gas, which has no odor, we have to put in Chloropicrin, which is essentially tear gas. That’s to keep people out. The tear gas makes their eyes stream. Sometimes, even that isn’t enough. People will break into their own homes because they forgot a shirt for work or left their purse behind. They think they can hold their breath long enough to get in and out, but they can’t. They’re overcome by the gas.”
“What happens then?”
“Some live. Some die.” He shrugged. “There’s no known antidote and the symptoms are different for every person.
You might have a heart attack. I might have convulsions.
Vikane affects different people in different ways. It’s not a good way to die.
“One man went back into his place during a tenting, sat down in his favorite chair, and turned on the TV. He’d lost his business and wanted to commit suicide. They found him with his finger still on the remote, flipping through the channels for all eternity.
“A pair of cheating lovers sneaked back in because they knew his partner would never think of looking in the tented bedroom. They were found dead together.”
The canvas tarps were shrouding the windows now, and the rooms were dark as caves. The canvas flapped in the breeze and created an odd snapping sound. As Helen walked through the dark, hot rooms, she seemed to see death everywhere. She wondered why Trevor bothered with the locks, when the windows were left open.
Margery must have been thinking the same thing. “What about burglars?” she said.
“They die, too,” Trevor said. “If a thief gets in there, well, he’s not going to tell the hospital he inhaled Vikane in a termite tent. By the time the hospital figures it out, he’s dead.”
“So how do you survive inside when the tents come off?” she said.
“I use a SCBA respirator,” Trevor said. “George has one, too, in case I get overcome. I’ll go in and open everything up. It will be safe for you to come back late Monday.”
“What’s a SCBA respirator?” Margery said.
“It looks like a diving tank, but it has a full face mask connected to the breathing hose. It’s not to be confused with a scuba tank. Diving gear doesn’t really work for this.”
“What about those charcoal gas masks, the kind used in Desert Storm?”
“We tried them,” Trevor said. “They don’t work as well.
You need a self-contained breathing apparatus. You can buy it at a fire-equipment place or on the Internet.”
“So why don’t burglars use them?” Margery asked.
“Too expensive,” Trevor said. “A SCBA unit costs about two thousand dollars a tank. If a burglar had two thousand dollars, he wouldn’t need to be a burglar.”
“Breaking into this place wouldn’t pay for the tank. Nobody here has the Star of India on her dresser,” Margery said. “All a burglar would get was some old TV sets, a video camera or two, and Grandma’s engagement ring.”
Helen thought her landlady had a real talent for crime.
“It’s not worth the risk,” Trevor agreed.
Still, Helen was glad she’d taken her suitcase full of cash to the beach.
Madame Muffy’s place was as dull as its owner. The living room was still a palm-reading parlor. The bed had a beige comforter. Three unpacked boxes served as a nightstand. There were no photos, pictures, or anything personal.
Helen had seen hotel rooms with more personality.
Finally, they entered the home of Phil the invisible pothead. This was the apartment Helen had been waiting to see. Naturally, it reeked of pot. The sagging couch was covered with a madras throw and
“What’s he doing with a hair barrette?” Helen said.
“It holds his ponytail. That’s no ordinary guitar,” Margery said respectfully. “It’s a Fender Strat, same as Clapton plays, in solid silver.”
“You’d think he’d use pot metal,” Helen said. Once again, she wondered how her landlady knew these things.
She examined the plastic milk crates full of albums. “I’d love to help myself to these.” There were original LPs from Clapton’s days with Cream, the Yardbirds, and John Mayall and the BluesBreakers. Helen slid out one record. Oddly, it was beautifully cared for, without the dirt and scratches druggies inflicted on their albums.
The walls were covered with vintage posters, including one for Cream’s
There were no medicines in the bathroom. In the kitchen, Trevor opened the freezer. Inside was a glass vial of clear yellow liquid and a fat bag of pot.
“Got to get rid of that, ma’am,” the fumigator said. “The herb will get contaminated.”
Helen started to pack the pot with the bananas, but Margery said, “Throw that out. I’m not driving around with an illegal substance in my car. What if I got stopped?”
Helen couldn’t imagine the cops stopping Margery for a drug bust, but she did not argue.
“And what’s this?” her landlady asked, pointing to the vial.
“Urine sample, ma’am,” Trevor said. “For drug tests. If you smoke the herb, you can’t pass the test. Some people buy clean samples on the Internet. If their job requires mandatory drug testing, they palm the sample and use it instead of their own fluid. But the gas will ruin it. It should be thrown out, too.”
“Why don’t you throw that out while the inspector and I walk through my place?” Margery said, and Helen knew she was not invited to look in her landlady’s closets and cabinets. Helen owed Margery a few favors, but she thought handling a frozen urine sample canceled them all.
She found a plastic grocery bag, picked up the vial with it, and dropped it in the Dumpster.
The Coronado was nearly covered with tarps. Clear plastic hoses for the poison gas snaked along the sidewalks and across the pool. The ends of the hoses were taped to floor fans in the hallways. The fans were whirring softly. They would dissipate the poison gas through the apartments.
The Coronado looked like a disaster scene, as if a tornado or hurricane had hit. The chaise longues by the pool no longer seemed inviting. Helen saw an abandoned pair of flip-flops. They looked sad.
In the harsh sunlight, Helen could see the cracks that had been cheaply patched and painted over. The Coronado was showing its age. So was Margery. She came out of her own apartment and suddenly looked every day of her seventy-six years.
Helen and Margery left Trevor as he was pumping poison gas into the apartments. The Coronado was wrapped like a present.
Helen felt tired and sad. This should be a hopeful occasion, she thought. The Coronado could be saved. But it looked like death in a pretty package.
Chapter 6
Dr. Rich was waiting for Helen when she returned from the Coronado. She stopped at the entrance to the motel courtyard to admire her man. She liked his slightly shaggy blond hair and beard, his subtle brown Tommy Bahama shirt and khaki shorts. He looked cool and relaxed, sitting under a striped umbrella.
“How’s the Lab?” she asked, kissing him hello. Rich smelled of spicy aftershave, coffee, and lime.
“He lost a leg, but he’ll make it. How’s my buddy Thumbs?”
“He’s fat and happy. Want to see him?” They went inside to Helen’s room. Rich sat on the sagging bed and scratched the cat’s belly until he purred. Helen began to get restless.
Was he ever going to forget his animals and remember her?
When the cat was drooling in stupefied delight, Rich looked up and said, “What do you want to do today? Sit
