Free Thursday Taste of The Silk Code

Part I: The Mendelian Lamp


Chapter One    Most people think of California, or the midwest, when they think of farm country.  I'll take Pennsylvania, and the deep greens on its red earth, any time.  Small patches of tomatoes and corn, clothes snapping brightly on a line, and a farmhouse always attached to some corner. The scale is human...Jenna was in England for a conference, my weekend calendar was clear, so I took Mo up on a visit to Lancaster.  Over the GW Bridge, coughing down the Turnpike, over another bridge, down yet another highway stained and pitted then off on a side road where I can roll down my windows and breathe.Mo and his wife and two girls were good people.  He was a rarity for a forensic scientist.  Maybe it was the pace of criminal science in this part of the country -- lots of the people around here were Amish, and Amish are non-violent -- or maybe it was his steady diet of those deep greens that quieted his soul.  But Mo had none of the grit, none of the cynicism, that comes to most of us who traverse the territory of the dead and the maimed.  No, Mo had an innocence, a delight, in the lights of science and people and their possibilities."Phil." He clapped me on the back with one hand and took my bag with another.  "Phil, how are you?" his wife Corinne yoo-hooed from inside.  "Hi Phil!" his elder daughter Laurie, probably 16 already, chimed in from the window, a quick splash of strawberry blond in a crystal frame."Hi--" I started to say, but Mo put my bag on the porch and ushered me towards his car."You got here early, good," he said, in that schoolboy conspiratorial whisper I'd heard him go into every time he came across some inviting new avenue of science.  ESP, UFOs, Mayan ruins in unexpected places -- these were all catnip to Mo.  But the power of quiet nature, the hidden wisdom of the farmer, this was his special domain.  "A little present I want to pick up for Laurie," he whispered even more, though she was well out of earshot. "And something I want to show you. You too tired for a quick drive?""Ah, no, I'm ok--""Great, let's go then," he said.  "I came across some Amish techniques --  well, you'll see for yourself, you're gonna love it."* * *Strasburg is 15 minutes down Rt. 30 from Lancaster.  All Dairy Queens and 7-Elevens till you get there, but when you turn off and travel a half a mile in any direction you're back a hundred years or more in time.  The air itself says it all. High mixture of pollen and horse manure that smells so surprisingly good, so real, it makes your eyes tear with pleasure. You don't even mind the few flies flitting around.We turned down Northstar Road.  "Joseph Stoltzfus's farm is down there on the right," Mo said.I nodded.  "Beautiful."  The sun looked about five minutes to setting. The sky was the color of a robin's belly against the browns and greens of the farm.  "He won't mind that we're coming here by, uh--""By car?  Nah, of course not," Mo said. "The Amish have no problem with non-Amish driving.  And Joseph, as you'll see, is more open-minded than most."I thought I could see him now, off to the right at the end of the road that had turned to dirt, grey-white head of hair and beard bending over the gnarled bark of a fruit tree.  He wore plain black overalls and a deep purple shirt."That Joseph?" I asked."I think so," Mo replied. "I'm not sure."We pulled the car over near the tree, and got out.  A soft autumn rain suddenly started falling."You have business here?" The man by the tree turned to address us. His tone was far from friendly."Uh yes," Mo said, clearly taken aback.  "I'm sorry to intrude. Joseph -- Joseph Stoltzfus -- said it would be ok if we came by--""You had business with Joseph?" the man demanded again.  His eyes looked red and watery -- though that could have been from the rain."Well, yes," Mo said.  "But if this isn't a good time--""My brother is dead," the man said.  "My name is Isaac. This is a bad time for our family.""Dead?" Mo nearly shouted.  "I mean ... what happened?  I just saw your brother yesterday.""We're not sure," Isaac said.  "Heart attack, maybe.  I think you should leave now.  Family are coming soon.""Yes, yes, of course," Mo said.  He looked beyond Isaac at a barn that I noticed for the first time.  Its doors were slightly open, and weak light flickered inside.Mo took a step in the direction of the barn.  Isaac put up a restraining arm. "Please," he said. "It's better if you go.""Yes, of course," Mo said again, and I led him to the car."You all right?" I asked when we were both in the car, and Mo had started the engine.He shook his head.  "Couldn't be a heart attack.  Not at a time like this.""Heart attacks don't usually ask for appointments," I said.Mo was still shaking his head, turning back on to Northstar Road. "I think someone killed him."* * *Now forensic scientists are prone to see murder in a ninety-year old woman dying peacefully in her sleep, but this was unusual from Mo."Tell me about it," I said, reluctantly.  Just what I needed -- death turning my visit into a busman's holiday."Never mind," he muttered. "I babbled too much already.""Babbled?  You haven't told me a thing."Mo drove on in brooding silence.  He looked like a different person, wearing a mask that used to be his face."You're trying to protect me from something, is that it?" I ventured. "You know better than that."Mo said nothing."What's the point?" I prodded.  "We'll be back with Corinne and the girls in five minutes.  They'll take one look at you, and know something happened.  What are you going to tell them?"Mo swerved suddenly onto a side road, bringing my kidney into sticking contact with the inside door handle.  "Well, I guess you're right about that," he said.  He punched in a code in his car phone -- I hadn't noticed it before."Hello?" Corinne answered."Bad news, honey," Mo said matter-of-factly, though it sounded put on to me.  No doubt his wife would see through it too.  "Something came up in the project, and we're going to have to go to Philadelphia tonight.""You and Phil? Everything ok?""Yeah, the two of us," Mo said.  "Not to worry.  I'll call you again when we get there.""I love you," Corinne said."Me too," Mo said.  "Kiss the girls good night for me."He hung up and turned to me."Philadelphia?" I asked."Better that I don't give them too many details," he said. "I never do in my cases.  Only would worry them.""She's worried anyway," I said.  "Sure sign she's worried when she didn't even scream at you for missing dinner.  Now that you bring it up, I'm a little worried now too.  What's going on?"Mo said nothing.  Then he turned the car again -- mercifully more gently this time -- onto a road with a sign that advised that the Pennsylvania Turnpike was up ahead.* * *I rolled up the window as our speed increased.  The night had suddenly gone damp and cold."You going to give me a clue as to where we're going, or just kidnap me to Philadelphia?" I asked."I'll let you off at the 30th Street Station," Mo said. "You can get a bite to eat on the train and be back in New York in an hour.""You left my bag on your porch, remember?" I said.  "Not to mention my car.""All right, I'll drive you back to my place -- we can turn around at the next exit.""I'd just as soon come along for the ride, and then we can both go back to your place.  Would that be ok?"Mo just scowled and drove on."I wonder if Amos knows?" he said more to himself than me a few moments later."Amos is a friend of Joseph's?" I asked."His son," Mo said."We'll I guess you can't very well call him on your car phone," I said.Mo shook his head, frowned.  "Most people misunderstand the Amish -- think they're some sort of Luddites, against all technology.  But that's not really it at all.  They struggle with technology, agonize over whether to reject or accept it, and if they accept it, in what ways, so as not to compromise their independence and self-sufficiency. They're not completely against phones -- just against phones in their homes -- because the phone intrudes on everything you're doing."I snorted. "Yeah, many's the time a call from the Captain pulled me out of the sack.  Telephonus interruptus."Mo flashed his smile, for the first time since we'd left Joseph Stoltzfus's farm.  It was good to see."So where do Amish keep their phones?" I might as well press my advantage, and the chance it would get Mo to talk."Well, that's another misconception," Mo said.  "There's not one monolithic Amish viewpoint.  There are many Amish groups. They have different ways of dealing with technology.  Some allow phone shacks on the edges of their property, so they can make calls when they want to, but not be disturbed in the sanctity of their homes.""Does Amos have a phone shack?"  I asked."Dunno," Mo said, like he was beginning to think about something else."But you said his family was more open than most," I persisted.Mo swiveled his head to stare at me for a second, then turned his eyes back on the road.  "Open-minded, yes. But not really about communications."     

"About what, then?""Medicine," Mo said."Medicine?" I asked."What do you know about allergies?"My nose itched -- maybe it was the remnants of the sweet pollen near Strasburg."I have hay fever," I said.  "Cantaloupe sometimes makes my mouth burn. I've seen a few strange deaths in my time due to allergic reactions.  You think Joseph Stoltzfus died from something like that?""No," Mo said. "I think he was killed because he was trying to prevent people from dying from things like that.""Ok," I said. "Last time you said that and I asked you to explain you said never mind.  Should I ask again or let it slide?"Mo sighed.  "You know, genetic engineering goes back well before the double helix.""Come again?""Breeding plants to make new combinations probably dates almost to the origins of our species," Mo said.  "Darwin understood that -- he called it `artificial selection'.  Mendel doped out the first laws of genetics breeding peas. Luther Burbank developed way many more new varieties of fruit and vegetables than have yet to come out of our gene-splicing labs.""And the connection to the Amish is what -- they breed new vegetables now too?" I asked."More than that," Mo said.  "They have whole insides of houses lit by special kinds of fireflies, altruistic manure permeated by slugs that seek out the roots of plants to die there and give them nourishment -- all deliberately bred to be that way, and the public knows nothing about it. It's biotechnology of the highest order, without the technology.""And your friend Joseph was working on this?"Mo nodded.  "Techno-allergists -- our conventional researchers -- have recently been investigating how some foods act as catalysts to other allergies.  Cantaloupe tingles in your mouth in hay fever season, right? -- because it's really exacerbating the hay fever allergy.  Watermelon does the same, and so does the pollen of mums.  Joseph and his people have known this for at least 50 years -- and they've gone much further.  They're trying to breed a new kind of food, some kind of tomato thing, which would act as an anti-catalyst for allergies -- would reduce their histamine effect to nothing.""Like an organic Claritin?" I asked."Better than that," Mo said.  "This would trump any pharmaceutical.""You ok?" I noticed Mo's face was bearing big beads of sweat."Sure," he said, and cleared his throat.  He pulled out a hanky and mopped his brow. "I don't know. Joseph--" he started coughing in hacking waves.I reached over to steady him, and straighten the steering wheel.  His shirt was soaked with sweat and he was breathing in angry rasps."Mo, hold on," I said, keeping one hand on Mo and the wheel, fumbling with the other in my inside coat pocket. I finally got my fingers on the epinephrine pen I always kept there, and angled it out.  Mo was limp and wet and barely conscious over the wheel.  I pushed him over as gently as I could and went with my foot for the brake.  Cars were speeding by us, screaming at me in the mirror with their lights. Thankfully Mo had been driving on the right, so I only had one stream of lights to blind me. My sole finally made contact with the brake, and I pressed down as gradually as possible. Miraculously, the car came to a reasonably slow halt on the shoulder of the road. We both seemed in one piece.I looked at Mo.  I yanked up his shirt, and plunged the pen into his arm.  I wasn't sure how long he'd not been breathing, but it wasn't good.I dialed 911 on the car phone.  "Get someone over here fast," I yelled.  "I'm on the Turnpike, eastbound, just before the Philadelphia turnoff. I'm Dr. Phil D'Amato, NYPD Forensics. This is a medical emergency."I wasn't positive that anaphylactic shock was what was wrong with him, but the adrenaline couldn't do much harm. I leaned over his chest and felt no heartbeat.  Jeez, please.I gave Mo mouth-to-mouth, pounded his chest, pleading for life.  "Hang on, damn you!" But I knew already. I could tell. After a while you get this sort of sickening sixth sense about these things. Some kind of allergic  reaction from hell had just killed my friend.  Right in my arms.  Just like that.EMS got to us eight minutes later.  Better than some of the New York City times I'd been seeing lately.  But it didn't matter.  Mo was gone. I looked at the car phone as they worked on him, cursing and trying to jolt him back into life.  I'd have to call Corinne and tell her this now.  But all I could see in the plastic phone display was Laurie's strawberry blonde hair.* * *"You ok, Dr. D'Amato?" one of the orderlies called."Yeah," I said.  I guess I was shaking."These allergic reactions can be lethal all right," he said, looking over at Mo.Right, tell me about it."You'll call the family?" the orderly asked. They'd be taking  Mo to a local hospital, DOA."Yeah," I said, brushing a burning tear from my eye. I felt like I was suffocating.  I had to slow down, stay in control, separate the psychological from the physical so I could begin to understand what was going on here.  I breathed out and in. Again. Ok.  I was all right.  I wasn't really suffocating.The ambulance sped off, carrying Mo.  He had been suffocating, and it killed him.  What had he been starting to tell me?I looked again at the phone. The right thing for me to do was to drive back to Mo's home, be there for Corinne when I told her -- calling her on the phone with news like this was monstrous.  But I  had to find out what had happened to Mo -- and that would likely not be from Corinne. Mo didn't want to worry her, didn't confide in her. No, the best chance of finding out what Mo had been up to seemed to be in Philadelphia, in the place Mo had been going.  But where in Philadelphia?I focused on the phone display -- pressed a couple of keys, and got a directory up on the little screen. The only 215 area code listed there was for a Sarah Fischer, with an address that I knew to be near Temple University.I pressed the code next to the number, then the Send command.Crackle, crackle, then a distant tinny cellular ring."Hello?" a female voice answered, sounding closer than I'd expected."Hi.  Is this Sarah Fischer?""Yes," she said.  "Do I know you?""Well, I'm a friend of Mo Buhler's, and I think we, he, may have been on his way to see you tonight--""Who are you?  Is Mo ok?""Well--" I started."Look, who the hell are you?  I'm going to hang up if you don't give me a straight answer," she said."I'm Dr. Phil D'Amato.  I'm a forensic scientist -- with the New York City Police Department."She was quiet for a moment.  "Your name sounds familiar for some reason," she said."Well, I've written a few articles--""Hold on," I heard her put the phone down, rustle through some papers."You had an article in Discover, about antibiotic-resistant bacteria,  right?" she asked about half a minute later."Yes, I did," I said.  In other circumstances, my ego would have jumped at finding such an observant reader."Ok, what date was it published?" she asked.Jeez. "Uh, late last year," I said."I see there's a pen and ink sketch of you.  What do you look like?""Straight dark hair -- not enough of it," I said -- who could remember what that lame sketch actually looked like?"Go on," she said."And a moustache, reasonably thick, and steel-rimmed glasses."  I'd grown the moustache at Jenna's behest, and had on my specs for the sketch.A few beats of silence, then a sigh.  "Ok," she said.  "So now you get to tell me why you're calling -- and what happened to Mo."* * *Sarah's apartment was less than half an hour away.  I'd filled her in on the phone.  She'd seemed more saddened than surprised, and asked me to come over.I'd spoken to Corinne, and told her as best I could.  Mo had been a cop before he'd become a forensic scientist, and I guess wives of police are supposed to be ready for this sort of thing, but how can a person ever really be ready for it after 20 years of good marriage?  She'd cried, I'd cried, the kids cried in the background. I'd said I was coming over -- and I know I should have -- but I was hoping she'd say `no, I'm ok, Phil, really, you'll want to find out why this happened to Mo' ... and that's exactly what she did say.  They don't make people like Corinne Rodriguez Buhler any more.There was a parking spot right across the street from Sarah's building -- in New York this would have been a gift from on high. I tucked in my shirt, tightened my belt, and composed myself as best I could before ringing her bell.She buzzed me in, and was standing inside her apartment, 2nd floor walk-up, door open, to greet me as I sprinted and puffed up the flight of  stairs. She had flaxen blonde hair, a distracted look in her eyes, but an easy, open smile that I didn't expect after the grilling she'd given me on the phone. She looked about 30.The apartment had soft, recessed lighting -- like a Paris-by-gaslight exhibit I'd once seen -- and smelled faintly of lavender.  My nose crinkled. "I use it to help me sleep," Sarah said, and directed me to an old, overstuffed Morris chair. "I was getting ready to go to sleep when you called.""I'm sorry--""No, I'm the one who's sorry," she said. "About giving you a hard time, about what happened to Mo."  Her voice caught on his name.  She asked, "Can I get you something?  You must be hungry."  She turned around and walked towards another room, which I assumed was the kitchen.Her pants were white, and the light showed the contours of her body to good advantage as she walked away."Here, try some of these to start." She returned with a bowl of grapes.  Concord grapes.  One of my favorites.  Put one in your mouth, puncture the purple skin, jiggle the flesh around on your tongue, it's the taste of Fall.  But I didn't move."I know," she said.  "You're leery of touching any strange food after what happened to Mo.  I don't blame you.  But these are ok. Here, let me show you," and she reached and took a dusty grape and put it in her mouth.  "Mmm," she smacked her lips, took out the pits with her finger.  "Look -- why don't you pick a grape and give it to me. OK?"My stomach was growling and I was feeling light-headed already, and I realized I would have to make a decision.  Either leave right now, if I didn't trust this woman, and go somewhere to get something to eat -- or eat what she gave me.  I was too hungry to sit here and talk to her and resist her food right now."All right, up to you," she said.  "I have some Black Forest ham, and can make you a sandwich, if you like, or just coffee or tea.""All three." I decided.  "I mean, I'd love the sandwich, and some tea please, and I'll try the grapes."  I put one in my mouth. I'd learned a long time ago that paranoia can be almost as debilitating as the dangers it supposes.She was back a few minutes later with the sandwich and the tea. I'd squished at least three more grapes in my mouth, and felt fine."There's a war going on," she said, and put the food tray on the end table next to me.  The sandwich was made with some sort of black bread, and smelled wonderful."War?" I asked and bit into the sandwich.  "You think what happened to Mo is the work of some terrorist?""Not exactly." Sarah sat down on a chair next to me, a cup of tea in her hand. "This war's been going on a very long time. It's a bio-war -- much deeper rooted, literally, than anything we currently regard as terrorism.""I don't get it," I said, and swallowed what I'd been chewing of my sandwich.  It felt good going down, and in my stomach."No, you wouldn't," Sarah said.  "Few people do.  You think epidemics, sudden widespread allergic reactions, diseases that wipe out crops or livestock or people just happen.  Sometimes they do. Sometimes it's more than that." She sipped her cup of tea. Something about the lighting, her hair, her face, maybe the taste of the food, made me feel like I was a kid back in the 60s. I half expected to smell incense burning."Who are you?" I asked.  "I mean, what was your connection to Mo?""I'm working on my doctorate over at Temple," she said. "My area's ethno/botanical pharmacology -- Mo was one of my resources.  He was a very nice man." I thought I saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye."Yes, he was," I said.  "And he was helping you with your dissertation about what -- the germ warfare you were talking about?""Not quite that," Sarah said.  "I mean, you know the academic world, no one would ever let me do a thesis on something that outrageous -- it'd never get by the proposal committee.  So you have to finesse it, do it on something more innocuous, get the good stuff in under the table, you know, smuggle it in.  So, yeah, the subtext of my work was what we -- I -- call the bio-wars, which are actually more than just germ warfare, and yeah, Mo was one of the people who were helping me research that."Sounded like Mo, all right.  "And the Amish have something to do with this?""Yes and no," Sarah said.  "The Amish aren't a single, unified group -- they actually have quite a range of styles and values--""I know," I said.  "And some of them -- maybe one of the splinter groups -- are involved in this bio-war?"      "The main bio-war group isn't really Amish -- though one of their clusters is situated near Lancaster, been there for at least 150 years.  But they're not Amish.  They pretend to be Amish -- gives them good cover -- but they're much older. People think they're Amish, though, since they live close to the land, in a low-tech mode.  But they're not Amish.  Real Amish are non-violent.  But some of the Amish know what's going on.""You know a lot about the Amish," I said.She blushed slightly.  "I'm former Amish.  I pursued my interests as far as a woman could in my church.  I pleaded with my bishop to let me go to college -- he knew what the stakes were, the importance of what I was studying -- but he said no. He said a woman's place was in the home.  I guess he was trying to protect me, but I couldn't stay.""You know Joseph Stoltzfus?" I asked.Sarah nodded, lips tight.  "He was my uncle," she finally said, "my mother's brother.""I'm sorry," I said. I could see that she knew he was dead. "Who told you?" I asked softly."Amos -- my cousin -- Joseph's son.  He has a phone shack," she said."I see," I said.  What an evening.  "I think Mo thought that those people -- those others, like the Amish, but not Amish -- somehow killed Joseph."Sarah's face shuddered, seemed to unravel into sobs and tears. "They did," she managed to say.  "Mo was right.  And they killed Mo too."I put down my plate, and reached over to comfort her.  It wasn't enough.  I got up and walked to her and put my arm around her. She got up shakily off her chair, then collapsed in my arms, heaving, crying.  I felt her body, her heartbeat, through her crinoline shirt."It's ok," I said.  "Don't worry.  I deal with bastards like that all the time in my business.  We'll get these people, I promise you."She shook her head against my chest.  "Not like these," she said."We'll get them," I said again.She held on to me, then pulled away.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."  She looked over at my empty teacup. "How about a glass of wine?"I looked at my watch.  It was 9:45 already, and I was exhausted. But there was more I needed to learn.  "Ok," I said. "Sure. But just one glass."She offered a tremulous smile, and went back into the kitchen. She returned with two glasses of a deep red wine.I sat down, and sipped.  The wine tasted good -- slightly Portuguese, perhaps, with just a hint of some fruit and a nice woody undertone."Local," she said.  "You like it?""Yes, I do," I said.She took a sip, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The bottoms of her blue eyes glinted like  semi-precious gems out of half-closed lids.      I needed to focus on the problem at hand.  "How exactly do these bio-war people kill -- what'd they do to Joseph and Mo?" I asked.Her eyes stayed closed a moment longer than I'd expected -- like she'd been daydreaming, or drifting off to sleep.  Then she opened them and looked at me, and shook her head slowly.  "They've got all sorts of ways.  The latest is some kind of catalyst -- in food, we think it's a special kind of Crenshaw melon -- that vastly magnifies the effect of any of a number of allergies." She picked up her wine with a trembling hand, and drained the glass. She got up.  "I'm going to have another glass -- sure you don't want some more?""I'm sure, thanks," I said, and looked at my wine as she walked back into the kitchen.  For all I knew, a catalyst from that damn melon was in this very glass--I heard a glass or something crash in the kitchen.I rushed in.Sarah was standing over what looked like a little hurricane lamp, glowing white but not burning on the inside, broken on the floor. A few little bugs of some sort took wing and flew away."I'm sorry," she said.  She was crying again. "I knocked it over. I'm  really not myself tonight.""No one would be, in your situation," I said.She put her arms around me again, pressing close.  I instinctively kissed her cheek, just barely -- in what I instantly hoped, after the fact, was a brotherly gesture."Stay with me tonight," she whispered.  "I mean, the couch out there opens up for you, and you'll have your privacy.  I'll sleep in the bedroom. I'm afraid..."I was afraid too, because a part of me suddenly wanted to pick her up and carry her over to her bedroom, the couch, anywhere, and lay her down, softly unwrap her clothes, run my fingers through her sweet-smelling hair and--But I also cared very much for Jenna.  And though we'd made no formal lifetime commitments to each other--"I don't feel very good," Sarah said, and pulled away slightly. "I guess I had some wine before you came and--" her head lolled and her body suddenly sagged and her eyes rolled back in her skull."Jeez!  Sarah!" I first tried to buoy her up, then picked her up entirely and carried her into her bedroom.  I put her down on the bed, soft silken sheets, gently as I could, then felt the pulse in her wrist. It may have been a bit rapid, but seemed basically all right.  I peeled back her eyelid -- she was semi-conscious, but her pupil wasn't dilated.  She was likely drunk, not drugged. I put my ear to her chest.  Her heartbeat was fine -- nothing like Mo's allergic reaction.  "You're ok," I said.  "Just a little shock and exhaustion."    She moaned softly, then reached out and took my hand.  I held it for a long time, till its grip weakened and she was definitely asleep, and then I walked quietly into the other room.I was too tired myself to go anywhere, too tired to even figure out how to open her couch, so I just stretched out on it and managed to take off my shoes before I fell soundly asleep. My last thoughts were that I needed to have another look at the Stoltzfus farm, the lamp on her floor was beautiful, so was Sarah on those sheets, and I hoped I wasn't drugged or anything, but it was too late to do anything about it if I was...

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