Fatal Harvest. Catherine Palmer

about famine relief, Miss Pruitt.”

      “Oh yes he does, Mr. Strong.” She returned his appraising gaze. “He uncovered a wealth of information, and he’s very excited about it.”

      “Obsessed, you mean.”

      She bristled. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

      “You would if you knew Matt.”

      “Excuse me, sir, but I do know your son. I know him very well.”

      “Then where is he?”

      She paused to collect herself. In fifteen years as a teacher, she had faced a lot of angry parents. Frustration, concern for a child’s GPA, confusion about assignments—all these things drove them to confrontation at the school. Jill had learned to back off, take it slow and insist on civil treatment. But the dominating stance of this man, the hostility in his voice, and the insinuations he had tossed out were getting on her nerves. If he were a more involved parent, she would sympathize with his concern. But she knew for a fact that Cole Strong had shown little interest in his son’s life at school before now.

      “I’m not sure where Matt is, Mr. Strong,” she told him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m averaging midterm grades.”

      “Did he go to all his classes today?” He took a step toward her.

      “I’m sorry, but I don’t have access to that infor—” Jill caught her breath. “Wait a minute. Two men…college recruiters, I think…asked to meet him during his trigonometry class. Marianne—Mrs. Weston—told me he never came back.”

      “Who were these guys? Which university?”

      “I have no idea.”

      “Well, look it up.” He gestured at her laptop. “You’re the computer wizard. Open the file or whatever, and find out who got permission to take my son out of class.”

      Despite her irritation with Matt’s father, she felt a stab of concern about the boy. “I don’t have code access to office documents, Mr. Strong.”

      “Then break the code. Isn’t that what you’ve been teaching my son to do?”

      “Sir, I do not appreciate your tone. And I can assure you—”

      “Look, lady.” He stuffed his hat onto his head. “My son is missing. Do you get that? Matt did not come home from school, and he’s not there now. Billy Younger and I have combed this town and haven’t found hide nor hair of the boy. Now you’re telling me two strangers showed up at school and took my son off someplace—and he never came back? And I’m supposed to be nice and polite about it?”

      Jill swallowed. “I’ll call Mrs. Weston at home. Maybe she can tell us who the men were.”

       TWO

       V ince Grant gazed at the tray of glazed crullers on the gleaming mahogany desk in his corner office. His new secretary provided him with sweet snacks each afternoon at four, and he wondered if she was trying to give him a heart attack. He didn’t like Jennifer, and she didn’t like him. But his vision and her efficiency meshed well, and the situation was a lot tidier than it had been with Dawn.

      Vince’s wife had known about Dawn and the others before her, but this time she refused to tolerate her husband’s straying. Maybe it was because their children were growing up and moving on—the two girls away at college, their son busy with polo and soccer. Or maybe it was menopause. Cheryl Grant had grown edgy, moody. He would have to be more discreet.

      Tapping his blunt-tipped fingers together, Vince tried to resist the crullers. Things weren’t going well on this Thursday afternoon, and food always seemed to calm him. But his tailor—who had used the same patterns for Vince’s $4,000 wool suits since he had taken the helm of Chicago-based Agrimax thirteen years before—had been obliged to take new measurements on his last fitting. Vince didn’t like that. At fifty-eight, he still had a lot of good years left, and he intended to enjoy every benefit of his position. But he had to look the part—trim, neatly groomed, well suited and in perfect health.

      Vince Grant had great plans for Agrimax. His blueprint—carefully spelled out in documents to which only he and his top executives had computer access—was both his obsession and his pride. Vince had been consumed by the plan for years. At last, its many components were clicking into place.

      In twelve days, the corporation would absorb its two rivals, Megafarm and Progrow. The new conglomerate, with Vince as its CEO, would essentially control the world food market—at which time he could begin putting into place the seed, fertilizer, pesticide and genetic technologies that Agrimax scientists had been developing in secret. The merger and resulting takeover of worldwide food production would assure Vince a place in history and make him a billionaire.

      The plan had involved skillful diplomacy, hardball boardroom politics, careful public relations and, finally, subterfuge. His executive board wasn’t completely aware of the complex ramifications of its CEO’s plan, though all would benefit immeasurably. Once in place, the merger would allow Agrimax to overcome all barriers to power and profitability.

      But Agrimax’s executive board had found another reason to be restless. They were unhappy over negative publicity about the company’s genetically modified seed. At the last board meeting Vince had promised to squelch the problem. He had his public relations people initiate high-profile food donations to hunger-relief organizations chosen for their news value. The newspapers cooperated admirably. Agrimax’s media spokeswoman had appeared on two national morning television programs and a prime-time talk show. Vince felt confident the company’s image concerns were under control.

      Until now.

      In the past month, someone who identified himself as a high school sophomore had begun e-mailing Agrimax’s top executives. Annoyed at first, the executives became nervous when the tone of the e-mails switched from that of an idealist who wanted to end world hunger to the voice of someone who knew the company intimately.

      Security had pinpointed the source of the e-mails. They came from a small town in New Mexico near the ranch to which one of Agrimax’s leading scientists, Jim Banyon, had just retired. Banyon had been a loyal team player, moving through the ranks until he was awarded a vice president’s position. Vince had liked the man, and his work for Agrimax was groundbreaking. The two became personal friends. Their wives even socialized at the country club until Banyon’s divorce put his ex out of circulation.

      In the past couple of years, the scientist had joined some sort of evangelistic religious group. He grew reclusive, losing interest in golf and absenting himself from the regular happy-hour gathering at the club. Vince hadn’t given it too much thought. Last month, Banyon had taken early retirement, and his position had not yet been filled. A week ago, before the e-mails were traced, Banyon returned briefly to Agrimax headquarters in Chicago to clear a few things from his office.

      Though the suspicious messages had come from the account of one “Matthew Strong,” Agrimax security believed Banyon was the actual source. Vince ordered an investigation into information transferred recently to his former colleague’s computer. His worst fears were realized when it was discovered that Vince’s own top secret blueprint had been copied from the mainframe.

      When his secretary’s voice came over the intercom with a call from the head of security, Vince was quick to grab the phone.

      “Harwood, what do you have for me?”

      “The kid is no problem.”

      “There really is a kid?”

      “Matthew Strong.”

      “You found him? Talked to him?”

      “We took care of him.”

      “So it’s Banyon?”

      “There’s no question. The two know each other. Banyon’s been feeding the boy the data he used in his e-mails to our executives.”

      “What