Page 82 - Effable Encounters
P. 82

The Formic Solution


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          Ann  struggled  into  Phibian  Gill’s  apartment-cum-tax  deductible
        office  space  late  Friday  morning,  arms  full  of  delicacies  from  the
        neighborhood’s  best  patisseries  and  boulangeries.  Her  notebook
        protruded  from  the  outer  pocket  of  the  purse  slung  around  her
        shoulder;  Gill  deftly  extracted  it  as  she  blundered,  blinded  by
        shopping bags, toward the kitchen.
          “I’ll look at this in a moment, Ann, but you ought to come see this
        first.”
          Her  lengthy  reply,  laced  with  unladylike  malediction  and
        imprecation, was muffled by rustling  bags, slamming  cabinet  doors
        and  rattling  plates.  Finally  she  appeared,  in  high  dudgeon,  on  the
        living room carpet.
          “What the hell, Phibian: is there a room in this place not dedicated
        to insects? You left a spoon smeared with butterscotch fudge in the
        sink. I think it’s time to call an exterminator.”
          He shook his head. “If I pay for a consultant, it will be a licensed
        myrmecologist, not some jerk with a truck full of toxic chemicals. At
        any rate, I figured out it was the cherry cola that was killing them off.
        It looked okay to them, and it must have tasted okay, but that stuff is
        poison. But what’s interesting is how the survivors just dig a sort of
        crypt for the bodies, dump them in, and go about their business. Just
        like a pauper’s grave.”
          Ann made a face.
          “Fascinating. You can clean up the sink and the counter in there.
        I’ve already gone way beyond my job description in the vain hope of
        getting a raise. Do you want me to explain those notes, or are we just
        going to celebrate your role as an unintentional mass-murderer?”
          Gill flipped through the pages.
          “Nice  work.  All  the  patients’  names  at  the  hospital—even  their
        diseases  and  mortality  rate.  That  might  prove  enlightening.  The
        veterans  center:  let’s  see,  what  does  ‘O.T.’  mean?  Oh,  I  get  it.
        Occupational  therapy.  Some  of  these  guys  could  walk  without
        crutches, right? Do you have their height, weight, and age? Good. I’ll
        check out the wheelchair Romeos. Maybe one went AWOL around
        the time Margaret Pye disappeared. Hmmm. The homeless shelter for

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