Wounded Earth (39 page)

Of course, the grand old tradition was generally exercised in the French Quarter. Larabeth wasn't sure how many jazz funerals had graced the streets of the affluent Garden District, but the neighbors didn't seem offended. Many of them sat out on their own wide porches and enjoyed the music. The paraders had waved when the St. Charles streetcar passed, and the tourists in the front of the streetcar had hung out of their windows and yelled back. Even the local riders, sitting in the back with their babies and their groceries, smiled and waved.

As the parade reached the house, the band had kicked into high gear. Guillaume's rather staid relatives danced next to tie-dyed twenty-year-olds who looked to GAIA as a refuge and to Guillaume as a role model. Graying hippies wearing tie-dyed tee-shirts that were much less trendy danced with them all until the band, sweat dripping from beneath their matching straw hats, called it a day.

A raucous zydeco band was warming up as the mourners—tribute-payers?—enjoying a potluck dinner. Fingering the delicate necklace hanging at her throat, she remembered the ferocious argument she'd had with Guillaume over some forgotten philosophical issue. They'd been in graduate school and more than twenty years had passed since then. He had bought her this necklace, dainty beads fashioned of recycled glass, as an apology.

Life was a cycle and she loved its elegance: beer bottle to beads, human body to crookneck squash, death to life, chaos to beauty. Mother to daughter.

Work had always been the most creative part of her life and she hungered to get back to it, but not in the same way she once would have. She had a husband and a grown child and she needed to tend those bonds.

She would need help with BioHeal. She needed more than an assistant. She needed to groom a successor. How fortunate she was to know someone smart and competent, someone who looked so comfortable in her own skin as she leaned over the porch railing and waved to Yancey, who was reveling in the music with an abandon not generally associated with Federal agents.

Experience had taught Larabeth to be suspicious of neat endings, but she planned to ignore experience, just this once.

* * *

Gerald thought that he enjoyed this view, from this balcony, more than he enjoyed any other facet of Babykiller's legacy. So far. But, then, there was so much to enjoy. Houses full of artwork by “important” modern artists. Private jets. Plenty of money to buy plenty of clothing cut by really cool designers.

Still, the view from this suite, with its great arcing slice of Copacabana beach framed by the slanting mass of Sugarloaf, might be insurmountable. He drew a sprig of mint through the frost gracing his whiskey glass and a dark, lovely woman appeared to ask if he would like her to remove the empty glass. The help was so obsequious in Rio and he loved that.

Babykiller hadn't actually made him his heir. He'd had no assets to pass through legal channels. To write his wishes down privately would have only created a piece of paper that their enemies could use to bring them both down. It was easier and safer for Babykiller to simply make sure that Gerald, and only Gerald, knew where all the assets were.

Gerald had, of course, shut the organization down immediately. He was richer than God now and there was no sense in taking risks. He didn't even have an English-language newspaper subscription that could label him as an expatriate and attract undesirable attention. When his Portuguese was good enough, he would forget that he ever knew English.

There was the problem of Babykiller's last legacy, but Gerald knew he'd be reading about it in Portuguese if one of those little time bombs stopped ticking. Nobody else in the world knew which nuclear power plants were running with Babykiller's defective parts.

The McLeod woman had done everything humanly possible—she'd convinced as many governments as she could to shut the things down until they could be checked out. But some governments were notoriously uncooperative. And how could anyone be certain that they'd checked every last detail? The GAIA people were making hay with that question, trying to get nuclear power banned once and for all.

Nobody but Gerald knew that every last targeted power plant was located in the Northern Hemisphere. Thus, he'd established a permanent and pleasant residence south of the equator. He'd considered sending a list of sabotaged plants to the president or somebody, but there was always the chance it could be traced to him. Gerald took even fewer chances than Babykiller. He was looking forward to a long and peaceful life in Brazil.

* * *

Deirdre Larson had the most monotonous job under the sun. Pick up a slab that looks like a square of linoleum with computer circuits all over it. Lay it on a machine that looks like a photocopier on steroids. If the machine says “Pass”—and it always says “Pass”—stamp “OK” on the quality control checklist and pass the slab on to somebody else.

Sometimes she made up games that helped her pass the time. This week, she was playing a game in honor of her daughter. Rachel's birthday was February 9, 1987, which could be written 2/9/87, so if she came across anything with a quality ID number containing the numbers 2987, she was going to pass it through untested. She'd passed number 22987 through on Monday and she'd stopped feeling guilty about it on Wednesday. Today was Friday and she had promised herself a bubble bath if she could find another winner.

Deirdre almost yelled “Hot damn!” out loud when she picked up number 29879. That meant she might have 29870, 29871, all the way up to 29878 in this very stack. She could look forward to a date with Mr. Bubble every night this week. She muttered, “I have got to get another job,” when she realized the depth of her excitement.

Feeling wicked, she passed 29879 through the line, untested. Numbers 29870, 29871, and all their kin waited. Watching for a chance to award each of them an undeserved stamp of approval would add spark to her monotonous day. Deirdre wasn't much of a risk-taker. If she were, she would have long since quit this dead-end job. But there didn't seem to be much risk in stamping “Okay” on eleven units that were probably okay anyway, not when she handled thousands in a week. It wasn't like she was going to cause a meltdown or anything. What were the odds?

~~End~~

Thank you
for spending time with Larabeth and J.D. and Cynthia and, yes, even Babykiller. I hope you enjoyed their story, and I hope you'll tell your friends about it.

Wounded Earth
has a special place in my heart, because it was the book that got me a hotshot Manhattan agent and launched my career. Unfortunately, it has not, until now, ever been available to the public.

I have several novels and short stories that will soon be available as ebooks at
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/maryannaevans.
To find out their publication schedule, get more information on my work, or to learn about how to get print, large-print, or audio editions of my books and stories, check my website,
http://www.maryannaevans.com
, or you can always drop me an email at
[email protected]

I love to hear from my readers. Thank you for your support.

Mary Anna

Mary Anna Evans
is the author of the award-winning Faye Longchamp archaeological mysteries: ARTIFACTS, RELICS, EFFIGIES, FINDINGS, and FLOODGATES. The sixth in the series, STRANGERS, will be published in October.

She's a chemical engineer by training and license, with a degree in engineering physics thrown in for spice, but she loves reading about history and writing about an archaeologist. Truth be told, she's a little jealous of Faye and her archaeological adventures.

She enjoys reading, writing, gardening, spending time with her family, cooking, and playing her 7-and-a-half-foot-long monster of a grand piano. Her cat helps her write, so she should probably put his name on her books. Learn more about Mary Anna and her work here:

Website:
http://www.maryannaevans.com
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http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/maryannaevans
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• Front Matter
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Wounded Earth
  
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
  • Chapter 3
    
  • Chapter 4
    
  • Chapter 5
    
  • Chapter 6
    
  • Chapter 7
    
  • Chapter 8
    
  • Chapter 9
    
  • Chapter 10
    
  • Chapter 11
    
  • Chapter 12
    
  • Chapter 13
    
  • Chapter 14
    
  • Chapter 15
    
  • Chapter 16
    
  • Chapter 17
    
  • Chapter 18
    
  • Chapter 19
    
  • Chapter 20
    
  • Chapter 21
    
  • Chapter 22
    
  • Chapter 23
    
  • Chapter 24
    
  • Chapter 25
    
  • Chapter 26
    
  • Chapter 27
    
  • Chapter 28
    
  • Chapter 29
    
  • Chapter 30
    
  • Chapter 31
    
  • Epilogue
    
  • From the Author
    
  • About the Author