad.

"You have no idea," mumbled Drew.

On the television in the corner, local news was playing silently. Drew looked up from his computer as the station featured a clip of the president of Canada's largest grocery chain emphatically confirming that all Futura produce had been pulled from its shelves nation wide. With almost no exception, grocery chains across the world tossed out all inventory of Futura produce and suspended all future shipments pending the outcome of independent investigations. Shares of Futura's parent company plummeted on the stock exchange as pension funds and other institutional investors scrambled to divest themselves ahead of the bloodbath they knew was coming. While Drew couldn't have hoped for a more satisfying result, he also couldn't help thinking about Claire.

The door opened and in strode Lars with a newspaper tucked under his arm, looking like a confident young Liam Neeson in a long coat and sunglasses. Sitting down across from Drew, he tossed the paper on the table, looking sympathetically at his friend.

"It's hard, I know."

Unsure of what to say, Drew shrugged.

"You can't blame yourself."

"I tried to reach her," said Drew, his voice wavering.

"There's nothing we can do for her now."

"We can try to protect her family."

"My colleagues have seen to that."

"How?"

"That's not my end of things," smiled Lars, "but I have it on good authority her family will be alright."

"Who exactly are all these mysterious colleagues of yours?" asked Drew.

"That's a discussion for another day," Lars replied. "For now, let's just say they're a loosely organized group of influential people who share some common values."

"You could say that about Al Qaeda."

Lars laughed. "You might find this interesting." He pushed the newspaper toward Drew.

Drew picked it up and saw that it was folded to a page in the middle. A headline indicated that well water and soil around several of Futura's farms had tested positive for the chemical Drew had identified as causing the deformities. Employees of the clinics had been detained by police for questioning and regional health authorities were advising caution against conceiving children without prior toxicological screening.

"We won," said Drew.

Lars nodded in agreement. "That means you and I have to disappear for a while," he said, pulling an envelope out of his coat pocket.

"My mission should I choose to accept it?" joked Drew. He opened the envelope to find another fake passport, a set of bank cards and a one way ticket to Bangkok.

Lars stood up as Drew tucked the envelope in his computer case.

"I'll be in touch."

* * * * *

It was a placid August afternoon in Greenwich Village. People strolled about in the sunlight, which filtered through the swaying leaves. Young mothers pushed baby carriages along sidewalks, college students with backpacks slung over a shoulder waited for the bus and business people in suits sipped lattes on covered patios. Inside a small, upscale bistro, a group of finely dressed attorneys downed the final morsels of their lunches.

"Even though Ms LeBraun herself is no longer with us, we're obligated to carry out our threats," explained Desmond Lewis, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin as he swallowed the final bite of swordfish from his plate.

"Isn't there a chance this could backfire?" asked a young female associate. "If we're perceived as bullying the family of a woman who died for her beliefs--"

"Her family's misfortunes will serve as an effective deterrent to others."

The young associate swallowed hard. Lewis stared at her disapprovingly.

"If you don't have the balls for this," advised Lewis, "there's always real estate law."

The associate looked down in shame.

Lewis turned to an impeccably groomed 30-something male with slicked back hair. "Thomas, you'll initiate the criminal complaints against the mother."

The male associate nodded dutifully and wrote in his notebook.

"Greg, you'll set up the tax audit on the brother," Lewis said to a third associate. Then he turned to the female. "You'll see that the father not only loses his license, but also does a good stretch in prison."

"What for?" the associate asked.

"Be creative."

Suddenly, there was a ferocious cracking sound and the large front window shattered into thousands of tiny glass shards. The startled lawyers looked over to see a masked man with an axe charging through the window. Behind him was a man carrying a fire extinguisher. Restaurant patrons scrambled out of their seats and the two men pushed forward, throwing chairs and tables aside. A third man appeared wearing a large, green metallic backpack with a hose jutting out of it. At the end of the hose was a handle and a metal rod with a blazing hot flame burning from the end of it. It was a military flamethrower. The man with the flamethrower walked purposefully toward the lawyers' table, staring menacingly at Lewis through his ski mask and goggles.

Desmond Lewis felt the searing heat of the flame as the man approached, pointing the business end in his direction. The associates rolled off their chairs and crawled to the corners of the room, cowering in fear. With nowhere to run, Lewis got to his feet, terror in his eyes. The man with the flame thrower pulled the trigger and out came a blast of heat so intense that the paint on the walls curled.

Patrons screamed as Lewis' entire body was engulfed in flame. He flailed in panic and agonizing pain. The man with the fire extinguisher stepped forward and doused the flames, making sure to put out the fires on the furniture and walls. The lawyer fell to his knees, then to his side, his breathing hoarse through his charred throat. The flame at the end of the hose went out and the three men turned, walked out and piled into the open door of a black van which, with clockwork precision, pulled up just as they exited.

As the van screeched away, restaurant patrons looked around and timidly stood up. One of Lewis' associates called 911 on his cell as another attempted to tend to him, though he had no idea where to begin. His whole body a blistering pulp, Lewis was carried away to the hospital by paramedics, who arrived moments later.

In the days to follow, all of the senior partners at Lewis' firm were paid quiet visits by a very serious, soft spoken man who claimed responsibility for the attack on Lewis and explained to the partners just how closely their own fortunes - and those of their wives, sons and daughters - were tied to the well-being of the LeBraun family. Following those visits, Claire's mother was informed that she would enjoy unlimited access to all services at the chiropractic clinic in perpetuity, complements of an unknown benefactor. Her father found a brand new pickup in the driveway (with a polite note asking him not to drink and drive taped to the steering wheel). Claire's brother received a full scholarship to any North American college or university he chose to attend, available for him whenever he chose to go, with all living costs paid in the bargain. Incidentally, all criminal charges against professor Akintola were dropped and the university issued an unreserved apology to Drew Freeman, clearing his record of any wrongdoing and reversing his expulsion. The dean of science resigned.

Months later, as Lewis finally regained consciousness in the intensive care ward in which he'd spend the remainder of his truncated life, he was informed by his colleagues of these developments. But the elephant-doses of morphine he needed to manage the pain wreaked havoc with his faculties and the information barely took hold as he began his long, agonizing descent into permanent darkness.

* * * * *

The dive boat bobbed in the rolling swells off the South African coast. Evan donned his scuba gear as the boat crew tossed bloody chum into the water. When the first dorsal fin appeared, the crew helped him up on the rear deck. Leaping into the water, he let himself settle onto the metal meshwork at the bottom of the cage. This was a well-deserved treat, he thought, as Great Whites circled the cage, gnawing on chunks of tuna in the water. Out of the ashes of past failure will rise future success. His service at Futura may have ended in disaster, but within the PR industry, his innovation with respect to the clinics was considered the stuff of genius, even if the plan hadn't worked. The disastrous publicity now attached to his name might bar him from serving as an executive, but offers for independent consulting work were pouring in. By his most conservative estimates, he'd pull down a cool $2-3 million at least in the next 12 months.

His heart jumped as a shark charged the cage. The metal shook and rattled as the beast opened its gigantic maw and bit down on the bars. Unable to resist the urge, he reached out and touched its nose for a split second. The thrill was almost orgasmic. More chum plopped into the water and a second shark appeared like a ghost out of the depths. A third attacked the cage from below. His heart was pumping, adrenaline was surging. He was in heaven.

Looking at his tank pressure gauge frequently, he breathed slowly, trying to make the experience last as long as he could. When his air finally red-lined, he inflated his buoyancy device and floated to the surface. Sharks frantically attacking the cage, he looked up to the grinning faces of the crew members. Something wasn't right. They were holding machetes. Why would they have machetes?

"Head office sends its regards," quipped the first-mate in the unmistakable accent of South African whites.

The crew members raised their blades and brought them down hard on the ropes that held the cage to the winch. Evan pulled off his fins and tried to scramble up the ladder, but a crewman hacked his hand with the sharp end of the blade and he fell back into the water, fingers floating beside him. The cage rattled as a massive shark bumped it with its nose. His eyes wide, Evan turned round to see another shark approaching. The crewmen chopped away and Evan again made for the ladder. Suddenly the ropes unraveled and the cage dropped. Instinctively clinging to the ladder, Evan found himself sinking. With little air in his tank, had no choice but to let go. Breathing his last gulps of air, he scrambled to the surface. Flinging himself at the stern of the boat, he reached up with his good hand and tried to pull himself out of the water on a dangling rope.

"Please!" he howled at the unsympathetic crew.

Trying to wiggle out of his scuba gear, he fell again and the crewman yanked the rope out of the way. Then, from out of the depths, an incredible set of jaws opened beside him and grasped his torso, thrusting him sideways through the water as it shook its massive head. The shark dove and through the bloody water, Evan's final vision was the dark hull of the boat rolling on the waves as it receded into the distance.

The first mate looked down at the great clouds of blood churning in the water where Evan had last swam. As the crewmen laughed, the captain put the boat in gear and swung the bow toward port. There would be questions they'd have to answer to the authorities, but they'd been assured of top-tier legal representation - and the money they'd been offered was well worth the trouble. Some of them struggled with the moral issue, for a while, but the reality was, all of them understood life quite the way Evan had. Business was war and war was a zero sum game. For every winner, someone else had to lose. Today, it was Evan's turn.
About the Author

Paul Sean Grieve has lived many lives, having worked as a news cameraman, editor and documentary filmmaker. He currently lives on the subtropical island of Okinawa, Japan where he writes novels, short stories and screenplays.

Find out more at www.psgrieve.com

Join my mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/bpo8VX

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family, friends and beta-readers for all their wonderful support. In particular, I would like to thank my beautiful wife Raphela for her encouragement and understanding throughout every stage of this work. I would also like to recognize the amazing contribution of my eagle-eyed editor Beni Fogel, whose meticulous work scrubbed this novel of more errors than I wish to remember. I want to thank my friend (and unofficial agent) Kish Iqbal, whose brutally honest feedback in early development helped shape the book into what it ultimately became.

Finally, if you've purchased this book, I would like to thank you for providing the kind of financial support that makes it possible for me to keep writing. Without you, there would be no way I could justify the incredible investment in time it takes to keep writing.

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