“The bacteria have to be fed certain things: brewer’s yeast, sugar, and a protein solution,” Clyde said. “Well, I heard from Jack Carlson that Tab Templeton bought a load of brewer’s yeast around the first week of October and drove it away in a van matching the description of the van used by the supposed satanist cattle mutilators. And we know that in his final week or two Tab was living out of a closet at Byproducts, where they’ve got sacks of protein just sitting out on the warehouse floor for the taking. I went by Nishnabotna Corn Processors and talked to the fellows at the shipping department there and learned that Tab had purchased some drums of corn syrup just a week before his death. And I personally saw him down at Hardware Hank with a load of PVC pipe. In the last week I’ve been out at the Co-op and the other farm supply places around here, and I’ve learned that Tab also purchased a number of large fiberglass storage tanks of the type farmers use to store pesticides and other bulk liquids.
“I figure that if I was a pencil-neck Iraqi graduate student trying to build a botulin-toxin factory in an old barn or garage in the middle of Iowa, I’d have a couple of problems. For one thing, there’d be lots of heavy physical labor—moving drums and such. For another, I’d be certain to attract attention standing in the checkout line of Hardware Hank with a load of sewer pipe. So the smart thing would be to hire someone like Tab Templeton to do all that for me.”
Fazoul said, “Do you really believe that someone as security conscious as Saddam would place a secret of such importance in the hands of an American drunk?”
This one stopped Clyde in his tracks, because it was an objection he had made to himself many times. He faltered, broke eye contact with Fazoul, stared out the window.
“You’re right. It’s impossible,” Clyde said. “I’m just being paranoid.” Then he remembered something. “The only thing is that Tab is dead. Which doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, because we’ve all been waiting for him to die for a long time. But it’s hard to believe that even someone as drunk and stupid as Tab would have just fallen into that hopper by accident. And it doesn’t explain how he got access to that van, or why he shoved it off the pier into Lake Pla-Mor.”
“It is a very interesting piece of thinking,” Fazoul said after a lengthy silence. “With your permission I may take it up with some friends of mine who have some familiarity with the current state of affairs in the Gulf. Perhaps they might be able to supply some small additional clue that would prove or disprove your hypothesis.”
“Well, that’d be real nice,” blurted the astonished Clyde. He had merely wanted to use Fazoul as a sounding board and had hoped only that he wouldn’t laugh in Clyde’s face. He was startled and somewhat embarrassed to learn that Fazoul might actually repeat his wild-ass theories to personages even more exotic and sophisticated than himself.
Down below, a red Corvette backed out of a parking space on the sodden lawn, peeled out, shot halfway around the circular driveway, and screeched to a halt in front of the front door. The horn began honking. Voices drifted up the spiral stair from below, calling Clyde’s name.
“I guess that’s my ride. Hope I don’t have to arrest him for DWI,” Clyde said. “Stay in touch.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fazoul said.
Clyde made his way down to the first floor and out to the foyer, where he nodded good-bye to several guests. He exchanged an air kiss with Anita and walked out the door toward the Corvette, which was revving its big motor impatiently. Clyde opened the passenger door and leaned way down to look inside the low-slung vehicle. Behind the wheel, reeking of European cologne, was Buck Chandler.
“Let’s blow this pop stand, Clyde boy!” he hollered, slapping the wheel.
“How drunk are you?” Clyde said.
“Hey!” Buck said, as if he were glad Clyde had been rude enough to ask. He shoved the ’vette into Park, threw the door open, and hopped out as lightly as a man his age could on football-battered knees. “Check this out,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders and shot his cuffs theatrically, held his hands out to his sides, then closed his eyes and picked one foot off the ground. Standing on one leg like a flamingo, he began touching the tip of his nose with his index fingers, alternating between the two hands. “One hundred… ninety-three… eighty-six… seventy-nine… seventy-two… and so on and so forth,” he said, finally opening his eyes and putting his foot down. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Spent all your booze money on your car, huh?” Clyde said, climbing into the passenger seat. Buck laughed heartily and climbed in behind the wheel. Clyde fastened his belt and cracked the window a bit, hoping to get some fresh air.
“Been on the wagon for a couple of months, Clyde. Never felt better.” Buck punched the gas, and the Corvette spun around the drive with shocking acceleration.
“Well, that’s a good thing, because when I get elected, I’m going to be hell on drunk drivers.”
Buck laughed again. “That’s why I stopped boozing,” he said. “I knew old Clyde wouldn’t cut me any slack. That, and I knew I had to tend to my business if I was going to pay all the goddamn divorce lawyers.”
“Well, normally I think it’s a real tragedy when a divorce happens,” Clyde said, “but it looks like it kind of suits you.”
“Couldn’t have said it better, Clyde,” Buck said. The Corvette veered from Stonefield Drive out onto the River Road and screamed in toward the heart of Wapsipinicon like a descending Scud.
Chapter Thirty-Eight