Poison Harvest

By Paul Sean Grieve

Following the unforeseen suicide of his mentor, brilliant but impoverished PhD student Drew Freeman discovers hidden research so explosive it could shatter the globe-spanning empire of a massive agricultural conglomerate. Quietly continuing his professor's investigation into a spate of hideous deformities in fetuses miscarried by Central American women, Drew uncovers a sinister corporate conspiracy to conceal their true cause. Expelled from the university on trumped-up charges, Drew joins forces with a mysterious friend and a strong-willed Hondruan woman to expose the crime. Facing off in a high-stakes media war against a young public relations whiz and his beautiful protege, Drew and his colleagues battle a corporation that will stop at nothing to protect its secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Sean Grieve
• Release date: Jun 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781987917062

Paul Sean Grieve

I'm rewriting this. Please be patient.

Book preview

Poison Harvest

By

Paul Sean Grieve

Published by Paul Sean Grieve at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Paul S Grieve

ISBN: 978-1-987917-06-2

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to another person or people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For more stories by Paul Sean Grieve visit www.psgrieve.com

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Table of Contents

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

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Drew sensed something was wrong even before he opened the door. His professor's house stood in total darkness, along with the rest of the neighborhood, and he could hear nothing except the creaking of tree branches as they whipped and rattled in the ferocious December wind. Having found his way up the snow covered path in the gloomy light of dusk, he'd seen no footprints besides his own, suggesting no one had come or gone since it had fallen a few days ago. On his way up the driveway, he'd noticed bootprints leading to the front door, but as Chaplain never used that entrance, they likely belonged to the postman or some courier. The layer of snow on the windshield of Chaplain's rusted old Civic, along with the absence of tire tracks meant it hadn't been moved in a while. Feeling his way along the wall, his gloved hand breaking off filthy chips of curling paint, he paused at the back door, listening for sounds from within the structure.

He tapped gingerly on the window. When no response came, he tapped again a little harder.

Professor Chaplain? he asked. Are you home?

When he got no response, he reached into the pocket of his tattered coat for his cell phone and dialed the professor's number. Unable to see through the drawn curtains, he listened for any sign of movement in the house as the phone rang inside. It rang until the answering service finally clicked on and Drew hung up. Still listening, he looked at his watch. 6:23pm.

Was it possible Chaplain had gone to bed? No, it was too early. And, forgetful as he'd become lately, he must have known that Drew would be arriving at 6:30. Though spritely for his age, Chaplain was over 70 and, as Drew recalled, his physical coordination seemed to be in decline. He was also unnaturally thin and frail, having inexplicably lost a lot of weight in the last couple of months. The thought that Chaplain might have fallen and broken a hip motivated Drew to reach for the door handle. The handle turned, meaning the door was unlocked. Gently, he leaned his shoulder against the peeling wooden panel and the hinges whined it popped open.

Dr. Chaplain?

Again, no answer.

Drew opened the door wider, straining to see into in the darkened kitchen at the top of the short stairwell into which the door opened. As he did, he noticed an unwelcome odour, horrific, like a toilet that hadn't been flushed for a week. There was no sound from inside except for the rhythmic ticking of a clock, almost drowned out by the hollering wind.

Stepping forward onto the landing, kicking the snow off his boots on the outside wall, he removed his footwear, ascended the stairs in his socks and reached for the light switch. When it didn't come on, he chided himself for forgetting about the blackout, no doubt due to the ferocious wind, which had plunged the surrounding blocks into darkness. Fumbling through the kitchen drawers, he found a wind-up LCD flashlight and flicked the switch, illuminating flecks of dust that swirled in the air.

It seemed clear there was no one home. Perhaps Chaplain had gone away and forgotten to tell him. But then why would he have left the door unlocked, particularly in this neighborhood? And why that God-awful smell?

Drew stepped through the kitchen toward the living room. At the door, he shone the light around and examined the room. Stacks of books and papers were piled all over the coffee table and chairs, along with stained glasses and chipped plates with the remnants of half-eaten meals. Turning the corner into the corridor that led to the bathroom, Drew shone the light down the hallway. The bathroom door at the end of the hall had been left open.

The floor creaking beneath his stocking feet, he crept down the hall. As he inched toward the bathroom, he could feel his heartbeat getting louder in his chest.

Is anyone home? he croaked, his voice faltering.

Coming up to the bathroom, he noticed the smell getting stronger. Entering the room, he slowly reached out to the toilet and reluctantly lifted the lid. Scrunching his face, he bent over and looked through the beam of the flashlight over the rim. Nothing but water and the stains of many years of use.

Straightening up, he turned and stepped out of the room, the beam of his flashlight illuminating swirls of airborne dust in the hallway. Turning to face the bedroom door, he knocked quietly.

Professor Chaplain? he gasped. Are you in there?

He knocked again, this time louder, and again he called out. Slowly, he extended a hand toward the handle. It turned in his hand and when the door came open, he slowly pushed his way in. The stench became unbearable and he buried his face in his sleeve. He shone the beam of his flashlight down the short corridor that led into the room. He could just make out the foot of the bed, which he could see was not made. The silver supports of a camera tripod glistened at the far corner of the bed and junk was strewn around the room. Knees shaking and teeth chattering in the cold, he stepped forward hesitantly.

As he paced apprehensively along the creaking floor of the bedroom corridor, the beam of the flashlight revealed two hoary bare feet at the foot of the bed, motionless and white as a ghost. Stepping into the room, his flashlight followed the legs up to find the bottom of a brown housecoat, then an outstretched arm laid over an open tourniquet, a large epidermic needle to one side. Drew forced himself to look at the pallid white face, is mouth open and twisted above a course white beard, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His heart pounded in his head like a sledge hammer. It was Professor Chaplain, and he was dead.

Drew jumped with fright as the room lit up and the television flipped on. Feeling his stomach turn at the sight of Chaplain's body, purple blood pooled at the bottom of his lifeless extremities, he stumbled back toward the bathroom, crouched in front of the toilet and retched loudly. The remains of his meager supper spewed out of his mouth into the toilet bowl. Hands shaking, tears welling in his eyes, he retched again.

His head still pounding, having coughed up everything in his stomach, Drew flushed the toilet, forced himself to his feet and rinsed his mouth out at the sink. In spite of the cold wind, he stumbled back outside for some fresh air. His instinct was to call 911, but he knew it would be pointless to activate emergency services. Chaplain was long dead, beyond any hope of revival. Instead, he called the operator and, voice shaking, informed them he'd discovered a body.

Will there be an autopsy? Drew asked a young female officer as he tensed to stop his body from shivering in the cold.

She answered in the affirmative. We may have some more questions when we get the results.

That made sense. Judging by the needle and tourniquet, Chaplain's death appeared to be suicide, but Drew could think of no reason why he'd want to kill himself. At least, no specific reason. He'd known his mentor as an outstandingly driven man with incredible focus, yet his advanced age had seemed to be taking its toll, and his worsening social isolation must not have made him feel any better.

Drew had no choice but to place his trust in the coroner, whose team had carried out the body and taken the video camera he had seen as he entered the room, as well as an unlabeled bottle they found on Chaplain's night table. Only time would tell what had actually happened.

With nothing left to be done for his mentor, Drew stepped out of the shelter of the car port and set out on foot for home. Bracing himself against the icy wind as he stumbled along the darkened sidewalk, he pulled a frayed woolen toque out of his pocket and set it on his head, taking care to pull it down over his ears, then lifted the frayed hood of his worn duffle coat over his head. He felt his cell phone vibrate and heard the familiar clink that let him know he'd received a text message. With frozen fingers, he reached into his breast pocket. The text was from his friend Lars: Come to Freddy's. Dinner's on me.

Drew needed no second bidding. As he trudged northward toward Bloor Street, his stomach growled in anticipation of the first true meal he'd eaten in well over two weeks, having been forced for financial reasons to observe a strict diet of macaroni and cheese. The only respite he could generally expect from this sparse diet would come in the form of tidbits served at various university functions that took place from time to time, some of which were open to the public. Even if the presentation was closed, the receptions that followed were often conducted in unrestricted lobbies and corridors and, necessity being the mother of invention, Drew had learned the art of showing up at just the right moment. Unfortunately, budgets being as tight as they were, events offering more than a handful of stale and sugary biscuits were rare and even when he managed to gain access to the more upscale functions, there were only so many grapes and slices of camembert he could down at one time. So, he considered himself fortunate to have a friend like Lars.

This was far from the first time Lars had treated him and, in all likelihood, would not be the last. Drew swore to himself that someday he'd return these favours with interest. How, he had no idea. Truth be told, he had no idea how he was going to find the money to pay his rent for January. Already in arrears for electricity, which he used as sparingly as he could, the lights remained on only by virtue of a law that prevented the utility from cutting off power in winter.

The only way he might climb out of arrears and pull enough together by January was the possibility that the grant he'd been promised would come though, but that was looking worse by the day and Chaplain's departure wouldn't help one bit. The first year chemistry exams were three days away and he had about a half dozen students already scheduled for tutoring sessions ranging from one to four hours. But more than likely, at least one would cancel, another would no-show and a third would inform him at the start of the lesson that he couldn't pay. This problem arose often enough that Drew started insisting on payment at the beginning of each lesson, a move which resulted in a sharp decline in bookings.

There was nothing to do but hope he'd catch a break somehow, thought Drew as he braced himself against the frosty wind that blew into his face and under his hood, chilling the back of his neck and tensing his muscles. As the cold began to seep into the cracks of his clothing, he quickened his pace, dodging oncoming pedestrians and weaving around less hurried people walking ahead of him until a traffic light stopped him. Waiting impatiently, hands in his pockets as the wind whipped drifting snow around his pant-legs, he took in the menagerie that was downtown Toronto in the winter: cars sliding on the ice and snow, Christmas decorations and other pedestrians bundled against the cold. A slender woman in a green dress coat with long, windblown blonde hair protruding from beneath a wooly white toque caught his eye and suddenly his body tingled. For a split second, he thought it might be Claire. But even with his poor vision, degraded by countless hours spent reading science journals on computer monitors, he could see that it wasn't. Just as well, he thought to himself. Claire was the last person he needed to see now, really.

As the light turned green and the wave of pedestrians spilled over the opposite curve, Drew stepped forward and picked his way through the oncoming crowd. Peering from under his hood through the windows of the narrow shops and restaurants that lined the sidewalk, the scenes therein melded into a surreal collage: the bedazzling radiance of precious gems in a jewelry store, trendy young Asians slurping pho from oversized bowls in a neon drenched noodle shop, shadows dancing on the walls of an upscale bistro as candlelight warmed the smiling faces of stylish patrons, reddened by spicy food and expensive cocktails. Ahead of him ambled a young couple strolling arm in arm, the woman's sleek black hair dangling behind her as she leaned her head on the man's shoulder, her body pressing into his. Passing them briskly, he craned his neck to steal a glance at their young faces, their breath illuminated in the brightness of the streetlight as they whispered softly to one another.

Pressing on, Drew willed himself not to think of Claire and the love that almost was. He cursed himself for entertaining thoughts so unbecoming of a man of science, a PhD candidate at a respected university, an activist committed to environmental protection and social justice. Crossing Spadina Avenue as he made his way eastward, he swore he'd banish all unhappy thoughts and allow himself to savour the hot meal Lars had offered to pay for. Arriving at Freddy's, he pulled hard on the handle to open the cracked wooden door against the ferocious wind and, as the door slammed behind him, descended the stairs, relieved to be out of the cold.

Ridicule is the last refuge of the desperate! chortled Lars above the din of the grungy basement bar, his thick Swiss German accent adding a whiff of exotic authenticity to the words, uttered with his characteristic sly smile. "Words like paranoid and conspiracy freak, carry no intellectual weight."

It's not ridicule, rejoined the business student sitting across from him, raising his voice to compete with a group of increasingly rowdy young women at the table beside them, who themselves struggled to be heard above the indie-rock music that rattled from the speakers. It's skepticism.

No, it's dogma, shouted Lars. And you're not a skeptic, you're a sucker.

Taking his seat, Drew listened patiently as Lars and the undergraduate squabbled back and forth about everything from government cyber-spying to the suppression of climate science by oil companies. While Drew cringed at how readily the business student lapped up industry propaganda, the debate provided a welcome distraction from thoughts that swirled in his mind. Hearing his cell phone ring, Drew looked down and fumbled around in the left pocket of his coat, which he'd thrown over the back of his wooden chair.

Lars paused. Is it her?

Yeah, it's her, answered Drew sheepishly, fishing the phone out of his pocket and looking at the number.

Don't answer it, Lars advised, then turned back to the undergrad and continued.

Drew contemplated the ringing phone as the argument raged on. He hadn't heard from Claire in three months and it had taken every bit of self-discipline he had not to call her. He let it ring a few more times, unable to bring himself to silence it. When it stopped ringing, he waited to see if she'd leave a message. When it became clear she hadn't, he dropped the phone back into his coat pocket.

What do you think? asked Lars.

Drew suddenly realized that Lars was talking to him, then noticed the undergraduate looking on expectantly, confidant that Drew would jump in on his side.

I'm too tired to think, replied Drew, as a waitress set a steaming plate on the table in front of him. Lars had already ordered his favourite.

Then eat up, Lars laughed. You need the energy.

Before Lars finished his sentence, Drew had poked his fork into one of the slabs of battered fish on his plate. Slicing off a hefty chunk with his knife, stuffed it in his mouth. His prolonged poverty had given rise to a hunger so intense that found himself thinking about food practically every waking moment. The welcome explosion of flavor in his mouth almost bowled him over.

I should have done my PhD in Comp Sci, he wryly observed, swallowing a mouthful of fries.

Your field of study isn't the problem observed Lars as he shook hands amicably with the undergraduate, who'd gotten up to leave. You just hooked up with the wrong supervisor.

Chaplain's dead, Drew blurted out.

Lars winced. I'm sorry.

I found his body about two hours ago, explained Drew. The coroner's got it now.

How did he die? asked Lars.

I'm pretty sure he took his own life.

Lars shook his head sadly. The waitress showed up with a second plate which she placed on the table in front of Lars. By the time Lars took his first bite, Drew was scraping up the remainder of the tartar sauce with the last French fry on his plate. Drew and Lars caught up on all the grad school gossip. Government funding cuts, the union threatening labour action against an administration bent on reducing costs, out of control debt financing costs, hushed rumors of a shotgun merger of several departments, even growing concern over the possibility of an all-out declaration of bankruptcy.

I truly feel for him, stated Lars, referring to Chaplain. He was a good man crushed under the weight of an evil system.

He fought the good fight, agreed Drew.

When Lars finished, he summoned the waitress, asked for the bill and dropped four twenties on the table before standing up and putting on his coat and hat. That should cover it, he said.

Drew stood up, the two shook hands, then Lars turned and ascended the narrow staircase to the street.

I'll be back with change, said the waitress, picking up the bills and heading back toward the register.

Drew was putting on his coat when she returned, placing the change on the table along with the receipt. Noticing the pile of money on the table, Drew picked up the bill and saw that the total had come to less than $39, taxes in. Even a $7 dollar tip would be generous, he thought as he scanned the figures to be sure the total was correct. After a moment's contemplation, he picked up the extra money, $34 in all, and stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans. Drew was almost certain that Lars intended the money as a subtle gift, or, more likely knowing Lars, a test of character (which Lars would say he passed).

Lars would be proud, he thought to himself, as he ascended the stairs. Lars was always riding him for being too honest for his own good and too proud to ask for financial help he desperately needed. Drew was certain this was his way of driving both points home without having to argue. Regardless, he now had enough money in his pocket that he could supplement his next few meals of mac and cheese with some sliced vegetables and perhaps even some fish sticks. He might even splurge on half a banana for desert.

Before braving the cold, he decided to check his phone one last time. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw there was a text message waiting. It was from Claire: Need more ref's for job app. Can U snd a ltr?

Chapter 2

Claire slammed down the shower faucet and shivered in the cold air as she let the drops run down her body onto the cracked enamel of the aging iron tub. Pulling the mildewed plastic shower curtain back and reaching for her bath towel, she felt the chill intensify. Located over an old pawn shop on Queen Street east near Broadview, the apartment was so drafty her roommate ruefully joked it was like living in a wind tunnel.

Donning her housecoat and stepping into her slippers, she opened the bathroom door to let the steam clear, allowing the frigid air to enter from the hallway. Patting her long blonde hair dry with the towel, Claire heard her phone vibrate. She dashed over to the kitchen table where she'd left it and looked at the screen. It was Drew: Sure, send details. Her instinct was to text back and thank him right away, but she was running out of time. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she felt a twinge of panic. Having been delayed for half an hour on the subway, she was behind schedule for what might be the most important interview of her life.

Racing back to the bathroom, she snatched her hairdryer from the wicker shelf and turned it on. Bending over and bushing her hair with short strokes, she breathed deeply in an effort to calm her fraying nerves.

You're not late, she repeated to herself intently.

She put down the brush, picked up the hair straightener she'd plugged in before getting into the shower and clasped a lock of her hair in it. There came a muffled jingling from outside, then the sound of the lock turning. Krista, her roommate, pushed open the door, wrestling with four cloth grocery bags, two in her left hand, the others over her right arm.

You're still here? she asked.

Can you call a taxi? asked Claire.

Sure thing. Krista dropped the bags, closed the door and pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket. After dialing, she held the phone to her ear and gave directions. Five minutes, she said.

You're a saint, replied Claire, working away at her hair, now on the other side. Setting the appliance down, she went to her closet, and took out the business suit she'd bought just for the occasion.

You look awesome! exclaimed Krista, examining Claire as she bolted out of her room toward the coat hook by the door.

Thank you, replied Claire gratefully, buttoning up the front of her coat.

Krista removed Claire's long green woolen scarf from the hanger and handed it to Claire. Go knock 'em dead.

Cross your fingers.

Oh, I will.

And your toes.

The two women pretend kissed on both sides, then Claire darted out the door, scurried along the narrow dimly lit hallway and flew down the creaking wooden stairs toward the exit. When she pushed on the chipped and dented wooden door, something soft blocked it from opening. She pulled it back then pushed again. The stench of stale urine and stale alcohol wafted through the opening, followed by indiscernible words mumbled through a toothless mouth.

Not now! cried Claire. Absolutely not now! She brought the door back then pushed it forward again as hard as she could, this time shoving her whole weight against it. The door gave way as a disheveled old vagrant tumbled off the step onto the sidewalk, babbling incoherently.

I'm sorry, said Claire, stepping over the man as passing couple gawked at the spectacle.

The taxi pulled up to the curb and Claire got in, instructing the driver to head for Yorkville. As the taxi lurched and halted in traffic, she carefully applied her makeup with the aid of a mirror she took from her purse. Only minutes away from her destination, she could finally begin to relax. Or so she told herself. In reality, she had not been able to relax for months. After finishing her masters degree in the spring, she'd been on the job hunt ever since. But the economy was in a tailspin and in spite of her top grades in school, she managed to score nothing more promising than a part-time job as a hostess at a big chain restaurant. To add insult to injury, shifts were sparse and the tips not particularly good. Yet witnessing the flood of super-qualified job seekers come in with resumes day after day, she began to wonder how she'd managed to land even the meager job she had. The fact that most of her friends and former classmates were no better off had only dimmed her hopes.

Claire bristled at the thought of her student loans, the payments of which were scheduled to kick in the following month, and if she couldn't find better employment before then, she didn't know what she'd do. Her wages would barely cover the loan payments. How would she pay Krista for her rent? What would she eat? With no other prospects on the horizon, she was under no illusion as to how badly she needed the job for which she was to be interviewed that evening.

Putting her makeup away, she glanced out the window at the hardscrabble neighborhood that was Queen Street east: scruffy residents bundled against the cold in ragged coats plodding along past dilapidated shops with peeling paint on the walls and doors, street-gang graffiti defacing signs and mailboxes and rough plywood covering the growing numbers of boarded up windows where businesses had gone under. Moving west along Queen, the ramshackle thrift shops and gritty convenience stores gave way to wood paneled cafes, organic grocers and up-market salons nestled in renovated brownstones. As she crossed Yonge Street, the brownstones gave way to the glass and steel towers of the financial district.

Claire's phone rang and she answered it.

Ms LeBraun? asked the male voice.

Yes, replied Claire.

I'm here from Futura to pick you up.

I'm so sorry, she replied sheepishly, but I've been a bit delayed. I'll be down in a few minutes if, that's alright.

Quite alright, answered the voice. I'll be waiting in the driveway.

Thank you, said Claire, feeling panic rising up in her. She pulled back the sleeve of her coat and looked at her watch.

Almost there, said the driver, sensing her concern.

The taxi flew past the courthouses at Old City Hall and rounded the corner fast enough to throw Claire off balance. Heading northward past skaters braving the cold under the dazzling Christmas lights of Nathan Phillips Square, the car sped toward her destination.

Keep going, Claire ordered as the taxi passed the semicircular driveway of the up-scale condo at which she'd arranged to meet the driver. Behind a long, black stretch limousine idled a green Audi, caked with road salt, exhaust spewing from the tailpipe as a dark haired man in a navy suit sat reading a newspaper in the driver's seat. She crossed her fingers that the man wouldn't see her arriving.

Here is fine, Claire said as the taxi came to a stop at the dead end of the street, safely out of view of the driveway.

$21.25, said the driver.

It's all yours, replied Claire, handing the driver $30.

As Claire opened the door, a gust of wind channeled by the tall buildings around her almost ripped the money out of her hand. Holding her toque, she slammed the door shut and, waving thanks to the driver, snuck around the building to the opposite side from where the Audi was parked. She reached for the brass handle on the teak trimmed entrance, pulled hard against the wind and stepped inside. As the door closed behind her she took a key out of her coat pocket, opened the inside door and strode into the lobby.

Taking off her toque, she quickly