Watermind by M. M. Buckner Page A

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?”
    â€œCorrect.” 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
    Â 
    Thursday, March 10
    11:15 AM
    Â 
    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 excitingsome 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,