“It’s for you,” Kevin announced at last, and handed Oscar the phone.

Their caller was Jules Fontenot. Fontenot was angry. He’d been unable to reach Oscar through any conventional phone. He had finally been reduced to calling the Collaboratory’s police headquarters through a Secret Service office in Baton Rouge. The runaround had irritated him greatly.

“I apologize for the local communications systems, Jules. There’s been a lot of change here since you left us. It’s good to hear from you, though. I appreciate your persistence. What can I do for you?”

“You still mad at Green Huey?” Fontenot rasped.

“I was never ‘mad’ at Huey. Professionals don’t get mad. I was dealing with him.”

“Oscar, I’m retired. I want to stay retired. I didn’t ever want to make a call like this again. But I had to.”

What was wrong with the man? It was Fontenot, all right, but his native accent had thickened drastically. It was as if the man were speaking through a digital “Cajun Dialect” vocoder. “To meck a caw lak diss …”

“Jules, you know that I always respect your advice. Your leaving the business hasn’t changed that for me. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Haitian refugees. You get me? A camp for Haitians.”

“Did you just say ‘Haitians’? Do you mean black, Francophone people from the Caribbean?”

“That’s right! Church people from Haiti. Huey gave ’em politi-cal asylum. Built a little model village for ’em, in the backwoods. They’re living way back in mah swamps now.”

“I’m with you, Jules. Disaster evacuations, Haitian refugees, charity housing, French language, that’s all very Huey. So what is the problem?”

“Well, it’s somethin’, It’s not just that they’re foreigners. Reli-gious foreigners. Black, voodoo, religious, refugee foreigners who speak Creole. It’s something lots weirder than that. Huey’s done something strange to those people. Drugs, I think. Genetics maybe. They are acting weird. Really weird.”

“Jules, forgive me, but I have to make sure that I have this straight.” Oscar lifted his hand silently and began gesturing frantically at Kevin-Get This On Tape. Open Your Laptop. Take Notes! “Jules, are you telling me that the Governor of Louisiana is using Haitian refugees as human guinea pigs for behavioral experiments?”

“I wouldn’t swear to that in a court of law — because I cain’t get anyone to come out here and look! Nobody’s complaining about it, that’s the problem. They’re the happiest goddamn Haitians in the whole world.”

“It must be neural, then. Some kind of mood-altering treat-ment.”

“Maybe. But it’s not like any kind of dope I ever saw or heard tell of. I just don’t have the words to properly describe this situation. I just don’t have the words.”

“And you want me to come and see it with you.”

“I’m not saying that, Oscar. I’m just saying… well, the parish police are crooked, the state militia is crooked, the Secret Service won’t listen to me anymore, and nobody even cares. They’re Haitians, from a barren, drowning island, and nobody cares. Not a damn soul cares. ”

“Oh, believe me, I care, Jules. Trust me on that one.”

“It’s more than I can stand, that’s all. I can’t sleep nights, thinkin’ about it.”

“Rest easy. You have done the right and proper thing. I am definitely going to take steps. Is there a way that I can contact you? Safely, confidentially?”

“Nope. Not anymore. I threw all my phones away.”

“How can I pursue this matter, then?”

“I’m retired! Hell, Oscar, don’t let anybody know that I outed this thing! I live here now. I love this place. I wanna die here.”

“Now, Jules, you know that’s not right. This is a very serious matter. You’re either a player, or you’re not a player. You can’t teeter along on the edge like this.”

“Okay. I’m not a player.” The phone went dead.

Oscar turned to Kevin. “Were you following the gist of that?”

“Who was that guy? Is he nuts?”

“That’s my former krewe security chief, Jules Fontenot. He ran security for the Bambakias campaign. He happens to be a Cajun. He retired just before I met you, and he’s been out in the bayou, fishing, ever since.”

“And now he’s calling you up with some cock-and-bull story about a scandal, and he’s trying to lure you into the backwoods of Louisiana?”

“That’s right. And I’m going.”

“Hold on, cowboy. Think about this. What’s more likely? That Huey is running weird atrocity camps in the bayou, or that your for-mer friend the Cajun has just been turned against you? This is a trap, man. So they can kidnap you just like they tried before. They’re gonna curb-stomp you and feed you to the alligators.”

“Kevin, I appreciate that hypothesis. That’s good, street-smart, bodyguard-style thinking. But let me give you the political angle on this. I know Fontenot. He was a Secret Service special agent. I trusted that man with my life — and with the Senator’s life, the life of the whole krewe. Maybe he’s plotting to kidnap and murder me now. But if Huey can turn Jules Fontenot into a murderous traitor, then Arner-ica as we know it has ceased to exist. It would mean that we’re doomed.”

“So you’re going into Louisiana to investigate these things he told you about.”

“Of course I am. The only question is, how and under what circumstances. I’m going to have to give this project some serious thought.”

“Okay, I’m going with you, then.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“A lot of reasons. I’m supposed to be your bodyguard. I’m in your krewe. You pay me. I’m the successor of this Fontenot guy that you’re so impossibly respectful of. But mostly — it’s because I’m so sick and tired of you always being four steps ahead of me.” Kevin slapped his desk. “Look at me, man. I’m a very smart, clever, sneaky guy. I’m a hacker. And I’m good at it! I’m such a net-dot-legend that I can take over federal science labs. I slot right into the Moderators. I even hang out with NSC agents. But no matter what I do, you always do some-thing crazier. You’re always ahead of me. I’m a technician, and you’re a politician, and you’re always outthinking me. You don’t even take me seriously.”

“That is not true. I know that you count! I take you with com-plete seriousness, Captain Scubbly Bee.”

Kevin sighed. “Just make a little room for me in the back of your campaign bus, all right? That’s all I ask.”

“I need to talk to Greta about this development. She’s my neural science expert.”

“Right. No problem. Just a second.” Kevin stood up and limped barefoot to a desktop computer. He typed in parameters. A schematic map of the Collaboratory appeared. He studied it. “Okay. You’ll find Dr. Penninger in her supersecret lab in the fourth floor of the Human Resources division.”

“What? Greta’s supposed to be here at the party.”

“Dr. Penninger hates parties. She bores real easily. Didn’t you know that? I like doing favors for Dr. Penninger. Dr. Penninger’s not like most women — you can talk to her seriously about stuff that mat-ters. She needed a safe house in case of attacks, so I built her a cute little secret lab over in Human Resources. She fired all those clowns anyway, so there’s plenty of room now.”

“How do you know where she is at this very moment?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m Security, and she’s the lab’s Di-rector. I always know where the Director is.”

After considerable ceremonial pressing of the flesh, Oscar left the party to find Greta. Thanks to Kevin’s explicit surveillance, this wasn’t difficult.

Kevin and his prole gangs had assembled a hole-in-the-wall workspace for Greta. Oscar punched in a four-digit code, and the door opened. The room was dark, and he saw Greta crouched over her dissecting microscope, its lights the only illumination. Both her eyes were pressed to the binocular mounts and both her hands were encased in step-down AFM dissection gloves. She had thrown a lab coat over her glamorous party gear. The room was as bare as a monk’s cell, and Greta was utterly intent: silently and methodically tearing away at some tiny fabric of the universe.