Marshall Kane stood at his office window, heavy brow crumpled down low over small dark eyes. Skye noticed the lines on the sides of his mouth were etched deeper than usual.
“Dr. Van Rijn, come in. Take a seat.”
Skye sat, noting the formal use of her title.
Marshall remained standing, a hulking silhouette in front of the gray morning light. “Thanks for coming. I know this is a busy time for you what with the wedding and all.”
Skye nodded. “What’s up?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Last year this was a purely Canadian problem. Now it’s a bloody international one. I got word last night that the whitefly epidemic has found its way into southern Washington greenhouses. And this morning, I’m told it’s been detected in Northern Oregon. Inside and outside the greenhouses. It’s like a goddamn army marching south. It’s like nothing I’ve seen.”
“It’s nothing any of us has seen, Marshall.”
“It’ll be hitting the U.S. produce basket before we know it. If California takes a hit, the whole damn nation will take a hit.” Marshall moved from the window, seated himself behind his massive glass desk. “Think a minute about the financial implications, Dr. Van Rijn. A Japanese-only embargo of California fruits and vegetables could cost more than 6,000 jobs and over $700 million in lost output. An international embargo of California fruits would cost the state maybe 35,000 jobs and more than $3.8 billion in revenues.”
Marshall leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands spread flat out in front of him on the glass. “But a total quarantine of California fruits, in which shipments and sales within the United States are embargoed, would result in hundreds of thousands of jobs lost and up to $20 billion in lost revenues.”
“You’re forgetting the hit the Canadian greenhouse industry has already taken, sir. And with all due respect, we are not responsible for the spread of the whitefly to the U.S.”
“No. We are not.” He raised his hand, leaving a steamy imprint on the glass. “But just think about the implications for Kepplar if we are successful in halting the little bastards.” Marshall had a greedy gleam in his small dark eyes. Beetle eyes, thought Skye. He was like a fat hungry bug himself. He picked up his silver pen, punctuated the air as he spoke. “There’s a lot riding on your project, Dr. Van Rijn. The U.S. Department of Agriculture is watching us. Our first beetle shipment goes out to Agriculture Canada for mass dispersal in two weeks, right?”
“Correct. We’re on target.”
“Good, because the U.S.D.A. is waiting to see how effective we are. If they like what they see, there’s another big contract in the works for Kepplar. A U.S. contract. We’ll make headlines, Doctor.”
Skye nodded. She liked the money that came with success. It helped her buy freedom. But she shunned the publicity. That could cost her dearly. She shifted to the edge of her seat, leaned forward. “Marshall, I don’t need to tell you I’m still unhappy with the early target date. And I know I don’t need to warn you no project is without risk, including this one. Ideally, I’d like more field trials.”
“Nonsense. The contained trials had excellent results. We haven’t got time for more. The risks are minimal. I’ve read your report.”
“Any time an alien species is released into an ecosystem there’s a risk the new bugs could become pests themselves. Or worse, become a vector for another disease.”
“Dr. Van Rijn, you are a pessimist. This bug was bred in our labs. It’s clean. There’s minimal risk of transmitting new disease.”
“I’m no pessimist, Marshall. I’m a pragmatist. Yes, we bred the bug here. Yes, it’s clean. But we started with a bug imported from Asia—”
“It went through the requisite quarantine process.”
“There’s always risk when meddling with nature.”
Marshall rolled his silver pen tightly between his thumb and middle finger. “But you have a fair degree of confidence in this project?”
“I do.”
“And the first colonies will be ready in two weeks?”
“Yes. But as I said, I’d like more—”
“Good. Because the last thing our southern neighbor needs right now is this army of whitefly marching south from Canada and heading straight for their produce basket. They’re already scrambling with the damned cattle plague. Now this. It’s straining diplomatic relations and they’re looking for scapegoats.”
“I’ve seen the papers. The Americans figure we should have moved earlier to control the epidemic in our own backyard. But these things know no borders.”
“Well, neither will our predator bug so it better damn well work.” Marshall slapped the pen onto his blotter. “If it does, Kepplar is made. If not, we go under.” His beetle eyes bored into her. “This is make or break, Doctor.”
“I read you, Marshall.” Skye felt anger starting to bubble. She had no doubt it would be her who took the fall should the project fail. Not Marshall. Not Kepplar Biological Control Systems. Not Agriculture Canada. She’d be the one hung out to dry. Held out to the media as the pathetic scapegoat who failed to avert an economic crisis.
She stood. “Anything else?”
“No. Thank you, and, um, congratulations, with the wedding stuff and all.”
It took all of Skye’s control to walk quietly out of Marshall Kane’s office, to close the door gently. But once shut, she stormed down the corridor. No elevator for her. She needed to work out her adrenaline on the stairs.
For Marshall, it always came down to the bottom line—cold hard cash. Personal acclaim. For her, it was the satisfaction of making something work. For finding a way to kill a parasite. To stop a blight from spreading.
And this whitefly had certainly become a blight on North America’s agricultural map. Skye knew of about twelve hundred different species of whitefly, but this was not one of them. It was a new species. A voracious species that could withstand extreme temperatures. And as yet, no one knew where it had come from and no one had isolated a natural predator to counteract it. So she had set out to create one, adapting a tiny black Asian beetle and breeding it in her lab. Her work was so promising that last year the feds had started taking a keen interest. And early this spring, the Canadian department of agriculture had ordered a massive beetle shipment from Kepplar for large-scale release across the country.
Marshall was still basking, gloating, shareholders patting him on his back for her hard work. Now it looked as though he had set his sights on U.S. contracts. He had even bigger fish to fry. More shareholders to woo. Damn him.
Skye couldn’t care less if Marshall took credit for her work. It helped keep her out of the media, below the radar. But now he was rushing this project. He was running risks she was uncomfortable with. The margin for error was too great.
And failure would make headlines, place her in the international spotlight. She couldn’t have that. She couldn’t let the last decade go to hell in a handbasket now.
She ran down the stairs, working off her fury with physical motion. It always boiled down to this. One way or another she was always running from her past, the threat of exposure. By God, she wished she could stop running.
By the time she got back to her lab she’d found a measure of outward control. She snapped on her gloves and got back to work, avoiding Charly’s questioning eyes. By the time Skye looked at the clock again it was after five. She flipped the switch on her microscope. “That’s it. I’m done and I’m outta here. I need my beauty sleep tonight.”
Charly got up, gave her a kiss on the cheek. “There’s my girl, clocking out at a decent hour for a change. I’ll be at your place at the crack of dawn with champagne and croissants.”
Skye laughed. “That’s all I need, a loaded maid of honor with croissant crumbs down her cleavage. I’ll be happier if you make sure those adult beetles get packed nicely into those bottles with vermiculite while I’m away.”
“We’re on it. No worries. That first shipment will be gone and released before you get back from your honeymoon.”
“Yeah.” She mumbled to herself as she slipped out of her lab coat. “That’s exactly what worries me.”
* * *
Scott washed and rinsed the blue cereal bowl for the third time. The kitchen sink was the best vantage point. From here he could watch the early morning wedding activity next door, and keep an eye on Honey in the yard.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d adopted such a domestic pose. It was in another life. When he was happy. When Leni cooked and he cleaned up and little Kaitlin chattered from her high chair.
Before the “accident.”
The old pain began to pulse at his temple. He pressed two fingers hard against the throb and for the billionth time cursed Rex…himself…the whole bloody world.
The damned wedding next door was bashing on bolted doors to memories. The woman next door had woken the sleeping monster within him, and it thrashed like a caged beast.
Scott slammed the cereal bowl into the drying rack, picked up a glass, rubbed viciously with the dishcloth.
It was nine years ago his wife and baby girl had been blown up in their car. The Plague Doctor’s men had done it. Scott’s family had died because of his job.
Because of him.
Because he hadn’t backed down from hunting one of the world’s most wanted men. He’d helped Rex take down the Plague Doctor in White River just over three years ago. But the global significance of their victory had rung hollow in Scott’s soul. It hadn’t brought his family back. It had done nothing to quell the desire for vengeance that pumped through his veins, or to fill the bitter, aching void in his heart. Nothing to dull the sharp edge of guilt that sliced at him. And seeing Rex so happily reunited with Hannah, the mother of his son… It had burned a hole clean through him.
Rex had saved his family.
Scott hadn’t.
The failure couldn’t be more stark.
And he couldn’t stand to have his face rubbed in the sharp gravel of that reality. So he’d taken one job after another out in the field, in the far wild corners of this earth. Anything to keep him away from a place that had once been home. Anything to keep him from looking in the mirror, facing himself.
Scott’s jaw clenched as he watched a cab pull into the driveway next door. A trim blonde climbed out, paid her fare and trotted up the steps to Skye’s front door. He watched the door open in welcome, Skye’s dark head appear. This morning the doctor wore a soft yellow robe. Cinched at the waist. Bare feet. He saw her laugh, hair falling around her face. The happy bride-to-be.
Scott crushed the glass in the reflexive power that surged through his hands and swore at the sharp pain. That bride-to-be wasn’t going anywhere but the chapel today, of that he was certain. He was wasting time washing dishes, watching her house, thinking of the past.
He glanced down, slightly bemused at the fresh dark blood welling from his hand. He flexed his fingers, testing his injury. The pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the twisted mess in his chest.
He chucked the dishcloth into the sink.
He’d go check out the town, buy some supplies. And when it got closer to wedding time, he’d go wait at the church, see who was arriving. He’d had enough of peeking through drapes. He wrapped a handkerchief roughly around his bleeding hand, grabbed his cane and keys, stepped out onto the porch and whistled for Honey.
To his surprise, the dog bounded instantly to his side. It gave him an unexpected stab of satisfaction. He ruffled the fur on her head. “Come, you silly pooch. We’re going to get some supplies then we’re gonna head on down to the church and watch a wedding.”
Shopping done, Scott and Honey drove to the only chapel in town and pulled into a parking space across the street, under the boughs of an old cherry tree frothy with pale pink blossoms. Scott opened his newspaper, turned to the business pages, took a bite of dried sausage, and began to read. And wait.
A wet splotch of drool hit the far edge of the business section. Then another. He looked slowly up from the newsprint into pleading brown eyes and doggy breath.
“Jeez. Okay, you have the sausage then.”
Honey inhaled the piece whole, tail thumping down on the front seat.
“You didn’t even blink, Honey. Was it worth it?” Scott wedged the business section onto the dashboard, opened a bottle of water. “Okay, Honey, this is your car water.” He held up the bowl they’d just bought at the Haven General Store. “And it goes in your new car bowl. Got it?” Scott sloshed water into the bowl, set it on the floor of the truck. “Careful now, don’t knock it over.”
The darn hound was hard work. He’d gotten used to caring only for his own needs. Hadn’t had to think about making anyone else happy for a long, long time.
Not even a dog.
He watched as Honey lapped up the water. And suddenly he was seeing a black Lab. Merlin—the dog he’d owned when he was eleven. The dog he and his dad used to take on fishing trips. And that made him think of the times he had gone fly-fishing with Leni, before Kaitlin was born.
Scott blinked, rubbed his face. Guilt bit at him. He hadn’t seen his dad or his mum since the funeral. He’d cut everyone out. Everything that made him think of Leni and Kaitlin, of the role he’d played in their deaths. He’d sliced out the very core of who he was.
Scott cleared his throat, retrieved the business section and glanced across at the chapel. He had to focus.
But there was still no action. He turned his attention back to the paper, scanned the headlines.
There was another article on the devastating U.S. beef crisis. And a smaller one about the whitefly epidemic sweeping south. His eyes widened. “Hey, look at this— Kepplar has been contracted to develop a predator bug for this whitefly thing. Our Dr. Van Rijn is in charge of the project.”
Honey burped. Scott looked up, frowned. “You know, Honey, it’s a conspiracy. Rex figures by giving you to me, you’ll make me go fully nuts. Soon I’ll be talking to myself. Then they can happily institutionalize me. Zero guilt for Bellona.”
Honey perked up, but not because of Scott’s scintillating conversation. Her interest was captured by sudden activity outside the church. Cars started arriving. Small groups of people were entering the chapel.
Scott closed the paper, folded it, watched the action across the street. Two men in suits climbed out of a red convertible parked directly in front of the church. Scott studied them, but he couldn’t see the groom.
Then a Harley, identical to Skye’s, rumbled into one of the parking spaces behind the convertible. Another man in a suit. He carried his helmet under one arm, entered the church.
The activity seemed to die down a little. Scott glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty now. By his count there were at least forty wedding guests already waiting inside the church for the bridal party to arrive.
Then he saw it.
A sleek, white limousine cruised down the street, pulled to a stop in front of the chapel. It had no adornment. No silly paper flowers. No ribbons. For some reason, Scott thought this was appropriate and in keeping with the direct and no-nonsense nature of the woman he’d recently met.
A photographer snapped the scene as the driver’s door opened. An elderly gentleman stepped out, dapper in a crisp gray suit. Scott recognized him from the general store. The man walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. A slim blonde stepped out, the same one Scott had seen at Skye’s house this morning. A long dress the dark blue of midnight skimmed the curves of her body. It was draped in a way that reminded Scott of ancient Greece. She was followed by a miniature version, maybe six years old, with wild fair curls. The little flower girl clung to a simple basket of petals.
Then came the bride.
Dr. Skye Van Rijn stepped out of the bridal vehicle and took the old man’s arm.
And she clean stole Scott’s breath.
She was an ancient Greek goddess. An Aphrodite. A high priestess in virginal white. She stood tall, elegant, strong, the simple yet exquisite fall of her dress in the style of old Athens. Her rich dark hair was loosely piled upon her head, held with a tiny silvery-white wreath of leaves. Loose, smoky tendrils curled down, teasing her shoulders. Her arms were bare. Behind her the small stone chapel was silhouetted against the evening sea and a spring sky turning pale violet as the faraway sun set. Scott could think only of white doves and peace offerings and the gods of Mount Olympus. The bug lady looked like she should be marrying Zeus, for Christ’s sake. Not some guy called Jozsef. The woman was a dream. Brains. Beauty…
And a suspect.
Keep that in your confounded brain, Agent.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Skye as the blond woman helped her with the back of her dress. He watched as she climbed the stairs, passed through the chapel doors.
He watched the double doors swing shut behind her. And he imagined her walking down the aisle. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, resting his head against the truck window.
Honey thumped her tail.
“Not you, you hairy mutt.” Scott eased his aching leg into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. He took himself back. Back to his own wedding all those years ago. In his mind he saw Leni walking down the aisle. Toward him. A spectral, shimmering vision of white. But he couldn’t see her properly. He strained to make out her face, her features, to call out to her. But she was gone. In a searing flash of white flame. His eyes snapped open. His hand clenched on the door handle. Perspiration pricked along his brow.
He was dwelling again where he feared to tread. This mission was going to drive him clear over the edge. The sooner he unearthed the bug lady’s secret, the better. Then he was outta here. And out of the damn country. He had to get himself back into the field. The international one. Not this domestic crap.
* * *
“You look beautiful, Skye. What made you go for the Greek theme?” Charly fidgeted with the train of Skye’s dress for the umpteenth time.
Skye sighed, exasperated. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I just like it. Quit trying to distract me.” They’d been waiting in the little antechamber way too long. The organist was going through her repertoire yet again.
Charly’s little niece, Jennifer, sat patiently on a stiff wooden chair, swinging legs that didn’t reach the ground, wilting faster than her basket of petals.
Mike Henderson, the owner of the Haven General Store, a long-time local and dear acquaintance of Skye’s who’d been more than delighted when asked to give her away, opened the door a crack, peeked into the chapel. “He’s still not here.”
“What’s keeping him?” Charly asked.
“Damned if I know,” Skye snapped. She thought of Jozsef. Of his recent behavior. His hesitation when she asked questions. His unusual appearances at the lab. The increasing frequency of his trips abroad. His growing self-indulgence. Her own insecurities. Her incomprehensible, primal feelings for her new neighbor. And suddenly Skye couldn’t take any more. Anxiety, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in a decade, swooped down on her, clawed at her heart.
The urge to run swamped her.
She took a deep breath, stepped forward. With both hands, she threw open the antechamber doors, glared at the rows of pews filled with her close acquaintances. Not friends. Acquaintances. Colleagues. Dear people. But not family.
Not friends.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
She read shock, pity, on their faces. Skye took one tentative step into the chapel. The organist broke into the strains of the wedding march.
Here comes the bride.
Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.
All dressed in white.
Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.
A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.
Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.
“Where is he?”
“Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”
“For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.
“They’re my bike keys.”
She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”
Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”
“You expect me to leave in the bridal vehicle? You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”
Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.
Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”
She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”
But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.
Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.
* * *
The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.
He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.
He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.
The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.
He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.
Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.
“Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.
“Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”