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  When the man looked her up and down, she became conscious of her mud-streaked face, filthy clothes, and bare feet. In reflex, she crossed her arms and scowled.

  “Carolyn Reilly?” Hollows formed under his gaunt cheekbones. He had the same tanned face she remembered, the same longish black hair. His eyebrows were thick, black, and straight, as if someone had painted them on with a ruler. When he stood and offered her his chair, he looked like a Spanish lord. Or a Spanish inquisitor.

  She didn’t want a chair. She wanted to vent. But he kept waiting, saying nothing, courteously holding the chair and wearing a polite expression that was not quite a smile—till finally she shrugged and plopped down.

  Mildly, he said, “We have a complete record of your activities for the past twenty-four hours.”

  CJ gripped the chair seat. She tried to keep her face blank.

  “We also have this.” He lifted a sample jar of milky liquid from Meir’s desk.

  “That’s mine.” She made a grab for it.

  “I believe not.” He moved the jar beyond her reach, put a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back into the chair. “This material was stolen from Quimicron property. But why did you take it, Carolyn?”

  She blinked. He was baiting her. Surely they had discovered its properties by now. She could picture the corporate bigwigs popping champagne corks to celebrate their newest patent—a chemical reaction that squeezed pure drinking water from toxic swill.

  But who was this Spanish aristocrat, some sexy shark from the legal office? He probably wanted to nail down Quimicron’s property rights. The sample swirled in its jar with a tantalizing shimmer. She’d netted something real this time—something she could analyze. She lifted her hand a couple of inches, yearning to hold it.

  Meir sat hunched over his desk, examining his cigar as if it were inscribed with runes. CJ wondered why Meir was letting this lawyer lead the meeting. She scrutinized the Spaniard more carefully. His ID badge was tucked in his pocket so she couldn’t read it. Maybe he wasn’t a lawyer.

  The stranger’s glance raked across Meir and the blond man as if he were weighing them in a scale. She watched him stroll to the window and hold the cloudy sample jar up to the light. The liquid gleamed like mother of pearl.

  “Carolyn, do you know what this is?” His glance sliced toward her like a rapier.

  That trace of accent. Like nothing else she’d heard in Louisiana. When she crossed her arms and clamped her jaw, he lost his careful mask, and a gust of animal ferocity twisted his face. CJ pressed back in her chair, startled.

  But his mild civility returned at once, and he almost managed to smile when he asked again, “Carolyn, what is this liquid?”

  She blurted, “Haven’t you analyzed it?”

  “We overnighted a sample to our Miami lab.” He sat on a corner of Meir’s desk, facing her. “Yesterday, one of our employees fell into a pool of this material and—died. I almost said ‘drowned,’ but in fact, he had a heart attack. Were you aware of the accident?”

  The room went white. CJ couldn’t see the stranger’s face, only the bright window. “At the pond?” she asked weakly.

  “Manuel de Silva,” Meir said, stubbing his cigar in an ashtray. “Had a wife and three kids in Mexico.”

  “It appears something frightened him to death,” said the Spaniard.

  CJ laced and unlaced her fingers. That pond—she should have warned people. Again she remembered her powerless struggle to breathe, and her ragged nails sank into the upholstered chair seat. Max wanted to phone in the accident. She should have let him. The Spaniard stared down at her as if he could see her thoughts.

  Meir said, “Please tell us. Didn’t you hear a man’s dead?”

  “Maybe we should lock her in solitary,” said the blond man.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to speak with Ms. Reilly alone.”

  The Spaniard delivered this request quietly, but there was no mistaking the command in his voice. The blond man seemed ready to argue, but when Meir got up and left the office, the blond man followed.

  After the door closed behind them, CJ didn’t know if she felt relieved or panicked. Once again, the Spaniard gazed into the sample jar as if it might reveal a vision. The pearlescent fluid stirred like the silty white glitter in a child’s snow globe. He handed it to CJ, and she took it in both hands like a precious jewel—or a ticking bomb.

  Shift

  Thursday, March 10

  9:35 AM

  “Yesterday afternoon, when Manuel de Silva fell into the contaminated pool, witnesses said it froze over. Just like that.” The Spaniard snapped his fingers.

  CJ flinched. She could feel him watching her reaction. He tilted Meir’s desk chair around and sat facing her. Their knees were almost touching. “You know about this,” he said.

  She placed the jar on the desk and tucked her shaking hands beneath her thighs. Now was the time to confess, before others died. But after all, what did she know? She watched the sifting jar, backlit with sunbeams. In that jar lay the truth. She longed to test and probe that glittery fluid the way the pond had probed and tested her.

  The man’s left eyebrow quirked upward, distracting her. As he leaned closer, courteous but unsmiling, she noticed again the touches of silver at his temples. His irises were very black, very hard to read. His manicured hands rested lightly on his tailored trousers. She noticed his loosened silk tie, his open collar, his bare throat. Without thinking, she glanced at his mouth.

  Immediately, she reddened and shifted away. “Quimicron can’t claim this. It belongs to the world.”

  “What belongs to the world?”

  His black gaze riveted her attention. But she would not let this corporate mouthpiece bully her. She remained silent.

  “You have your father’s spirit,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I met your father once. Dr. Reilly lectured in Buenos Aires.”

  She gawked at him.

  When she failed to speak, he said, “You have his eyes.”

  “Liar.” She shot to her feet, knocking the chair backward. “I won’t be part of your lies. If you don’t make this discovery public, I will.”

  The man seemed bewildered. “Carolyn, I promise, there will be no lies.”

  “And don’t call me that. I’m CJ.” She pointed to the phone on Meir’s desk. “If you’re not lying, phone the newspapers. Let people know about this.”

  He rose and lifted the desk phone receiver. “What shall I tell them? Shall I say we’ve found a lethal material six miles from Baton Rouge, that we don’t know where it came from, or how widespread it is, or how to neutralize it? Shall I tell them how de Silva died? Maybe we should evacuate the area, do you think?”

  CJ opened her mouth, but his questions confused her. She righted her chair and sat down.

  “Even in Boston, you must have read about the hurricanes.” His voice carried an edge. “The first one was called Katrina, remember? The governor ordered an evacuation, but thousands were left behind. They were trapped and terrified, and that’s an ugly combination. It turns decent people into savages.”

  He circled behind her and grabbed the back of her chair. She sat paralyzed, trying to process what he was saying.

  “Surely you remember the looting and burning? Everyone in Louisiana remembers, I promise you that.” He let go of her chair and began to pace. “People here are teetering on the edge of a maelstrom. Every year, the Mississippi runs higher, and the hurricanes blow harder, and the local citizens are trapped between. Meanwhile, the entire southern edge of this state is sinking into the Gulf. Thousands of acres have gone under, and I’ll tell you an open secret, Carolyn. The next public scare may start a bloodbath.”

  When he paused, CJ bit her thumbnail. He gestured toward the phone. “Do you still want me to call the media?”

  She kicked Meir’s desk with her bare foot. After a moment, she spat out three words as if they burned her mouth. “I don’t know.”

  “Help u
s, Carolyn. We have the material contained in an isolated pond. This is our chance to study it and plan a sensible response.” He put the sample jar in her hands. Then he clipped his own ID badge to her shoulder strap. When his hand brushed her bare skin, she reddened. He said, “You know where the lab is. Tell me what’s in this jar, and I’ll give you a job on our science team.”

  She read the name on his badge, then glanced up. “Roman Sacony?”

  He nodded.

  She read the badge again. “You’re the Quimicron CEO?”

  “Correct.” His face was unreadable.

  She held the jar against her chest, imagining the well equipped lab waiting down the hall. “I’ll do it on one condition. Max Pottevents keeps his job.”

  Ooze

  Thursday, March 10

  11:15 AM

  Roman Sacony glanced at his watch, then squinted up at the sun, a pale white glare behind a film of haze. Cold rain in the morning. Clammy heat at noon. This was spring in Louisiana. The day was getting away from him. He strode quickly through the waist-high weeds, automatically counting strides to measure the distance, a habit he’d developed in youth. He’d ordered the site of the migrant’s death to be cordoned off, and he was hiking through the swamp to have a firsthand look at this mysterious quick-freeze pond. Trouble, that’s what he expected, and logic told him it might be expensive.

  He still didn’t know what substance the pond contained. Carolyn Reilly had not yet begun her analysis. After her long night, Dan Meir insisted on driving her home for a shower and rest. Good administrator, Meir, but too sentimental.

  Roman jumped over a weed-choked ditch and pondered the bizarre coincidence of the late Dr. Harriman Reilly’s daughter working on his cleanup crew. Roman had reviewed her file. He knew about her astonishing IQ, her top grades at MIT, her interrupted studies, and checkered job history. He’d also seen the video of her work in the lab yesterday. The girl knew chemistry. It nettled him that the plant’s regular chemist had fallen ill. When Roman needed data, he didn’t like to wait.

  A white-tailed doe broke through the brush and leaped across his path, heading for the river. He pursed his lips at the pair of spotted fawns that galloped after her. Ahead, machinery droned. This de Silva episode would stir an investigation. Since his company had expanded from Argentina into the US, he could hardly move without exciting some regulatory investigation. Workplace accidents were the worst.

  Carolyn Reilly was holding back information. Spoiled white brat. Why couldn’t she tell the truth? Still, there was something appealing about her bright hazel eyes. Yes, she was pretty, in a vanilla-crème sort of way. Her short reddish hair reminded him of a feather duster, the way it stuck out from her head. But what was she hiding?

  When he mentioned the migrant’s death, her cheeks had flushed, and her pupils had dilated, classic signs of deception. Oh yes, she knew something. He counted his steps and analyzed possible scenarios. He had the kind of mind that wouldn’t let go of a problem till he’d sliced it a dozen ways and forced a solution.

  No one paid him special notice when he approached the trampled area around the pond. In his coverall, breathing mask, and Devil Rays baseball cap, he looked no different from the rank-and-file workers, which was what he preferred. Incognito, he could move about and observe more freely, though the heavy clothing made him sweat.

  He watched his field hands. Mexicans, Haitians, dark-skinned Creoles, they were southern people like himself. He squinted across the canal at Building No. 2. Meir’s office staff were mostly Anglos. That would have to change. He adjusted his breather and resumed pacing.

  The crew was just getting started. He counted eighteen rolls of black filter cloth piled up and steaming in the sun. Next to the rolls lay a heap of T-shaped steel posts, too disorganized to quantify. From these materials, and from a load of hay bales that Meir had ordered, his workers were rapidly erecting a silt fence to contain whatever pollutants had coagulated in the pond.

  He studied the shallow crescent pool—liquid now, no trace of the alleged ice that had flash-frozen Manuel de Silva. After careful examination and a few measured strides along one bank, he estimated its surface area and guessed at its average depth from the height of protruding tree trunks. Then he did a rough mental calculation of its volume, less than a thousand gallons, maybe four liquid tons. He broke off a willow branch and poked experimentally at the ooze.

  Roman knew a lot about manipulating chemical compounds, but only through years of hard study had he learned to maneuver people. That morning, he’d seen the Reilly girl struggling over whether to trust him. He stabbed the mud with his branch and sneered. How predictably these Anglos misjudged his accent and his Latin skin. He relished proving them wrong.

  To maneuver Reilly, he had used the seductive approach. His wealth and power beguiled women—it was a simple fact that he accepted at face value and used to his advantage. He had calculated its effect on Carolyn Reilly, and already, it was working.

  At the pond’s edge, he stirred the water with his willow branch and watched brown particles circulate up from the bottom. At heart, he cared more about tasks than people. Yet for all his chilly exterior, Roman didn’t see himself as a heartless man. He lived ascetically, ate simple food, rarely drank alcohol. His two vices were dark rich coffee and rough sex. He preferred prostitutes, where the exchange was unambiguous. Only one woman had ever gotten close, and that was long ago.

  He adjusted his respirator and thought of Harriman Reilly’s daughter. The girl interested him, but she lacked discipline. She splashed her feelings around like heavy perfume, and logic warned him to avoid getting doused.

  When his phone vibrated, he unzipped his coverall and reached into his pocket. The Miami office was calling—appointments to be rescheduled, flights to be rearranged. He yearned for a cup of Argentinean espresso, but more than anything, he yearned for the lab report. Waiting irked him.

  Strands of green algae caught on his willow branch as he stirred the pond. Certainly, he was eager to learn what pollutants had intersected here in his swamp. If this liquid had indeed formed ice, what extraordinary chemical reaction had absorbed the heat?

  The question intrigued him, but pressing business demanded his attention elsewhere, and this pond was not in his schedule. The strands of algae streamed through the water like a dead girl’s hair, twisting and writhing in whatever direction he chose to move his branch.

  Dr. Harriman Reilly had lectured at the Universidad de Buenos Aires. Roman remembered him well. A harsh brilliant man with searing hazel eyes—the kind of eyes Lucifer must have turned on God. Roman hadn’t lied when he said the Reilly girl looked like her father. She called him a liar. He tore the algae out by its roots and almost smiled. He had been called worse.

  Gulp

  Thursday, March 10

  5:32 PM

  Dan Meir signed the papers for the transfer of de Silva’s body back to his family in Oaxaca. Cause of death was given as “accident,” nothing more specific. The parish coroner was Dan’s old fishing buddy, so between them, they worked out the details.

  Elaine Guidry, the personnel officer, sat nearby addressing the manila envelope. Along with the letter of condolence, Meir had written a check for $20,000 to de Silva’s wife. He wanted to send more. Contract workers were not covered by life insurance, but Meir had found surplus funds in his supplies budget.

  He reached for his box of cigars, then changed his mind. Rich sepia sunlight angled through his window, and gulls wheeled over the canal seeking crawfish. Their squawks sounded peaceful. Halcyon, he thought, a word from one of Elaine’s perfume bottles.

  “That’s about it,” Elaine said as she jogged the pages together and stuffed them in the envelope with the check.

  When she got up to file the copies, Dan watched her move. Elaine was his second in command at Quimicron. They’d worked hand-in-glove for years, and on days like this, they sometimes talked about retiring. Maybe he could guide fishermen up the bayous. Maybe she could o
pen a day spa. Yeah. Sometimes they liked to dream.

  Elaine’s full figure gave Dan a comfortable place to rest his attention. She had tanning-bed skin, brassy curls, and eyes as blue as steel. He liked the way her body jiggled like a cluster of plump grapes. He especially favored her derriere. She noticed where he was looking and gave him a better show by bending over the file cabinet. She took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured two glasses and handed him one.

  “Thank you, doll.” He held the glass without drinking.

  She said, “Rory’s got three shifts working out there. Do we know any more than we did?”

  She watched him swirl the brown liquor in his glass, then she moved behind his chair and rubbed his knotted shoulders. With his silver hair and permanent squint, she thought he looked like Clint Eastwood, only shorter. Elaine had been seeing Dan Meir on the sly for sixteen years. Though he had a wife, two grown children, dozens of friends, and a new grandbaby, still no one understood as well as Elaine did how he took things to heart.

  Usually she tried to make him forget his worries, but today, an uneasy tension pervaded the entire plant. Word was spreading about de Silva’s strange death in the unnatural ice. Along the corridors of Building No. 2, people gathered in clumps and whispered. There were no jokes in the break room. Meetings were canceled. Healthy people called in sick. And this morning, one of the computer programmers tried to sneak a handgun past the security station. He claimed it was for self-defense.

  So instead of distracting her lover with funny anecdotes and gossip, today Elaine couldn’t refrain from asking again, “Dan, do we know any more?”

  But the answer he gave didn’t settle her mind at all. He gulped half his drink and said, “Not a blessed thing.”

  Waft

  Thursday, March 10

  9:05 PM