by Tim Downs
Pasha slowly nodded. “Yes—that is interesting.”
45
As he sped back to NC State, Nick kept trying Kathryn’s number, hoping that the storm might let up just enough to give him a signal and let his call go through. Each time he tried the number and failed he found himself getting angrier.
What’s she doing on a date? I’m breaking my back trying to solve her husband’s murder, and she’s out gallivanting around Sampson County with some salesman?
He tried again—no signal.
She never mentioned any salesman to me. Who is this guy, anyway? He just “stopped by,” Alena said. He just stops by and Kathryn goes out with him? That’s a pretty good sales technique—I wonder what else he’s selling?
Again—still no signal.
And what’s with Alena? “He was hot—I wonder what he’s doing tomorrow night.” What kind of a crack is that? It’s nice to know what a woman is really like before you get in over your head.
Then he noticed it—the little icon on the cell phone screen that told him there was a message. He tried to retrieve the message, but the call would not go through. He kept trying until he finally got a connection; he quickly punched in the access code and password and put the phone to his ear.
“Nick, it’s Kathryn. Where are you? You’re not picking up and you’re not returning my calls. I’ve got something I’d like to run by you. A salesman stopped by just now; he had a great suggestion for controlling my tobacco hornworms. I’ve decided to give it a try and I’d love to know what you think . . . You haven’t been coming around lately. How come? Callie misses you—so do I. Call me, okay?”
Nick pulled his car off onto the shoulder and put it in Park. He reviewed the message in his mind. A salesman stopped by . . . he had a suggestion for controlling my hornworms . . . I’ve decided to give it a try.
The message had been left days ago. Whatever that salesman was selling, Kathryn had already bought it—and whatever he advised her to do, it was probably already done.
Nick felt a cold finger run down his spine. Who is this guy?
He tried Kathryn’s number once more . . .
He heard the phone ringing.
Kathryn handed Pasha a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of wheat crackers and cheese. “Why don’t you take these out to the sofa—I’ll get the drinks.”
Pasha took the bowl and plate to the coffee table and set them down beside Kathryn’s cell phone. He took a seat on the sofa and waited.
“How did you get my name?” Kathryn called from the kitchen.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was just wondering. Your insectary is up in Raleigh—what brought you all the way down here?”
“Organic farms are few and far between,” he said.
“There are a couple in Raleigh . . . in Chapel Hill too. Those are a lot closer. Did you visit any of them?”
“Of course.”
There was a pause. “Really? Which ones?”
The cell phone rang.
“Would you mind getting that?” Kathryn said. “It might be Nick.”
Pasha picked up the phone and looked at it—he recognized the number. He pushed Send . . . and then a second later pushed Stop. “Hello?” he said into the dead phone. “Hello?”
Kathryn peeked around the corner. “Who is it?”
“No answer,” Pasha said. “It must be the storm.”
Nick pressed the phone tighter against his ear. The wind buffeting his car made it difficult to hear, but for a second he thought he might have had a connection. He looked at the phone: A number in the upperright corner of the screen told him that six seconds had elapsed on the last call. There had been a connection—but no one had answered.
He quickly tried the number again.
Kathryn’s cell phone rang again just as she rounded the corner with drinks in hand. “Oh—can you get that? Maybe they’re calling back.”
Pasha picked up the phone again—it was the same caller. He pushed Send and put the phone to his ear while Kathryn watched and waited.
“Kathryn Guilford’s residence. Hello?”
There was a pause and then he heard a voice on the other end say: “Pasha?”
He folded the phone and looked at Kathryn. “Nothing. It’s probably just the lightning—perhaps we should turn it off.”
Nick stared at his phone in disbelief. That was Pasha Semenov’s voice—there was no mistaking his accent. Suddenly Kathryn’s phone message and his conversation with Alena began to fit together like shuffling cards. Pasha Semenov is posing as some kind of insect expert—maybe an agricultural entomologist or a cooperative extension specialist. But why? Kathryn said he gave her advice about “controlling” her hornworms.
Why would he do that? He’s the one who put them there. Wait a minute—she specifically said “salesman.” What kind of salesman sells insects?
Then he remembered the NC State insectary.
Nick had a very bad feeling—but it was Pasha’s simple phone salutation that worried him most of all . . .
“Kathryn Guilford’s residence.”
Nick threw the car in gear and jerked the wheel to the left. An eighteen-wheeler screamed by him, narrowly missing the front end of his car. He crossed the two-lane highway and bounced across the grassy median into the opposite lanes of traffic with horns blaring everywhere. He shoved the gas pedal to the floor and started back toward Sampson County.
Alena looked at the clock—fifteen minutes had passed and there was no sign of Kathryn. She pulled the thin drapes aside and looked out the window at the house. The farmhouse windows glowed like smoldering embers, and flashes of lightning turned the tin roof paper-white.
The thunder boomed and Callie shrieked.
Alena walked over and sat down beside her on the bed. She gently stroked her auburn hair and said, “Everything’s okay, Callie. Don’t worry about the storm; it’ll blow over soon. And don’t worry about your mom—she’s a smart woman. She knows what she’s doing, and she knows how to take care of herself.” Alena tried to sound as convincing as possible; she just wished someone would convince her.
Her cell phone rang and she jumped. She grabbed it from the nightstand and fumbled it open. “Hello?”
“Alena, it’s Nick. Can you hear me?”
“Just barely.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at my place with Callie.”
“Where is Kathryn right now?”
“She’s in the house with her date—they just got back from the restaurant and they’re having a drink. Is something wrong?”
“His name is Pasha Semenov. That’s . . . killed . . . husband.”
“I can’t hear you—you’re breaking up.”
“I said . . . Pasha . . . that’s . . . guy . . .”
“Nick—say it again!”
She held her breath and waited, and after several more broken attempts she finally heard Nick clearly shout, “That’s the guy who killed her husband!”
The phone went dead.
Kathryn quickly finished her drink and held her empty glass in front of her as a visual reminder to Pasha that it would soon be time for him to go—but Pasha just sipped at his half-full glass and continued to talk.
“Have you ever been to Russia?” he asked.
“I’ve never been out of North Carolina, remember?”
“You should go—I could take you. Americans think of Russia as a cold place, but in summer it gets very hot—even in Siberia. In Sochi, on the Black Sea, we even have palm trees.”
“We? I thought you were from Romania.”
He paused. “My country is also on the Black Sea.”
“I’m curious about something . . . Why did you assume I have a boyfriend?”
“Women like you usually do.”
“‘Women like me’ . . . What does that mean?”
“Beautiful women. Desirable women. Desirable women have choices.”
“My husband only died two weeks ago. Why would
I have a boyfriend already?”
“Because you had little love for your husband.”
Kathryn’s face dropped. “What makes you think that?”
“Because your husband only died two weeks ago—yet here we are.”
“I loved my husband,” she said.
“Really? Then why did you send your friend and daughter away?”
Kathryn looked at him. “I think you should go.”
.—–.
Alena sat with a phone book in her lap and kept punching in numbers. She tried 911—she tried the Sampson County Police Department—she even tried the emergency number for Sampson Regional Medical Center in Clinton. None of them worked, and she quickly realized that no one would be coming to their assistance. Kathryn was sharing a drink with the man who murdered her husband—and if the man had killed once, he was willing to do it again. And Alena had left Kathryn alone with him.
She started toward the door and signaled all three of her dogs to follow—but at the doorway she stopped and looked back at Callie. What if something went wrong—what if she couldn’t stop the man or run him off? He would kill both of them, and then he would certainly come for Callie. The man couldn’t afford to let her live—Callie had seen him and might be able to identify him. Alena was willing to die if she had to, but she couldn’t make that choice for Callie—and she knew that Kathryn would want her daughter to be safe no matter what.
Maybe I can hide her. She thought about the closet—the barn—the tomato fields.
But then the thunder rumbled and the little girl let out her usual shriek.
I can’t hide her here, Alena thought. If she’s anywhere within earshot, the guy will hear her scream.
She had an idea.
She scooped Callie up in her arms and carried her to the door. Callie shrieked in protest but Alena ignored her—Kathryn needed her and the clock was ticking. The instant she turned the doorknob the wind blasted the door open and she had to step back as it swung by and crashed against the wall. She tucked her chin and pressed out into the wind with Callie in her arms and the three dogs struggling by her side.
Halfway to the farmhouse Alena felt the first raindrop splash against her cheek. It wouldn’t be long before it was coming down in torrents and blowing in every direction—it would be like walking through a car wash. Callie was shrieking nonstop now, but the wind completely muffled her tiny voice. Alena set her down and pointed a finger in her little face. “Stay right here,” she said, then stepped in front of Phlegethon and gave him the command to lie down. The huge dog instantly obeyed—and when he did Alena picked up Callie and laid her facedown on Phlegethon’s back.
Callie instinctively sank her fingers into the thick fur.
“Hold on no matter what,” Alena shouted to Callie, then made a great sweeping gesture with both hands. The dog rose up as if Callie were weightless and bounded off into the darkness. Alena watched until the dog safely crossed the vacant road and disappeared into the cornfields beyond.
“God help her,” she whispered, then turned toward the farmhouse again with Ruckus and Trygg straining against the wind by her side.
When Alena turned the farmhouse doorknob, the wind blew the door from her hand and threw it open with a crash. She stumbled into the room with dust and leaves and bits of grass swirling in the air around her. She forced the door shut again and the debris quickly settled to the floor.
She turned and saw Kathryn and Pasha staring at her from the sofa. Pasha pointed at the two dogs standing by her side. “You have a lot of dogs,” he said. “They seem very . . . odd.”
“Don’t we all,” Alena said. She looked at Kathryn. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Kathryn got up from the sofa. “Does Callie need me?”
Alena took a step forward. “Yeah, Callie needs you—right away.”
Pasha stood up beside Kathryn. “Is anything wrong?”
“It’s probably just the storm,” Kathryn said. “I told you, she doesn’t like thunder.”
“Yeah,” Alena said. “I think it’s just the storm.” She took another step forward and the dogs moved with her.
The thunder rolled like cannon fire.
“Perhaps I can help,” Pasha said. “I’m very good with children.”
“I can handle it—and you were about to go anyway.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said. “I haven’t finished my drink.”
Another step forward—Alena was less than ten feet away now. “Go ahead, Kathryn—I’ll wait here with Stefan. I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving her alone like that. Callie’s so unpredictable—you never know what she might do next. The whole situation can change just like that.” When she said this she snapped her fingers once. Both dogs suddenly tensed as if they’d been jolted by an electric shock.
Pasha slipped the silver pen from his shirt pocket and began to finger the clip.
“Why don’t you go back and get her?” Alena said. “Why don’t you just grab her—” When she said the word “grab” she extended her right arm and made a clutching motion at Pasha’s neck.
Trygg took one step and launched herself into the air, turning her head sideways and baring her teeth as she reached for the pallid flesh of Pasha’s throat.
Pasha shoved the silver pen against the dog’s furry breast and released the clip. There was a sharp crack like the sound of a breaking stick.
The dog yelped once and collapsed at his feet.
46
Phlegethon galloped down the narrow dirt row with Callie clinging to his back. Tall spindly corn plants towered over them with their leaves lashing in the wind. Thunder rumbled from the black sky above, and flashes of lightning made the corn plants look like rows of dancing skeletons. Callie held on with her eyes squeezed tight and winced whenever one of the coarse leaves raked across her bare shoulders or legs.
Suddenly a ground squirrel darted across their path and Phlegethon leaped over it without breaking stride—but he came down hard and Callie’s grip was shaken loose. The little girl rolled off and landed in the darkness with a scream.
It took Phlegethon thirty feet to bring his massive body to a stop, and when he finally turned and looked back down the furrow there was no sign of Callie anywhere. A thunderclap shook the air above them and Phlegethon heard a tiny shriek from somewhere in the field. He cocked his head and listened, but there was no further sound.
Then the dog heard another sound—a rumbling, clattering, mechanical sound somewhere behind him. He turned and looked. Lumbering toward him through the fields of corn was a row of six blinding headlights that glared like monstrous insect eyes. Phlegethon barked once but the eyes kept coming. He leaped forward and raced off toward it, leaving Callie in the darkness alone.
Tully Truett sat in the cab of his new John Deere corn combine and looked out at the darkening clouds. He knew he had to hurry before the rain came—a storm like this could knock his corn to the ground, and that would make harvesting far more difficult. It could reduce his yield by 20 percent—and this year he needed every bushel.
Glass surrounded him on three sides; he felt like a trophy in a display case and he liked it. The 70 Series was top of the line—worth every penny of the $450,000 price tag—and he was glad that he hadn’t scrimped on the extras. He let go of the steering joystick and slipped Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA into the ceiling-mounted CD player. He sat back a little and listened to the music, allowing the AutoTrac assisted steering system to guide the combine down the row. He grinned and shook his head; it was amazing what technology made possible these days. A GPS system guided the combine and even helped turn it at the end of each row—you barely had to steer the thing anymore. Not like the old days, he thought. Not like the old price tag either.
Six halogen headlamps illuminated the area in front of the cab. Attached to the front of the combine was a piece of machinery half the size of the combine itself—a thirty-foot-wide “corn header” that could mow down twelve rows of corn at a ti
me. Thirteen coneshaped “headers” pointed forward into the corn like the teeth of a dragon, guiding the cornstalks back into the monster’s jaws where a set of spinning blades knocked off the ears of corn and shredded the stalks into mulch, which was left on the ground to be plowed under in the spring. A grain wagon shuttled back and forth from the combine to waiting trucks, offloading the grain and making it unnecessary for the combine to ever stop. That was important to Tully, because his combine was one of two that were harvesting his fields right now. He had been forced to lease the other one, and that was expensive—but he’d had no choice. The summer had been especially hot and dry, and when the moisture content of the corn fell below 20 percent he had to bring it in fast, because less moisture meant less weight and less weight meant less money.
And Tully liked money—he liked it a lot.
He looked out the cab to his left and saw another row of headlights in the distance. He picked up the two-way radio and spoke into the microphone. “Hey, Charlie, how’s it going over there?”
He heard sputtering static but no reply.
“Combine two, can you hear me? Charlie, you there?”
Lightning flashed and static crackled. The storm was knocking out the radios.
As the combine approached the end of the row, he could see the road and Kathryn Guilford’s farm on the opposite side. He shook his head in disgust. Five acres of perfectly good farmland going to waste just because some starry-eyed environmentalist wanted a hobby. He could get two hundred bushels an acre from that land—all it needed was a little nitrogen. He imagined himself steering his combine across the road and onto her property, mowing down the farmhouse and the vines and continuing on into his own fields on the other side. He imagined Kathryn Guilford standing there, hands on hips, staring up at him with her mouth wide open as his combine rolled by. He imagined himself looking down at her from the cab with one hand cupped over his mouth in surprise: Oops! My bad.