Watermind by M. M. Buckner Page B

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 protrudingtree 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 liquidhad 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
    Â 
    Thursday, March 10
    5:32 PM
    Â 
    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