by Tim Downs
“Nick—your notes said the DEA contacted you about this. They told you there were other shipments like this one—two of them, you said.”
“Two that they know of, but there could have been others—you guys need to team up with the DEA and find out. The other two shipments were headed for the Midwest. That’s where you want to focus—corn country. If they do find any more shipments, make absolutely certain they preserve the hornworms. We need to test them for Diplodia—just because our shipment might have been a test case, that doesn’t mean all of them were.”
“Good idea.”
“We got lucky this time, guys—we might have caught it before the main event. But you’d better find the people behind this before they try it again.”
“We think we know who’s behind it,” Macy said.
“Who?”
“A Russian named Yuri Semchenko. The State Department’s been keeping an eye on him for some time now. He’s one of the richest men in the world and the largest landholder in Russia. He’s a corn farmer, Nick—he’s determined to make Russia the world’s leading exporter of corn, and we think this is how he’s been planning to do it.”
“Can you prove Semchenko’s behind it?”
“Not yet. That could be very difficult.”
“He must have had people working for him here in the States,” Nick said. “If you can find them, they might implicate their boss.”
“We think we might know one of them,” Donovan said.
“Who?”
“Pasha Semenov.”
“What? ”
“We just got word about Semenov through the Legat in Moscow. Semchenko doesn’t have any children, but it turns out he has a godson—a kid he took off the streets and raised himself. He let the kid keep his own last name—that’s why we didn’t know about him right away. He was probably trying to protect him; a man as powerful as Semchenko has a few enemies. The Legat couldn’t find any public records on Semenov—no birth record, no employment history, no military service. The Legat thinks Semchenko might have pulled the records to keep the kid invisible. We thought we’d hit a dead end, but then I remembered that tattoo you mentioned—a blue rose, you said. I thought it sounded like a prison tattoo, so I asked them to go back and check criminal records. I was right. Russian prison gangs are very big on tattoos—it’s sort of an initiation ritual and roses are very common. They burn the heel of a shoe to make soot and they mix it with urine—then they inject it with a sharpened guitar string attached to an electric razor. Sounds real sanitary, doesn’t it?”
“Donovan, are you sure about all this?”
“We know that Semenov was convicted for aggravated assault on his girlfriend and sentenced to three years in a prison called the White Swan. We also know that Semchenko pulled some strings to get him out because Semchenko’s name was on the release papers. Semchenko and Semenov are basically family—if Semchenko had anything to do with this corn toxin thing, his godson might be able to tell us. Semenov might have even been involved personally—we won’t know until we pick him up and talk to him. I’m heading back to NC State now.”
Nick was silent—his mind was racing.
“Nick—you still there?”
“Grab Semenov,” Nick said. “Don’t let him get away, Donovan. He’s the guy—he’s been behind all of this.”
“How do you know?”
“That zip gun,” Nick said. “Prisoners use them too.”
43
Nick dropped the phone in the passenger seat. Now it all made sense; it was all dropping into place like the final pieces of a puzzle. Pasha Semenov was the man who killed Michael Severenson—Semenov or someone who worked for him. He was the supplier. Maybe Severenson contacted him when he received the moldy marijuana—maybe he wanted his money back. Semenov probably visited him at his farm just to recover the marijuana—just to see how the hornworms held up in shipping.But it was too late—Severenson had already thrown the moldy marijuana into his field, and Pasha had no way to retrieve his specimens. There was a conflict. Maybe Pasha got angry when he realized what Severenson had done, or maybe he just realized that Severenson was emotionally unstable and there was no telling what he might do next—so he chased him into his tomato fields and put two bullets in his back. That’s why Pasha asked if I’d teach him about forensic entomology—he heard me mention the murder at the grad student reception. He adjusted the temperature on the rearing chamber to purposely throw off the PMI—to make sure the police would never consider him a suspect. Nice work, Nick—all this time looking for a killer and he’s been right under your nose.
Nick caught a glimpse of a green-and-white highway sign as it shot by: next exit 7 miles. He had a couple of minutes; he grabbed the phone and tried Kathryn’s number again.
Still no signal.
He tried Alena’s number and the call went through.
The voice that answered sounded hollow and strained and Nick could hear gusts of wind buffeting the phone. “Nick—is that you?”
“Alena, where are you?”
“I’m standing in the middle of a godforsaken tomato field. Did you really have to ask?”
“What are you doing out there? It’s almost dark and there’s a storm coming.”
“Hey, thanks for the weather report. You’d be a handy guy to have around—if you ever were around, which you’re not.”
“I need to talk to Kathryn.”
“What?”
“Her phone doesn’t work—I have to tell her something.”
“I thought you weren’t allowed to talk to her.”
“Things have changed. Is she there?”
“Let me get this straight: You don’t call me for days at a time—you leave me standing in the middle of a tomato field tying up vines and picking off suckers because I ran out of things to do a week ago—and then when you finally do call it’s only to pass a message on to your other girlfriend?”
“I’d rather speak to her in person. Can you give her the phone?”
“Nick, I swear I’m going to kill you.”
“You can kill me later—first I have to talk to Kathryn.”
“Well, you can’t—she’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s out having fun—something I should be doing instead of waiting for a stupid bug man to turn into a human being.”
“Would you stop whining and tell me where she is?”
“She’s on a date, okay? I’m watching Callie for her.”
“A date?”
“Yeah, it’s a custom we humans have. I guess they don’t do that in your world.”
“A date with who?”
“I don’t know. Some guy named Stefan—he stopped by a few days ago. He was hot—I wonder what he’s doing tomorrow night?”
“What do you mean he ‘stopped by’? What was he doing there?”
“Hey, wait a minute—are you jealous?”
“I just want to know where she went, that’s all. I need to talk to her.”
“Why, that sneaky little . . . She’s doing the same thing she told me to do! She went out with another guy to make you jealous and she stuck me with babysitting her daughter to help her do it. Of all the nerve!”
“Alena—where did they go?”
“How would I know? Some restaurant—hopefully someplace where they don’t serve tomatoes.”
“I have to reach her. I know who killed her husband.”
Nick heard a click and a buzzing sound. “Alena—are you there?”
There was no response. He looked at the cell phone’s LCD—it said no signal. He tried the number again.
Nothing.
He saw the exit approaching and pulled over. He was less than fifteen minutes from Sampson County and he was dying to tell Kathryn the news—but the most important thing right now was to make sure the FBI took Pasha Semenov into custody.
He crossed the overpass, turned left, and headed back toward NC State.
44
When the t
hunder rumbled, the wall sconces flickered and went out. The only light left in the restaurant was from the glowing orange candles at each of the white-draped tables.
“There goes the power again,” Kathryn said. “That’s the third time. Maybe we should go—I didn’t think the storm would come in this fast.”
“It isn’t even raining yet,” Pasha said. “Never mind the power. You look lovely by candlelight, and I look better in the dark.”
Kathryn forced a smile.
“You have a very nice smile,” Pasha said. “It lights up the room.”
“Then you’d better keep entertaining me,” Kathryn said. “We might need the light.”
“I’ll do my best. Now then—you were telling me about your childhood.”
“No more about me,” she said. “What about you?”
Pasha shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell. As I said, I was born and raised in Romania.”
“Do you think you’ll go back someday?”
“I hope to—with my beautiful American wife.”
“How’s that going for you?”
He smiled. “I’m making progress.”
“You know, your English is very good.”
“Thank you. I attended university here in the States.”
“I’m glad you haven’t lost your accent yet. It sounds kind of . . . mysterious.”
“You find my accent mysterious?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I will stop working on my English.”
A powerful gust of wind rocked the restaurant, rattling the front windows in their frames. The lights flickered on for a few seconds and then the room went dark again.
“That reminds me,” Kathryn said. “I need to ask you a business question.”
“Oh?”
“Those bugs you put out in my fields—what did you call them again?”
“Trichogramma pretiosum—a species of parasitic wasp.”
“Well, the wind seems to be blowing them everywhere. Is that okay?”
Pasha smiled. “That is what I expected.”
“I guess I’m still not clear on how this whole thing works.”
“It’s simple really. Our wasps lay their eggs inside the eggs of other insects.”
“Like my tobacco hornworms.”
“Yes. When the wasp egg hatches the larva feeds on the hornworm egg—that kills the harmful hornworm. After eight to ten days an adult wasp emerges from the hornworm egg. The wasp then mates and begins to search for other hornworm eggs and the cycle begins again. At my insectary we breed Mediterranean flour moths—what you might call a simple ‘pantry moth.’ We gather their eggs and expose them to our adult wasps. The Trichogramma lay their eggs inside the moth eggs, and we place the moth eggs in your fields.”
“Some of the wasps are blowing over into my neighbor’s cornfields. Will that be a problem?”
“His corn has insect pests as well—corn borers, for example. The wasps will be attracted to them and kill them. He should thank you.”
“That’s not likely.”
“Not to worry. We expect the wasps to be carried by the wind—that’s why we place so many.”
“How did you ever end up in the insect business, Stefan?”
“End up—you make it sound so final.”
“This isn’t your career then?”
“I hope to do many things in my lifetime. What about you?”
“I have a farm and a daughter,” she said. “I have a feeling I’ve settled down.”
“You’re much too young. Tell me, do you enjoy travel?”
“I wouldn’t know—I’ve never been out of North Carolina. I think I’d love it.”
“What prevents you?”
“Money. Time. Responsibilities.”
“These things can all be remedied.”
“Easier said than done.”
“What you need is a travel companion. Someone with time and money—someone to share the world with.”
“Sounds terrific. When do we leave?”
“December would work for me. I have a month before the spring term.”
Kathryn stopped. “Stefan—I was only kidding.”
“I wasn’t. I have time and money—and I would like very much to have someone to share the world with.”
“Look—I told you about my husband.”
“Yes, and another man as well—a boyfriend.”
She looked at him. “Did I say I have a boyfriend?”
He paused. “How else would I know?”
“I don’t remember mentioning that.”
“A woman as beautiful as you—I just assumed.”
The thunder boomed again and shook the restaurant. Kathryn looked out the window. The sky was black now, and flashes of lightning made the rolling clouds look like X-ray images.
“Stefan—I wonder if you’d mind taking me home.”
“I’ve offended you.”
“No, that’s not it. My daughter doesn’t like storms—the thunder really frightens her, and I should get back.”
“I will take you home on one condition,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Since our evening has been cut short, you must invite me in for a drink. It’s only fair.”
“All right,” she said. “I guess it’s only fair.”
Alena sat on the sofa with Callie beside her. The power had failed so many times that she finally turned off the television and just listened to the storm. Rain had not begun to fall yet, but the wind was carrying so much debris that it sounded like raindrops on the farmhouse’s tin roof. Callie was engrossed in her usual stack of books, but each peal of thunder made her let out a quick shriek. Alena called Phlegethon up onto the sofa and had him curl up next to Callie so that the dog’s soft fur might comfort her.
Ruckus suddenly snapped to his feet and growled at the door. Alena called him off just as the door opened.
Kathryn stepped inside and picked at her windblown hair. “It’s getting bad out there,” she said. “The wind is really picking up. The rain can’t be far behind.”
“You’re home early. Didn’t you have a good time?”
“I wasn’t sure how Callie would do in this storm and I thought I should get back.”
“We were doing just fine,” Alena said. “You didn’t have to end your evening early just to—”
The door opened again and Pasha stepped into the room.
“Alena, this is Stefan Miklos. Stefan, this is my friend Alena.”
Pasha nodded to Alena. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Would you excuse us for a moment, Stefan? I need to talk to Alena.” Kathryn took Alena by the arm and led her into Callie’s bedroom and shut the door.
“Boy,” Alena said. “And I was feeling bad about you ending your evening early.”
“I need to ask a favor,” Kathryn said. “Would you mind taking Callie back to your place for a few minutes? I want to talk to this guy alone.”
“Why?”
“At dinner he mentioned my ‘boyfriend.’ I never told him I had a boyfriend. I called him on it and he tried to flatter me—he said he just assumed I would have one.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“I don’t know, but I want to find out. Something’s not right here.”
“Let me talk to him—I can tell you if he’s lying.”
“How—by having your dog grab him by the throat? I don’t want to confront him, Alena; I just want to ask a few questions.”
“What if you’re right about him? What if he catches on and goes postal on you?”
“That’s why I don’t want Callie here.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be here either.”
“I just want to ask a few questions. I’ll be careful, I promise. Take Callie back to your place, okay? In twenty minutes, come back and say she needs me—that’ll give me an excuse to send him home.”
Alena shook her head. “I don’t know about this.”
“Come on
—it’s what you would do.”
“Just because I’m a fool, that doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“Twenty minutes—if he leaves before that, I’ll call you.”
“You can’t call—the phones are out. Which reminds me: Nick called.”
“He did? When?”
“While you were gone. He tried your phone, but he couldn’t get through so he called mine instead. He says he needs to talk to you—it sounded important.”
“Where did you tell him I was?”
“I told him you were on a date.”
“What did he say? Did he sound jealous?”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. Did he say what he wanted to tell me?”
“No—before he could tell me, my phone cut off too.”
Kathryn took out her cell phone and checked it—there were no messages. She dialed Nick’s number and listened—there was no signal. “Try yours,” she said.
Alena did. She got the same result.
“Take Callie back to your place,” Kathryn said. “Twenty minutes, then come back. And please, keep trying Nick—it might be important.”
When the women came out of the bedroom they found Pasha sitting at one end of the sofa with Callie and Phlegethon curled up at the other.
“That is a very large dog,” he said.
Alena bent down to gather up Callie’s books. “Don’t worry about him,” she grumbled. “He won’t kill you unless I tell him to.”
Alena took Callie by the hand, opened the door, and stepped out into the wind, Phlegethon following behind.
“Your friend seemed upset,” Pasha said.
“She’s just a little overprotective,” Kathryn replied.
“That is a good quality in a friend.”
“Let me get you that drink.”
Pasha followed her into the kitchen. “You seem upset as well. Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “A friend has been trying to reach me and the phones are out. He left a message with Alena—he told her he has something to tell me and he said it’s important, but he got cut off before he could say what it is.”
“Who is your friend?”
“His name is Nick Polchak—he’s the man who’s been investigating my husband’s murder. You might find this interesting, Stefan: Nick is a forensic entomologist.”
