Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. As an organic farmer you have to deal with a number of destructive insect pests every year. Other farmers solve that problem by using toxic and dangerous pesticides, but I don’t have to tell you all the problems associated with that approach, now do I?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, we offer an ecologically based approach to insect control—one that works with nature instead of against it. To put it simply, we raise insects—beneficial insects—insects that are natural predators to the pests that are eating up your profits right now. Take fruitworms, for example, one of your most common insect pests—you know the kind of damage they can do if they get out of control. In our laboratories at Carolina Insectary we raise a type of parasitic wasp called Trichogramma. Trichogramma feeds on the eggs of fruitworms and other destructive caterpillars—the eggs are like candy to them. We’re using nature to control nature—a man like you can appreciate that.”

  “How much does this service cost?”

  “I knew you’d ask me that, and I think you’re going to like the answer: nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Just shipping and handling, but the product itself is free. How’s that for a bargain? Now you’re probably wondering, ‘How can they afford to do that?’ The answer is that we can’t—not forever—but we’re just getting established, and we’re trying to build a client list. The fact is, a lot of organic farmers aren’t as knowledgeable as you are—they’ve never heard of a beneficial insectary before. Our goal is to educate people—to let them know about our company and what we have to offer. We think once you try our service you’ll be hooked, and we can talk about price after that. How does that sound to you, Mr. Ostendorff? No charge for the product and just a modest fee for shipping and handling. You can’t go wrong with an offer like that, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then. Let me just verify your shipping address and get a credit card number for the shipping charge. Your eggs will go out in about two weeks.”

  “Eggs?”

  “Yes, sir. Our insects are shipped as thousands of tiny eggs glued to little paper cards. All you have to do is place the cards on your plants—the eggs hatch in a couple of days and nature takes care of the rest. It doesn’t get any simpler than that, does it?”

  “How many eggs are we talking about?”

  “As many as it takes, Mr. Ostendorff—as many as it takes.”

  Pasha went to the Telephonix Marketing Services Web site and entered the user name and password for Carolina Insectary’s account. A list appeared of the day’s sales statistics—calls made, contact names, acceptances and refusals. A database provided the shipping addresses of all new clients—and there were dozens.

  “Brilliant,” Habib said. “Using an offshore telemarketing firm to handle sales.”

  “Filipinos have excellent language skills,” Pasha said. “They pick up English easily and they speak without an accent—much better than the Indians. Many of the Fortune 500 companies employ call centers in the Philippines.”

  “Do they know what they are selling?” Jengo asked.

  “They know what I have told them,” Pasha said. “Nothing more. Their firm handles dozens of companies and hundreds of products. I give them a list of potential clients and tell them what to say. They do the rest—we can focus on replication.”

  Habib got up from the computer and looked around at the cavernous warehouse and the equipment mothballed along the walls. “What was this place?” he asked.

  “A pharmaceutical research company. Our patron recently purchased it.”

  “It’s perfect,” Habib said. “The tables and desks—all the laboratory equipment.”

  “Do you have everything you need to breed the insects?”

  “I believe so, yes. Equipment and plenty of workspace.”

  “What about you, Jengo? Can you replicate the toxin here?”

  Jengo looked up from the computer screen. “What?”

  “Do you have everything you need here?”

  “Yes. Everything.”

  “The incubators can serve as rearing chambers,” Pasha said. “We have only to rear the insects and apply the toxin. I have employed an order fulfillment firm in Durham to take care of packaging and shipping.”

  Habib beamed. “This is a stroke of genius, Pasha—posing as an insectary to ship our product. No more dangerous illegal drug shipments—our ‘customers’ will actually request our ‘product’!”

  “Customers all over the United States,” Pasha said, “not just a handful of drug dealers in rural areas. Our distribution will increase a thousandfold.”

  Habib laughed and clapped his hands.

  Pasha looked at Jengo. “Why so solemn, my friend? Did you have a fight with your wife?”

  “I was just . . . thinking.”

  Pasha put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done your thinking, Jengo—the time for thinking is past. In a few weeks our work here will be completed and we can all finish our degrees, claim our diplomas, and return to our countries. Dr. Jengo Muluneh, the man who fed millions; Dr. Habib Almasi, the man who secured his nation’s future; and me, Dr. Pasha Semenov, the man who saved the environment—at least for a little while. No one will ever know what we did here, but we will know—and we can be proud.”

  16

  Kathryn carried a tray of sandwiches and drinks to the old red oak where Alena and Callie sat resting in the shade. Alena’s three dogs sprawled around her and snoozed lazily in the early afternoon heat. The smallest dog, Ruckus, lay beside her leg with his hairless rib cage fluttering like a paper lantern.

  Alena looked up as she approached. “Is it always this hot down here?”

  “It’s always like this in August,” Kathryn said, “but this has been an especially hot summer. You know what they say: It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say about hell.”

  “Any luck out there?”

  “Not yet. We picked up where we left off yesterday. It’s hard to say how much ground we’ve covered so far. It’s a big field, and Ruckus doesn’t set any speed records. He’s kind of small, but that’s an asset in a scenting dog. His nose is low to the ground where the scent collects in pools. Ruckus doesn’t miss anything; if there’s any more of that stuff out there, he’ll find it.”

  “I thought you might need a break.” Kathryn set the tray down beside her.

  Alena took a sandwich and peeled back the bread. “What is it?”

  “Turkey. It’s organic—no steroids, no antibiotics. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’ll do.” She tossed the bread aside and dangled the meat in front of Ruckus. The little dog’s nose quivered and his eyes opened; two seconds later the meat was gone.

  “I made that for you,” Kathryn said.

  “He needs it more than I do.” Alena wiped her hands and took a glass from the tray. She cupped her left hand under the dog’s snout and filled it with water; the dog’s little pink tongue began to quietly lap. “They can get dehydrated fast in heat like this—you have to watch real close. He needs regular breaks. Little dogs handle the heat better than the big ones, but still.”

  “Do your dogs always come first?” Kathryn asked.

  “Who eats first, you or Callie?”

  Kathryn looked at her daughter. She was sitting cross-legged beside the big dog, gently patting its fur. “I hope she hasn’t been bothering you out here. I could keep her in the house if you want—”

  “She’s fine. She’s been following me around all morning.”

  “I can’t believe the way she’s taken to that dog of yours. Maybe I should get her a dog of her own.”

  “What dog?”

  “You mean what breed?”

  “I mean what dog. You picked yourself a husband—how’d that turn out? Isn’t one man as good as another?”
r />   Kathryn lowered her voice. “You know, you can be a little blunt.”

  “Why do you think dogs are any different? Your daughter doesn’t like dogs in general—she likes that one. I can’t get her to pet my other two—I tried. Kindred spirits, that’s what they are.”

  Kathryn watched her little girl. “So how do you find a kindred spirit?”

  “For you or for her?”

  Callie walked over to the tray and picked up a sandwich. She took a bite out of it, then handed it to Alena. Alena accepted the sandwich from her and took a bite herself—then she reached up and placed one finger on the top of Callie’s head. The little girl instantly broke into a smile.

  Kathryn watched in astonishment. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That finger thing you did—she just smiled at you.”

  Alena shrugged. “I just told her I was pleased with her. You got any mustard?”

  “Wait a minute,” Kathryn said. “My daughter is not a dog.”

  “So?”

  “So stop treating her like one.”

  “Chill out,” Alena said. “She doesn’t seem to like a lot of touch, so I used a simple ‘conditioned reinforcer,’ that’s all. I smile real big, then I put one finger on her head, and she makes the connection. I taught her that this morning. Smart kid—she picked it up in no time. I do the same thing with my dogs.”

  “Callie is not a dog!”

  “Yeah, you said that. What’s your problem? I’m just learning to speak her language—you should be doing the same thing.”

  “I don’t want to learn to speak her language, I want her to learn to speak mine—do you understand? I don’t want to have to say ‘I love you’ by poking her on the head or throwing her a bone.”

  “Well, I wish my dogs could speak English, but they can’t—so I have to learn to talk their way. Like it or not, that’s what you have to do with Callie. You might as well get started.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

  “Fine. I should get back to work anyway.”

  “Fine.” Kathryn grabbed the tray and stuck out her hand to her daughter. “Come on, Callie.”

  Callie didn’t budge.

  “Come on, Callie. You’ve bothered the nice lady enough for one day. She has a job to finish so she can go back home where it’s nice and cool.”

  Callie just stared at Kathryn’s feet.

  “I said, ‘Come on.’” Kathryn grabbed Callie by the hand and the little girl let out an ear-piercing scream. Kathryn hauled her daughter all the way back to the farmhouse, shrieking in protest as they went.

  “Great technique,” Alena called after her. “You’ll have to teach me that one.”

  Kathryn dragged Callie into the house and slammed the door behind them. She stood in the center of the parlor with her fists on her hips, fuming.

  She looked down at her daughter, then slowly sank down on her knees in front of her.

  The little girl stood motionless with her hands twisting in circles and her eyes fixed on her mother’s left shoulder.

  “I love you,” Kathryn said. “Do you know that?”

  Callie didn’t respond.

  “I love you,” she said again. She folded her hands over her heart. “Love. See this, Callie? Love.”

  Callie still didn’t move.

  “Callie, listen to me. This is how people show love.” She gently reached out to put her arms around her daughter—but the moment she touched her shoulders the little girl shrieked and ran to her room.

  Kathryn knelt in the center of the floor and stared at the bedroom door. What’s the matter with me? I acted like an idiot out there. Alena didn’t do anything wrong—why am I so angry? All she did was figure out a way to communicate with Callie. I should be thanking her.

  But Kathryn didn’t feel grateful. Callie was her daughter—her own flesh—the product of her womb. Callie was all she had left in the world, and all Kathryn wanted from life was the chance to lavish love on her little girl and to feel her daughter’s love in return. In four years she had barely been able to touch her daughter—but in two days’ time a perfect stranger could learn to stroke her arms and make her smile. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I figure that out? Shouldn’t that be part of a mother’s instinct?

  She tried to think of reasons for hating Alena, but she couldn’t. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t really hatred she felt—it was jealousy. An undeserving stranger had a stronger bond with her daughter than she did, and it broke her heart. But it wasn’t Alena’s fault, and she knew she needed to tell her.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Kathryn saw Alena’s silhouette through the white lace curtains. Kathryn opened the door and said softly, “I was just coming to talk to you.”

  “There’s something I think you should see.”

  “Where?”

  “The edge of the field—over there, where we found the drugs the first night.”

  Kathryn followed Alena across the lawn toward the edge of the tomato plants. “Why are you still searching here?” she asked.

  “I need to keep the dog focused,” Alena said. “Every couple of hours I have him sniff the original stuff to remind him exactly what he’s looking for.”

  Kathryn looked down at the base of the first plant where Nick had collected his strange green specimens. She saw the remnant of the marijuana exactly where it was before. It was as black as chewed tobacco now. “So?”

  “Not down there—up here.”

  Kathryn looked. Alena was pointing to the leaves of the first tomato plant—they were dotted with wriggling white larvae. Kathryn shuddered and stumbled back away from the plants.

  “What’s the matter?” Alena asked.

  “I—I can’t—”

  “Oh yeah, your bug thing. Forgot about that.”

  “Describe them to me,” Kathryn said.

  Alena plucked a leaf and shook off a few larvae into the palm of her hand. She held them up close to her eyes and sorted through them with her index finger “They just look like little worms,” she said. “What am I looking for?”

  “What color are they?”

  “White—maybe a little pale green. There’s kind of a pointy thing on one end—sort of like a little horn.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what it looks like to me. What are these things?” Kathryn shook her head. “Disaster.”

  Nick picked through the marijuana with a long silver forceps. Almost all the little green eggs had hatched and had now been replaced by wriggling white maggots. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. He isolated one of the larvae and pushed it out to the side; he adjusted his glasses and studied it closely. White, with just a hint of green—and a little red horn located dorsally on the terminal abdominal segment.

  He straightened. “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun.” He took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

  “Nick, hi—I was just about to call you.”

  “You’ve got a problem, Kath,” Nick said.

  “I think I’m looking at it. Are these things what I think they are?”

  “Manduca sexta,” Nick said, “the tobacco hornworm. They could possibly be Manduca quinquemaculata—tomato hornworms—but I don’t think so. Sexta is much more common in the South. Are you sure we’re looking at the same thing? White, with a little horn on one end?”

  “Nick—every tomato farmer in the U.S. knows what a hornworm looks like.”

  “How many do you see?”

  “There’s too many to count—they could be everywhere.”

  “That’s not good. Hornworms can strip a tomato field bare in one weekend.”

  “Believe me, I know. Did these things come out of the marijuana?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “How in the world did they get in there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Just then a student poked his head in the laboratory door. “Dr. Polchak?”

  Nick held up one h
and to silence him.

  “Nick, what am I supposed to do?”

  “You have to use an insecticide, Kathryn—right away.”

  “Nick, you know I can’t do that. I’d lose my organic certification.”

  “You don’t have a choice. If you don’t spray, you’ll lose your whole field.”

  The student cleared his throat. “Dr. Polchak? Sorry to bother you, but you told me to.”

  “I can’t spray,” she said. “What’s the point? Either way I lose everything.”

  “Kathryn, tobacco hornworms can overwinter—that means if you don’t kill them now, some of them will burrow into the ground when they pupate and they won’t come out until next spring. If you don’t kill them now, you’ll have them next year too.”

  The student again: “Dr. Polchak?”

  “Hang on a minute,” Nick growled. He cupped his hand over the phone and glared at the student. “Have you ever seen flesh-eating beetles? Would you like to see some up close?”

  “I’m sorry, but you told me to come and look for you here whenever you’re more than ten minutes late for class.”

  “Oh. Right.” Nick stood there for a moment, blinking at the vindicated student—then he put the phone back to his ear. “Kathryn—I’ve got an idea. I’ll be out there in an hour.” He closed the phone.

  Nick looked at the student. “Mr. Jones, I have an assignment for you. I want you to go back to the class and tell everyone I’ve got a special treat for them today—and find out how many of them have cars.”

  The student grinned. “What’s the treat?”

  “Mr. Jones, we’re taking a field trip.”

  17

  This is Manduca sexta,” Nick said, holding the photo over his head so all the students could see, “commonly known as the tobacco hornworm.”

  The group of students crowded around Nick near the edge of the tomato field. It was mid-afternoon, but the sun was still high overhead and the light was still good. Kathryn stood beside Nick with Callie beside her, while Alena watched the group from the shade of a nearby tree.

  “Manduca begins its life as a round green egg approximately one to one and a half millimeters in diameter. The adult Manduca is a moth—a very large one—and it lives for less than five days. But during those days the adult female stays busy—she lays between three and five hundred eggs per day, usually on the surface of leaves. Not just any leaves, mind you; Manduca prefers only plants from the family Solanaceae—chiefly tobacco and tomatoes. That’s why you’re here: The plants behind you are tomato plants, which can be identified by the fact that they’re bearing tomatoes. Are there any questions so far?”