TWENTY

I was closer to verifying StaRipe’s involvement in all the illnesses cropping up around me, but I still hadn’t figured out why it was causing everyone to get sick. The farm was the same in all three cases, but the harvest dates differed for Beth, Clarissa, and J.D., ruling out the possibility of a single corrupted batch. Something besides an isolated contamination incident had to be happening on the McCutchen Brothers Farm.

When the cranky old machine booted up, I ran an Internet search on McCutchen Brothers Farm. After I sifted through the plethora of porn links, I located a hit that looked promising.

According to the site, the farm had been around for decades but operated under different names as land ownership changed hands. In 1996, the farm had been transferred to the McCutchen brothers, who looked more like a happy gay couple in their picture than true blood brothers. Before the McCutchens took over, the land had been used to grow oranges. The McCutchens initially stuck with citrus as well but, averse to going along with the crowd, they began experimenting with apples. They started with a few types that fared well in humid areas. In 2000, they began growing Gravensteins.

I perked up, the word ‘Gravenstein’ having become a hot buzzword in my brain, joining the ranks of ‘calorie-free’ and ‘metabolism-enhancing.’

The site indicated the McCutchen brothers had tried growing Gravensteins in years past but with little success. I couldn’t locate any mention as to why the apples had suddenly flourished in 2000.

I opened another browser and entered the words ‘Gravenstein’ and ‘2000.’ None of the hits looked even remotely related to apples. How would I find information pertaining to a Gravenstein turnaround in 2000?

I brainstormed for half an hour, occasionally running additional Internet searches. Most of the hits were pure garbage, good for the sole purpose of boosting search-engine revenue by cluttering up my monitor with pop-up ads.

Frustrated from the lack of information online and discouraged by the cramp building in my wrist from closing so many self-sprouting messages, I accessed the browser history to assure myself I was at least working hard at trying to solve this apple mystery. Yes, there were all the links I’d visited. And there at the bottom was Brian’s brokerage site.

Figuring I might as well see what my friend Newie was up to, I logged on to Brian’s account. My heart rate spiked when Friday’s closing quote materialized. NUI was up ten cents since I’d bought it. According to the computer calculator, that was forty whole dollars. Optimism burned as I mentally computed the number of candy bars, ice cream pints, and potato chip bags this translated to. At this rate, I might even be able to pay my own utility bills come January.

Recalling Trevor’s advice, I accessed the corporate news for NUI to see what had happened. But there was no news. Nothing that would account for such a tremendous increase in value anyway.

Remembering my mission, I brought up the corporate information for PFEM. What’s going on with your product? None of the articles screamed out about criminal intent or death threats against hazardous-materials administrative assistants. The stock had been upgraded Friday, the analyst claiming he expected PFEM to outsell all others in the industry. Bored, I clicked on a competing company’s ticker symbol embedded in the article.

The news for OklaGene popped open. I navigated to their corporate website, where a giant, singing carrot greeted me. Perhaps it represented one of the company’s bioengineering successes. Maybe OklaGene had merged carrot genes with that of an opera diva.

I sighed. What a waste of time. I’d almost get more accomplished if I were working on the fresh stack of papers Henry had left for me to assemble. I halfheartedly stabbed a crooked staple through one set of pages.

I wondered if Mike54 operated his chat room on weekends. Given his PFEM knowledge, he’d likely know something about the Gravensteins. With any luck, he’d just be waiting for someone to pop in and ask a question on bioengineering.

I redirected the browser to Mike54’s chat room, but when I tried to log on a message informed me the room was inaccessible until six a.m. Monday. I slumped back into the chair and pondered over where Mike54 could be. Well, duh. He was probably out winning ignominious prizes in coffeehouse raffles.

I’d just have to track down information on the Gravensteins myself. Now that I knew something ominous was going on with StaRipe, Monday seemed an interminably long time to wait—especially given the peril I remained in as long as the lab-report snatcher walked free.

I stood up, grimacing at my latest assignment. Look on the bright side, Ness, I told myself as I plucked my purse off the desk. If I died at the hands of Mitten Man, I’d never have to put together another packet ever again.

After returning to Beth’s, I shut myself in the guest room and dug through the rest of Brian’s PFEM information. So far, the only thing I’d uncovered was that in the year 2000, two gay men had begun growing Gravenstein apples in Florida. It was hardly a good lead, but it was something. I hoped Brian had PFEM’s 2000 annual report buried in his prepping materials. Perhaps the publication could shed some light on my investigation.

Brian had indeed kept PFEM’s 2000 annual report. I tugged it from the pile, flipped to the financial highlights, and hunted for any mention of Gravenstein apples and their responsibility for harming members of the clueless public. Nothing.

I threw the report on the floor and flopped onto the bed. God, detective work was enervating. Here it was barely three o’clock in the afternoon, and I was ready to settle down for the night.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since two, when I’d fetched a small pint of ice cream from a convenience store on my way back to Beth’s. Unfortunately, ‘convenience store’ in the suburbs was a bit of a misnomer. Whereas I considered anything farther than one block from my condo too far to be labeled convenient, here in the boonies I’d be lucky not to have to trek over a mile to locate a business.

I rolled out of bed and hotfooted it to the kitchen. Kevin sat at the kitchen table, reading. Or, more accurately, he had his nose resting on an open magazine. His eyes didn’t appear to be moving, but then again, I couldn’t see them behind his closed lids.

I flung open the refrigerator door, sending several condiment jars rattling together. Kevin sucked in a loud snore as his eyes fluttered open.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” I told him before poking my head into the fridge.

I rummaged through the refrigerator for a long minute before slamming the door shut. I opened the pantry door and began another search, only to close it when nothing but canned vegetables and grains materialized. How was I expected to refuel if Beth couldn’t keep refined sugar stocked in her house? I collapsed against the counter and contemplated my next move.

Kevin yawned. “There’s coffeecake in the breadbox,” he said before turning to his magazine.

I hoisted myself away from the counter and opened the breadbox. Sure enough, there sat the most delicious-looking baked item I’d ever laid eyes on. I sliced off a large piece using one of Beth’s butter knives and stuck a corner in my mouth. The sugar shot straight into my bloodstream. Pure heaven.

I finished the wedge and reached for the knife again. Since Kevin had drawn my attention to the coffeecake, I figured Beth had no grounds for reprimanding me if I ate the whole thing. Concentrating on savoring the delicacy eased the stress of thinking about nothing but StaRipe apples over the past twenty-four hours, and I yearned to prolong the experience.

“Not a hint of apple anywhere,” I murmured, taking another bite. I swallowed and turned toward Kevin. “You wouldn’t believe how sick of apples I am. That’s all I’ve thought about this weekend: apple, apple, apple.”

The words echoed in my head. Malus pumila. Mauls pummel. The lab reports. The code words disguising an evil plot to terminate another human being.

My mouth hung open, coffeecake crumbs dribbling all over Beth’s linoleum floor. “How did you know about that?”

I tossed the rest of my coffeecake on the counter and took two giant steps away from the kitchen table. My God. Was Kevin the mastermind behind the lab-report obsession? Had Kevin hired Mitten Man to terrorize me? Had Kevin, my catatonic brother-in-law, attacked my Brian in an alleyway? Could Kevin be capable of this much malevolence?

I glanced around as my panic built. The butter knife I’d used to cut the cake caught my eye, but I doubted it could protect me against a bona fide killer. My eyes landed on Beth’s wooden knife block on the other side of the kitchen. It housed three weapons I could use to fend off Kevin while running for my life.

My heart raced as I planned my escape. I nixed the idea of exiting through the kitchen door, which led into the garage. Even indolent Kevin would have ample time to maul, pummel, and punch me before the garage door rolled open. That left the front door.

First, I’d leap toward the knives and grab one in each fist like a psychotic ballerina. Then I’d make a run for the living room—a backward run so Kevin would never leave my sight. I just prayed the commotion wouldn’t excite Liam to the point of joining in by shoving his snout between my legs.

“Yes, I know what an apple is,” I retorted. I took a deep breath and added, “Sorry. I’m just a bit on edge today.”

The malus pumila mentioned in the lab reports must be the same malus pumila the McCutchen brothers grew.

I assimilated this, the information meshing well with my existing knowledge. Kevin seemed exactly like the type of person who would thrive on studying plants. After all, Kevin and vegetation moved at about the same pace.

Some of the tension left my body. “You don’t happen to know what punica granatum means, do you?”

Kevin issued the reply in his typical unenthusiastic fashion. “Pomegranate.”

I scurried around to his side of the table and hugged him, shocking us both. “Kevin, did I ever tell you you’re my favorite brother-in-law ever?”

Like a masochistic homing pigeon, I made my way back to Safe Sound. The sick thing was finding out I didn’t mind being in my cubicle on a Saturday. Without Henry around, the negative feelings associated with my little paneled room had almost disappeared.

‘Almost’ was the key word. Although I knew Mitten Man had no way of accessing the fourteenth floor today, I still felt uneasy sitting smack-dab in the scene of yesterday’s crime.

Armed with Kevin’s unexpected contribution to my mission, I once again turned on my computer to set about gaining more information.

When the machine finally powered up, I accessed a Web browser and submitted the search terms ‘Gravenstein,’ ‘apple,’ and ‘pomegranate.’ Surprisingly, all the suggested links seemed vaguely relevant. The perverts of the world apparently had not yet discovered any carnal benefits in combining common fruits.

I clicked on the first hit and began reading. My heart stopped when I spotted in the third paragraph the very words I’d been keyed up to find all day.

OklaGene released the heat-resistant Gravenstein apple in 1999. Using the bioengineering method of electroporation, OklaGene discovered a way to introduce genes from tropical pomegranates into climate-sensitive Gravenstein apples. The genetically modified apples have an increased tolerance to warmer climates, allowing them to be grown in more areas than the typical locale, northern California.

I didn’t find any mention of PFEM in the article, but the time frame fit. If these pomegranate apples began being marketed in 1999, that explained why the McCutchen brothers had experienced sudden success growing Gravensteins in 2000.

I pondered the possibilities. Based on their shelf life, I knew the McCutchens treated their apples with StaRipe. I doubted the Gravensteins had been poisonous before StaRipe treatment. It seemed unlikely that they’d been harmful all along yet nobody figured out their toxicity sometime within the last four years. And as Mike54 had informed me in his own warped manner, StaRipe had passed rigorous government testing. Plus, the StaRipe-treated apples consumed by Mike54 and Brian hadn’t resulted in illness, so I found it hard to believe applying the chemical to normal apples resulted in a dangerous product. The only logical conclusion was that the combination of bioengineered pomegranate apples and StaRipe led to one very nasty fruit. The question was why.

I picked up a pen and tapped it against the desk. What was it about pomegranate genes that might cause apples to react differently to StaRipe? What did I know about pomegranates, besides the fact that they were too healthy to interest me?

I dropped the pen and brought up another browser window, searching an online dictionary for pomegranates. My mouth puckered when I read the description. Tropical pomegranates were round, leathery, and filled with edible pulpy seeds. Who would willingly eat such a thing?

According to Mike54, bioengineering allowed one organism to take on the beneficial qualities of another. Okay, so pomegranates were tropical. That would explain why their genes might enable Gravensteins to grow in Florida.

But then why the illnesses? Something more menacing than simple heat resistance had to be happening.

I located a medical-diagnosis site and typed in the symptoms Beth recalled experiencing the day she’d been hospitalized. Holding my breath as I punched the Enter key, I waited for the byte-crunching bot to identify my sister’s illness.

‘Congratulations! You may be pregnant!’ announced Dr. Droid as a stork cartoon repeatedly crashed its head into the monitor.

“Great,” I muttered, skimming through the disturbing information on morning sickness.

I continued reading. ‘This disease is caused by unprotected sexual intercourse.’

‘If this ailment does not fit, click No to continue with an alternate diagnosis.’

At least it was a step up from being pregnant. Maybe if I clicked No enough times, I’d get a much-coveted disease, one that would render me useless in a corporate environment but still allow me to maintain an active and fulfilling lifestyle.

I clicked No again, and a list of all the diseases I might suffer from popped up. There were a lot of them. Either Dr. Droid didn’t have a clue what caused the inputted symptoms, or vomiting, sweat, and exhaustion were common to almost every illness known to man.

I scrolled through the first page. Ailments from A to H filled the screen. It seemed Beth could be the victim of anything from acute adrenocortical insufficiency to hypertension. And that was just on this page alone.

I navigated the mouse to the Next Page link, but something in my brain snapped into place before I clicked. Embedded in the middle of the list was ‘Cyanide Poisoning.’ Hadn’t Clarissa tried to kill herself by ingesting cyanide? Could there be some link here I was missing? Well, there was one way to find out.

Sighing, I grabbed my purse for the thousandth time that day and prepared to trek back across the city.

I guiltily thought of Brian strapped in room 214 as I stormed down the hospital corridor toward Clarissa’s room. My poor husband had been expecting me since noon, and here it was after six o’clock in the evening. But I hadn’t brought the PFEM papers with me, and I knew Brian would be disappointed if I showed up empty-handed. Besides, I was a woman on a mission. He would just have to wait for his precious papers.

Clarissa looked up from her book when I entered the room. “Vanessa, you’re back,” she stated, pressing her back against the far side of the bed as if she expected me to whip a feeding tube out of my purse and jam it down her esophagus. “Did you forget something?”

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I didn’t try to kill myself, if that’s what you’re after. I told that to the shrink they made me talk to, but he didn’t believe me. He said I was in denial and not thinking properly from lack of nutrition.” She turned her pleading gaze toward me. “But I swear to you, Vanessa, I am not suicidal.”

“I believe you,” I told her. “I’m here to see if you have any idea how you could have accidentally ingested cyanide.”

Her nostrils flared. “According to the shrink,” she said, a hint of bitterness in her tone, “nothing. He said I was only making excuses for myself.” She scoffed. “Like I would even know where to buy cyanide if I wanted to overdose.”

“What I just said. That I ate too many seeds by accident. You know, chewed up too much of their cyanide.”

“No, I didn’t.” But it certainly explained a lot of this mystery. At least I now had a link between the symptoms experienced by Beth, Bob, and Clarissa and the StaRipe-treated OklaGene apples.

“They do, but it’s not much,” Clarissa explained. “And you have to chew the shells in order to ingest any of it.”

“So you didn’t try to commit suicide, you merely bit through too many seed casings,” I mused.

Clarissa shook her head. “No, I didn’t eat the seeds. I just suggested to the shrink that maybe I ate a seed or two, but that was a guess since I never intentionally ingested cyanide.”

I thought about what I knew so far. I knew the McCutchen brothers grew OklaGene apples, which were modified with pomegranate genes so the fruit could grow better in warmer, humid areas. I knew the McCutchen apples were treated with StaRipe, as evidenced by their extraordinarily unnatural shelf life. I knew anyone who ate the McCutchen apples fell ill. And I’d just discovered apple seeds contained cyanide, whose toxic symptoms matched those of the ailing apple eaters I’d spoken with.

Which led to the conclusion that one should never, ever eat apples. To be extra safe, fruits of all shapes and sizes should be avoided.

Now the only question remaining was why these StaRipe-treated OklaGene apples were so poisonous.

I stood up and latched my purse strap over my shoulder. “Clarissa, once again you’ve been a tremendous help.”