Cochran settled onto one of the stools next to him. He was with Bob, so nobody said anything about where he sat.
Esther took Bob’s hand, said, “So sorry to hear about your boy. We all know he had a hell of a future with that company.”
Bob nodded and pretended to study the menu. He could feel Cochran surreptitiously checking out the rest of the diners. The place was half full of men who dressed the same, but Bob knew there were key differences. Two of the nearest men, Perkins and Crews, wore hats emblazoned with the Allagro logo. The three along on the short, bottom end of the L-shaped counter wore caps stitched with competitor brands, like Monsanto and Syngenta. Bob wasn’t sure if they would concern Cochran more than the shiftless farmers down at the far end that wore either caps with baseball or hockey logos or nothing at all. They were the men who had no allegiance, no stake in the seed wars currently raging across the nation. They were the ones who caused problems.
Bob didn’t have to knock on the counter to get their attention. Everybody had stopped talking once he and Cochran had come inside. He said loudly, “I know there’ve been a lot of rumors flying around these past couple days.”
Nobody moved. Even the cook in the back held off on cracking any new eggs over the griddle.
Bob didn’t look at anyone in particular. “This is what happened. Yes. My son was one of the men killed on that island two days ago. You all know he worked for Allagro. He died a hero, protecting our freedom. The memorial will be held tomorrow, at the Baptist church, at ten in the morning. Me and Belinda would be honored if you could make it.”
Silence reigned. One by one, the men climbed off their stools and came forward to shake Bob’s hand and offer their condolences. The movement of the men along the counter was as slow and solemn as Good Friday in the Catholic church over in Jacksonville.
Forget the Internet and that social media bullshit. Hell, forget the damn phones. This was how news spread in Parker’s Mill. By noon, everyone in town would know that Bob was as stoic and tough as the weathered visages at the top of Mount Rushmore, facing the death of his son with a firm resoluteness.
Bob’s reputation would be stronger than ever.
The decision to confirm his son’s death in the Korner Kafe was no accident.
Then some asswipe down at the far end of the counter had to pipe up with, “Have you heard then, how it, uh, exactly happened on that island?”
Cochran took a sip from his coffee mug to give Bob a chance to answer.
Bob didn’t call out the asswipe by name, but he knew who’d asked the question. Buck Walsh, who farmed a piddly little sixty acres. He’d asked it just to drag up some bad decisions that Allagro had made, just to ruin the moment, just to be an asshole.
Bob repeated, in the same questioning tone, “What happened to that island?” He shook his head, looked around the counter at everybody. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. My son, and one hundred and sixty-three other souls, died. Murdered. In cold blood. Attacked without provocation. Attacked without warning, without… reason.” He paused, but not long enough to give the smartass a chance to say anything else, “Everyone on that island died a tragic, unnecessary death.”
Cochran had put the cup down and had his cell phone out. He tapped it on the counter, slowly, absentmindedly fidgeting with it, until the tiny black eye of the camera was facing down the end of the counter, waiting to catch a glimpse of the heckler.
Bob folded his hands. “Now, as best as I understand it, those responsible have been identified, and are now the subject of a manhunt the likes of which you have never seen. I’m talking Osama bin Laden level searching here. I have been personally guaranteed that forces on our side will erase those killers off the face of the earth.” Bob’s eyes held the guarantee. “Our dead will be honored.”
“Yeah, but who were they? The terrorists?” Walsh asked.
Cochran got the question on video.
Bob thought it was obvious and talked like he was explaining the sunrise to a toddler. “The same sonsabitches that blow up medical testing centers. The same ones who hide railroad spikes in logging trees. The same godless bastards that think plants and bugs and dirt are worth more than human life.” He turned to address Walsh directly. Enough was enough. “What do you want from me? My son is dead.”
Walsh shrugged. “I know. And if it was me, I’d want to know exactly who killed him. Who told you it was eco-terrorists? Allagro?”
“Aw, give it a rest, Buck,” Perkins said. He was an overweight farmer a few seats down from Cochran and hid his baldness with his Allagro cap. “Nobody wants to hear you rant and rave this morning.”
Walsh put his elbows on the counter, raised his eyebrows. “Nobody’s ranting and raving, Doug. Just asking a few questions. Not my fault nobody wants to think about these things. Seem like you all are happy to swallow any bullshit that Allagro feeds you. Everybody’s happy to repeat the company press release, to point fingers and holler for retaliation, but where’s the evidence?”
Cochran touched Bob’s elbow lightly, and when Bob glanced down, Cochran flattened his hand out, gently patting the air under the counter. The meaning was clear. Be quiet. Let this play out.
Perkins slammed his fist on the Formica. “That ain’t the issue here. Point I was making was that you needed to be more respectful. It’s the wrong morning to spout that nonsense.”
“Respectful? Hell, seems to me real respect is digging to get at the real truth of what happened to Bob Junior. That’s respect.”
“Admit it,” Perkins waggled a thick finger at Walsh. “Allagro could release actual video surveillance of these terrorists killing everybody and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“Come to think of it, that’s a damn good idea,” Walsh said. “Fact is, we haven’t seen a whole lot more than a lot of smoke. Where’s the pictures on the ground? You all are taking Allagro’s word that these eco-terrorists, a bunch of hippie dipshits at the best of times, managed to firebomb an entire goddamn island in the middle of the ocean. Does that not strike anyone else as being tough to swallow?”
“Listening to your paranoid fantasies is hard to swallow,” another farmer on the Allagro row said.
Walsh continued, “I mean, you don’t think that Allagro, one of the most secretive, most powerful corporations in the entire world, wouldn’t keep an eye on one of their most valuable laboratories? You don’t think that they would have every inch of that island under video surveillance?”
“Christ, here we go again.” Perkins looked heavenward for help. “You just answered your own goddamn question. What is it about the term ‘total destruction’ that you don’t understand?”
“I think you are underestimating the level of technology involved here. I think—”
“I think,” Perkins interrupted loudly, “that you like the attention. It’s predictable. Next you’re gonna accuse us all of being drug dealers again.”
“Hey, you want to grow that cheap Frankencorn just so they can turn it into sweet garbage, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pretend that your shit smells like roses.”
“There you go again, pissing on the GMOs. Guess you don’t have a problem with the world starving to death.”
“Gentlemen,” Cochran spoke up suddenly. “I can appreciate and respect your views. However, I believe we have lost the true goal as to why Mr. Morton stopped by this morning. He was merely extending an invitation to join him, and his wife, in honoring the memory of his only son.”