The Korner Kafe fell silent.
Walsh asked, “Who are you?”
Cochran fixed the full force of his stare on Walsh. “My name, Mr. Walsh, is Paul Cochran. I am an attorney. I have been retained by Mr. Morton during this difficult time. If you have an issue with an organization such as Allagro, I suggest you take it up with that particular corporation. In the meantime, in the interest of behaving like a decent, humane neighbor, I highly suggest you keep your personal opinions to yourself and show Mr. Morton all due respect in his time of mourning.” Cochran addressed the rest of the diner. “I know that Mr. Morton would appreciate it if public discourse regarding his son’s death remained civil and polite, and I would like to personally thank each and every one of you for observing this request.”
Cochran surreptitiously tapped Bob’s elbow, indicating that Bob should stand first. Bob put his coffee down and stood, somewhat disappointed they wouldn’t be having breakfast.
Cochran stood as well, saying, “Thank you, gentlemen. We hope to see you all at the memorial service tomorrow. I certainly hope you take my advice to heart. If we are forced to meet under different circumstances, if you choose to ignore Mr. Morton’s request, I can assure you that you will regret it.”
CHAPTER 9
Kevin didn’t tell his mom that Jeremy Glover had taken a shit in his lunch box.
He shouldered his backpack, heavier today, took his bike from his mother as she lifted it out of the trunk, and endured a good-bye kiss on the cheek. As she pulled out of the parking lot in the cruiser, he locked his bike in the rack and stood in the shade of one of the elm trees that lined the schoolyard.
That was about the only good thing about summer school. Cover. If you stepped back a little, you could hide behind the trees, and become invisible to the second floor. You could still hear, though. Could tell if they were up there.
In the winter, there was nowhere to hide outside. You couldn’t wear white-and-gray camouflage fatigues, like in video games. You couldn’t sneak away from anybody.
However, at least during the regular school year, you could disappear inside the school, in the mess of students, just another coat and hat in the throng of students that filled the hallways.
In the summer, Kevin stuck out.
Jeremy wanted his buddies to call him Jerm for short. He liked that. Capital JAY-EE-AR-EM, baby.
Jerm and his buddies were looking for Kevin. Always.
At least they weren’t in the same class, unlike in the spring, when they all shared a math class. Kevin had spent too many classes worrying about them and couldn’t remember a damn thing. That’s how he ended up in summer school. Jerm and the two other assholes had been placed in some other summer program entirely. It was some kind of remedial thing, supposed to help them catch up to the rest of their peers. Shared periods in gym and lunch were the worst. Kevin had nowhere to go. The teachers protected him some of the time. Sometimes, he got caught and was lucky if they just tripped him, called him a few names.
Sometimes, it was worse.
Like when Jerm and the assholes surprised Kevin out behind the school. Jerm grabbed Kevin’s backpack, pulled the notebook and binder out, and dumped the food on the ground. Stepped on it. Put the empty lunch box on the ground, pulled his pants down to his knees, and squatted.
Even the other two assholes, Javier and Morgan, had been seriously disturbed by their friend. They hid it though, with maniacal laughter and frantically swiping the air in front of them to wave the smell away. Jerm wiped his ass with the lid, zipped the lunch box up, put it in Kevin’s backpack, and handed the backpack to Kevin.
Kevin took it.
He’d replayed that particular moment in his head a million times. Couldn’t change it. Wished he’d done anything, anything, except take his backpack like a fucking pussy. He’d taken it and stood there while they whooped it up and went upstairs.
He’d spent hours and six gallons of bleach trying to erase the memory. It was never clean enough. Never would be. He could never bring himself to tell his mother he would never eat out of that lunch box ever again. The Baggies and food inside would get tossed into the first garbage can or Dumpster he passed.
They’d since been waiting every morning at his locker since summer school had begun. “There’s the fucker. Smelled you comin’. Fuckin’ pussy-ass motherfucker. Your mommy around now? Huh? She gonna arrest me? Huh? Chief Bitch? Huh? Chief Cunt?”
Some days, Kevin hid by the bike racks, out of sight from his locker and the second floor, in the shade of the trees, and went in late. He got used to waiting, got used to being lectured on tardiness, and simply blamed it on his mother, knowing she felt bad about getting him there late, and if anybody ever talked to her about it, she would assume it was her fault. Better than running into them at his locker.
It couldn’t last forever. Kevin was cracking. He had nightmares of his fingers breaking off when he went to grab things. Sometimes he would look around and realize he had no memory of getting there. He spent hours in the bathroom, both at school and at home, either suffering through horrible diarrhea or puking his guts out. His mom hadn’t noticed his weight loss yet, but it was only a matter of time. He saw himself as the earth itself, cool on the crust, but deep inside, nothing but burning, bubbling, molten lava.
Until one morning, hunched over the toilet at home, dry-heaving at the thought of going to school, something inside him decided, quite simply, enough. There would be no more fear. He would end this, one way or another, and to hell with the consequences. Anything was better than this.
He knew where she kept her old revolver, the one she’d used in the Incident.
Cochran walked slowly out to the edge of the yard, and stood near the antique tractor, waiting for the men upstairs to answer the phone. Flowerpots had been spaced out across the top of the tractor, while vines grew around the wheels. There was no place private enough inside, so he had gone outside to make his call.
“Go ahead.” Only one voice spoke, but Cochran knew the others were listening.
“The announcement was made and the service will be tomorrow,” Cochran said. Breakfast at the diner hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped, but it hadn’t been a total disaster, either.
“Good. Get it over with, sweep it out of sight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any signs of further infection?”
They knew the idiot son had mailed some package to his father three and a half months ago, but nobody knew what the hell was inside. It could have been anything. A book, a letter, a contract, pictures, anything. It also could have been a packet of seeds.
On paper, Cochran’s primary goal was to accompany Bob Morton Jr.’s remains back to his parents and oversee the memorial service. He was also supposed to protect the brand, make sure that no reporter tried to grab some easy ratings by dragging Allagro’s name through the mud. Unofficially, he was to keep his eyes open and make sure that none of the infected corn seeds had made it back to the Morton farm. The last thing the men upstairs needed was another containment breach. It would halt their research for decades.
Cochran surveyed the cornfields and looked back at the house. “No. I have not seen any evidence yet.”
Truth was, Cochran wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. Before leaving for Illinois, they’d sat him down in a windowless room with a couple of scientists who couldn’t give him a straight answer even if he’d put a gun to their heads. The company undoubtedly had their heads in a vise, and he figured that was the real reason they were so goddamn nervous. They knew damn well if they couldn’t figure it all out and provide adequate answers, they might wind up in one of the fertilizer tanks.