

WEED

A novel by

Peter J. Ponzo

# PART ONE

Chapter 1

The river looked like a giant septic system, a familiar shade of brown. I stood at the grassy edge, peered through the morning haze and watched the beast standing stiff-legged on the far shore, rocking from foot to foot, its great square head swaying low to the ground. Charles wasn't frightened, not exactly, but the jaguar was enormous.

"Don't worry Miss Fleetsmith," he whispered confidently, his hand shading his eyes from the hot sun, "it won't cross the river. Cats don't like water."

I knew better, having spent months in the university library studying the flora and fauna of the Amazon, the most diversified ecosystem on the face of the earth. Nine hundred species of birds filled the skies. Two thousand species of fish swam among the tree branches during the six month rainy season when the Amazon Basin was under as much as fifty feet of water, the Amazon flooding its banks thirty miles to either side of the river. This gargantuan river, named Amazonas by a Spanish explorer (when they thought they saw a band of female warriors), began its 3900 mile journey to the Atlantic from the Andes mountains of Peru, through six countries, draining a basin almost the size of the United States.

Yes, I felt I knew the jungle like the back of my hand. I gazed at the back of my hand. The scar seemed larger than yesterday.

When I looked up, the jaguar had leaped into the river. So much for Charlie's assurances.

Charles turned and ran, then slowed, then looked back, waiting anxiously. He looked a pitiful sight, shifting from one foot to the other, his hands fluttering by his side. I ambled at a leisurely pace into the shadows of the jungle and the jaguar went his own way, paying little attention to the two ardent explorers shuffling through the underbrush.

I was disappointed. It was not a lack of interest of the beautiful spotted cat, but because of the loss of our boat. I had wanted to follow the river for another mile or two, drifting, staring in awe at the lush vegetation that lined the edges of the great river. No matter. We'd never find the boat anyway. The guide we hired had appeared uneasy for days. When we awoke that morning, he was gone. I was sure the bastard had taken the boat; that's how he'd get back to the Holana settlement. For me and Charles it meant a long and arduous trek back through the jungle. Ah well, it would be a few days before we reached our destination and by then we would have thought of some other way back to the settlement. The rewards would justify the inconvenience. Rewards for me... and for humanity. That, at least, was my belief.

By noon we had reached the foothills of the Pellita Mountains and rested. Charles neatly laid out our packs, collapsed onto the mossy ground then fell asleep immediately. I wandered about the site for nearly an hour. Eventually I pulled the flynet across Charles, crept under, and slept. I hadn't realized how tired I was. When I awoke it was evening so I just rolled over and went back to sleep. This was no picnic. We needed to rest, often.

The sun rose swift as a cannon ball, and hot, and we had a short breakfast of cold, cooked rice and hot coffee, then continued along the base of Pellita until we reached the creek, following it for most of the day, then camped early, exhausted.

I had heard of this trip so often that it seemed almost familiar. I had gone over it in my mind for months. It was to be a great and rewarding adventure. Who could resist the rain forest, the exotic birds, the clear and bubbling waters, green everywhere, blue skies—paradise. But the bloody insects; they sucked, they chewed, they buzzed. Perhaps the worst creatures in the jungle were not the wild boars or jaguars, but those bloody insects.

It was dark now and the moon hung low over the jungle canopy like some great white eyeball.

"May I see the map?" Charles said. I pulled the worn document from my shirt. "We are here." Charles pointed confidently with a thin finger, holding the map up to the light of the small fire. "At the end of Moon Creek, at the base of Pellita and inside the border."

I wasn't listening; I knew exactly where we were. We were in Chokli country, and that meant trouble. Although there was, as yet, no sign of the natives, we both knew that this was their part of the jungle. It was surely that knowledge that had frightened our guide. He had burbled for days, waving his arms and grumbling "Chockla, Chockla". Had I not known better I'd have given him a Mars bar.

The Chokli had resisted the white man's encroachment very effectively. Men went in and never came out. Well, that wasn't exactly true. One had come out: Dr. Lloyd Francis Fleetsmith, my father. When he left the Chokli and wandered into the Holana settlement, several days down river from the Chokli village, he was emaciated, delirious and naked. He was flown back to Toronto where he spoke of the Chokli and the miracle weed with such awe that I made the vow even as the good doctor lay dying in St. Francis Hospital. I would finish my degree: Fran Debra Fleetsmith, PhD, microbiology. Then I'd make the trip to the jungles of Brazil, find the tribe, collect the weed and return to lay the weed before the medical community—and make my fortune in the bargain. Not that I wasn't reasonably wealthy. Pops had made a fortune in herbal medicines and I had lived very comfortably, thank you. But my father wouldn't die in vain. I would continue his pursuit of this wonder weed. When I eventually headed south, in August after the Amazon floods had subsided, Charles Clayton Curran accompanied me; he wasn't going to let me go it alone.

I was looking absentmindedly at the scar on the back of my hand, again. It had been an accident, that first day in Brazil. A crate had slipped from the rack at the loading dock and I had been scratched by the baling wire. Normally, I would have taken the tetanus shot, bandaged the wound and ignored it, but it was to be a test of the miracle weed. I would let it fester, if it had a mind to, and I'd be cured by the weed. Never once had I doubted the stories told by my father, or my ability to find the weed in the jungles of the Amazon. Charles had fussed over my scratch, waving the medical kit, alarmed at the dire consequences of leaving the wound unattended, but had dutifully taken pictures at my request – before we lost the camera in a swamp while sidestepping what had seemed to be an alligator but, in fact, was a rather large scaly fish. The picture would be rather meagre proof of the efficacy of the weed, but I found the tale delightful: young woman wanders through the jungle with a wounded hand, finds a miracle weed and watches the wound heal before her very eyes.

But somehow the scar was getting larger and more ugly. That shouldn't happen. I ran my finger slowly across the bruise. I'd better find that weed, soon.

When morning came, the natives came. They were small and dark-skinned and bald with great white painted circles about their sombre black, oval eyes. And their teeth were sharpened to points. I was awake and watched with surprisingly little unease. They encircled our campfire, now quite dead, and moved in slowly, waiting, short spears poised, hunched forward, curious. It was to be expected. Pops had written of a tribe which he felt were somehow related to the Chokli and he had indicated, on a map, where they might be found. Nevertheless, these natives seemed not to make use of any miracle weed so he had little interest in them. Pops had smiled, bowed, presented them with gifts and moved on in search of the Chokli whose existence he had gathered from the natives at the Holana settlement while on an earlier expedition in search of herbal medicines. The Chokli came to the Portuguese settlement several times each year with giant fish for the market, trading for knives and other metal instruments, then they would vanish once again into the jungle.

I closed one eye, squinted with the other and gazed warily as the natives gathered about. Slowly, I pulled the Smith and Wesson from my jeans. The first native came forward and waved his spear tentatively, then poked at Charles who continued to sleep soundly. It always amazed me how that man could sleep. I pushed the revolver out from under the flynet, extended my arm until the barrel was next to the native's temple, pulled back the hammer, thought about it for a moment, then pointed to miss. I wouldn't blow his head off, but I'd give him one hell of a scare.

The native saw me, cocked his head, winked curiously and fell back as the gun went off with a roar. Charles awoke, startled, saw the native scrambling to his feet and put his hand to his mouth.

"Good heavens Miss Fleetsmith, what have you done! They will surely attack and we will be unable to defend against them!"

The other natives vanished into the shadows.

"It was my humble intention, Miss Fleetsmith, to protect you," Charles said.

"Let's go," I said.

It was nearly noon when we stopped to eat. I let the pack slip from my back, imagining deep canyons in my shoulders where the straps had been. Charles started a small fire. I glanced at my watch. It was one o'clock and we had finished the thin strips of dried beef and half a loaf of dark bread. Oh for a plate of Pasta Carbonara, Chianti Classico and Zaballone to top it off. After our sumptuous victuals I took the lead, again along the creek bed, now merely a trickle of slimy brown water. This was certainly not the mighty Amazon, but merely a tributary. It was hard to imagine: this creek drained into the Amazon as did thousands of other such waterways. The total volume of water which the Amazon ushered to the Atlantic ocean each day was sufficient to provide the entire North American continent with fresh water for perhaps four months. I stopped to look again at the muddy creek. Fresh water? No thanks. I couldn't imagine anyone drinking that stuff.

We camped that evening without a fire; we were within a day of our destination, the Chokli village. No need to attract them with a rising ribbon of smoke.

Charles had plucked a small red flower from a mossy stump and held it to the light of the fire.

"Miss Fleetsmith, are you familiar with this plant?" he asked.

He invariably prefixed his comments with 'Miss Fleetsmith'. When he didn't, it often meant he was hiding something, or momentarily confused ... or he had simply lapsed into the more comfortable relationship that I had encouraged for years.

"Calladria forensis," I mumbled, smiling. He seemed impressed and tore a piece of moss from the stump.

"And this?" he asked.

"Mosstoforo amazonia," I responded.

I could see the amazed expression on his face. He jumped up and walked to a great gnarled tree, inspecting the bark. It was quite dark but he managed to find a small black beetle and returned to the fire.

"And this?" he said.

I bent over, pretending to inspect the beetle, then said: "Bethalonus cracinus."

"Bethalonus cracinus," he repeated. "My, my, Miss Fleetsmith. You certainly have studied the flora and fauna of the Amazon. I am really quite impressed. I expect to receive quite an education before this trip has ended." He was about to leave again, to find another specimen, when I pointed to his place by the fire.

"Have a seat, Charlie. I just made up those names. I haven't the foggiest—"

"Are you saying that you are not familiar with these plants and animals?"

"Right on, Charlie boy. Never seen them before. Just made up a few latin-sounding names."

"Then why did you—"

"Have you ever noticed," I said, leaning back against a thick stump, "that people are desperate to know the names of plants and animals? It doesn't matter that they know nothing of their habits, lifestyles, environment, reproductive skills, enemies, evolutionary history. You give them a name—any name—and they're happy. They think they've learned something. They will point to a beetle, proudly say Oompapa bangbang and that's enough. That's all they need to know. A name. Their curiosity is put to rest."

I paused and stared absentmindedly into the fire.

"People are funny, don't you think?" I whispered.

Charles was frowning. "Miss Fleetsmith? Is it really worth putting ourselves at risk? I mean, coming here to the Amazon."

"It's worth it." I was inspecting my scar by the light of a full moon. Normally the jungle canopy prevented any sight of the moon, but we were in a small clearing and the moon was quite bright.

"It is meritorious to give it to the world," Charles said, and gestured dramatically. "We just about died in the process, but here it is, the miracle weed. Cures all ills." He bowed his head. "Thank you kindly, but keep your money. Your respect is all I want, all I need." Charles grinned, leaned against a rock and lit his pipe, pleased with his performance. He had this knack for turning everything into a movie scene. Come to think of it, I may have picked up some of that knack myself. Somehow it seemed to put things into a certain satisfying perspective if you stood back and imagined your situation as a scene from a play. But he was wrong about my motives for coming to the Amazon jungle.

"Keep your money? I never said that."

I stared intently at Charles, a thin and swarthy man with his wispy hair, oversized and rather bony nose and white clay pipe which often protruded from his face, though I rarely saw him smoke. I suspect it was primarily for show since he seemed to cultivate this look of sophistication. He was wearing blue jeans and a light tan shirt neatly tucked in at the waist—not his usual attire, but he was determined to look the part. He had washed and dried this shirt at least four times since we began our trek. I sniffed involuntarily at my armpits; washing was not my favourite pastime.

Although he had spent much of his life entombed in father's residence, back in Burlington, Charles had the parchment skin of a sailor. He had been Pop's handyman, my father's chauffeur, gardener, chef and best buddy. When Pops died and I graduated and began studying the geography of the Amazon basin—and my father's notes on the Chokli, including the map which I held in my shirt, between my boobs—Charles had already begun packing. When I announced that I'd be gone for several months, he had already paid all the bills until the end of the year, hired a live-in gardener, cancelled paper and magazine subscriptions and asked the police to check the house periodically. I had really intended to go alone, but didn't argue. In fact, although I never said so—not in so many words—I was pleased to have him as companion. We had left town immediately, flying to Brazil, buying supplies and hiring a rather flimsy motorized craft and boating nearly four hundred miles up the Amazon to a small settlement where we hired a guide and bought a small boat for the remaining journey. The guide had disappeared yesterday, as soon as we had entered Chokli country, and he took the small boat with him. That was no surprise. It had happened to Pops.

It rained that night, but we could still hear the howler monkeys roaring throughout the downpour. Although the thin plastic sheet kept us about as dry as a Caesar salad, the creek was a torrent by morning. Nevertheless we had to follow the soggy shoreline, as indicated on the map. By noon we had reached the jungle clearing, surrounded by red-stemmed bushes covered in tiny green and purple-veined leaves. The clearing was on the map: a clearing with red-stemmed bushes and statuary it said. My heart was pounding. It was as though the past few weeks had never happened and we had simply been transported to this place of magic on wings of—well ... that's pretty corny. I ran into the clearing and eagerly looked about for the statuary. I couldn't hear myself breath. I was holding my breath. Were these bushes the weed my father had spoken of? The miracle weed that cured all ills?

In the centre of the clearing was a very tall stone statue of a naked woman carrying a child, and arrayed in a semicircle before the statue were several smaller stone figures lying prostrate, grovelling. Whereas the statues of woman and child were skillfully done with every detail embossed on the stone, the prostrate figures were little more than smooth blobs of rock, bearing only vague resemblance to a human form. Indeed, the lack of detail seemed to be intentional. I spent a half hour just running my hand over the smooth stone. The sweat was pouring down my cheek. My hands were trembling. We were almost there—finally. Finally.

At Charles' insistence I eventually sat on a recumbent stone figure and ate a small lunch of salami and cheese. It was quite remarkable how varied were our snacks. To Charles, food was a major source of pleasure and the knapsack was filled with a host of small, tasty bundles.

Charles sat on the ground in deference to the religious significance of the statuary. He had seen them before. Pops had sent him photos of these curious statues, admitting that their significance had eluded him.

"Why the difference, Charlie?" I said.

"Beg pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?"

"The statues. Smooth blobs on the ground, detailed carvings on the woman and child over there. Why the difference in technique?"

"I suspect that the figures on the ground have been abused." He looked uncomfortably at me, sitting on one such blob of stone. "They get walked over, kicked and ... and sat upon."

I grunted. "Hmm, look at this one. It hasn't been worn smooth by constant use. It's been scraped smooth, as though there was once considerable detail. Now, it's not even clear if it represents a male or female."

"Your father was at a loss to explain the statues and he spent some time studying them, as you will recall. I rather doubt that a cursory investigation will reveal their true nature."

"Hmm."

We were now very close to the village. Indeed, if we waited, the Chokli would undoubtedly show up. It had happened in just that manner to my father. So we waited, and ate, and the Chokli arrived before dessert. I didn't argue with them. Being dragged to the Chokli village was not the elaborate entrance I had imagined, but it would do. That's where I wanted to be.

There were perhaps a hundred short and stocky natives in the village, mostly men, with straight black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes circled with white paint, and pointed teeth and naked except for bushy, diaper-like skins wrapped about their waist. The similarity to the natives we had met earlier was evident, but these natives weren't bald. They did, however, look equally fierce. I tried to smile continuously. Only when we were pushed into a small mud hut did I drop the smile. My jaw was sore.

"Congratulations, Miss Fleetsmith. We're here," Charles said, with less than frothy enthusiasm.

"That's success, I guess. But I don't intend to stay long. Grab some weed, smile brightly, say goodbye, head home."

"I suspect that it will take more than a smile to—"

I held out the back of my hand. "Look at this scar. It's larger than yesterday." I sniffed the scar. "Looks like some kind of yeast, feeding on my skin. It's turned a nasty shade of purple. I assume that these Chokli have this miracle weed. I also assume that they use it for just such wounds. Let's see."

I crawled to the door, the Lilliputian ceiling being much too low to stand, and thrust my hand out, wound-side up, expecting some tribal voodoo doctor to come running with his black satchel filled with weed. Instead, I was immediately and unceremoniously hauled from the hut and dragged to the far end of the village until I stood before a stone statue of a naked woman holding a child, similar to, though smaller than the one we had seen earlier in the jungle clearing. About the base of the statue, a ring of white fluffy substance, much like a soapy foam which had hardened and shredded. Except for this fluff the area was clear of any vegetation; no grass, no weeds.

I heard a shout and saw Charles dragged from the hut to stand beside me. The natives began to chant and jog about, the skins about their waist sporting bushy tails which swayed in concert with their dance. The sun was low and the sky blood-red and quite dark, but the white circles about the Chokli eyes seemed to glow.

"The natives are restless," muttered Charles.

Suddenly a stubby native leaped forward and tore the shirt from Charles' chest. Then two others raised their spears and began poking him and he backed against the statue, holding the cold feet of the tall stone lady. Immediately, there was a hoarse cry and a dozen natives leaped forward and pulled him to the ground, tore off his clothes and tied him to a post. He hung naked and streaked with blood. It was a pitiful sight. I struggled to free myself from the hands of the fiery little Chokli, but there was little I could do.

Now I'm a tall woman, five foot eleven in bare feet, and I towered over the short natives like a giant. They held me tightly, comically, about the waist, their tails swaying violently. I squinted to see Charles, white and naked, his penis erect and clearly visible in the failing light.

"Excited?" I asked incredulously.

Then, with a scream, the natives began reaching up and tearing my shirt down to my waist. One withered little bastard was especially enthusiastic, a single yellow tooth hanging over his lower lip.

"Hold on buster. This'll cost you a few shekels." I punched him in the nose.

As suddenly as the screaming started, it stopped. The natives backed into the shadows, gasping. Slowly they came forward again and fell to their knees, then lay face down, their bushy tails rising behind them. If they weren't so unpredictable, they'd be funny.

I looked over my shoulder, saw the tall stone lady and backed to it, leaning heavily against the base. The Chokli were lying flat, grovelling. I looked up once more, stepped away from the statue and scanned the entire stony torso.

Tall and a bit thick about the hips, firm but heavy tits, a short neck, shoulder muscles like Tarzan. The similarity was unexpected.

"Miss Fleetsmith?" whispered Charles. "Are you all right?"

"Mmm."

"Can't see much in the dark, but the screaming and chanting seems to have stopped," Charles said.

"Goddess," I whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm a goddess," I repeated. Then I turned, grabbed the cold boobs—one in each hand—and climbed the statue, hanging my arms about the neck of the stone woman, sitting on the back of the stone child. I pointed in the general direction of Charles. It was too dark now to see him.

"Release that man!" I ordered in my most imperative voice. It was a lousy script, but what the hell.

There was a murmur from the crowd, but no apparent movement.

"Shit. Should've enrolled in Chokli 101."

I felt a hand on my leg and kicked out blindly. Must be that energetic little bastard with the yellow tooth.

"Miss Fleetsmith, it is I, Charles. Come down. They are all immobile it seems. Lying face down, torpid and mute."

I slid into Charles' arms and he began to carry me out of the village, with what seemed like seventeen arms encircling my tits. Charlie was rather sparsely constructed, especially evident in his current attire of skin and bones, and I was built like the notorious concrete turd house, so it wasn't easy for the poor chap. But I went along with this heroic gesture until we came to the jungle's edge.

"Worshipping," I whispered in his ear, then tried to disentangle myself from his myriad arms. He seemed reluctant to let me go, standing naked at the edge of the bush, holding me tightly to his chest as I struggled.

"Charles Clayton Curran," I growled, "I appreciate your rising to the occasion, but if you don't drop me, I'll bust you in the crotch." He dropped, I dropped, and the natives began to chant, rising from the ground and circling.

"Worshipping?" Charles whispered.

"What?"

"Miss Fleetsmith, you said 'worshipping'."

"Mmm, yes. Watch." I trotted to the stone Madonna with child. Charles was obviously shocked by my bravado, but I knew exactly what I was doing. The natives fell immediately to their knees before me, moaning softly.

"Any resemblance?" I said, placing my arm about the stone lady, my bare breasts next to hers.

"I see," Charles said, peering into the darkness, one hand covering his privates, the other arched over his brow. "Miss Fleetsmith, a goddess."

Chapter 2

There was little to do except eat the strange fare we were offered, which included roasted bugs—probably caterpillars—and dried roots and berries and nuts. So I inspected our quarters. The hut was of straw and a red mud, rather crude. I had imagined craftsmen weaving elaborate structures of palm fronds interlaced with willow branches and centrally located soaring edifices with tiled courtyards at which they worshipped their gods and ... well, so much for the weeks I spent studying the flora and fauna.

And I counted. As far as I could tell, there were exactly one hundred and thirty-seven natives in the village, and all but twelve were male. Eleven of the women were pregnant, and weary, ranging in age from about thirteen to one old hag who looked like seventy. Except for her, the others were really young. It wasn't easy to guess their ages. Perhaps the seventy-year-old was really twenty, although her face was quite hairy. She was clearly pregnant, so I guess she was young enough, but had had a hard life and it showed. In fact, except for the one young woman who wasn't pregnant, they all looked tired, overworked and perhaps overutilized by the macho midgets who outnumbered them ten-to-one.

The eleven pregnant women lived together in a large mud and thatch shack in the centre of the village and the men brought them food and drink. Nothing wrong with these Chokli. That was the way civilization should have evolved back-home.

The twelfth female, the only one who wasn't pregnant, lived alone in a red mud hut. She was short and plump, less than twenty years old I would say, with massive—I mean humongous—bare breasts, and she spent most of the day parading before the males, all of whom took turns in presenting her with gifts of cassava root, berries, fat caterpillars, skins, pottery and tiny green and purple-veined leaves: the miracle weed, no doubt. In spite of this, she didn't look happy. She stamped her feet and marched to the small hut which housed Charlie and me. Piled high by our door were cassava roots, berries, caterpillars wrapped in leaves, skins, pottery and weeds—and several dozen male Chokli waiting their turn to see the White Goddess who bore such a remarkable resemblance to their statue. In case you've forgotten, that's me.

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said urgently. "This must stop. You cannot lead them on like this. It's quite dangerous. You now have your weed it would seem. We should consider methods of escape. And you must repair your shirt. It is quite indecent. And ..."

"Charlie, have you seen the scar? Look, it's now half its original size." I stopped rubbing the leaves on the scar and held up my hand. The scar was barely visible. "And stop worrying. As their goddess, I can do no wrong. I just point, or grunt, or wave my hand and they all jump." I leaned back against the pile of skins, pulled open my shirt, bared my breasts, and waved my hand. "Show the next one in."

Charles, dressed in jeans and a torn shirt, crawled reluctantly to the door and waved at the short native. He came bounding in and fell to his knees before the White Goddess, reached out to touch an extended toe, then, delicately, touched an exposed breast. I could see the plump female stooping by the door, her tits hanging like melons. It was clear that these bantam Romeos preferred quality to quantity. I grinned, patted my Romeo on the head, pointed at the door and he left immediately, his bushy tail wagging delightedly.

"Next," I muttered.

A short and plump girl stalked in, the one with the huge boobs, the one not pregnant. She had seemed angry earlier in the day and was now prepared to vent her wrath on us. There were gasps from the natives outside.

"Trouble," grunted Charles.

"Mmm."

I leaned forward, held out my hand as a gesture of friendship, smiled widely. Miss Boobs frowned, stared for a moment at the outstretched hand, then began pointing at me and gnashing her pointed teeth. I closed my shirt and leaned back.

"Miss Fleetsmith?" began Charles.

"It's okay, she's just jealous," I whispered. The girl began to chant and the natives outside joined in. I rolled to my knees, careful not to scrape my head against the low ceiling, crawled to the door, past Charles who sat with hands to cheek, past the chanting girl with pointed teeth, stopping at the entrance to our hut. As soon as I appeared in the doorway the chanting outside stopped and the Chokli fell to their knees. I stooped out the door, rose towering to my feet, pulled my shirt open once more and crossed my arms beneath my perfectly ample breasts. It was a good scene. The chanting began anew.

"Eat your heart out, lady," I muttered over my shoulder. "You'll have to wait your turn."

The young girl appeared in the door, stepped out and raised her arms, moving her pelvis left and right, her pendant breasts swaying in synch. Several Chokli, with heads still bowed, raised their eyes and the chanting increased in pitch. Wait just one minute. I tore the shirt from my jeans, flung it over the kneeling natives, then began moaning softly. Ludicrous, a competition, Miss Boobs and I. The chanting increased to fever pitch. I could see Charles, lying at the doorway, rolling his eyes, his palms together. I do believe he was praying.

"Miss Fleetsmith, you shouldn't have tormented them." Charles was sitting cross-legged within our small hut, a hand clasped about each knee. It had been raining for over an hour and I was at the door watching the mud puddles form in the clearing. Although the roots, berries, bugs, skins and pottery were still outside, soaking wet, I had pulled the pile of weeds under the roof to keep them dry. Well, reasonably dry; the hut was hardly weatherproof.

I rolled on my side to inspect the curious red-stemmed plant with its thin branches and withered, purple-veined leaves. Each leaf seemed to be covered in a dull, frosty-looking powder. The powder came off when rubbed. Perhaps it was the powder that healed. I looked at the back of my hand.

"Well, Charlie, it works." I carelessly waved my hand to show that the scar had vanished. Indeed, the purple scar had been transformed into a pale cream blemish, smooth and well-defined. "Too bad you lost the camera. I really need a picture of this." I gathered a few leaves and sniffed. "Oregano." But something was curious. I sat up and looked at Charles. "Why so few woman? And why so young? And all pregnant, except Pelvis."

Charles leaned forward and frowned.

"Oregano?" he muttered.

"Smells like oregano," I said, spreading the leaves. "The weed smells like oregano."

"Pelvis?" he said.

"The young girl, Miss Boobs with the pulsating pelvis."

Charles screwed up his face. "To attempt an answer to your question: I suspect, Miss Fleetsmith, that most babies are born male. I believe your father agreed with this deduction. That would explain the lack of females, and the perceived need to worship woman and child, as in the stone statue which lies in this village and which we also saw—"

"No, too simple," I said. "There are old men, but no old women, except for the hairy one who is probably twenty but looks seventy." I crawled to my pile of skins and rolled onto my back. I began to hum. I always did that when I was thinking, and I knew that Charles would not disturb these cerebral machinations. He waited. Suddenly, I had it. I jumped up and my head went through the mud and thatch roof.

"Shit!" I grunted, and sat down abruptly, and the rain poured through the hole in the roof. I slid sideways, pulling the skins with me, and a steady column of rain danced on the straw floor beside me. "It has something to do with the weed," I said, rubbing my head.

"Miss Fleetsmiith, four letter words are unbecoming a lady of breeding," Charles whispered.

"Weed?" I said.

"S-H-I-T," he spelled.

"It's the weed." I ignored his comment. "Somehow, the lack of women is tied up with—uh, wait a minute ..." I hummed softly. "I think they all use it, the weed, I mean. Certainly they use it for healing. Maybe for other things. Yet only the women are affected in some very different way. Whatever way that is, it accounts for the lack of women. Why?" I turned again to Charles. "Charlie? What's the difference between male and female?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles involuntarily went from cross-legged to stiff-legged, knocking his knees together as though to conceal his privates. "Male? Female?" he muttered.

"Charlie, think! A weed is used for medicinal purposes, both sexes use it, yet only the females ... uh, die, or maybe get sick and eventually die. And they do that when they're young. Perhaps after their first use of the weed. Right?"

"Babies," Charles muttered.

"What?"

"The difference between male and—"

I jumped up, really excited. I opened another hole in the roof. "Shit!" But the rain had stopped so I just stood and gazed out across the village, my head and shoulders protruding above the low roofline. The Chokli were coming out of their huts now, and they were all headed toward the hut with the two holes in the roof, their White Goddess issuing from one of them.

"We're having company," I said, still standing. "But this time ... this time—" I dropped into the hole and sat, cross-legged, staring at Charles.

"This time ... what?" he asked.

"Wait," I said, just above a whisper.

We waited for only a moment, then the first native stuck his head into the door, then another, then another, until some six or seven heads were jammed into the opening. Charles looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Then the heads vanished one-by-one, there was some discussion outside, and the first Chokli crawled in.

"Gracious!" Charles fell back against the wall of the hut and placed his hands to his cheeks. "He ... he's naked." He leaned forward and stared and added, "and ... uh, quite extraordinarily erect."

Chapter 3

It took all of my divinity to avoid gang rape, but when the last Chokli wandered off to join the lineup at the red mud hut occupied by Pelvis, Charles breathed a sigh of relief.

"Miss Fleetsmith, we really must attempt to leave before—"

"Mmm, yes," I whispered, stuffing the weeds into my jeans, then into my shirt which was now pushed into my belt and buttoned at the collar. I was rather pleased with the enhanced geometry and stuck out my chest. "Well?" I said. "What do you think?"

Charles stared, wide-eyed. "Really, Miss—"

"Charlie, grab what's left of these weeds. Fill your pockets. We leave with nothing but our clothes—and these plants." I stared at the knapsacks we had carried throughout our journey. Except for some flynet, plastic sheets and a few scraps of food there was little reason to bring them with us. The Smith and Wesson revolver would have been helpful, but the natives had confiscated the weapon the minute they found us, obviously understanding its significance. It wasn't clear what we'd do for food after we left the village, but what the hell, if the animals of the jungle could survive without a Walmart Supercenter then so could we.

There was a commotion in the village and I crept to the door to see the plump girl, Pelvis, carried on the backs of several natives, from her red mud hut to the jungle. The girl did not seem pleased, and struggled violently. Something important was about to happen.

I whispered as the last native vanished into the shadows. "C'mon Charlie. We're leaving now." Then I crawled out the door, stood and began to stretch and jog-on-the-spot, my arms dangling, flapping by my side, pretending to be unconcerned with the environment, a standard morning ritual. Didn't all guests do this? Charles followed suit, half-heartedly, but when I began to jog toward the point where the natives had left the village, he stopped.

"Miss Fleetsmith, a diametrically opposed exit is to be preferred."

"Follow me!" I shouted loudly over my shoulder—and Charles followed, reluctantly. There seemed to be no one left in the village except the hairy old hag who's probably only twenty, and she ignored us. Any others must have been in their huts. In any case we had no difficulty leaving. In a way I was somewhat disturbed. The natives had left without a word. That was no way to treat their goddess.

When we neared the jungle clearing—the one surrounded by the red-stemmed bushes covered in tiny green and purple leaves—we could hear the natives chanting. Charles had kept up a continuous whispered chatter, pleading to move in the opposite direction. Now he was quiet. Together, he and I crept to the edge of the clearing and watched the ceremony.

Some forty small black men sat wrinkled and old, in a large circle. Many natives squatted at the edge of the clearing. Twenty other younger native men echoed the semicircular arrangement of the recumbent, smooth stone statues, lying prostrate between them. Two dozen others, just boys of perhaps ten or twelve, stood stiff-legged and bushy-tailed about the central stone statue of the naked woman, in concentric circles, centred on the statue, but something about the statue had changed: there was no stone child in her arms. Instead, Pelvis had been lashed to the statue, thin cords of liana vine wrapped about her naked body, her heavy breasts quilted by the vine. I don't think she was too happy. She was crying softly, but didn't struggle. It was as though she was resigned to her fate—whatever that was.

The forty older men chanted in staccato harmony, the young men remained on the ground and the two dozen stiff-legged boys moved forward, their hands outstretched, touching, caressing. The girl struggled ... and Charles stared wide-eyed, not having breathed for some time. I left him and crept into the shadows. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

Imagine the scene. Dark natives encircling a naked young woman, tied to a stone statue. Suddenly, above the young girl's head, above the head of the stone lady, there arises the cold figure of a child made of stone.

The chanting stops and the young boys fall back and the plump girl strains to see what lies above her head. The stone child-figure rises until it hovers, suspended above the stone matron. All is silence, for the stone child has begun to speak.

"Hear this, all ye people, give ear, all ye inhabitants of this world. My mouth shall speak of wisdom and the meditation of my heart shall be of understanding."

I figure that's a good enough beginning. I don't want to give it all away. I imagined Charles sucking his breath, closing his eyes. It had the required effect; the natives were silent. I think of a poem, a joke, a speech—yes, a speech. The stone child-figure continues its chant:

"To be or not to be. That is the question. Whether t'is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or, by opposing, end them."

That's the first speech that came to mind. This is no time to go through my repertoire of speeches.

Charles opens his eyes, first one then the other. He strains his neck, and sees the trembling white hands which hold the small child-figure above the head of the stone woman. They were my hands trembling, and the trembling wasn't fear. Hell, no. The bloody child weighed like a rock. Well, it was a rock, right?

Charles looks about and sees that I'm gone. He moans softly, pushes himself to his feet then staggers through the bush, around the clearing, beyond the statue, joining me behind the statue. He takes a deep breath and joins right in. Together now:

"... to die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub...."

Slowly the natives back out of the clearing, bowing, raising their tails, until the plump girl is left alone, shivering, the voices of the stone child wailing above her head. When I'm convinced that the natives have left I drop the heavy stone child unceremoniously at the feet of the statue. Charles appears at the feet of the bound girl and begins, too eagerly, to untie the cord. When she's free and slips to the ground I stand back and examine the scene then lift the stone child to place it again in the lap of the stone goddess. Charles is carefully smoothing the bruised skin about the native girl's breasts. Nonchalantly, he says, "You know, Miss Fleetsmith, you have misquoted Mr. Shakespeare." He continues to massage the girl's breasts.

"Careful, Charlie boy," I grunt. "No time for that. Let's go."

"And leave her here?" Charles whispered. "To be molested by those ... those—"

I looked at the young girl, now on her knees and weeping. "If she follows us, we won't object," I said half-heartedly. If she did follow, I had no idea what we'd do with her.

I jogged out of the clearing, away from the Chokli village, toward the Pellita mountains. Charles followed, as did the young girl.

I had no doubt that the natives would return to the clearing. They'd find a stone woman holding a stone child once again in her lap, and they'd fall to the ground and they'd worship—but their White Goddess would be long gone.
PART TWO

Chapter 4

I was holding out my hand, palm down.

"Yes, I see the white blemish and I do believe that it was once a nasty scar, but that's little proof that your ... your weed is responsible for the—"

"Look, Hans, I'm telling you it works!" I was getting angry; not a familiar emotion for me. I continued: "The scar had been growing larger, some kind of fungal infection, then I just rubbed it with the dried leaves. In fact, the ivory discoloration you see is even larger than the original scar." The exaggerated size of the discoloration actually seemed a little strange, and I now wished I hadn't drawn attention to the fact. "You know perfectly well how many drugs come from wild plants, especially from the rain forest," I said. "My father made his fortune by bringing them to the world. This could be important. This will be important."

But Hans von Oerschott wasn't impressed. He had graduated in Engineering at the bottom of his class yet had made a success in Plastics and Medical supplies. He was an asshole, but he wasn't about to engage in the requisite research on this weed without more evidence of success. Testing a new drug was expensive. Getting a drug to market, multiple trials, government approval, marketing ... it was a headache and costly.

The idea is to talk continuously, excitedly, until your enthusiasm is transferred to the listener.

"But Lloyd believed in it," I continued. "In fact ...in fact, Lloyd gave his life for it." I paused. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to refer to my father as Lloyd. Too personal. "You and Dr. Lloyd Alan Fleetsmith, you were close friends. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Lloyd Alan," Hans said. "I thought your father's name was Lloyd Francis Fleetsmith."

"Yeah, Lloyd Francis Alan Fleetsmith," I grunted. I really hadn't been enthusiastic about calling attention to the Francis in my father's extended name. Although it never came up in conversation, I suspected that my name was a contraction of his middle name. In fact, Lloyd himself always referred to himself as Lloyd Francis... and I often fell into the same habit although I took pains to avoid the reference.

I looked across the walnut desk at the small balding man with red cheeks and sweaty brow, and waited. He spun about in his chair and stared out the window at the Toronto skyline.

"If it works," I continued, "Oerschott Medicals will make a fortune." That, I'm sure, was the bottom line.

Hans turned to me, slowly, smiling. "That means something," he said. He pushed himself to his feet and walked about the desk, then to the wall. He stood gazing at the framed photograph of two army buddies: Hans von Oershott and Lloyd Alan Fleetsmith, my father.

"Tell you what I'll do," he said, still staring at the photo of himself and Pops. "I'll put you in charge of a small lab, in the basement. You'll have all the equipment you need, technicians, a small budget." He turned to look at me. "You test the ... uh, weed. Give me weekly reports. If I think there's something there, I'll take it to the board."

He grinned at me, at my red hair falling carelessly about my shoulders. I knew he couldn't resist that feral and sexy look. I could feel my face, pink with excitement. I was told that Hans had admired me since I was a child, wild and undisciplined. He had watched me develop into a young woman of abundant proportion, still wild and undisciplined. Yet I had graduated at the top of my class and had already made important contributions in herbal medicines while still a graduate student. He was thinking. It would be a pleasure to have me in the building ... his pleasure. His marriage was on the rocks, his secretary had filled in temporarily, but now, a delicious Fran Fleetsmith for dessert.

I recognized the animal look on his face and leaned back in my chair, thrusting my chest forward, crossing my legs so that the short skirt jumped abruptly above my knees. Hans was unhappily married. He was staring at my blouse. He was hooked.

Charles had prepared a dinner of salmon and asparagus and had brought a delicate Chardonnay from the cellar. After having placed the dish before me, I invited him to sit and he sat opposite and served himself from the large platter. I had always insisted that Charles eat with me as did my father before me, and he was pleased to accept the invitation. Nevertheless, he always waited for the invitation. It had become a standard ritual. He was one sweet man.

"Miss Fleetsmith, how did it go with Mr. von Oerschott?" he asked.

"A flimsy blouse, a short leather skirt, and he gave me a lab in the basement."

"I cannot agree with your methods, but I cannot deny their success," he muttered, leaning over the table to refill my wine glass.

"How's Pelvis?" I asked. "Still sulking?"

"I feel we must provide a name. Pelvis is rather crude, you must agree."

I pushed the last of the salmon into my mouth and jumped up. "Gotta go, Charlie boy." I gulped the last of my wine. "Okay, we'll think of a name."

"Miss Fleetsmith, where can I locate you this evening, if need be?" he asked, rising from the table and delicately wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin.

"Penny," I said.

"I beg you pardon?"

"A name for Pelvis. I suggest Penny. Like it?"

"Yes, quite acceptable. And where can I locate you, this evening? When can I expect your return?"

I walked out of the room, rather more briskly than usual, pausing to pat the large vase standing at the door; it held the dried leaves of the miracle weed. "Late," I called back over my shoulder. "You and Pelvis are on your own. Be gentle, Charles. She's just a girl."

Charles Clayton Curran coughed once, turned a deeper pink and followed me to the front door.

"The lab," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's where I'll be." And I left.

Charles stood for a moment by the open door, watched me stride down the walk and hop into my red convertible Porsche, then he slowly closed the door. I waited for a moment, staring at the closed door. Charles would walk to the dining room, finish his portion of salmon. After dinner he would wash and dry the dishes, then dream of washing and drying Pelvis. She seemed to collect dirt like a child and would undoubtedly appreciate his attention. He'd bring the leftover salmon to her room and he'd watch her eat, stuffing the fish into her mouth, grunting. He would pour her a small glass of wine. She'd probably sniff it and refuse, dumping the wine on the floor.

Yes, I was quite certain. He'd first clean the dishes, then clean her room ... then clean Pelvis herself. I left the driveway with tires screaming. It was a delightful scene.

It was past midnight when I collapsed in the overstuffed chair. I had insisted that the chair be dragged into the lab, in the basement of Oerschott Medicals. It had become one of my favorite places. After a day, or a night, of inflicting small wounds in mice and treating them with concoctions made of the weed, I would spend an hour in the chair, humming to myself, just thinking.

It really was a remarkable gift, this weed. How had my father discovered it? It was a foggy memory. News had come to him while on a hunting expedition, as I recall. He had been hunting herbs, not animals. My father was a gentle soul and thought everything alive should be protected. During this hunting expedition he got news of a miracle weed, the Chokli village, a rough description of its location. He set out in late August, spent weeks searching for the natives, spent months studying their lifestyle, their use of the weed, made maps. He kept in constant communication with people back home by joining the Chokli on their periodic trips to the Holana settlement and paying someone to carry his letters to the airport.

He died for his efforts, the circumstances of his death unknown—except that he was found wandering the Amazon jungle, unable to talk except in short gasps without meaning. What had happened, the circumstances of his departure from the Chokli village, how he had managed to come as far as he had—all was a mystery. He died, without fully recovering from his experience, in a local hospital.

Now I had the weed. It had actually been rather easy to reach the Chokli village, much easier than I had anticipated. It was less agreeable getting back, but Pelvis had found a small boat, deserted by her people, and although rather small for all three of us, we had managed to paddle downriver to the settlement in less than a week, eating strange plants identified as edible by Pelvis. She was one cool gal, seemingly delighted to be free of the short and ugly natives of her village. Each morning when we awoke she would have a fire burning and some small animal roasting or a strange vegetable hanging from a branch suspended above the fire. I was unaccustomed to having my main meal in the morning, but who were we to argue? We never went hungry, although, at times, I would have preferred to bypass stews filled with floating debris, many of which, I am certain, were once alive and crawling.

From the settlement we took a rickety bus to a small airport. In fact, had I known the airport existed I would have saved a lot of time getting to the Chokli village in the first place. But the grubby gent who owned the airport and flew the small Cessna was happy to have its existence unknown. He brought supplies to the natives and sold their animal skins to the world, for a tidy profit. Almost all of the animals were on the endangered list. I learned to dislike the man in less than ten minutes.

But the weed was marvelous. Every test was positive. After inflicting a small wound on a lab mouse, the scab, after rubbing with the weed, would usually diminish in size, then slowly change color to a pale cream, then become smooth as though covered with a satin skin. I say usually because there were occasional deviations from this scenario. Unfortunately, even when the scab vanished, hair would never grow back and the size of the pale colored blemish would continue to grow. I now wish I had spent more time inspecting the Chokli, their skin, their state of health, their hair follicles. I imagined a ceremony to introduce young men to manhood, a crown of weeds, a pale skin forming. Then I recalled that there was that other native group, obviously related to the Chokli, with pointed teeth and completely bald. How were they related?

There were a million unanswered questions. Why so few females in the Chockli village? Why the difference between the two, obviously related, tribes? When they used the weed, would a creamy, satin skin form for the Chokli, or would it be dark brown? I hadn't noticed any obvious absence of hair with the Chockli, as was occurring with the mice. But the first group of natives we met, before we met the Chockli... they were bald. That bothered me. Was it significant?

And, what were the Chokli about to do to Pelvis?

I looked for the umpteenth time at the back of my hand. It was now entirely pale white, contrasting with my normal tanned color. Yet, the scar was gone, healed. Surely the curative powers of the salve I had concocted justified a full-fledged test on humans. Surely the slight discoloration was acceptable ... as well as the absence of hair. "The mice don't seem to mind," I whispered to myself.

I made up my mind. Tomorrow, I would approach Hans von Oerschott with the test results, on mice. I must remember to wear that pink blouse and—

A noise, at the far end of the lab, footsteps.

The technicians had left hours ago. The lab was off limits to the cleaning staff. The doors were locked, always. Whoever it was, it didn't belong there. Hans had made me painfully aware of industrial espionage. My lab was off limits to everyone except my small staff. Word must have leaked of this new discovery. Whoever was now in my lab was surely a spy. I think I've seen this scene recently... in what movie?

I slid off the chair onto the floor and waited. Only the light directly above my work bench was lit and the equipment cast long shadows across the darkened room. There, near the window, a shadow moving slowly toward the bench. I held my breath, looking about for some weapon. A waste basket, a small broom, several scraps of paper. Nothing substantial. A large glass beaker lay beneath the bench and I carefully pulled it to my side. I'd castrate the bastard. There was no question in my mind; whoever it was, it was male.

The shadow was now on the opposite side of the table. I crawled under, waited and saw the feet walk about the bench, to my side.

"Hai!" I shouted, smashing the glass beaker against the side of the table and simultaneously jumping to my feet, brandishing the jagged weapon.

Hans von Oerschott almost collapsed, steadying himself against the table.

"Good God, girl! Are you trying to kill me!"

"Mmm, Hans, it's you," I said, grinning. I set the broken beaker ever so gently on a table. Mad woman with broken glass; not the proper scene for this gent. I hopped up onto the bench, careful to avoid the pieces of broken glass, and raised my skirt just slightly above my knees.

He fell into the large chair, perspiring freely; that was a von Oerschott characteristic. He held his hand to his heart. Actually, it was his left hand over the right side of his chest. Perhaps he wasn't sure of the coronary locale. His face was flushed red, glistening, the blood pounding in his head.

"Christ amighty," he groaned, "you scared me half to death." When he had gained some measure of composure he began to shout. "What the Christ are you doing here at this time of night? Who in God's name did you think I was? A thief? And what's with this Hai? And what's with the broken beaker? Did you want to disembowel ... ?"

I slipped off the bench, bent before the seated figure, straddled his knees, pulled his head to my chest and whispered, "Now, Hans, don't upset yourself. Your blood pressure, my dear. Calm down."

"I was in the building ... thought I'd check on things ..." he said, his words muffled, his head between my breasts, his knees now between my legs, his hands rising to my buttocks.

I pulled away quickly and Hans was left leaning forward, his hands groping the air.

"You're right," I said. "It's late. Time to go home." I turned quickly and walked to the end of the room. "Close up when you leave. Okay?" And I left.

The clock in the hall read 12:47 when I left the laboratory. It was time to go home. Yet, I could see Hans in my mind's eye, sitting for some time, staring at his hands, his face red and sweaty, trembling with passion. Why he was in the lab, and what he did after I left, I had no idea. But I would learn soon enough.

Chapter 5

Charles poured another coffee for himself. He and I were sitting across from each other in the living room, the coffee urn on the small oblong table between us, a slow fire flickering in the hearth. Penny, dressed in a loose gown much too large for her small frame, was sitting on the floor before the fire. Her long black hair was pushed into a bun atop her head and tied with a red ribbon. She was rubbing her hands in the warmth of the fire. I was quite surprised at how well she had adapted to this life. Charles looked after her: feeding, washing and dressing her. He had bought some loose fitting outfits in pale pink and lavender and she seemed pretty pleased with the gifts and with his attention. It was a far cry from her village. Yet, somehow, I felt she should have expressed some misgivings, some sign of longing for her jungle home. I imagined her staring out the second storey window, nostalgic, seeing the green jungle, the bubbling streams, listening for the cries of the wilderness. She reaches out, touches a leaf, pensive. A warm breeze, the leaves rustle ...

"And you believe that Mr. von Oerschott had some mischievous purpose?" Charles was saying.

I came out of my reverie. "Mmm," I mumbled. "Hans sure as hell wasn't in the lab to check on the plumbing."

Penny just wasn't normal. She acted so helpless, but she was hiding something, wasn't she? She took all of Charles' offerings and ... and just smiled. She was good at that: smiling. It was unnatural. When I think of it, she smiled a lot, too much. A curious, mischievous smile, like she knew more than she was letting on.

Charles was staring at me. He was talking about Hans, then stopped, waiting for some response. "He has all my reports," I said finally, returning Charles' stare. "I left nothing out."

"The hair doesn't grow back. That's the problem, right?" Charles sipped his coffee, speaking to me but now staring at Pelvis. The glow from the fire silhouetted her body within the thin gown. It had not gone unnoticed.

"In part. But the blemish grows. I've got this great little salve made from the boiled leaves. We're calling it Dermafix, made from the juices of the miracle weed. It feels good, silky. It looks good, sort of lemon-colored. It smells healthy. Oregano and lemon. Works like a charm... usually."

"But the hair doesn't grow back," Charles said, still staring at Penny. "I knew it would be like that."

"I can't understand why the Chokli didn't have great cream colored blobs all over their body, " I said. "They used it, didn't they? It should have eliminated their hair, covered their bodies with a smooth creamy skin. And did you see any natives with bare patches, without hair? No ... so what am I missing?" I leaned back into the sofa, stared at the ceiling, then frowned at Charles. "You knew it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles said, now looking at me instead of Boobs. "Knew what, Miss Fleetsmith?"

"You said you knew it would be like that. Like what?"

"Yes ... like what?"

I jumped to my feet. He could be so frustrating. "Charles Clayton Curran!" I shouted. "Pay attention to me and not to that little tramp!" Penny, who had been huddling before the fire, rose quickly and slipped out of the room. "You just said, and I quote, I knew it would be like that. What did you mean?"

"Miss Fleetsmith ... the hair, not growing back," Charles stuttered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that your father had mentioned that and—"

"What! My father knew of this! Why in God's name didn't you say that before! You just let me struggle with this bloody problem and you knew all along that—"

"Miss Fleetsmith, your father had no cure for this problem, the absence of hair, the patch of creamy skin. He just mentioned it in one of his letters. I didn't think it would be of much assistance to your investigation, knowing that your father had made a similar observation."

I was now pacing about the room. Did I say anger was an unfamiliar emotion for me? I lied.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! You have letters? Shit! Get me those bloody letters," I said in my most menacing voice. Charles immediately left the room, returning momentarily with a small bundle of letters tied with a string.

"They are personal letters, Miss Fleetsmith." I ripped them from his hand. "I believe that I should extract just those letters which allude to the skin problem." I tore off the string. "The personal nature of the remaining letters are best left—"

"Screw you, Charlie boy." And I plopped into the sofa, put up my feet and began reading the letters, one at a time, in chronological order.

Chapter 6

Dear Charles: The Chokli woman are diminutive in stature but well endowed, with heavy breasts and a chassis like a small truck. Ideal for child bearing, I'm sure. In fact, child bearing seems a kind of religion here. Various statues celebrate this aspect of Chokli life. At some point in time, when a girl has matured, and becomes pregnant, she is taken from the village and some sort of secretive ceremony takes place. I have never been present at these—the Chokli males are quite careful to keep me in the village—but when the small band returns, the young woman is missing. I never see her again, although a new child usually appears in the village soon after.

Dear Charles: Yesterday I watched while a young Chokli warrior was treated for wounds. He had been badly mauled by, I think, a jaguar or wild boar. In any case, his body was covered in deep gashes and he was bleeding profusely. I tried to indicate that I had medical knowledge and could help the man, but I was ignored. They covered his body in the wet leaves of the miracle weed and then in a heavy layer of mud. He lay in his hut for perhaps two weeks. When he eventually emerged, his body was relatively smooth and hairless and quite pale. There were still obvious signs of the wound, but much diminished. In another two weeks he was completely free of scars—but the pale skin remained and I cannot see any sign of hair growing again on his body. In fact, the size of the pale patches of skin seem a good deal larger than the original wounds.

Dear Charles: The young man who was mauled by the wild boar—I wrote to you about him, remember? His skin color has returned and his body is now covered with fine black hair. Indeed, he seems quite normal. I have tried to determine if this was some natural consequence or whether he was treated in some manner. Unfortunately, few of the Chokli make any attempt to understand me. They avoid me for reasons I do not care to mention.

Dear Charles: I have taken a young Chokli woman for myself. Indeed, she was formally given to me by the band, perhaps as a reward for saving the life of the chief. Actually, the weed did most of the healing. The chief had been washing himself by the river and was attacked by an alligator. I was able to pull him from the bank, although he lost three toes on his left foot. A tourniquet about the lower leg, a couple of weeks treatment with the miracle weed and he was walking about as though nothing had happened. Quite remarkable. There was some discussion among the younger males when the chief presented me with this woman. Although I understand little of their language I think they were furious. Since then, my relationship with the Chokli males has deteriorated, especially the young warriors. There are very few females in this village and the gift of a young woman to a stranger is hardly something to engage the esteem of the men.

Dear Charles: I am afraid that this will be the last letter I send you. The runner who takes my letters up river to the settlement has refused to take any more. Somehow, I think the young woman who now lives with me was promised to him. I tried to give the girl to him, but he refused. I cannot imagine why. There seems little reticence among the males in taking a girl of age. They simply drop their bushy shorts in the village square and the girl submits. In fact, most of the women are pregnant. Nevertheless, this one girl is clearly off limits to all but me ... orders of the chief, I think. Unfortunately for me, the chief is very old and seems in poor health. Perhaps my stay here will end when he does.

I grunted, grinned and laid the bundle of letters on the coffee table. "You dirty old man." I looked up. Charles had slipped out, the fire had died and it had become cool. I lay back on the sofa. "Well, Lloyd, I guess the Chokli chief died and ... and you were no longer welcome." I jumped to my feet, angry. "Shit! Dad, why didn't you get out while you still had the chance? Damn you! Was some Chokli slut the big attraction?"

I spent the rest of the night on the sofa, sleeping fitfully. I couldn't believe that my father had been so ... so ... damn that man!

When the first ribbons of light ran across the room I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, humming. There had been little help in my father's letters. He seemed as confused as I, and he had spent several months living—and dying—among the Chokli.

Why were there so few females? What happened to all the young Chokli women? What was the significance of the ceremony before the statue of Mother and Child. How did the Chokli reestablish hair growth? And natural skin color? Would my own discoloration return to normal?

So many questions.

"Good morning, Miss Fleetsmith." Charles laid the tray on the low table: coffee, hot rolls and an omelet of egg, ham and cheese. "I hope you had a good night." I could see him looking discreetly at the opened letters on the table. I swept them up and handed them to him. He carefully tied them with string.

"Chuck, we must speak to Pelvis. She must know something we don't know. You have to teach her to speak English."

"Penny," he said.

"Penny?" I frowned. "Mmm, yes, right, her new name."

"Me?" he said. "Teach her English? I'm not really equipped for—"

"On the contrary, Charlie boy, you are perfectly equipped. Start today."

I jumped up and left. I knew Charles would be happy with the idea, if he hadn't thought of it already. After I left, he would stare unhappily at the untouched omelet, hesitate just a moment, then carefully gather up the tray and walk to Penny's room, smiling. She might enjoy the egg, ham and cheese.

And I knew what Charles would be thinking: Teach her the language? That would be a long and grueling chore. It meant late nights by her side, helping her to frame the words, guiding her lips, teaching her the techniques of proper inhalation, breathing, in and out, in and out ... but he would devote himself to the task.

Chapter 7

Hans von Oerschott didn't show up at the lab the following day, or the day after that. He failed to answer his phone. By week's end, his secretary had called the police. His palatial apartment on the top floor of Dominion Towers was empty, although there was evidence of his secretary having been there—as well as other women: in the guest bedroom a closet was filled with diverse negligees and a dresser filled with assorted undergarments. His wife, living alone in the country, knew nothing of his whereabouts. She had neither seen nor talked to the nasty man for days. If he had disappeared, so much the better.

And where did I get all this information? If you have to ask then you've never worked in a small and gossipy laboratory with inhabitants bored out of their skull.

Then I discovered that one of the vials of Dermafix was missing. Dermafix was the name I had given to the lemon-colored jelly which contained the juices of the miracle weed. There had been precisely fifteen vials; now there were fourteen. It didn't take long to evaluate the evidence. I was sure that Hans had taken a vial the night I caught him creeping into my lab. Just checking, he had said. Screw him, I thought.

I went to the lab early Monday morning to speak to Josey, his secretary.

"When was the last time you saw Mr. von Oerschott?" I asked.

"Listen Honey, I already done this scene with the cops." Josey was filing her nails and chewing gum. I had seen this movie before.

"Did you go to his apartment?" I asked.

"Hey! I take notes, dictation, like that. Sometimes I work late," Josey whined.

"Work late ... on his sofa no doubt. Look sweetheart, everybody knows you're screwing the boss. I couldn't care less." Josey looked pained. "What I want to know is, did he take a vial of Dermafix?"

"Derma-who?"

"Don't act dumb, kiddo. It's dangerous stuff. One whiff and you're dead." I said it loud, exaggerating the word dead.

Josey put down her nail file and leaned forward against her desk. "No kiddin? Ohshit never said that. He said we would look young, forever, with skin as smooth as a baby's ... hey!" She straightened up and shook her head. "I ain't seen the bloody vial. I told everything to the cops. Ask 'em."

I frowned. It seemed the thing to do. Then I turned and walked to the door.

"Fran?" Josey whimpered, removing the gum from her mouth. "Could the stuff hurt me? Lordy, I got some on my hands, that's all."

"On your hands? Doing what?"

"Rubbin down Ohshit."

I smiled, spun on my heel and left. A nice scene.

A week later, on a cool and windy day in September, Hans von Oerschott's naked body was found in a dingy motel on Hanover Beach, hairless and cream-colored. The police and coroner were confused. I was dumbfounded.

"It's Dermafix, I'm certain," I said. "Hans took a vial, he used it, he lost his hair and his skin turned pale." I stared at Charles, wanting some explanation, hoping for a sensible interpretation of the facts.

"But his entire body was pale," Charles said. "Can you imagine that he covered his entire body, Miss Fleetsmith? Would one small vial have been sufficient?"

"No, no, of course not. But it grows, the area treated with the ointment. We know that. Yet ..." I hesitated. I wasn't sure. "To grow to that extent? Impossible. It's never happened in mice. Look at my hand. The area has remained more or less static for some time now. What would accelerate the growth?"

I held up the back of my hand for Charles to see. He sucked in his breath. I frowned at Charles' reaction and looked at my own hand.

"Shit! What's this?"

For weeks there had been a pale, smooth blemish. Now it had changed, almost imperceptibly. The creamy satin skin was coming off. It must have happened recently ... I mean, within the last hour or so. I would have noticed it... surely.

I peeled the layers of glossy skin and beneath it lay the barely perceptible remains of a scar, the wound inflicted by the baling wire, that first day in Brazil.

"Shit!" I jumped to my feet. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"I say," Charles muttered, "the miracle weed merely covers the wound. Is that a correct conclusion? Your Dermafix is a veneer. A thin, cream colored veneer."

"Shit!"

"Is it all that bad?" Charles got to his feet and gestured dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dermafix, the miracle skin. Beneath its healing surface fester the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Protected from the elements, shielded from the vagaries of spirit, the wound mends." He looked at me for reassurance. I was smiling. Encouraged, he continued. "Ladies and gentlemen, from this day forth Dermafix for burns, for scars, for birth marks, for warts, to seal beneath its creamy surface the blemishes of being. No longer the outward spoor of a rigorous life, but the—"

"Okay Charlie boy," I interrupted, "I get what you're saying and I like it. Perhaps the healing isn't quite as rapid as I thought, but who cares? Healing is taking place beneath this miracle skin, and if there's no pain and no visible signs of a wound then it's as good as healed. Eh? And that's worth something. Right?"

Charles smiled and bowed from the waist. I turned quickly and stalked to the front door. I had practised this quick turn and stalk routine quite well, I thought. Anyway, speaking to Charles had given me an idea.

"Miss Fleetsmith, may I ask where you are going?" Charles said.

"To the coroner's office. Want to come?"

Charles coughed slightly. "I ... uh, have another lesson scheduled for Penny."

"Yes, I'm sure you have." I left immediately.

"English," Charles added, just as the door closed.

When I arrived at Barney Bernside's office, the coroner was smoking on the small balcony. He looked a little embarrassed and dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, then slid back through the glass doors into his office.

"Well, well, if it isn't the energetic Miss Fleetsmith," he said.

"Hi BB. Came to see von Oerschott ... or Ohshit as Josey calls him."

"Josey?"

"His most recent gal-in-bed, his secretary, your typical dumb blonde."

"Aah. Don't have a dumb blonde. Still lookin'. Care to apply for the job?"

"Where's Ohshit?"

"Sorry. Got approval from the police? They're still investigating, y'know."

"C'mon Barney. Just show me the body. Have you done the autopsy yet?"

"Nope. Looking for his next of kin. Wife, I think. Lives in the country. Seems to have vanished."

I walked to the far wall and read the labels on the body-drawers.

"Uh, uh. Naughty girl," Barney said. "Don't open that drawer." I pulled the handle. "Fran! Stop that!" Barney stumbled across the room and grabbed my arm with one hand, slid the drawer closed with the other then leaned heavily against the body cabinet. I spun about and leaned heavily against him. He was only slightly taller than I, and was panting like a steam locomotive.

"Aw, c'mon BB," I moaned. "You and me, we're old friends. Remember?" I ran my hand down his back, down his leg, up his crotch. "Just one peek? Pretty please?" Barney stood motionless, stepped forward, smelling the perfume in my hair: Adelle Adore. I abhor perfume, but it works miracles. I reached out and slowly pulled open the drawer behind him. Barney closed his eyes. I looked past his shoulder, pulled the sheet aside and gazed at the white, glossy body of Hans von Oerschott. "Look, hon. Want to see something sexy?" I said. Barney gazed down at me, moved away, staring, breathing hard, his lips wet. Then he closed his eyes, expectantly. "Watch," I whispered, then reached inside the drawer and began scratching at the smooth and hairless skin of the corpse. Barney opened his eyes.

"Hey! You can't do that!" Barney pushed me aside, but I held up a long, pale membrane stripped from the body. "Jesus Christ!" he cried. "What the hell is that!"

"Dermafix, miracle skin." I turned and stalked away. At the door I spun on my heel and said in a Dietrich voice: "If I were you baby, I'd strip away the epidermis and see what he looks like underneath. You'll see all the bruises ... and maybe determine what done him in."

As I closed the door behind me, Barney was staring down at the corpse, dazed.

Chapter 8

The morning papers carried the story on page fourteen; not violent or sexy enough for the front page.

Last Saturday, the police located the body of local industrialist Hans von Oerschott, owner and director of Oerschott Paper & Plastics and Oerschott Medicals. He had been missing for a week and homicide is conjectured. On Tuesday, his secretary, Josephine Cowley, was taken into custody as a principle suspect and released on bail. Today, the Times-Gazette has learned that Miss Cowley is now missing.

Charles had set the paper at the breakfast table, opened to page fourteen, and I was now reading the article, sipping black coffee and ignoring the mushroom omelet.

"Miss Fleetsmith, the immigration authorities called again, yesterday," Charles said.

"Mmm."

"They insist that we bring Penny in by the end of the week, for deportation."

"Mmm."

"She can no longer remain in the country as an illegal alien. They admit that the border official made an error in admitting her in the first place—even temporarily."

"Mmm." I held out my cup and Charles filled it. I was only vaguely aware of what Charles was saying, but I do remember fluttering my baby-blues at the border official.

Charles sat opposite, pouring himself a coffee. "I feel that her life is in danger, should she return to the Chokli. That would justify her entry as a refugee, escaping from social injustice and—"

I looked up. "Charles. Do what you think is best. I know you'd like to keep her around, teach her a few things. How're the lessons going, by the way?"

"Splendid," he said. "She learns quite rapidly."

"I'm sure." I folded the paper, tossed it on the table. I'd spend the day at the lab, removing Dermafix skin from several mice and one small dog named Poo, a reflection of his penchant for filling the cage with fecal matter.

Charles reached across the table pulled my plate to his side, and finished my omelet. With that appetite how did he remain so slim? Slim, did I say? Downright skinny. And me, I seemed to have mastered the art of accumulating mass in the ass.

It was late when I finally collapsed into the overstuffed chair in the lab. As usual the room was dark except for the lights above my work bench. Earlier in the week I had removed the hair from rats and Poo, inflicted a small wound and rubbed the skin with Dermafix. In every case but one, the wound healed nicely. A scab had formed within hours of inflicting the wound. Upon application of the Dermafix, the scab had been slowly assimilated by either the salve or the skin itself. It wasn't clear which. Perhaps the organic makeup of the scab had been modified. Perhaps it had been absorbed by the skin. In any case, within twenty four hours the area was smooth, without any sign of the scar. After discovering that the smooth surface was just a covering, I had removed the Dermafix skin from some mice to find the remains of the wound. In others I had waited several days before removing the membrane and found that the wound had almost vanished.

The one case was the dog, Poo. He had died, but in a most peculiar manner. The Dermafix skin had grown to encase his body. With hairless body, wrapped in a membrane, the dog had apparently suffocated. The entire process of encasement had taken place in less than twenty four hours!

Shit! It didn't make sense. It shouldn't have happened that way! I was being stupid, unprofessional, an idiot scientist, careless... besides, I had become attached to that little mutt. I buried him in the garden which surrounded the lab. Dermafix, random ... unpredictable. Mice okay. Poo dead. Shit! I sat with elbows on the bench, holding my head in my hands, hearing only the sound of my breathing.

There was a noise at the window, a tapping noise, at the end of the lab.

I reached over to the switch on the wall and flooded the room with fluorescent light. The tapping stopped. I walked slowly to the window. It had been raining lightly all evening and there was neither moon nor stars in the black sky. I peered out the barred window and saw it backing away, across the lawn. A white shape, glowing briefly, then vanishing.

"What the hell?" I said aloud. I wasn't sure I was asking a question.

Then I saw it. Something was attached to the outside of the window. A note. It was attached to the window but I couldn't read it. I ran to the lab door, slammed it behind me and heard the lock click into place. Down the hall I went, out into the damp night. The grass was wet and slippery and I skidded to the window by the lab, fell and landed on my ass. Well-padded, maybe, but it still hurt. The basement lab had a row of small windows barely above ground level, behind metal bars, and one window waved a small note, attached to the window with what looked like chewing gum. I slithered up to the window, still on my ass, and pulled the note from the window.

Fran: I didn't do it. Please help me. Something terrible has happened. Josey

Josey? That white shape I saw backing away from the window? Hans' secretary, Josey?

I jumped up, ran back to the front of the building, quickly locked the massive door to the lab, then headed for the parking lot. I had left the top down on my Porsche and the seats were soaked. "Shit!" I slid into the puddle of rain on the seat and started the car. Did I know where Josey lived? No. It started to rain again. I could only grunt. The roof hadn't been working for some time. It would remain open. "Shit." Slowly, I drove down the driveway to the road. Josey would probably have a key to Hans' apartment. Would she be there? Not likely. The police were looking for her. She'd be home, wherever that was. But would she? Maybe not. The police would have her apartment building under surveillance.

I stopped at the end of the drive, hesitated, then turned right. Had I remembered to lock the lab? Yes. Did I know where I was going? No.

I glanced through the rearview mirror. The road was dark and deserted. Then I saw the reflection, a ghostlike figure in the rearview mirror. There was somebody in the back seat!

I jammed on the emergency brakes, opened the door and slid out of the Porsche, falling onto the road. The car swerved sharply to the right, hit the curb and stopped abruptly. I watched the pale figure in the back seat fall forward and lean motionless against the front seats. I waited, sitting on the wet road, but there was no sign of movement from within the car. Slowly I pushed myself to my feet, walked cautiously to the back door, pulled it open. A body fell out, covered in wisps of cream colored fluff, a pale cocoon. I gasped. What the Christ was it? I stepped back as the figure rolled over and raised a white and silken hand.

"Fran, is that you?" The head turned, Josey's eyes glowing through a chalky web. "Lordy, lordy, what's happening to me?"

Charles had heard my car enter the garage and had already poured a martini when we arrived. He knew I'd want a short drink, sitting before the fire. I'd normally spend a half hour describing my successes and failures in the lab—mostly failures— then I'd go to bed. Charles would put my glass on the coffee table, throw another log on the fire ... but, not tonight. This wasn't your usual return-from-work.

"Charles! Give me a hand!"

He wasn't prepared for what he saw. I half-dragged the large white object into the kitchen, seating it at the table.

"Get a knife. Better still, get some scissors."

When Charles returned with the large shearing scissors, I was tearing the fluffy membrane away from the body. It wasn't smooth; it was fuzzy. That rang a bell. I had seen it before. Something fluffy. Somewhere, but where?

"Fran ... can't hardly breath," the body said.

"Is that Miss Josey?" Charles asked. "Is that Dermafix?"

I began cutting the thin coating away from Josey's face, starting about the mouth. Josey was gagging.

"Breath deeply," I demanded. "Through your mouth. It's almost clear." I turned to Charles. "Chuck, don't just stand there. Get another scissors and help. We've got to get this stuff off ... it's expanding. I'll keep the mouth and nose clear. You start on the other end, her feet, so she can walk, her hands so she can help."

Charles ran out, returning with a small scissors. He began at once to cut away the membrane about Josey's hands, bound to her sides by a satin web. The smooth film seemed to fall away in strands, then froth, the cream-colored foam turning immediately to a pale fluff which clung to her skin, bubbling and expanding. The scissors were useless in removing the froth. I couldn't believe how rapidly the stuff grew to encase the body. It was Poo all over again. Shit!

"Charles, carry her to the shower. Maybe we can wash it off as it turns to foam. I'll cut the Dermafix skin and you can wash away the fluff as it forms. Hurry!"

Charles didn't notice, but I did. The native girl, Penny the Pelvis, was standing at the top of the stairs. She was smiling.
Chapter 9

We had removed most of the smooth skin with scissors and washed away the fluff under a strong jet of water from the shower head. Charles has demonstrated his proficiency at this task and I left him to rub the last of the fluff from her naked body. Now, Josey was crying softly, curled in a heavy blanket in front of a low fire in the living room.

"It was so sudden," she cried. "First my hands, turning white, covered in that ... that terrible stuff. Then it just grew, all over my body. I tried to wash it off. It kept growing. It moved up my neck, to my mouth. I got sleepy. Oh lordy, it was awful."

I leaned forward and caressed Josey's wet hair. Now was the time for solace and soothing words.

"It's okay, kid. We've got it all off." I paused, looked at Charles sitting concerned in a chair. "The Dermafix. I don't understand, Charles," I continued. "It's sometimes a smooth membrane and it stays put, or maybe it grows, or maybe it bubbles and foams and falls off in strands."

I paused. A foam, a fuzz. Where the hell had I seen it before? Like soap suds, dried and shredded.

"It suffocated my dog," I continued. "The poor mutt was covered in that shit. Yet..." I looked at the back of my hand. Barely any sign remained of my scar, and the skin had returned to almost my normal color. In fact, once hairless, the hair on my hand had now returned, but darker and more dense than before.

"I need to look at that foam, carefully," I muttered, mostly to myself. "There's lots of it on the towel, the one we used on Josey. I'll cover the towel in plastic wrap. Tomorrow I'll bring it to the lab. The foam, the fluff, it's different somehow from the original smooth skin, transformed. What the hell is it?"

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles whispered. "I suggest you destroy the towel and all the leaves left in the vase." Charles looked concerned. "It has done sufficient damage, the weed. It doesn't belong here. It's ... it's alive."

"We'll see," I muttered with less than copius confidence. "In the meantime, Josey stays here, in the spare bedroom. Charles, get her some clothes from my closet. Make her comfortable." I stroked Josey who sobbed quietly before the fire. "We'll see," I said. "We'll see."

When Charles awoke the next morning, I had already left, but he told me later of his fear of the devil weed. He told me that he had made a pot of coffee, scrambled several eggs, that Josey had apparently slept soundly and Penny had stayed in her room, but they would need a good breakfast to start the day. So he had added ham and cheddar cheese and a dash of oregano. Oregano. I had said the weed smelled of oregano and that had made Charles shudder. He had dumped the mixture into a pan of foaming butter and watched it bubble, then turn fluffy ... like Dermafix. He had turned off the stove, carried the pan to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. Perhaps toast and jam would better suit the girls.

In the meantime, I spent most of the morning in my lab. Several days ago, a memo from the Board had circulated among the other technical staff. They were told the Dermafix project had come to an end, so I was alone. I had smeared some of the foam from Josey's towel onto a glass slide and was now inspecting the sample under the microscope. This was the tenth time I had inspected such a sample, sometimes stained with a dye, sometimes washed in formaldehyde, sometimes just the straight foam. There had been nothing unusual, much like tiny bubbles. But this sample seemed different. The foam appeared like single, differentiated cells. I stared at the image for some time, making a sketch on a pad next to the microscope. Then, while I watched, the most remarkable thing happened.

The cells divided!

"Christ," I said softly. Then, loudly, "Jesus Christ! Charles was right. It is alive!"

I swung the Polaroid camera into place and took several pictures. When developed, they showed quite clearly the stages in cell mitosis, the chromatin separation, the migration to each pole of the spindle, the final division into daughter cells. I walked quickly to a cage and removed a mouse. While it struggled I peeled some of the Dermafix membrane from its belly, then returned the grateful mouse to its cage. Beneath the microscope the membrane was just that: a smooth, pale membrane without detail, much like plastic wrap. I switched to higher magnification. No. Absolutely no cell structure.

"Shit! How are the cells introduced? Is it the same stuff? Is there some kind of spontaneous regeneration, from an inert, inanimate membrane to living cells?" I sat abruptly on a chair. "Dass ist ein gut problem," I mumbled to myself. "Ya, ya, ein gut problem." It seemed a familiar phrase. I looked up. It was too familiar - it rang a bell. Ein gut problem. Where had I heard that before?

"Unger! He'll know. Shit, he knows everything."

Professor Ludwig Unger had been with the University of Toronto for seventeen years, since immigrating from Austria. He was short and rotund, his lectures were boring, his classes were small, he read from microscopic, hand written notes and he spoke softly. He normally slipped into the classroom unnoticed, opened his sheaf of notes and began whispering to the blackboard. It was often several minutes before the class noticed his presence. But his reputation was international: he was perhaps the foremost microbiologist on the continent.

He was reading and eating a sandwich of dark rye and liverwurst when I barged into his office. Professor Unger slipped his reading glasses down his nose and peered up at me.

"Vell, young lady," he said, "did you make an appointment?"

"No, but I must speak to you. It's really quite urgent. A question. I have a question in need of answers."

"One qvestion? Several answers?" he said quietly, putting down his book.

"Who knows," I groaned. I laid the box on his desk and pointed. "In that box are several slides. One is of some sort of smooth, featureless membrane. Another is a colony of cells. Several others show a frothy accumulation of ... bubbles."

"Bubbles?" Unger said. He pronounced it boobles.

"Who knows? That's why I'm here. I need to know what's the connection between these materials. I suspect that the membrane, although inanimate, can turn into a colony of dividing cells which in turn can grow into a froth of ... of bubbles. I need to know—"

"Miss?"

"Miss Fleetsmith. I attended your class in microbiology ... uh, several times."

"You enrolled in several of my courses?" He smiled, a spectacular set of teeth for the old codger. "Or, perhaps, you vent to classes in just one course ... several times."

"Yes," I said. "And I know how interested you are in cell division and I'm certain you'll be able to answer these questions."

Professor Unger slid the box across his desk, knocking several pencils and assorted papers onto the floor. "Qvestions ... about boobles."

"Yes."

"I tink you can find dee answers in das book. Ask vun off my schtudents." Unger stared across the top of his glasses. "Let me see, you are a recent graduate, ya?"

"Well, not that recent."

"Ya, ya, Feetsmith ... I remember your father. A very, very schmart man. Interested in herbal medicine, ya?"

"Right!" I was amazed. Was my father that well known? It made it that much easier to gain this man's interest. "And that's why these questions are so important. It was my father who first came across this substance ... the stuff on the slides. I believe his death was somehow connected with its curious behavior."

Unger looked at me, then at the box of slides.

"I am afraid I have little time for qvestions. Ask one of my schtudents. You will find dem ..." Unger looked at his watch. "Ya, dey will be playing bridge in dee lounge—end of dee hall. Dey vill not be schtudying and not reading and not vatching dee expeerments. Dey vill be playing dee bridge game."

The box moved.

"Did you see that!" I cried.

Unger looked at the box. A white froth was oozing from under the lid. He slid his glasses up his nose and with a pencil gingerly knocked the lid from the box. It was filled with a white fluff.

"Ya, ya ... boobles," he muttered. "Dass ist ein gut problem."

When I got home I was met at the door by a perturbed Charles.

"She's gone, Miss Fleetsmith," he said.

"Who?"

"Pelvis ... Penny, she's gone."

"And Josey?"

"She's resting in the living room. But Penny, she is not in her room."

I walked past Charles and skipped up the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, Penny's room was empty, but the closet seemed to have its full complement of pink and lavender clothes. The colors were Charles' idea of femininity.

"Wherever she went, she didn't seem to pack anything," I said.

Charles shook his head.

"Indeed, Miss Fleetsmith, she went as she was ... and she knows little of this world."

"Except what she sees on TV," I added. "But don't worry Charlie boy, the police will find her soon enough."

Charles gazed uneasily out the bedroom window and I ran downstairs and slipped into a chair. Josey was sleeping on the sofa.

"Got a question for you," I said. Josey opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. "It's about Hans, " I continued. "When did you first notice any changes?"

Josey sat up, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

"Well, he seemed mad, more'n usual ... upset. Kept bitchin about the cost of runnin' a business these days and—"

"No, I mean changes in his appearance. Did you notice changes in his skin color."

"Well, sort of," Josey said slowly. "He was always pale, never got much sun, but he was even whiter than usual that last week. White, from head to toe."

"You were rubbing him down with Dermafix."

"That's a lie! Who told you that?" Josey said, leaning forward.

"You did."

"Oh. Well, it was 'cause he asked me. I mean, rub that stuff on him. Then it got on my hands. Then it started to get all over my body ..." Josey broke into tears.

"Look kid," I said, in what I thought was a comforting voice, "just try to remember what Hans looked like the last time you saw him. His skin, was it shiny and smooth? Was it kind of bubbly? Frothy?"

"No, no. Smooth, like my hands. My hands were smooth and white. He said it would make us young again. Then my hands started to change. Lordy—"

"Okay Josey, you should get some rest." I got up and Josey wiped the sleeve of her nightgown across her cheek, drying the tears, then lay back on the sofa and promptly fell asleep once more. I left the room.

Charles had been watching. He followed me to the kitchen. I pulled a plate of cold chicken from the fridge, sat at the table and began chewing on a leg.

"Miss Penny," he said. "What would you advise concerning her departure?"

"Who are we talking about, Charlie?"

"Miss Penny," he said.

"Mmm... yes, call the police, " I said between swallows. "She can't be that hard to spot. You have called the police, right?"

"Well ... not exactly—"

"Well, do it!"

I was somewhat surprised that Charles hadn't called the police. In fact, for some reason, he didn't even seem particularly concerned about Penny's departure.

"Miss Fleetsmith, let me make up a hot fricassee with that chicken, on toast with—"

Mmm. Now he changes the subject. Curious.

"Chuck, sit down. I need to talk to somebody and you're it." Charles sat. "I may have to go back to Brazil, to the Chokli village—" Charles stood up, concerned. "Chuck, sit down. You can stay here, look after things. But I need some answers and I think that somehow the answers are tied up with that village, the lack of older females, the ceremony with the Mother and Child, the purple weed, the natives who turn white when they use the weed, then turn dark, normal, again."

I stared at Charles, my eyes suddenly opening wide.

"Wait a minute. I don't have to ask the Chokli along the Amazon. I just have to ask the Chokli, right here, in good ol' TO." I jumped to my feet, elated. "Shit! Why didn't I think of that before." Then I leaned on the table and glared at Charles. "How're the English lessons coming? Will she understand me?"

"She?" he whispered.

"Yes, she. Pelvis. Miss Boobs. Penny."

Charles looked pained.

"Chuck, go and get her. Let's see how well she's learned the language."

"But Miss Fleetsmith, the girl is no longer with us. She has gone. I don't know where she is."

There was silence in the room. I groaned and slumped into a chair.

"Shit."

"Your use of that word is excessive, Miss Fleetsmith."

"Shit."
Chapter 10

It was in the Sunday Edition that Charles first saw the article. Earlier in the week, the Times-Gazette had reported several strange deaths, but now there was a full page devoted to the cases. According to the city coroner, the bodies were smooth and hairless, covered in a white membrane. The situation was not that unusual, Dr. B. Bernside had said. It was not the first time he had run across such corpses. Indeed, he was quite familiar with the disease. There was a small photo of Barney, grinning from ear to ear, his hand shoved into the front of his frock, like some absurd Napoleon.

Charles had folded the paper and placed it next to my coffee cup. When I came down for breakfast, I'd read the article.

When the clock struck ten and I hadn't come to breakfast, Charles came to my room. He knocked gently on the door.

"Miss Fleetsmith? Are you awake?" A pause. "Are you decent?"

"Come in Chuck. I'm as decent as I'll ever be."

Charles entered to find me lying on the bed, in my nightgown, staring at the ceiling.

"What's up?" I asked, still staring at the ceiling.

"There's an article in the Sunday Times-Gazette. An interview with Dr. Barney Bernside. He says he is familiar with the disease which causes skin to go white, and hairless. Perhaps you would be wise to discuss these things with Dr.—"

"Hah! That fraud. I showed Barney the white skin when I visited poor old Hans in the morgue. Before that, BB didn't have a clue." I sat up in bed. "Barney's a fraud. Chuck, did I ever tell you about the time BB and I spent the weekend at Pop's cabin, in Muskoka? Barney had spent weeks describing his prowess in bed."

"Miss Fleetsmith, I really think—"

"So I took him up to the cabin. I can tell you, his bark is infinitely bigger than his—"

"Miss Fleetsmith!" Charles straightened to his full height. "There have been other cases. Bodies covered in white. The Dermafix skin, I believe."

I jumped out of bed.

"What! Where?" I ran from the room, down the stairs, yelling back over my shoulder: "Where's the bloody Gazette?" Yet, I knew exactly where it would be. I slid into the kitchen chair and pulled the paper across my plate. It was most upsetting. Most upsetting? Shit! It was horrifying. When Charles arrived, I was silent for some time. He said nothing.

"I don't even know these people," I said, finally. "They aren't technicians at the lab. They're just ... people. No connection with Oerschott Medicals." I looked up at Charles. "It's out. The stuff is out, in the city. But how? The lab is locked."

"Mr. von Oerschott. Did he not have a vial of—"

"Yes, yes, that must be it." I paused. "But how did it get to these ... these people?" I was a bit ashamed of how I said people, as though they were lower forms of life.

"The shower," Charles said.

"But why these particular people? What connection do they have to ...?" I stopped and stared hard at Charles. "Shower? What shower?"

"You may recall that we washed Miss Josey in the shower. The Dermafix skin had turned to froth. You collected some froth in a towel, to bring to the lab for analysis. The rest of the froth went down—"

"The drain!" I cried. "Shit! Does that mean it's in the sewers of the city? Will it get into our water supply?" For all I knew, they recycle that shit. I placed my chin carefully in my hands. That didn't help. "No. Impossible. The water's treated. Besides, there'd be hundreds of fatalities, not just a few."

Josey walked in.

"What's the fuss?" she asked.

"Josey, what happened to the vial that Hans had, that you used to rub down his body?"

Josey looked at Charles, then at me.

"His body?" she asked demurely.

"C'mon, Josey," I said. "Don't be coy. You know exactly—"

"I used it up. There ain't that much in the little glass tube. I emptied every last drop onto Ohshit's ... uh, onto his ..."

"And the empty vial? Where's that?"

"I threw it in the garbage. Why? Did I do wrong?"

"No, no. It's okay. I just thought ...shit, I don't know what I think."

Josey was looking at the table, at the article in the Sunday Gazette. "Oh, lordy," she cried. "They died. I could have died, just like that! Oh lordy. Oh lordy."

Charles placed his arm around her waist, to comfort her.
Chapter 11

All three of us had eaten early, a simple meal since no one was very hungry—except for Josey who could eat like a horse. Charles had made a large salad of romaine lettuce with sliced ham, strips of brick cheese, feta and black olives and his secret almost-black dressing. Charles and Josey ate in silence. I guess I mumbled throughout the meal.

"The weed heals," I was saying to no one in particular. "We saw that effect in the jungles of the Amazon. There were few women there, in the native village. I think that's important ... somehow. A secondary skin forms. Sometimes it sluffs off, sometimes it grows, foamy. It can cover the entire body. It did, with Hans, with Poo, with ..."

"Poo?" Josey said with difficulty, strands of lettuce hanging from her mouth.

"Dog," Charles said. "Poo ... a dog at the lab."

I had been talking into my salad. I looked up at Josey who was intent upon listening, but unwilling to stop eating. "The salve, made of the juices of the weed, formed a skin which covered Josey's body." Josey grunted at the sound of her name, but continued eating. "It didn't kill her, but it might have. It didn't kill me." I gazed briefly at the scar on the back of my hand, then into my salad bowl. "It seems to have killed some people, according to the newspaper. How they got it is a mystery. It certainly killed Hans. No mystery how he got it. He stole the damn stuff from my lab!"

I looked up from my salad. The others had finished and were staring at me. Josey wiped her mouth with her sleeve. A streak of Charles' dark dressing ran across her upper lip. It stayed, in spite of a second swipe of her sleeve.

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, "I really think that the juices of this weed have somehow found their way into the city water supply. I believe that the city officials should be informed. I also believe that you should attempt to discover an antidote so that the health department might—"

I jumped up. It hit me like a Mack truck. "Shit! Why didn't I think of that before?"

"My mention of an antidote," Charles said, thinking that his words had sparked my reaction, "is the consequence of much cogitation and a certain degree of mental anguish. You have been concerned with other things and have had little opportunity to think on these matters. I believe ..."

"Cocoon!"

"... that my responsibility is to analyze the situation and inform you—" Charles stopped. "Cocoon?"

"Yes, yes, cocoon." I left the room immediately, heading for the front door.

"She's a weirdo," I heard Josey mumble, still trying to wipe the dark stain from her lip. "A sweet gal, but a weirdo."

I could see Charles staring out the window as my Porsche slid onto the street. I stopped. He could see my fussing beneath my blouse, pulling my bra out, tossing it on the back seat. I rarely wore a bra anyway. Now it was imperative that I discard the apparatus.

I could almost hear Charles agreeing with Josey. "Weirdo."

Barney Bernside wasn't even surprised when I barged into his office.

"I figured you'd show up sooner or later," he said, grinning and straightening his shirt.

"Where are the bodies," I said.

"I have only two. The others have been cremated, at the request of the next of kin. And the two that I have are—"

"Cocoons," I whispered.

"What?"

"They're cocoons," I said. "The bodies, the people reported in the Gazette, they're now cocoons. Right? Show me!"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call them cocoons, but they are covered in that epidermal sheath. The same covering I discovered on Hans von Oerschott."

"You discovered? BB, sweetheart, your memory is as short as your penis."

Barney blushed. "I assume you want to inspect the bodies," he said quickly. "It's highly irregular—"

"Let's go angel. Lead the way."

Barney walked slowly to an adjoining room. An assistant was unwrapping a body which lay on a long table.

"Clancy, take a break. Go for a coffee. Don't hurry back."

The young man seemed somewhat startled, but pulled the sheet over the body and immediately headed for the door. When he looked back, I had already thrown the sheet to the floor and was carefully inspecting the pale figure on the table. Barney stood at my side, frowning. Clancy shrugged and left.

"Look BB," I said. "This stuff is heaviest, thicker, around the neck and head. It's thinner at the extremities, but it's continuous. One continuous, unbroken wrapping covering everything, even a thin transparent layer over the eyes." Barney leaned forward to gain a better view. I continued.

"In places it doesn't look like there's anything there, but it's there just the same. A thin, almost invisible skin." I turned to Barney. "Don't you see? It's like a cocoon. The body is inside, protected ... somehow."

"Protected?" Barney grinned. "From what? It killed them, didn't it? Hardly a protective cover, I'd say."

"So what did they die of?"

"I'm not yet certain," BB said. "After we finish the autopsy, then—"

"How did Hans die? What killed him? You've had ample time to do the autopsy on Hans. What killed Hans von Oerschott?"

Barney straightened up, turned slowly and walked to the wall. I watched him. He leaned heavily against the door frame and gazed at the floor. He pulled out a package of cigarettes and slowly withdrew one. It made a great scene and he was playing it for all it was worth.

"C'mon, BB. Give it to me straight," I said in my sexiest voice, emphasizing the last word.

Barney looked up, the cigarette still in his hand. "I don't know. I really don't know what killed Hans."

I walked to his side, knocked the cigarette from his hand, put my hand into his, pulled him gently into his office. He slumped into a chair. I waited. This was important.

"There were apparently no bruises, no degeneration of organs, no nonfunctional body parts ... in fact, the body of Hans von Oerschott was perfect. I mean, it was without blemish. Unusual for a man of his age." Barney looked up at me. I was sitting on his desk. "There was no reason for him to die," Barney concluded.

"But he did die, so he must have died of something and if the city coroner can't determine the cause of death then perhaps we need a new coroner." That was mean and I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Look BB. Do it again. Look at Hans' body again, but this time—"

"I can't" he muttered.

"Sure you can. Just—"

"It's gone."

I slid off the desk. "What's gone?"

"The body. The body of Hans von Oerschott has gone, vanished."

"Gone, as in cremated?" I asked.

"Stolen," BB said.

"Shit! Who in hell would want to steal Hans' body?" I paced about the room, then turned and pointed at Barney. No more nice guy for me. "You asshole! You brain dead shithead! What kind of security do you have here, anyway. How in Christ's name can somebody walk in and steal a bloody body, already cut to pieces?"

"Uh, well, I hadn't really finished the autopsy. Just a single midtorso incision—"

"But you inspected the organs. You just said that."

"Yes, but a cursory inspection only. I didn't remove any parts."

"But somebody removed parts. All the parts." I was disgusted. "Shit!"

"But we have these other two bodies," Barney said weakly. "The symptoms seem the same. Whatever it is you're looking for, surely—"

I softened my approach. This really was important and I had to do it right. "BB, don't let anybody near those bodies. You do the autopsies yourself. I want to know everything. I want pictures, diagrams, a detailed report, color descriptions, the degrees of thickness of the Dermafix sheath, the—"

Barney stood, defiantly.

"I'm not your lackey! You're not my boss! What is this? Orders from a sleazy broad who thinks that—"

I slid my body next to his, running my hand to his neck, caressing.

" ... thinks that I'll just ... just ..."

I began to unbutton my blouse, then his shirt, pulling each to the side, stroking his chest, pressing my breasts to his. Anticipating this, I was, of course, devoid of bra. I unbuckled his belt, sliding my hand into his trousers, fondling.

"Oh God," he moaned. "Oh God, Fran, stop it."

"Please?" I whined. "Pretty please, BB darling? A detailed report?"

He pulled me to him, eagerly. I whispered the request again, into his ear. "Yes, yes," he groaned, "tomorrow, it'll be ready by noon."

I spun on my heel and marched out of the office, buttoning my blouse. Barney fell forward onto the desk, panting. Clancy was standing, mesmerized, at the door.
Chapter 12

It was only later that I learned of what had happened at home, the next day, while I was at the lab. Part of this I got from Josey, then part from Charles.

Josey had looked carefully in the mirror. The dark streak on her upper lip was not Charles' secret salad dressing, as she had earlier suspected. The skin was discolored. In fact, it was not only dark in color, it felt somewhat fuzzy and seemed quite permanent. She had shaken her head as though to dispel the thought of a permanent streak and walked out of the bathroom.

Charles had seen her enter her bedroom, a room previously occupied by Penny, the wayward native girl. By that time I had already left for the lab, to test the "cocoon theory". Josey would sleep until noon, Charles was sure. He had carefully descended to the kitchen, unlocked the door to the basement, looked about one last time, then descended into the unlit stairwell, closing the door behind him. As Josey told it, he was gone for perhaps ten minutes when the phone rang.

Charles had run up the stairs and grabbed the phone before the fourth ring, hence before the answering machine would kick in.

"I'm afraid Miss Fleetsmith is not a home at the present time," he had said. It was his standard response. "May I take a message?"

He had gazed at the ceiling, then at the open door to the basement. With a foot, he had reached over and kicked the door half-closed. "Yes, surely. I will tell her when she returns home. Thank you for calling." He had hung the phone on the hook, pushed the basement door securely closed, then had slid into a chair, jumped again to his feet, then slid the lock into place on the basement door.

I heard the basement episode from Josey. Charles told me of the phone call. When he related these events, I hadn't even asked what the hell was going on in the basement. Stupid. Fran Debra Fleetsmith, PhD in Stupidity.

Josey was in her room when Charles continued with his part of the story, telling it as though it was a script for some B-grade movie:

Josey wanders down the stairs in her nightgown. I had already set the table for two. Without a word she plops into a chair.

She mentions the dark streak on her upper lip, how she had tried in vain to clean it off. Then she gulps her coffee.

Josey: "Thanks, Charlie. What'd I do without ya?"

Charles: "Quite well, I should think." I pause for effect, then: "Have you any plans for employment? I mean, you were a secretary to the late von Oerschott, I believe. Do you plan to continue that line of work? Is your intention—"

Josey: "Wanna get rid of me, Charlie? Fran says if I step outside, the cops get me. I should hang around for awhile. C'mon Charlie, I ain't so bad. If you like, I'll make dinner and you can take a rest. I'll even clean up the house. I'll wash the—"

Charles: "No need Miss Cowley. My intention was not to suggest that you leave. I merely inquired as to your plans, out of concern for your future."

Josey: "Nice, Charlie. Very nice. But I think I'll hang around for a bit, like Fran says. Never had it so good." Josey gulps the last of the coffee, stuffs an entire hard boiled egg into her mouth and gets out of her chair, walking to the window. Her body is silhouetted against the morning light. She places her hands on her hips. "Not bad for an old broad like me, eh Charlie? Old Hans liked it, this body. Oh lordy, how he liked this body." She leans toward me. "You can have it, you know, this body—such as it is. No need to kick me out. I'm all yours, if you—"

Charles: "Miss Cowley, I am afraid you misinterpret my intentions. I am merely concerned for your future. I have no desire to partake of your ... your—"

Josey: "Listen Charlie, you're not so pure you know. I know all about you and Pelvis. Can't fool me. English lessons? C'mon now. Every night, after we've all gone to bed? Takin' advantage of the poor little gal, I'd say. And she don't know no better than to—"

Charles: "Miss Cowley! I must insist that you discontinue this absurd line of reasoning. My intentions toward Miss Penny are entirely honourable and driven by the wishes of Miss Fleetsmith who has asked that I teach the young woman—"

Josey: "Sure Charlie, English. Too bad she's gone, eh Charlie? No more lessons, eh Charlie? But I'm makin you an offer. Take it or leave it." She winks at me then turns and walks slowly to the door. Leaning against the door frame, she looks back and says: "Your little secret is safe with me, Charlie boy," then she leaves.

Charlie finished the scene and stared intently at me. He was smiling, pleased with his storyline. Josey talked of some secret. Before I had a chance to ask Charles about this secret, he said, "Just what secret did she think she knew?"

We were sitting by the fire. I was sipping sweet sherry. I didn't answer. I was humming. Something strange was going on and it wasn't Charlie's sexual endeavors.

PART THREE

Chapter 13

Mah name is Willum Boone, transferred from San Antonio, after chasin' a Mexican to New Yawk. He'd come acrosst the Rio Grande with a pack o' cocaine and headed north. Worked with the NYPD, reckon Ah impressed 'em, got me a job there, so Ah headed north, worked mah way to special assistant to the Chief in jest five years. Proud o' that. Guess Ah'm a sorta jack o' all trades. Special assistant means go here, do thet, check this and thet.

The big apple is nothin like San Antonio; more like a big prune. Too many people, keep to thesselves, don't take kindly to strangers. Ah'm six foot four, lanky, wear a stetson. Ah surely do look like a stranger. Then Ah take me a vacation in Canada, Muskoka, fishin', visit TO and get me a job with the Toronto police, special assistant ag'in. The Chief is Fred "Fuzz" Clements. Good cop.

Ah never git the Chief mad by disagreein' with 'im, but Ah'm no yes-man. Let Fuzz know what Ah'm thinkin, make a suggestion er two, let the Chief make the decisions, support 'im. That's kinda like mah modus operandi.

"I don't give a fuck what the Mayor says! If he doesn't like the way I'm handling this, let him find another Chief."

Fuzz Clements drops the phone onto the hook from about two feet, stares at me, spins about on his chair, stares out the winda, grunts. He's bin Chief of Police fer more than ten year, afore the Mayor was even appointed. He knows his job: keep a low profile, keep the details outta the papers, keep his people happy ... and scared. Ah wasn't scared. Hell no. Ah understood the man.

Besides, this case was mighty different. It'd bin almost impossible to keep the details outta the papers. Not yer regular homycides: four bodies covered in some milky kinda membrane. The people who'd found the bodies were keen to describe their appearance, to the press, in great and gory detail ... 'specially the coroner, Barney Bernside. He was eager as a calf to tit, talkin', talkin'. Gazette reporters swarmin like bees on honey, reporters from 'round the state... uh, province. Funny country; they ain't got no states here. Anyway, it'd become some kinda national news item, rampant speculation as to the cause of death.

Aliens attacK.

Spider creatures spin humans in web of silk.

Humans suffocate in death shell.

Police Chief mystified by robe of doom.

"What in God's name could have destroyed von Oerschott's body-drawer like that?" Fuzz was kinda angry, no doubt 'bout that. "Torn from the wall. And an inside door bashed down. Window smashed, with glass on the outside. Looked like the break-in was a break-out. No sign of entry from outside the morgue. But, no matter, it's the other bodies. That bloody skin. The press is howling."

Ah coughs lightly indicatin' Ah was 'bout to interrupt the Chief's daydreamin. "Fred?" Ah says quiet-like. The Chief don't like nobody callin' him Fuzz. "Y'all might consider inventin' a story thet sounds plausible," Ah says, "explainin' the ... uh, death shell, with a story thet ain't supernatural. Then the papers'd lose interest." Ah waited fer a response from the Chief. None, so Ah continues. "Y'all could say, fer example, thet the bodies have been preserved, fer purposes of the autopsy, usin' some new-type skin and—"

Fuzz Clements turns to face me. "William, you gotta be kiddin'" he says, with jest a hint o' disgust in his voice. "You don't really think anybody would buy that." Fuzz grunts once, then: "Yet, it's not a bad idea to remove the mystery from this skin. If it's not mysterious then it's not news." He spins ag'in to look out the winda, at the clouds goin' by. "Get Barney Bernside in here. He has the expertise to be believed, and can help devise some cover story to make this case too boring to report."

Ah notes with some pleasure thet Fuzz has accepted mah tack. Ah says, "Y'all suggestin thet we lie to the press?"

"That's what I'm suggesting." Fuzz is lookin out the winda ag'in. He ain't lookin' at me.

"The story has to be believable, yuh know," Ah says. "If it's discovered that we lied, we need some way to—"

"Yes, yes. Just get Barney in here. It'll be good and believable and leave us room to maneuver if the press starts screamin' that we lied. Unnerstand?"

Ah turn to leave, Fuzz swivels in his chair, says: "And if the Mayor calls, tell him I'm tied up with the case and can't come to the phone ... the asshole."

Ah brings Barney Bernside to the Chief's office, right quick. Ah was less than informative 'bout the reason fer the visit, but Barney was sure it was 'bout the bodies, the death shell. The coroner's office ain't but rarely newsworthy. Ah guess ol' Barney actually enjoys the publicity. Ah knew he'd be eager to tell Fuzz all he knew, 'bout as much as to fill a spitoon. Nevertheless, Ah felt Bernside'd build it up so's to excite the 'magination of the Chief. Thet's what Ah'd do.

When we gits to the Fuzz's office, Ms. Cornelia Halstead, Chief's secretary, she's doin' her nails. Barney moans in admiration. Ms. Halstead's got the biggest lungs y'all ever seen. We calls her Holstein. She says the Chief is free so Ah knocks gently on his door, hears Fuzz grunt once, then ushers Barney into the office, points at a chair. Barney grins, sits down, crosses his legs. Ah stands in the corner. They ain't but two chairs in the Chief's office.

"Okay, here's the deal," Fuzz says, leanin' over his desk, starin' straight at the coroner. "You know about this ... this death shell." Fuzz looks at me like they was my words, but thet's what the papers called it. "We're gettin' bad press," the Chief says. "The whole world thinks we're doin' a lousy job. I need a story that'll defuse the situation. I want some highly theoretical, medical explanation of this skin that'll bore people to death, they'll lose interest, it's not so mysterious after all, the press will drop the whole thing ... and we can get on with solving the mystery. Unnerstand?" Fuzz pauses, Barney's quiet, frownin'. Ah jest waits, knowin' better than to add anythin' jest yet.

Finally, Barney says, "And how can I help?" He was smilin'.

"I want you to give me this highly theoretical, medical explanation," Fuzz says, raisin' his voice.

"But I have no idea how it starts, how it progresses, what causes the eventual death of the individual, where—"

"Tell me what you do know."

"I can tell you that it's a pale-colored membrane that covers the entire body, that the body underneath is actually in excellent shape, medically. In fact, there seems to be some cellular regeneration taking place. Internal organs that, according to medical records, were defective or less than nominal, seem to have restored themselves. The skin, this membrane, it apparently has certain curative powers which, I admit, I don't fully understand."

Barney pauses fer a bit. Chief Clements ain't pleased, so the coroner adds: "It's quite remarkable, really. The body is not only preserved, but restored to perfect health. If you want a story, for the press, then tell them that this death shell is more like a life shell. If we can determine it's origin then we'll have a miracle cure for all the ills of mankind. Just think of it!"

Barney's gettin' excited as a bull in rut, red in the face, wavin' his hands. "Grow this shell about a sick individual," he says, "a cocoon within which healing takes place!" Cocoon? He said cocoon. A perfect description, Ah thinks. "The body within regenerates. A metamorphosis! A transmutation! A—"

"No!" Fuzz is now outta his chair. "I don't want any crap about miracle cures. I want an explanation that will keep the press off my back. Something boring, something trivial, something that nobody wants to know about, something—"

"But don't you see?" Barney goes on. "We've got something here that requires further research. I can do it! Get me the funds and I can set up a lab that will solve this puzzle, for the benefit of all mankind, for the—"

"Screw mankind!" Fuzz is pacin' the room. "You don't unnerstand. These people are dead! They haven't been healed of anything. What in Christ's name would we do with a skin that kills people while it's curing them? What I need is an explanation of their death. I don't need some crap that says their liver is better than it ever was. The bastards are dead. Tell me why."

Fuzz stops pacin' the room, faces Barney. "And von Oerschott ... how'd you lose the bloody body?" He points at the coroner. "You've given me more headaches, know that? Letting the goddamn corpse get out of your lab. So you owe me, unnerstand?"

"But," Barney stutters, "the removal was violent. I mean, the drawer which held Hans' body was literally torn from the wall. How could that happen? How can I possibly explain that?"

"Look, Barney," Fuzz goes on, quiet like. "forget about that. The press knows nothing of the damage to the body-drawer. What they know is that other bodies have been found, covered in some weird crap. Give me a story on the nature of the bodies. Lay on the medical jargon, cover the story with pharmaceutical shit a mile deep, so nobody unnerstands nothing—and they lose interest. Unnerstand?"

Barney's as quiet as the fella 'neath the wife's bed when the husband comes home. Fuzz returns to his desk, sits. The room is quiet, then Ah coughs, gently.

"Go ahead, William," Fuzz says, recognizin' the meanin o' the cough. "What's your idea?" He ain't even lookin' at me.

"Chief, they's something to what Barney says, yuh know. If the restorin' powers of this here skin kin be identified, and the death of the recipient kin be avoided, then that'll get the department off'n the hook. Kin you see the headlines? Chief of Police musters financial forces in order to create the greatest medical breakthrough in the history—"

"Bullshit!" Fuzz spins in his chair, stares outta the winda ag'in. He ain't lookin at nobody, jest them clouds goin' by. "Muster financial forces? Are you kiddin'? Medical breakthrough?" He turns, glares at me. "Get the press off my back. Get me a story they can believe, a boring story without any newsworthiness." He turns to the winda. Them clouds ag'in. The room is quiet. Ah pats Barney on the arm, we both leave, quiet like.

Ah follows Barney to the door.

"Y'all really believe this here skin has healin' powers?" Ah asks.

"Yes, I do. It's as though the body had just been created. A baby. New organs. Just starting life. No blemishes, no discoloration, no signs of aging." Barney pauses.

"Did yuh know," Ah says, "thet the research y'all suggested was actually bein' done, at Oerschott Medicals, in a basement lab? Hans von Oerschott thought it was some kinda youth-preservin' medication. Ah talked to his secretary, a Miss Josephine Cowley, and the gal said he was actually usin' the stuff to restore his youth. Von Oerschott ain't no fool. Ah figures he expected to get mighty rich."

"Yes, that's how Oerschott got it—the cocoon," Barney says. "It doesn't explain the others, but at least we know how he got it. Killed him. Funny. Don't know why." Then he looks at me, eager like. "The secretary, did she notice any changes in Oerschott? That he was getting younger? Did she notice—"

"We ain't finished interrogatin' the woman," Ah says. "We hadda stop."

"You shouldn't have stopped! It's important. If I could, I'd like to talk to her myself. Is that possible? The next time you—"

"She's gone, vanished. Her apartment ain't bin occupied fer almost two weeks. But they's one thing: there was signs of this here skin in her apartment, on the chairs, on her clothes, shreds of thet milky membrane."

Barney shudders.

"Guess she's next ... poor woman," he says.

"Ah reckon."

PART FOUR

Chapter 14

I phoned Charlie from the lab. When the phone rang Charles had been cleaning the silverware ... or so he later said. He answered the phone on precisely the fourth ring as I knew he would.

"You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," he said in a low monotone. It was precisely what the answering machine would have said. I listened with amusement. "If you would like to leave a message ..." he continued. It was a useful ploy. The immigration authorities had phoned several times, enquiring as to the whereabouts of the native girl from Brazil, and Charles had simply recited the words from the answering machine, listened to their message and hung up without comment. He had become skilled at this deception and now continued: "... and/or your name and telephone number, then I will relay the information to Miss Fleetsmith when she returns. If you would like—"

"Okay Charlie, cut the shit," I said.

"Ah, Miss Fleetsmith. I was beginning to worry at your absence. Your bed hasn't been slept in and I assume—"

"Working, at the lab, all night," I said. "Have I had any calls?"

"Yes. A call from Dr. Barney Bernside, the coroner. He left no message. One from the assistant Chief of Police, a Mr. William Boone. He has learned from Dr. Bernside that you visited the coroner's office and were the first to discover the presence of the Dermafix skin on Mr. Oerschott. He would like to talk to y'all 'bout yer findins, in the lab, at Oerschott Medicals." The last sentence, in a Texan drawl.

"Y'all?"

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith.Y'all."

"Is that all?"

"Yes ... well, another call from immigration, about Penny."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. We know nothing of her whereabouts."

"You mean you impersonated the answering machine?"

"Quite so, Miss Fleetsmith."

"It's about 9:30 and I'll leave here shortly. Can you cook up some breakfast, an omelet maybe? I'm starved. And I'd like to talk to you about my findings and some strange things happening here, so put on your thinking cap. Ciao, Charlie."

Later that evening, Charles described Josey's dramatic entrance after my earlier phone call. Again, it was a B-movie with Charles as screen writer, director and main character:

I hang up the phone, quickly clear the flamboyant silver knives and forks from the table (my dad had been easily impressed by fancy silverware and, as that's all we had, we used it), made up a breakfast setting for two (that was to be for Charlie and me), cut the ham and cheese for an omelet.

Josey enters, standing at the door, smiling. She is dressed in a light grey suit with a small red scarf tied about her neck. "Breakfast for two?" she says.

Charles: "I can make it three if you wish."

Josey: "Naw, coffee's fine. This sittin' around is bad for my waistline."

Josey slips into a chair and I bring her a cup and fill it with black coffee.

Josey: "Thank you Mr. Curran."

I look at her, quizzically.

Josey: "Yes, Charles, I've decided to become a lady of breeding. You are Mr. Curran and I am Miss Josephine. Josey no more. Josephine, or Miss Josephine, if you please. That's me."

I return to my omelet. "Why the change of temperament, Miss Josephine?" I say.

"I figure I ain't gettin' any younger, so I need to find me a man. Somebody who'll take care of me, treat me like a lady. I figure that means I gotta look like a lady, right?"

I mutter: "Mmm-hmm."

Josey: "Thought Hans Ohshit would look after me, but he ... well, you know."

Charles: "Mmm." I am still fussing with the omelet.

Josey: "And I gotta talk like a lady. Interested, Charles?" She lapses into the more familiar name. "I could use some lessons, in English." She smiles, her eyes cast to the floor, fluttering eyelids.

The phone rings. I answer.

"You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," I begins. "Uh ... excuse me, excuse me, this is not Miss Fleetsmith speaking. I am Charles ...uh, yes, yes, certainly." I listen intently. "You-my-cota? I will tell her." I place the phone on the hook and turn again to my omelet, just as you drive up the driveway. The scene ends as you enter the room.

"Hi gang," I said, striding into the kitchen and collapsing in a chair. "My, my, Josey, you look elegant this morning. But you need to wash your face, Honey."

"Josephine, if you please," Josey said, with a small shake of her head. "You are lookin' at the new me. A lady." I grinned and Josey looked at Charles. "Mr. Charles is going to give me lessons ... in English." Charles shuddered.

"Miss Fleetsmith," he said, doling out the omelet, "someone called from the University. He asked that you call him at your convenience. He said you would know who it was." Charles paused. "He had an accent. German, I believe."

"Austrian," I said. "Unger?"

Charles jumped up. "You are welcome to my omelet. If you're hungry I can—"

"Professor Unger, the microbiologist. That's who called. Did he say anything about the Dermafix?"

"Nothing that I could understand, I'm afraid."

"What does that mean?"

"He simply asked that you return his call and that he would give you a lecture on mycology. He did mention a name for the foam you left him." Charles sat at the table and began to eat. He seemed a bit embarrassed.

"Well?" I asked. This could be important.

"I beg your pardon?" Charles said, his fork stopping just short of his mouth.

"The name, Charlie. The name for the foam." That man could frustrate!

"I am afraid, Miss Fleetsmith, that the name eludes me. I should have written it down the minute he said it. I apologize for my momentary lack of acumen, but I am certain that if you return his call—"

"You-my-cota," Josey said, looking pleased.

Charles looked rather embarrassed. "Yes, I think that was it."

"Eumycota?" I repeated. "Fungi? Mushrooms?"

Charles stopped eating. "Yes, of course, if you wish." He got up and walked to the refrigerator, pulling a plastic bag of mushrooms from a shelf.

I groaned. "Forget the bloody mushrooms. I hate mushrooms. But Eumycota, that's a type of fungus. Mushrooms belong to that division. Did he say the foam was a mushroom?"

"Professor Hunger's entire conversation," Charles said, "was something like 'I am calling from dee university, pleez tell Miz Feetsmith to call me, I vill giff her a lecture on mycology, tell her I believe dee foam to be ... to be—'" Charles looked at Josey.

"You-my-cota," Josey said with a smile.

"Eumycota," I said.

"Quite so," Charles said. "And that was the extent of the conversation."

I jumped up and walked to the phone, paused with my hand hovering, changed my mind then turned to leave the room.

"I think I'll drive over to see Unger," I said.

"But Miss Fleetsmith," Charles whined, "you haven't finished your omelet, in spite of your apparent hunger. Further, you said you wished to discuss certain findings you made at the laboratory last night, and I would be delighted to engage in such a discussion. Finally, you have not slept and need to rest. I am certain Professor's lecture on mycology can wait."

I wasn't listening, but standing at the kitchen door, thinking. Reminded of what I wanted to speak to Charles about, I said: "Somebody has fiddled with the computer."

"At Oerschott Medicals?" Charles asked.

"Yes, some files on my hard disk have been copied. Somebody knows my password and has been looking through my Dermafix research files."

"Who knows your password?"

"No one. In fact, the only person who could get into my files is the manager of the computing centre, but I don't believe she'd be even slightly interested."

"Has anything been modified, on your files?"

"No, just copied."

Charles droned: "Somebody got into your laboratory, copied certain files onto a disk, files relating to your research into the properties of Dermafix, then left with that information." Repeating the words seemed to clarify the situation to Charlie. He pushed his plate aside, frowning. Josey, who earlier looked bored, now seemed interested. I returned to the table, sitting slowly. "Who would be interested?" Charles said.

"How'd you know that?" Josey asked.

"Know what?" I said.

"That somebody took a copy," Josey said. "I do that all the time, take copies, and nobody catches on. There ain't no way to tell when copies are taken. That's what Ohshit told me. Just take a copy and ... " Josey stopped and her face turned red. "Uh, what I mean is—"

"Aha! So you took copies of my files!" I said.

"No way!" She looked flustered. "I don't ... I never—"

"C'mon Josey. Out with it!" I was angry. The little twit.

"Oh lordy, what to say? Ohshit would give me a list of userids," she said slowly, "and passwords and a list of files and he said I should take copies each Friday evening and put them into his disk space. No way anybody would know, he said. You can't trace a copy, he said."

"And did you take copies of my—?"

"Lordy, no! Your lab was off limits to everybody. Even me. That's what Ohshit said. I didn't know your password or nothing. I swear."

"Miss Josephine, you have just admitted that you did copy files," Charles said. "If you didn't copy the files of Miss Fleetsmith, then whose files did you copy?"

Josey looked uncomfortable. "They was from the business office, from Ohshit Medicals, from Ohshit Plastics. Once a month I'd copy from ... from—"

"Go ahead, Josey," I said in a low and angry voice. "You don't work for Hans anymore."

"JMP," Josey muttered.

"Jason Medical Products?"

"Yes, but just once a month."

"Espionage," Charles said.

Chapter 15

I said, "You were stealing product information from a competitor? How did you gain access to their computer?"

"I don't know nothing," Josey groaned. "Ohshit just gave me a phone number and some passwords, said I should call after midnight and make a copy of certain files."

"But that call can be traced," I said. "If JMP finds out their files have been copied they can trace the call to Oerschott Medicals."

"No ... I called from my apartment," Josey said. "Did I do wrong?"

"Miss Josephine," Charles said, "are we to understand that you have a computer at your home, with a modem to provide telephone communications, and that you used that computer to copy these files from Jason Medical Products?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

"So if JMP traces any phone calls," I said, "they trace them back to you, Josey, and Hans is innocent of any crime. He has clean hands."

"Clean Hans," Charles said, smiling. Then he jumped to his feet, gesturing dramatically. "Computer theft, you say? You might enquire of my secretary, Miss Josephine Cowley. She has a computer at home, provided by Oerschott Medicals so that she might earn overtime wages. The calls came from her apartment, you say? Dreadful! Her absence would be a great loss to us, but if she is to go to jail for her crimes, then we must bear this burden—"

"Sit down, Charlie boy," I said.

"The bastard!" Josey was on her feet. "Ohshit! That crummy bastard!"

"This isn't getting us anywhere," I said. "I don't give a shit about Hans and his theft of JMP files. Somebody stole my files. That's our problem. My files and my salve and my mice."

"But you still got them, right?" Josey said. "I mean, they ain't gone."

"Of course I still have them. Nevertheless, somebody is privy to my research."

"Salve?" Charles said. "Mice?"

"What?" I asked.

"You said somebody stole your mice," Charles said. "I was aware of the theft of the salve, but mice?"

"Bloody right," I said. "Two vials of Dermafix liquid and one jar of salve are gone, and several of my mice."

"Then," Charles said, "somebody is performing experiments, wouldn't you say?"

"That dirty, slimy bastard," Josey moaned.

"No, Miss Josephine," Charles said, "I rather doubt that it was Mr. Oerschott. He's quite dead, you know." He turned to me. "The thefts you describe, were they the items you wished to discuss with me?"

"Not entirely," I said. "It's about some experiments that I've been working on. Curious." I got up and left the room. "I'll be back in a minute," I shouted over my shoulder. "Meet me in my study. I have something to tell you. Something remarkable."

I was in my study leafing through a notebook when they arrived a few minutes later. Josey was still swearing softly at Oerschott for having her copy files from her apartment, with her phone and her computer.

"Sit," I said. "Anywhere." Josey slid onto a short couch. Charles looked at the size of the couch, pulled a pillow from beside Josey, tossed it on the floor and sat on it. I was in my chair, by the desk. I swiveled to face them. Josey reached into her pocket and withdrew a package of cigarettes. I glared at her and she slipped the package back into her jacket.

"Recently I inflicted a small wound on a mouse—" I began.

"Oooh, lordy," Josey whined. I glared at her and she was quiet.

"I've done this dozens of times and always, the same kind of thing happens. After I apply Dermafix, a film forms over the wound, a pale and smooth cream-colored membrane. If I remove the membrane after a day or so I can see that the wound is healing. If I leave it for perhaps a week, then it either sluffs off, leaving a nearly healed wound, or turns to a kind of foam, or it remains a membrane, perhaps growing slightly in size." I looked at the back of my hand. "The scratch I got in Brazil kept its membrane for weeks before it peeled off. When it did, there was slight though clearly visible evidence of the wound."

"May I interrupt," Charles said.

"No. Wait till I get to the point. What I'm telling you is old stuff. That's what has happened in the past. What happened last night is quite different. In fact, there is quite another phenomenon which can occur, as Josey can tell you."

"Covered with foamy crap, from head to foot," Josey said.

"Yes," I continued. "Until last night I've only observed the membrane to grow and encompass the entire body, in humans, in a dog. The body of Hans von Oerschott, the other four bodies at the coroner's office, and, of course, Josey here. But never in mice. That is, not until last night."

"May I interrupt," Charles asked.

"No. I'll tell you when. Last night I removed the Dermafix skin which had formed on a mouse during the last forty-eight hours. The mouse was dead, of course, just as Hans and the others were dead."

"And it coulda got me," Josey said.

"The remarkable thing was," I said, ignoring Josey, "it wasn't the same mouse."

"I really must interrupt," Charles said.

"Go ahead." I expected Charles to be intrigued by my statement, but he changed the subject entirely.

"Miss Fleetsmith, how did you know that your files were copied?" he asked. "Miss Josephine says that a copy cannot be detected."

"Charlie! I'm describing a novel evolution of this affliction and you want to talk about copying files?" He can sometimes be exasperating." Anyway, Josey's wrong. Hans told her that, but Hans knows nothing about computers. He still uses a slide rule to add and subtract. In fact, I can request a history of all computer commands issued on my files. I did, and there they were: copy commands. Several of them."

"Well then, about the mice," Charles said. "It has already been noted that there is a kind of regeneration, under the membrane, in human bodies. There is no reason to believe that such a regeneration doesn't also occur in mice. Miss Fleetsmith, the mouse you removed from within the cocoon was a recreated mouse, with rebuilt organs and fetal characteristics which—"

"Precisely!" I was unable to contain my excitement and cried out. Then, more calmly, "Cocoon? Did you say cocoon?"

"Quite so, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said.

"That's exactly how I feel, about this Dermafix skin. And you've come to the same conclusion? A cocoon? Really?"

"Well, to be honest," Charles said, "you mentioned the word 'cocoon' some time ago and I thought it explained a number of things. The metamorphosis, within a cocoon, of caterpillar into butterfly, for example."

"Charles! That is precisely, but exactly my understanding of the phenomenon. Under some conditions—I don't know exactly which—the juices from the miracle weed grow to form a covering for the entire body and, within that cocoon, a remarkable change takes place. The body becomes regenerated, reformed, organs rebuilt, wounds healed. A sick mouse becomes a healthy—"

"And then the bugger gets killed," Josey said.

I stopped talking and stared at Josey.

"Yes," I said slowly, "the body is renewed ... but dies." I looked at Charles and started humming. "That's the problem," I said very slowly. "Why should the body die?"

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, "it would perhaps be even more remarkable if this restoration of the body took place without the cessation of life. Is it not difficult to imagine a living, breathing individual within this cocoon, who remains alive, while every cell is renovated? Is it not difficult to imagine that an individual is able to survive the reincarnation of its body?"

I grunted. "Mmm, perhaps. But the butterfly emerges from the cocoon and it's alive. Right?"

"Put the foamy crap on a caterpillar," Josey said. "Will it turn into a butterfly? Lordy, no."

We both looked at Josey for some time.

Eventually, Charles said, "Miss Fleetsmith, if you are to believe Professor Hunger, then the foam is a type of fungus. Perhaps you should approach the problem from that angle. I suggest you attend his lecture on mycology, but only after you have rested."

"Screw the rest." I strode out of the room, heading for the kitchen. "This calls for a Bloody Caesar."

"My sentiments, exactly," Josey said, and followed me.

Charles waited for a moment, shrugged, then followed us.

Chapter 16

Professor Unger wasn't there when we arrived at his office. Unger's door was open so we walked in and made ourselves comfortable. I sat before the desk, waiting for the professor. Charles inspected the containers on the shelves. I started to hum.

Back home, I had gulped my Bloody Caesar, rested for perhaps fifteen minutes, to please Charles, then drove through the rain to the university. With some effort, I had managed to lower the cloth top to my Porsche. Charles had asked to accompany me and I had agreed. Josey was convinced that she should stay at the house, out of sight. She did just that. She was, after all, being hunted by the police in connection with Hans von Oerschott's murder—if that's what it was—and now I wasn't convinced that it was murder. In fact, I wasn't convinced that the body was stolen.

I was thinking, about foam, cellular regeneration, Pelvis. And where was she? I had completely forgotten that she had disappeared. But this was no time to worry about her. I had to think about the Dermafix problem, the metamorphosis caused by the weed...

"Mushrooms," Charles said.

If my suspicions were correct, then what about the partial autopsy that Barney had performed on Oerschott? He did say that, didn't he? A partial autopsy, a midtorso incision, inspection of some organs without their removal. Had Charlie said something?

"Mushrooms?" I asked.

I saw Charles staring into a glass container filled with moss and containing several small yellow mushrooms. "Yeah. Old man Unger loves fungi," I said. "It's a joke about campus. If you look at him closely, you can see a mushroom. He's got this huge bald head, like the cap of a field mushroom. His face is sort of grey with dark spots, like some mushrooms. He wears a scarf like the veiled stipe of certain fungi. He even wears a tight cap, bright red with white spots, like Amanita Muscaria. When it rains he brings this umbrella to class. It's looks exactly like—"

"Coprinus plicatilus."

Professor Unger was at the door, smiling, holding his umbrella aloft. Charles was impressed. The professor did look like a mushroom.

"Miz Feetsmith," Unger said, waddling to his desk, sitting and leaning his umbrella carefully against the wall. "How good of you to come so qvickly. I have some interesting observations on dee specimen."

"Eumycota," I said.

"Ya, sehr gut. So you haff not forgotten everyting from your mycology class. I am convinced dat dee foam is dee mycelium of a fungus of dee division Eumycota. But dee family, genus and species for dis fungus are not known to me. Ya, but it forms a symbiotic relationship mit living matter, as do many fungi which feed upon an organic host. Indeed, although I haff not completed my schtudies, I feel certain dat it is not particularly host-specific, such as Suillus pungens which grows on Monterey pine. However, I feel dat dee host must be mammalian, not vegetable."

Charles was fidgeting with his lapel. "May I interrupt?" he asked.

"Ya."

"Will any mammal suffice, as a host? Such as mice, or perhaps a human being?"

"Ya, dat is my thesis. I cannot be certain, off course, since—"

"And the fungus feeds on its host? In what way?" Charles asked. "Does it actually consume its host?"

"No, no." Professor Unger turned to Charles who was standing at the wall, by the book shelves. Unger seemed pleased to direct his lecture to a novice in mycology. "Perhaps 'feed' is a poor choice of vord. Parasitic fungi feed on living organisms, insects, larvae, other fungi. Dey may eventually kill dee host. Saphrophytic fungi live on decaying matter, wood, humus and dee like. Dey digest dis vegetable matter. Ah, but our specimen is Mycorrhizal, and dese fungi form a mutually beneficial relationship mit dee host. Dey may protect dee host from disease, supply nutrients. In some cases, dee host cannot long survive mitout dee associated fungus."

Professor pointed to a chair. Charles, fascinated, sat.

The Professor leaned toward Charles. "Mister?"

Charles stood at attention. "Charles Clayton Curran, sir." Then he sat again.

"Do you like pine nuts, Mr. Curry?"

"Uh, pine nuts ... why yes. Pasta al pesto. I actually use pine nuts—"

"Ya, ya. Vell, pine nuts may be harvested from dee Korean Pine, but to grow dis pine to maturity you need also a certain mycorrhizal fungus which grows in symbiosis mit dee pine." Unger paused. "And sex, Mr. Curry?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles snapped his knees together.

"You see, Mr. Curry, mushrooms may lack dee sexual organs of plants and animals, but dey do reproduce, sexually." Charles looked embarrassed. "Genes combine, much as dey do in humans, so dee offspring of mushrooms are not genetically identical to dee parents. In the basidium, deep inside dee mushroom, dee marriage ist consecrated. Two nuclei fuse, dee chromosome number doubles, cell division takes place, twice, dee resulting four nuclei migrate to dee tip of dee basidium, spores are produced and discharged—" Unger raised his hands, dramatically. "... and life begins anew." Unger looked pleased.

"Mycelium?" Charles asked.

"Ya?" Unger responded.

"You said the foam, Miss Fleetsmith's specimen, it was mycelium."

"Ach, ya, mycelium. Mushrooms dat you see growing on dee ground are not dee entire fungus, merely part of dee entire organism. You see merely dee reproductive schtructure. Dee fruit. Like dee apples on a tree, carrying dee seeds of reproduction. Ach, but beneath dee ground, in dee soil, a fuzzy, maybe foamy web of material, an intricate netvork of filaments: dee mycelium. It is dis mycelium whose enzymes digest food. Und from dis subterranean mycelium come buds, growing, bursting from dee soil, shedding its spores to dee vind so dat a new colony of mycelium may grow. And dese buds, dese fruit, Mr. Curry? Dey are called ...?"

Unger was giving a lecture. He was in his element.

"Mushrooms?" Charles said, hesitatingly.

"Ya, ya. Indeed." Unger's face beamed, pink and chubby.

I had been quiet. There was little new information here–except the fuzzy mycelium. The foam ... it rang a bell. I had seen it before, but couldn't remember. No matter.

"Professor Hunger?" Charles asked, "how does it differ from other such fungi? I presume there are many types of—"

"Ya, ya, but dis is qvite ...," Unger searched for the word, "possessive."

Charles looked at me. I was displaying little interest. I was preoccupied with something else. Charles waited for the professor to continue.

"If dee appropriate environment ist provided, dee mycelium expands to enclose its host," Unger said.

My preoccupation ended abruptly. "Appropriate environment?" I asked. "You mean you've actually observed this encasement of the host?" It was too good to believe. "Appropriate environment?" I repeated.

"Ya, ya. A veak saline solution promotes dis growth. Dee fungus encompasses dee host mit ein smooth membrane of hyphae, dee treads which make up dee mycelium. Having created dis fabric, dee fungus turns inward upon its host. Dere ist no attempt to produce dee fruiting bodies, dee 'mushrooms', if you vill. Dee fungus seems intent upon feeding its host, nurturing, renovating." Unger leaned back in his chair. "It is really qvite remarkable, ya?"

This was reminiscent of the experiments I had performed in my lab at Oerschott Medicals. I said, "And you've neither seen nor heard of such a fungus before? I mean the specimen I brought to you. It's something new?"

"Ya, it is true. I haff never seen such a fungus."

I got up to leave. There was much to do. I had confirmation of my experiments, the cocoon, the rehabilitating membrane. "Thank you professor Unger. You've been quite helpful."

"But I haff heard of such a fungus," Unger said.

I was stunned. I sat down, hard enough to hurt my ass. "You have?"

The professor heaved his short and stubby body from his chair and walked to a filing cabinet. "Somevhere ...," he mumbled. "I have searched my files before, but couldn't find dee reference. It am sure it vas a paper, written some years ago, published in an obscure journal." He turned to me. "I haff an excellent memory, yet I cannot lay my hand on dis paper ... and I keep everyting I read: research papers, journals, letters ..."

He suddenly stepped back from the filing cabinet. "Letters? Ya, ya—a letter. I learned of dis fungus from a letter." He closed the cabinet, smiled, looked about then slid a large cardboard box from a corner behind his desk, kicking it around the desk with his foot. "Ya, ya, a letter. " When he pulled open the top, I could see it contained hundreds of letters.

"Mmm, it seems unlikely that you'll find the letter in our lifetime," I suggested, peering into the box.

Charles bent over the box. "I am quite willing to search the contents, if that is your wish," he said. I wasn't listening. It wasn't clear that Charles was talking to me. "Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles queried, obviously asking my permission.

"Ya, ya, Feetsmith," Unger said, recognizing the name.

"I beg your pardon?" Charles said.

"Ya, it was Feetsmith... a letter from Feetsmith," Unger said. "Dat's dee one. I remember now. He wrote from somevhere in South America, about a fungus he discovered—"

I jumped to my feet. "What! You have a letter from my father?"

"Father?" Unger said.

"Dr. Lloyd Fleetsmith, my father?" I jumped to my feet.

Unger leaned backward into his chair. "Feetsmith. Ya, Feetsmith." He grinned as though he had just made the connection: father and daughter.

He was a wonderful man, pink and cuddly and chubby. I fell to my knees, shuffling through the box. Charles pulled a handful out of the box and began spreading them over the floor, glancing at the professor for signs of disapproval. There were none: Unger had opened his desk drawer, withdrawn a half-eaten candy bar and was snacking contentedly.

During the drive home, Charles kept repeating the mycology lesson, pronouncing the names, determined to buy fresh mushrooms that very day, with a fresh appreciation of their merit.

"I shall make an omelet of agaricus bisporus," he whispered almost reverently, "a fricassé of boletus edulis, a sauce of—"

"Charlie, turn it off. Little that Unger said helps us in the slightest. Just confirms my own findings. That's comforting, but not new. But Dad's letters, they may have some new information." I patted the pack of three letters on the seat beside me. Professor Unger had wrapped them and insisted that I take them with me ... then he pushed us out of his office. He had a class to prepare. Almost immediately he had forgotten that we were there. I read them quickly before we left the university. They were short, but I needed to read them again. Pop's letters were always short. He didn't waste words. He rarely wrote more than a handful of sentences, then signed off. Yet, there may be something there, between the lines.

"It's a mutant, this mycelium," I said. "Unger's never seen it before. He—"

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles was sitting straight up in his seat.

"What is it, Charlie?"

"The weed, the miracle weed, from the jungles of the Amazon. Your Dermafix is concocted from the juices of this weed." I was trying to concentrate on the traffic, heavy this time of day. The lake was just visible beneath the elevated highway. It would take some time to get out of the city, along Lakeshore, past—

. "Now just how do you think this mycelium is connected with this weed?" I could tell that Charlie was going into one of his lectures. He continued. "Why the weed?" Charles sounded remarkably like professor Unger. "Yes, yes. I now know the connection. Do you?" It was a rhetorical question. He looked at me. "Professor Hunger said this fungus lives in symbiotic relationship with a mammalian host. Aah, but the weed is vegetable. On the surface of the weed lies the fungus, living on the weed, finding its way into its juices, into your Dermafix salve made from the juices." He paused for effect. "Contrary to what the professor said, the host, I conjecture, is not necessarily mammal."

"So?"

"Don't you see, Miss Fleetsmith, Professor Hunger was wrong."

"Look, Charlie, it matters not one shit if he was right or wrong about the host. We know the fungus grows on humans and we knew that before we talked to Unger. We also know that it regenerates human cell structure, and we knew that too, before we talked to Unger. We're no farther ahead now than before our illustrious professor gave his lecture ... except that I didn't recognize the fuzz as mycelium. The only really new thing we have is a few letters from my father, three to be exact. Even if they contain no new information it will be a pleasure for me to read them ... they're his ... his words, in his writing." I choked, just a bit. God, how I miss that man. He was gentle and oh so smart and I never had the opportunity to tell him how much I respected him, loved him, adored him—

Charles was babbling. "But how does the fungus behave in relation to its human host, compared to its relation to its vegetable host?"

"Mmm?" I said in a whisper, wiping a tear from my cheek. I don't cry, never, but I did love my father and—

"Have you, Miss Fleetsmith, experimented with plants? Or have you limited your experiments to animals: mice, dogs, humans? Perhaps it behaves differently. If the fungus can live on a variety of hosts, don't you think it is eminently worthwhile to identify some of these possible hosts? On humans, it eventually kills its host. On the Amazon weed, it does not. On cows, it may increase their milk production. On carrots, it may increase their size. On women it may increase their ... uh..."

"Women?" We eventually arrived in Burlington, entered the grounds and pulled into our driveway. A police car was parked next to the garage. "Looks like we have guests." I turned off the engine. "Charles, remind me of women, again. There's something ... I don't know, it rings a bell."

"Women?"

"Yes, just say 'women' and it'll jog my memory. It's important, but we can't discuss it now. Look who's coming."

PART FIVE

Chapter 17

Ah was standin' by the police car when this here red Porsche screams up the driveway, fast, top down, this gal—ah presume Ms. Fran Fleetsmith—her hair straight back like a mare runnin' ag'in the wind. Barney Bernside slides outta the police car, grins like he knows her. The gal slides outta the Porsche.

"Hello BB," she says. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

T'aint't exactly humble: it's one big house, sorta like a mansion, lookin' over the lake. Ah steps forward and asks, "Ms. Francis Fleetsmith?"

Yuh larn to say 'Ms' in TO. Too many feminist gals about.

"You bet," she says.

"Ah'm Willum Boone, TO Police," Ah says, draggin' mah stetson from mah head. "Ah'd like t'ask y'all a few questions, if yuh don't mind."

"Y'all?" she says. "From Texas?" she says.

"Never ask a man if'n he's from Texas, ma'am. If he is, he'll tell you on his own and if he ain't, no need to embarrass him," Ah says.

Then she leans forward and whispers at me, "Have I told you the one about the short Texan?"

Ah keep goin', ignorin' the comment, puttin' mah hat back on.

"Ah've asked Dr. Bernside here to accompany me, case there's some technical matters beyond mah ken, yuh know." Ah pauses, lookin' at her male partner. A mite too old fer her. The young lady notices my starin'.

"This is Charles Clayton Curran, my companion, chef, housekeeper and best buddy," Ms. Fleetsmith says.

Somethin' goin' on between 'em? Ah nods mah head toward Mr. Curry, then go on. "Ma'am? May we go inside? This shouldn't take too long."

"Certainly," Ms. Fleetsmith says, and she frowns at Mr. Curry, a weird frown, like she was tellin' him somethin. "Charlie will make us some coffee, and while he does that, I'd like to show you something that you may find interesting. Follow me," she says.

She's lookin' straight at me with those baby blues—'cept they's brown, Ah think. The invitation sounds temptin' and Ah follow without a word, jest like some pooch on a chain, watchin' her ass swing side to side. Not bad lookin', a Venus de Milo kinda body, solid ass, long chesnut hair.

She 'mmediately heads fer the back yard, Curry heads quick fer the front door. Ah follows Ms. Fleetsmith. Ah kin see Bernside jest standin' fer a minute, lookin' from Curry to Fleetsmith to Curry. Then he follows us.

The route to the back of the house wanders, the house is overstuffed with little pieces juttin' out and bay windows. It's a kinda estate, big trees hangin down, windin' paths, gardens, way back from the road and lots o' space out back with a view of Lake Ontario. This Fleetsmith must have a few bucks. They don't come cheap, houses like this, in Burlington. A bit of a drive from TO, but quiet, clean, fresh air. Nice.

Ah follows Fleetsmith round the side and Bernside jogs past, takes up a position beside Fleetsmith. He gives her a little knock with his elbow. They's somethin' goin on between 'em?

"... and my father was perhaps prouder of these roses than any of his medicinal herbs," Fleetsmith is sayin' to Bernside, pointin' to a bunch o' flowers, roses Ah guess. "Charlie looks after them now," she says, then she looks at me. "Mr. Boone, are you a rose nut? My father was a rose nut. Tea roses, his specialty, although old strains of wild roses—"

"A mighty fine house, ma'am. Back home we got us a stove on the porch and lawn chairs in the kitchen. But, Ms. Fleetsmith," Ah complain, "could we please set somewhere, quiet like, and could Ah please ask y'all some questions?" Ah look at mah watch. It's jest past noon and Ah'm getting' kinda hungry.

"This way, chief," Fleetsmith says, marchin' to the front door o' the house and knockin', then waitin', then enterin'. Knockin? On her own front door?

"Do you always knock before you enter your own house," Bernside asks. Thet woulda bin mah question, if'n Ah had a mind to ask.

"Knock? Sure, why not? Don't you? Never know. Might find your wife in bed with the plumber." She winks at Bernside. "Married, Dr. Bernside?"

She's callin' him Dr. Bernside? Thet formality, fer mah benefit, mebbe?

"Uh, well, sort of," Bernside says.

When they enter the house, Ah figure Curry's had time to send Miss Cowley somewhere and thet explains the detour to the rose bed, 'cause sure as shootin' Miss Cowley's inside; Ah know thet fer a fact. He'd set the coffee paraphernalia on the livin' room table. He's grindin' coffee beans in the kitchen.

Now Ah had interviewed Miss Josephine Cowley a few days ago. She ain't nothin' but a tramp. So why's she livin' with Fleetsmith? Everybody says she's disappeared, but Ah don't believe it. She's holed up here, like a bear in winter.

"Well, Boone?" Fleetsmith says. "What's up?"

"Y'all are no doubt aware thet four bodies have bin found, each of which is covered in some sorta skin?" Ah says.

"Mmm. And how am I connected with all that?"

"C'mon, Ms. Fleetsmith," Ah says. "Hans von Oerschott died o' the same cause and, unless Ah'm mistaken, y'all worked fer the man. Further, y'all carried out 'xperiments with a concoction—Dermafix Ah believe it's called—and this here stuff produces precisely the same curious skin as we've found on these four bodies." Ah pause fer effect. "Right, so far?"

"Mmm, right on the button."

"Ah'm confused as a termite in a yo-yo 'n Ah'd like to hear your explanation as to how this here skin comes 'bout, how it's formed, how it kills the person inside, how the concoction got out of your lab at Oerschott Medicals, whether we kin expect further occurrences of—"

She puts a hand on a hip and says, "Ah'm afraid Ah kin tell y'all very little y'all don't already know." She says it in a southern drawl. Grins. Nice teeth. "Charles and I have just come from the university where we saw professor Unger, a well known microbiologist with a keen interest in fungi. I gave him a specimen of this stuff and he admitted he's never seen anything like it. It's a fungus, it attaches itself to a human or mammalian host and if the environment is adequate ... mmm ... " Fleetsmith begins to hum, looks up at the ceiling, then she turns to Charles who enters with a tray. "Sweat!" she says.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles said, lookin' embarrassed.

"The saline environment which promotes growth of this fungus. Sweat, salty human sweat - and Hans was one sweaty guy."

"Okay," Ah says, "human sweat is good fer the fungus. Then what?"

"Mmm, it grows, encloses the human—that's your curious skin—and begins to regenerate its cells."

"She means," interrupts Bernside, "it regenerates the human cells. The fungus actually repairs, regrows, rejuvenates the cells of the body which lies beneath this skin."

"And jest what kills the human inside?" Ah ask.

"Damned if I know." Fleetsmith grunts, takin' a cup of coffee from the tray. "Maybe it suffocates. The skin, if completed, is practically airtight."

"And the person jest stands there, lettin' this here skin grow? Come now, ma'am," Ah says.

"I told you, I don't know what kills the bloody host."

"Actually," Bernside says, "the four bodies we found were in such good shape they should really be alive, not dead."

"How'd this here Dermafix get outta yer lab?" Ah says.

"Again, I don't know," she answers. "Except ..." Then she pauses.

"Except?" Ah says.

"Hans did visit me in my lab, one evening about midnight, and I believe he stole a vial of the fungal culture. At least I know that a vial was missing the next morning. As far as the other corpses are concerned, I haven't the faintest idea how they came in contact with the stuff. I don't even know these people." She tosses her hair over her shoulder, shakin' her head like a skittish mare.

"Perhaps von Oerschott distributed it to the others, to—" Bernside starts to say.

"Nope," Ah says. "They ain't no connection between Oerschott and the other four. They didn't even know each other, far as we know. Nevertheless, Ms. Fleetsmith, y'all are quite certain thet Oerschott had a vial of this here concoction?"

"Mmm." She looks straight at me. "Can you call me Fran? I don't quite like this Ms shit."

"Yes, ma'am!" Ah'm jest a little taken aback at her language. "And what do y'all believe he did with it, the vial, Ah mean? Why would Dr. von Oerschott take it? It was his lab, yuh know, and the eventual product would belong to him so they don't seem no need to—"

"He rubbed the stuff on his body," Ms. Fleetsmith says, "to look young."

Ah gives her a curious look. Somethin' goin' on between Oerschott and Missy here? "Rubbed his body? How'd y'all know this, ma'am? Did y'all—?"

"No, Mr. Boone, I didn't give Hans a body rub. God what a thought." She screws up her face. "I believe it was his secretary."

"Miss Josephine Cowley?" Ah says, lookin' round, 'xpectin to see the tramp.

"Mmm."

"How'd y'all know this?" Ah says ag'in.

"She told me ... before she disappeared, of course. She has disappeared, hasn't she?" she says.

"Miss Cowley? Yes, ma'am. She's surely disappeared." Ah looks curious-like at the lady. Ah know she knows where Miss Cowley is. "And when did y'all last see her?" Ah says. It was a trap: Cowley's around, hidin', somewhere. Neighbours'd seen a woman who fit the description, recently, smokin' in the side drive. Ah got a patrol car wingin' by every so often. Ah'd come round and seen her myself, twice. Each time she was standin' at the winda, blowin' smoke.

"Let's see. When did I last see her ... mmm, weeks ago, I think. Yes, in late September, just after Hans' body was found. I asked her about the missing vial. Josey said she rubbed it on Hans, to make his body smooth and young. It does that, you know. This stuff. Smooth and young. I haven't seen her since."

"And Hans? Have y'all seen him?" Did Ah say Hans? Shame. "Dr. von Oerschott? Have y'all seen him?"

"You're kidding, of course."

"Not at all, ma'am. His body is missin', stolen from the morgue, yuh know. Have y'all seen it?"

"Have I seen his body?" she says. "Yes, I've seen his body. It's nothing to write Mom about. Big where he should be small, small where he should be big."

"Ma'am?" Ah says.

"If you're asking whether I've seen his body, yes. Have I seen it recently, since he died? No."

"Y'all didn't see his dead body?" Ah asks. Another trap. Ah knows she's seen it. "Ma'am, his body was in the morgue."

"How would I get into the morgue to see it?" she says.

Ah looks at Bernside, waitin' fer his response. The coroner looks at Ms. Fleetsmith, shrugs and says, "Fran, I told Boone you visited me, saw the body and were the first to observe the membrane."

The lady sighs, rolls her eyes. "Look, Mr. Boone," Ms. Fleetsmith says, gettin' up from her chair, "I did go to the morgue and Dr. Bernside was kind enough to let me see the body. About the membrane, I'm as confused as you are. My father died in an attempt to bring this curative potion to the world. I struggled through the jungles of the Amazon to get it here. Mr. Boone, I've been investigating its properties for weeks. It has the potential to be a great boon to mankind—sorry for the pun—yet it kills, for reasons which are still a mystery. I have nothing to gain by hiding anything. If I knew, you would know. Today, I obtained some letters written by my father to professor Unger. In them he mentions the weed and its powers. I have yet to read them carefully, but when I do I will give you a full report. Satisfied?"

"Weed?" Ah says. Ah don't remember nothin' 'bout a weed.

"Mmm, the miracle weed."

"What weed?" Ah says.

"The fungus is obtained from the surface of a weed. My father thought it was the weed, found in Brazil, which healed wounds. In fact, its the fungus clinging to the surface in symbiotic alliance."

"And y'all brought this weed back, from Brazil?"

"Precisely."

"And where is this here weed now? Have y'all used it up, to concoct this Dermafix?"

Fran waved at Charles. "Charlie, get the vase." Charles left immediately, returning shortly with a tall vase, placin it before Miss Fleetsmith. She overturns the vase on the table. It's empty.

"Shit!" She peers into the vase. "Shit! Shit!"

"Ah take it the weed was in this here vase, and somebody stole it?"

"There's some at my lab," Miss Fleetsmith says, then she leaves the room, returns with three letters, lookin' kinda frustrated.

"I'm telling you I know no more than you do. Here are the letters from my father. Would you like to read them? I intend to, right now." She falls back into her chair, removes the first letter, tosses the rest onto the table. She starts right in readin' and Ah looks at Bernside, then selects the second letter, obviously sorted by date. I start in readin'. Bernside looks at Curry then at the last letter and picks it fer hisself. The room is silent fer some time. Everybody's busy readin'. Curry clears the table and leaves. Fleetsmith, Bernside and Boone, all readin' letters. Nice 'n' cosy like.

In a few minutes, Miss Fleetsmith reads her letter out loud:

Dear Dr. Unger:

I am writing to describe a rather peculiar plant growing here along the Amazon. Below is a rough sketch, with some indication of its coloring. I realize that your expertise may not extend to this particular plant life, but on the surface of the leaf grows a fungus. If the leaf is rubbed on a wound, say a scratch on a human arm, the fungus adheres to the skin and grows to encompass the wound. Beneath this covering the wound heals. Perhaps you have run across such a curious behavior? Attached are copies of my notes. If you can add anything I would be pleased to hear from you. If you write to the address given below, your letter will eventually reach me.

"He knows its a fungus," she says. "And he sent Unger some notes." She puts the letter on the table, looks at me. Guess it's mah turn. Ah clears mah throat and starts right in:

Dear Dr. Unger:

Thank you for your response to my earlier letter. I am almost relieved to hear that no such behavior has been described in the literature. I will try to send you a sample of the weed, for your analysis. I would be grateful, however, if you would tell no one of this. If you do not receive a sample in a month's time, it will be because the authorities will not allow me to export vegetable matter.

"Won't get it outta Brazil," Ah mutter. Then Ah add, "His letters are sorta short."

Barney reads the third and last letter, which is even shorter:

Dear Dr. Unger:

As I expected, I am not able to send you a sample of the weed. Nevertheless, I intend to return to Toronto within a month and will definitely carry a sample with me ... somehow.

"Yeah, he'll bring some home, when he comes," Ah says, smilin'. Did Ah really say that? I look at Fran. "Sorry ... guess he didn't make it home. Sorry."

"Shit!" Fran throws her letter on the table. "I've read these three times and except for the fact that Lloyd knew it was a fungus, not just the weed, we're no farther ahead." She stares at the ceilin'. "But there are notes, his notes, and Unger probably has them."

Ah shakes mah head.

She looks up at me. "And, for your information Mr. Boone, my father did make it back to Toronto ... then he ... he died."

The lady starts in tremblin', her hands on her face.

"Sorry ma'am." He did make it back home. Ah shoulda known that.

PART SIX

Chapter 18

William Boone and BB had left and Charles and I were having tea. I was humming, staring at the ceiling.

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles said, hesitant to interrupt my rumination.

"Everything is bigger in Texas, isn't that what they say?"

"That is what they say," he said.

"Billy Boone. He's kinda cute," I said. "Don't you think? And whatta name. And tall. I like tall men. Usually they're just squirts. I remember having lunch with Harry Fenster. Remember him, Charlie? Short, plump ... worked in real estate. Anyway, we were having lunch and he'd ordered the shrimp with cashews, I ordered minestrone. The waitress brought the food, looked at each of us in turn and said You're the soup and you're the shrimp. Harry, like many men, was a shrimp."

"Billy Boone," Charles said slowly. "Billy Boone. Another BB." He paused, then grinned. "Have you not noticed?" he said.

"What?"

"BB, BB, CC?"

"What?"

"Barney Bernside, Billy Boone, Clayton Curran."

"And the F-words," I added, smiling.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?"

"Fran Fleetsmith," I said. "How could you have missed that, Charlie boy?"

"Um... yes, but cute." Charles said. "Cute? I cannot truthfully say that Mr. Boone is cute."

There was a noise in the hallway. Josey was standing at the door. She looked worried.

"Come on in, kid," I said, in honey tones. Josey walked forward slowly, collapsed into a chair and began to cry, softly, her face in her hands. "Tell us about it," I said. "Worried about something?"

And she tells us a story that I can only say kept Charles and I quiet for the duration.

Earlier, just after we arrived from Unger's office and met Boone and Bernside in the driveway, I had sent Charles inside to make coffee and warn Josey. He had insisted that Josey go to her bedroom (while Boone, Bernside and I were admiring the rose bed, killing time), then he left to make the coffee. Instead of going to her room, she had hidden behind the drapes. It was important. She needed to know what had happened to her, so she listened as best she could to our conversation, and the reading of the letters. What had happened? A film covered her body, right? Not quite. There was something else, more recently.

I had asked her several times about how she had come to be covered in the Dermafix cocoon, but she didn't want to say anything; the memory was too recent, too painful. Now she needed to tell us. Her story went like this:

That day in September, when Hans suggested I visit him in his apartment, I had no idea what he had in mind. I'd worked late at his apartment many times before, whenever he was in need of my ... uh, computer skills. He paid me good to do what little secretary-type work was necessary at the office, and to work late at his apartment. But that night was different.

I arrived about seven o'clock in the evening and he was already in his silk robe. I know that robe ... uh, he usually wore it while I was working on his ... uh, computer. He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. Big it was, that bedroom. He gave me a little saucer and he pours some thick stuff from some glass tube.

"That's my magic potion," he says. "Dermafix. It will make us young. Rub it in, real good."

Then he drops his robe and lies naked on the bed. I never seen him before, in the buff. Really, never. I done him good ... a real good rub down. When the stuff was gone he puts on his robe and walks me to the door. That was one big surprise.

"That's it?" I says. "No overtime?"

He shakes his head and opens the door to let me out.

"What about me? What about making me young?" I says.

Hans takes my hands in his hands, kinda gentle like.

"It's on your hands, see? Don't wash it off. Go home. Rub it on."

Then he pushes me out, just like that.

When I get home I does as he says, starting with my face, rubbin' the wrinkles round my eyes, my neck. Not that I really needed the stuff, you know, but what the hell. Young again? Why not? I drove home, most of the way, with my wrists on the steering wheel so I'd keep the stuff on my hands. My hands were slippery, and I rubbed and rubbed until my hands were dry.

Each morning I gaze into the mirror, hopin' for some miracle. Nothing. Then Hans doesn't show up for work and I get worried. I phone, but there ain't no answer. I go to his apartment, but he ain't there. So, I just show up for work each day, sitting at my desk, doin' nothin'.

Then, one morning, a Monday I remember, Miss Fleetsmith comes to my office and says the stuff is dangerous. Remember? "One whiff and you're dead", you say. That's when I get scared. I couldn't stop sweating. What if Hans was lying? What if it didn't make you young? What if it killed you instead? What if it killed Hans?

When his body was found, he was white. Covered with the stuff. Then it started on me. Slowly, just a funny looking patch of skin on my neck, but it grew and grew. I was really scared now. My shoulders, my chin. I stayed home and didn't go to work. Screw the company. This is important. Lordy, I could really die, right?

Then, one morning, I could hardly breath. I fall outta bed and run to the washroom. I could hardly stop from screaming. My face! Covered with fuzzy crap! I let my nightie drop and run to the full length mirror in the hall. My whole body, covered in raggedy-looking, milky-looking strips of some God-awful shit. Underneath the foamy crap, smooth skin, the Dermafix I guess. I pull it away from my nose, breath deep. It ain't easy to breath, you know. I run to the shower and stand there, crying, shaking, underneath the shower head, pulling and scraping the foamy crap from my body. I grab a big, thick towel and drag it across my face. I can breath again, a little. The foam washes away, but the skin seems to stick, everywhere. I was, like, hysterical. I wouldn't leave the shower stall. Again and again I peeled the skin from my face.

Who would help me? Who could help me?

I phone Miss Fleetsmith. Your machine answers: "You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," it says. You wasn't home; you was at the lab. I pull a coat over my body and drive to the lab, crying. I leave the note on the window of your lab, wait in your car so nobody can see me.

When you took me home, you and Charles got the crap off, but I was differen... my body. The wrinkles about my eyes, gone, just like Hans promised. My skin was smooth, like a young girl. I felt good. A new woman.

Then, a few days ago, I leaned over the sink and stared into the mirror. Cripes! Hair, definitely. That dark streak across my upper lip was hair. Not Charles' special dressing. It was hair and it had something to do with that damned Dermafix. I listened to you explain it to the police. Lordy, I had to know what's happening.

But now the hair on my upper lip is growing, more each day.

Josey stopped talking and began to cry again. Looking closely, I noticed a definite dark strip on her upper lip. I leaned forward and looked again; it was hair. I really didn't know what to say—so I said nothing.

Chapter 19

I guess I was agitated, pacing the living room.

"So where did the weeds go, Charlie boy?"

I glared at Charles from time to time. He stood without speaking while I paced the room. When I stopped and faced him, he said: "Miss Fleetsmith, the weeds were in the vase, just yesterday. I checked. I really cannot say where they went. There are no signs of any unlawful entry. The only persons who had access to the vase were you and me and ...." He paused. "And Miss Josephine. But she was not aware of the contents of the vase."

"Shit! Some bastard has stolen the last of my weeds." I sat hard on the sofa. "Where's Josey?"

"She's in her room. I bring her a tray of food and leave it by her door. She refuses to speak with me."

"Get her, now."

Charles shook his head, waited for a minute, then left. I got up and continued to pace the room. When Charles returned, Josey wasn't with him.

"Well?"

"She refuses to come out of her room."

"Shit!"

I ran to the stairs and bounded up to Josey's room, three steps at a time.

"Josey! Open this bloody door!"

I waited. I heard the click of the lock, then the handle turned slowly and the door opened a crack.

"Fran, please come in," Josey said, in a muffled voice.

I barged into the room but wasn't prepared for what I saw. Josephine Cowley stood in the centre of the room, in a thin nightgown, and her face was covered with hair.

"Jesus Christ! What's happened to you," I cried.

Josey broke down and slumped weeping to the floor.

"Oh Fran, what's happening to me?" she sobbed. "I'm covered. The hair, it's everywhere. Oh lordy, what's happening? Please, Fran, help me."

It had taken less than an hour to cover her body, the hair, dark and oily.

It was almost noon when I had finally shaved Josey as best I could, and convinced her to come down to lunch. Charles was shocked and dropped the salad plate on the kitchen table. Josey began to cry uncontrollably.

"It's the Dermafix," I said. "Another feature. The membrane, the healing, the foam, the cell regeneration and now this. Hair."

Charles was staring, open mouthed.

"But he said I would become young again," Josey cried. "Now, look."

"Hans didn't know a bloody thing about this fungus," I said angrily. "He just saw the first stages, the smooth membrane, the healing. Stupid bastard. Wanted to jump in before all the tests were complete. Look what it did to him. Look what it's doing to you." I ran my hand over Josey's head, caressing. "Don't worry kid." It was my best voice. Honey and Cream. Poor kid. "We'll get to the bottom of this. There's got to be an antidote, a procedure for reversal."

"But look at me," Josey sobbed. "I'm not a woman. I'm a ... a ape."

"Women," Charles said, still staring at Josey.

"Not so's you'd notice," Josey bawled.

Charles turned to me and said, "Women."

"Women?" I said. "What women?"

"Miss Fleetsmith, you asked me to say that word, so it would recall something to mind. The word would jog your memory."

"That was some time ago, as I recall. What took you so long?"

"I needed something to jog my memory," Charles said, somewhat embarrassed.

"And Josey's condition? Did it jog your memory?"

"Yes."

I frowned. "Mmm, I don't know what I was thinking of, at the time. It was when we were returning from Unger's office, right?"

"Yes, and Miss Fleetsmith? I think I may have a theory," Charles said, "about the Chokli women."

I jumped up from my seat.

"Women! Yes, of course, that's it! They're not women at all! Not any longer! They're now all men!"

Josephine Cowley fainted.

Chapter 20

Josey was put to bed. Charles and I sat before a low fire in the living room, me in my bathrobe, Charles in his usual attire of suit and vest.

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith, that would explain the absence of women at the Chokli village," Charles said.

"Well, there were women. Not many, but some. Pelvis, for example. By the way, have the police any clues as to where she is? She's been missing for—"

"No, no, none. They are stymied." He answered almost too quickly.

"And aren't you worried? It's not like you to be so calm. You and she were quite close, in more ways than one. She was your student. You fed her, washed her, clothed her—"

"Yes, quite so, Miss Fleetsmith." Charles looked uncomfortable. "I feel that if she was able to survive in the jungle she would be able to look after herself in the city."

"Bullshit. You know as well as I do that—"

"Miss Fleetsmith, the statues."

"Statues? What statues?"

"The statues we discovered in the jungle clearing, not far from the Chokli village. Mother and child."

"Mmm."

"The recumbent statues which encircled the mother and child, they had little detail as you will no doubt recall. Much like smooth blobs of stone. Much like—"

"Cocoons!" I shouted. "Charlie boy, that's brilliant! You have a remarkable gift for logical deduction. First the lack of Chokli women. Now the significance of the smooth statues. Brilliant!" I grinned, Charles blushed slightly. I continued. "The statues on the ground depicted people who had been treated with the fungus, covered in a smooth membrane. No detail."

"Quite so." He sat back, pleased with himself. He had a right to be. It was beautiful. Things were falling into place. Beautiful!

"Then the Chokli knew of this ... this consequence of using the weed." I said. I stared at the ceiling, humming. "The women were treated with the fungus—"

"After having given birth."

"Mmm, yes, yes! They were rejuvenated, within the cocoon, emerging with distinctly male characteristics. The natives regarded this transformation with reverence, carved the woman and child to celebrate birth, then the prone figures—within a cocoon—to venerate the metamorphosis." I hummed. "Shit!"

"Miss Fleetsmith?"

"Now we really need Pelvis. To confirm this. To indicate how they were able to survive within the cocoon. Our experience would lead us to believe that they'd all die. Shit!"

Charles was silent for a moment, then got up very slowly from the chair.

"Where are you going Charles?"

"Please wait, Miss Fleetsmith. I will return shortly." He walked to the cellar stairway, hesitated for a moment, then descended.

The cellar? Now I remember. There was something about the cellar, something Charles had said, something I meant to ask him about.

I went to the top of the stairs and listened. I could hear Charles talking to someone, but I couldn't hear what was being said. I tiptoed down a few stairs, enough so that I could make out Charles in the dim light.

"Penny?" Charles whispered. He was standing in a darkened corner of the basement. There was a shuffling sound from behind a row of cabinets that contained the volumes of books Pops had accumulated over the years.

"Chully?" came a soft voice.

Shit, I thought. Who's he got down there? Was it really Pelvis?

"It's okay Penny. Please come out."

The native girl emerged from beyond the cabinets, rubbing her eyes. She had been sleeping.

"Come with me," Charles said gently, taking her hand.

"Chully?"

"It's quite safe. Please come upstairs"

"Up?"

Charles smiled warmly, kissed Penny tenderly on the forehead, then led her up the stairs. It was a great scene, sensitive and emotional. A man in formal dress. A Raggedy Ann being led by the hand. The dark shadows, a thin strip of light running across the floor from a window.

I hopped up the stairs, ran to the living room and waited. I heard Charles whisper.

"Penny, please stay here, quietly."

"Stay?" she whispered.

Charles stepped into the living room. I was sitting back, on the sofa, my face wrapped in a frown. It seemed the proper visage to present.

"Miss Fleetsmith? I hope you will not think less of me for what is about to happen. I must explain that my motives were honorable and intended to avoid any unpleasant—"

"Cut the crap, Charlie. What's up?"

Charles reached back and pulled Penny into the doorway.

"Pelvis! Christ, Charles, where did you find her?" It was just the right touch of shock and dismay. I jumped up, paused, then said: "In the basement, right? She was never lost, right?" I ran to the young girl and embraced her. Penny seemed confused and backed away. "Don't be afraid, girl. We're your friends. Are you hungry? Are you well?" I looked to Charles. "How's her English?"

"She understands much, but speaks little. She has been an excellent student."

"Mmm, I'm sure." I pulled Penny across the room and pushed her gently onto the sofa. "Okay, sweetheart, we need some answers and you're perhaps the only one who can provide details on the Eumycota fungus. Tell me—"

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles interrupted, "her command of the language is perhaps less than you would wish. If you agree, I can translate your questions."

"Translate?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking. I will put your questions to her in a manner she will comprehend."

"Ask if the Chokli women were treated with the fungus, the weed."

"They were," Charles said.

"But ask her."

"I did, and she said yes, the women were treated with the juices of the weed."

"You did ask her? Are you saying you can communicate without speaking?"

"No, I'm saying that I have asked precisely that question earlier. Yesterday, in fact."

I groaned. "Don't tell me, Charlie. You also asked about the smooth statues on the ground, the ones without detail. Right?"

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith."

"So you're not as brilliant as I gave you credit for. The smooth statues depict women within a cocoon, transforming, to men. Penny had already told you that."

"Well, not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"Miss Penny did indicate that the smooth statues represented women within a cocoon. She did not, however, confirm that they were being transformed in men."

"Did she tell you how they managed to survive? Our local populace seems to expire in the process."

Charles turned to Penny who looked frightened.

"Penny? Woman, in weed. Why they do not die?" Charlie had been watching too many old movies; the Lone Ranger, talking to Tonto.

Penny was confused. "Chully?"

"Woman who take weed." Charles pretended to rub a weed on his face. "They die?" He staggered back, as though to fall dead.

"Die?" Penny repeated. It seemed her sentences were restricted to a single word, and always a question.

"Hold it, Charlie. Let me," I said. I turned to Penny and pretended to pick a weed from an imaginary bush, then rubbed Penny's face with the invisible weed. "Weed," I said, then waved my hands in a wide circle about Penny's torso, to indicate the formation of the cocoon.

"Weed?" Penny said.

"You die?" I said. A two word question. How else could I get the point across?

"Die?" Penny said.

"Shit!" I said. It was hopeless.

"Shit?"

"Yes, shit." I got up, grunted, then paced the room. Charles sat next to Penny on the sofa.

"When you take the weed, do you die?" he asked the girl.

"Die?" she responded.

"Yes, die?"

"Shit," Penny said.

I grunted and left.

I could feel Penny's smile on my back.

PART SEVEN

Chapter 21

I was a lousy student. I tried Electrical Engineering then switched to Civil Engineering as being less demanding, graduating at the bottom of my class. But I cultivated intelligent friends who were prepared to do my weekly assignments for the price of a beer or a bottle of cheap whiskey, and I was not above writing solutions to typical exam questions on my sleeve. In many cases I developed a close friendship with the secretaries of my professors. I would bring them flowers and, from time to time, they would let me use their computers over the lunch hour to type up an essay. At exam time, I'd browse through their files and find—voila—the final examinations on their hard disk.

When I graduated, I immediately borrowed money from friends and relatives to buy a small plastics manufacturer that was falling on hard times. It made plastic automobile parts that sold in department stores: sun visors, small fans that plugged into the cigar lighter, dolls that hung on the mirror, that kind of junk. I switched the product line to household miscellany and garden gadgets. The trick was to pick up a company on the rocks, but one with marketing skills and outlets across the country, then switch to a product which could be made in quantity, that everybody wanted. Within three years I had paid back the loans and saw another opportunity in medical supplies. Again I bought a small, but poorly run outfit whose primary product was sterile syringes. That meant they had a host of hospitals on their mailing list. I switched to pills. I bought in South America, importing without the knowledge of the Department of Health and undersold my competitors, my company name lending an air of respectability and trustworthiness to a questionable foreign product line. By the time I was thirty I was a millionaire, then I married Helen who brought another million to the household. Not too shabby for a boy from the wrong side.

When Lloyd Fleetsmith's daughter came to me, saying she had the weed her father had spoken of, and it actually worked, I knew I really had it made. I didn't want to appear overly optimistic, but I kept close tabs on Fran's research, looking into and taking copies of her computer files and visiting her lab at least twice a week, in the late evening when everyone had left. Only once had I surprised her at work. That was when I decided it was time to try her Dermafix on real people. I stole a vial and invited my secretary to administer the concoction. It was a pleasant evening; Josey was no amateur when it came to a body massage. She was a terrible secretary, but she had no qualms when it came to overtime in my apartment, or getting computer files from my competitors. In a way it had been a good thing when my wife left me. Helen was bad in bed and bad out of bed. She was a dreadful cook, an appalling conversationalist with a pea-sized brain—and she had an offensive body odour. But she did bring a million to consummate the marriage.

Josey administered the Dermafix in my apartment, on a Monday as I recall, because I had been thinking about it over the weekend. The next day I book into the Flanagan Motel on Hanover Beach, in Oakville. It's a run down facility that I intend to buy and rebuild, so my stay serves two purposes. I'd spend a few days there, checking the books and watching the effects of the Dermafix.

Within twenty-four hours I begin to feel light headed. It isn't a bad feeling. In fact, I never felt better. I have more energy and the various aches and pains I had grown accustomed to, they have somehow vanished. I seem to need little sleep so I spend the second night poring over the motel books and planning the motel expansion. I can use the place to put up company guests, with a bimbo companion, if necessary. Josey would do in a pinch.

The next evening something strange happens: I begin to shed what appears to be a smooth skin. What I thought was the elimination of the wrinkles of aging is just a smooth membrane. Beneath is a layer of what appears to be white shreds of silk, a mat of fluff. That worries me greatly. Maybe stealing the vial of Dermafix had been a mistake. Perhaps I had been somewhat hasty.

I spend the evening peeling it off, in the shower, then spend a fitful night, eventually falling asleep by three o'clock in the morning. Within an hour or two I awake, having difficulty breathing. I leap out of bed and run to the bathroom mirror. My body is completely covered in a thin, cream-colored membrane, again! Wrenching it from my face, I stagger back into the shower, scraping and tearing the membrane as I go. It seems almost to grow more quickly than I can remove it. I can't breath; the growth fills my nostrils. I fall to the shower floor, crawl to the motel door, open the door with difficulty, stagger out toward my car.

I hear the waves. I head toward the beach. I fall on the warm sand, pull the membrane from my face, gasp for air. The world seems to spin, distort, swim across my eyes in shadows that waver and die. Everything goes black.

I open my eyes. I see only darkness. Yet I feel somehow powerful. I see in my mind the vision of a beach, darkness, warm sand. I reach out to touch the sand but feel only hard steel. I am in a cage, a metal container, cold and featureless. I cry out in anger. It sounds like a growl. Scared. Then angry.

I throw my fist at the wall of my enclosure. It groans, bends. I pound the wall, again, again. It shrieks and falls away. I crawl from the drawer, turn and rip it from the wall, stagger to the end of the room, to the heavy door, push. It falls outward, into the hallway. The end of the hall—a window. I leave the building through that window. Pieces of broken glass on the outside lawn. A written language, on a sign, on the lawn. I look carefully at the sign, squinting, reading with difficulty. A morgue. I was in a morgue.

I walk for miles this night, along the highway, in the dark, along Cranberry Road to the beach. I follow the white sands to Hanover and break into my room at the Flanagan Motel. I don't know why I go back there. It seems the place to go, the thing to do. An instinct, impulse.

Young couple, sleeping in my bed. Before they move I tear the covers away, pull the young man from the bed. One blow. I break his neck. I am invincible. I can easily crush his skull with bare hands.

The girl screams. I express my discontent. It is a roar. I lift her from the bed, throw her to the wall. Her body falls silent to the floor. I feel dizzy, sway from side to side, moan quietly to myself. This is wrong. I am wrong.

I pick bodies from the floor, place each beneath an arm. They are rag dolls, weightless, limp. I stagger out the motel, beach, turn right, bridge, drop man's body in creek, turn again to beach.

Young woman lays by my side, dead. I sitting on sand, shaking head. Dizzy. Scared. Stare at my hands, dark, hairy, dim light. Not my hands. Not me. Feel funny. Gaze at girl, tear nightgown, stare at smooth skin, smooth, white. Put hand to her breast. My hand, wrinkled, crooked hand. Push to my feet, cry out, a roar, a thundering howl.

Return to motel room, walking bent, stooping, to bathroom, stare into mirror. Brow heavy, nose flat, beady eyes, hairy face.

I am gorilla.

PART EIGHT

Chapter 22

Now when Ah gits goin they ain't no stoppin' me. Like a hound on a bear.

We got us four bodies, covered in thet thar skin: Oerschott, Hansen, Felman and McIvar. Any connection?

Ah looks at mah notes:

Hans von Oerschott:

owns some medical factory, drugs and stuff, apartment in the poshest part o' the city, body lifted from the morgue. No clues as to who did it.

Betty Hansen:

legal secretary for Cormorant, Higgins, Shaw and Mason. Lives in Burlington. Body found on Hanover Beach. Not much of that skin. Like it's just starting to grow on her.

Gary Felman:

contractor, builds factories or something. Lives in Whitby. Body found in the Humber River. Got the affliction but not much fuzzy skin.

Roy McIvar:

computer whiz, writes software, has a shop on Spadina. Lives right there, top of the shop. Body found in an alley. Got the affliction. Lots of that skin.

Flanagan Motel:

Hansen and Felman checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Something goin on there? Both bodies found naked, not far from the motel. Clothes still in unit 17 of the Flanagan. Some fuzzy skin still in the bathroom. Forensic can't figure the skin, but it sure ain't theirs. Don't belong to Hansen. Don't belong to Felman. That's for sure. And fingerprints. Lots in the motel room, belonging to Hansen and Felman. And hair which forensic can't figure.

Okay, who's the skin belong to? The fuzzy stuff in the bathroom. And the hair?

Jock Kindrick owns the motel, says they clean up after every guest. No way they coulda bin skin in the bathroom before Hansen and Felman checked in. So? Musta bin put there after they was killed. By the killer, mebbe. The killer has this affliction, kills Hansen and Felman, they git it.

Who's got this affliction? These four, fer sure. Mebbe one is the killer, kills the other three, dies hisself.

What's the reason fer killin Ms. Hansen, a secretary? Mebbe she knows somethin'. Somethin' going on at Cormorant, Higgins, Shaw and Mason?

Why Felman or McIvar?

What's the connection?

The door bangs open and Fuzz Clements barges into mah office. He's madder'n a penned bull in a field o' cows.

"What the hell is going on, Boone?" Chief usually calls me 'William'. When he says 'Boone' Ah know he's real mad. "The Mayor's all over my back. He says McIvar was a friend of his. Like that makes it diff'runt." Fuzz plops into a chair. "So? What's the scoop? What've you got?"

Ah stays put in mah chair.

"Nothin' much, Chief," Ah says. "Hansen and Felman knew each other, was makin' out in the Flanagan. Thet there skin was in the bathroom of the motel room, but it ain't theirs, yuh know."

"Who had the room before them?" he asks.

"It don't make no difference," Ah says. "Kindrick says they woulda cleaned up after any previous guest and—"

"Who the fuck is Kindrick?"

"Mr. Jock Kindrick, owns the Flanagan Motel, says the fuzzy stuff woulda got into the bathroom after Hansen and Felman checked in. They clean after any previous guest—"

"You mean you don't know who was there before Hansen and whats-his-name?"

"Felman."

"Find out!" And he jumps up, gits outta mah office, mad.

So Ah drives over to Hanover Beach and talks to Kindrick at the Flanagan.

"Mah name is Willum Boone," Ah says.

"Yeah, I know. You wuz here last week," Mr. Kindrick says, chewin' on a cigar that ain't lit and too short to be lit.

"Ah'd like to know who was in unit 17 jest afore—" Ah look at mah notebook, "- Ms. Betty Hansen and Mr. Gary Felman checked in."

"You mean Mr. and Missus Smith?" He snickers, drags out his book, flippin' through till he finds the day. "Yeah, yeah--Oerschott," he says.

Now Ah'm taken aback a mite, but don't say nothin'.

"That it?" he says, closin' the book.

"Mr. Hans von Oerschott?" Ah ask.

"Yeah, the bastard. He wuz gonna buy this place, then he gets hisself killt."

"And fer how long did he stay?"

"Two days."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"Without lookin' in yer book?"

"Like I says, Oerschott was gonna buy this joint. How could I forget? He wanted to look at the books. Bastard. Left without paying his bill."

"In a hurry, Ah reckon."

"Yeah, big hurry. Leaves the bloody door open. Checks in, says he'll pay when he leaves, takes off without payin', leaves the bloody door open then ups and gets hisself killt."

Ah was headin' back to the office when Ah see thet red Porsche, top down, thet Fleetsmith gal at the wheel, so Ah head after her. Don't know why, jest a feelin' thet somethin's up.

She pulls past the gate at Oerschott Medicals, heads fer the parkin' lot. Ah follows. She stops, brakes squealin' like a stuck pig. Ah pulls 'longside and rolls down the winda.

"Howdy ma'am," Ah says, nonchalant.

Her face lights up like the prairie sun.

"Texas!" she says. "How nice." She gets outta her car and heads fer mah car.

"Willum Boone, ma'am, at yer service," Ah says.

She leans into mah winda, looks down at mah jeans, whispers, "Is everything really bigger down there ... in Texas?"

"Beg pardon, ma'am?"

She jest grins, turns about, starts walkin' fast to the buildin'. Ah jump out and follow.

"Ms. Fleetsmith! Could Ah have a word with y'all?"

She stops, gazes back over her shoulder and waits.

She looks at mah crotch. "What's up, cowboy?" she says. Lord! This is one dandy lady.

"Well, ma'am ..." and Ah fergit what Ah want to ask. Fact is, Ah ain't got nothin' to ask. "Well, ma'am ... could we go inside? It's sorta personal." Why'd Ah say thet? So she jogs, headin' fer a side door, so Ah jogs after her, thinkin' fast what Ah'm gonna say. When we git inside she keeps right on walkin', Ah follow, she pulls out a wad o' keys, opens a door, we both go in to a room full o' gadgets, glass whatzits and computin' machines. They's a big sign stuck to the side of a computin' machine, in some foreign language:

Alles lookenpeepers. Das computenmachine is nicht fur gefingerpoken und mitten grabben. Ist easy schnappen der springenwerk, blowenfusen und poppencorken mit spittzensparken. Ist nicht fur gewerken by das dummkopfen. Das rubbernecken sightseeren, keepen hands in das pockets, relaxen und watchen das blinkenlights.

"Welcome to my lab," the lady says. "Have a seat." She waves to a chair, Ah sits, she slides up onto the bench, her dress high, knees stickin' out like a barefaced heifer. "What's on your mind, cowboy," she says. "Wanna play games?" She pulls her dress higher.

"Well, ma'am ..." Ah says, tryin' to think of somethin' to say, "... Ah jest come from Flanagan's Motel, yuh know. It seems Mr. von Oerschott stayed there, night before Ms. Betty Hansen and Mr. Gary Felman checked in."

"You're leaving me behind, cowboy. Hansen? Felman?"

"Sorry, ma'am. They's two of the bodies we found, covered in yer Dermafix."

"You found four bodies, right? Hans was one and you're saying that these are two of the others?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hmm." She waits and Ah jest sit there. "So?"

"Ma'am?"

"So did you want to ask me something, or are you content to stare up my skirt?"

Ah jumps to mah feet.

"Ma'am ... aah ... have y'all ever ... did y'all ever ..."

"Yes, Billy Boy, many times," she says, grinnin'. Then she slides off'n the bench, her dress slides up, she ain't wearin no panties, she leans ag'in me, Ah cain't think—

"... did y'all ever know that von Oerschott wanted to buy thet thar motel?" Ah whisper.

A question at last. Ah was feelin' a mite better. The lady hoists herself onto the bench ag'in.

"No, but that's to be expected. Hans was always buying properties, but I paid little attention to his financial dealings."

"Did y'all know thet he stayed in the very same room where Hansen and Felman stayed?" Ah was warmin' to mah task.

"Of course not."

"And did y'all know that Mr. Roy McIvar is a computer whiz?"

She slides down from the bench, her hands holdin' her dress down.

"Listen, Boony Boy," she says, her voice gettin' loud, "I don't know who the shit you're talking about and I couldn't care less. Now, if that's the end of your questions, I'd like to get to work."

"One last question, ma'am," Ah says, feelin thet was the thing to say but not knowin' what thet last question was. She waits.

"Well?"

"Well, ma'am," Ah says slowly, "did y'all know ... did y'all know they was big fingerprints in the motel room?" The last question. A trap. Did she know somethin'?

"Big finger prints? What the shit are big fingerprints?"

"Big, like a gorilla, yuh know," Ah says.

Suddenly she leans back ag'in the bench, her face white. She does know somethin'. Don't rein in, keep whippin' the hoss, keep kickin' them spurs, she's gonna spill ...

"Gorilla?" she says, her voice weak.

Thet's all. She don't say nothin' more, jest looks kinda stunned. Ah wait awhile. Mebbe Ah said too much. Time to head out. Leave her stacked ag'in the bench, confused. So Ah smile, turn to the door and walk slowly without lookin' back. When Ah gits to the door I turn, slow, and say: "One day, ma'am, Ah'm gonna take y'all to bed, yuh know."

When Ah git back to the office, Ah can't remember a thing Ah said to the li'l lady. Ah jest remembers her legs, climbin' up thet skirt, up, up—glory be—till Ah couldn't see no more.

Chapter 23

When the reports started comin' in Ah didn't think nothin' of it. Some ape 'scaped from the zoo, roamin' the streets. Then it hits me. A gorilla. The big fingerprints at the Flanagan Motel, and the hair. An ape had bin at unit 17? Forensic was confused. Ah runs to the office of Chief Clements. His secretary, Ms. Halstead, she ain't at her desk so Ah barges right in. She ain't at her desk 'cause she's on Fuzz's knee and he's playin with her lungs.

"Boone!" he yells. "What the hell are you doing here!" Fuzz jumps up and Holstein falls down. She sticks her blouse back in her skirt, runs outta the office. "For Christ sake," Fuzz grumbles, "knock before you barge in!" He straightens his tie which don't need no straightenin'.

"Sorry Chief," Ah says, "but Ah got a idea 'bout thet gorilla. Yuh know these stories 'bout an ape thet escaped from the zoo? It's bin in all the papers. Yuh know, Ah think thet ape was at the Flanagan. The big fingerprints? Ape prints. The hair? Ape hair."

"Mmm," Fuzz says, "ape hair." He don't look too happy. "You're saying that this bloody gorilla gets out of the zoo, lets himself into the Flanagan, kills the occupants, then roams the streets of our great and glorious city?"

"Somethin' like thet," Ah says. "But the zoo ain't close to the Flanagan, yet they's a connection with the Oerschott case." Ah waits, but Fuzz ain't sayin nothin', so Ah keeps goin'. "T'other day Ah met up with Ms. Fleetsmith, tells her 'bout the big fingerprints at the Flanagan, Ah says they's big like a gorilla, she looks sorta strange, like she knows somethin' she ain't tellin'."

"So what's the connection?" he says.

"Don't rightly know, not 'xactly," Ah says, "but when she hears the word 'gorilla' she looks a mite confused."

"Listen, Boone, anybody'd looked confused if you said there was a gorilla in the Flanagan Motel. The zoo is maybe twenty miles from the Flanagan and this ape just...what? Hitchhikes?" He turns his chair and looks outta the winda. "So that's your connection?" he says, not lookin' at me.

Ah takes a chair, starts in with mah explanation.

"The way Ah figures it, chief, is thet this here Dermafix stuff is made from a weed thet grows in the jungles of Brazil, and they's apes in thet jungle, and when a fella takes some Dermafix ...," and Ah pause fer effect, "thet fella—"

"Boone, you asshole, there aren't any gorillas in Brazil!" Fuzz is now lookin' straight at me.

"But Chief ... deep in the jungle, ya know ..."

"No gorillas in Brazil," he says. "No gorillas, no apes, just monkeys. Look it up in the library. Watch National Geographic on TV. Ask any ten year old. Now, if you've no more to tell, let me be."

Ah leans outta mah chair and heads fer the door. Time's up.

"And send in Miss Halstead," he says, jest as Ah closes the door.

Outside, Ms. Cornelia Halstead is typin' like mad.

"Ms. Halstead," Ah says, "the boss'd like to see y'all. Yeah, all of ya." Ah hook a finger over mah shoulder, gives her a big smile. She jest keeps typin', face sorta red.

No gorillas in the jungles of Brazil? Mighty strange. Ah look in mah notebook, finds the number of Ms. Fleetsmith. Ah dial the number, wait awhile, then hear:

"You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," Curry says. "If you would like to leave a message ..."

"Mr. Charles Curry?" Ah ask.

"... and/or your name and telephone number, then I will relay the information to Miss Fleetsmith when she returns. If you would like—"

Curry keeps right on goin' like he don't hear me, so I says louder:

"This is Willum Boone, TO police, and Ah'd like to talk to Ms. Fleetsmith ..." and Ah pause fer effect, "... 'bout gorillas."

Curry stops talkin'.

"I beg your pardon," he says. "Gorillas?" They's a shake in his voice and Ah figure he knows somethin'. "Mr. Boone, sir, did you say gorillas?"

"Hello, this is Fran Fleetsmith!" Ah recognizes the voice of Ms. Fleetsmith. She jest barges right in on the conversation like she's been listenin' all along. "Texas? Is that you?" she says.

"Yes ma'am," Ah says. "Willum Boone, at your—"

"Charles Curran," she says.

"Beg pardon, ma'am?"

"His name bears little resemblance to a spice. It's Curran, not Curry. Get it? And what's this about gorillas?" she says.

"Well, ma'am, you may recollect that Ah told you 'bout the big fingerprints at the Flanagan Motel. Big like a gorilla, Ah said."

"Mmm," she says, no more than thet.

"Y'all was in Brazil," Ah says, "to git thet Dermafix, right?" Ah says.

"Right," she says. "So?"

"Did y'all see gorillas in Brazil?" Ah asks.

"There are no gorillas in Brazil. Listen, cowboy, what's on your mind?"

"Ms. Fleetsmith, Ah'd be obliged if Ah could talk to y'all? It's mighty important."

They was quiet on the line, then she says, "Mmm, okay. Let's see ... it's nearly noon. Why don't you drop by for lunch. Charlie can fix us something."

"Ah'd like thet fine, ma'am."

No more talkin', she jest hangs up, so Ah heads out and gits there at twelve.

PART NINE

Chapter 24

Gorilla.

Boone had said 'gorilla' and that made me think of Josey. Beneath the Dermafix she had grown hair, like an ape. Did Boone know the effect that Dermafix had on humans?

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charlie was standing at the door to my study. "Did Mr. Boone say something about a gorilla?" he asked.

"Mmm, sounds reminiscent of Josey, eh? Charlie, Boone is coming over for lunch. Could you fix us something? For three. Stay and eat with us. I'd like you to hear what he has to say about gorillas. Apparently there was gorilla hair at the motel where two of the bodies were found. And keep Josey and Penny out of sight. As far as Boone knows, Josey's missing. And whatever happens, don't say a thing about Josey's hairy appearance. The less he knows about our gorilla, the better."

"Taciturn is my middle name, Miss Fleetsmith."

"By the way, where is Penny? I haven't seen her for a while."

"She remains in her room, studying."

"Studying?"

"The language, Miss Fleetsmith. I have set up a VCR in Penny's room and she watches language videos much of the day. She is coming along remarkably well."

"Mmm, I can imagine. And Josey? How's she getting along?"

"Quite well. She has taken to working in the garden, with a shawl covering her face. I am afraid the growth of facial hair is becoming quite noticeable."

I had a theory, about the Dermafix, the hair, the ape-like characteristics—and I desperately needed to talk to somebody about it. I had thought of Professor Unger but felt it was outside his area of expertise. Perhaps one of my microbiology profs—but I didn't want to extend the circle of people-in-the-know. After some thought I decided that Charles was perhaps the only person I could discuss it with. He may not have the theoretical background but he had a keen mind, full of ideas. Maybe my own thoughts would crystallize if I spent an evening explaining my theory.

"Charlie, remind me to talk to you about a theory I have—about Dermafix and men and apes."

"... and cabbages and kings," Charles muttered as he left for the kitchen, grinning.

When the doorbell rang I was in the small study, humming, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling. Recently, I seem to spend more time than usual in that pose. I heard Charlie greet William Boone at the door.

"Mr. Boone, Miss Fleetsmith is expecting you."

"Thank yuh kindly, Mr. Curry," Boone said. "Mr. Charles Curran," he added.

I shouted: "Texas! In here!"

Boone appeared at the door to the study, tall and self confident, a sort of animal swagger to his gait. I pointed to a chair and he slid off his hat, swung his leg over the back of the chair and sat.

"Have I told you the one about the four foot Texan?" I said.

"Well, ma'am," he began immediately, ignoring my remark, "ah'd like to talk to y'all 'bout the gorilla hair found at the Flanagan."

"Flanagan?"

"The motel, ma'am, where two bodies were—"

"Yes, yes, the motel. What about it?"

"Well, ma'am, Ah reckon they's a connection between the hair and thet Dermafix stuff and Ah figured y'all could help me with the facts." Boone leaned back, making himself comfortable as though this was going to take some time. "Ah got me a theory," he said, "'bout the connection 'n all—"

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charlie poked his head in. "Lunch is served."

"Okay, cowboy, let's eat." I jumped up, left without waiting for the tall Texan, and headed for the kitchen. Since Pops died we rarely ate in the dining room; too stuffy by far. Charlie had prepared one of my favorite lunches: a large bowl of Caesar salad, toasted tuna sandwiches with melted cheese and a cool and sweating bottle of Chablis. Three large plates of Rosenthal china were arranged on one side of the large oak table. Cosy. I slid into the middle chair. Charles waited for Boone, then slid into the chair closest to the fridge.

"Shoot, cowboy," I said, pushing a large helping of salad onto my plate.

"Well, ma'am, Ah have this theory. Ah figure thet the weed from Brazil has some kinda power thet kin change a fella into a gorilla." He paused. I stopped with my mouth full of tuna and Charles began to choke.

"Surely you're kidding," I said, swallowing hard and pounding poor old Charles on the back.

"No, ma'am. Ah reckon thet Mr. von Oerschott got hisself covered in thet fuzzy skin, all swole up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, but he don't come out like no butterfly. No ma'am, he comes out like a gorilla, yuh know."

I was astonished. That was my theory, sort of. A degeneration, from homo sapiens to—

"Now don't go thinkin," Boone continued, "thet Ah'm some kinda madman. Listen careful: Van Oerschott was usin' the Dermafix. He checks into the Flanagan Motel fer two nights, jest afore thet couple who got thesselves killed. His body gits taken to the morgue. His body disappears from the morgue, but the body-drawer is bashed out and the door to the room is bashed out. More'n thet, we got a witness who says thet a man, heavy set and hunched over, was seen headin' 'long Cranberry Road toward Hanover Beach, toward the Flanagan Motel. We find two bodies near the motel; one has his neck broke. Takes a mighty wollop to break a neck like thet. Back at the motel, thet fuzzy skin is found in the bathroom, everything sorta catty whompus ... and gorilla hair. Forensic verified thet."

Boone pauses and looks at Charles who has stopped choking on his tuna and is sitting on the edge of his chair.

"Mr. Boone," Charles said, somewhat hesitatingly, "why are you telling us this?"

"Because Ah thinks it's Ms. Fleetsmith's Dermafix that done it. Van Oerschott got hisself in a cocoon, came out a gorilla, ups and kills Hansen and Felman."

"Hansen and who?" Charles said.

"Them two at the Flanagan Motel, bodies was found nearby, neck broke in one, a dozen broken bones in t'other."

There was a moment of silence. Now seemed as good a time as any to enunciate my theory.

"Mr. Boone," I said, surprised at myself for calling him that, "I also have a theory and it's quite like yours. Indeed, it's quite remarkable that you could extrapolate from the meagre evidence you have to the devolution of the species."

"Beg pardon, ma'am?"

"Let me tell you my theory." I wiped my mouth, carefully laid the napkin on the table and leaned back.

"This fungus," I began, "which grows on the weed and eventually encases the body, this fungus invades the body's cellular structure and causes gross mutation of the genes. The chromosomal material is altered so as to reflect the more primitive aspects of the genes. In man's evolution—in woman's evolution—genetic changes occurred, we evolved, became erect, lost much of our body hair, developed a larger brain—some of us—and smaller canine teeth. These changes are embedded in our chromosomes. Yet, the primitive characteristics are still present, though mostly dormant. Vestigial tails attached to a fetus, an appendix that might once have been a major organ. That's why man—note that I say man—can still act like a brute, raping, pillaging, slaughtering his neighbours. The beast is still there."

"Excuse me Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, almost apologetically, "that seems a preposterous premise. I mean, genes coming back to life after a million years of evolution."

"Not so," I said emphatically. "I vaguely recall a similar manifestation of dormant genes. Didn't pay much attention in class so I've been poring over my old textbooks. There's an extremely rare condition called hypertrichosis. It's an atavistic genetic defect; a gene that's been suppressed during evolution. People who have this abnormal gene grow excessive hair, on the face and upper body. Hairy apes. Perhaps that's the origin of werewolf stories. Anyway, the gene that produced hairiness in ancient man is not lost, just held in abeyance. In the course of evolution, other modern genes have taken over—the growth of excessive hair is curtailed."

Boone was listening intently, as was Charles. I had intended to discuss this theory with Charles alone, but it was better this way.

"When the more recent evolutionary changes are held in abeyance, by the action of this fungal cocoon, aboriginal man emerges, with all his savagery, all his antediluvian manners, an uncivilized barbarian." I paused for just a moment to be sure that I still had Boone's undivided attention. I did.

Then I said, in my most dramatic voice: "Charlie, bring Josey down."

Charles jumped to his feet. "I beg your pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?" he said.

"The lady says to bring Ms. Cowley down," Boone said, smiling.

Charles looked from me to Boone to me. I nodded my head and he left.

Chapter 25

It wasn't a question, I simply said: "You knew all along that Josephine Cowley was staying with us."

"Yes, ma'am."

"The paper said she was a principal witness in Oerschott's death, released on bail. Why didn't you pick her up, for questioning, if you knew she was here?"

"Ah had already questioned her once. Knew she was gonna be right here when Ah needed to question her ag'in. No need to make the lady uncomfortable. If'n she knew Ah was hounding her she'd a left town and—"

"Hello, William Boone," Josey said, leaning against the door jamb, dressed in a nightie, a veil covering her face, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lower lip.

"Ms. Cowley?" Boone asked, rising quickly from his chair, standing for a moment then sitting again.

"Bet your life, lover," she said, removing the cigarette from her mouth.

"Josey," I said, "would you please remove your veil. Mr. Boone knows everything."

Yet, even I wasn't prepared for what I saw. Josey's face was completely covered in short dark hair, her eyes red and beady, glistening through the shaggy growth. Boone rose again from his chair, slowly this time.

"Jiminy crickets," he managed to say. "Ms. Cowley—Dermafix —gorilla." The words came out in short bursts. Then he looked at me. "It's true, this theory," he said. "They jest turn to gorillas."

Josey began to cry, collapsing into a heap by the door.

"Terrible sorry, ma'am," Boone said. "Ah jest meant ... like von Oerschott ... Ah mean—"

There was little we could say. Josey was in bad shape. Poor kid. She had been devolving, her genes reflecting their prehistoric antecedents, her body changing into some cave-dwelling creature.

"Ma'am," Boone said, still staring at Josey but talking to me, "kin y'all change the direction of this ... this transformation, reverse the process, make Ms. Cowley whole ag'in?"

Josey looked up, listening intently for a reassuring response. I had none to give.

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't been too successful so far, but perhaps I was on the wrong track. I only recently thought of this theory of devolution."

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, "you asked me to remind you of a theory you have—about Dermafix and men and apes—is that the theory you are now enunciating?"

"Sort of. I first thought that men devolved to apes—the effect of this fungus—and that women turned into ... well, it's so stupid ..."

"Y'all mean thet women turn to men?" Boone asked. "Man, a ancient savage, more ancient than women?"

"Sorry, it's stupid," I said.

"Eve, taken from the rib of Adam," Charles said, "would make Man the progenitor of Woman."

"Okay, okay, I said it was stupid!" I was getting angry. "Maybe I shouldn't regurgitate these ideas until I've had a chance to clarify matters in my own mind. I just thought, there were men but so few women among the Chockli ... never mind, it's stupid."

"Please, please, Fran, do something," Josey moaned, "I'd rather die than be like this."

I felt so helpless.

"Josey, we'll do it. We'll reverse the process," I said. "Now, why don't you rest for a while, in your cocoon."

Josey cried out. Cocoon? Had I said cocoon? I jumped up and ran to her, collapsing to the floor beside her, pulling her to me.

"Josey, I'm terribly sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean that. It just slipped out. It's been trying for all of us. Please, Josey, rest for a while, in your... in your room."

Josey climbed to her feet, leaned heavily against the wall, then backed out of the doorway, still sobbing.

"Shit," I muttered, "this isn't in any textbook. I'd have to fully understand the process, investigate the genetic transformation, see how it evolves. I'd have to—"

"Ma'am," Boone said, "you went to Brazil. Did you see any gorillas?"

I turned to Boone, amazed.

"Mr. Boone," I said, more anger in my voice than I had intended, "South America has no gorillas and, in case you failed Geography 101, Brazil is located in South—"

"Ah knows thet apes ain't native to Brazil, but this here weed grows in Brazil," Boone said, his voice quiet but resolute. "It changes people into gorillas. Why ain't they no gorillas in Brazil?"

Clever. Gorillas in Brazil. This cowboy is clever. Why hadn't I thought of that?

Charles had been quiet until now, staring at the kitchen door, seemingly distressed by the sight of Josey. Now he turned to me and exclaimed, "Of course! Gorillas in Brazil!" He leaned against the table, his eyes flashing. "Miss Fleetsmith, why didn't we observe apes among the Chockli?"

"Chockli?" Boone said. "Y'all said thet before. What's Chokli?"

"Natives of Brazil," Charles said. "Miss Fleetsmith and I obtained the weed from a small village in the foothills of the Pellita Mountains. There were no apes living among the natives. Nothing to indicate that the weed affected the natives as it does us—Josephine, von Oerschott—"

"And few females," I added. I started to hum and stare at the ceiling. Boone had made a good point. No gorillas in Brazil. All this was tied together, somehow.

"Mr. Boone," I said, "this was one very curious collection of natives. Perhaps a hundred males and only a dozen females. There was some ritual which we've yet to understand. A female is taken to a clearing in the jungle, tied to a stone statue of a woman with child. The other natives, all male, sit on smaller statues arrayed around the bound female. The smaller statues are reasonably smooth, little more than blobs of stone."

I looked from Boone to the ceiling to Charles. "Charlie and I thought the lack of detail on these smaller statues was meant to indicate that the bodies were enclosed in a cocoon, the Dermafix cocoon, if you will."

Boone coughed lightly, as though he had something to say. I waited.

"Ma'am," he said, "how'd y'all know 'bout this here ritual?"

"We saw it," I said.

"And they was a female, tied to the statue?" Boone said.

"Indeed there was," Charles said.

"And what happened to thet female," Boone said. "Did the gal git turned to an ape?"

"Miss Fleetsmith and I rescued her," Charles said, rising from his chair and dramatically opening his arms. I could see it coming. "We stood beyond the statue of the woman," Charles continued, "raised the stone child above our heads, recited from Shakespeare ... to be or not to be, that is the question. Whether t'is nobler—"

"Cut the shit, Charlie," I said, admiring his flare for the dramatic, even under the present tragic circumstances.

"Yes, quite so," Charles continued, dropping his hands. "Well, the natives were suitably impressed and retreated into the jungle which left us free to leave the scene with Penny in hand."

"Penny?" Boone asked.

"The native girl," I said.

"What happened to this gal?" Boone asked.

"Upstairs," I said.

William Boone jumped to his feet.

"What! Y'all got a gal from Brazil, right here, in TO City? One of them Chockli, right here?"

"Rightly so, Mr. Boone," Charles said with some pride in his voice. "I have been teaching Miss Penny how to converse in English and she has become quite proficient at the language. Indeed, just the other day—"

"Ah'd like to see this li'l gal," Boone said in a most authorative voice, pushing his stetson onto his head and standing about ten feet tall.

Charles looked meekly at me and I nodded. He left immediately. This was real theatre.

Chapter 26

The cowboy put on his most official look.

"Ma'am, Ah imagine y'all got 'bout as much information as this li'l gal has to offer," he said to me, "but Ah've a mind to try, myself."

"As a matter of fact," I said, almost embarrassed to say it, "I've pretty well ignored Pelvis, but, come to think of it—"

"Pelvis?" he asked.

"Just a nickname," I said. "We call her Penny. And I think you'll have some difficulty in communicating—"

"Leave thet to me, ma'am. Interrogation is an art thet Ah'm familiar with. It's mah job to—"

He stopped talking and sat abruptly, pulling his hat from his head. Penny had slipped into the room, in a loosely fitting robe which hung straight from her breasts to the floor. Boone was suitably impressed, and momentarily speechless. Then he waved at a chair.

"Ms. Penny," he said, rising to his feet and pointing to a chair. "Would y'all set there?"

Penny sat.

"Ms. Penny, Ah'd like to ask y'all a few questions. Jest a formality, y'understand. They ain't no reason to be scared. Jest answer with the truth as y'all know it."

It seemed a standard ritual. Boone paced about the room, hands clasped firmly at his back. Penny sat demurely, watching the tall Texan with great interest. She seemed not the least bit nervous. Charles stood in back of her chair. It was a great scene.

"Now, tell me Ms. Penny, jest when did y'all first git to Toronto?"

"Tonto?" Penny said.

"Yes, ma'am. Toronto City."

"City?" Penny said.

"Yes, ma'am. When did y'all arrive in Toronto, with Ms. Fleetsmith and Mr. Charles Curran?"

"Chully!" Penny said, turning and grasping Charlie's hand. He leaned over her and smoothed her hair. Very touching. I could hardly contain a chuckle. Boone frowned at me and I erased the smile.

"Ms. Penny," Boone continued, "ah'd be mighty pleased if y'all could answer jest this one question." It was clear that the complete interrogation procedure had been cut to the bottom line. Boone asked, "Have y'all seen any gorillas in Brazil?"

Penny remained silent, clinging to Charles.

"Lots of coffee, no gorillas," I volunteered.

Boone sat, weary, defeated.

"She don't hardly talk none," he half whispered, looking at Charles.

"Actually, Mr. Boone," Charles explained, "her understanding of the language is quite comprehensive. I have no explanation for her current reticence." Charles smoothed Penny's hair. "Perhaps if you would allow me to pose the questions?"

Charles pulled a chair alongside of Penny's and began, without waiting for Boone's response.

"Penny," Charles said, "you can see that Miss Josephine is covered with hair. Correct?"

Penny nodded vigorously, looking about the room as though she expected Josey to be there.

"In your village, did you ever see anyone covered in hair, like that?"

Penny shook her head.

"I guess that answers your question, Mr. Boone." Charles looked at Boone, smiling, self-satisfied.

I leaned toward Penny.

"Why were there so few females, in your village?" I asked.

"Village?" Penny said.

"Yes. Why so few girls?"

"Girls?" Penny said.

"Shit!" I said, and pushed myself to my feet and stalked out.

I heard Penny's last comment: "Shit."

I headed for my study. I needed some time to think.

Talk about perplexing, this was the epitome. And the questions it posed. Why no gorillas in Brazil? Why so few women among the Chockli? How did the reversion to ancient genetic code take place? Why a smooth membrane, sometimes, and fluff, sometimes, and a cocoon, sometimes. Most importantly, could the process be reversed?

There was a partial answer, sort of. Who knows from what ancient civilization the Chockli originated? Did they migrate from Asia across the Bering Strait, then make their way to South America? Perhaps their ancestors were not susceptible to the effects of this fungus which grew on the weed? Did all Asians participate in this immunity? Were Indo-Europeans susceptible? Or perhaps the accepted Bering Strait theory was wrong. Maybe the seemingly more advanced Indians of South America sailed, from Asia. I always thought this. To migrate through the Ice Age turmoil of North America to the Southern continent, then to build pyramids, celestially significant structures, great empires. Maybe the Indians of South America were different. Maybe their genetic makeup... the Inca, the Maya—

"Ah think a trip to Brazil is called fer, yuh know."

Boone was standing at the door to my study.

"I think we need to study the effect of Dermafix on Asians," I said.

"Y'all think thet Penny don't get the affliction 'cause she's from Asian stock," he said, sliding into a chair.

Amazing. These Texans are smart folk... and I always thought Texans confused a thesaurus with a dinosaur.

"What makes you say that, cowboy?"

"Eyes. Penny's eyes. Sorta oriental. Thet weed ain't got no effect, so no gorillas in Brazil." He paused for a moment, as though struggling with the words. "Penny. Y'all could try it on her. Dermafix, Ah mean."

"Are you seriously suggesting that I put her at risk, turn her into some hairy ape? Shame on you Mr. Boone."

"They had it all along, them natives. They didn't git to be gorillas."

I thought about that for a minute. Boone was quiet, waiting.

"Mmm, maybe. I'll give it some serious thought, talk to Penny."

"And to Mr. Curry, who seems a mite taken with the li'l gal."

"Curran. Yeah, he's a mite taken."

Chapter 27

I had asked Charles and, after some hesitation, he had asked Penny. She seemed to understand Charles well enough and had agreed to the experiment. I would administer Dermafix to her body, keep her isolated in the lab, monitor her DNA from skin samples taken periodically. Although the Dermafix research was to be discontinued, by order of the Board at Oerschott Medicals, I still had a key and free access to the building and the lab, and all the equipment had been left there.

Charles had insisted that he be allowed to stay permanently in the lab so we set up a corner with two beds and primitive kitchen facilities: a small refrigerator, hot plate, some pots, dishes and utensils, etc.

I had given Penny a complete physical; she was as healthy as an ox and actually seemed to enjoy the attention. I guess I had a tendency to ignore her, in the past. Perhaps I should have spent more time trying to communicate. Perhaps many of the answers were there, right under my nose, and I didn't take the time to inquire. I intended to change that right now.

It had taken more than a day to generate a new batch of Dermafix from the few weeds left in my lab. Charles was afraid that contact with the salve would turn me into a gorilla and volunteered to rub the ointment on Penny. She was clinging to him. I could hardly refuse, although I felt that Penny's clinging maneuver was less of fear and more of theatre.

That was a week ago. I had visited the lab every day and was in almost constant contact with Charles, by phone.

The day the fuzz started to develop I was late in arriving and Charles was frantic. He met me at the door, Penny by his side.

"Miss Fleetsmith, Penny is beginning to show signs of—"

"Yes, I see. But it's not a skin, it's just the mycelium. Curious, yes, but I've observed that before, in lab animals."

"And they died?" Charles asked, concerned.

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But that isn't the effect we're after. We need to form a skin. It's the initial creamy skin that creates the cocoon, not this fluff, and it's within the cocoon that reincarnation takes place." I turned to the native girl, who seemed unperturbed by the formation of a white fuzz on her neck and shoulders. I took a small knife from the shelf. "Penny?" I asked, hoping she would respond to my questions, "I'd like to make a very small cut—"

"No!" Charles shouted.

"Charlie," I said, "I'm certain that the fungus needs to enter the bloodstream. If there's no break in the epidermis—"

"Miss Fleetsmith, I cannot let you wound the girl!"

"Let me tell you about my lab experiments, on mice," I said, trying to be as reassuring as possible. "When I rubbed Dermafix on the skin, that fuzzy stuff developed—that's all, usually. If I made a small cut, just a scratch, a skin formed, a creamy covering—and the wound healed beneath that membrane. Usually, if the skin sluffed off, there was this fuzz beneath. Sometimes, as we've seen, the skin grows to envelop the entire body—the cocoon. Perhaps the cocoon forms from the inside out. I believe that a cut—very small—is necessary because it provides access to the bloodstream."

Charles was quiet, staring at Penny who sat, seemingly amused by it all.

"Sometimes ..." Charles said slowly, " ... usually ... perhaps. Those words herald a certain lack of conviction."

"True, and I was hoping that the wound—a small cut—wouldn't be necessary, but—"

I stopped talking. Penny had taken the knife from my hand. She drew it carefully across her bared shoulder ... and smiled as the blood began to flow. Charles was flabbergasted. Penny scraped the fuzz from her neck and rubbed it into the wound.

"She's understood everything we've said," I whispered, overwhelmed by her understanding.

"Apparently," Charles muttered. Then, confidently, "As I have said on numerous occasions, Miss Penny's understanding of the language is quite extensive." He began to smooth her hair, a now-familiar gesture.

I decided to stay the night with Charles and Penny, sleeping curled in the overstuffed chair in which I had spent so many evenings. Penny fell asleep instantly. Charles tossed and turned for some time. I hummed and stared at the ceiling. I must have fallen asleep because I awoke to find Charles standing over me.

"Time to arise?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"Penny is gone," he said, no hint of concern in his voice.

I hopped out of the chair, looked at the far window. It was still dark outside.

"How long? Were you asleep? How did she get out? The door is locked. You need a key to get either in or out of this lab."

"I awoke a few minutes ago and found her bed empty," he said quietly.

Charles seemed too unperturbed by her disappearance. He must have let her out. He had objected to the wound and was worried that I would aggravate her condition, so he took my key, let her out—perhaps hiding her, in a nearby hotel. I was sure that is what happened. He had also been unconcerned when she was, apparently, missing, but was, in fact, hidden in the cellar.

"Which hotel?" I asked.

"Hotel?"

"Where is she? Charles, this is important! She needs to be watched. We must remove the—"

"Miss Penny disappeared while I slept. I did not let her out of the lab."

"The keys—check my jacket."

Charles seemed stunned, unmoving. I slid the jacket from the back of my chair and shook it violently. No keys.

"Gone. The keys are gone!" I turned to the door. "Charlie, check the door. Is it locked?"

"Yes. I tried to open it earlier. It is locked."

"Shit! Then we're stuck in here! We need the key to get out." I began to hum. The phone. I rushed to the end of the lab and saw that the phone had been ripped from the wall. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"I suspect," Charles said quietly, "that Miss Penny's comprehension extends beyond the language. She not only let herself out with your keys, locking the door behind her, she also disabled the phone."

"Charlie, are you all right? You seem indifferent to the departure of your favorite female. Are you feeling okay?"

"I am fine, thank you."

Then he leaned back against the bench then collapsed into a chair, his face whiter than usual. He didn't say 'Miss Fleetsmith'. He almost always said 'Miss Fleetsmith'. It was a preamble to almost every sentence. He was obviously in shock. I felt ashamed that I had accused him of hiding Penny. I had to take his mind off her.

"Okay, Charles, how do we get out of here?"

It was so easy. The lab had enormous air ducts to carry away fumes and introduce fresh air—well, as fresh as you can get in the big TO. Charles had already removed the cover so we simply clambered through, exiting through a vent to the parking lot. It made me think that the elaborate procedures in place to ensure the privacy of Oerschott Medicals was a farce. Anybody could easily enter and leave my lab with neither keys nor exceptional mental facility.

Charles was obviously feeling better. He said, "Miss Fleetsmith, I believe I know where Miss Penny has gone." And he slid into the driver's seat of the old Porsche.

"Sorry, Charlie. I drive." I pushed him aside and slid in beside him. The car roared to life, the wheels screamed and I headed for the exit—then skidded to a stop. "Where?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Where to, Charlie?"

"I believe she has returned home."

"But that's miles away, and she's hardly dressed for a walk across town and into the suburbs. She'd be jumped, raped—"

"Miss Fleetsmith, I believe that Miss Penny is quite able to defend herself."

"Bullshit. I think we should call Boone, have the police on the lookout."

I pulled the cellular from under the dash and punched 911—that's all I could think of. The girl who answered complained bitterly that she did not provide phone numbers and unless this was an emergency I should look for Boone's number in a phone book.

"Rape!" I yelled into the phone. "He's after me again! Help! He's breaking into the—oh God—he's naked—"

"Tell me your address," she said, more calmly than I would have imagined.

"Oerschott Medicals, Cantor Street West ... in the parking lot ... hurry, he's climbing through my window ... red Porsche—oh—" and I hung up.

Charles was grinning. "Very dramatic, Miss Fleetsmith, but what makes you think that Mr. Boone will come galloping to your rescue?"

"Squad cars have phones," I said. Charles looked confused, but I just leaned back and closed my eyes. It was very early morning and I was still sleepy.

Less than five minutes later a black and white screeched to a halt and two officers jumped out, guns in hand. One leaped to Charles' side of the Porsche, held his revolver at arms length, assumed that silly stiff-legged stance and demanded, "Hands where I can see them! Don't move!" It seemed an incompatible pair of requests. The other officer carefully opened the door. "Out! Slowly!" he shouted at Charles.

Charles raised his hands, slid out and stood staring at me, helplessly. I jumped out and rushed to his side.

"It's okay," I said, wrapping my arms about Charlie's neck. "Oh Charlie, you were wonderful. I loved it. I really did. Officers, it was ecstasy. We've decided to get married."

"Ma'am?"

"Officer, would you mind very much if I used your carphone?" I said in my most affectionate voice. "To call the best man, you know. He's with the Toronto police." I turned to Charles. "Wait, darling. Soon." I sauntered over to the squad car, leaving all three standing, gaping, silent. The door was open so I slipped onto the seat, picked up the mike and said in a husky voice, "Get me Assistant Chief William Boone."

"Hey! You can't do that!" Both officers rushed forward, simultaneously. The speedier of the two reached in and plucked the microphone from my hand.

"Hullo, Willum Boone here," the voice said.

"Uh, excuse me sir," the officer said, fiddling with the spiral cord attached to the mike, "but it's a mistake. This young lady just took the mike and—"

"Which young lady is thet, officer?"

"Fran Fleetsmith!" I shouted.

"Put her on," Boone said, and the officer, confused, handed me the mike, his face a blank.

"Hi, cowboy," I said. "Could you come by? Oerschott Medicals. Charles and I are in the parking lot. Red Porsche, remember? We've got something important to say—new developments. Better still, drop by my house. Charles and I are headed there now."

"Sure 'nough, ma'am," Boone said. "On my way."

I handed the mike to the officer.

"Thanks, gentlemen. You can go now." And I slithered out of the squad car, swaggered toward my car, hooked my arm about Charles who was waiting midway between the two cars and headed for the Porsche. The two officers stood, motionless, by their squad car. Can't you imagine the situation? Great scene.

Chapter 28

The officers hadn't let us go until we had answered the W5: Who was doing the raping? Why had I phoned 911? What were we doing at Oerschott Medicals? When did I meet Mr. Boone? Where were we going?

When we got home, I admitted to Charles that I thought he had let Penny escape from my mad-scientist experiment. Charles was astonished that I would charge him with such a covert act, but I reminded him of Penny's secret sojourn in the basement. We continued to sip our coffee, in silence.

It was about 8:30 a.m. before Boone arrived. Charles lead him to the kitchen and he sat and accepted a coffee. He looked awful and I told him so.

"Cowboy, you look awful," I said. "Got a bug or something?"

"Ah feel like Ah bin ate by a coyote and shit off a cliff," he said.

"Beg pardon?" Charles said, nearly dropping the coffee pot.

"Sorry ma'am," Boone said directly to me. "Ah jest can't sleep much these days, but Ah'm pretty good now, considerin'."

"I can prescribe a medication ...," Charles began, but I waved my hand irritably and Charles stopped immediately. I could tell that Boone was eager to get to business.

"Well, ma'am," he said, "what's this about? Ah heard 'bout how y'all gave them two officers a hard time." Boone was trying not to smile, but he was obviously amused.

"Miss Penny's gone," Charles said. "Miss Fleetsmith was performing some experiments, as we had earlier discussed with you. We slept at Oerschott Medicals, in the laboratory, in order to keep watch on the girl. Last night she—she—"

"Took off," I added. "Stole my keys, let herself out, disabled the phone and took off. Charles thought she might be here, home, in the basement. She seems to have spent some time there, in the past." I looked at Charles. He avoided my stare. "But she isn't there. We thought you could help in finding her. She's probably roaming the streets somewhere."

"Ah kin put out an all-points," Boone said. "See what thet does. She ain't goin far Ah reckon. Got any money, the li'l lady?"

"Not at all, Mr. Boone," Charles said. "She has little need of money. I suspect she is making her way here, where, of course, she has no need of money."

"The 'xperiments—did y'all find any change, thet skin, thet fuzz?"

"After several days," I said, "Penny acquired a somewhat furry neck and shoulders. The white fuzz, that's all. I was quite certain there would be little change in her appearance, so, last night, we inflicted a very small wound." I emphasized the words 'very small', for Charles' benefit.

"In fact," Charles interjected, "it was Penny herself who inflicted the wound."

"Why the wound?" Boone asked.

"I'd noticed, in the past, that the membrane formed most predictably when applied over a wound—an open wound."

"So's the weed kin git into the blood," Boone said.

"Yes, that's my thought."

"Von Oerschott must've had hisself a wound."

"I guess so. He always came to work with little tags of tissue paper on his face, to cover cuts from shaving."

"And now the li'l lady, Miss Penny, is on the streets of TO, a walkin' cocoon."

"I doubt it. In fact I believe there will be no effect whatsoever," I said. "We saw no such thing happening among the Chockli."

"Them indians, in Brazil?"

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, "there was evidence of the mycelium, as you will no doubt recall."

"On Penny? Yes, that's what I just said."

"Miss Fleetsmith, I am referring to our sojourn in Brazil."

"No, I don't recall. You mean while we were in the Chockli village?"

"Yes, at the feet of the statue, a ring of white fluff, much like soapy foam."

That was it. "The foam, the fuzz. It was there, in that village, right?"

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith."

"Shit! I knew I'd seen it before! I knew it! It kept buggin me, that fuzz. I just couldn't remember where I'd seen it. But no cocoon, right?" I asked.

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith—I mean, no Miss Fleetsmith. No cocoon."

"See, cowboy? No cocoon," I said. "So Penny is walking the streets looking much as you or I." I looked again at his lanky frame, denim jeans, leather boots, dark green shirt turned up at the collar. "Well, perhaps more like me."

"Except that she is undoubtedly attired in a night gown," Charles added.

"Thet does it," Boone said, jumping to his feet. "Better get on the wires. She ain't safe like thet. Night gown? No ma'am, she ain't safe. Not in the city."

Boone seemed to have recovered from whatever ailed him. He bounded to the door and was gone without so much as a goodbye.

After Boone left, I sat for a while in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling. Then I noticed Josey at the door.

"Come on in kid," I said. "How're you feeling?"

"Lousy. Look at me. A bloody ape." Her voice was trembling and a bit raspy. "Lordy, I wanna die."

She was dressed in jeans and blouse, bare feet, a yellow ribbon in her hair. Her face was almost black in the dim light and the dull glow of a cigarette was visible in her mouth. Although I had made it clear that I didn't want her to smoke in the house, it seemed almost cruel to deny her that vice, now, in her current condition.

"Penny has run away," she sobbed, tossing the cigarette in the sink. "Maybe I should, too."

"What good would that do?" I asked. "We need you here. I'm going to find a way to reverse this process and you'll be the first—"

"But I ain't gettin no better! It's worse. The hair is growin on my backside, my chest ..." She stopped and slid into a chair. "Fran? Do you think I'm turning into a man?"

"No, no, I was wrong. I just thought—never mind what I thought. Josey, what I think is that you're going backward in time, changing into one of your prehistoric ancestors. But if this can go backward it can also go forward. If the backward process takes just a few weeks, so will the forward process. One of these days, I promise, you'll be your old self. Promise."

Josey said nothing. She was hunched over, her face in her hands, helpless, fragile. We sat in silence for some time. Then I went to her, embraced her, and took her to her room. I waited. She fell asleep almost immediately.

I would reverse this process. I just needed time. And I needed to find Penny. I looked at my watch. It was 10:00 a.m. and she would be wandering the streets. We had to do something, now.

By 10:30, Charles and I were driving slowly along Cantor Street, past Oerschott Medicals, searching for Penny.

PART TEN

Chapter 29

Now Ah ain't a superstitious man, but this here Dermafix stuff was mighty weird, yuh know. Thet Oerschott fella turnin' to a ape, Ms. Cowley too, and thet native gal roamin' the streets o' TO in a night gown 'n a furry neck. Ah reckon the Chief should hear this, so first Ah gits the message on the wire: be on the lookout for a dark-skinned gal roaming the streets. Last seen on Cantor Street headin West wearing a night gown. Then Ah gits me over to Fuzz's office.

Ms. Halstead is typin, her lungs restin' heavy on the edge o' the desk.

"Kin Ah talk to the Chief?" Ah says.

She looks at the calendar, nods, keeps on typin'. Ah takes thet as a 'yes', so Ah goes in. Fuzz is on the phone, lookin' outta the winda and don't see me enter. He's talkin' to somebody.

"What's she doing in a night gown?" He says and waits, the phone pushed into his ear. "Can't talk? You mean she's dumb? ... yeah, yeah, doesn't speak English. Got it. So why're you calling me?"

Ah coughs lightly 'cause I know it's the native gal. Fuzz keeps talkin.

"Fuzz? Did you call me Fuzz! Goddamn it, man, I'll have your ass for this!" He drops the phone. He don't like thet word. "Asshole," he says, then turns 'round, looks up. "Well, Boone, what the hell do you want?"

"Fuzz, it's growin' on her neck, right?" Ah says. He don't look happy so Ah keeps talkin'. "Thet gal they found, she's a native, from Brazil, got fuzz 'round her neck. Ms. Fleetsmith was doin' some 'xperiments, with thet Dermafix, to see if'n it—"

"Christ! Am I the only one who hasn't a fucking clue what's going on around here? What the bloody Christ has fuzz got to do with anything?"

Ah slides into a chair, holds up mah hand, the Chief leans back, waitin'. Time fer me to bring him up to date, so Ah tells him the whole story: the weed from Brazil, the changes—people to ape—Ms. Fleetsmith's theory, the 'xperiment at Oerschott Medicals on the li'l native gal. Then Ah waits fer it to sink in. Fuzz jest sets there, quiet.

Then he says, "Gorillas in Brazil." He turns to look outta the winda. "Gorillas in Brazil," he says ag'in. Then he reaches back and picks up the phone. "Get constable Dennis on the line—now!" He waits, then: "Dennis? Okay, tell me again about this little lady with fuzz on her neck ... yeah ... yeah ... I understand, it's fuzz on her neck. Okay, bring her in, directly to my office." Then he hangs up, slow, turns and says, "William, I think we may have something here." Ah ain't never seen him smile, but Fuzz's smilin' like a fox in the chicken coop.

It was 'bout an hour before Ms. Halstead buzzes. Ah was talkin' on evolution, genes and such, and Fuzz was jest listenin', not sayin' a word. Though he sometimes don't seem so, he's one smart fella.

"Constable Gerald Dennis is here, sir," Holstein says.

"Send him in." Gerry comes in, the li'l gal followin'. Fuzz turns to me. "What's her name?"

It jest don't seem right to say Ms., so Ah says "Miss Penny."

"Miss Penny," Fuzz says, leaning over his desk and pointin' to mah chair, "please sit down." Ah jumps up, Penny sets. "Now, tell me, just what were you doing in a night gown, wandering the streets of Toronto?"

"Tonto?" Penny says.

"She doesn't understand, Chief," Dennis says. "I tried to get her to explain—"

"Sit down, Dennis," Fuzz says. Dennis looks 'round but they ain't no more chairs. "Now, Miss Penny," Fuzz says, a big grin on his chops, "I'd like you to tell me, in your own words, the effect that Dermafix has on humans." He's understood all thet Ah told him. "In particular ..."

Ah coughs, but Fuzz keeps agoin'. " ... I'd like to know just how it changes people into apes." Fuzz waits, smiles. Penny smiles. Then the Chief gits up, walks 'round his desk, stands by the gal. "Miss Penny," he says, quiet-like, "are there gorillas in Brazil?"

"Bazil?" Penny says.

"Yes, Brazil." Fuzz ain't smilin' no more. "Gorillas, in Brazil. Seen any?"

"Bazil?" Miss Penny says.

"Okay, Dennis, take her away—but keep her for questioning."

"Questioning?" Dennis says. "You kidding?" But Fuzz is already lookin' outta the winda.

When Ah gits back to mah office, Ah phones Ms. Fleetsmith. She'd be mighty happy to know thet the li'l native gal is back. Charlie gits the phone, starts in with, "You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith ..." Ah knows it ain't the answerin' machine so Ah starts right in talkin'.

"Mr. Curran, this is Willum Boone, TO police ..."

"... leave a message and/or your name and telephone number, then I will ..."

It is the answerin' machine. Ah waits fer the beep, then says, "This is Willum Boone. Mah message is jest this: we got the li'l gal from Brazil." Then Ah hangs up. Talkin' to a machine is like talkin' to a coffee pot.

PART ELEVEN

Chapter 30

When Charles and I get home, it's late afternoon and I'm starved. We'd driven all the streets within ten miles either side of Cantor West where Oerschott Medicals was located, knocked on doors, questioned pedestrians, wandered into back alleys, hopped fences; nothing. Several times we saw cop cars driving at slow speeds. I was sure they were doing the same thing.

The red light was blinking on the answering machine:

"This is Willum Boone. Mah message is jest this: we got the li'l gal from Brazil."

Charles had played back the message and seemed immediately nervous. I went to my study and phoned Boone. Penny had been found early in the morning, unharmed, he said. Boone wanted to come over, but he couldn't bring Penny; she was being held for questioning. Good luck, I thought. There was something else he wanted to talk about. I saw no reason to refuse. He could have dinner with us.

Boone arrived shortly before 7 p.m., dressed in jeans, suede jacket and matching boots. I watched him through the kitchen window. He was actually quite handsome in a crude and angular way: more height, more jaw, more hair and, although lanky, more muscles it seemed. I made a mental note: get him into bed, soon.

Charles answered the doorbell. I was in the kitchen, preparing the Chicken Parmigiana.

"Hullo, Ms. Fleetsmith," Boone said. "Ah thought Mr. Curran did all thet cookin, yuh know." He was leaning against the door to the kitchen, his hat in his hand.

"Usually—but tonight I thought I'd flaunt my culinary prowess. Sit down, cowboy. Tell me what's on your mind." Charles took up a position to my left. He was in charge of the salad, with his secret almost-black dressing. Boone laid his stetson on the table, swung his leg over a chair and sat.

"Do that again," I said.

"Ms. Fleetsmith, ma'am?"

"Get up, then get down, over the back of the chair. I've never seen anyone do that, except in John Wayne movies ... and cut the Ms. shit." I walked to his side, laid my hand on his cheek and said, "Cowboy, you kin call me Fran if'n you've a mind to." I left a streak of flour across his jaw.

"Ma'am—"

"Fran."

"Yes, ma'am ... Fran, Ah thought you should know. We bin lookin' fer Hans ... uh, Mr. von Oerschott."

"Hard to get your tongue around 'Oerschott'? Josey calls him Ohshit. You can call him Hans." I stopped flouring the chicken. "Did you say you were looking for Hans?"

"Yes, uh, Fran. They've bin reports of a gorilla, 'scaped from the zoo, but Ah figure it's Hans. He killed them two at the Flanagan Motel, bashes outta the morgue, now hidin' somewhere. No tellin' what he's gonna do next, so we got everybody lookin' fer him. Thought y'all should know, mebbe help."

"Help? In what way?"

"Mebbe knowin' where he'd go, hide. Mebbe Miss Josephine Cowley, she'd know where he'd be at."

"I really didn't know Hans all that well," I said. "While at Oerschott Medicals, I spent most of my time locked up in my lab. Rarely saw the man."

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles interrupted, "I have finished the salad and would like to be excused from dinner."

"Certainly," I said, "take the Porsche." Charles left the room immediately.

"Where's Charlie goin'?" Boone asked.

"Cowboy, I have something to show you. My etchings, in my room."

I looked at Boone carefully, expecting some adverse reaction, but he just swung up and out of the chair and said, "Lead the way, ma'am." He wore a great, oversize smile. This is one cool gent. I wiped the flour from my hands, led him up the stairs and pushed him into my bedroom, expecting he would object, but it was he who turned, leaned against me and closed and bolted the door, his arms over my shoulders. He had already removed his suede jacket and now he dropped it to the floor.

"Y'all thinkin what Ah'm thinkin?" he whispered, still leaning against me, my back to the door.

"Ah reckon," I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"Y'all sure of this?" he said.

"Listen cowboy, have you forgotten your promise?"

"Ma'am?"

I put on my best drawl: "One day, ma'am, Ah'm gonna take y'all to bed, yuh know."

He turned and went quickly to the windows to close the venetian blinds, but first pulled open a crack and peeked out, police-style.

"Charlie's takin' off," he said. "Where's he goin'?"

"To see Penny," I said.

I quickly dropped my jeans, wriggled out of my sweater and stood like a school girl, naked, one knee bent over the other, my hands demurely placed behind my arched back. I never wear bra or panties. I tried to look coy, bashful. This was going to be one hell of a scene.

Boone turned and smiled. "Don't suit yuh, bein shy 'n all," he said, walking toward me. I growled mightily, leaped on him, wrapping my legs about his waist, tearing the shirt from his back. "Thet's mah gal," he said and fell back onto the bed.

Now I'm not much at Act One, Scene One, but I think I did a creditable job, judging from the moaning and groaning. And the Final Act was splendid. When the curtain came down my coyboy was flat on his back, panting, eyes closed and grinning.

"Wanna smoke?" I murmured in my most exotic voice.

"Don't smoke, ma'am."

Boone rolled out of bed and went to the window, opening the venetian blinds just a bit. The sun was setting, just up the street, and thin streaks of red light immediately rushed through the blinds and covered his body, rippling, psychedelic. I had been right: more height, more jaw, more hair and definitely more muscles.

"Thet was like biscuits in the mornin' ... real good," he said.

"C'mere, cowboy."

He came to my bed and sat, running an enormous hand along my thigh.

"The short Texan," he said.

"Not so short," I reassured him, as though he needed reassurance.

"The four foot cowboy, ma'am," he said.

"Four feet? Come now, cowboy ... you jest. Four feet? That's the height of exaggeration." I reached between his thighs, but he twisted aside. "And after tonight I want Fran," I said. "I don't want this ma'am shit," I said.

"The joke 'bout the short, four foot Texan," he said quietly. "What's thet joke?"

He was such a sweet man.

"Jest yer regular Texan," I drawled, "with all the bullshit knocked out."

I pulled him into bed and he laughed. It was the first time I had heard him laugh. Actually, it was less a laugh and more the bawl of a calf, the bray of a donkey. I couldn't contain myself; I neighed, I whinnied, I barked. My cowboy slipped to the floor, snorting, carrying the sheets—and me—with him. Wrapped together like two weiners in a bun, we howled and bellowed. It made an admirable finale.

Chapter 31

Boone left about 9:30 p.m.. Charlie returned about 10. He looked cadaverous.

"Well Chuck? How's Pelvis?" I asked.

"She's quite unhappy, as you might expect. Locked in a cell. She is unaccustomed to being confined."

"I'll bet she's taking it better than you are. Sit down and I'll make us a drink. I think you need one."

"Martini," he mumbled, then collapsed into a kitchen chair.

"Nope," I said. "Not here. We'll sit in the living room. More comfortable. Then we'll talk."

I held out my hand and he took it. I lead him to a large chair by the fireplace and he just sort of sagged back into it, limp, weak. I walked to a side table and started in on the martinis.

"Me too, please." Josey was standing at the door. God! She looked awful. Her face was almost shaggy. When she saw me staring, she began to cry.

"C'mon sweets," I whispered. "Have a seat. Have a drink. I promise I'll get you back to normal. Promise." Charlie didn't even look up.

For some time we sipped the martinis without talking, then Charlie said, "Miss Fleetsmith, you wanted to talk?"

"Talk? About what? "

"You said, recently, that you wanted to talk about some theory—"

"Mmm, yes. I need to talk to somebody about DNA, regeneration, the weed—and you're it."

"Can I listen?" Josey asked.

"Certainly." I leaned back, began to hum then started spilling what had been on my mind for days.

"Every cell," I began, "for a man or a banana, contains the prescription for making the man ... or the banana. This blueprint is encoded in strings of material called DNA; like beads on a string. The beads on the string are the genes. The string itself is a chromosome."

If I explained every detail, as though I were giving a lecture, then maybe I could clarify things in my own mind. I continued:

"This collection of strings, forty-six of them, is buried in the nucleus of each cell ... with one notable exception, which is intriguing. I'll get to that later."

"Does that mean," Josey mumbled, "that if a man had the beads of a banana then he'd be a banana?"

"Sort of," I whispered. "But most men are bananas without any genetic assistance. Anyway, the cells continually regenerate. That's normal. Each string of DNA, each chromosome, splits down the middle and produces a matching twin, then the cell divides into two cells, each with a complete set of genes—a replica of the original cell. Now, the effect of Dermafix is just this: when the cell splits, the new cells are not replicas of the original cell. In fact, the genetic information carried in the daughter cells is more ... uh, ancient." I stared at the ceiling. "That's not a good word. Maybe I should explain. You see, much of the genetic information, encoded in the beads on the strings of DNA, the genes, well, it's garbage. There's stuff there that's ... that's ..."

I started to hum. Just talking about it made me think more clearly. There was something there ...

"Must be lots of beads," Josey said. "I mean, if the beads tell how to make a man, there's gotta be a lot of beads. I once seen the plans for a machine that Ohshit was going to buy. Pages and pages. When the machine was delivered it was so small, smaller than the plans. But a man—"

"Dear Miss Cowley," Charles said wearily, "the strings of DNA that I myself possess, if placed end to end, would stretch from here to the moon and back ... several times."

"Yeah," I said, "and much of it is garbage." I smiled at Charles. "Most of your chromosomes contain genes which have apparently no information whatever. Perhaps it's junk left over from your prehistoric past. A hundred thousand working genes, that's all you've got. The rest is junk. People change. You're different from your father or grandmother. The blueprint changes, mutations occur, the genetic code is modified from generation to generation, parts are left dormant, spare parts perhaps, revitalized by the Dermafix ..."

I started to hum again.

"I don't know where I got my beads," Josey groaned, "but they sure as hell ain't the same beads I was born with. Look at me." She raised her arms. They were covered in hair.

"Yes," I said slowly, "your beads are different than those you were given at birth."

"Oh lordy," Josey cried, "who gave me these beads? Can I give 'em back?"

"Dear Miss Cowley," Charles said, exhaustion evident in his voice, "your parents gave you your beads ... and you're stuck with them." Charles turned to me. "Miss Fleetsmith, you said earlier that the genetic material is buried in the nucleus of the cell with some intriguing exception. May we know of that exception?"

"Mitochondrial DNA," I said. "That's the DNA that lies within the cell, but outside the nucleus, in the cytoplasm which surrounds the nucleus—and that brings us to Josey's question of who gave her her beads." I turned to face Josey. "Your mother's egg and your father's sperm gave you your beads; half from your mother, half from your father. But all of your mitochondrial DNA, outside the nucleus, that's provided by your mother alone. Your father's sperm is a cell with only a nucleus. It's a runt. It has little or no mitochondrial DNA to give. No cytoplasm, hence no cytoplasmic genes."

Josey was scratching the stubble on her chin, her eyes closed. "Bastard," she muttered. "Never gave me nothin' ... my father ... drank too much, the bastard."

I turned to speak directly to Charles, but he spoke before I opened my mouth.

"The women of the Chockli," he said, rising to his feet. His demeanor had changed from weary to enthusiastic.

"Exactly what I was thinking," I said. "If this thing is genetic and the mitochondrial DNA is only passed down the female line, that could explain what makes the Chokli females different from the males. Not only that, but mitochondrial DNA evolves very rapidly."

"But Miss Fleetsmith, the males receive mitochondrial DNA. They are, after all, born of the same egg-sperm marriage, receiving this DNA from the mother's egg."

I was staring again at the ceiling. I was sure there was something there. "They receive their mother's latest version of this DNA," I said slowly. "If any DNA mutations occur within a male he cannot pass these changes to his offspring. But in a female, any modifications to the mitochondrial DNA can be passed to her daughters who can pass it to their daughters ... each can modify it ... pass it on." I looked at Charlie. "If, in the ancient past, the genetic mitochondrial makeup of the female Chokli changed, then that change would be passed only through the female line. If a male has some genetic irregularity in the mitochondrial DNA, and you'd like to know how that irregularity evolved, then you'd better look at his female ancestors, traced back to some African Eve, mother of all men."

"But, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles insisted, "I repeat: male children also receive the mitochondrial DNA, even though they may not pass it to their offspring."

"But the big strong males were the hunters, right? They roamed while the women stayed home raising kids and knitting booties. The brave warriors, they wandered off, sowed a few wild oats—"

"... oats without mitochondrial DNA," Charles added.

"Exactly! Without mitochondrial DNA," I repeated.

"But, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles began. I raised my hand and he stopped.

"You know Charlie," I said slowly, "there's a theory that mitochondrial DNA is not a natural part of our human heritage. Perhaps it originated as the remnants of organisms that invaded the cells of creatures that evolved into man, remaining within the cytoplasm. We have learned to live with it, but it is nevertheless foreign, perhaps one day to reanimate—"

"But, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles began again.

"But, Mr. Curran," I responded, not wanting to lose a train of thought, "you say that male offspring inherit mitochondrial DNA. Yet male children are different. They are male simply because they have X and Y chromosomes. Female offspring have no Y chromosome, but they do have two X chomosomes. That means ... that means ..." I started again to hum. I didn't quite know where this was leading, but being able to speak my thoughts aloud was clearly helping.

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles asked, encouragingly.

"Mmm ... two X chromosomes, two big X chromosomes, not your pygmy Y. Each X containing genetic information, similar genetic information, two copies of each gene, yet only one of the two X chromosomes is active—the other is switched off."

"Switched off?" Charles was sitting on the edge of his seat. It wasn't clear whether he was really interested or just being sympathetic to my ruminations.

"Yes, switched off, dormant. Can't have conflicting instructions on how to make a woman, so one set of genes is switched off."

I smiled directly at Charles. "Women have more genetic information than men," I said. "Does that surprise you?"

Charles didn't answer, so I continued. "Lyonisation. Only one of each pair of genes on the X chromosomes is utilized. The other is inactive. Like the garbage DNA, inactive yet somehow revitalized by Dermafix."

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles said. "Lionization? As in King of the Jungle?"

"Has nothing to do with that lazy male feline. Mary Lyon, a geneticist. She discovered this feminine aptitude for turning off the genes in one of the X chromosomes. It's called Lyonisation."

"Quite remarkable."

"Yes, but not unusual. In fact, there are always working genes and dormant genes. The forty-six chromosomes in each body cell? Twenty-two pairs, with matching genes in each pair, from Mom and Dad, only one of the matching genes working. Maybe you get Mom's hair color, Pop's nose. For example, the working genes in bone marrow are the ... uh, uh, it's been a long time since I took that course in molecular genetics."

"Twenty-two chromosome pairs doesn't quite make forty-six," Charles said.

"Mmm ... sex."

"Beg pardon?"

"Twenty-two chromosome pairs plus the two sex chromosomes, X and Y, in men only— the pair don't match. Any gene on the X you got from your mother, guaranteed. Bad habits attached to the Y you definitely got from Pops. Women have a choice. Two X's. Maybe Mom's gene is working, maybe Pop's."

I was thinking. Charles was silent for a moment, then he said, "Perhaps Dermafix switches genes on and off. Perhaps the dormant genes are activated. Perhaps—"

"Beta-globin."

"Beg pardon?"

"Beta-globin. I did remember. That was one boring course, but now I remember. The working genes, producing red blood cells in the bone marrow ... I think. The rest of the DNA in bone marrow cells are switched off."

I really should have paid more attention in class. I hummed a bit, stared at the ceiling, couldn't think of anything else to say. My mind was a blank.

"Charlie," I said finally, "why so few females among the Chokli?"

He shrugged. I looked at Josey. She was sleeping. I didn't blame her.

Chapter 32

It was after midnight when I heard the scraping. It seemed to come from just outside my bedroom window, as though someone—or something—was climbing across the roof. It must have been a clear night, a full moon, because the window was gleaming, the room bright.

The noise stopped. A squirrel no doubt. I rolled over, was about to close my eyes when the room went dark. I twisted about to look at the window. A great black hulk was blocking the light, silhouetted against the moonlight.

"Charlie!"

I jumped out of bed, grabbed left and right for the most suitable weapon, found a long solid object, and headed for the window. With my weapon poised I leaned forward, threatening, and the black shape vanished. I was standing there, sweating, when the light came on in my room. I was holding up a mop.

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charlie was at the open door, behind him Josey, each in a robe.

"Why Miss Fleetsmith," Josey said, pulling her collar about her dark chin. "Not bad, honey."

I dropped the mop and looked at myself in the dresser mirror. I was, of course, completely naked. That's the way I sleep. It would be no surprise to Charles, but Josey seemed quite amused. I jumped into bed and pulled the sheet over.

"The window, there's someone out there, on the roof. Listen."

I pointed to the window. We listened. There was a faint scraping, remote, on the other side of the house. Charles spun about to investigate, bumped into Josey, staggered down the hall. I fell back into bed. I had been too eager to assault the black hulk at the window with my mop. Now I began to tremble.

"There, there, dear." Josey sat on the edge of my bed. It was her turn to comfort me. "It's all right. It's gone now—whatever it was." She looked uneasily at the moonlit window. "It's all gone."

Somehow, I didn't think so. Indeed, I think I knew what it was.

When Charles returned he was holding up a piece of broken glass.

"Someone—or something—broke the window in the basement," he said. "Apparently it left without doing more than breaking the window."

"How come you're so sure it left?" Josey said. I was silent, thinking.

"No one there, Miss Josephine," Charles said. "I searched the entire basement and first floor, armed with Miss Fleetsmith's revolver. The rooms are empty, the house uninhabited except for us."

"Then what was it?" Josey asked.

"I think I know," I said weakly. The two looked at me, silent. Josey got up from my bedside. I crept just a bit deeper under my sheet.

"Hans," I said.

"Ohshit?" Josey sat again, abruptly. "Hans Ohshit?"

"Perhaps not the Hans we know," I whispered, "but Hans, nevertheless."

"Come to harm you, Miss Fleetsmith, to seek revenge." Charles reached into a deep pocket of his robe and withdrew my Smith and Wesson revolver, holding it in the air. "You are the cause of his discontent, the origin of his transformation, the—"

"Yeah," Josey volunteered, "and the old fart wants to get even." Then she jumped up from my bed and stared at me. "Ohshit? How could it be Ohshit? Back from the dead? Lordy, lordy, ain't that what yer sayin? Hans has come back from the dead to haunt us?"

Now it was my turn to comfort her.

"Josey," I said in my sweetest voice, "sit beside me." She sat again, crying, clinging to the edge of a sheet. Her shagginess and the tears seemed somehow incongruous. I spoke softly. "We think ... we just think, mind you ... we don't know for sure, that Hans von Oerschott isn't dead. We think that he was transformed into a hairy ape, just like ... uh, well, similar to the transformation you are now experiencing."

"Bastard! Serves him right!"

"Yes, of course, but remember that he's out there somewhere, a gorilla, roaming the streets. Who knows whether he has memories of his recent past, as director of Oerschott Medical, as your friend and boss, or whether he is now a beast with only beastly instincts? We must be careful."

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, "if it really were Hans, just now at the window, then presumably he knew how to get here, to your house. That suggests a certain familiarity with his recent past."

"Mmm ... let's check out the basement," I said. I wriggled beneath my sheets and Josey got up. "If you two would please leave, I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs."

"But, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles whined, "I have already completed a thorough investigation of—"

"Out, Charlie." I pointed to the door and they both left. They were waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I came down, dressed. "Let's go."

I took the lead and we stomped single file down the basement stairs. It was dark even though I had turned on the light. "Remind me to get a bigger bulb," I said. Charles grunted. I could feel a draft. I walked to the window. It was broken all right, with pieces of glass scattered about the floor. The others stood by, watching. I took a broom and peered into each dark corner, poking. Somehow the broom seemed a reasonable weapon. "Look, here," I said. I bent and picked up a bit of hair. I swept and gathered more hair.

"Lordy," whispered Josey, "this ain't no time for house cleaning."

"Ape hair?" Charles asked.

"Mmm." I looked about, found a plastic bag and put the hair into it. "DNA," I said. "I'll take it to the lab."

We stood there in the gloom for several minutes. The only noise was a tap dripping somewhere. Josey sighed heavily. "This place gives me the creeps." She turned to leave, brushing the hair from her eyes.

She was half-way up the stairs when we heard the scraping. She spun about and almost tumbled to the bottom of the stairs.

"Hear that?" she moaned.

We listened, but the sound had gone. Just the drip drip of the tap. I counted about twenty drips. That was enough for one night.

"Okay, let's go back to sleep," I said.

Josey was crying softly. "Sleep? I can't hardly sleep after this."

"Sure you can, honey. Just dream about the bastard that did this to you."

I wasn't sure that was good advice, but we eventually made our way to our bedrooms, saying shaky goodnights at the top of the stairs. I knew I wouldn't sleep much that night. I kept imagining a gorilla slipping over the roof, hanging to the eaves, climbing to the chimney. A gargantuan Santa Claus. I stared at the window. I closed my eyes.

I don't know how long I lay awake with my eyes closed. It seemed like hours. Then the scraping came again. It sounded different. I opened my eyes, stared at the window. The moon was clearly visible, a giant eyeball, staring. Where had I put the mop? Scraping, again, nearer. Not at the window. On the roof? No, it was coming from my room!

Shit! No mop. Could I defend myself with bare hands? I could scream. Charles would come running with the revolver, but that might be too late, might evoke some violent reaction from the creature in my room. Scraping, again, nearer. I slid out from under the sheets, onto the floor, beside the bed, under the bed. I felt something shaggy!

Shit! It was the mop. I pulled it close and peered out from under the bed. I could see feet, hairy feet, in the moonlight, coming closer. Somehow the sight of those feet made me angry. The bloody bastard, coming right into my bedroom. I rolled out from under the bed, sprang to my feet, mop swinging in a great arc.

"Hai!"

"Lordy! Lordy!"

It was Josey. I stopped just short of clobbering her with the mop.

"Shit, lady, what are you doing creeping into my bedroom with your hairy feet?" It just came out that way. It wasn't what I would have said in other circumstances.

Josey fell to her knees, sobbing.

"Franny, I wanna to stay here, with you. I can't sleep. I'm afraid," she said.

When Charles came by we were both in bed. It must have looked ridiculous. A ravishingly beautiful Fran and her shaggy playmate. He stood for a moment by the door, then left. The rest of the night was uneventful. Thank God.

Except for a quick trip to the lab to confirm that the hair I had gathered in the basement was indeed ape hair—although I didn't really think I could positively identify ape hair— we three spent much of the next day trying to think of some way to avoid being mauled by a hairy Hans. Charles kept us supplied with things to eat, but we ate little. Josey's mental condition was terrible and I admit that my state of mind was little better. I guess we made little progress, no brilliant plan was devised, but we were still at it when the clock struck midnight. From fear to revulsion to anger. That's how it went. Eventually I migrated to my bed and Josey followed, expecting that our cosy bedroom relation would continue. Since she seemed to need the comforting, I didn't object. Charles stood at the foot of my bed and Josey sat on the bedside.

No one seemed eager to sleep, so the discussion continued.

"I wanna talk to him!" Josey cried. "Let me at the bastard."

"Miss Josephine," Charles said quietly, "you are best advised to stay hidden from his unwholesome advances. Mr. von Oerschott cannot be trusted to recall the moments of affection you once shared—"

"No, no, that's not a bad idea," I said. I sat up quickly and Josey slid off the bed onto the floor. "What if Josey were to attract Hans as only she can." I put my arm about her shoulders and smiled. She looked a little stunned, sitting on the floor. "As you rightly say, Charlie-boy, Hans did find his way here so he cannot have forgotten his recent human past. And he is male. Perhaps, just perhaps ..."

I looked squarely at Josey.

"Do you think you can entice this ... this gorilla?"

Josey seemed confused at the question, then, slowly she began to understand. "He's a man, ain't he? A apeman, sure, but a man." Josey actually smiled at the thought. "Ain't never done it with a ape," she said.

"Miss Fleetsmith, really!" Charles stood as straight as he could, a frown firmly fixed on his face. "I must insist—" he began.

"Don't worry, Charles. We'll be very careful, won't we sweets?"

I caressed Josey's hair, the hair on the top of her head, on her cheeks, on her chin. I scratched behind her ears. She closed her eyes, like a sheep dog. I thought I heard her purr.
Chapter 33

We left the bedroom and gathered in the living room. Charles was pacing back and forth. Josey fell asleep almost instantly on the couch. I listened patiently, lying back in an overstuffed chair.

"Miss Fleetsmith, I must insist that you abandon this scheme to attract Mr. von Oerschott. If our conjecture is correct, he has killed at least two people. He is now an animal, with animal instincts. There is no reason to believe that he will respect the life of Miss Josephine any more than he respected the lives of his other victims. A gorilla, dangerous, unpredictable—"

"Charles, can't you imagine the scene? Josey, a little sexy growl, fluttering her hairy eyelids. Hans, beating his chest. She coos, he roars, she's coy, he struts, she—"

"And where will all this take place? And where, pray tell, will we be located. And when he begins to tear her limb from limb, what mechanism do we employ to restrain him?"

"We'll get the cowboy involved. He'll go for it, I'm sure."

I leaned across the sidetable and grabbed the phone, punching the number. I began to hum.

"Hello, could I speak to William Boone? Thank you."

I waited. Charles slid into a chair. The tall Texan came on. He sounded sleepy.

"Hullo."

"Hi cowboy, guess who? Did I wake you?"

"Howdy. It was nice... I enjoyed—"

"Yeah ... nice ... me too ... but listen. I have something important to say. Last night we had a visit from our hairy friend, Hans."

"Are y'all okay? Are y'all hurt?" He sounded concerned. A sweet man.

"No, no, we're all okay. He just came peeping into my bedroom window."

"Are y'all sure—"

"Sure I'm sure. Who else could it be? A great black hulk, scraping at my—

"Is he there, now. Is he gone?"

"Yes ... yes, he's gone. But stop talking and listen. We have a plan that's bound to tickle your fancy."

Boone was quiet for the entire explanation. I could hear him breathing heavily, but he never interrupted.

"Now," I concluded, "here's where you come in. I'll set up the meeting between the apes, you provide the protection. I don't want Hans killed. I know I can reverse this process, for Josey and for Hans. How 'bout if you drop by for breakfast, say about seven. We'll talk more."

"Ah'll bring the eats."

"Okay ... okay, if you want to, that's perfect, bye."

I dropped the phone, pleased with myself. This was going to work.

"Charles, we've got work to do. Boone is coming over at seven and we have to have a foolproof plan devised by then."

"But, Miss Fleetsmith, it's not quite one o'clock in the morning. Surely a little rest—"

"Screw the rest. Let's get to work." I stopped and stared at Charles. "You're right, it is one o'clock in the morning. My call woke up our cowboy friend, yet he didn't answer the phone. Somebody else answered. It was a woman's voice." Why did I feel terrible. A woman's voice? At one in the morning?

Charles sighed. "What shall I make for breakfast?" he asked.

"And he was breathing heavily," I said. "It's one in the morning, a woman answers the phone, Boony boy is breathing heavily—"

"Breakfast, Miss Fleetsmith? What shall I make?"

"Nothing. Our cowboy has volunteered to bring the eats."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Good Lord, give us this day our daily bread .."

"Shit! A woman answered the phone... at one in the morning! "

Why was I angry?

Charles and I retired to the kitchen to devise a plan, leaving Josey to sleep undisturbed in the living room. Although Charles began with less than full ebullience, he went along with this early morning discussion, making several pots of coffee, preparing small snacks of brie, pumpernickel and gherkins, and eventually becoming quite enthusiastic. Eventually, Josey woke up, joined us for a coffee then retired to her room. That gal had a knack for sleeping, anytime, anyplace.

By the time Boone arrived, Charles and I had quite a respectable plan.

Boone was carrying a parcel wrapped in aluminum foil and towel. He laid it carefully on the kitchen table where Charles had set plates and cutlery, and dramatically peeled off the layers. Charles and I looked on. The interior of Boone's package was steaming.

"What the hell is that?" I asked, staring at the breakfast that our Texan had brought.

"Chicken fried steak, ma'am. Good fixins."

"Sir, did you prepare this meal?" Charles asked, fascinated.

"Do you expect us to eat all that? It's too early." I looked at my watch. It was an unconscious reflex whenever time was involved. "Fried chicken, at seven in the morning?"

"Not chicken, ma'am. Steak."

I poked the flat, fried and battered pieces with a fork. "Looks like Kentucky fried chicken with gravy," I said.

"Texas fried steak with gravy, ma'am." Boone plopped into a chair, pulled a piece onto a plate. He ate it in two bites, directly from his fork, wiping his chin, grinning.

Charles sat beside him, gingerly jabbed a piece, hauled it to his plate and delicately excised a portion. "Quite excellent, Mr. Boone. Really quite excellent."

"Fried steak, at seven in the morning," I groaned. "Heart attack on a plate."

After eating, we retired to the living room and I was about to elaborate on our plan to attract Hans von Oerschott when Boone said, "Roy McIvar."

"What's that, cowboy?" I asked.

"One of them thar fellas which got the affliction," he said.

"Affliction?"

"The Dermafix affliction."

"One of the bodies from that motel?"

"Nope. Them's Betty Hansen and Gary Felman. Makin' out in the Flanagan motel. Ms. Hansen was a secretary fer a law outfit. Felman's a contractor. Did some work fer the law outfit. Bin seein' Ms. Hansen fer some time, always at the Flanagan. Felman's wife knew it all along, didn't complain. She didn't like the guy nohow. Let him do his thing jest like she was doin' her thing with the next door neighbour. Hansen and Felman. No connection with Oerschott 'cept they stayed at the same room at the motel."

"I appreciate the soap, but who the hell is Roy McIvar?" I asked.

"Computer whiz, lived alone. Body found in an alley, fuzzy like, with thet Dermafix."

"And why are you telling us this?"

"We bin wonderin' how he fits in. Turns out he done some computer stuff fer von Oerschott, so's Oerschott could—"

"JMP," I said. I couldn't help smiling. I knew that Hans didn't have the computer smarts to get into their files.

"Ma'am?"

"Jason Medical Products," I said. "Hans was stealing product information from JMP, biomedical espionage. JMP is a competitor. But Hans was computer illiterate. His micro was always turned on, sitting on his desk, but he'd pull out a slide rule to add two and two. Now we know where the expertise came from. McIvar."

"Mr. Boone," Charles said, "since Mr. McIvar is now quite dead, how did you deduce that he provided the computing proficiency?"

"Had a computer shop. His apartment was top o' the shop. Ah figured as a computer nut he'd be braggin 'bout his 'xpertise, to his customers mebbe, so Ah jest asked 'em. McIvar bragged how he could crack any system."

"Mr. Boone," Charles asked, "were you aware of the invasion of the confidential files of Jason Medical Products?"

"Y'all kin be sure o' thet."

"And were you aware of who—" Charles began

"Hold on!" I said. I wasn't going to let Charlie spill the beans about Josey and her evening activities vis a vis JMP. "This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with us?"

"Ah figured you'd be interested to know 'bout them people who had the affliction, how they fit in, how they's related 'n' all."

"I really don't give a shit—"

"But them others, they don't hardly fit," Boone said.

"Others? What others?" I said.

"This here fella in Little Rock, Arkansas. State police found 'im, dead 'n' fuzzy. Got hisself the affliction."

"Jesus Christ!" I was stunned. "Arkansas? Christ!" It was spreading.

"We've notified all the State Police, the FBI," Boone said, "about them local cases so's we kin—"

"Boone, we've got to do something!" I said. "This could easily get out of hand. But I don't understand. It's not contagious. None of my lab animals acquired the ... the affliction unless I actually administered the ointment. It's not airborne, close contact doesn't spread the disease. The fungus has to actually enter the bloodstream." Shit! The miracle drug was becoming an abomination. "Look, Boone, you and your cowboys had better round up everyone involved. Keep them under quarantine until ... until—"

"Georgia," Boone said.

"Georgia who?"

"That's a state, ma'am."

"Of course it's a state. What about—?"

"Another corpse, ma'am, in Atlanta, Georgia. Dead 'n' fuzzy."

"Lordy, lordy."

I looked around. Josey was leaning heavily against the doorway.

I had determined to fly to Atlanta, to see the fuzzy corpse. Boone said it was pointless; we could get all the information we needed through official channels. And Charles seemed upset at the prospect of being left alone with Josey. Eventually I decided against it. What the hell. The point was, the Dermafix affliction was out in the world and seeing yet another corpse wouldn't provide any new information. The description of the corpse sounded identical to the local cases: dead 'n' fuzzy as Boone had put it.

After Boone left I spent the day at the lab. It was frustrating: microscopic examinations of the fuzz, DNA scans, a final confirmation that the hair I had found in my basement was really ape hair, tests involving various reagents and their effect on the Dermafix skin, reading all the latest reports on genetic engineering. By the end of a long day I was no farther ahead. The process must surely be reversible. Christ! The Human Genome Project. They had identified every bloody gene! Surely I was sufficiently competent to identify the genetic cause of this one affliction.

It was late when I got home and Charles and Josey were asleep. I laid my research folder on the kitchen table, pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge and took a great swallow, shuffled to the living room and collapsed on the couch, turning out the lights. Somehow I could think more clearly in the dark.

Although Boone had stayed for over an hour that morning, I never got around to describing our plan to have Josey trap Hans. Somehow, in time, it didn't seem as viable as I first thought. We just talked about the spread of the affliction to Arkansas and Georgia. It was a stupid term: the affliction. Perhaps I could call it the fungus, or the virus ... but it wasn't a virus. Viruses were wee beasties, bundles of DNA, that injected their DNA into living cells so that during cell division the viral DNA would be reproduced. A clever strategy on the part of the virus: switch blueprints, get the cell to use my design.

Our affliction—I didn't know what else to call it—was caused by a fungus which entered the bloodstream, accumulated somehow in the cells and reanimated ancient genetic material which had lain dormant for millennia. I tried to imagine the fungal material clinging to the cell, penetrating the cell wall, migrating through the cytoplasm to the nucleus.

I sat up. Through the cytoplasm. The cytoplasm held the mitochondrial DNA. Was that a clue? Did the fungus effect only the genes in the cytoplasm? There was this theory that the cytoplasm is there, in an evolutionary sense, to protect the nucleus from invasion by foreign genetic matter. That's why the male sperm has no cytoplasm. If it did, then during conception the cytoplasmic conflict between sperm cytoplasm and ovum cytoplasm would be disastrous. The female's egg would make short work of the sperm. Pacman, gobbling up the male cytoplasm—

Shit. Keep to the subject. Think.

Okay, suppose the fungus attacked the mitochondrial DNA, rendering it ineffective against genetic invasion. For the cell, its first line of defense would be gone. The nucleus would be open to attack by ... by ...

I missed conversations with Pops, technical ones. I was never really interested in his work until I was a graduate student, then I couldn't get enough of it. Every lab experiment I worked on for my thesis involved an outshoot of his research. I made a few important finds, at least I thought so. Each night we'd spend an hour or two discussing the work. I missed that. He was quite a man, Pops. A brilliant student, a renowned researcher, an entertaining speaker, a loving father. I suppose he was also a loving husband.

I didn't really know my mother. She died when I was quite young but I understand that she was beautiful—at least from the few photos I'd seen—and she was supportive of Lloyd's work, never complaining of his frequent trips to the jungles of South America. I doubt I received much genetic inheritance from her, at least not in the beauty department. Not that I'm ugly. In fact I have a reasonable, if muscular, body. I used to jog a lot. I must remember to get back to that; I need the exercise. Pops had a good body. He looked like a runner, tall, with muscles that seem to run in long strips along his arms and legs. A tight ass. No, I didn't inherit his tight-ass genes. He was one beautiful man and I loved him very much. Why do people wait until it's too late... too late to say I love you.

Think. Mitochondrial DNA: that's what I inherited from my mother. Didn't everyone? Must think about the Dermafix problem. Cytoplasm. I was tired. Wish Pops were here. He'd know what to do. We'd talk and devise a research plan. Pops. I needed him, now. Charles was very supportive and listened patiently, providing me with intelligent responses, but it wasn't the same. I wondered how Pops would have approached this problem, then I remembered that professor Unger had some notes that Pops had written. I must remember to collect them. Maybe there would be something there. Why hadn't I asked for them when we had visited Unger? Stupid, that's why.

I went over the scenario again, saying it slowly, in short bursts, analyzing each word, the way Pops would have done.

The fungus enters the bloodstream; penetrates the body cells; collects in the cytoplasm; attacks the mitochondrial DNA. Attacks? What does that mean? I began to whistle softly. The fungus collects in the cytoplasm; lays siege to the cytoplasmic genes. Siege? Shit! It encompasses the mitochondrial DNA, surrounds, attaches itself—that was better. To be effective, the genetic material must be free to migrate within the cytoplasm; the fungus prevents that. The defensive systems that the mitochondrial DNA provides become ineffective. The cell is open to invasion by ... by what?

"Shit!" I couldn't think straight, it was getting late and I was tired. I grabbed a pad and pencil. If I didn't write it down I knew I'd forget. I scribbled Fungus renders mitochondrial DNA ineffective. Nucleus attacked by ?. I'd leave it there. Later, I'd think of something clever to replace the question mark. I got up and headed for the kitchen to slip this note into my research folder.

The folder, it wasn't there. I was certain I had dropped it on the kitchen table. I tacked the note to the fridge with a magnetic tag and returned to the living room. It was dark so I turned on the lights. I must have left the folder in the living room. Nothing. The folder seems to have definitely disappeared. Had I forgotten it at the lab? No, I distinctly remember bringing it home. Had Charles come downstairs and put it away? Although I complained of this cleaning fetish of his—he often tidied up after me—it was usually socks or shoes. He would never, ever touch my research folder. I switched off the lights again and collapsed once more on the couch, in the dark, to think.

That's when I heard the scratching.

PART TWELVE

Chapter 34

Now Ah'm not much fer worryin', but thet affliction is gettin' outta hand. First TO, then Arkansas, then Georgia. How? What's the connection? Though we got us a notice of the fuzzy corpses, we didn't get no details. Thet li'l lady says thet it don't spread by contact, 'cept through the blood. So how'd it git outta TO?

Ah sat at mah computer. Ah got me a sticker on it which says: Protected by Smith and Wesson.

Ah punched in mah password, logged onto the police computer network, clicked on Enquiry and typed "Georgia". Got me a whole mess o' stuff on the screen. Ah clicked on Homicide and got me a new mess. Then Ah clicked Recent (one month) and there was a list of 'bout two hundred names, arranged alphabetical. Abraham, Arnold, Busher, Clugman, Correy ... Didn't do me no good. Ah didn't have the corpse's name. Guess Ah had to go through 'em all. Ah clicked Abraham and got me a full name, address, dates, description of the body, probable/possible cause of death, officers who made the report and so on. This'd take a mighty long time.

Ah stared at the screen. It was a mite fuzzy, but at the top o' the screen was Search, so Ah clicked thet and got me a mess o' stuff, includin' Description, so Ah clicked on thet and typed "fuzzy stuff". The computer said No Match so Ah typed "affliction". No Match. Ah sat back and whistled a bit, then typed "unknown". Bingo! A bunch o' names who died from unknown causes. One name jest sorta jumped out.

Oerschott. Mebbe Hans? Mebbe Ah'd somehow got me the homicides in TO. Ah checked it out, clicking on Oerschott. Nope. It ain't Hans von Oerschott of TO. It said Oerschott, Werner, died of unknown causes, body covered in white fluff, the officer who reported the body was Jeffrey, Leslie. Ah hate names like thet. Ah assume thet Leslie was his first name, so Ah turn off the computer. Ah learned the hard way thet thet's the easy way to git back outta this computer network, else yuh gotta go back the way you came in, clickin' here 'n' clickin' there, closin' files, deactivatin' searches, collapsin' windows 'n' the like. Ah figured the computer kin do thet, so Ah jest pulls the plug. Hell, Ah figure the RAM slots on this computer got dodge truck parts installed.

"Maggie!" Ah yelled and mah secretary come bouncin' in.

"Yes, Mr. Boone?"

She ain't much of a looker, wider than she is tall, but she's one helluva good secretary.

"Ah need to talk to Leslie Jeffrey, a officer in Atlanta, Georgia. Kin y'all git him on the line, please 'n' thank you."

"Certainly, Mr. Boone." And she left immediately.

Now Ah had me a secretary once who'd say "What's his phone number?" or mebbe "Does he have a middle name?" or mebbe "What precinct?" If'n Ah knew all thet Ah'd do it mahself. Now Maggie, she don't ask for no more info. She's one helluva good secretary.

It was less than five minutes later thet Maggie stuck her head through the door. "Mr. Boone, I have your party on the line." She was smilin'. Nice smile. Nice teeth.

She's fast, this Maggie. Ah pick up the phone, but Ah think: Why's she smilin'?

"Willum Boone, here," Ah says.

"Why hello, William," a gal says. "Did you want something from me?"

"Leslie Jeffrey?"

"The same."

"Y'all ... uh, y'all are Leslie Jeffrey?"

"You got it."

Ah leaned back and put mah feet up. This was gonna be one fun investigation.

"Ah understand thet y'all found the body of a fella named von Oerschott. Ah'd be mighty pleased to hear 'bout it, anything thet ain't already on the network. Read what was there; not much."

"That's about it," she said, "but the name is Werner Oerschott; no von. I was on duty, got a call to go to 1417 Brille Drive, door was locked, nobody answered my knocking, let myself in through an open rear window, found the body in the tub: male Caucasian, about sixty, naked, covered in the damndest stuff. Fluffy, fuzzy stuff, from head to foot. Made enquiries, neighbours described the man, Werner Oerschott." She paused.

"Why'd the neighbours call to the police?"

"Screams, from the house. Neighbours bitched about the noise. Seems they didn't like this guy much. Kept to himself. But this night he was screaming—or, at least, somebody was screaming. Later, when they learned he was dead, the neighbours didn't shed a tear."

"Ah'd like to come down, to Atlanta, to see the body and talk to y'all. Okay? Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Not convenient. I'll be away all day. How about tomorrow evening?"

Yes, this was gonna be one fun investigation. "Y'all got a date," I said. A date? Why'd Ah say thet? "An appointment," Ah said. "Yes ma'am, tomorrow evenin', 'bout eight, an appointment."

Ms. Leslie gave me a address and I hung up, grinnin'. Or was it Ms. Jeffrey? Or was it Mrs.?

When Ah called mah secretary to git me a plane ticket she was still smilin'.
Chapter 35

Ah arrived in Atlanta on an early flight, rented a car and spent the mornin' readin' the reports at the police station. They was kind enough to give me a desk. Seems this Werner Oerschott was some kinda cousin of our Hans von Oerschott. He dropped the von a while back.

In the afternoon Ah drove by 1417 Brille Drive. A run down house in a run down neighbourhood. Talked to the neighbours. They jest heard screams and phoned the police. Too noisy, they said. Ah figured Oerschott was screamin' 'cause of the Dermafix. Police photos showed the stuff hangin' off the tub. Ah figure he was tryin to wash it off, got scared, startin' in screamin'.

Ah drove to the morgue and saw the body: jest like Hans von Oerschott. Ah figured he might escape, jest like Hans, but they assured me thet he was real dead.

By six Ah figured Ah had all the info Ah could git. Why'd Ah come to Atlanta? Coulda got all the information through official channels, jest like Ah told Miss Fleetsmith. Ah looked at mah watch. Ah was gettin' mighty hungry. Mebbe Ah'll jest wait awhile afore eatin'. Two hours till eight. Kin Ah wait till then? Miss Leslie. Mebbe she don't eat till late. Mebbe we kin git us somethin' 'n' eat together. She's dog tired, workin' all day, eats alone as usual. She'd like the company. She'd smile. "Why Mister Boone, how nice. Y'all brought something to eat. But first let me change into something more comfortable." She trots off, comes back in somethin' yuh kin see right through. "Hungry?" she says. "What would y'all like to eat first? Me?"

Ah kin see it all now. Now Ah knows why Ah came to Atlanta.

At eight Ah gits to Miss Leslie's: a big old apartment building right in the middle o' town. Parkin' is round the back so Ah leaves the car there, takes the box o' goodies and bottle, heads fer the front. Inside, they's a list o' names on the wall and JEFFREY is there. Ah ring.

A voice says, "Mr. Boone, is that you?" Jest as sweet as buttermilk and honey.

"Yes ma'am," Ah says.

"Please come up. Apartment 301."

The door buzzes and Ah push through with mah backside, mah hands full o' victuals. When Ah gits to the third floor the elevator door opens and they's a fat gal standin' there, waitin' to git in. She takes up the entire width of the elevator opening. Ah 'scuses mahself, pushes by and heads down the hall.

"Mr. Boone?"

Ah stops, looks round and sees this fat gal grinnin' at me.

"Mr. Boone," she says ag'in.

"Leslie?" Ah says. "Ms. Leslie Jeffreys?"

"You got it," she says.

Ah got it but Ah don't want it. Ah look round to see if'n they's a place Ah kin dump the box and bottle.

"What's this?" she says, touchin' the bottle. "Looks like red wine. How nice." She takes me by the arm and drags me to an open door. Ah hangs back a bit and she goes into the apartment, into the light. She's short as a sow, thick as a log, round as a pumpkin, with jeans and heavy sweater thet's stretched past critical, lumps 'n' bumps, rolls 'n'—

"Please have a seat. Can I call you William?" she says, pointin' to a sofa.

Ah slides on, holdin' the victuals on mah knees and she slides 'longside.

"Now, William," she says, "what did you have in mind?"

Mah mind was a blank. "Well, ma'am , Ah thought mebbe—"

"And what do you have there?" she says, puttin' her hand on the bottle. Ah clap mah knees together and the bottle rolls and she grabs fer it, slippin her fingers between mah legs. "Oh," she says, "careful. It could break and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"Break?" Ah says. "No ma'am, won't do thet." Ah gathers the box 'n' bottle and heaves to, gettin' outta the couch. "Haven't had no dinner. Jest thought y'all might like to eat—"

"I always like to eat," she says and Ah believes her. She leans outta the couch, reachin' fer the bottle. "That was very thoughtful of you." She takes the stuff from between mah legs and waddles to the other room. She's gonna change into somethin' comfortable, somethin' yuh kin see right through. Ah looks to the door, to escape.

"I'm ready!" she calls. "Come and get it!"

Ah kin hardly git mah breath. Ah head fer the kitchen. When Ah gits to there she's already eatin'. Somehow, mah hunger's gone.

Miss Leslie ate most of the steaks-on-a-bun and drank most of the wine. Ah jest watched. Then she says, "Maybe we should get down to business." Ah could feel mah heart sink.

"Business?" Ah says. "What'd y'all have in mind?"

"Didn't you come to ask about Werner Oerschott?"

"Oh, yes ma'am, but Ah spent the day investigatin', right here in Atlanta. Ah thinks mebbe Ah got all mah questions answered."

She takes a swig right outta the bottle. "Let's go into the other room. More comfortable. You can tell me about the Canadian cases." She gits up from the table, stares once at the bottle then puts it under her armpit, sorta swingin' it up and under like she's done this before. "Follow me," she says and heads fer the other room. She sets on the couch, puts a chubby hand beside her. "Shit," she says, then giggles, then says, "'scuse me. I mean sit." Ah looks 'bout but they ain't no other chairs, so Ah sets beside her.

"Now, give it to me straight," she says.

"Beg pardon, ma'am?" Now Ah's gittin' scared.

She giggles. "The cases in Canada, silly," she says.

So Ah starts right in tellin' her 'bout Hans von Oerschott, Betty Hansen, Gary Felman, Roy McIvar, the Dermafix affliction, Ms Fleetsmith's theories, changes in the genes. She jest listens, suckin' on the bottle which seems like it's stuck in her jaw.

"Love jeans," she says, then giggles ag'in.

"Genes, ma'am," Ah says.

They ain't no more to say, so Ah was about to git up 'n' leave. She's starin' into the empty bottle, sad. When she sees me gittin' up she grabs my pants and pulls me down.

"Shtay," she says, leanin' ag'in my shoulder. "Been a hard day," she says. "You undershtand. Police work. Hard." She raises the empty bottle, places it ag'in my chest. "Dead shoulder," she giggles. She lets it drop and Ah snap mah knees together but it's too late. She's got her hands in between, gropin'. She giggles. "Hard," she says ag'in. Ah don't hardly think so. Then she pushes herself up, rollin' to her feet.

"Wait here," she says. "I'm gonna change into something comfortable."

Jeesuz! That's what Ah bin dreadin'. When she leaves Ah, quick as a roadrunner, heads fer the door, runnin' all the way to mah car. Ah kin see her in mah mind's eye, comin' back to the couch: a turnip, in tissue paper.

When Ah gits to mah hotel they's a message in the box.

It's short. It says: So sorry. It was signed: Leslie.

PART THIRTEEN

Chapter 36

The scratching came from somewhere in the living room ... in the corner, by the window. The room was dark and I couldn't see a thing. I slipped slowly from the couch and crept to the lamp on the desk. The scratching stopped, but I could hear heavy breathing. Shit. Was it Hans again? Had he entered through the basement, through the broken window? I considered running upstairs to find my revolver, but I needed more light. I switched on the lamp then jumped away from the light, toward the stairs, away from the breathing in the corner.

There, sitting against the wall, was a black ... a black... something. It was the size of a man, but it wasn't moving.

"Hans?" I whispered.

No response, just the breathing—actually more like shallow grunts.

"Hans von Oerschott?" I said, more loudly.

For some reason I didn't feel threatened by the black shape. It was curled against the wall, in a corner, like a child.

The breathing stopped.

"Fan ... Fan ..."

It was saying something, with obvious difficulty. I moved closer, thought better of it and tilted the lamp shade to illuminate that corner of the room. The shape raised a shaggy arm to cover its face. It was crammed into the corner, its knees pulled against its chest.

"Fan ..."

It was trying to speak my name. Somehow I felt pity for this creature. If it were Hans—and I was certain it was—then it needed help. Yet it had evidently killed at least two people, so was dangerous. I moved closer, squatting before the shaggy beast. In the light from the lamp I could see that it was no gorilla, just a man-sized creature, covered in hair, thick, curly, oily and black. Its eyes were closed, its chest heaving, arms curved over its head as though to ward off any blows from above. I couldn't imagine that it was afraid of me. Indeed, its arms were thick with muscle and its chest was the size and shape of a barrel. Except for these exaggerations, it was the same size as Hans von Oerschott.

"Hans? Is that you?" I whispered.

"Yuh ...hep ..." It held out an arm, long, with what seemed like overly thin fingers.

"Hep?"

"Fan, hep me." Its hand curled into a fist, then opened, a naked palm up. The eyes, beady and bright in the light of the lamp. Winking rapidly.

"Help you? Yes, yes, I can. I'm certain I can. I just need more time, a little more time. Hans, can you walk? Are you hurt? In pain? Can you come with me? I need to find you a place ... uh, yes, in the basement. Hans, follow me—please."

I knew exactly where to put him.

"The corner of the basement where Charles hid Penney. It has a bed. It's perfect. Hans, you can stay there until—"

Suddenly the black shape lurched forward, out of the corner, rising to its feet. I jumped backwards, stumbled.

"Hans!" I shouted. "Stop!"

The shaggy figure staggered then fell. I turned and ran to the stairs, leaping up two-at-a-time, to my room. The revolver was in my night table. I pulled open the drawer, but it wasn't there! Where? Charles. He last had it when he went to the basement in search of ... where? Where would he have put it?

"Miss Fleetsmith?"

I spun about to see a shadowy figure at the door.

"Hans! Stop!" I shouted.

"Miss Fleetsmith, it is I."

"Oh shit ... Charles, it's you. Where in God's name did you put the Smith and Wesson?"

"In your night table drawer, where it usually—"

I turned and stared at the table. Wrong table. I leaped across the bed and opened the drawer on the other night table. Why in the world would I have two night tables, at a time like this? I yanked out the revolver, turned and raced past Charles and down the stairs.

"Miss Fleetsmith, is there something wrong?"

"Follow me" I shouted over my shoulder.

When I got to the living room the black shape was gone.

"Yes, I'm sure it was Hans. Shaggy, yes, but Hans nevertheless."

Charles, Josey and I were sitting in the living room. Josey was shaking.

"Were you able to communicate with him?" Charles asked.

"Sort of. He grunted, breathed heavily, called me Fan. He was in trouble and came here for hep ... help. He was pathetic."

"He's a killer, Miss Fleetsmith."

"No, I don't think so. I mean, yes, he killed, but it was beyond his control. He wouldn't have killed me, not here, not tonight."

"Then why, pray tell, were you in search of the revolver?"

"Hmm. You know, he wasn't a gorilla, just quite hairy. His physical features seemed exaggerated, sloping forehead, barrel chest, beady red eyes—but he was not that far removed from Hans. Much like ..."

I looked at Josey. She was wrapped in a fluffy robe, curled up on the couch, but her face was almost as hairy as Hans.

"According to Miss Josey," Charles said, "she and von Oerschott used the Dermafix almost simultaneously. That would imply a similar evolution of the ... the—"

"Affliction," I volunteered. "Call it the affliction. Boone does. Which reminds me, I should give him a call, tell him about our visit tonight."

"This morning, Miss Fleetsmith."

I reached for the phone on the end table and began dialing. Why did I remember his home phone number?

"It is morning, early morning." Charles looked at his watch. "Three fifteen, to be exact. Might I suggest that you wait—"

"Hello? Boone?" Some broad answered the phone, grumpy.

"It's after three in the morning."

"Oh, sorry ... yes, it is late ... uh, early. Can you ask him to call Fran Fleetsmith when he wakes up. It's quite important ... "

"Atlanta, He's in Atlanta."

"Oh, I see. Atlanta? What? Shit! He told me he could get everything we needed through official channels. No need to fly to—

"I'll give him your message."

"Yes, you do that!"

I slammed the phone down and turned to Charles. "The stupid dame. Said she'd give Boone the message, then she just hung up."

"It is early morning, Miss Fleetsmith. I suspect she has every right to be upset at—"

"Who is she? What the hell is she doing answering his phone?"

"She's a live-in playmate, honey." It was the first thing that Josey had said. She was grinning beneath all that fur. "You know? The cowboy comes home from a hard day in the saddle, she's there to rub his—"

"Shit! He went to Atlanta! I wanted to go there, visit the CDC. Now that the affliction has spread, they're bound to be interested. Now that there's a case right there, in Atlanta, I'll bet they're already working on it."

"You refer to the Centre for Disease Control, Miss Fleetsmith? Yes, it is quite likely that the Dermafix affliction has piqued their interest. May I suggest that you contact them and—"

"I'll go there myself! Boone, that bastard. What does he know about the affliction? Why did he go to the CDC? What makes him think—"

"There was a death by Dermafix in Atlanta, was there not? I suspect that was the reason for his—"

"Death by Dermafix ... sounds like an Agatha Christie mystery. But yes, you're right Charles, that was the reason for his visit to Georgia." I somehow felt better. "I don't know why I'm so angry tonight ... this morning. I think Hans' hairy visit threw me off."

"It's the playmate on the phone, honey. That's what threw you for a loop." Josey was still grinning. "You expected to get your cowboy, but you got his bimbo."

I stared at Josey. She was almost as hairy as Hans, and she did use the Dermafix when Hans did, yet she seemed to have little difficulty with her speech.

"Tell me Josey," I said, "do you have any trouble with your speech?"

"Sorry, honey. You want I should shut up, right?"

"No, no, not at all. It's just that Hans couldn't even say 'Fran' or 'help'. He grunted, said Fan and hep. Yet you both took the Dermafix at about the same time."

"You have already observed, Miss Fleetsmith, that the progression of the affliction varies with the individual," Charles said. "Indeed, the evolution of the disease appears to be less than deterministic. In some cases there is just fuzz, sometimes a membrane to cover a wound, sometimes a cocoon within which a modified individual evolves. It may very well be that Hans von Oerschott is genetically quite different from Miss Josephine—"

"Bloody right!" Josey said. "The bastard started life as a ape so he ain't got far to go with this Dermafix crap!"

That seemed to sum it up pretty well, so we just sat and stared at each other for some time without speaking. Soon Josey yawned, rolled off the couch and headed for bed.

"Night all," she said.

"Good idea. I could use a good night's rest." So I followed Josey. Charles switched off the light and took up the rear.

But I didn't sleep much. I must take a trip to Atlanta, to the Centre for Disease Control. What have they found? Can I assist them? Will my theories be of any value?

Who the shit was that woman in Boone's apartment?

Chapter 37

Early the next morning I was awakened by Charles.

"A phone call, Miss Fleetsmith. A Dr. Henderson, from the CDC in Atlanta. He asks that you return his call at your convenience."

"Mohammed comes to the mountain," I mumbled as I rolled out of bed.

" I suspect, Miss Fleetsmith, that Dr. Henderson wishes to enlist your aid—so you will undoubtedly be asked to go to him."

Charles stood discreetly by the window, looking out, as I dressed. I always have this impression of Charles hoping to catch my reflection in the glass, yet he always stands straight as an arrow, delicately holding the curtains aside, intent upon the condition of the roses in the garden. Normally he would leave the room immediately, but now I'm sure he has something urgent to say.

"Okay, you can look now," I said. "I'm as decent as I can be. What's on your mind, Charles?"

He turned slowly, letting the curtain slide from his fingers. He was going to play this scene for all it was worth. He spun on his heel, stuck both hands behind his back and stood stiff as an arrow, silhouetted against the sunlit window.

"There is an intruder," he said, simply.

"There was an intruder," I corrected.

"No, Miss Fleetsmith, there is an intruder."

"So get the Smith and Wesson and blow his brains out."

"A certain hairy ape has made his ... uh, bed in the basement."

"A certain ... you mean Hans? In our basement? Now?"

I ran to the door and bounded down the stairs. Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Hans had come to me for help so why would he harm me? And why would he leave unexpectedly? But hadn't I mentioned that he could stay in the basement? Use the bed there? So that's exactly where it went! Shit! I felt that, if I could communicate with it... with him, then—

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles was yelling from the top of the stairs. "Miss Fleetsmith!"

I didn't pause for Charles' inevitable monologue on the merit of caution, the value of prudence and the necessity for his close attendance. I didn't need his help. I was certain that Hans had no malicious intent.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs I could smell Hans' presence, an animal essence, a heavy odour, a certain je ne sais pas. I found it beside the empty bed. It was a steaming pile of dung.

"Shit," I grunted.

"Precisely, Miss Fleetsmith. I tried to warn you." Charles was standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Ugh! So why didn't you clean it up, before I came down?"

"Immediately after I discovered the presence of the ... the doo doo, I heard—"

"The doo doo?"

"The feces, Miss Fleetsmith. After its discovery, the phone rang so I rushed upstairs. It was Dr. Henderson. I assumed that you would wish to know of his call immediately so I went to your room. I also assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you might wish to analyze this ... this fecal accumulation as part of your Dermafix research."

I stared at Charles in disbelief.

We searched the basement and the rest of the house. Hans was nowhere to be found, but the remaining glass from the broken window in the basement had been violently removed; there were shards of blood-covered glass on the floor.

When I got around to phoning this Dr. Henderson of the CDC I got some secretary. She explained that: (a) I was to come to Atlanta immediately and (b) I was to bring all my research files and (c) a reservation had been made for me at a nearby motel and (d) I was to retain all my receipts so that I could be reimbursed for my expenses.

I made a note of the name of the motel.

"So where's Henderson?" I asked.

"Dr. Henderson is engaged in important research. I handle his calls."

"A motel reservation has already been made? What makes him think I'll hop a plane and fly to Atlanta?"

"Dr. Henderson is a very important scientist. If he wishes to see you in Atlanta, I suggest—"

"Tell him I'll think about it."

And I hung up.

"Not too wise, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said. "Collaboration with the CDC has considerable merit."

"Then let this Henderson jerk call again and beg for my assistance."

The phone rang. I picked it up.

"Good morning, Fleetsmith residence," I said. I smiled at the response; it was Henderson. "Why Dr. Henderson, how good of you to call. Mmm ... Atlanta? Yes, let me see. Charles, could you check my schedule?" I looked at Charles who was rolling his eyes. I waited for an appropriate length of time then said, "It looks like I'll be free early next week. Oh, I see. Mmm, interesting, well, in that case I can probably cancel some engagements ... yes, okay, fine. Tomorrow afternoon it is."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

"Asshole," I said.

"What made you cancel all your earlier engagements, Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles was smiling.

"He said the body in Atlanta, the guy who died from Dermafix, well ... the body has disappeared."

"Aha! Another Oerschott," Charles said, "escaped from the morgue, a gorilla."

"Yes, another Oerschott. In fact, it's Hans' cousin, Werner Oerschott. The last they saw of him, he was inside a cocoon. But they have a theory of what's happened and want to compare it to my theory."

"What, pray tell, makes them think you have a theory?"

"Don't you think I have a theory?"

"Of course I do, Miss Fleetsmith, but how would they know?"

"Mmm, good question. Well, I'll find out tomorrow. Charles, get me on the next flight to Atlanta. I'll start packing."

"How long will you be gone?"

"The motel reservation, made in my name, is for two days."

I headed for my room. While packing I wondered whether my so-called theory would hold up to the probing of this Henderson asshole. And my research notes, left on the kitchen table: they were gone. That was strange. Where had they gone? Then it hit me. Hans! He had stolen them. That's what he was doing in the house. What good would they do him? He wouldn't understand a thing—but wait, maybe he knew somebody who could understand my research. Maybe this somebody would find a cure, a mechanism for reversing the devolution.

"Did Hans know a somebody?"

"Beg pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?"

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to myself, my knapsack partly stuffed with a few clothes. Charles was at the door to my room.

"Nothing," I said, "just chewing my cud. Did you get me a flight?"

"Yes. It leaves in two hours."

"What! Two hours?" I saw Charles was grinning ear-to-ear. "Mmm, guess I'll surprise Henderson and show up a day early," I said.

"Yes, I thought you would appreciate an early start so I phoned the motel and got you in a day early... and, Miss Fleetsmith?"

"Yes, Charles?"

"Do be careful. There are gorillas in Atlanta."

Chapter 38

The flight to Atlanta was cramped and uncomfortable, the taxi driver rude and the weather miserable, but I checked into a very nice motel, showered and changed and was on my way to the Centre for Disease Control within an hour of arriving in the city. I decided to surprise Henderson rather than phone to get his permission to show up early. That might have been a mistake.

I expected the CDC to look like a factory, walls of concrete or brick, no windows. In fact it was a very classy building with lots of glass and shrubbery. However, there is a tiring rigmarole just to get past security. No surprise: the CDC held the world's deadliest viruses. I kept saying: "But Dr. Henderson is expecting me." Eventually I was in a polished hallway, my nametag ID firmly attached to my lapel, another tag attached to the small bag that I was carrying. They had wanted to examine the contents of the bag but I insisted that they be satisfied with their sonic scans, radioactive probes and X-rays. They insisted, so I opened the bag and explained, in great detail, its contents. The guard smiled and asked me to wait. I closed the bag.

I looked up to see a very good looking fellow striding in my direction, his hand extended.

"Good morning. I am Dr. Henderson. You are a day early."

I hate people who introduce themselves by prefixing their names with Dr., like some badge requiring a small genuflexion. These days just about anybody can earn a PhD. Means little. Piled High and Deep. I took his hand and shook it vigorously.

"Good morning. I am—" I began.

"Miss Fleetsmith."

"Dr. Fleetsmith," I said. "And I am a day early."

"Yes. Please follow me."

He turned and took off down a long hallway, turned right, then left, then right again. I followed like a puppy dog.

"Woof."

He stopped, turned and stared at me.

"Dr. Fleetsmith?"

"Are we there yet?" I whined. He actually smiled.

"I am terribly sorry if I seem a bit remote," he said. "This is a confusing case, a trying day."

"Tell me about it," I groaned. "Weeks of investigation with little—"

"Weeks?" he said. "Excellent! Then I expect you are much farther ahead than the CDC. Please come in."

He pushed open a swinging door and pointed to a large upholstered chair. He quickly went to his desk, sat and leaned forward, placing his elbows amid the papers and books. Holding up his chin with his fists as though he expected to be listening for hours, he said, "I'd like to hear your story of At-B, from the very beginning, with as much detail as possible."

"At-B?" I said, sitting with my small bag on my lap.

"Atlanta-Beta," he said without smiling. "The name of this new virus."

"Atlanta? Virus?"

"Miss Fleetsmith, please tell me your story and the extent of your research findings." He pushed a small tape recorder across his desk and punched a button. "I assume you will not object to my recording this."

"No, not at all. Well, let's see. It all started when we headed off to Brazil ..."

For about forty minutes I talked, uninterrupted. He stared at me continuously, his eyes a fierce blue, hair light brown, greying at the temples, thin, wiry, quite distinguished with a microscopic white mustache that outlined his upper lip. I spoke of the Chockli, the excess of males, the healing powers of the weed, the various manifestations: white fluff, smooth membrane, the cocoon. I spoke of my experiments with mice and the dog, Poo. I mentioned Hans von Oerschott's escape from the morgue and his recent appearance at my house. I left out any reference to Josey or Penney. When I finished I leaned back, crossed my legs and smiled.

"That's about it?" I said.

"Really? And what has your research shown? What is the mechanism that—"

"Like I said, that's it. Ain't no more. I'm in the dark as much as you are." I was hesitant to explain my theory of devolution, the revitalization of dormant genes. Somehow, sitting among the world's great minds, it sounded childish.

He stood up, punched the tape recorder STOP button and said, "Follow me."

Here we go again. I followed him out the door, down the hall, left then right then down a long hall. He stopped at a heavy red door, slipped a plastic card through a slot and the door slid open. The room was filled with a jillion dollars worth of equipment, only some of which I recognized. There were three people working at a long bench. They looked up, then went back to work. Henderson pointed to a corner of the room then lead the way.

"Sit," he said. I sat. He fiddled with a slide projector and a large screen was illuminated. I looked about at the others in the room. They were ignoring us.

Click, and a picture of several cells flashed on the screen, obviously taken with an electron microscope. That I recognized.

"A perfectly normal cell," Henderson said quietly.

Click. Flash. Another picture.

"Note the invasion of the cytoplasm by the Eumycota fungus," he said. "Actually, the single-cell spores of the fungus, somewhat smaller than a typical human cell... about 2 micrometres."

Remarkable! They already knew about Eumycota. I leaned forward and stared at the screen, hardly able to contain my excitement The cell wall had been penetrated by what looked like a whitish cloud which now filled the cytoplasm. The cell nucleus was clearly visible as well as the various cytoplasmic bodies.

Click. Flash.

"Note the deterioration of the mitochondrial DNA," Henderson droned.

I stared at the cell in the centre of the screen ... the cytoplasm was clean, no apparent mitochondrion, no ribosomes. It seemed empty. It should have been filled with—

Click. Flash.

"Now, the arrival of a virus."

In the new picture, all of the several cells on the screen had been invaded by the fungal spores; their cytoplasm filled with spores. But the centre cell, it now had what appeared to be a small dark spot located at the break in the cell wall. Was that—?

Click. Flash.

"Replication."

The centre cell was now filled with multiple copies of the black spot. If that was a virus, then it was wasting no time in reproducing. I wanted to ask a million questions, but Henderson droned on as though he were giving a lecture.

Click. Flash.

"Invasion of the nucleus."

The black spots had now migrated to the nucleus of the cell, some were inside.

"Are you saying that—?" I began.

Click. Flash.

"Genetic modification has now taken place."

The picture seemed much like the last one, except that there were far fewer black spots in the cell.

"Genetic modification?" I said.

Click. The screen went dark.

"Yes. The cell has been modified, it's DNA selectively modified with viral material. Not easy to see in the slides, but verified independently by my colleagues." He pointed to the door. "Follow me." And I followed him back to his office.

When we were seated he stared at me and said, "I am amazed that you have so little to offer in the way of explanation. You have admitted that several weeks have passed since your research began, yet you can provide no explanation—"

"Look, Henderson, if I had half the staff and equipment you have—"

"Dr. Henderson, if you please."

A time like this and he was concerned about this stupid prefix? He was one prize asshole.

"So what's your theory, Henderson?" I asked.

"We have no theory. What we know is that the fungus violates the integrity of the cell walls and inserts spores, and the mitochondrial DNA is eliminated by the fungus—more precisely, the spores— the subsequent invading virus, carried by the spores, replicates within the cytoplasm, this viral horde penetrates the nucleus, attaching itself to the chromosomes, but selectively. Some strands of DNA are unaffected, some are coated by viral material to the extent that they present modified amino acid base pairs to the nuclear environment. Presumably this results in a modification in cell evolution. Just what macroscopic changes occur in the individual, we can only guess. But Mr. Werner Oerschott was quite hairy and seemed to possess certain ape-like characteristics."

Henderson paused, gazed at his hands, pensively, as if he were in some pain. They couldn't have had more than five days to carry out their investigations, yet they had gained so much more information than I had. Remarkable. I felt like an idiot.

"That's fascinating," I said. "I mean, what you've accomplished in such a short time. I was sure it wasn't a virus, but it is. Remarkable."

"But Mr. Oerschott's body is now gone," he said slowly. "What we have left are a few batches of cells ... some fungal material ... slides ..."

He seemed quite dejected, closed his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" I asked. "Are you feeling okay?"

He straightened quickly, rose from his desk and walked around to my chair.

"Thank you for coming, Miss Fleetsmith. You are free to go."

He spoke as though I were a convict, released on bail. He was clearly shaken by the loss of Oerschott's body. He was an asshole, but he was one dedicated scientist.

"How did you lose the body? I mean, how did you—"

"Miss Fleetsmith ... uh, sorry, Dr. Fleetsmith. Please feel free to leave. There seems little need—"

"But you haven't asked me for my research notes," I said. He looked at my small bag.

"If you have told me everything—and I have recorded it on tape— then there is little you can contribute to our research. However, we would be glad to receive reports ... anything ... we have the police searching for Oerchott ... anything ..."

I stood. He returned to his desk and sat heavily. He seemed so dejected that I felt guilty keeping the existence of Josey from him. She was a walking, living example of the effect of At-B on human cells, yet I can imagine her being shipped to Atlanta in a box, laid out on a table, surrounded by scientists, probing ...

"Henderson, you look awful," I said. "Perhaps there is something else I can say, about the ... uh, affliction ... At-B."

He looked up.

"Hans von Oerschott had a secretary—" I began.

"Josephine Cowley, inflicted with At-B and now missing," he said quietly.

"Well, not exactly," I said.

"Excuse me?" he said, rising again from his desk.

"I may be able to locate Miss Cowley—just a hunch mind you, but I'll give it a try and let you know."

"Yes. Excellent. Please... do that." He seemed less than excited by the prospect.

He sat again. I guess it was time to leave. He didn't seem inclined to escort me to the door, so I turned and left. Halfway down the hall I stopped and returned to his office. He hadn't moved, so I walked to his desk and plunked down my bag. He looked up, his face a question.

"A good friend suggested that this material might assist in any investigation of At-B."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Ape shit," I said, then spun on my heel and left. Pure theatre—and I felt good about it.

Chapter 39

"And they ain't lookin' for me?"

Josey was curled on the couch, wrapped in a heavy robe, her shaggy face peering past the turned-up collar.

"No, I didn't tell them where you were. Thought I should check with you. See how you felt about it."

I was nestled in my favorite armchair, in a nightgown. Charles was fussing in the kitchen.

"I'll go!" she said emphatically. "Lordy, if they can do somethin', cure me, I'll go in a minute."

"You must understand that you'll be scrutinized, probed, surrounded by scientists who may be more interested in your—"

"Sounds good! I'll go!"

Charles returned from the kitchen holding a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches, spiced black olives and a glass of red wine. It was past midnight and I had left Atlanta immediately after seeing Henderson, arriving home by eleven p.m. so I was starved. The aroma was marvelous. I began to munch before the tray had been placed. The spicy black olives seemed a ubiquitous component in Charles' culinary machinations. I suspected they were the source of the color in his secret black salad dressing.

"Miss Josephine," Charles said, "I would be wary of travelling in your ... your current state of ..."

"Scare the hell outta the passengers, right?" Josey was obviously in good spirits. "Big hairy ape, sitting in first class, eatin' a banana. When can I leave?"

I was pleased that Josey had somehow accepted her condition. It no longer required the fits of sobbing and the wringing of hands. I stopped eating for a moment and turned to Charles. "Any sign of Hans?" I said.

"No, Miss Fleetsmith. He obviously left via the broken window, in the basement. I covered the window with a plastic sheet, put fresh sheets on the bed and left a light burning, as you instructed, giving him the opportunity to return, if that is his wish. However, I must apprise you of the danger—"

"Yes, Charles, I know. But he's in trouble and needs our help. I'm sure that's why he came—"

The phone rang. I looked at my watch. The phone? At this hour? It's midnight.

Charles answered. "You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," he began. "Oh, yes, certainly. I'll see if she is awake." He covered the phone and whispered, "Dr. Henderson."

I jumped up and slid into the chair next to the phone.

"Henderson? Dr. Henderson?" I whispered into the phone. "It's rather late, don't you think?"

"I was just hoping ...," Henderson said, "... uh, well, I phoned the motel and they said you checked out without staying even a night. I was just hoping you might still be awake. I'd like to apologize for this afternoon. I don't know ... this problem. Oerschott's body, gone. There's an investigation here. I'm ... I'm being investigated. It was my project. Well, I just phoned to apologize. I was an ass, I know. So much on my mind. My wife. Oerschott. The F.B.I."

"Hold on Dr. Henderson. Your wife? The F.B.I.?"

"Please, call me Doug. Douglas Henderson. I must have sounded like a ... a..."

"Asshole is the word that comes to mind," I said.

He laughed. "Yes, that's a pretty accurate description. And talking about assholes, I really do appreciate the gift you left on my desk. They're working on it as I speak."

Now I laughed. "Working on it? Just how does one work on apeshit?"

"It contains dead cells, apparently rejected after modification by the virus. My staff weren't too excited about it, but it's all we have to go on, now that Oerschott's body is gone."

"I assume that Werner Oerschott left on his own two feet, as did Hans von Oerschott?"

"Yes, that is our current position. At first we thought the body was stolen. Seems impossible, with all the precautions taken at the CDC, but I guess it's easier to break out than to break in. Anyway, that's when the internal investigation began. I was in charge and the body was stolen, so I'm being investigated. Now that we suspect that regeneration occurred and Oerschott left under his own power, I'm less of a suspect ... but it's been a trying day. I'm so sorry I took it out on you."

"Where does the F.B.I. come in?"

"Three bodies, similar fatalities: Canada, Atlanta, Little Rock. Now the F.B.I. has a team wandering the halls, questioning my staff. I feel terrible."

"Canada, I should point out, is an entire country. And your wife? You mentioned—"

"Sorry, that's another matter. But it did change my normally personable character. I really am a sweet and charming fellow, you know." He was smiling. A very small smile. "It's just that, today ... well—"

"I have good news for you, Douglas Henderson," I said excitedly. "I've found the missing link."

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Miss Josephine Cowley. I've found her."

I looked over at Josey. She was beaming. Charles was rolling his eyes.

"You actually have her? I mean, there? Now?"

"Matter of fact, she's lying on a couch, very comfortable, wrapped in a robe ... and she's quite willing to come to Atlanta."

Josey was nodding enthusiastically.

"Excellent! Really quite excellent! Can she ... uh, can she communicate?" he said.

"Want to talk to her?"

"Please!"

I handed the phone to Josey who almost fell off the couch in her haste to grab it. She placed the phone to her ear, curled into a neat ball and slid the robe down from her shoulders revealing some hairy cleavage.

"Hello, honey," she said in a husky voice. "Why don't I come down and see you sometime?"

Chapter 40

In retrospect, it was rather humorous, depositing Josey at Pearson International. Charles and I had decided that she should wear some sort of robe and veil so she'd look like a member of a country that promoted that look, but Josey had wanted to flaunt her hairy countenance. What a change from the gal who was embarrassed by her condition and spent an inordinate amount of time crying. Eventually we settled on a heavy suede coat—it was October and cool so she didn't seem overdressed—and a hat that hung down on all sides to cover her hairy cheeks. She looked rather attractive actually, sullen and sexy, a hairy Marlene Dietrich.

"Sullen and sexy," I said, and Josey glowed with animal pride. "Now remember, just keep your hat on during the flight. Don't talk to anyone. Read a book. Relax."

"Don't you worry, Honey," she said, "I'm gonna enjoy this."

When we arrived at the airport, Charlie and I waited at the gate and watched her swagger down the narrow hall and step through the arch which housed the metal detector. The buzzer went off.

"Shit!" I mumbled.

We could see Josey stop, reach into her pocket and withdraw something.

"I fear she has ignored our—" Charles began to say.

"Shit! Shit!" I growled.

Josey had handed a metal cigarette case to the security officer then flipped up her floppy hat, on her face a mammoth smile. The officer stepped back suddenly and two other guards moved in. I felt I had to say something so I ran to the security gate and began explaining.

"She has a rare disease, hairy comatoma," I said, inventing the rather descriptive label. "It's not contagious, it's genetic, she inherited it from her... uh, her father. He was quite hairy and now she's going to Atlanta to see whether they can cure her. She's really quite docile..." Shit! Why did I say that? They'd think animal appearance meant animal behaviour, perhaps violent, vicious. "Uh, what I mean is, she's harmless... I mean, the disease is harmless, to everybody except poor Josey."

The guards stared at each other. Josey smiled sweetly and pulled her hat over her face. A crowd had gathered, gawking. After perhaps a minute of consultation the guards waved her on and Josey pulled her collar high, tossed her head and strutted toward the entry gate. I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to Charles who had slowly crept to within hearing distance.

"Hairy comatoma?" he said.

"Why not?" I said.

"I assume it's related to the mosstoforo amazonia and oompapa bangbang of the Amazon," he grunted.

"Precisely," I said, and we walked out to the parking lot and my Porsche.

When we got back to Burlington, Pelvis was into the fridge, feeding her face, dressed in that sheer robe that Charles had provided. The kitchen was a mess. She seemed unconcerned when we entered. Charles ran to clean up the empty Coke cans and chicken bones on the floor. The gal just stepped back, looked at me... and smiled.

It was about time I got her to talk, about the Chokli, about the weed, about cocoons and white fluff and hairy gorillas. I grabbed her by the arm and sat her at the table. She gasped at the intensity of my action and the smile vanished and she sat quite still, looking up at me.

"Okay, Miss Boobs," I growled, "we've got some talking to do."

Chapter 41

I glared at Pelvis across the table. She had better start talking... now. Enough of this one word answer shit. Charlie had spent weeks teaching her English. Now was the time to elicit more comprehensive answers.

"Well, sweetheart," I grumbled. "Start talking. Tell me about the Chockli, the weed, cocoons—"

"Miss Fleetsmith?" Charlie said, "Perhaps I could be of some assistance in the interrogation. I realize that Penny has shown a certain lack of—"

"A certain lack? Are you kidding? She's been so bloody obstinate, yet she smiles like she knows exactly what we're talking about. Have you seen her smile? Huh, Chuckie boy?"

I turned to Pelvis once more.

"The weed. Say something about the weed," I said, encasing my request in the most menacing tones I could muster.

"Weed?" she said, a nervous quiver to her voice.

"No!" I shouted, jumping up from the table. "I don't want one word answers!"

"Miss Fleetsmith?"

"Charlie, shut up! This is important." I sat and turned again to Pelvis. "Start talking!"

It looked as though Penny were going to burst out in a flood of tears. Her hands, lying flat on the table before her, were shaking.

"The weed..." she began, "it fix sick people." Then she went quiet.

"And?" I snarled, actually surprised at the length of her response.

"The weed... put it on body...fix sickness." She was staring right at me, her lips barely moving. "Make white skin. Make... make..." She looked up at Charles, now standing nervously beside her chair.

"Cocoon," Charlie said softly, placing his hand gently upon her shoulder.

"Cocoon," Penny continued, "and boys sleep and sleep... and soon Father takes knife and cuts... cocoon, and boy is alive and good and no sickness."

Now we were getting somewhere. I felt like asking her about eumycota fungi and mitochondrial DNA and—

"Girl have baby and Father rub weed on baby and baby sleep and sleep in..." She looked at Charles. "In cocoon," she concluded.

"What!" I cried, jumping up from my seat. Penny jerked back in her chair, apprehensive. "Sorry, sorry," I said, "It's just that... uh, putting it on a baby. I can't believe this. Please continue, please, Penny." I slowly sank into my chair.

"Father cut cocoon and baby come out and is new boy."

"Shit!" I shouted, jumping up once again. "I knew it! I knew it! Turns girls into boys! Shit!"

Penny continued, now unperturbed by my outbursts.

"No," she said, smiling as though pleased with my response. "Wrong. Weed make boy to boy. Make girl to girl." Then she went quiet again.

"And? And?" I said.

"And?" she said.

"Shit! Keep talking!"

"And... and young girl give to Father and he take her—"

"Wait just a minute. Who is this Father?" I said.

Penny seemed confused and looked up at Charlie.

"The chief," Charlie said. "They call him Father." Penny smiled and Charles continued. "Well, it's not exactly father but it's a Chockli word that means father."

"Okay, okay. Keep going," I said, staring once again at Penny.

"Father keep girl. When girl is woman, small woman..." she looked again at Charlie.

"She means a young woman," Charlie said. He actually seemed to be enjoying this exchange, probably because it demonstrated his skill at tutoring. Come to think of it, he'd done a very respectable job of teaching Penny the basics of—

"Young woman," Penny continued, exaggerating the word young, "go to Bohi-mahu and ties to breasts and boys... small boys... young boys watch and—"

"Hold on. Wait a minute. Bohi-mahu. What's that?" I ask, looking first at Penny then at Charles.

Penny looked up at Charles who answered: "The stone statue, Miss Fleetsmith. The Goddess of fertility. Bohi-mahu." Charles grinned, ear to ear. "You will remember, Miss Fleetsmith, that you were once regarded with the esteem ascribed to Bohi-mahu when you were... uh, stripped of your blouse and—"

"Yeah, sure. That's something you'd remember, Charlie boy." I turned to the girl. She needed no encouragement to continue.

"Pelvis was ties to breast of Bohi-mahu and—"

"Oh shit... here we go again," I grunted. "What the hell does she mean by ties to breast?" I was looking at Charlie.

"You will recall that Miss Penny was tied to the stone statue... to the breasts of the stone statue," he said. "And, Miss Fleetsmith, did you notice that she refers to herself as Pelvis? I believe it to be an important factor in her cultural edification that you refer to Miss Penny as—"

"Okay Penny, keep talking," I said.

"Weed put on Pelvis, over body... make... make..."

"Cocoon," Charlie said."

"Make cocoon," Penny said, "and small woman... young woman... leave alone when cocoon come and Father come after, much after, and cut cocoon and young woman come out... and young woman is... is... choose or gomorashu."

"Gomorashu?" I ask. "What the hell is—?"

Charles leaned over Penny's shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Shit! This was a ridiculous scene. Have I been so ignorant of Penny's presence these past few weeks that only Charlie could communicate? And why hadn't he told me of her ability to—

"Perfect," Charlie said.

"Huh? Perfect?" I said. "What's perfect?"

"The young women, after emergence from the cocoon, are gomorashu, perfect," Charlie said. "It seems that Miss Penny was destined to become perfect, had we left her among the Chockli. For the young women of the Chockli, their sojourn within the cocoon results in a perfect metamorphosis. They emerge perfect, gomorashu." Charles was all smiles.

"Perfect? In what sense," I ask, completely confused.

It was Charles who spoke: "Perfect, Miss Fleetsmith, in the sense that they had no frailties, no addictions, no ailments, freedom from disease, a complete—"

"Okay, I get the idea. Please continue," I said. "Oh, and don't forget the hair. Tell me about the hair. Do they or don't they become hairy apes."

"Apparently, Miss Fleetsmith, they do not. It would appear that the onset of a hairy epidermis is a characteristic only of Caucasians. Perhaps—"

"Okay, no hair, but what about dropping dead? Here, people drop dead."

Charles whispered into Penny's ear and she smiled.

"Hair," she said. "No hair. Gumuhacki. No hair."

"Ah, Jesus... what the hell is Gumuhacki?" I groaned.

Charles walked slowly to a chair and sat. He was enjoying this far too much.

"You may recall, Miss Fleetsmith, that the first tribe we met in the Amazon jungle were bald. They appeared much like the Chockli, but without hair on their scalp." He turned for a moment to penny, said something I didn't understand, she responded with something I still didn't understand, then he continued. "They were rejects. Faulty. Inadequate."

"You just said something to Penny. What was that?" I asked.

"I asked her about the lack of hair and she explained that it was the Gumuhacki tribe. Failure to live up to the expectations of the weed meant banishment to the Gumuhacki, which actually means, in Chockli, dumb ones."

"Shit!" I snarled, rising slowly from my chair. "Are you telling me, Mr. Charles Curran, that you can speak to this girl in Chockli?"

"Why yes, Miss Fleetsmith. It's quite a simplistic language although it does have some merits. For example—"

"Damn you! Damn you!" I was angry. Hell, I was furious. "How long have you been able to speak in Chockli?"

"Ah, Miss Fleetsmith, I have only scratched the surface of the language. Although the sentence structure is simplex, ideas are also conveyed by the tonal quality imparted to the words. For example—"

"To hell with your examples! Just ask Pelvis why there were so few women in her village!"

"Girl, go Gumuhacki," Penny said, seeming to understand my question.

There was a minute of silence while I tried to understand the significance of this.

"The girls went with the Gumuhacki?" I asked. "Why on earth would they—"

"A bargain, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said without hesitation. "It was the arrangement made between the Chockli and the Gumuhacki. The Chockli regarded themselves as perfect—the restoration of perfect biological stature, via the cocoon, you understand—and, to persuade those for whom the weed failed to provide perfection, to wit, the Gumuhacki... to persuade them to leave the village, the Chockli provided them with perfect women. Hence the poverty of females within the—"

"Shit! It's that simple?"

"It would appear so," said Charles. "Of course, a few... Ah... well-utilized women were kept in the Chockli camp for child bearing purposes. Miss Penny was one. Indeed, she had become of age and was about to be cocoonized—"

"Cocoonized?" I said.

"It seems an appropriate appellation, wouldn't you say?" Charles said with an annoying smirk. "And, I might add, the young men who sat about the Bohi-mahu and watched the beginnings of cocoonization, they would eventually return and select the most gomorashu of the young women who emerged. There was a limit on the number selected—which explains why your father was not well tolerated when the Father gave him a gomorashu—and those without a young man to speak on their behalf were sent to the Gumacki. You will undoubtedly have noticed that there were traditionally two cocoonizations: one with every Chockli child, shortly after birth... then again when they became of age, as was the case with Miss Penny."

I was exhausted. gomorashu, Bohi-mahu... It made my head spin. Unfortunately, it seemed that there was little if anything that would explain how to reverse the apefication of Caucasians.

Apefication. It seemed an appropriate appellation.

Chapter 42

It was not quite 7 a.m. when the phone rang. I had slept soundly for nearly nine hours, my dreams filled with primitive rituals, young boys eagerly selecting the most... the most gomorashu of the girls who emerged from a cocoon, banishment of the not-so-sexy to the land of the bald. There were a million questions left unanswered. If a young man selected a particularly gomorashu girl, was he entitled to unfettered access to her charms? If so, why was Pelvis apparently unattached? Aha! Because she had yet to enter the cocoon, for the second and presumably final time. Perhaps she would have been banished to the... what the hell was their name? It sounded like some high fashion Italian designer. The Guma-gachi? The bald man's paradise.

The phone rang again. I opened my eyes, rolled to my side and snatched the phone from its cradle.

"It's bloody early in the morning," I said. "You'd better have a damn good reason for calling."

"Howdy, Miss Fleetsmith. The sun is up, but y'all ain't?"

It seemed a question. "Uh? Texas? That you?" I managed.

"Yes ma'am, Willum Boone, at your service."

I rolled my legs off the side of the bed and sat on the edge.

"So, Boonie baby, how's she hangin'? That bimbo keeping y'all fit and hardy? I imagine she's—"

"Bimbo? Who y'all talkin' 'bout, ma'am?"

I stood up and walked to the bathroom, pulling the phone cord behind me. "I phone, I get some slut answering," I said as sarcastically as I could manage. I stare at my body in the full length mirror, brushing the hair from my face. "Don't tell me she's your sister, because—"

"Yes ma'am," he said.

"Yes ma'am, what?"

"Yes ma'am, she's my sister."

"Shit! No kidding? Your sister? But I thought... I thought—"

"Bimbo, y'all said."

"Oh, Texas, I'm so sorry. I just assumed—"

"Went to Atlanta, talked to some gal from the police, nothin' new to report. Seems this Werner Oerschott, in Atlanta, was related to our Hans Oerschott, some kinda cousin, and has the same affliction, with the fuzz 'n' all," Boone said, ignoring my rude remarks about his sister.

Shit! Had I really called her a slut?

"Then his body vanishes," I said, now wide awake.

"Beg pardon, ma'am?"

"Werner Oerschott, his body, it's gone," I said. "I just happened to be in the neighbourhood and popped by myself, to the CDC in Atlanta. A professional trip, you understand, to compare notes with the science guys there."

I thought I should rub it in, because now I remember. Old Boonie boy tells me there's no point in a trip to Atlanta then he ups and goes himself. Now I'm upset, again.

"You didn't know that?" I said. "Just how professional was your trip to Atlanta?"

"Then both Oerschott's is loose gorillas," he said.

Shit, I hadn't thought of that. Then there's some guy in... where was it? Arkansas, someplace in Arkansas. Three gorillas. Shit!

"We gotta talk," Boone said.

"Okay... and guess who else is talking?" I said. "Pelvis, the native girl. Now's your big chance to interrogate this young gal. The sun is up and now I'm up, so you can drop by anytime. How about breakfast? Say in an hour?"

"Yes ma'am," he said.

For some reason I should be angry, but I was eager to see him again.

# Chapter 43

Although I was hoping to talk to Boonie alone, perhaps with Charles, it was not to be. Pelvis came down to breakfast when she got a whiff of the Canadian bacon sputtering in the pan. Charles had made a colossal bowl of eggs and cream and cheddar cheese and bits of ham and onion and was frying up portions to pour over toast, along with a mountain of the bacon. The girl was sitting at the kitchen table, spoons in hand, watching Charlie, her flimsy nightgown barely covering her mammary glands.

"Runny," I said to Charles.

"Yes, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, bored by my constant reminder to fry the eggs only until they were runny. Dry-fried eggs were inedible. Tasteless pieces of yellow fluff.

Fluff. It made me recall the problem at hand. Dermafix fluff. Had Pelvis mentioned fluff? Had we asked her about becoming hairy, ape-like? Last night was a little fuzzy. Shit! Every word reminded me of the affliction. I turned to Penny. Before she had a chance to bore into the heap of creamy eggs which Charles had poured, steaming, onto her toast, I asked the obvious question: "Pelvis? Penny? The weed... when you used the weed did anyone turn into... uh..."

I looked around, expecting to see Josey walk in. I remembered. She had gone to Atlanta. I was safe.

"Apes?" I concluded. "Did anyone become hairy, like Josey?"

"Josey?" she said. "Hair?"

"Jeesus! No more one word answers... please!"

"Hair," she said quietly, her spoons suspended above her plate. She had this technique of pushing the runny eggs with one soup spoon onto the other. "Yes, hair. Many time, hair. Many hair. Animal. Hair." Then she shoved the egg into her mouth and scooped up another batch.

Charles seemed surprised. "Miss Fleetsmith, after some discussion with Miss Penny, I was left with the impression that the onset of epidermal hair was not the consequence of—"

"Yes, yes, I remember. Only Caucasians, you said. But it's important, and I'd like to hear it from... from Penny." I turned to Penny who had finished her egg and was demolishing her bacon, capturing pieces between the spoons and tossing them into her mouth with surprising dexterity. "Penny?" I said. "The hair?"

"Hair," she said, then paused, then said something which surprised Charles as much as it did me. "Big hair, like monkey. Many time, big hair. No hair... Gumuhacki. Big hair... big hair... " she looked up at Charles. "Big hair, apa-noshu. Apa-noshu."

"Charles! Tell me what she said!" I cried out, now excited by the prospect that even these natives suffered from excessive hair. "Big hair, she said. And apa-noshu, she said. What the hell is—"

Charles raised his hand, set the frying pan back on the stove and sat beside Penny and spoke so softly into her ear that I could barely make out that it wasn't English. Eventually Charles smiled and turned to me. "In most cases, subsequent to the use of the weed, there was gomorashu, perfection. Occasionally there was smooth skin, baldness in fact, and the resultant natives were banished to the Gumuhacki. That we know," he said with a hint of pride, as though he had determined these facts independently of Penny. "However, there were apparently circumstances when, soon after emergence from the cocoon, the native grew big hair. That is, like a monkey. In such cases, the native—whether male of female—was, to be blunt, apa-noshu." Charles stopped, the smile gone from his face.

"Well?" I said. "Could you be slightly more blunt?"

"In such cases, Miss Fleetsmith, the native was sacrificed... in order to pacify the God. Indeed, it would appear that these hairy happenings were rare and the Chockli attributed their occurrence to a lack of sufficient respect for the God of the Weed."

Shit! That was the first thought that came to mind Shit! Shit! Shit! No reversal, no cure, no magic potion, no—

The door bell rang and we all jumped. I looked at my watch. It was 8:30 a.m. Who the hell would be calling this early in the morning. We were in the middle of breakfast. I stared at my plate. Once it offered steaming, creamy eggs on crisp, golden toast. Now, soggy, limp, cold. Shit!

"Howdy, ma'am!" The voice behind me was too loud, too cheery, this early in the morning. I turned and glowered at the intruder. It was Boone.

"Boonie boy!" I said, jumping from my chair and throwing my arms about his neck. "I... I had forgotten you were coming for breakfast. I'm so glad to see you. Here, have a chair. Do that leg-over-the-back trick, okay? Charlie! More breakfast, please."

The cowboy seems taken aback by my enthusiasm and slid into my chair, pulling his hat from his head.

"Well now, ma'am. Ain't hardly had such a welcome since—"

"Charlie! Eggs and bacon!" I shouted to Charles, who had answered the doorbell and was already removing my plate of soggy toast, replacing it with a plate of bacon and creamy eggs on crisp, golden toast. I wasn't quite sure why I was so excited to see Boone. I slid into the chair beside him.

"Tell me, cowboy, how y'all doin'?" I said in my best Texan.

Boone leaned over the table, grinned at Penny and said, "Ah is walkin' in tall cotton, ma'am." He wasn't completely ignoring me, but close to it.

"So, young lady, Ah take it y'all got somethin' to say," he said to Pelvis. She grinned back at him. "Ah reckon these good people," he waved his arm at Charles and me, "have heard it all, but can ya tell me 'bout this weed?"

"Weed?" Pelvis said.

Boone looked at me, frowning.

"Oh, she can talk alright," I said. I turned to Pelvis and growled, "Okay, say something. Tell Mr. Boone about the weed and gomorashu and apa-noshu and all that shit."

Pelvis looked up at Charles who immediately took a position behind her chair.

"Miss Penny," he said, "has provided us with a great deal of information regarding the use of the weed, in her village." Charles was talking directly to Boone. "It would appear that the medley of consequences which we have observed were also evident in the Amazon, to wit, the growth of body hair, the white fluff, the cocoon, the remarkable healing powers—"

"Okay," I said impatiently, "Boonie boy knows what occurs here. No need to elaborate." I turned to Boone. "Nothing new. No magic cure for apefication. We're back where we started."

"Apefication?" he said. I ignored his remark.

"Our task is to reverse the process," I continued. "We have at least four people who have devolved and are still alive and—"

"Three," Boone said.

"—there may be more that we don't know about. The others are dead. The two making out at the Flanagan Motel. The computer nut." I paused. "Three?" I said. "Two Ohshits plus Josey plus the ape in Arkansas. That makes four, still alive. Remember? Two plus two equals—"

"Arkansas was a mistake, ma'am. Some guy in Little Rock suffered from a disease... hypersomething. Got hisself hair all over, but it weren't no weed. The Arkansas police got themselves excited by the report from Atlanta and jest assumed—"

"Hypertrichosis," I said.

"Hypertrichosis?" Boone said.

"The hairy disease. Mmm... that's good. But we still have three and there could be more. Any idea how it got to the Ohshit in Atlanta?"

"Not exactly, ma'am, but we know that Werner visited his brother, Hans, in TO City, then returned to Atlanta. We figure Hans gave some of the Dermafix to his brother."

"Great. That's great. Now if we could just determine who else Hans gave it to... maybe we don't even need a cure. We just eliminate every last occurrence of... uh... but we still have Josey. We really do have to find a cure, for her sake."

"And Mr. Von Oerschott?"

"Ohshit can drop dead from hairballs, for all I care," I snapped. "This problem is of his making. He can suffer the consequences."

"Have y'all seen him recently," Boone asked.

"Oshit? Seen him?" I said, as sarcastically as I could. I was somehow perturbed by Boonie's questions. Perhaps I wasn't sure why I had greeted him with such... such enthusiasm. What was I thinking? "Sure. I invite Ohshit for dinner and he drops by with a bottle of wine and after-dinner mints and we chat by the fire."

Charles had cleaned the dishes. Boone hadn't touched his eggs and bacon. Pelvis was falling asleep at the table. I was being a bitch.

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said quietly, so as not to wake Sleeping Beauty, "Mr. Boone has an excellent point. Since Mr. Von Oerschott has made certain visitations to this house—"

" Excellent!" I said, trying to be my usual charming self. "Of course. Perhaps we can speak to him—wait—he doesn't speak. His last words to me were Fan and hep as I recall. Hardly scholarly conversation."

"Ah," Charles said, dramatically, "but Miss Josey can speak to him, subsequent to having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous Dermafix—"

"Okay, Charlie," I said, "enough."

Pelvis was sound asleep, her head on the table. Boone had a smirk, obviously enjoying the repartee.

"Why don't we lay a trap for hairy Hans," I said. "I suspect he'll return to our basement... one of these days."

"Indeed, Miss Fleetsmith," Charlie said. "Mr. Von Oerschott has spent several nights there, judging by the... uh, the..."

"Apeshit?" I asked. "Are you saying he's been defecating in our basement, again? Why haven't you mentioned this?"

"I was somewhat apprehensive... that you may feel it necessary to descend to the cellar, to view the excrement, to engage Mr. Oerschott in conversation, to—"

"I'll assume that you did clean up the mess," I said. "When was the last time he provided us with a stool sample?"

"I believe it was the day before yesterday," Charles said.

Boone stood up. "Can y'all show me these basement accommodations?" he asked.

I looked at Charles who looked at Boone who was looking at me. Without another word, Charles walked to the hall and the door to the basement. Boone and I followed.

I was hoping that my cellar wasn't bejeweled with the most current apeshit.

Chapter 44

The cellar smelled like a laundromat. Charlie had obviously sprayed the place with deodorant. Charles led Boone to the corner where the bed lay; Penny's bed during her basement confinement. I inspected the floor. No apeshit. I inspected the window. It had been broken but was now covered in a piece of plywood with a hinge at the top.

"Hinge?" I said.

"Beg pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?" Charles said, standing back from the bed so Boone could perform an inspection.

"You've put a hinge on the plywood," I said.

"In order to facilitate his re-entry, should that be his wish." Charles seemed pleased with his handiwork. I noticed that the hinge was spring loaded so that the plywood stayed closed until pushed from the outside.

"And to facilitate the re-entry of robbers, rapists and other assorted marauders," I said.

"It is unlikely, Miss Fleetsmith, that a cursory glance from outside would suggest a port of entry. Indeed, the exterior is parged so as to mimic the foundation wall." Charles was smiling.

Boone was walking about the basement, taking note of... of... actually, there was little to note. It was a damp, cold and featureless cellar with abandoned pieces of furniture, cardboard boxes, a broken standing lamp, a shovel. This was an old house, quite impressive when viewed from the outside, even extravagant when viewed from the inside... but it had the typical cold and clammy, dungeon-like basement characteristic of a century home.

"If we're to catch hairy Hans," I said, "we'll need to monitor his comings and goings. Boonie? Surely you've come with sophisticated gadgetry, audio-visual receivers, telecommunications devices."

Boone stopped into a dark corner and stooped to pick up something. He walked to where a single light bulb hung, suspended by a thin wire. I was hoping it wasn't apeshit. He held a piece of paper up to the light and read aloud:

"Fran: I didn't do it. Please help me. Something terrible has happened. Josey"

Boone looked at me. He was obviously confused.

"It's the note that Josey left me," I said, "attached to a window at the Oershott Lab. How Hans got it, I have no idea. Perhaps I left it attached to the window. I can't remember. In any case, Hans obviously knows that Josey came to me for help and probably knows she's living here. Maybe we really should get the two apes together, as we had planned. I don't know exactly what that would accomplish, but what the hell." I turned to Charles. "Charlie, can you bring Josey down?"

"Miss Fleetsmith," he said, "Miss Josey is in Atlanta in order to flaunt her—"

"Shit!" I had forgotten. "Okay, okay. Anybody have an idea?" I looked at Boone.

He stuck the note in a pocket and headed for the stairs. "Ah'll be back in an hour," he said.

Charles and I watched Boone run up the stairs. I walked to the bed and sat while Charles tested the plywood panel in the window, then grunted: "Miss Penny," he said, anxiously. "I must put her to bed. I'm afraid she's still sleeping at the breakfast table." He ran to the stairs and climbed out of sight. I was alone. It was damp. It was still morning, but I was exhausted. I felt incompetent, foolish, half-witted, helpless. Perhaps I should discuss the matter with... with what's-his-name. The guy from the CDC in Atlanta. Douglas Henderson. Yes, he seemed far better informed than I of the consequences of this weed. A virus, carried on the fungus, the spores. The fungus dissolves the cell wall, injects virus-coated spores, invading the cell mitochondria, the virus multiplies and continues on, injecting its parcel of DNA into the cell nucleus, reviving junk DNA which had been dormant for millenia, recovering ancient characteristics, cocoonizing, revitalizing bodily organs... gomorashu, perfection... sometimes apefaction—

There was a sound from outside the window. I jumped from the bed and headed for the stairs, then, angry at my alarm, grabbed the shovel and returned to the window. If it were Hans, I'd be ready. I would let him enter, determine if he were in the mood for conversation and, if not, I would—

The plywood panel swung open, clattering against the wooden ceiling beams. I stepped back., holding my shovel aloft. A dark face appeared in the window, then a body silhouetted against the morning sun. I shouted, "Hai!" and stood so my shovel could be seen, menacing, awesome.

"Hi! Miss Fleetsmith?"

It was Charles.

"I was just checking the apparatus," he said. "It seems in excellent order and quite unlikely to illicit unlawful entry."

Boone was back in less than an hour. It wasn't a short drive to police headquarters so he probably had the sirens screaming all the way there and back. He installed a small video camera which he attached to a wooden beam in the ceiling, pointing it at the plywood window cover. A thin strip of metallic tape ran from the plywood to the surrounding window frame. If the window opened, the tape would break and a bell would ring on the second floor. A rather quiet bell so that our ape-man wouldn't be inclined to flee. The video camera was to send a picture to a small video monitor. There was an argument concerning where the monitor should be placed, but I insisted; it was set on my nightstand, by my bed. When all was completed, I was starved and Charles made up a brunch of lettuce, bacon and tomato sandwiches on toast, with cranberry cocktail. Boone finished his in less than a minute.

We talked for perhaps an hour, about what I would say to Hans, were he to arrive in his furry regalia. Finally we decided that I would play it by ear, improvise, adlib. No one was sure what information we could glean, nor whether we could even communicate.

Eventually, just before noon, Boone left. I didn't see him again for several days. Indeed, I was hoping that Hans would show up so I'd have an excuse to phone Boonie boy. But days passed and although both Charles and I had expected to hear the sound of a bell some evening, and I awoke several times each night to peer at the video monitor, there was no evidence of the ape. In fact, Charles checked each day and found no evidence of apeshit.

Frustrating!

Chapter 45

It was a cold morning several days later when the doorbell rang and Charles went to answer. I jumped up from my desk in the study and ran to the door, hoping it was the cowboy. Charles first peered through the small window then opened the door.

"How are you, sweetie!" It was Josey, her floppy hat in her hand, her face a mass of hair and smiles. "I've brought someone to meet you. C'mon, loverboy," she said, and moved aside. Dr. Henderson stepped forward, rather sheepishly.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, speaking to me. "I thought it best if I accompanied Miss Cowley so that I might explain the results of our enquiry. She has been a rather patient... uh... patient."

"You better believe it. Lordy, yes," Josey said, marching through the door, grabbing Charles by the arm and dragging him directly to the kitchen.

"Dr. Henderson, how nice," I said. "Please come in. Would you like a coffee?"

Henderson stepped in, hesitantly, as though he expected to be pounced upon. "The kitchen," I said, pointing to the doorway through which Josey had dragged Charles. "Let's sit awhile and you can tell us what you've found after examining Josey. I'm assuming you did examine her, and that she enjoyed every minute of it."

He followed me to the kitchen where Josey was alone, chewing on a cold ham bone. I pointed to a chair beside Josey. Henderson chose, instead, a chair across the table from the hairy one. He looked rather uncomfortable.

"Shoot," I said. "I'm all ears."

"Well," he began, "we managed to recreate the cocoon... the cocoon arrangement—"

"Cocoonization," I suggested.

He laughed. It seemed a laugh of immense relief. His blue eyes flashed and his teeth were even and white and his small moustache danced on his upper lip. He was quite an attractive specimen and I was delighted that he felt more comfortable. Did I really dislike the man, once upon a time?

"Yes, cocoonization," he said. "We managed to recreate cocoonization—"

"With Josey?" I asked. This was amazing.

"No, no. In mice," he said. "With an extract that contained the At-B virus. It's quite remarkable, really. Subsequently the mouse died, unfortunately, but the experiments were eminently reproducible and—"

"This extract, where did you get it. From Josey?" I asked.

"Not at all." He looked at Josey who was still chewing on the ham bone, now reduced to half size. "The At-B was extracted from the specimen you left me. The... uh..."

"Apeshit," I said.

"Quite so," he said.

"It was Han's apeshit, you know," I said. "Hans von Oerschott. Now you know why Josey called him Ohshit. Appropriate, eh?"

Again, that laugh of relief, then he said: "Miss Fleetsmith, I must admit that I did not come here to explain the results of our tests on Miss Cowley. I actually came to apologize for my behaviour, that day you visited the Center in Atlanta. I was a cad, rude and vulgar. I had so much to contend with... and I took it out on you. It was unprofessional and I—"

"Aha!" I cried. "The rude Dr. Henderson had suffered gomorashu. No need for apa-noshu."

I heard a chuckle and saw Charles standing at the door. He had apparently checked on Penny and was now being amused by my recital of native jargon. Henderson looked confused, so I explained in some detail what Penny had told us about the Chockli's experience with the weed: gomorashu, achieving perfection, and apa-noshu, sacrificing those who did not achieve. He listened attentively, without a sound. Then I told him about our plan to trap Hairy Hans, or at least to convince the ape-man to speak to us about his experiences. Henderson seemed fascinated.

"May I stay," he asked. "I'm at the Royal York Hotel and would appreciate being involved in this—"

"The Royal York?" I said. "That's far too far. Stay here, with us, here in this house. We've got six bedrooms... seven if you count the extra study in the back. Okay, it's settled. Charles, would you be so kind as to make up Dr. Henderson's bed?"

"Absolutely, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said, and slipped out the door.

"Okay, tell me what you did to our Josey," I said. Josey looked up, a bare white ham bone stuck in her mouth. She dropped it to the table.

"Poking and needles and blood samples and peeing in a bottle and pooing in a can and—" she said.

"Well, you must understand," Henderson said, "that we wanted to be as thorough as possible, so executed every test suggested by our staff. We have a file on Miss Cowley that's several megabytes long. Although most measurements are normal, for Homo sapiens, she has definite simian characteristics. It's not clear what DNA modifications have taken place, but they're working on it at this time. It may take weeks, perhaps months, to unravel the mysteries associated with the genetic alterations."

Josey was staring at Henderson, smiling. It was weird; white teeth glowing behind a black and shaggy face. Once so terrified by her appearance, she now seemed to embrace her apefication with some relish.

"Months, eh doc?" Josey said. "Then what? Back to normal? Back to punching a keyboard? Back to workin' for a living? No thanks. I think I'll just stay this way, if you don't mind. Go-go-ratchy, perfection, that's me."

Josey leaned back in her chair and I could tell there was a story coming. "When I was flying down to Atlanta there was this guy sittin' beside me. A big brute, he was. I had my hat over my face so he couldn't see nothin', so he ups and leans against me, a big grin on his ugly face. Then he puts his hand on my knee and squeezes, still grinnin'. So I pulls off my hat and growls like a... like a ape, right in his ugly puss. His face goes white and just as he was gonna puke I grabs his nuts and gives 'em a big squeeze and he cries, with real tears runnin' on his cheeks. Lordy, that felt good. For me. Not for him. He pushed his face against the window and stayed that way all the way to Atlanta."

"Good for you, Josey!" I shouted. Then I turned to Henderson. "You said you had problems, in Atlanta. You said something about the F.B.I. and about your being blamed for the disappearance of that other Ohshit, in Atlanta. But, you also mentioned something about your wife, as I recall." I waited for some response, but Henderson just stared at his hands, placed carefully on the table, side by side, fingers extended.

"Yes," he said, finally. "I... we..."

"Tell it," Josey said, "just like you told me. How she screws the carpenter then ups and runs off with the bastard and how you're all broken up and how she wants a divorce and wants the house and car and..."

"Hold on Josey, " I said. "Let Henderson tell it."

"Uh, I think Miss Cowley has just about covered all bases.," Henderson said, still staring at his hands. "We were having some work done on the house, a small addition... I was busy most of the time... Lily, my wife, I guess she felt deserted. He was a very friendly carpenter..."

"Sounds familiar," I said. "Anyway, I now understand your rude behaviour in Atlanta, and I must say it seems entirely out of character."

"Lordy, yes," Josey growled. "This is one gentle man." She was still smiling. "I'll take him if nobody else does." Josey heaved out of her chair and started around the table, placing one hand after the other, knuckles down, on the table's edge, shoulders hunched, stalking. Henderson looked nervous.

"Okay," I growled in my best ape intonation. "knock it off, Josey—"

"Apa-noshu!" Penny was standing at the door to the upper floor, staring at Josey the ape-woman. "Apa-noshu!"

Josey's face wrinkled, her lips curled, her brow arched forward, beady eyes glaring. She stopped the march of knuckles around the table towards Henderson. "Ape-noshit yourself," she snarled at Penny. "This is perfection," she said in a small and menacing voice, raising her long arms above her head. "This is go-go-ratchy, perfection." She headed to the door. Penny backed away then vanished.

"Josey! Sit down!" I shouted.

Josey returned to the table and played with the naked ham bone.

"That girl?" Henderson asked, "is she... is she—?"

"That is Penny, the native girl from the Amazon," Charles said. "We have learned much from her account of the native uses of the weed. If some one, Miss Josey for example, had failed to achieve perfection via cocoonization, then—"

"Okay Charlie boy, we get the idea," I said. "Now, let's talk about Hairy Hans."

Chapter 46

Douglas Henderson stayed for two days during which time we talked about genetic alteration, cocoonization, the curious behaviour of the Chockli and Penny. He took samples of her hair, placing them carefully in a plastic baggie for DNA analysis back at the lab. He was convinced that the result of reactivation of dormant genes depended upon the evolutionary history of the individual and that small differences in evolutionary history could result in widely varying consequences. Chaos theory, he had said. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. Mostly, I listened. He was a fascinating man and I learned a lot. In fact, I even attempted to get him into bed, but he seemed impervious to my obvious charms.

It was the second night. It was also after midnight. We had spent several hours sipping a sweet white wine and munching grilled bacon and cheddar sandwiches which Charles had made up before he retired. I had said goodnight to Dr. Henderson, then slipped into my most provocative nightgown and, soon after, knocked on his bedroom door.

"Please come in," I could hear him say.

I opened the door, it squeeked, and I imagined the rest of the household rising from their bed to witness the white goddess at work.

Douglas was sitting up in bed, reading. "Do come in, Miss Fleetsmith," he said, placing his book carefully on the night table. "I was reading Manchester's Genetic Engineering and its Ramifications. Have you read it?" he asked.

I had never heard of the book. "Not recently," I said in a sultry voice, slinking to his bed, my nightgown slipping slightly from my shoulders just enough to infer the existence of perfect boobs.

"He suggests," Dougie said, "that natural, random gene mutations have resulted in the current genetic state of affairs and that controlled gene manipulation may hasten the achievement of... can I say gomorashu?"

"Please do," I whispered, sliding my hand over the bedsheet, along his thigh.

"He argues that the scientific community can, in concert and with measured gait, accomplish a great deal in a single lifetime were it given the opportunity to..."

I wasn't listening. Something about a measured gait. I slid my hand beneath the bedsheet.

"... and we could, in fact, practise... can I say apa-noshu?"

"Please do," I whispered, rubbing my hand across his chest.

"... not exactly as the Chokli did, of course. Nobody is suggesting that those who do not achieve gomorashu should be sacrificed..."

Something about sacrifices. I slid my hand down his belly. It was hard—his belly. I watched his eyes. They were flashing with excitement. His little moustache was twitching. I was getting to him.

"... miracle cures, not always, of course, but enough lives saved to justify the negligible dangers involved..."

Miracles and negligible danger. I was getting hot. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead. My hands were actually trembling. I slowly pulled the sheet back to expose his chest, smooth and white as snow. I bent to kiss his left nipple.

"... except that a world government agency must be established to oversee the genetic engineering..."

Government agency.

Government agency? What the shit was he talking about? I looked at his face. It was shining with delight. His cheeks were shining. His eyes were shining. His moustache danced. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light.

Government agency? He was being stimulated... not by me. By some asshole named Manchester!

"That's it," I grunted, rising from the bed. "See you for breakfast." I strode to the door, pulling my nightgown up over my shoulders.

"Thanks for coming by," he said. "Being able to talk about these things make them clearer in my own mind."

"Yeah," I snorted. Now I know why his wife was screwing the carpenter.

Chapter 47

I felt miserable. It had been chilly and rainy for days, changing to a light snowfall, and I seemed to have caught a cold. Henderson had left. Boone hadn't been around for days, although Charles said that he called every day to check the local situation, but Hairy Hans, the ape-man, hadn't made an appearance. The other Oerschott, the one in Atlanta, hadn't made an appearance either.

It was evening and I was sipping coffee, hot and black and lying on the couch in my bedroom, covered in a heavy blanket. I had slept most of the evening and was slightly groggy. Then the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was 11:30 p.m. and I couldn't imagine who would be calling at this hour. Charles, Josey and Penny would be in bed, as was their custom. Charles always was a early-to-bed-early-to-rise type and Josey seemed to sleep most of the time. Although Charles would tuck Penny into bed before he retired, she was often up and down much of the night. I was considering whether I should bother to answer the bell when I noticed the small video screen flash on the nightstand. A narrow ribbon of light appeared then vanished on the monitor.

"Shit," I groaned. It wasn't the doorbell at all. Somebody, maybe Hans, had entered the basement through the window and the warning bell had sounded. I jumped up from the couch and ran to the bed, staring intently at the screen. The ribbon of light appeared again on the monitor. It was light streaming through the basement window as the plywood panel opened and closed. I could make out a dark shape climbing awkwardly through the window. "Shit! Hans has arrived!" I said to no one in particular.

I looked around for a weapon. Nothing. Shit! Had I planned for this? Was I completely inept? I thought of waking the household. Four humans versus one ape? Josey! Three humans plus an ape against one ape! I ran to the door and down the hall to Josey's room, flinging her bedroom door wide open and banging the light switch. The room was flooded in light, but Josey wasn't there! Shit!

I ran to Charles' room. Empty! Then to Penny's. Nobody was there! What the hell was going on? Was I alone in the house... with a gorilla wandering the basement?

"Steady, Fran," I whispered to myself. "You're at least two inches taller than Hans and a helluva lot smarter and... and he was always fascinated by a show of thigh and bust and..."

I threw off my nightgown and ran naked down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time. At the door to the basement I paused for only a moment, then ran to the kitchen and grabbed a cleaver. I had watched Charles chop vegetables for Chinese stir fry and felt it could serve equally well for chopping hairy apes, if need be. I ran again to the cellar door, opening it slowly then descended the stairs one small step at a time, my cleaver held high above my head.

It was dark and there wasn't a sound when I paused at the bottom of the stairs. The plywood panel over the window was closed. I should have turned on the lights at the top of the stairs. I reached for the cord which hung from the ceiling and pulled. A single naked light bulb flickered on. Naked. I felt naked. I was naked. Was that really a good idea, standing naked before a hairy ape? I stared into the shadows, at the bed where Penny had slept while hiding in the basement. A black shape moved. I backed up one stair, then two.

"Fan?" It was a weak voice. "Fan?" It was Hans, on the bed. "Col'," he said.

"Cold?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Damn right, cold. Rain, cold, bloody awful weather we're having." Talking about the weather? Was this normal conversation, for ape chat?

"I got a bloody awful cold," I said in my most customary and placid voice. "Got one too?" I asked.

"Col'," he said. "Peese hep."

"Sure, Hans. I'll get the aspirin. You can pop a few. Then we can sit and chat, okay?"

I was about to turn and run up the stairs, when there was a growl from the corner of the basement. Hans rolled out of bed and stood, waiting, his teeth flashing in the dim light. A second black hulk staggered into the light.

"You look pretty sexy, Fran."

It was Josey and she, too, was naked—in a hairy sort of way. I watched as she approached Hans. Shit. This could be dangerous. I stepped down the stairs and slipped in beside Josey. If Hans attacked, I would be ready with my cleaver.

"Lordy, Hans, you're lookin' good," Josey said, walking steadily toward Hans, with an exaggerated swagger. I fell behind. No way I was going to be a part of some gorilla orgy. "C'mon HairyBunch, take a peek at this." Josey spread her arms and legs and stood like some bronze sculpture. "Case ya don't know, it's apa-noshu. Perfection. Take a bite."

Hans had been growling. Now he was whimpering and moving slowly toward Josey, arms outstretched. I watched in awe, my cleaver slowly dropping to my side. They embraced, each grunting, snorting, pawing. Josey spun about and presented her backside. Hans howled and mounted. I was watching some National Geographic special. I would willingly have traded my cleaver for a video camera. I crept to the stairs, not to run, but to acquire a ringside seat. I sat. Hans erupted in a series of short grunts. Josey moaned. I almost cried. I rose to place my hands upon the backs of the two lovers. It was really quite touching.

Just then the basement exploded in brilliant light and I heard voices at the top of the stairs and Charles and Boone were standing there, wide-eyed. Boone held a revolver in his hand. The apely orgasm continued unabated. I looked down at my nakedness. The scene was out of some psychedelic Tarzan movie. Two apes, screwing. One naked lady with a hand upon each, blessing the consummation.

"Well done, Miss Fleetsmith," I could hear Boone say. "I think y'all have them in your grasp, now. If'n y'all could finish the laying on o' hands and git their attention, mebbe we could all adjourn to the settin' room and talk a bit and—"

Hans looked up, screamed, withdrew and leaped onto the bed then through the window, splitting the plywood panel into splinters. Josey was still leaning at a forty-five degree angle. She looked in my direction, her beady eyes twinkling.

"Lordy, lordy," she moaned. "You're next, Miss Fran."

I was still standing naked as though giving benediction, one hand upon Josey's back, one suspended in air. I could hear Boone laughing. I was freezing... and didn't see anything particularly funny.

Chapter 48

"Okay, so I was preoccupied with the situation," I said. We were sitting in the kitchen, snacking on Charles' Mexican pizza: nachos, pepperoni, salsa and gobs of cheese, melted in the microwave. It seemed we were always sitting in the kitchen, snacking. A bottle of sweating Chardonnay sat untouched on the table. Charles was in bed. Josey was stuffing handfuls of nachos into her capacious maw.

"Preoccupied, y'all say," Boone said. "With what? Ape rape? Fess up, ma'am. Y'all was mesmerized, watching them do their thing. Ol' Hans 'n Miss Cowley, they was—"

"Oh shut up!" I said. It was embarrassing. I was enchanted with the scene. I had even laid my cleaver down... somewhere. I was without a weapon, naked and cold. "At least we know that Hans is still attracted to Josey," I said, trying to steer the conversation.

"You can bet on it," Josey said, cheese dripping from her lips. "It was good, ya know? I didn't think it would be, but it was good. Better'n when Hans was... well, just Hans. He's got—"

"Yes, yes, we all know what he's got," I said, disgusted by the whole situation. I turned to Boone. "So, what now, cowboy? Anything worthwhile to contribute to this conversation, or are you just filled with such mirth that all cerebral activity has ceased."

Boone sat back and stared at me, smiling. I was draped in a blanket and sniffling. I sneezed. That damn cold.

"Y'all look like ya bin rode hard and put up wet," he said. "T'ain't good weather. In Texas, it'd be hotter 'n a rat in a wool sock, 'cept when we git a blue norther. Anyway, when the warning bell rang in mah room—" he began.

"Warning bell? What warning bell?" I asked.

"When something broke the beam it sent a signal to mah room and—"

"Beam? What beam?"

"Ah had me a laser beam running 'crosst yer yard. When is was broke, mah bell rang 'n Ah phoned Charles, then came a-runnin' right quick. Ah was staying at that motel up the road aways. Y'all was sleepin' at the time. When Ah gits here, Charles is waitin' out front 'n lets me in. That's when we heard the noise in the cellar... growling, grunting 'n the like. We knew Josey was down there, 'cause that was the plan. But the gruntin' 'n all? That wasn't part o' the plan."

Josey looked up from her Mexican feasting. "Lordy, no," she said with gusto. "That was an extra."

"Plan? Did you say plan? And why wasn't I informed of this... this plan?" I said. I was angry. "Shit! It's my house. It's my basement. It's my—"

"Charles said y'all were in no shape to discuss the plan, what with yer cold 'n all," Boone said. "He figured you'd best rest and—"

Josey moaned. "Yes, Miss Fran, we figured you needed the rest. You might object to my waiting in the basement. I was willing and able, but, in your condition, you might want to get too involved and—"

"Damn it all!" I shouted, rising from the table. "I should have been told! I could have been killed, mawled by that wild beast, torn into—"

"Truth, thet gorilla looked strong 'nough to stick his finger up his ass and hold hisself at arm's length," Boone drawled, a smug grin on his ugly face. He was obviously enjoying this whole scene. "But Ah'd say y'all was enjoyin' the situation. Besides, Josey was a-waitin' and she'd come betwixt you 'n—"

"Betwixt!" I shouted. "Josey got screwed, plain and simple. Is that betwixt? What good was she with her ass in the air and a smile on her face?"

"Is was good, Miss Fran," Josey volunteered. "Lordy, yes."

Boone stood up and thrust his stetson on his head. He was so tall that I stopped arguing and stared up at the Texan. "That's 'bout enough!" he said, with such authority that the room went quiet. Even the fridge stopped humming. "If'n we're to catch a ape, we gotta have a plan... another plan. Hans ain't gonna come back through a plywood window no more. Let's set and think... hard!" He sat, hard, and I could hear the wooden chair groan.

There was complete silence for several minutes. I was thoroughly impressed with this cowboy. Maybe, if he stayed over a night or two, I could get him into bed... again.

"I'd be willin' to do it again," Josey said, in little more than a whisper. "For the sake of our plan, of course," she added quickly. "Maybe Hans wouldn't come through the basement window, but maybe he'd come to my room, if he knew where my room was. Maybe I could leave the window open and the light on and strut about..." She stopped talking when she saw me scowl.

"Good idee," Boonie boy said. "Let's go with it! Thet plywood window got pole-axed and c'ain't be fixed with duct tape so we need a whole nuther thing." He turned to me. "If'n it's okay with y'all, I'd like to stay here, jest in case. It takes awhile to git here from the motel. Ah jest need to warsh mah socks 'n—"

"Okay!" I said, perhaps too quickly. "Uh... I guess so. You could use the room next to mine." I flashed my best smile, all teeth and lips and fluttering eyelids—then sneezed into the nachos.

Chapter 49

When Charles dropped the morning paper on the kitchen table, I was sipping hot coffee and nibbling toasted Danish. I had made a feeble attempt to get into Boone's bed last night, but the sniffling and sneezing had hampered any sexual overtures.

Charles was waiting, hovering. I looked up, sneezed, then looked down at the headlines:

GORILLA ROBS GROCERY STORE

"It would appear that our hairy friend has discovered a source of edibles," Charles said.

The article described the broken windows, the loss of several boxes of assorted fruits and vegetables, the ape dung scattered throughout the store and the eyewitness report by two teenagers making out in their car in the parking lot.

"Well" I grunted, "at least we know that poor Hans isn't starving... and presumably where we can find him in the future. That store is just a few blocks away. I suspect that Hans stays near at hand, maybe even somewhere on our property."

"That was the third time that store, Harmon's, was robbed, Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said. "It is certainly appropriate to assume that Mr. Von Oerschott stays in the area. Perhaps—"

"I was thinking," I hummed, staring at the ceiling. Charles went quiet, waiting. "What good is catching Hans?" I said. "Shit! He seems tame enough to live in the neighbourhood without harming anyone, shopping at Harmon's, defecating at will and screwing Josey. No one is in any danger and finding him won't solve the problem of reversing the genetic alterations that Dermafix generates." I looked around. "Where the hell is Boone?"

"He left early this morning," Charles said simply. "He said something about fixin' to see Fuzz Clements, who, I assume, is his immediate superior."

"Okay Charlie my boy, do you remember those others who were affected by Dermafix?"

"As I recall, Miss Fleetsmith, there was a Miss Betty Hansen, a legal secretary, and a Mr. Gary Felman, a contractor from Whitby. They were both found dead in Flanagan's Motel, presumably the result of an attack by Mr. von Oerschott. Then there was a Mr. Roy McIvar, a computer whiz who, I assume, helped von Oerschott with breaking into the computer of a competitor. Then, of course, there is Mr. Von Oerschott and his brother... uh... Mr. Werner von Oerschott and, of course—"

"No von," I grunted.

"Quite so," Charles said. "Mr. Werner Ohshit... no von."

I looked up from what was left of my Danish. Charles was grinning. "Sorry, Miss Fleetsmith. I couldn't resist enunciating as Miss Josey would. I find her quite fascinating with a delightful vocabulary and—"

"Yes, fascinating," I said. I was still a little annoyed at Josey's behaviour in the cellar. "I guess there's nothing to add concerning the other fatalities, Hansen, Felman, etcetera. I need to talk to Boone. Surely there's something we can do to reverse the process."

"I rather doubt if Mr. Boone has the biological knowledge necessary to suggest a remedy," Charles said. "Rather, I wouldn't suggest Professor Unger, but Dr. Douglas Henderson. Indeed, it would be wise to keep in intimate contact with Dr. Henderson so that—"

"I tried intimate contact," I said. "But I guess I could e-mail him or maybe run down to Atlanta for a short stay." I looked at Charles. What did he say? "I wouldn't suggest Unger? Charles, is that what you said?"

"Why yes, Miss Fleetsmith. I suspect he's in no condition to—"

"Charles!" I shouted. "He's in no condition? Is that what you said?"

"I declare, Miss Fleetsmith, you seem to have suffered an acute deterioration in audio cognition. Perhaps your condition, the flu—"

"Charles Clayton Curran! What in God's name are you talking about? Unger is in no condition to be consulted? Why the shit not?"

Charles looked visibly upset. "I am terribly sorry, Miss Fleetsmith. I assumed you had read the report in the paper."

"What report?"

"Professor Unger seems to have suffered a Dermafix alteration and is currently on the list of missing persons."

"Shit! Why didn't you tell me?"

"In truth, Miss Fleetsmith, I earlier attempted to list the beneficiaries of the weed: Miss Betty Hansen, a legal secretary, and a Mr. Gary—"

"Damn you! And Unger? Did you include Unger in that list?"

"No, I did not." Charles seemed somewhat peeved. "Your propensity to interrupt prevented my—"

"Interrupt? Me? Interrupt? Shit!"

I stopped in mid-rage. Interrupt? Mmm. Perhaps I was so inclined.

"Charles, I'm sorry," I said. "Please tell me about Unger."

"It was reported that Professor Unger suffered from an ailment which generated excessive hair, facial hair in particular, and was taken to Toronto General where he somehow vanished and has not been seen—"

"When? When did all this happen?" Shit! I had interrupted, again. "Uh, sorry Charles. I'm concerned, that's all, and my—"

"It was reported last Thursday," Charles said, seemingly intent upon interrupting me. "The newspaper details were unclear, but he seems to have been missing for..." Charles looked at the ceiling, thinking. I was perfectly silent. Charles glanced in my direction, to confirm that I was listening, quietly. "...perhaps a week," he said.

"Damn," I said, more calmly than was my habit. "Then we've got four apes, loose."

"Four?" Charles asked.

"Two Ohshits, Josey and now Unger."

"I would not regard Miss Cowley as loose," he said. "Perhaps free, but certainly not loose."

A soft voice said, "Quite loose, Charlie... and ready for the next ape."

Josey was standing at the door, smiling, eager.

# PART FOURTEEN

Chapter 50

When Ah gits to the Fuzz's office, Holstein is still doin' her nails. She smiles 'n points at Fuzz's door 'n I barge right in. The Chief is on the phone 'n waves me to a chair.

"Okay, okay," Fuzz says. "I unnerstand, right away, as soon as I get the funds. Give me the budget and I'll see that it's done. Raise taxes and direct the funds to the Police Department. The good citizens of Toronto won't complain, right? They ask for more police protection so they'll be willing to pay the price, right?"

He stops for a bit, then hangs up without sayin' nothin' more.

"Boone," he says. "I ain't heard much from you. What's the scoop on gorillas in Brazil?"

Fuzz turns his chair and stairs out the winda. He's listenin' but ain't lookin'.

"Hans von Ohshit showed up at Ms. Fleetsmith's house—"

"Ohshit?" Fuzz swings about. "Who the fuck is Ohshit?"

"Sorry, Chief. Ah mean Hans von Oerschott, head of Oerschott Medicals. He's a ape, ya know, and visited the Fleetsmith resident, had hisself a sexual encounter then left afore Ah could—"

"Sexual encounter?" Fuzz had both hands on the desk, leanin' forward, starin' hard.

"Miss Josephine Cowley, his former secretary, she's also a ape. They met in the Fleetsmith basement and done their thing."

Fuzz grinned ear to ear. "Well think of that," he said, very slowly. "This is gonna be an interesting report." He punched the intercom. "Halstead! Hold my calls. I don't wanna be disturbed." Then he turned to me and grinned, happy as a duck fartin' under water, and swung his finger in the air. He means fer me to go on, so I did, tellin' him all thet happened in the last week or two.

Ah ended with, "Ah jest wish thet Josey kin trap the ape—"

"Wish?" Fuzz said. "You can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first."

Ah don't know what he's talkin' 'bout. He turns ag'in to look out the winda. It's time to head out. Mah report is finished. As Ah leave, Holstein is still doin' her nails. Ah stop 'n stare at the instrument. It's a foot long with corners 'n rough edges 'n smooth sides 'n hooks 'n all and she's rubbin' it 'crosst her nails. She sees me lookin', holds up the tool and says, "Handy gadget, eh, Boone?"

"Yes'm. Handy as hip pockets on a hog," Ah says. Then Ah leaves.

Ah drives mah pickup back to Fran's, 'longside the lake. A beauty, this lake, 'n they fixed it up good with trees 'n grass 'n a rock breakwall a ways out. The sun was shinin' good 'n the sky was blue, but t'was mighty cold. People say it's hot in Texas, but we ain't got but two mebbe three days o' real heat in Texas. Real heat is when they's a 75% chance o' self-combustion. They say we got killer bees, fire ants, big roaches 'n skeeters, tornadoes 'n hurricanes in the Lone Star state. T'ain't the truth. They's jest a few bitty bugs and bad hair days. They say everythin's twice as big in Texas. Actual fact, it's 1.85, but we round up. 'Nother fact: this here Ontari-o is bigger, but sits under a mess o' ice most o' the time, but Ah is gittin' to like it... some.

Ah hits the radio button and gits me some clasical-type music. Ah hits it ag'in and gits more o' the same. Up here, they don't know down home Country tunes. Ah shoulda brought me some. But Ah brought this here pickup. Ah pats the dash. Good truck. Needs an ole change 'n lube. Here, they recycle ole. Down home, recycling ole means moving it from the car to the truck. Ah guess Ah miss down home... some.

When Ah drives to Fran's Ah look at all the homes along the lake. Big, lots o' trees, settin' pretty. Y'all kin hardly see Fran's house, it's far back from the road, past stone gate posts, up a long driveway. Ah hits the brakes 'n slides outta the truck. When Ah gits to the door, it opens.

"Good day, Mr. Boone," Charlie says. "Please come in. I suspect Miss Fleetsmith will be pleased that you are here."

When Ah gits to the kitchen, Fran is snackin'. Seems she's always snackin'. One day she'll be bigger'n a barn.

"Hi, cowboy," she says. "Sit. There's something I want to tell you."

"Tell me?" Ah says. "Ya kin always tell a Texan, but y'all can't tell him much."

The li'l lady smiles. Nice teeth. Looks like she's chewin' on pancakes 'n this maple syrup stuff. Ah look at mah watch. It's 'bout 6:30 pm. Pancakes?

"First, Professor Unger has the... uh, affliction...but I suspect you already know that. However, Charles and I think that we should head down to Atlanta to have a long talk with Dr. Douglas Henderson at the CDC, about genetic alteration. They're working on the problem and may have new information."

"We? Y'all 'n Charlie, Miss Fleetsmith?" Ah say.

"No, we, you and me," she says. "Are you game?"

"Gotta check with Fuzz, but Ah reckon Ah'm game."

"Good!" she says. "Charles has the tickets. We leave first thing in the morning."

"First thing?" Ah ask.

"The plane leaves Pearson International at 7:35 am. It'll take a half hour to get to the airport. Charles will drive us. We'll have a bit of breakfast at 5:00 and leave the house about 5:30 to leave time for the security check, okay?"

Yes, ma'am," Ah says.

"None of this ma'am shit, remember? Fran's my name."

The next mornin' we're flyin' to Atlanta.

Chapter 51

After a day at CDC, talking to Henderson and his minions, discussing apeshit and apefication ad nauseum, we flew back, arriving after midnight. Charles, as expected, had a snack ready to microwave.

"I noticed," I said to Boonie as he munched Charles' Mexican pizza, "that you left us to make a phone call." I waited for a response, but my Texan wasn't paying attention. I snatched a nachos from his hand. He looked up as though he saw me for the first time.

"Pardon, Ma'am?"

"Your phone calls, in Atlanta."

"Leslie," he says and starts in again, stuffing the nachos, cheese and pepperoni.

"And who is Leslie," I asked. "A CDC scientist?"

Boone pulled a napkin across his face.

"A cop Ah'd spoken to, early on. Don't got any new info. Jest a friendly call to a colleague."

He was smiling. Damn him!

Charles had been sitting, quietly, patiently.

"Miss Fleetsmith, did you learn anything of merit?" he asked .

"Nothing," I mumbled. "A million theories, a paucity of ideas. I'm off to bed. Boonie, stay... if you wish."

The Texan nodded his head. I guess he'd be there in the morning.

At eight the next morning, Charles came to my room. He seemed agitated.

"Miss Fleetsmith, professor Unger has been found."

I jumped out of bed, pulled on a robe and headed downstairs, then stopped. Was I expecting to find Unger in my living room? I must be getting feebleminded. I waited for Charlie to catch up.

"Okay, Chuck, tell me something."

"He, professor Unger, is at the Mount Sinai research institute. He's apparently -"

"Let's go Charlie! I'd like to... uh, sorry. You were saying?"

"Unger is apparently back to normal. No cocoon, no hair, no –"

"Apefication?" I volunteered. "No affliction? Then why's he at the research insitute?"

"I'm afraid, Miss Fleetsmith, that I'm not privy to that –"

"Okay, let's go!"

I must learn not to interrupt, but it isn't easy. It must be genetic: the interrupting gene.

We left Boone Boy at home and arrived at Sinai by 10:30 am. I went immediately to the information desk and found that Unger could have no visitors. Shit! I ambled to the map of the building layout, saw the location of the research wing and headed to the elevator. Charles followed, cautiously. I think he had read my mind. I glared at him to preclude any comment concerning the advisability of my actions.

When we exited the elevator, I went to the nurses lounge, grabbed a starched white outfit and one of those silly caps and headed for the nurses station attired to fit the occasion. Then, thinking better of it, I discarded the silly hat.

"Where is professor Unger. I'm Dr. Fleetsmith and I'm studying the eumycota-viral correlation associated with apefaction," I said in my most authoritative voice..

The nurse looked stunned, but pointed up the hall. "C17," she said.

I swaggered down the hall with Charlie at my heels.

"Wait!" the nurse shouted. "Who are you?" she said, pointing to Charles.

"I am Dr. Fleetsmith's assistant. I record her observations on agaricus bisporus, in particular its subordination to the of boletus edulis."

I could hardly keep from giggling. The nurse opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind.

"Nicely done, Charlie boy."

I expected to see Unger attached to tubes, affixed with a collection of electrodes, a myriad of flashing lights. Poor bugger. It was my fault and I felt terrible. Hesitantly, I opened the door to room C17 and was greeted with what looked like the bridge in a Star Trek movie. In the corner, reading by a small lamp, was the good professor. He looked perfectly normal!

"Professor Unger?" I whispered.

He looked up and smiled. "Ah, Miss Feetsmith."

"You... you look normal," I said. "I thought – I thought –"

"Yes, dee Brazilian weed. I have dee cure."

He pointed to a chair. I sat. I was holding my breath. A cure? Could it be possible? Is that why Unger now looked normal?

There were no other chairs, so Charles leaned against the wall, all ears.

We listened to Unger for almost an hour. I refused to enable my interrupting gene. I couldn't believe what he was saying. After acquiring the affliction, he left Toronto General and went to his lab and redesigned the virus that attached itself to the spores, using normal blood samples to extract normal genetic material. He injected the concoction into his blood stream and waited. Then, when the hair had almost vanished, he came to the Sinai research centre.

When Unger had finished and Charles and I congratulated him, the door swung open and a distinguished looking gent entered staring at a notepad. Then he looked up and saw us.

"What the hell are you doing here? How –"

Before he could complete the question and answer session, Charles and I were on our way to the elevator. I heard Unger as we left:

"Das var ein gut problem."

Chapter 52

Boone was on the phone when we arrived home. He dropped the phone on the hook and jumped to his feet when he saw us.

"Ah bin phonin' about... where y'all bin?"

"Have a seat Texas. This will take a while," I said, then told him Unger's story.

"I reckon we got us a cure," he drawled, his grin ending at each ear. "Ain't that Unger somethin'? He's afflicted, then he cures hisself. He got more guts than ya can hang on a fence."

"Can't you see how clever that it?" I said. "He uses exactly the same technique for the cure as the affliction. An engineered virus with good genetic stuff and the same spores open the door to the nucleus and -"

"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said. "How does one acquire the good stuff?"

Charles had been quiet. I looked at him carefully and started to hum. A very good question, I thought.

"If Unger was afflicted, with corrupted DNA, how did he get good genetic material? Hmmm... I think I'll have to visit Unger again. He said he'd be leaving Sinai after they had completed all the prodding and poking and return to his lab at U of Toronto. Charles, please see when he's available, at his lab. I need to get a precise prescription for the – the -"

"The anti-apefication ritual?" Charles suggested.

"Exactly!" I said.

"And this fiddling with the DNA," Boone said. "What's it called?"

I leaned toward Boone and whispered, "Designer genes."

Charles made a few phone calls and determined that Unger would be in his lab all day. Boone said he had to check in at head office, but Charles and I left immediately for U of Toronto. When we got there we had no idea where Unger's lab was located. It's one sprawling, 180 acre campus and no one we asked had even heard of Unger. We eventually went to the Sandford Fleming building and the first person we spoke to pointed us in the right direction. When we got to Unger's lab, he was leaning over a large table replete with test tubes, petri dishes, oscilloscopes, various optical instruments and a large pot of coffee in a glass container.

"Hello professor Unger," I said, cheerily.

Without turning he said, "I vas expecting you. You vant dee prescription, ya?"

"Actually," I said, "I wonder if you could make up an antidote for this – this –"

"Apefaction," Charlie said.

Unger turned, a grin on his chubby face.

"Ah, but you need dee normal DNA," he said. "Dee cheek."

He saw the confused look on our faces and continued.

"Ven I looked for dee normal chromosomes to make dee virus, I tried dis und dat."

He paused, his tongue in the side of his mouth making a visible lump.

"The cells from your cheek!" Charlie said, almost shouting.

"Ya... dee cheek." Unger seemed very pleased with himself. "Dat do not suffer from... apefaction," he said, grinning at Charles. "You get dee cheek cells und I make dee virus."

I was so excited that I grabbed the little man and kissed him heartily on the forehead.

He offered us a coffee, but I could see that it had been sitting in the pot for some time, cold and muddy. We thanked him again and returned home to discuss the methodology for extracting cheek cells from a couple of hairy apes. Josie would be okay, but Hans and his brother? Problematical. It was actually Josie who suggested a reasonable mechanism.

"Ohshit likes your basement. At least he shits there, right? I sleep there and –"

Charles was about to object, but I glared at him and Josie continued.

"- and when old Hans arrives I offer him my backside as payment for his cheek cells."

I could tell that Josie was not only willing and able, but enthusiastic.

Well, as predicted, Ohshit did show up a few days later. Josie, who was sleeping on a cot in the basement, immediately woke up and approached Hans. As Josie described it to Charles and me afterward:

"I blew him a hairy kiss, he was taken aback, but then waddled toward me and I spun about and offered my butt and he immediately jumped on board with a big hairy groan then we did our thing, then I dragged him to my cot and pushed him and stuck my fingers in his mouth. Ohshit thought it was sexy so he shoved his fingers in my mouth, too. Geez, he's got huge teeth. Me too."

Josie had given me a tissue with which she had cleaned her fingers. It was pretty straight forward to extract the DNA. I asked for, and got, professor Unger to help make up the antidote. He seemed delighted to do the analysis and fabrication. I sent a special delivery parcel to Henderson at the CDC saying I was looking after the local apes. The parcel contained samples of the antidote and the prescription for generating more, if need be. His job was to look after any other apes that showed up.

Our local apes were good as new within a month. Six months later, Hans asked Josie to marry him. It was a beautiful wedding. They each wore ape costumes and all the guests thought that was hilarious. Charles thought it was sick, but then Charles doesn't have a sense of humor.

Me? I'm still working at the lab. Hans drops by now and then, but otherwise he pretty well leaves me alone. You'll never guess what I'm working on: an all-purpose-do-everything-cure... without apefaction.

