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Authors: Josie Brown
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verse 22:6.”
I hear a few clicks. “Oh, yeah, this is it,” he finally says. “It’s a real toe-tapper too. Listen to this: ‘ If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.’ Well, I guess we now know who’s been quote-unquote kindling the fire.”
“Poor choice of words, but I hear you. If this Jilly person took off, something tells me it’s because things got too hot for her to hang around, no pun intended,” I say with a sigh. “Arnie, is there any indication where the seeds were—or hopefully, are—being stored?”
“My guess is that Wellborne keeps them within reach, and within sight. The R&D department’s organizational chart shows that half of SeedPlenish’s silos hold corn kernels, and the other half hold bags of seed.”
“At least we now know which half to investigate.”
“That would be Silos Fifteen through Twenty-Eight.”
“Is there any way to narrow it down even more?” I ask.
He’s silent as he taps away. Finally, he says, “Let me work on it for a while. By the way, I’ve duplicated what we have here, and uploaded it into the Acme cloud, so that you and Emma’s ComInt team can also scan for clues. Keep your cell phone handy in case we come up with anything, okay? ”
“Will do. In the meantime, text Ryan to put a tap and a tracer on Dr. Wellborne’s phones—home, office, and cell. If we get lucky, he may lead us to the Exodus seeds.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon going through the office, to see if Jilly planted some clue as to which silo contains the Exodus strain, but I find nothing.
Since I worked through my lunch hour, I clock out an hour early. From here to home still puts me in I-405 traffic, but at least I’ll get to Hilldale in time to pick up Trisha and Jeff.
I text Jack to give him the great news that I’ll be couriering Cheever and Morton. Only after I hit SEND do I remember that I’ll be doing it in the new Jackmobile.
Oh well, goodbye to that wonderful new car smell.
The first mistake Cheever Bing makes in Jack’s new BMW is to let loose with a burp. “Tacos,” he says as a way of apology. “Gotta love ’em.”
His next faux pas is to jump in the front passenger seat. “I call shotgun!” he crows.
I shake my head. “No, no, no—out! That’s where Trisha sits when we pick her up.”
“But—but I called shotgun!”
“You can call a cab for all I care. Better yet, if you want to lose those taco love handles, walk home.”
He shuts up. But instead of opening the door, he climbs over the front seat into the back.
“I call window!” He shoves Morton Smith toward the middle. Morton shoves back.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to play Margaret Dumont to their Groucho-Chico shenanigans. “Jeff, in the middle, please.”
“But, Mom, today was taco day.”
Note to self: look at middle school lunchroom menu before committing to carpooling—especially in the new car. Oh well, too late now.
Cheever waits until I pull onto the road before making his third mistake: slapping Jeff on the head. “Hey, what’s the big idea, turning in a forty-page paper for Current Events class?”
“Yeah,” Morton growls. “You made the rest of us look bad.”
Jeff shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”
“Terrorists don’t wear shoes. They wear sandals.” Cheever says smugly.
Morton stares at him, confused. “That’s stupid! I wear sandals, and I’m not a terrorist.”
“You’re right. You’re just a moron.” Cheever reaches over to Jeff to pinch him. “I’m talking about the real ones, you moron—you know, like in the Middle East.”
“You’re both morons,” Jeff counters. “Terrorism has taken place all over the world, Germany, Ireland, Africa, South America, even here in the United States—you name it. And from all nationalities too. Pay attention in History class, why
I hear a few clicks. “Oh, yeah, this is it,” he finally says. “It’s a real toe-tapper too. Listen to this: ‘ If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.’ Well, I guess we now know who’s been quote-unquote kindling the fire.”
“Poor choice of words, but I hear you. If this Jilly person took off, something tells me it’s because things got too hot for her to hang around, no pun intended,” I say with a sigh. “Arnie, is there any indication where the seeds were—or hopefully, are—being stored?”
“My guess is that Wellborne keeps them within reach, and within sight. The R&D department’s organizational chart shows that half of SeedPlenish’s silos hold corn kernels, and the other half hold bags of seed.”
“At least we now know which half to investigate.”
“That would be Silos Fifteen through Twenty-Eight.”
“Is there any way to narrow it down even more?” I ask.
He’s silent as he taps away. Finally, he says, “Let me work on it for a while. By the way, I’ve duplicated what we have here, and uploaded it into the Acme cloud, so that you and Emma’s ComInt team can also scan for clues. Keep your cell phone handy in case we come up with anything, okay? ”
“Will do. In the meantime, text Ryan to put a tap and a tracer on Dr. Wellborne’s phones—home, office, and cell. If we get lucky, he may lead us to the Exodus seeds.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon going through the office, to see if Jilly planted some clue as to which silo contains the Exodus strain, but I find nothing.
Since I worked through my lunch hour, I clock out an hour early. From here to home still puts me in I-405 traffic, but at least I’ll get to Hilldale in time to pick up Trisha and Jeff.
I text Jack to give him the great news that I’ll be couriering Cheever and Morton. Only after I hit SEND do I remember that I’ll be doing it in the new Jackmobile.
Oh well, goodbye to that wonderful new car smell.
The first mistake Cheever Bing makes in Jack’s new BMW is to let loose with a burp. “Tacos,” he says as a way of apology. “Gotta love ’em.”
His next faux pas is to jump in the front passenger seat. “I call shotgun!” he crows.
I shake my head. “No, no, no—out! That’s where Trisha sits when we pick her up.”
“But—but I called shotgun!”
“You can call a cab for all I care. Better yet, if you want to lose those taco love handles, walk home.”
He shuts up. But instead of opening the door, he climbs over the front seat into the back.
“I call window!” He shoves Morton Smith toward the middle. Morton shoves back.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to play Margaret Dumont to their Groucho-Chico shenanigans. “Jeff, in the middle, please.”
“But, Mom, today was taco day.”
Note to self: look at middle school lunchroom menu before committing to carpooling—especially in the new car. Oh well, too late now.
Cheever waits until I pull onto the road before making his third mistake: slapping Jeff on the head. “Hey, what’s the big idea, turning in a forty-page paper for Current Events class?”
“Yeah,” Morton growls. “You made the rest of us look bad.”
Jeff shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”
“Terrorists don’t wear shoes. They wear sandals.” Cheever says smugly.
Morton stares at him, confused. “That’s stupid! I wear sandals, and I’m not a terrorist.”
“You’re right. You’re just a moron.” Cheever reaches over to Jeff to pinch him. “I’m talking about the real ones, you moron—you know, like in the Middle East.”
“You’re both morons,” Jeff counters. “Terrorism has taken place all over the world, Germany, Ireland, Africa, South America, even here in the United States—you name it. And from all nationalities too. Pay attention in History class, why
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