Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel)

by Tim Downs

  It suddenly dawned on Nick that he had asked a woman to marry him without actually knowing what he wanted from her. How could I have done that? he wondered. It seemed absurd—like buying a house without ever considering where you wanted to live. If he didn’t even know what he wanted from the woman, how was he supposed to know if he was satisfied or disappointed?

  And what if he was disappointed? What then?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the blaring of a police siren. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw flashing blue and red lights following close behind his car. He muttered an expletive and pulled over onto the narrow shoulder.

  Nick rolled down his window and watched his side mirror; three agonizing minutes passed before he saw the patrolman casually get out of his car and approach.

  “Welcome to Pennsylvania,” the patrolman said.

  “Sorry, Officer, I was just—”

  “Any idea how fast you were going?”

  Nick groaned. “Why do cops always ask that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are only two possible answers,” Nick said. “Yes, I knew how fast I was going; or no, I had no idea. If I say yes, then I’ll have to claim that I didn’t know the speed limit, causing you to launch into a fascinating lecture on exactly how many speed limit signs are posted between here and Scranton. If I say no, then you’ll tell me exactly how fast your little radar gun says I was going while I stare at the floorboards in mock shame.”

  The officer paused. “I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”

  “Once or twice. So can we speed things along? Not too fast, mind you—just keep it under your personal speed limit.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “I’ve got to make a really important phone call, and I can’t get cell reception until I get out of these mountains and back to civilization.”

  “Well then, you just go on your way, and drive as fast as you want.”

  “Aren’t you people supposed to ‘protect and defend’? Well, if I don’t call my fiancée at nine o’clock, she’s going to kill me. So do your job—protect me.”

  “I am doing my job. License and registration, please.”

  Nick searched through the glove compartment. “I thought your job was defending the fast-food industry. I’ll bet Dunkin’ Donuts has never been robbed.”

  “Can’t say I like your attitude, mister.”

  “I’ve got authority issues,” Nick grumbled. “Nothing personal.”

  “It’s personal to me. Why don’t you wait right here while I run your tags? And don’t you worry, I won’t keep you one second longer than I have to.”

  I’ll just bet, Nick thought—but he managed not to say it.

  To Nick’s surprise he saw the officer approaching his car again just a few minutes later; maybe the guy decided not to be a bad sport after all. Nick leaned out the window and said, “Hey, thanks, I really appreciate—”

  “Put your hands on the steering wheel,” he said. “Do it now—keep them both where I can see them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Would you mind stepping out of the car, please?”

  Nick got out of the car and closed the door. “What’s this all about?”

  “I ran your tags, Mr. Polchak. Our system is statewide; according to the Philadelphia Police Department, the night before last you were arrested for breaking and entering and crossing a police line.”

  “That was all a misunderstanding,” Nick said.

  “No doubt. You probably just needed to make an important phone call.”

  “No, really. A friend of mine was murdered, and I was just—” Murdered—the word left his mouth like a bat out of a barn, and the moment it did Nick knew he was in trouble.

  “Turn around and put your hands on top of the car.”

  Nick reluctantly obeyed. “This is a mistake. There’s a simple explanation.”

  “I’m sure there is—and just as soon as I get that explanation from the Philadelphia police, you can go. Until then, you’ll be staying with us.”

  19

  Alena sat in her truck in the parking lot of the Paradise Motor Lodge near the southern boundary of Pine Summit. She had driven so far south that she began to think she must have missed the place, but at last she spotted the ugly flashing neon sign—the kind you’d expect to find on a fifties-era burger joint or some off-the-strip Vegas nightclub. The sign pointed the way to a long single-story structure set back deep in the pines. The Paradise Motor Lodge had a low, sloping shake-shingle roof and walls made of coarse barn siding painted a deep brick red. Single-unit air conditioners hung under each window; most of the windows were dark, but cars were parked in front of a few of them. What a dump, she grumbled to herself. The sheriff told me to go home—maybe this is his way of making me want to.

  But then Alena remembered that she hadn’t seen any other hotels along the way. Maybe the Paradise Motor Lodge was the only hotel in town—and if that was the case, maybe Nick was staying here too. Alena quickly searched the parking lot for Nick’s Plymouth Sundance . . . but it wasn’t there.

  That would have been too easy, she thought.

  She looked down at the cell phone lying in her lap, then at the dashboard clock. Eight forty-five, and no call from Nick— but then, he wasn’t supposed to call until nine. Why would he try to call earlier? As far as Nick knew, Alena was still back home in Virginia, and there was no reason for him to call until she made the trip down to Endor at nine. But for some reason the lack of a call bothered her anyway; Nick just didn’t seem eager to talk to her, and she needed to know if it was just her imagination like Gunner said—or if it was something more.

  She picked up the cell phone and looked at the glowing screen: three bars and fully charged, just like it had been the last two nights. It’s not the phone’s fault, she told herself, but as she stared at the screen she began to feel a little guilty. Nick wasn’t the only one who could make a phone call. Three bars— she didn’t have to wait until nine o’clock if she didn’t want to; she didn’t have to make the long trip down to Endor to get a connection; she had a connection right here, right now. She didn’t have to wait for Nick to call her—she could push two buttons and talk to him anytime she wanted to.

  But she didn’t want to. Nick was the one who broke his promise, and he was the one who needed to make things right.

  She got out of the truck and released the dogs from the camper. They jumped down to the asphalt and stood stretching while Alena got out her duffel bag and locked up the truck again. She shivered in the night air; the day had been fairly warm, but the temperature dropped like a rock after sunset. She could see her breath—it couldn’t have been more than forty degrees. She signaled for the dogs to heel and walked to the brightly lit hotel office in the center of the long building. When she pushed the glass door halfway open, the rubber welcome mat bunched up under it and she bumped into the glass headlong; she had to kick the mat aside to allow the door to open the rest of the way.

  The sound of rattling glass roused a young man dozing behind the counter. “Sorry about that,” he said sleepily. “Happens all the time.”

  “Glad to hear you’re on top of it,” Alena said. “I need a room.”

  He tapped a sleeping keyboard and a computer monitor came to life. “Have you got a reservation?”

  “Seriously? Does anybody plan to stay here?”

  “Um—how many in your party?”

  “How many do you see?”

  The man looked. “You’ve got dogs.”

  “Clever you.”

  “You’ve got two dogs.”

  “Is that a problem? Your sign says ‘Pet Friendly.’ ”

  “It’s just that most people only have one pet.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to be extra friendly.”

  “You’ll have to put down a cleaning deposit.”

  “What for?”

  “In case the dogs—you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. I
n case the dogs what?”

  “Hey, they’re dogs.”

  “My dogs were house-trained at eight weeks—that’s a little over a year in human terms. Were you house-trained at a year? I seriously doubt it.”

  “I’ll just waive the cleaning deposit,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “You’re in luck—we have a vacancy.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “Room 7—here’s your key. Oh, one more thing: We’ve shut off the heat since it’s spring and all. If you need an extra blanket, you’ll find one in the closet.”

  “Terrific.” She took the key and signaled the dogs to follow her—but at the door a thought occurred to her and she turned back again. “Hey—is there a guy named Nick Polchak staying here?”

  “I’m not allowed to tell you that,” he said.

  “Big guy, goofy-looking glasses—make his eyes look like Milk Duds.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone like that, but my shift only started at three.”

  “I didn’t see his car in the parking lot.”

  “He might be out.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Or maybe he’s here with a friend.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe he’s not alone—maybe they drove her car.”

  Alena’s expression suddenly darkened. “Who said anything about a ‘friend’?”

  “I just thought—”

  “I’m his ‘friend,’ okay? We’re getting married on Saturday, so if Nick’s here he’s here all by himself. Big guy, goofy glasses— if you see anyone like that, tell him to call room 7. You got that?”

  Alena charged out to the middle of the parking lot with Trygg and Ruckus trotting behind her. She turned and looked at the building from one end to the other, then went to the back of her truck and took out one of the white towels bagged in plastic. She left Trygg waiting by the truck and led Ruckus to the northernmost end of the building; she opened the plastic bag and allowed the dog to identify the scent. Then they slowly walked the length of the building together, stopping in front of each door to allow Ruckus to sniff at the air that flowed under the threshold—but they reached the opposite end of the building without the dog ever detecting Nick’s scent.

  Now Alena felt angry and ashamed—ashamed of herself for suspecting Nick and angry with that kid behind the counter. She knew it wasn’t his fault; after all, she didn’t tell him up front that Nick was her fiancé or that he was traveling alone—she just asked if he was staying here. Of course the kid would consider the possibility that Nick might be staying with someone else. What made Alena angry was that she had never considered that possibility herself, and now that she had considered it, the thought was in her mind—and it was stuck there.

  She unlocked the door to room 7 and waved the dogs inside. The room looked no more glamorous than the building’s exterior: particleboard dresser on the left, avocado lamp and bulky nineteen-inch television on top—no technological upgrades in this place—and on the opposite wall a king-size bed that seemed to dip toward the center. Welcome to the Poconos, she thought. She wondered where Nick was staying tonight; she wondered if his place was any better than this; she wondered if their honeymoon hotel was any better. It better be, she thought. I didn’t wait my whole life to stay in a dump like this one.

  She changed and climbed into bed, even though it was still early. She thought about turning on the TV, but she had too much on her mind and she knew the sound would quickly become an annoyance. Might as well get some sleep, she thought. Tomorrow’s a long day and I have to get started early. She set the cell phone on the nightstand beside the clock where she could easily see both. She turned out the light, knowing that the phone was on full volume and Nick’s call would easily wake her up.

  If he does call.

  She began to doze off, but the night was cold and the blanket and bedspread were flimsy and worn. She sat up in bed and snapped her fingers and pointed to Trygg; she wiggled her index finger and the three-legged dog bounded up onto the bed and curled up beside her. Alena cuddled up close to the dog and hooked one arm around her; she lay there in the darkness, feeling the warmth of the dog’s body against hers and sensing the slight movement of her rib cage as the dog breathed in and out. Alena closed her eyes and tried to imagine what Nick would feel like next to her. She remembered what Gunner told her— that Nick was not a dog and that she wouldn’t be able to just snap her fingers to get what she wanted. She wasn’t sure how to get what she wanted from Nick, because what she wanted most was to have Nick home with her in Virginia—but he had left.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the clock. It was 10:45.

  20

  Odell Throckmorton sat cross-legged in the middle of the warehouse floor, staring at the enormous black dog that blocked the exit. The dog wasn’t vicious— not now, anyway—but last night it was a different story. Now the dog just sat there, staring back at Odell with a bored look on its drooping face, looking as if it might drop off to sleep at any moment—but Odell knew better.

  He had broken into the small-electronics warehouse about three in the morning—about the same time he did every week or two. Robbing Charlie Dorfman’s warehouse had become almost a regular job for him; he even left a party early once, telling his friends that he “had to go to work.” The warehouse was an easy mark for Odell because he used to work shipping and inventory there and he knew every inch of the place. Old man Dorfman was so cheap that he had never bothered installing a decent alarm system, and the padlocks he kept switching out on the front door were so basic that Odell could pick most of them—and whenever a lock was beyond his abilities, he knew all the places where the corrugated siding was loose and could be easily peeled back to allow him to squeeze through.

  Last night he picked the lock—no problem at all. But when he slid the big door aside he saw something that almost made him turn tail and run: the biggest dog he had ever seen, sitting there in the doorway, staring up at him just like it was doing right now. Odell had frozen in his tracks and held his breath, terrified of what the dog might do to him the instant it realized that Odell didn’t belong there—but the dog never moved. It didn’t bark, or growl, or even blink an eye. It didn’t seem bothered to find Odell standing there; it didn’t seem to care at all.

  So Odell began to relax a little. At first he figured that cheapskate Dorfman must have finally pried open that wallet of his and bought himself a guard dog, but he should have known better. This dog was probably just somebody’s pet, borrowed and left in the warehouse for effect. And it almost worked too, ’cause that was one scary-looking animal—but a man like Odell was not so easily fooled.

  “Hey there, fella,” Odell said in his sweetest singsong voice. “You’re a big one, ain’t ya? But you’re not a mean ol’ doggy, are you? Nah—you just look like one.” He slowly held out the back of his hand, wishing that his pockets were stuffed with pork chops right now.

  The dog didn’t seem interested in Odell’s hand; the dog didn’t even flinch.

  “Why, you’re just an old softy.” For a split second it crossed Odell’s mind to reach out and pat the dog on the head, but he thought better of it. No sense taking a chance, and besides, he didn’t need to make friends with the beast—he just wanted into the warehouse without losing any major body parts. So Odell slowly eased past the dog into the warehouse, covering his crotch with both hands just in case, and rolled the big metal door shut behind him.

  Three minutes later he had a Blu-ray player tucked under one arm and a TiVo under the other and he was ready to leave again. He returned to the doorway and said to the black behemoth, “Nice doggie. Uncle Odell has to go now, so if you’ll just—”

  But the moment he took a step toward the doorway, the dog leaped to its feet and let out a growl so loud and so low that it seemed to rumble like thunder. The dog widened its stance and slung its head low with its hackles standing like a hedgehog’s quills and both ears plastered flat against its head. Those sagging jowls were g
one now, pulled up into its face like hoisted curtains, baring a row of teeth that stood out against the dog’s black fur like the pickets of a fence.

  Odell dropped both boxes and stumbled back from the doorway. The instant he did, the dog fell silent and resumed a sitting position.

  Whoa!

  Odell just stared for a moment, wondering what just happened. He looked at the dog sitting in the doorway so peacefully; he wasn’t even sure it was the same animal. “What’s the matter with you?” he said as pleasantly as possible. “It’s just me—your ol’ pal Uncle Odell. You know me—you just let me in a minute ago.”

  He eased closer and held out the back of his hand . . .

  The dog exploded again, snapping at Odell’s hand like a crocodile and missing the soft pink flesh by mere inches.

  Odell backed away and reconsidered his strategy. Maybe he was coming at the dog too head-on; maybe the dog took it as a threat; maybe he needed to ease around to the side and squeeze by that way.

  He tried—with the same result.

  He knew he had to find another way out—he’d have to find one of the loose spots in the corrugated walls and squeeze out that way. He turned and started walking toward the back wall of the warehouse—but when he did, the dog trotted past him and took a sitting position between Odell and the back wall.

  What the—

  Odell started toward the left wall; the dog moved with him. He looked up at one of the windows, high on the wall almost to the ceiling—the dog trotted over and sat down under it, daring him to try. He considered the front door again, estimating the distance and wondering what the odds were that he could beat the dog to the door at a dead run. He glanced over at the dog . . .

  He could have sworn the dog was smiling.

  Three hours later Odell Throckmorton sat cross-legged in the middle of the warehouse floor, staring at the enormous black dog that blocked the exit door. The dog wasn’t vicious— not now, anyway. The dog just sat there, staring back at Odell with a bored look on its drooping face, looking as if it might drop off to sleep at any moment.