“And your point is that agriculture, plant and animal breeding, that kind of manipulation of nature has been practiced by humans for millennia with no sophisticated equipment,” I said.
“Right,” Sarah said. “But that’s hardly controversial, or reason to kill someone. What I’m saying is that some people have been doing this for purposes other than to grow better food—have been doing this right under everyone’s noses for a very long time—and they use this to make money, maintain their power, eliminate anyone who gets in their way.”
“Sort of organized biological crime,” I mused.
“Yeah, you could put it that way,” Sarah said.
“And you have any examples—any evidence—other than your allergen theory?” I asked.
“It’s fact, not a theory, I assure you,” Sarah said. “But here’s an example: Ever wonder why people got so rude to each other, here in the US, after World War II?”
“I’m not following you,” I said.
“Well, it’s been written about in lots of the sociological literature,” Sarah said. “There was a civility, a courtesy, in interpersonal relations—the way people dealt with each other in public, in business, in friendship—through at least the first half of the 20th century, in the US. And then it started disintegrating. Everyone recognizes this. Some people blame it on the pressures of the atomic age, on the replacement of the classroom by the television screen—which you can fall asleep or walk out on—as the prime source of education for kids. There are lots of possible culprits. But I have my own ideas.”
“Which are?”
“Everyone was in the atomic age after World War II,” Sarah said. “England and the Western World had television, cars, all the usual stimuli. What was different about America was its vast farmland—room to quietly grow a crop of something that most people have a low-level allergy to. I think the cause of the widespread irritation, the loss of courtesy, was quite literally something that got under everyone’s skin—an allergen designed for just that purpose.”
Jeez, I could see why this woman would have trouble with her doctoral committee. But I might as well play along—I’d learned the hard way that crazy ideas like this were pooh-poohed at one’s peril. “Well, the Japanese did have some plans in mind for balloons carrying biological agents—deadly diseases—over here near the end of the war.”
Sarah nodded. “The Japanese are one of the most advanced peoples on Earth in terms of expertise in agriculture. I don’t know if they were involved in this, but—”
The phone rang.
McLuhan had once pointed out that the car was the only place you could be, in this technological world of ours, away from the demanding, interrupting ring of the phone. But that, of course, was before car phones.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hello?” a voice said back to me. It sounded male, odd accent, youngish but deep.
“Yes?” I said.
“Mr. Buhler, is that you?” the voice said.
“Ahm, no, it isn’t, can I take a message for him?” I said.
Silence. Then, “I don’t understand. Isn’t this the number for the phone in Mr. Buhler’s car?”
“That’s right,” I said, “but—”
“Where’s Mo Buhler?” the voice insisted.
“Well, he’s—” I started.
I heard a strange clicking, then a dial tone.
“Is there a call-back feature on this?” I asked Sarah and myself. I pressed *69, as I would on regular phones, and pressed Send. “Welcome to AT&T Wireless Services,” a different deep voice said. “The cellular customer you have called is unavailable, or has traveled outside of the coverage area—”
“That was Amos,” Sarah said.
“The kid on the phone?” I asked, stupidly.
Sarah nodded.
“Must still be in shock over his father,” I said.
“I think he killed his father,” Sarah said.
We drove deep into Pennsylvania, the blacks and greys and unreal colors of the billboards gradually supplanted by the greens and browns and earth-tones I d communed with just yesterday But the natural colors held no joy for me now. I realized that’s the way nature always had been—we romanticize its beauty, and that’s real, but it’s also the source of drought, famine, earthquake, disease, and death in many guises… The question was whether Sarah could possibly be right in her theory about how some people were helping this dark side of nature along.
She filled me in on Amos. He was sixteen, had only a formal primary school education, in a one-room schoolhouse, like other Amish—but also like some splinter groups of the Amish, unknown to outsiders, he was self-educated in the science and art of biological alchemy. He was apprentice to his father.
“So why would he kill him?” I asked.
“Amos is not only a budding scientist, Amish-style, he’s also a typically headstrong Amish kid. Lots of wild oats to sow. He got drunk, drove cars, along with the best of them in the Amish gangs.”
“Gangs?”
“Oh yeah,” Sarah said. “The Groffies, the Ammies, and the Trailers—those are the three main ones—Hostetler writes about them in his books. But there are others, smaller ones. Jacob didn’t like his son being involved in them. They argued about that constantly.”
“And you think that led to Amos killing his father?” I asked, still incredulous.
“Well, Jacob’s dead, isn’t he? And I’m pretty sure that one of the gangs Amos belongs to has connections to the bio-war Mafia people I’ve been telling you about—the ones that killed Mo too.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I wasn’t sure what to think about this woman and her ideas.
We finally reached Northstar Road, and the path that led to the Stoltzfus farm. “It’s probably better that we park the car here, and you walk the rest yourself,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure how thrilled the family would be to see me. And cars and strange women are more likely to arouse Amish attention than a single man on foot—even if he is English. I mean, that ’s what they call—”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen Witness. But Mo told me that Jacob didn’t mind cars—”
“Jacob’s dead now,” Sarah said. “What he liked and what his family like may be two very different things.”
I recalled the hostility of Jacob’s brother yesterday. “All right,” I said. “I guess you know what you’re talking about. I should be back in thirty to forty minutes.”
“OK,” Sarah squeezed my hand and smiled.
I trudged down the dirt road, not really knowing what I hoped to find at the other end.
Certainly not what I did find.
I smelled the smoke, the burnt quality in the air, before I came upon the house and the barn. Both had been burned to the ground. God, I hoped no one had been in there when these wooden structures went.
“Hello?” I shouted.
My voice echoed across an empty field. I looked around and listened. No animals, no cattle. Even a dog’s rasping bark would have been welcome.
I walked over to the barn’s remains, and poked at some charred wood with my foot. An ember or two winked into life, then back out. It was close to noon. My guess was this had happened—and quickly—about six hours earlier. But I was no arson expert.
I brushed away the stinking smoke fumes with my hand. I pulled out my flashlight, a powerful little halogen daylight simulation thing Jenna had given me, and looked around the inside of the barn. Whatever had been going on here, there wasn’t much left of it now…