Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel)

by Tim Downs

  Gunner watched as she ordered the three dogs up onto the tailgate and back under the cover of the white camper shell. “So you’re planning to take your dogs and track him down.”

  “If I have to.”

  “Like some kind of escaped convict.”

  “Like an escaped fiancé. That’s different.”

  “And what if you do find him? What are you going to tell him when he says, ‘I told you I’d be back—why did you have to come looking for me?’ ”

  “I’ll say, ‘I thought you might need my help. I thought you might be hurt or in trouble.’”

  “In other words, you’re going to lie.”

  “Yeah. And then I’m going to confess it and God will forgive me—and you’ll serve Communion at the wedding.”

  “You little Pharisee—you’ve got the whole thing figured out, don’t you?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Gunner looked into the truck at the three dogs curled up together in one enormous mound of black and gray and scraggly white fur; Ruckus’s little pink head was so small that it looked like a wart on Dante’s massive shoulder. “Why those three?” he asked.

  “Dante for security. Trygg—just in case.”

  “What about Ruckus? What’s he good for?”

  “He can do anything. He’s a great tracker—he’s got a terrific nose.” She picked up the stack of white towels sealed in plastic bags and showed them to Gunner. “Nick used my shower once; another time he got caught in the rain and had to dry off. I saved the towels, just in case. Good thing I did.”

  Gunner watched her face as she carefully replaced the plastic bags. He knew there was no sense trying to talk her out of it; he knew what she was feeling, and he knew why. When Alena was just ten years old her father had mysteriously vanished one day, leaving her without apology or explanation, and when a man steps out of a little girl’s life like that it leaves a hole. Now another man was about to enter her life, and Alena needed to know if he was going to leave her too. It wasn’t fair to Nick, because Alena’s father didn’t abandon her—he was murdered. But Alena didn’t learn of her father’s fate until just a year or two ago, and by that time her issues of trust and abandonment were deeply entrenched. Now she was about to go traipsing all over the Poconos tracking down her missing fiancé with a team of trained dogs—and what would Nick think when he saw her? He said he’d be back before the wedding; all he did was miss a couple of phone calls. A man wants to be trusted—what are the prospects for a marriage without trust?

  Gunner didn’t know what to pray for more—that Alena would find Nick, or that she wouldn’t. Either way, Alena was bound and determined to go, and Gunner had learned long ago that when Alena set her mind to do something, you could either get on the truck or get run over. “Do you have the cell phone Nick gave you?” he asked her.

  She took it out of her pocket and showed it to him.

  “Keep it with you,” he said, “and keep it charged. When Nick gets back he’ll want to call you—and he’ll probably get back before you do.”

  “He’s supposed to call me again tonight,” she said. “ ‘Every night I’m gone’—that’s what he told me. Nine o’clock.”

  “By that time you’ll be in Pine Summit. What are you going to tell him when he calls?”

  “I’ll tell him I forgive him for not calling and I’m waiting for him at home—then I’ll jump in the truck and beat him back here.”

  Gunner shook his head. “I’m not serving Communion at your wedding—I’m doing a sermon on honesty.”

  Alena lifted the tailgate and closed the rear window on the camper shell. She gave Gunner a quick peck on the cheek and climbed into the cab.

  “What do I tell Nick if he calls me again? What if he asks where you are?”

  “He knows where I am—he left me here. Just don’t tell him I went to the Poconos, okay?”

  “I won’t lie for you, Alena.”

  “Just don’t tell him—that’s not the same as lying.”

  “Rose is down in Endor decorating the church,” he said.

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  “Tell her to keep decorating,” Alena said. “I’ll be back—with Nick.”

  “I’m performing a wedding ceremony on Saturday at six,”

  he said. “Just make sure you’re back by then.”

  Alena grinned. “You think I’d miss my own wedding?”

  16

  Now this is what I call a room with a view,” Nick said.

  “Best view on the lake,” the man agreed.

  The wall that faced the lake was made entirely of glass; on the opposite side was a sprawling teakwood deck, and a short distance beyond the deck the lake stretched left and right as far as the eye could see, glittering in the morning sun that had just cleared the tips of the pines on the far shore. The combination of direct sun and light reflecting off the lake was almost blinding. Nick shielded his eyes and looked up; the cathedral ceiling rose to a peak a good fourteen feet directly over his head, giving the room a cavernous feel. He turned and looked around the room; the furniture seemed sparse and surprisingly shabby for a room so impressive. So the guy’s not a decorator, he thought. Big deal. He still had the nicest place on the fifty-two-mile shoreline of Lake Wallenpaupack.

  “They told me this was a lake house,” Nick said.

  “It’s a house, and there’s the lake. What would you call it?”

  “Palace would be more like it. What’s a place like this go for, anyway?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “Just curious,” Nick said with a shrug. “I’m from out of town.”

  “I bought the place a couple of years ago for 2.4 million. I thought it was a bargain.”

  “Maybe the price was deflated because the previous owner dropped dead here,” Nick suggested. “Buyers can be superstitious about things like that.”

  The man looked Nick over again. “I’m sorry, what did you say this is about again?”

  “I’m working in conjunction with Sheriff Yanuzzi over in Pine Summit. We’re trying to clear up a few unresolved details about the previous owner’s death.”

  “So you’re a cop?”

  “More like a private consultant.” Nick took a business card from his wallet and handed it to him.

  “North Carolina State University. You’re a college professor?”

  “You have to pay the bills.” Nick looked at his notes. “Your name is Duncan Malone—is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “And you bought this place after the death of the previous owner—a Mr. George Hotchkiss.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you mind showing me the spot where Mr. Hotchkiss died?”

  Malone winced. “How would I know that?”

  “Because you asked the Realtor. It’s human nature—nobody wants to plant their favorite easy chair on somebody’s grave.” He opened a file folder and handed Malone a sheet of paper.

  “Maybe this will jog your memory.”

  “What’s this?”

  “A crime scene photo. Well, a fax of a crime scene photo— that’s why it’s so grainy. But you can make out a bed and a man’s body lying beside it—that would be Mr. Hotchkiss. Do you recognize the room?”

  “Yeah, I know where it is.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Malone led Nick down a hallway and into a bedroom at the end. The room was spacious though almost devoid of furnishings. There was an institutional-looking bed with a wood-grained laminate headboard and footboard in the center of the left wall; to the right of the bed was a nightstand with a chrome frame and plastic drawers.

  “Looks like a hospital in here,” Nick said. “Was that Mr. Hotchkiss’s bed?”

  “Yeah. I still need to get rid of his stuff.”

  The bathroom was to the left of the bed. Nick took a look inside; there was a Jacuzzi and a shower big enough to park a car in. “Big bedroom.”

  “Yeah.”
/>   “Shame to give up a nice room like this. Your wife didn’t like the idea of sleeping in a dead man’s room?”

  “I’m not married,” Malone said. “I took the room that faces the lake—much better view. I suppose the old man wasn’t much into scenery near the end; he probably just wanted it dark and quiet.”

  “Makes sense.” Nick went to the left side of the bed and took out the crime scene photo again. He held the photo at arm’s length and compared it to the view before him. “Is this where the bed was when you bought the place? Have you moved anything around in here?”

  “I didn’t plan to sleep here so there wasn’t much point,” Malone said. “This is pretty much how I found things.”

  Nick looked at the carpet; he saw wear in the high-traffic areas—in the doorways leading to the bathroom and hallway. “You didn’t replace the carpet?”

  Malone was starting to look annoyed. “Look, I can save you some time here. This is where the old man died and I haven’t changed a thing. It took all the cash I had just to get into the place, so no new carpeting and no new furniture. I left his stuff in here because it was either that or an empty room; it wasn’t bothering anything, so I was in no hurry to have it hauled away. Now would you mind telling me what this is all about? Because the guy we’re talking about died three years ago.”

  “Did you know the previous owner, Mr. Malone?”

  “Never met the guy. Hotchkiss had no family—I bought the house from his estate.”

  “Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding his death?”

  “He died of old age. That’s what they told me.”

  “There was a home-care nurse who was supposed to be looking in on him. The medical examiner thought maybe he didn’t—maybe that’s why Mr. Hotchkiss died when he did. There wasn’t sufficient proof of that, so no charges were ever filed.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Just making sure nothing was overlooked,” Nick said.

  Nick turned to the bed again and tried to visualize the scenario. “Mr. Hotchkiss was confined to bed,” he said. “He was refusing food and he was dehydrated, so he probably had very little energy—yet something motivated him to drag himself out of bed. He got out on this side—probably headed for the bathroom there—but he didn’t make it far. He collapsed right here, facedown on the carpet.” He checked the photo again—and for the first time noticed the body’s close proximity to the wall.

  He looked at Malone. “Do you by any chance have a crowbar?”

  “A what?”

  “A prybar would be even better—you know, one of those flat things roofers use to pry off old shingles.”

  “I know what it is. What do you need it for?”

  “I can be out of your hair in ten minutes,” Nick said. “A prybar, a crowbar—either one will do.”

  Malone looked exasperated, but the promise of a quick conclusion to this unexpected annoyance seemed to spur him to action. He left the room without further objection and returned a few minutes later with a flat black bar of metal with a blunt blade at one end and a curve at the other. He handed it to Nick.

  “Thanks. Are you from around here, Mr. Malone?”

  “No, I’m from Jersey.”

  Nick got down on his hands and knees next to the wall and laid the photo on the carpet in front of him. “Sheriff Yanuzzi’s from New York. Vacation home?”

  “I used to come up to the lake every summer. When this place became available I decided to make it permanent.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. I noticed excavations on either side of you—looks like some other folks got the same idea you did.” Nick used his hand to measure along the baseboard, estimating the distance from the edge of the bed to the point where the victim’s head would have rested on the carpet—according to the photo, that was the part of the body closest to the wall. When he completed his estimate he picked up the prybar and jammed the flat blade between the drywall and baseboard.

  “Hey!” Malone shouted. “That’s my wall!”

  “Don’t worry,” Nick said. “This’ll only take a minute.”

  He pulled hard on the prybar and the fragile pine baseboard pulled away from the wall like an archer’s bow, then suddenly gave way and snapped in half with a resounding crack. Nick grabbed the broken ends with his hands and began to peel the baseboard away from the wall, one popping nail at a time.

  “Who’s going to repair this?” Malone demanded.

  “The police, of course—they can fix anything.” Nick tossed the broken baseboard aside and shoved the prybar into the space where the edge of the carpet tucked up under the drywall. He pried the carpet up just enough to be able to work his fingers under the edge, then began to pull the carpet back from the wall with both hands. It came away with a coarse ripping sound, exposing the tack strip and green foam padding beneath.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Nick looked back over his shoulder. “Would you mind holding this carpet for me? I need to look for something.”

  Malone took the carpet from Nick and held it while Nick knelt by the wall and began to crawl along on hands and knees, searching the narrow half-inch channel that lay between the tack strip and the bottom edge of the drywall.

  He stopped. “Bingo,” he said.

  “What? What did you find?”

  Nick turned his head to the side and looked up at him.

  “Have you got an envelope? Any size will do.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Two minutes and I’m out of here. Just drop the carpet—it won’t go anywhere.”

  Malone hurriedly produced an envelope; Nick took it without looking and set it on the carpet beside him, keeping his focus on that exposed narrow channel. He removed a pair of long slender forceps from his jacket pocket and began to probe in the gypsum dust under the edge of the drywall. A moment later he straightened, holding up an object almost too small to see. He adjusted his glasses for a better look.

  “What’s that?” Malone asked.

  “It’s a puparium,” Nick said. “A cocoon, you might call it. It’s what a maggot leaves behind when it pupates into an adult fly.”

  Nick dropped the tiny rice-shaped puparium into the envelope and searched for more.

  “So I’ve got flies?”

  “No, you had flies—these would have died three years ago.”

  “Then what difference does it make?”

  “It all depends on what kind of flies they were.” Nick collected several more specimens, then carefully sealed the envelope and placed it in his shirt pocket. “That should do it,” he said, rising and dusting off his knees. “Don’t bother showing me out—I know the way.”

  “Wait a minute. What about my wall?”

  “Baseboard is really cheap,” Nick said. “You can buy it at Home Depot.”

  “You said the police would fix everything!”

  “That’s what they always tell you. Personally, I’ve been disappointed.”

  “So you just walk into my house, rip up my carpet, and walk out again?”

  “That was my plan. Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah—I want my wall fixed and I want it fixed now!”

  “C’mon, it’s an empty room—it’s not like you hang out in here, right? Besides, there’s a chance I might need to come back to collect more specimens.”

  “Why?”

  “I could explain, but it would bore me. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll call Sheriff Yanuzzi and see if I can build a fire under him. In the meantime, just leave everything the way it is.”

  “How will I know if you need to come back?”

  “If you open the door and I’m standing there, I need to come back.”

  “Very funny. How about calling first next time?”

  “Trust me, that rarely helps. Now, would you mind giving me some directions? I need to get to Penn State.”

  17

  Sheriff Yanuzzi heard the thick click of the door latch
followed by the tinkling of the brass bell hanging over the door. “Be with you in a minute,” he called from the back room. He returned the last two manila folders to the file cabinet and rolled the drawer shut, then stepped out into the main office.

  He found himself looking at a woman of medium height with straight coal-black hair that hung down almost to her waist. Her eyes were a striking shade of green—he noticed it all the way across the room—it gave her face a kind of fierce intensity. She was tanned and freckled and she was wearing some kind of long, loose-fitting dress or gown—like they used to wear back in the Village, he thought. Sitting to the right of the woman was the largest dog Yanuzzi had ever seen, with rolls of thick black fur and jowls that drooped from its snout like saddlebags. On her left sat two more dogs, if they could be called that. The gray one was missing a foreleg and had a patch of thick white fur on its chest, and the little one . . . Man—that’s the sorriest excuse for an animal I’ve ever seen.

  Yanuzzi just stood there, staring at the strange foursome.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Yanuzzi replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for my fiancé.”

  Yanuzzi walked over to his desk and sat down. “What’s your fiancé’s name?”

  “Nick. Nick Polchak.”

  He scribbled the name on a legal pad. “Address?”

  “Nick lives in North Carolina,” she said. “I live in Virginia.”

  Yanuzzi paused. “Then why look for him here?”

  “Because he was coming here—at least he said he was. He was supposed to call me the other night, and he didn’t, but he left a message and said he was driving to Pine Summit. This is Pine Summit, isn’t it? Then he didn’t call me again, and—”