Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel)

by Tim Downs

  And after her father’s disappearance, when the people of the town of Endor began to spread rumors about her—when they began to call her witch and tell imaginary stories about unspeakable things she did with animals at night—well, she let them go right ahead. She never defended herself, not even once. Why bother? That kind of ignorance can’t be cured—why should she lower herself to their level?

  So she closed her gate and locked it and that was that. And no one came through that gate anymore except for Gunner and dear sweet Rose, the only decent people in all of Endor—the only people who cared if she lived or died—the only people who had cared enough to bring her food and clothing and to talk with her and hold her. Behind this gate Alena had continued her father’s work—rescuing dogs doomed to perish, healing them, restoring their broken spirits, discovering the unique gift that each of them possessed from birth, and honing that gift until the dog could perform with uncanny ability.

  For years these dogs had been her only “social connections,” and she had no idea how to begin to “open up to people” now—the very thought made her queasy. And that’s when she came up with the idea. For years she had rescued dogs from animal shelters and sold them to the Canine Enforcement Training Center in Front Royal, and to Puppies Behind Bars, and to a dozen other training facilities and nonprofits; why not give some of her rescued dogs to families looking for pets?

  So she put up a sign and she opened her gate—and right now she regretted doing it. But she knew in her heart that Gunner was right—the dear man didn’t know how to give bad advice. Alena was getting married on Saturday, and that would mean a whole new life with Nick. And she wanted that life, even though she was afraid of it, and if this was how you got started on it, well—she was willing to give it a try.

  “Sorry,” Alena said, fumbling for words. “My dogs don’t have any problems. They’ve got all their shots; no health problems, no heartworm, no fleas or ticks—I check them over myself every week.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” the woman said. “I just meant—”

  “It’s okay. Some people think that mixed breeds are messed up somehow—you know, because they’re not pure. Fact is, it’s the purebreds that have most of the problems: joint problems, skin problems, eye problems—you know, the genetic stuff. Purebreds tend to have the temperament problems too— aggressiveness or hyperactivity. My dogs have a little bit of everything mixed in, so the genes sort of balance each other out. You might have to flex on looks a little, but if you’re just looking for a good, healthy animal, a mixed breed is the way to go. The way I look at it, we’re all mutts when it comes right down to it. The worst idea anybody ever came up with was that somebody’s blood was purer than somebody else’s.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of crunching gravel. Alena glanced up just in time to see Gunner’s Ford Ranger pull off the gravel drive and park beside the family’s silver SUV. Gunner stepped out and waved as he started toward them.

  “Did you come up to see how my rehab is going?” Alena called out.

  “No, I’ve got a message for you—from Nick.”

  Alena felt her heart do a sudden jump.

  Gunner nodded a greeting to the family. “Morning, folks. Shopping for a dog today?”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “The problem is, they all look great.

  How do we ever settle on one?”

  “Ask her,” Gunner said. “This woman knows more about dogs than anybody you’ll ever meet. If Alena tells you it’s a good one, you can depend on it.”

  “They’re all good,” Alena said impatiently. “Just pick one. What did Nick say?”

  “Take care of your customers first,” Gunner said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  You’re in no hurry. Alena gave him a piercing look. She knew what Gunner was doing—he wanted to watch and see how she was “opening up with people.”

  “That’s a cute little one there,” the woman said, pointing to a cocker-poodle mix with oddly drooping ears.

  “Terrific,” Alena said. “He’s all yours.”

  “He? Oh—we were looking for a female.”

  Shoot—this could take all day. She walked around behind the little boy and looked over the pack of dogs. She spotted one—a female—a sleek brown beagle-pointer blend of medium size and build. She waited until the dog’s eyes met hers and then she snapped her fingers once; the dog came to immediate attention. She beckoned with her index finger and the dog approached; then she made a kind of peace sign and wiggled both fingers, as if she were making little quotation marks in the air. The dog rose up on its hind legs and placed one paw on each of the boy’s shoulders.

  “Wow!” the boy said in amazement.

  “Well, would you look at that!” his mother said.

  “That’s amazing,” her husband replied. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I have,” Gunner said.

  Alena shot him a look that could burn through wood.

  “Is it a female?” the woman asked.

  “Let me check,” Alena said. When she bent down to take a look she heard Gunner let out a snort; Gunner knew Alena could spot a female from across a field just by its build and gait. “You’re in luck,” she said. “This one’s a female.”

  “We’ll take her,” the father announced triumphantly—and within minutes their SUV was rolling out the gate with a tailwagging addition to the family.

  “You oughta be ashamed,” Gunner said with a grin.

  “Manipulating those poor people like that.”

  “That’s called ‘salesmanship,’ ” Alena replied. “Sometimes you have to help people make up their minds.”

  “Uh-huh. And what happens when they get home and find out the dog doesn’t really have a psychic connection with their boy?”

  “Maybe she will,” Alena said, “if the kid knows how to treat her. Now what did Nick say? And how come he called you instead of me? I went down to Endor last night like he told me to. I waited for over an hour—”

  “Slow down,” Gunner said. “Give a man a chance. Nick called me this morning from Philadelphia; he called me because he knew he couldn’t reach you. He asked me to tell you he was sorry and to tell you that he wanted to call you last night but couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was in jail.”

  Alena let out an exasperated gasp. “See, I knew this would happen. How did he end up in jail?”

  “Apparently some friend of his was murdered.”

  “Well, of course! Wherever Nick goes people seem to drop like flies—it’s like he’s the angel of death or something. So what happened?”

  “Nick said he went to the friend’s house to try to investigate and there was some confusion with the police. They thought Nick shouldn’t be there, so—they arrested him.”

  “Confusion with the police,” Alena said. “Is that how he described it? ’Cause that man has a very long history of confusion with the police—it’s the story of his life. Where is he now? Is he on his way home?”

  “Not exactly,” Gunner said. “He said to tell you that he’s headed for a little town called Pine Summit.”

  “Pine Summit—where’s that?”

  “It’s somewhere in the Poconos.”

  Now Alena did a slow and dramatic double take, complete with dropping jaw and eyes bulging in disbelief. “The Poconos. Our Poconos? The Poconos where we’re supposed to be spending our honeymoon just a few days from now? Isn’t he forgetting something—like me?”

  “Now, Alena—”

  “I knew this would happen—I knew it the minute he told me he wanted to leave. I knew Nick would run and keep on running until he was just as far away from me as he could get.”

  “Alena, wait.”

  “You know how I knew? Because Nick is a working dog, that’s why. He’s a tracker, he’s a pointer, he’s a retriever. He’s not a house dog—it’s just not in his blood.”

  “Now stop that. You’re overreacting.”

&nb
sp; “I know a working dog when I see one, Gunner—I train them, remember? I can spot the temperament a mile away, and I should have spotted it in Nick. What was I thinking? The guy was born to run, and he’s not about to stop for me.”

  “Stop.” Gunner took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Look—you know that I love you like a daughter.”

  Alena rolled her emerald eyes. “Here it comes. Every time you remind me you love me, it means you’re about to kick me in the pants.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Just get on with it.”

  Gunner looked at her sternly. “I know you, kiddo—I’ve known you since you were a little girl. And I think I know Nick pretty well too—well, as much as anybody does. You know what your problem is? You talk about Nick like he’s one of your dogs—somebody you can train to do what you want; somebody who won’t disappoint you once he learns to obey; somebody you won’t have to explain things to because he’ll know what you want just by snapping your fingers. But Nick’s not one of your dogs, Alena—he’s a lot more complicated than that. You can’t just train him, and he won’t always obey you, and I can absolutely guarantee that a man will disappoint you from time to time—if you don’t believe me, just ask Rose.”

  “I know,” she said. “Rose tells me what a big disappointment you are.”

  “I’m serious. Maybe a working dog only lives to work, but a human being is different. Nick can do two things at once—he can love to work and he can love you at the same time.”

  “Well, I’m only seeing half of it.”

  “Did he ask you to marry him?”

  She kicked at the dirt. “I guess so.”

  “Then what are you whining about?”

  She winced. “You think I’m whining?”

  “The man forgets to call and you think he doesn’t love you; he has an errand to do and you think he’s never coming back. What would you call it?”

  Alena felt her frustration gradually giving way to embarrassment and shame. “Well, what am I supposed to do while he’s gone? I’m going crazy just sitting around here.”

  “You’re supposed to get back to work and trust your man. If you don’t trust him, it’s going to be a long marriage.”

  “Okay, I get the message. Are you done with the ‘tough love’ routine now?”

  “If I don’t tell you these things, who will?”

  “Rose will.”

  “That’s right—because we’re married and we always think the same way.”

  “That’ll be the day.” They both grinned, and Alena wrapped her arms around Gunner’s thick waist and hugged him tight. She held out her left hand and looked at her engagement ring. “I guess a man is like a diamond,” she said. “You want a good one, but the better it is, the more you worry about losing it.”

  Gunner kissed her on the top of her shining black hair. “Nick said to tell you he promises to call you tonight at exactly nine o’clock.”

  “When will he come home?”

  “Ask him yourself. He’ll call at nine.”

  “Like he did last night?”

  “Like he meant to.”

  “Terrific,” she said. “That means I have to go down to Endor again.”

  “Send one of your dogs,” Gunner said. “They can use a cell phone, can’t they?”

  “I wish.” She continued to hold on to him with her head resting against his chest. “Then you think Nick really loves me?”

  “If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry the two of you.”

  She gave him one final squeeze, then released him and looked up into his eyes. “Pine Summit,” she said. “What the heck is he doing in Pine Summit?”

  11

  PINE SUMMIT, PENNSYLVANIA

  When Nick opened the door to the Pine Summit Sherriff’s Office, he heard a tiny tinkling sound above his head. He looked up at the doorframe and saw an old-fashioned brass bell dangling from a curling metal strip. Nice homey touch, he thought. I wonder if they serve ice-cream sodas here.

  The office was small—essentially a single square room with an old oak desk that faced the front door and a smaller desk perpendicular to it on the right. The big desk was the apparent seat of power, if power was necessary in a town this size; judging by the number of photos and personal items displayed, the smaller desk belonged to an administrative assistant—a woman. There was an arched doorway on the left that led to some back room, probably even smaller than this one; Nick had no idea what it could be needed for. Looks like a one-cop shop, Nick thought. I’ll bet the assistant’s only part-time.

  He took a step into the room and looked at the walls; the only official-looking item on the bulletin boards was the occasional push-pinned notice offering a modest reward for the return of a lost pet or a pilfered snowblower. Tough town, he thought. Most of the bulletin boards were covered by Pocono Mountains tourism brochures flaunting the local antique shops, B and Bs, and the big casinos down toward Stroudsburg; there were also plenty of Lake Region brochures filled with enticing photographs of nearby Lake Wallenpaupack taken from the bow of a boat. Nick smiled; it looked like the sheriff was sharing office space with the Chamber of Commerce.

  There was a brass nameplate on the big desk with the name YANUZZI in bold letters; on the wall behind the desk there was a yellowed newspaper clipping displayed in a simple black frame. The headline announced, “From the FBI to Pine Summit,” with the explanatory subheading, “FBI Agent Edward Yanuzzi Takes Over as Pine Summit Sheriff.” Nick was just beginning to read the article when a man stepped into the arched doorway holding a white ceramic coffee mug.

  “Thought I heard that bell,” the man said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Nick looked at him. Now we know what’s in the back room, he thought. A coffeemaker and a La-Z-Boy. The man was shorter than Nick, maybe five-eleven, but much stockier in build. His hair was thick and wavy, and even though the black was clearly losing out to gray there was no sign of thinning or receding. His chest was no longer wider than his waist, but Nick thought he looked like a man you wouldn’t have wanted to mess with in his prime. His face was the oldest part of him, thoroughly weathered and wind-worn, and his eyes were large and so deep a brown that they almost looked black.

  “You must be Yanuzzi,” Nick said, pointing to the clipping.

  “‘FBI Agent Yanuzzi Takes Over.’”

  “That’s me.”

  “Was there much to take over?”

  Yanuzzi smiled. “What can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Polchak—Nick Polchak. Boy, you must have really screwed up with the FBI to end up here.”

  “I take it you’re not a small-town guy,” Yanuzzi said.

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, some of us are. I left the Bureau about five years ago—came up from New York. My wife and I used to vacation up here every summer and we fell in love with the place—so I took early retirement and we decided to stay.”

  “And take the job of sheriff? Doesn’t sound like the golden years to me.”

  “A man can’t sit around all day.”

  “ ‘From the FBI to Pine Summit,’ ” Nick quoted. “That’s what I’d call culture shock. Ever miss the Big Apple?”

  “Not much,” he said. “In my line of work you tend to see the bad side of a town; this town doesn’t have one.”

  “What about all these missing pets?” Nick said. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”

  Yanuzzi walked to his desk and pulled out the chair. “I’m assuming you didn’t stop by just to be a wise guy.”

  “No, but I like to stay in practice,” Nick said. “I just drove up from Philadelphia. I work with an organization down there called the Vidocq Society. Ever heard of us?”

  “Vidocq,” Yanuzzi said. “Sure—the guys who take on all the cold cases.”

  “I’m impressed,” Nick said. “Of course, you used to be FBI.”

  “Never heard of you when I was with the Bureau,” Yanuzz
i said. “But I had a deputy a few months back; he was trying to clear up a couple of old cases and he read about you guys in some law enforcement journal.”

  “Had a deputy? Then I take it he doesn’t work here anymore?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Any idea how I can get in touch with him?”

  “Any idea how I can get “That wouldn’t be easy.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Nick paused. “He just died in the last few months?”

  “Back in December.”

  “Mind if I ask how?”

  “Mind if I ask why you want to know?”

  “C’mon, Sheriff, I can look it up in the local newspaper.”

  “Help yourself. You asked me.”

  “Fair enough,” Nick said. “I have a friend in Philadelphia— had a friend, I should say. He was murdered a few days ago.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Me too. My friend was also a colleague of mine—a forensic botanist. We were both members of Vidocq.”

  “What is it you do, Mr. Polchak?”

  “It’s Dr. Polchak, actually. I’m a forensic entomologist.”

  “You’re a bug man.”

  “That’s what they call me. I looked over my friend’s phone records from the last few months and I found quite a few calls to a number in this area code. I cross-checked the number with a list of law enforcement officials who presented cases to Vidocq in the last few months, and guess what I found?”

  “Your friend made phone calls to my deputy.”

  “No wonder you landed this job. It’s not unusual for a Vidocq member to stay in touch with a presenter after he visits—it happens whenever a member thinks he has something to contribute to the ongoing investigation.”

  “And your friend had something to contribute?”

  “He thought he did—he wrote to me and told me so. He thought I might be able to help out too, so he invited me to join him at the next Vidocq meeting—but when I showed up he wasn’t there.”