A Current Deception

By Arleen Alleman

Freelance reporter Darcy Farthing boards a luxury cruise ship for a trip to beautiful Australian seaports with family and friends, where a baffling murder mystery challenges her investigative skills. The crimes begin when a small-town Kansas woman traveling with a class reunion tour group is plagued by an attack of yellow crazy antsa dangerous, invasive speciesas well as an illness caused by mysterious foodborne bacteria and the odd cancellation of an onshore tour. The bizarre but relatively minor incidents escalate when the ants injure more passengers and crew members. Soon, a peculiar death on the streets of Adelaide and attempted murders on board the ship threaten to cause panic. It is obvious that a crew member or passenger is targeting individuals, but who is it and why?

Meanwhile, Darcy is distracted by daughter Rachaels uncharacteristic behavior and intense friendship with a handsome passenger. Reluctant to make waves, Darcy tries to suppress her concerns. She turns her full attention to the crimes when evidence is found in Brookss stateroom and the security chief names him as the sole suspect. Brooks is clearly innocent, but the chief is inexplicably reluctant to conduct a more thorough investigation to clear him; then Darcys best friend, Sid, who is also Brookss fianc, becomes the latest victim. Clue by clue, with husband Micks help, Darcy uses her skills to reveal a homicidal master of disguise and world-class computer hacker intent on exacting revenge related to a twenty-year-old crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503539013

Arleen Alleman

Arleen Alleman is a former analyst with the U.S. Government Accountability Office where she wrote extensively on many topics ranging from satellite systems to endangered species. She has a science education and also worked as a fashion model, insurance adjuster, jewelry designer, and proprietor of a home décor shop. Her interests include reading, health and fitness, history of religion, and travel. Born in England, she was raised in New Hampshire and Nevada. She currently lives in Colorado with her husband, Tim. She is the author of the six-book Darcy Farthing Adventure Series. Sometimes Naughty-Always Loved is her first children's book. She invites readers to visit on social media or contact her at www.arleenalleman.com

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Prologue

INMATE 01267-031 MADE good use of the last few years of his sentence learning to brilliantly hack computers and internet sites. He took correspondence courses in computer science whenever he could afford them. Fortunately this happened with regularity thanks to money he received from an eccentric widowed aunt, the only person on the outside who communicated with him.

Aunt Gladys sent three hundred dollars for each college course, and he completed twenty-five—enough to earn a master’s degree. She backed his education because she did not accept that her handsome, intelligent nephew could possibly commit the crime of which he was convicted. Rather, she blamed members of their close-knit community; for what she told everyone was a case of mistaken identification. Never mind that ample forensic evidence corroborated the testimonies of the victim and others.

She acted in part due to a heavy burden of guilt about how his life turned out. Her sister, the inmate’s mother, ran off abandoning the two-year-old boy. Since she did not reveal his father’s name—if she even knew it—Gladys was all he had. At that time, however, Gladys failed to rescue him as later she realized she should have.

She did not step in to help until after he bounced around the foster care system for years enduring one loveless relationship after another. By then he endured years of abuse and neglect living with a series of parents more interested in the support money than in his well-being.

After Gladys finally took over, he lived in her home for four years while she tried to undo the damage already inflicted upon his psyche. During the second year, she began to see that beyond the emotional trauma, there was something wrong with his personality: he seemed to lack empathy for the suffering of others and had little patience for normal human flaws. Even with this insight, she chose denial over any attempt to obtain professional help for him.

Despite his flaws, the inmate was long on charisma, which always served him well in obtaining what he wanted; and Gladys was not immune to his charms. As well, over time he convinced the authorities to let him supplement his studies with visits to the electronic law library tucked away in the education department at the U.S. Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado.

His goal—at least the one he was willing to reveal—was to become a computer expert with marketable skills. After all, following his twenty-year confinement and full rehabilitation, he would need a profession; and one thing hopefully leading to another, his aptitude for manipulating technology would be his ticket to a normal life.

Prison policy greatly restricted internet access; however during the last six months of his sentence, because he was a model prisoner well-liked by the guards and other inmates, the warden allowed some leeway for him to prepare for his new profession.

Using his prisoner register number and a PIN, he periodically logged into a library workstation and spent long hours ostensibly reviewing computer technology manuals associated with his studies. To his advantage, the guards were marginally proficient with details of internet access. Still, his project wasn’t simple since he could only investigate intermittently behind their backs.

Ultimately without anyone paying much attention, he hacked into social media and websites at will, perusing the day-to-day activities of people he knew from his life before prison. The day he stumbled onto the pertinent information, he could hardly contain his excitement. It began with a Facebook page then another and another, and before long, he hacked his way into all the data he would need. Not only did the research results allow him to formulate his plan, he also believed it was valuable to someone else.

Tangentially he sought out a fellow prisoner who he was quite certain would find this information interesting and useful. He formulated a proposal he believed the man would find compelling. This older man who was beginning a life sentence was formidable and tended to keep to himself, except for his close associates; however, his story and history were well known among the prison population and the outside world. He purportedly had friends who still worked for him on the outside, and he apparently retained at least a portion of his previous wealth.

When he was ready, the inmate shared the information he mined from the web and laid out a timeline and strategy that served both their needs. He was not greedy and asked for relatively modest compensation for his services. After all, his own agenda was the most important aspect of his project; and now he would not have to pay for it himself. As he suspected, the man recognized that for a relatively nominal fee, he could achieve his goals in a distant venue far away from anyone who knew him.

For most of his twenty years in prison, the inmate dreamed of becoming someone else. He longed for the day when he could shed his unfortunate persona; then, with his freedom and thanks to his education, he would never have to answer to anyone for his actions. He survived his incarceration by always viewing it as a job—difficult but survivable—and soon he would be ready for some much-needed and exotic R and R.

Part One

The Tiny Stowaway Problem

1

Sydney, Australia

February 18, 2011

WE ARRIVED ON Friday morning after a fourteen-hour flight from San Francisco on top of a five-hour one from D.C. It was tough on all of us, especially for Rachael. She could not relax the entire way because poor little Anna wouldn’t go to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.

We planned this trip over several months and tried to think of all the potential problems. After much discussion, we were still on edge hoping that our worst fears would not materialize—that is, we worried about how Anna would handle the long hours on the plane. She was normally a calm baby, but who knew what would happen in that environment. We absolutely did not want to inconvenience or to annoy other passengers on the expensive long flight. So my new husband, Mick Clayton, and I took turns holding our nine-month-old grandchild while Rachael tried unsuccessfully to get some sleep.

Now that we’d arrived, we could all catch up on our rest and eventually overcome the jet lag. At the moment though, despite our exhaustion, Mick and I were still awake and were exploring the city. Mick’s hand tightened around mine. I looked at him wondering if there would come a time when his cute, boyish face, too-conservative government haircut, and deep-enough-to-swallow-me hazel eyes would cease to arouse me. I hoped not. We’d come a long way since meeting under terrible circumstances several years ago, and recently we took the traditional step to solidify our forever relationship.

But that isn’t what I ever thought would happen. I’m a humanist—an atheist you might say—and that colors my philosophy about societal issues, including marriage. I didn’t feel I needed the ritual, which originated in part from religious taboos and unreasonable requirements for human relationships at a time when the average life span was only a few decades. These rituals at their core were all about asserting male dominance over females and controlling their sexual behavior. We don’t have to look far in the world to see that ancient obsessions with sex and obedience prevail under the guise of God’s or Allah’s edicts—to the detriment of women.

Of course, there are excellent social and financial reasons why marriage is important in our culture, but luckily I have sufficient resources and insurance of my own—thanks to my education, royalties from my writing, and years spent working as a mid-level manager at Schrinden Pharmaceuticals. Since we’re in our early forties, having children is not on the table either; so the formality of marriage was unnecessary unless we needed to secure each other through a legal contract. We didn’t; our love was enough.

But at some point during the traumatic past two years, I changed my mind about the whole marital proposition. In the end, there was nothing I wanted more than to be Mick’s wife. Although he was willing to forego marriage, I knew it was important to him; and so it became for me.

I visualize my life current and other people’s currents flowing along on parallel courses mostly unfelt, running deep below the surface, then suddenly colliding, and causing all manner of change and adjustment. When my current collided with Mick’s, as often happens, I took on some of his overspill and he mine. We grew together in the sense of both maturation and closeness.

I could not believe we were in the port of Sydney, the capital of New South Wales, just strolling down the street only a couple of blocks inland from the Sydney Opera House. This is one of the most important ports in the South Pacific, as well as one of the busiest financial centers in the Asia Pacific region. With over four and a half million people, it’s also the oldest and largest city in the country. After only a half-hour out on the streets, we could readily see that the city is a pleasing mix of new modern skyscrapers and colonial stone-and-brick buildings, many characterized by high arched brownstone entries.

Mick, I said, I’m already having a great time, and I can’t wait to get to the restaurant. But I also can’t help feeling bad for Rachael.

Sweetie—he squeezed my hand a little tighter—I understand, but she’s a grown-up and a mother. She has to take responsibility for her life, and unfortunately that means sometimes she has to suffer consequences from her decisions. He peered at me over the top of his aviators. Don’t you think she’s very fortunate to be on this trip considering her circumstances, even if she does have to stay at the hotel with her daughter this evening?

Of course, you’re right.

Mick is the voice of reason when it comes to my insecurities with respect to my daughter. Actually he is almost always reasonable and calm. As a manager at the Government Accountability Office specializing in state law enforcement issues, my husband is assertive and very rational. I admire his objectivity and his ability to adjust his thinking to become even more so when necessary.

He was right, and I too felt very lucky to be here at the beginning of this sixteen-day vacation. My insecurities were understandable considering Rachael and I met through a chance encounter two years ago after being apart since she was a toddler.

I still sometimes feel anxious about my early decisions and mistakes with respect to her. But she became pregnant and decided to keep Anna all on her own—except for Anna’s father, Gerald, of course. At twenty-one, Rachael was mature in the ways that matter. I wasn’t responsible for her actions, and she was fortunate to be here with us.

Our stroll took us around Circular Quay—which follows the cove along the shore, a short walk from both our hotel and the opera house. Since we would only be in the city this evening and a few hours in the morning, we decided to walk to as many landmarks of interest as possible and rest later.

We headed west along the coast to Dawes Point—where the Sydney Harbour Bridge spans the bay connecting the Bradfield Highway with Kirribilli, an affluent suburb. Along the way, we met many people also out walking; and it was easy to separate the locals from our fellow tourists. Most of the Sydneysiders smiled broadly at passersby and, more often than not, gave us a ta or g’day greeting.

We approached as close to the bridge as possible next to Hickson Road, which runs beneath its dark metal structure and gray brick towers (another example of mixing old and new architectural styles). I shaded my eyes and looked up at the top of the bridge high above, where members of a tour group dressed in gray-and-blue jumpsuits ascended the outer arch of the bridge using catwalks and ladders. I wanted to make this famous Sydney bridge climb up to the four-hundred-forty-foot summit and back; but it required three and a half hours, which we didn’t have given everything else we wanted to see.

Instead, we checked out Dawes Point Park and its trendy restaurants and condos; then, we headed back along the quay to the opera house. After climbing up and down the wide stone stairs at the entrance, we continued south past Government House, constructed between 1837 and 1843. This official residence of the Governor of New South Wales resembles a medieval castle complete with turrets. The nearby Sydney Conservatorium of Music continues the castle theme with white, six-sided keeps and stylized battlements surrounding the main building. Finally our meanderings took us into the surrounding Royal Botanic Gardens on Macquarie Street.

If there is a botanical garden anywhere around, Mick and I are likely to visit. Due to my biology background, I especially love learning about the wide variety of plants; and Mick enjoys watching me enjoy this pastime. The Sydney gardens were particularly spectacular, and I wished we had more time to explore. After walking for a half-hour, we stopped to rest on a stone bench near a beautiful round fountain erected in the middle of a man-made lily pond. Gorgeous tropical flowers encircled the gray flagstone surround.

I gazed up and realized that thousands of bats were hanging from the trees high overhead. These large gray-headed flying foxes with a three-foot wing span are a famous attraction but are also a threatened species. They are crucial in the forest ecosystem for pollination and seed dispersal, and they make the gardens their home. Nonetheless, I could readily see how their sharp claws were defoliating and probably destroying beautiful native heirloom trees and exotic species collected from places like Malaysia and New Guinea.

A number of broken branches on the ground testified to the combined weight of the animals sleeping on the limbs during the day. The damage reminded me of a dilemma the government and public faced in Utah a decade ago. An endangered and thus protected prairie dog species became so abundant in a localized area that it destroyed farmers’ fields, horse paddocks, ball parks, and even cemeteries.

Suddenly Mick put his arm around my shoulder and kissed my forehead. Darcy, do you know how happy I am now?

You mean now that we’re married?

Well, sure, but I mean just having found you and all the strangeness of the past couple of years… you know, is behind us. We’ve come through so much, and we’re still here.

I know what you mean, and I feel the same even if I’m still a little nervous about boarding the ship tomorrow.

He kissed me again and brought his arm around to the front so he could pick up my hand. Looking into my eyes, he said, It’s going to be great, you’ll see. After a short pause, he changed topic. Okay, now let’s hear what you learned about this place. I know you must have done your homework.

Mick was referring to my habit of studying the places we visit. I’m especially drawn to the early history of indigenous populations and their fates. I’ve written quite a lot about that subject.

I laughed and snuggled closer. "At least someone is interested in it besides me. Well, let’s see. In this case, archaeological evidence suggests that the Cadigal people inhabited the Sydney Cove area for thirty thousand years. They organized into clans, each with their own territory. But of course, urbanization destroyed most of the evidence of their lives.

In modern times—that is 1770—Captain James Cook made the first contact with indigenous residents then called the Gweagal people. A few years later when Captain Arthur Phillip arrived with a fleet of eleven ships to set up a convict settlement, he built the colony at Sydney Cove—I bet you can guess what happened. Within a year, up to a thousand Aboriginal people died possibly from smallpox. Understandably this caused violent resistance to the settlers so that by 1820, there were few Aborigines left. Those who survived were forced to abandon their clans and accept Christianity.

Of course, I expect you are thinking about similar stories from other places we’ve visited—like in South America.

Yeah, it’s tiresome to read about the repetitive scenario. The same events played out all over the world wherever Europeans encountered and decimated indigenous people, so often in the name of religion and colonization.

I leaned back against Mick and thought about how Sydney started as a prison colony. After a tumultuous history, the new port of Sydney became a center for trade, aided by the fact that it is one of the best natural harbors in the world. Early in the nineteenth century, the port transformed into a thriving town under the leadership of Governor Lachlan Macquarie. Francis Greenway, a former prisoner, designed a number of impressive buildings. He was a professional architect convicted of forgery in England. The Old Colonial Regency style he chose as his design for St. James Church, with its high stone-arched doors and windows, repeats in architecture all around the city.

We left the gardens and realized we were famished, so we navigated the short distance to the restaurant our concierge at the Marriott suggested. We soon arrived at Fratelli Fresh on Bridge Street, an Italian restaurant housed in one of the old brownstone buildings with arches and stone steps leading up from the sidewalk. The meal was delicious with exceptionally fresh vegetables and seafood topped off with banoffee pie—an English concoction of banana, toffee, and cream with chocolate shavings on top.

After dinner on the way back to the hotel, I started thinking about how relaxing this trip was going to be after so much chaos in our lives, as Mick said earlier. So much has happened in the past few months. It feels like a whirlwind, doesn’t it?

Speaking of that, what is Don and Charlie’s timeline for getting here?

Last I heard, they’ll meet us onboard. They’re arriving tomorrow around midday and hopefully won’t have a problem making the ship’s five o’clock departure.

I was looking forward to seeing our friends, Don Freeburg (a cartoonist) and his partner, Charlie Scott (a commercial realtor). Over the past couple of years, they played a big role in our lives; and recently they and their daughter suffered through a terrible ordeal.

I said, I just wonder how Penelope is doing.

Yeah, I guess I was a little surprised when they decided to bring her on the cruise. She hasn’t had that much time to deal with the trauma and… that fear we saw so clearly in Seattle. Then at our wedding, I thought she still seemed subdued.

Mick, I know what you mean, but I think the guys know what they’re doing. She must be okay, or they wouldn’t bring her along. I know she’s been in counseling since the abduction, and don’t you think the doctor would have given an opinion about bringing her on the trip?

Sure… I don’t know much about kids yet. He grinned at me and winked. I guess they can be resilient, and her exceptional intelligence is probably a benefit.

I knew he was alluding to his relationship with Rachael and Anna. The nurturing parental role he’s embracing with them is a very important part of his life.

Anyway, he continued, what about your own trauma, sweetie? You haven’t mentioned the nightmares for a while. Have they stopped?

I sighed and looked up at the darkening clouds speeding in from the ocean above the sail-like structure of the opera house; then I looked into those warm hazel eyes filled with worry and love.

I’m really fine, Mick. Any lingering stress from my injuries will subside in time. I’m sure of it. It would be different if Castillo was still loose, but with his life sentence guaranteed, he’s history. I’m fully recovered physically, and that’s the most important thing.

This was the truth, but the memory of the injuries I sustained in an attack by the man who abducted Penelope would always be with me. You just don’t completely forget something like that. But there was no way I was going to let the past disrupt this marvelous adventure.

Mick stared down at me with a doubting look; then he shrugged and replaced it with a warm smile. Okay, if you say so. How’s your writing going?

I laughed at the non sequitur. That’s good too. This freelance writing is very different from writing the books. The interviews I conducted for this new piece I’m working on were gut-wrenching. It’s quite a different experience to delve into such a horrific event and try to remain objective.

I was talking about my trip to Colorado Springs about a month ago when I went to check on my patio home. Mick and I live in his Tenleytown condo in D.C. and occasionally at his home in Marco Island, Florida. But we’re keeping the Colorado place for now because we’ve been thinking about moving there if it worked out with our professions.

On the eighth of January, my third day in Colorado, all hell broke loose in Tucson, Arizona. The mass shooting of nineteen people, including U.S. Representative Gabriella Giffords, dominated the news. The apparently deranged gunman with a 9mm Glock pistol killed six innocents that day, including a nine-year-old girl.

The child’s murder particularly disturbed me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and about her poor family. I guess experiencing the recent life-threatening events in Seattle with eight-year-old Penelope, as well as finding my own daughter so recently and now having little Anna to love, all heightened my sensitivity.

After one of my characteristically quick decisions, I flew down to Tucson on the tenth and started to gather information for an article I wanted to write about some aspect of the crime not fully covered by the general media—that is, an angle unique and interesting enough to appeal to a major publication. Time magazine purchased my first article related to the Seattle crimes, effectively launching my freelance investigative reporting career. If I was to repeat that success, I would need to write something poignant with social importance—if I could figure out exactly what. I had a lot more research to do after the cruise, but I hoped that while on the ship, I could begin work on my article with the information I already had.

Representative Gifford’s story of survival after undergoing brain surgery within thirty-eight minutes of the shooting was an obvious choice, as was the backstory of the child who died. I was looking for something less obvious, however. The media was reporting alarming back-and-forth accusations and rhetoric about gun control, and I suspected it was only the beginning.

About six weeks prior to the horrific event, the murderer legally purchased his weapon at a sporting goods store after passing the required FBI background check. Evidence surfaced regarding notes he left indicating that he planned the attack specifically targeting Giffords. On the morning of the shooting, he tried to buy more ammunition at a Walmart, but a clerk refused to sell it to him just based on his appearance and behavior. That seemed to be something I could work with.

The story intrigued me, and I wanted to eventually learn more details as I developed my ideas for an article about society’s changing attitude about guns, gun law politics, and the public’s nearly total access to firearms. I wondered how and why the Walmart clerk decided to intervene in the process, much like a bartender refusing to sell another round to a drunk patron—a curtailment of that individual’s freedom to endanger himself and others.

Maybe another angle could focus on a growing culture of duality—that is, the desire many citizens have to amass arsenals along with a deep distrust and fear of the government. I was thinking about how to explore the potential ramifications of these attitudes. What might be the outcome if we continue coursing along this present current? I don’t usually overreact to things I can’t control; but I kept thinking about all the dystopian novels that describe a catastrophic, violent future for us and our government, and the fact that so often life does imitate art.

Right now though, I didn’t want to think about any of that too much. I just wanted to enjoy being with Mick, and with only a twinge of apprehension, I was looking forward to boarding the World of Seas cruise ship, the Sea Star.

This cruise was to be our honeymoon even though Rachael and Anna were with us. Along with Charlie, Don, and Penelope, we would also be joined by my best friend, Sidney, and her fiancé, Brooks. Brooks is also my ex-husband and Rachael’s biological father. That is a long, tortuous story with a surprisingly happy ending.

Back at the Marriott, we stopped in to say goodnight to Rachael and Anna before going to our room to crash. She said she couldn’t wait for the jet lag to subside. I studied my daughter’s face, which is so much like mine it’s disconcerting.

I hope you are able to sleep tonight, I said. I’m looking forward to resting up for the first few days on the ship. Remember, since Anna is nine months, you can make arrangements for her to stay at the childcare center onboard for a few hours. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to rest and enjoy adult fun, and I’ll take care of her for you as well.

Thanks, Darcy. You really are good to me.

She plopped down on the bed next to Anna and lifted the plump baby onto her lap, bounced her a few times, and nuzzled her chubby neck. I’ll give her something to eat and hope she sleeps through the rest of the night.

Anna’s milk-chocolate-and-honey complexion, dark hair, and eyes, were a stark contrast to Rachael’s pale-blond hair, Caribbean-blue eyes, and fair skin. Anna’s father is Kenyan, and sadly he recently returned to his homeland after an aborted attempt to assimilate into our culture. At this point, no one knew whether the little family would ever be reunited. I hoped for Anna’s sake that Gerald would stay involved because I knew he loved his child very much, and she was going to need him in the future. We left mother and daughter alone with a reminder to meet us in the lobby at 11:00 am to catch a taxi to the port.

2

Day One—Sydney

ALICE BARTON METHODICALLY removed clothing from the suitcases while trying to organize the limited space available in the cabin. The closet was small, but surprisingly there were a lot of drawers and shelves; so she was neatly folding and stacking T-shirts and shorts. As she passed by the vanity situated across the small room from the bathroom, she glanced at the mirror and couldn’t help noting her drab travel attire. The thought occurred that she should change into cooler clothes—in more ways than one—before Troy returned from his little excursion around the ship.

She was determined to create a sexy, romantic environment and attitude during the cruise, which was a rare vacation away from their two pre-teen kids. She leaned closer to inspect her face then sighed and turned away. It wasn’t that she looked bad. Her short hair was still close to its original light brown color, and the lines around her soft brown eyes could still be camouflaged with makeup. Nothing could be done about her five-foot-two stature, but at least she had so far avoided the extra weight that other female members of her family easily accumulated.

The phone on the nightstand rang, and Alice jumped at the unexpected sound. This was their first cruise, and they didn’t know how things worked yet. She hadn’t thought of the possibility of getting a phone call on the ship. She stepped into the narrow space between the king-size bed and the wall and tentatively answered.

The accented male voice informed her that a delivery was being sent from room service, and he wanted to make sure someone was there to receive it. It is from your tour company, ATC, he added.

Within five minutes, there was a knock on the cabin door. When she opened it, a waiter wearing black pants and a blue-and-white, tropical-print shirt with a black vest quickly handed her a plate. It had a round metal lid typical of room service meals. He grinned at her, his dark eyes crinkling and sparkling with friendliness. Have a nice cruise, he offered as he turned away and walked quickly down the corridor.

Good-looking guy and very sexy, she thought, noting his thick, wavy mop of black hair and bronzed complexion. She blushed at her own thoughts. She didn’t see men who looked like him back in Kansas—except on TV. She peeked out the doorway and watched his back as he retreated down the corridor.

She studied the plate and was tempted to peak under the lid but decided that since this experience was a first in so many ways, she would wait for Troy to inspect the gift with her. She set it gently on the vanity, which doubled as a desk, and went back to work deciding on which clothes really needed to hang in the closet.

Troy arrived a few minutes later. He came through the door and, in two steps, crossed to where she was standing at the foot of the bed. She turned her face up to him as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. Troy might be just an average-looking guy with kind gray eyes, but he was everything to her; and she believed he was the best husband possible.

Hi, I’m so happy, she said. I can’t believe we’re really here!

How’s it going? He peered around the cabin and into the bathroom. Looks like you’re getting everything in order. I made a quick trip up the stairs to orient myself with the layout. Being down here on deck 2 is not so bad. Lots of things are going on right above us on deck 3.

His gaze fell on the room service plate. Approaching it, he looked back at her. What’s this?

She shrugged and stepped up beside him. Apparently it’s some kind of welcoming goody from our travel agency, ATC. Room service delivered it, and I wanted to wait for you. Can you believe this floating hotel? I have a feeling the amenities and service are going to be better than we’ve ever had on land.

Yeah, not that we’re exactly world travelers. he chuckled. Well, let’s see what we have.

He placed both hands on the sides of the lid and lifted it. The entire selection of strawberries, pineapple pieces, apple slices, and a raspberry-blueberry mix appeared to be in motion. The fruit was covered with ants, and when exposed to the light, they began racing frantically in all directions around the plate and over the side. They were small as ants go but not so small that the couple couldn’t make out their yellowish-brown bodies and darker heads. Disproportionately long legs and antennae gave them a disturbing, spidery look. Without thinking, Troy turned the cover over and exposed hundreds more circling the inside like a racetrack.

Aagh! They’re stinging me, he yelled. Ow, ow!

He banged the lid back in place, picked up the plate with one hand, and opened the door with the other. Quickly he placed it on the floor outside and