by Tim Downs
Pettigrew stumbled back and covered himself with both hands. “You call that a trick?”
“No, that was just instinct. The trick was teaching him to keep his jaws shut.”
26
Kathryn heard the squeak of the screen-door hinge and the clacking sound of the front door unlatching. She sat up in bed and listened; a moment later Alena stormed into the bedroom and threw the black party dress on Kathryn’s bed.
“Thanks,” she said, and turned to leave again.
“Wait a minute,” Kathryn called after her. “What happened tonight?”
“Nothing happened, that’s what.”
Kathryn patted the covers. Alena hesitated, then reluctantly sat down on the end of the bed and folded her legs under her.
“You’re home so early—I didn’t expect you back for hours.”
“Yeah, well, I expected a lot of things that didn’t happen tonight.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What is it with men, anyway? When you don’t want them to look, they slobber over you like you are a platter of nachos. When you do want them to look, you could be in flames and they wouldn’t bother to roll you in the dirt.”
“That’s so true.”
Alena picked at a spot on the bedspread. “I thought I looked pretty good tonight.”
“Are you kidding? You were a knockout. Didn’t Nick notice?”
“Sure, he noticed—he looked me over and then he said, ‘Where’s your dog?’ Like the dog was some fashion accessory I forgot.”
“No way.”
“Then he gets to talking to some little nerdy guy about fungus. Can you believe it? I mean, bugs are bad enough, but fungus. That’s what happened to me tonight—I got passed over for fungus.”
“Unbelievable. What was he thinking?”
“He wasn’t thinking—not about me, anyway. Then this other guy started hitting on me.”
“Really? Who?”
“I don’t know—some pudgy-faced guy who talked like Colonel Sanders. He asked me to go to his place for a drink.”
“What did you do?”
“I went.”
“You went to his place?”
“No, of course not—I just left the party with him to make Nick mad.”
“Did Nick see you leave with him?”
“You bet he did—I made sure of it.”
Kathryn broke into a grin. “Then your evening wasn’t a waste at all.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Are you kidding? Let me tell you what’s going through Nick’s mind right now: He’s thinking, ‘What did I do? What was I thinking? I had this gorgeous woman right in front of me and I let her get away—I let her walk out with another man!’”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Right about now he’s realizing that he can’t treat you that way—that a beautiful woman always has options, and if he’s not quick enough or smart enough, then some other man is ready and waiting to take his place. Right now Nick Polchak is kicking himself—I guarantee it.”
How could an Asian fungus infect a North American insect? Nick wondered. It can’t be a natural occurrence—somebody purposely identified a species of cordyceps that would attack the tobacco hornworm, then shipped the infected hornworms from South America. But why would anybody do that?
Nick was driving well below the speed limit, almost unaware of the road in front of him. Frustrated drivers kept nosing up to his bumper, flashing their brights, then roaring off past him while they laid on their horns. Nick never heard a sound; he was focused on a problem and nothing else entered in.
It makes no sense. If you wanted to destroy a tomato crop, why would you bother with the cordyceps? The hornworms do all the damage; the fungus destroys the hornworms. It’s self-defeating. Wouldn’t you want healthy hornworms? The ones I reared died in their third instar—before they were even old enough to do any real damage to the fields. Why kill off your insects before they do what you sent them to do? That’s like blowing up a missile while it’s still in flight.
Nick passed a car on the side of the road; a woman with dark hair was leaning against the driver’s door and talking on a cell phone. He suddenly found his train of thought switching to a different track.
She was beautiful tonight—I’ve never seen her look like that. I should have said something else—“wow” isn’t exactly poetry. But that’s all I could think of—wow.
He tried to refocus his thoughts. There’s something missing here. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to isolate that species of cordyceps—a lot of trouble and a lot of expense. This was not a project for beginners. Somebody with scientific knowledge was behind this—knowledge and a whole lot of money.
Once again the train jumped the tracks. Why would she leave the party? Did she just get bored? Talk about rude—I got all dressed up and everything. I had to find out about that fungus—surely she understood that. What was the big deal? We couldn’t have talked for more than a couple of minutes. Toenail fungus—what was that all about?
He shook his head. Maybe I’m on the wrong track here—maybe this isn’t about tomatoes at all. But what else could it be? Nobody would want to spread cordyceps—it only harms insects, and the fungus wouldn’t even survive the winter.
Why would she leave with Sherm? Sherm Pettigrew, of all people—the man’s skull is a perfect vacuum. What could she possibly see in the guy? She couldn’t like him—she likes me. She can’t like both of us. If she likes a guy like him, what does that say about me?
I need to try a different angle. Focus on the perpetrator—the guy who shot Michael Severenson. He must have been involved with the drugs in some way—he’s the best shot we’ve got at understanding all this. I need to complete that PMI—that could lead the Sampson County people to the shooter.
She was so beautiful—I think she was as beautiful as Kathryn. I like Kathryn’s hair—but I like Alena’s eyes. Callie is a nice little girl. What would I do with a little girl? I could work with Alena—but what would I do with thirty-seven dogs?
Nick suddenly jerked the wheel to the right; he swerved onto the shoulder of the road and stopped the engine. He grabbed the rearview mirror and twisted it until he could see his own eyes. He pointed an accusing finger at the image and said aloud, “You need to focus. You’re letting all these distractions throw you off your game. You don’t have time for this, Nick. You need to think like an insect. You need to focus like an insect. You are an insect.”
But in the back of his mind Nick wondered if his worst fear was being realized . . .
Maybe he was pupating into something else.
His cell phone rang and he answered it. “Polchak.”
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Polchak, but I thought you would want to know.”
“Pasha.” Nick recognized the voice instantly—there was no mistaking that accent. “What’s up?”
“The blowflies—they are starting to emerge.”
“I’m on my way.”
27
Detective Massino stared at the bewildering report. Most of the first page was taken up by a complicated graph with a heading that read “Phaenicia Sericata: Accumulated Degree Hours.” Massino sat on a faded sofa in Kathryn’s tiny parlor. Nick sat beside him and Kathryn had pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the coffee table.
Massino squinted at the report. “I’m not sure how to read this. I didn’t know you were gonna write me an encyclopedia.”
“You can ignore most of it,” Nick said. “I just have to document everything in case it’s ever needed as evidence in a trial. The heading on the chart indicates the species I found on the body. When the adult flies emerged from their puparia, I was able to identify them: Phaenicia sericata, the sheep blowfly. Sericata is easy enough to recognize; they have three prominent grooves on the dorsal surface of the thorax, and the front femora are black or deep blue.”
“Who could miss that?” Massino wisecracked.
“The species was no surprise. Phaenicia sericata prefe
rs bright sunshine and open habitats, and they’re often the first to inhabit a body. They usually arrive within hours of death—sometimes minutes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“There are even stories of sericata anticipating death and laying its eggs on the wounds of the dying.”
“How can they find you so fast?”
“The females are always circling in the air, searching for a place to lay their eggs. They have scent receptors all over their bodies. They pick up packets of scent molecules in the wind and they use the scent to zero in on the source. If the wind is right, they can pick up the smell of death from a mile away.”
“Can they really do that?”
“Ask Mr. Severenson.”
“What’s the rest of the stuff in this report?”
“The rest of the chart shows the time it took for the maggots to reach each stage of their development: instar one, two, three, then pupation and finally eclosion—emergence as adult flies.” Nick turned to the last page of the report and pointed to a pair of numbers. “Here’s the part you need to see—that’s your postmortem interval. That’s when Michael Severenson died—on that day, between those hours.”
Massino looked. “You’re kidding—that’s only a four-hour spread.”
“That’s right.”
“You can narrow it down that close? Are you sure?”
“This is a textbook case, Detective—I’ve never been more sure. Phaenicia sericata is a well-studied species. We’ve got development timetables down to the hour for a complete range of temperatures. I had very specific meteorological data to work with—I took temperature and humidity readings myself. And like I said, Michael Severenson was murdered in an open field. There was nothing to keep the flies from reaching him right away.”
Massino looked at Kathryn. “Sorry—are you okay talking about this stuff?”
“I’m okay, Detective—keep going. What happens next?”
“If Dr. Polchak can guarantee this PMI, we’ll focus everything we’ve got on this time period.”
“What will you do?”
“You’re in an isolated area here. There are only two towns nearby, and the shooter had to pass through one of them to get to your husband. We’ll start with your neighbors—see if they remember any unfamiliar vehicles during that time period. We’ll check with vendors next—gas stations, restaurants, ATMs, that sort of thing. The shooter might’ve stopped for gas or directions on the way here, or he might’ve stopped to wash up on the way back—you’d be surprised how often that happens. There’s even a couple of security cameras along the main drag in both towns; we’ll sit down with one of the locals and look through the video logs for vehicles he doesn’t recognize. With a little luck we might even be able to get a license plate number.”
“How long will all that take?”
“It can take forever—but thanks to the doc here we only have to cover six hours.”
“Four hours,” Nick corrected.
“Let’s not get cocky here, Doc. It can’t hurt to figure in a little margin for error.”
“Okay, but it’s a waste of time. Severenson died within those four hours—the insects don’t lie.”
Massino turned to Kathryn. “I’ll let you know as soon as we find anything. In the meantime, you might want to be thinking about those four hours yourself. Did you see anyone? Hear anything? Notice anything at all unusual? Give me a call if anything comes to mind.” He handed her his card. “I’ll let myself out.”
When he left, Kathryn came over to the sofa and sat down beside Nick. “Do you think we should have told him about the tobacco hornworms?”
“I don’t think they’re relevant to the murder,” Nick said, “and I don’t want to distract him. The best thing Massino can do for us is find the perpetrator. We’ll let him concentrate on that. Let me worry about the hornworms.”
Kathryn let a moment pass before she said, “So—how did the cocktail party go last night?”
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’ is the masculine term for ‘Don’t ask.’ How was it?”
“Fine.”
“You know, Alena went to a lot of trouble to fix herself up for you.”
“She looked great,” Nick said.
“I think you hurt her feelings last night.”
“I did?”
“I think she felt taken for granted. You might want to say something to her.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. I’m trying not to be selfish. I really like Alena, and I don’t want this to turn into some kind of ugly competition.”
“Huh?”
Kathryn looked at him and slowly shook her head. “You have no idea what’s going on here, do you?”
“Going on where?”
“Never mind. What’s the point? You’ll never get it—you and your whole gender.”
Nick cocked his head to one side. “You know what I wish sometimes? I wish women had closed-captioning—you know, one of those little banners in front of them that would explain what they’re trying to say.”
“You don’t need closed-captioning. Try listening.”
“I am listening—I can’t understand the words.”
“Then turn up the volume.”
Nick blinked in confusion. “What are we talking about again?”
“Forget it,” Kathryn sighed.
As they were talking, Callie came out of her bedroom with a book in hand. She walked directly over to Nick and climbed up into his lap without a word.
Kathryn’s jaw dropped. “Well, would you look at that? She never does that with a stranger—she hardly ever does that with me.”
Nick sat staring at the back of Callie’s head with his open hands frozen in the air like a man about to catch a beach ball.
“She’s not a bomb, Nick, she’s a little girl. Touch her.”
“Touch her?”
“Put your arms around her. Try it—see if she’ll let you.”
Nick slowly lowered his hands until they were resting on Callie’s shoulders. The little girl just continued to read her book.
“That’s amazing,” Kathryn said. “She really likes you.”
“She does? Why?”
“I think she’s comfortable with you. She trusts you—maybe she picks that up from me.”
Nick slowly reached around her until his right hand grasped his left wrist. “How’s this?”
“It looks a little like a choke hold, but it’s not bad. Now give her a hug.”
“What?”
“Go ahead—it’ll be good for both of you.”
Nick hesitated.
“You’re just out of practice,” Kathryn said, getting up from the sofa. “Come here.”
Nick slid Callie off his lap and stood up to face Kathryn. When he did, Kathryn slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. “Hug back,” she said.
“Oh—right.” Nick wrapped his arms lightly around her shoulders.
“Tighter.”
He squeezed.
“Now rock a little—back and forth like this.”
Nick followed her lead.
After a few seconds Kathryn asked, “How does it feel?”
“Good.”
“We need to work on your vocabulary,” Kathryn said. She leaned back until she could see his face. “Thank you, Nick.”
“For what?”
“For being you.”
He shrugged. “It’s not exactly a stretch.”
“You know what I mean. Thanks for all the time you’ve put into this: driving out here three times a day to take temperatures, bringing your whole class out here to collect those hornworms . . . I can’t pay you a fraction of what you’re worth. Why are you doing all this?”
“You asked me to.”
“Are you always so helpful? Do all your clients get so much personal attention?”
Nick searched for an answer.
“You know what I’m asking you, don’t
you?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well?”
“This is different,” Nick said. “This is personal.”
She looked up into his eyes. “It’s personal for me too.”
Nick was about to climb into his car when he spotted Alena working in the tomato field. He shut the car door and started across the lawn toward her.
Alena didn’t bother to look up when Nick approached.
“Hey,” Nick called out.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going out here?”
“It’s going. Why, is there a problem?”
“No problem. It just seems to be taking a while, that’s all.”
She glared at him. “If you wanted a sloppy job, you should have sent for somebody else. I don’t know why you sent for me anyway.”
Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look—I screwed up.”
“What?”
“At the party last night—I screwed up. I meant to . . . I guess I should have . . .”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Nick straightened his glasses. “Boy—I’m having a really good day.”
Alena grinned. “How are you going to make it up to me?”
“What?”
“I know—you can take me out to dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just someplace for the two of us—and the dogs. How about tomorrow? I can knock off early.”
“Uh—okay.”
“Great! I’ll see you then.”
Nick was halfway back to his car before a thought occurred to him: The dogs?
28
Jengo pushed the shopping cart along at a leisurely pace, staring at the sloping shelves of pallid yellow and dusky orange and verdant green vegetables that lined the produce section at the Harris Teeter supermarket in Cameron Village. Every few minutes his wife would pass by the shopping cart like a satellite in near-earth orbit, pausing just long enough to drop off another twist-tied sack of vegetables before spinning off into space again.
Jengo read the produce labels as he rolled along: rainbow chard;radini; Chinese longbeans; graffiti eggplant; gai lan; daikon radishes; sunchokes; kabocha squash. So many of the vegetables were unfamiliar to him. Jengo had never seen them before—they could never grow in the parched climate and depleted soil of Central Africa. He saw squash from Omega, Georgia; bell peppers from Benton Harbor, Michigan; and artichokes from Coachella, California. Jicama root—where does it come from? he wondered. How does it get here? He had visited American supermarkets many times before, but he never ceased to marvel at the mind-boggling variety and the astonishing system of production and distribution required to make this level of superabundance possible.
