Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  Nick took the cups and returned them to the terrarium one by one.

  “The cups are not covered?” Pasha asked.

  “No. When the maggots are about to pupate they get an instinctive desire to migrate—to crawl away from the food source and find a private spot to burrow in and hide. They’ll crawl right out of the cups—they’d crawl out of the terrarium if there wasn’t a screen on top of it. If we keep them from migrating they’ll delay pupation; that’s another way you can screw up a PMI. Some species will even die if they’re not allowed to move away from home. I think your species is like that.”

  “My species?”

  “A lot of this is new to you, isn’t it? Insect development, migration, pupation . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your background isn’t in entomology. What did you do your master’s in?”

  “Agricultural science. My family owns a farm.”

  “But you decided to do your doctorate in entomology?”

  “My family thought it would be helpful.”

  “Do Russians always do what their families want?”

  Pasha smiled. “Some do—the older ones, I think. They still think the old way. The ‘collective’—that is how they were taught. One man must sacrifice for the good of all. The young generation, we think differently.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  “Yes—here I am.”

  “Ever feel like migrating?”

  Pasha didn’t answer.

  Nick returned the terrarium to the rearing chamber. “That’s about it for now,” he said. “I’ll feed them twice a day and adjust the temperature and humidity levels to match the conditions at the crime scene. I’ll collect a few larvae each day and preserve them to document each stage of development. When the larvae begin to pupate I’ll move them to an emergence container where I can watch for the adults to hatch.”

  “Is there some other way I can help?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind long hours. I could use some help checking on these specimens.”

  “I would enjoy that,” Pasha said. “I would like to learn more about this field.”

  “I can arrange that. Do you know where my office is? Run down there and look for a book—Byrd and Castner’s Forensic Entomology: The Utility of Arthropods in Legal Investigations. It’s black with a big orange burying beetle on the cover. Bring it back and I’ll give you some sections to read—that should give you the basics. Here’s the key to my office, and here’s one for this lab. Hang on to that one—we keep the labs locked up pretty tight around here, and you’ll need it to let yourself in.”

  Pasha headed immediately for the hallway.

  Soon after he left there was a soft knock on the lab door.

  “Nick?”

  He turned. “Kathryn—come on in. What are you doing here?”

  “I had a couple of restaurant deliveries up this way—some of my best customers are here in Raleigh. I thought I’d drop by and see how things are going.”

  As she approached the rearing chamber she suddenly stopped and wrinkled her nose. “Boy—I remember that smell.”

  Nick sniffed at the air. “Really? I don’t even notice it.”

  “I’m definitely buying you some cologne.”

  “Get me the kind that renders women powerless—as seen on TV.”

  “I’ll do that.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and eased up to the rearing chamber as if she were approaching the edge of a cliff. “Are those the specimens you took from Michael’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  She shivered. “Disgusting.”

  “I beg your pardon. Do I call your produce disgusting?”

  “It’s a little different, don’t you think?”

  “Personally, I find most vegetables disgusting.”

  “Then I’m not making you dinner again. Why bother? You didn’t even finish your dinner the last time—you were in too big a hurry to run out and meet your friend.”

  “I ran out to see your daughter’s insect collection.”

  “Where do you know her from?”

  “You mean Alena?”

  “Of course I mean Alena. Who else could we be talking about?”

  “Why do women get so testy whenever a man asks for some clarification?”

  “Because it’s usually not clarification, it’s evasion.”

  “What does that mean? Oops—did it again.”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all. She seemed eager to see you. Are you two seeing each other?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean—sort of.”

  Kathryn nodded. “I understand.”

  “You do? Then explain it to me.”

  “It’s okay, Nick. It’s a good thing—you need someone in your life. You know, you really are a human being.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And you’re not as young as you used to be.”

  “Are you always so cheerful?”

  “I’m just saying, maybe you’re finally getting in touch with all that. Maybe there’s a part of you that wants a serious relationship. Maybe you’ve been like those flies you always work with—you’ve been in a little shell and now you’re ready to come out.”

  “I’m going to be a real live boy,” Nick said. “Uncle Gepetto will be so proud.”

  “Laugh if you want to, but think about it.” She looked at the specimens again. “So what do we do now, just wait?”

  “I’m not very good at waiting,” Nick said. “Besides, we’ve got another puzzle to solve.” He pointed to the second terrarium. The bottom was lined with an inch-deep layer of vermiculite, and in the center was a small mound of marijuana cuttings dotted with translucent green eggs.

  “What’s that?”

  “The sample of marijuana I collected from the edge of your tomato field. The little green things are eggs.”

  “More flies?”

  “No. Blowflies and flesh flies are necrophilous—they only lay their eggs in decomposing tissue. I don’t think these eggs are Diptera at all. I’m betting Lepidoptera.”

  “Nick—would you speak English?”

  “A fly egg is shaped like a grain of rice,” he said. “These are perfectly round. Plus, a fly egg is usually white or cream-colored—these are green. They’re not fly eggs.”

  “Then what are they?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s difficult to determine species in the egg stage. Whatever they are, they should hatch in a day or two and then we’ll know for sure.”

  “Do you think they have something to do with Michael’s death?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s possible. There were drugs in Michael’s kitchen; the drugs ended up in the field; Michael ended up in the field. I don’t know if it’s all connected or not but it’s worth looking into. One thing’s for sure: This is definitely weird.”

  When Pasha returned to the laboratory he stopped in the doorway; he saw a woman talking to Polchak by the rearing chamber. Pasha stepped back into the shadow of the hallway and watched. The woman was stunning—she had deep auburn hair pulled back behind her head and fair skin freckled by the sun. Now that is a woman, Pasha thought—not like the bits of fluff he was used to encountering in America. She was dressed in denim with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This woman worked for a living and she wasn’t ashamed of it. He tried to see her hands but couldn’t because she kept her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders; he was sure that her fingernails would be cut close. He nodded his head. She could be Russian.

  Pasha wondered who she was and why she was talking to Polchak—and then he realized. It must be her—the woman—the wife of the buyer. Now he was glad that he didn’t visit the house that night; he would have found it difficult to kill her. What a waste it would have been, he thought.

  He wanted to meet her. He wanted to look into her eyes and find out if her voice was the way he imagined: playful, lyrical, but defiant. He couldn’t just walk into the room—not with Polchak there. He needed to see her alone—he had to.


  But how?

  14

  Alena sat on the side of her bed and finished brushing Phlegethon’s thick coat. It was slow going with the big dog—like pulling a rake through mud—but Phlegethon never complained. He sat with his eyes half-closed in a look of utter ecstasy. If a dog could smile, he would have.

  “You’re just a big teddy bear, aren’t you?” Alena cooed. “I’ll bet you’d let me do this all night. You’d let me brush you until you had no fur left—then think how funny you’d look. You’re just a big baby, that’s what you are.”

  It was true. The dog, as enormous as he was, was gentle as a lamb—but he was also powerful enough to take an intruder to the ground or to crush a man’s throat in his jaws. Alena knew this for certain because she had trained him to do exactly that—and because he’d done it before.

  She finished with the dog and made a flicking motion with her index finger; Phlegethon obediently moved away. The little dog Ruckus took his place while the three-legged Trygg patiently awaited her turn.

  “You never take very long,” Alena said to Ruckus. “Come on, let’s make you handsome.” She began to gently run the brush over the dog’s hairless body—not because the little dog needed the grooming, but because he always got jealous if the bigger dogs got more attention than he did.

  Suddenly all three dogs snapped to attention and faced the door. Alena froze and listened—she heard it too. There was a scratching, fumbling sound at the door of the cottage. She stared at the doorknob and saw it begin to slowly turn . . .

  Alena waved the little dog away and jumped to her feet. She snapped her fingers like the crack of a whip and pointed to the floor just inside the door. Phlegethon took up position and awaited his master’s next command. Alena made two fists and shook them violently at the dog’s face.

  The big dog understood.

  Phlegethon fixed his eyes on the door and began to slowly crouch down like a parade balloon losing air. His ears lay back flat and the sinews of his shoulders became visible even through his fur.

  The door flew open . . .

  Callie.

  Alena immediately snapped her fingers and made a settling gesture with her left hand, but at the same time grabbed the dog by the collar and pushed him down into a lying position. She trusted the dog’s training, but his blood was now coursing with something dark and primeval—and she knew you could push instinct only so far.

  The little girl grinned and rushed into the room, throwing herself on top of the dog and burying her face in its fur.

  Alena sank down beside the dog and let out her breath. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know any better than that? You can’t just run into other people’s houses in the middle of the night. Are you listening to me?”

  Callie just continued to rub the soft fur.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!” Alena reached over and touched the girl’s arm; when she did, Callie sat up and let out a shriek.

  Alena looked at her, but Callie didn’t look back. The little girl seemed to stare off to one side, taking in the scene with her peripheral vision. It was a look Alena had seen many times before. It was exactly the way an unfamiliar dog looked at you—without making eye contact.

  Alena slowly raised her hand and snapped her fingers once, and Callie met her eyes for the first time. The moment she did Alena looked away a little. She could see from the corner of her eye that Callie was still looking at her. “Good girl,” she said.

  Alena began to stroke Phlegethon’s soft fur; soon Callie began to do the same. When she did, Alena began to stroke closer and closer to Callie’s hands until she was finally touching her. Within minutes Alena was gently stroking the little girl’s forearms.

  “Callie—there you are!”

  Alena looked up at the open doorway.

  Kathryn ran into the cottage and dropped down beside her little girl. She tried to wrap her arms around her—but when she did Callie shrieked and pulled away.

  “Stop that!” Kathryn scolded. “I was only trying to—”

  “Not like that,” Alena said. “Like this.” She demonstrated the stroking technique—first the dog, moving gradually closer, then the little girl’s skin.

  Kathryn watched in amazement. “She never lets me touch her that way. Where did you learn that?”

  “Training dogs. I think like a dog—maybe she does too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With dogs it’s all about dominance and submission. You can’t make direct eye contact with some dogs—it’s too threatening. They either shut down or they bite you. You have to find something to put between you—something you can both work around, like a ball or something. Get the idea? You can’t pet the dog, so you both play ball instead—before you know it, you’re petting the dog.”

  “That’s clever,” Kathryn said. “I never thought of that.”

  Alena shrugged. “That’s how dogs think, anyway. Here, give it a try.” She took Kathryn by the hand and placed it on the dog’s furry flank.

  Kathryn began to stroke, slowly moving her hand closer until she was stroking her daughter’s arm. “Callie’s autistic,” she said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I thought you’d know.”

  “Why?”

  “You seem to understand it a little.”

  “Not me—I understand dogs.”

  The two women knelt together in silence for a few minutes, petting and stroking and touching the little girl as much as she would allow.

  “How do you know him?” Alena asked quietly.

  Kathryn looked up. “I met Nick several years ago. A friend of mine died. The authorities said it was suicide, but I didn’t believe it. I read an article about some weird ‘Bug Man’ in the newspaper. They made him sound like some kind of magician, so I hired him. We worked together for a couple of weeks, that’s all. How about you?”

  “Same sort of thing,” Alena said. “Nick was in northern Virginia working for the FBI. He needed a cadaver dog. I have one—that one there. Nick wanted to ask for my help, so he climbed my fence and snuck onto my land one night.”

  “Why did he have to climb your fence?”

  “Because I’m a witch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not a real witch—I just let people think that. I’ve got a big fence around my property and I didn’t have a phone. It was the only way Nick could reach me. Nick doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Why do you want people to think you’re a witch?”

  “So they’ll leave me alone.”

  “You and Nick sound a lot alike.”

  Alena looked at her for the first time. “We are. Nick and I have a lot in common.”

  “It’s kind of funny,” Kathryn said. “I’m afraid of insects—did you know that? Entomophobia, they call it. Nick’s ‘the Bug Man,’ and I’m afraid of bugs—we don’t have anything in common at all.”

  “Then why did you call him?”

  Kathryn met her eyes. “I’m not interested in Nick, Alena.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “We’re just friends. We worked together once, that’s all.”

  “I worked with him too. I know how it is.”

  “I called Nick because I need help and Nick is the best there is. I’m not sure I could be interested in anyone right now.”

  “Then why did you trick him into making me stay here?”

  “I’m sorry. I was . . . mad at you.”

  “You’re sure that’s the only reason?”

  Kathryn looked at her watch. “We should be going—we’ve taken enough of your time.”

  “Let’s do this again some time—since we’re roommates and all.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “You might want to tell your daughter to knock first next time. Phlegethon could swallow her in one bite.”

  “Thanks, I’ll remind her.”

  Kathryn took Callie by the hand and led her to the doorway. She stopped and looked back
at Alena. “Thank you for coming down here. I know you’re getting paid for this, but I still appreciate it. I’m sorry if I’ve made things difficult with Nick.”

  “I can’t compete with you,” Alena said.

  “What?”

  “You’re pretty. You’re smart. I can’t compete with that.”

  “We’re not competing, Alena. I’m not interested in Nick.”

  Alena looked at her. “What if he’s interested in you?”

  15

  Makati City, Philippines

  Rafael Mercado set down his coffee mug and turned it so that the Telephonix Marketing Services logo faced him. He pulled on his telephone headset and looked at the clock ticking down on his computer screen: ten p.m.—his six-hour call shift was about to begin. He typed in an access code and a list of the day’s sales leads appeared on the screen organized by U.S. time zones from east to west. He looked at his first contact: Prairie View, Illinois. He did a quick Internet search to pick up a few facts about the town, then switched over to the Chicago Tribune’s Web site to scan for any recent news events. Last, he called up the client’s product profile and reviewed his talking points. Then he placed the cursor on the contact’s phone number and clicked; the number dialed automatically.

  “Hello.”

  “Good morning! Is this Mr. Ostendorff?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Mr. Ostendorff, my name is Rafael Mercado. I’m calling you from Raleigh, North Carolina, this morning. How are you today, sir?”

  “Fine. I’m a little busy.”

  “I know you are, sir, and I won’t take much of your time. How’s the weather up there? Hot as it is here in the Carolinas?”

  “It’s always hot this time of year.”

  “Well, you’re not that far from the lake—you get the humidity there. Hey, did you catch the Cubs game last night? Seven to two—whaddya think? Is there any hope for those guys?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Yeah, me too. Look, I know you’re a busy man, so let me get to the point. I work for a company down here called Carolina Insectary. Have you heard of us?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, you will—we’re new but we’re very aggressive, and we’re marketing all over the U.S. Tell me, Mr. Ostendorff, have you ever used the services of an insectary before?”