Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  She shook her head furiously.

  “Was their engine still running? I couldn’t tell. We’ve got to make sure or they’ll be on us again in no time!”

  She circled wide, counting the hours off a mental clock as the car roared on.

  Three o’clock … four o’clock … five o’clock …

  She knew the chance she was taking. In her mind’s eye she saw Peter crouching invisibly in the tall grass, waiting for her to pass again, waiting with gun in hand and shell in chamber for the moment of impact when the car stood still, waiting to rise up and rapid-fire into the backseat—and then into the front? Peter had already done the unimaginable—was anything beyond him?

  Nick crawled into the front seat again.

  “When you think you’re lined up, let me know. I’ll poke my head up and guide you in. We only get one shot at this.”

  “Better poke your head up fast,” she warned. “Peter loves a turkey shoot.”

  Eight o’clock … nine o’clock … ten o’clock …

  From the corner of her eye Kathryn caught a glimpse of khaki and steel flashing through the grass to her right. An instant later the sheriff stood motionless less than ten yards ahead of them, gun raised and ready, aiming directly at the driver of the car.

  He raised his head from the line of sight with a look of shocked recognition, then jerked the gun aside and tried to steady his aim on the passenger’s seat—but the car was almost on top of him now and he had to lunge to the left, firing two shots wildly as the right fender brushed past his leg. The first shot shattered the windshield into a mosaic of a thousand green and white tiles, and the second exploded into the backseat in a puff of grayish oatmeal.

  Nick twisted to the right and hunched down into the seat, and with all of his strength shoved the passenger door open. It caught the sheriff full on, knocking him from his feet and sending him tumbling away—but the force of the impact slammed the door back on Nick. The crumbling door wobbled for a moment, then broke completely away from the car and bounded end over end into the tall grass.

  Stunned and senseless, Nick lurched forward and rolled out of the car.

  Kathryn screamed and lunged for him—too late! Twenty yards ahead she skidded to a stop and turned to the rear window. There was no sound, no motion in the tall reeds. Nothing. She reached for the horn—and then stopped.

  She threw open the door and leaped up onto the searing hood. Her right foot punched through the shattered remains of the windshield as she scrambled up onto the roof. Thirty yards to the left she saw the gleaming white roof and red signal bar of the Crown Victoria. To the right, to the left, behind her—nothing. Then a single figure slowly staggered up out of the sea of green. It was Nick.

  And he was wearing no glasses.

  Kathryn started to shout and then caught herself. She waved her arms frantically—but what good would it do? What could Nick see without his glasses? Was she anything more than a blur to him, just a mysterious white smudge against the blue summer sky?

  Then a second head rose up above the tall grass.

  Peter turned slowly, dazed, still shaking off the effects of the collision—and he was limping. He stared toward the patrol car, then behind him, and finally turned to Kathryn, who seemed to be somehow standing on the very tips of the blades of long grass just thirty yards away. His mind began to clear. Kathryn looked in horror at Nick, still stunned, standing out like a tombstone on a prairie.

  Peter followed her eyes. He raised his gun.

  “Nick, get down!”

  Nick disappeared into the grass like a trout with a captured fly. A gunshot echoed across the open meadow.

  “Run!” she screamed. “But stay down!”

  She watched the brush crumple and bend beneath the feet of an invisible figure, and she saw a path began to open—directly toward the sheriff.

  “No, the other way!”

  The grass stood still for an instant, then began to bend and open rapidly in the opposite direction. The sheriff limped forward, following, searching. Suddenly he stopped, dropped from sight for a moment, then straightened up again.

  “Looky what I found,” he said, holding up a pair of enormous spectacles. He dropped them at his feet. There was a crunching sound, and then he began to hobble in Nick’s direction again.

  Kathryn’s heart leaped into her throat.

  “Is that all you’re looking for, Peter?” she shouted. “A blind Bug Man? Well, go ahead if that’s what you want—but by the time you find him I’ll be long gone!” She forced herself to laugh.

  Peter stopped. He looked out across the vast, glistening meadow. Then he looked back at Kathryn.

  He turned.

  Kathryn took a last mental fix on Nick’s speed and direction, then jumped down from the car. She threw open the door, stretched her right leg in, and revved the engine twice. Then she slammed the door hard and loud, doubled over, and vanished into the meadow. An instant later she reappeared, ducked into the car, and ripped out the keys.

  She scrambled off into the thick grass, the blind in search of the blind.

  Can you see the Quonset from here?” Nick whispered.

  “It’s about two hundred yards away,” Kathryn whispered back. “I thought you were farsighted.”

  “I said I can see better at a distance—I didn’t say I can see.”

  They lay exhausted at the outer edge of the meadow. They had scrambled and clambered a half-mile or more, Kathryn leading the way and Nick struggling to follow the blurred flurry of arms and legs ahead of him. They lay facedown, panting, the heavy feather grass bowing and tickling at their arms and necks.

  “Okay.” Nick hoisted himself up again. “Let’s go for it.”

  “Nick, wait. It’s open ground—we’ll be sitting ducks. Maybe we should wait here until it gets dark.”

  Nick shook his head. “We have to get to the lab before he does. He knows we’re going there for a reason. If he finds that puparium and destroys it, we’re sunk.”

  “Nick—what if he destroys us?”

  “He can’t be far behind us. He’s going to find us anyway. You said he was limping—our only advantage is to stay ahead of him.”

  She looked at him. “He may be limping, but you’re blind.”

  He squeezed her arm. “But I’ve got eyes. Look, the sheriff had a chance to shoot you while you were driving and again when you were standing on the roof of the car. But he didn’t. Don’t you see? If we stay close together he won’t take a chance on shooting and hitting you—not at a distance anyway. If we can get to the lab before he does, we can grab the puparium and head out into the woods. If we can make it to the woods we’ve got a chance.”

  Kathryn felt a wave of panic sweep over her.

  “Let him have it. I don’t want you to die. It’s not fair. Let him have the evidence.”

  “I appreciate that,” Nick said softly, “but I’m afraid it’s a little late. You see, Mrs. Guilford, I am the evidence now.”

  They rose side by side, still cautiously doubled over, one arm wrapped around the other’s waist like yoked oxen. Behind them in the distance they heard the sound of thrashing grass. They glanced at each other silently and took off running.

  They ran frantically, desperately at first—then Nick tightened his grip on Kathryn’s waist and reined her back.

  “Easy. Pace yourself. Long way to go still.”

  Nick ran wide-eyed, feeling for the ground ahead of him with every step. Misty shapes and blurs of color streaked by on all sides.

  He stumbled and fell headlong. Kathryn hurried him to his feet again, cursing herself for failing at her duty so badly. She looked back over her shoulder—no sign of a figure emerging from the meadow. She looked ahead to the Quonset—no more than fifty yards to go. She felt a sudden surge of energy.

  “Come on! We’re almost there!”

  Only thirty yards to go, then twenty. They approached the building from the side circled around toward the front. They rounded the corner with a
sense of elation, exhausted but exuberant.

  There on the front step stood the deputy.

  They stumbled to a halt. Kathryn jerked Nick back abruptly.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Beanie,” she said, panting. “Blocking the door!”

  Kathryn released Nick and charged forward. “Beanie!” she waved her arms in a menacing arc. “Go away! Let us in!”

  “Can’t.”

  “Beanie, it’s me!” she said almost in tears. “Please let us in!”

  “Can’t,” he repeated. “Unca Pete said not to.”

  “What else?” Nick called out. “What else did Uncle Pete tell you to do?”

  “Said I should catch you. Hold you till he comes.”

  “And if I don’t want to be held?”

  “Said I should break you.”

  Kathryn threw herself at him, pounding at his simian chest.

  “Beanie, this is Aunt Kathryn! Aunt Kathryn is telling you to go away and leave us alone!”

  Beanie smiled down at her, oblivious to the tickling blows.

  “It’s no use,” Nick said. “Rock beats scissors, Mrs. Guilford—Uncle Pete overrules Aunt Kathryn. Besides,” he said, nodding toward a blur at the edge of the meadow, “I think we’re out of time.”

  Two hundred yards away, just washing ashore from the rolling sea of green, the sheriff came limping toward the Quonset.

  “We’ve got to separate,” Nick said urgently.

  “I won’t leave you!”

  “Listen to me!” he thundered. “He’s not interested in me, he wants you! All he’s ever wanted is you! He sent Pinocchio here to deal with me—to hold me, remember? That means he plans to go after you first, then come back for me. If we stay together they’ll catch us both at once. Our only chance is to deal with them one at a time. We’ve got to separate!”

  “What happens when he comes back for you?”

  “One thing at a time, Mrs. Guilford. You’ve got to go!”

  She took one faltering step away, then glanced back at the meadow. The sheriff was just a hundred yards away now. His left hand supported his wounded thigh, and his right hand rested on his holster. She turned in terror to Nick.

  “But you can’t see,” she pleaded.

  “You can’t help me now, and I’m afraid I can’t help you either. But believe me, Kathryn,” he said with a smile and a nod, “you’re more than a match for any man I know. Now go!” he thundered again, and she turned and ran weeping toward the far meadow.

  Nick watched for a moment, tormented by the thought that his final image of Kathryn Guilford might be nothing more than a streak of blue and a smear of dancing auburn.

  He turned back to the building. He saw nothing but a blurry green semicircle, like a slice of lime beneath a sheet of waxed paper. He could make out the shadowy shapes of the windows on each side and a dark rectangle in the center dominated by an enormous, khaki-colored smudge. He had to get into the lab. Everything he knew, everything that might help him was inside.

  “So, Deputy,” he called out. “I thought you were supposed to hold me.”

  The khaki smudge shifted uneasily.

  “You can’t hold me from over there. You’re not doing your job, Benjamin. Uncle Pete’s gonna be awful mad!”

  The shape began to stretch and grow until it covered the shadow of the door. Nick started to back away.

  If he gets those hands on me again, I’m finished.

  He dropped to his knees and began to feel the ground all around him. He scuttled back on all fours constantly reaching, searching, until he came upon a small branch about three feet long. He grabbed the very end, stood up, and pointed it at his approaching foe like Peter Pan attacking a pirate ship.

  The khaki blur was almost on top of him now. Nick stood staring, blinking, sensing. Suddenly he saw a streak of pink and felt the branch swept aside. He jumped back a step and shoved the branch in the deputy’s face again. Once more it was brushed aside, and once more he repeated the strange maneuver. The deputy grew impatient—this time he grabbed the branch, and at that instant Nick pulled hard. The childlike deputy instinctively joined this little game of tug of war and pulled back even harder, drawing Nick close—dangerously close. Nick jerked the branch again, this time with his full strength—and then he waited. He waited for that instant when the deputy would pull back again with his full strength.

  And when he did, Nick let go.

  The deputy toppled backward and sprawled in the gravel parking lot with a huff and a crunch. Nick turned toward the lab—he had bought himself thirty seconds, maybe less, and he would need all of it. He fixed his eyes on the blurry rectangle in the center of the Quonset and ran toward it, ran as fast as he possibly could with his arms extended straight ahead like a frantic sleepwalker.

  I see the door—but how far away is it? Can’t afford to slow down—and I sure don’t have time to go searching for a doorknob.

  An instant later his right ankle caught the edge of the wooden step, and he stumbled headlong into the screen door. His arms and head punched through the screen wire like tissue paper. The center strut caught him across the ribs, and the wooden frame shattered and folded inward like an umbrella. For an instant he lay trapped, surrounded in a tangle of wood and wire like a Lepidoptera in a butterfly net. He leaped to his feet thrashing, flailing, kicking himself free. He turned back to the door and saw the khaki blur rise from the ground, straighten, and then begin to grow larger once again.

  Twenty seconds … I’ve got twenty seconds, no more.

  He stumbled back against the glass cases. Nick whirled around and slapped his hands against the cool glass. He paused for a split second, thinking—then he stumbled to the left, feeling his way along the glass fronts until he came to the corner, to the last case on the bench, to the fragment of signboard he had once taped to the glass that cautioned unknowing visitors: BUTHIDAE—DO NOT REACH INTO TERRARIUM with remaining hand.

  He tore off the cover, grabbed the huge case by the lip, and dragged it over onto the floor. It landed in a thundering crash of glass and rock and sand, and then there was silence.

  Except for the tiny, brittle sound of a hundred skittering legs.

  Nick leaped backward, feeling rapidly along the glass cases to his right until he came to the case at the opposite end. He backed around the corner, positioning himself behind the massive terrarium.

  “Sorry, Lord Vader, there’s a disturbance in the Force.”

  The deputy arrived in the doorway, picking his way through the tangled wreckage of the screen door.

  “Hello, Deputy,” Nick said with a nod. “Welcome to my world.”

  The deputy started forward. Nick waited, seeing nothing, estimating the seconds required for the deputy to reach the corner—and then with one great shove smashed the terrarium onto the floor at his feet.

  “Look out!” Nick pointed at the floor. A dozen glistening black-knuckled hands with bulbous claws and arcing tails reached out for the deputy’s feet. Beanie staggered backward in terror, back toward the open doorway, stumbling blindly into the entangling heap of wood and wire and mesh.

  He fell like a giant redwood on the shattered remains of the other terrarium.

  He lay stunned for a moment, arms and legs wallowing in the debris—and then there was the skittering of legs again, the flash of slender pedipalps, and the lightning whip of needle-tipped metasomas.

  “Ow,” he said dully, and then “Ow!” again.

  He raised himself to his elbows. “Ow!” He jerked his right elbow up and rolled onto his left side.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Ow! Bees or sump’n!” He slowly rolled to his feet.

  Nick felt his way down the aisle toward the office door, listening. If he counted correctly the deputy had just taken a half-dozen stings from the Androctonus australis—the north African fat tail scorpion—one of the deadliest scorpions in the world.

  He found the door. He fumbled for the doorknob, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind
him. He turned to the lab.

  The puparium. Got to find the puparium.

  He had left it in a folded handkerchief resting in the center of the worktable—or was it by the microscope? He swept the room with his useless eyes. He saw wispy streaks of green and white, mounded blurs of black and chrome, and flashes of fluorescent blue and shadowy gray. How could he possibly hope to find a puparium the size of a grain of rice?

  My extra pair of glasses!

  He lunged forward and crashed into a rolling stool, sending it rocketing into the corner. He bumped blindly into the worktable and began to work his way to the right, patting his outstretched hands over the cluttered surface, his darting fingers detecting only textures of vinyl and paper and plastic.

  They’re in the desk drawer. Or on top of the bookshelf. No—they’re in the filing cabinet with the hot plate. He began to slow down. Or in the glove compartment of the Dodge. Or in my trailer. Or in Pittsburgh …

  He stopped. If he couldn’t find his extra glasses when he had perfect vision, what were the chances of finding them now?

  Behind him the office door burst open. Nick spun around. He could hear the sound of the deputy’s shallow breathing and repeated swallowing. His footsteps seemed to shuffle, almost stumble into the room.

  The deputy already had systemic effects; his adrenal gland was dumping catecholamines by the truckload. A single sting from a fat tail can kill an average-sized man in a few hours—how long would it take the venom of six to work its way through this mountain of flesh?

  One thing’s for sure—I can’t wait around to find out.

  “Beanie, listen to me. Those weren’t bees that stung you, they were scorpions. Do you know what a scorpion is?”

  Nick eased slowly to the left as he spoke, edging his way toward the exterior door. He stared wide-eyed at the blur before him, watching for the slightest change in shape or size.

  “It’s like a wasp, only worse—much worse. More like a snake.”

  “Weren’t no snake,” said a whimpering voice.

  “Like a snake. Like a copperhead, or a rattlesnake—even worse than that! You’ve got to sit down, Beanie; you’ve got to rest.”