by Tim Downs
At the end of the row he twisted the joystick and the combine slowly pivoted to the right. The AutoTrac system assisted him, guiding the huge machine in a perfect arc and positioning it perfectly in front of the next twelve rows. He released the joystick and the combine started forward again at a comfortable four miles per hour. He settled back and stared, mesmerized at the dragon’s huge teeth as they chewed into the corn and spit out the bones. He leaned back and relaxed; he had nothing to do until it was time for the next turn.
Then he heard something—a sharp, intermittent sound. He wondered if something might be jammed in a stalk roller or gathering chain. He brought the combine to a stop and turned down the music. He listened . . . now he heard it clearly. It wasn’t a mechanical sound at all—it was a barking dog. He looked out of the cab and saw an enormous black mongrel crouching on the left side of the combine.
He recognized the dog. It belonged to that woman—that friend of Kathryn Guilford.
He reached under his seat and took out his pistol, the one he kept for the occasional copperhead. He opened the door of the cab and stepped out onto the platform. The dog stared up at him and barked in a deep and threatening voice.
“Get out of here!” Tully shouted. “Go home, mutt!”
The dog didn’t move.
Tully raised the gun and aimed it at the dog’s massive head. He wanted to do it—he had every right to. This was the dog that had grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the ground. The dog was a public menace—it was only a matter of time before it seriously hurt someone. Besides, the dog was trespassing on his private property and it looked in a mood to bite somebody.
He slowly tightened his finger against the trigger . . .
Then he remembered that the dog was standing in tall corn. What if he did shoot the animal—then what? Then he’d have to get down from the combine and drag the thing out of the way. It was the size of a small cow—it must have weighed more than two hundred pounds. And the next day, when the corn was gone, there’d be a two-hundred-pound black lump lying in the middle of his field. Kathryn’s friend just might notice that—and her dog with his bullet in it might be a little hard to explain.
It isn’t worth the hassle, he thought.
He lowered the gun slightly and fired. The gun cracked and the bullet hit the ground at the dog’s feet. It kicked up a spray of dirt and the dog shuffled back. He fired again and again until the dog finally turned tail and disappeared into the corn in the direction of Kathryn’s farm.
Tully climbed back into the cab and started the combine rolling.
47
Alena bent over Trygg’s still body and pressed her ear against the dog’s rib cage. A dark trickle of blood matted the fur on the dog’s gray breast, and the animal stared straight ahead with dull, lifeless eyes. “There’s still a heartbeat,” she said. “I have to get her to a vet right away.”
“No,” Pasha said, unscrewing the two halves of his silver pen. He emptied the spent shell into the palm of his hand, dropped it into his shirt pocket, and replaced it with another. “No one leaves.”
Alena scrambled to her feet. “This dog is worth more than you ever were.”
“That may be true,” Pasha said. “Nevertheless.”
Alena took a step toward him.
Pasha raised the pen and pointed it at her breastbone. “Go ahead. It’s a very small bullet—perhaps I’ll miss. I’ve killed your dog; you must be very angry.”
Kathryn watched in stunned disbelief. Her eyes began to narrow and she looked at Stefan: “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“His name isn’t Stefan,” Alena said. “It’s Pasha something-orother. Nick got through to me—he says this is the guy who killed your husband.”
Kathryn’s mouth dropped open.
“Clever Dr. Polchak,” Pasha said. “A little slow, but clever.”
“Is that true?” Kathryn demanded. “Are you the one who shot Michael?”
Pasha shrugged indifferently. “Your husband was a very poor businessman. He threatened me—what choice did I have? I did you a favor if you ask me. A woman like you can do better.”
“At least my husband wasn’t a murderer.”
“Your husband was a coward—I had to shoot him in the back.”
Kathryn took a furious step toward him, but Alena put out her hand. “Don’t—that’s exactly what he wants us to do. Take a look at that peashooter of his—it only holds one bullet at a time. Did you see? He has to take the thing apart to reload it. That means he can only shoot one of us, and I’m betting he can’t aim it very well. Make him fire at a distance—that little bullet won’t stop you unless it hits dead center.”
Pasha smiled. “Are you ladies planning to attack me?”
“I’m no lady,” Alena said. “You shot my dog—I’m planning to kill you.”
“You shot my husband,” Kathryn said. “If she doesn’t get to you, I will.”
“Well then,” Pasha said, “I suppose I must decide which one of you I would rather confront.” He pointed the zip gun at Alena. “You seem like a formidable woman, but without your dog you’ve lost your bite.” He swung the gun around to Kathryn. “You would like revenge, and you have a little girl to protect—that would make you very determined.” He pointed the gun down at little Ruckus, still awaiting his master’s next command. “You look determined as well—but I doubt you pose much of a threat.”
Alena stepped around the prostrate dog and snapped her fingers to call Ruckus to attention.
Kathryn looked at her. “Alena—what are you doing?”
“I’m making the choice for him. This is my life, thank you, and I’m not about to let some moron decide whether I live or die. I’m going in.”
Pasha pointed the gun at her head. “Then you are about to die.”
Alena ignored him. “When he fires I’ll try to keep going. Ruckus will distract him—go for his eyes first. Use your fingernails, your teeth—anything you can. Make him hurt, Kathryn. Are you ready?”
“Yes—I’m ready.”
Pasha pulled back the hammer on the zip gun—The door burst open and Nick stumbled into the room.
“Nick!” both women shouted in unison.
Nick looked at each of them and then at the dog lying motionless on the floor.
“Dr. Polchak,” Pasha said. “I heard that you called. I suppose I should have expected you.”
Alena looked at Nick. “I had to do something, Nick—I thought Trygg might be able to stop him, but he has a little gun.”
“You did just fine,” Nick said, looking at the weapon in Pasha’s hand. “Is that what you used to kill Jengo Muluneh?”
“It’s very effective,” Pasha said, “as your friend here was about to learn.”
Nick looked across the room at Kathryn. “Has he released any insects in your fields yet?”
“What?”
“I just got the message you left on my cell phone—you said he had a suggestion for controlling your hornworms and you decided to give it a try. Did he do it yet? Did he release any insects?”
“Nick—we’ve got a bigger problem here.”
“Kathryn, answer me!”
“He did it days ago,” she said. “What difference does it make?”
Nick turned to Pasha. “Tell me what they are. It might not be too late.”
Pasha said nothing.
“He called them Trichogramma,” Kathryn said.
Nick groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Trichogramma is a genus of wasp,” Nick said. “It emerges from the host egg capable of flight. Have any of them hatched yet? Have you seen any in the air?”
“Nick, they’re everywhere—thousands of them.”
Nick looked at Pasha again. “Did you do it this time, Pasha? Did you really pull the trigger, or was this just another of your experiments? Are those wasps infected with Diplodia?”
Pasha didn’t reply.
“Nick—what’s going on?”
“This was never about tomatoes,” Nick said. “That’s why I couldn’t figure it out—I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. The tobacco hornworms were just a test—an experiment to see if insects could be used to release a toxin into the air.”
“What kind of toxin?”
“A toxin that destroys corn.”
“But I don’t grow any corn.”
“Your neighbor does—a lot of it. Pasha’s people were targeting drug dealers in rural areas around the U.S. They sold the dealers marijuana laced with hornworm eggs. They figured the dealers would throw the stuff out and the hornworms would climb whatever they found nearby and release the toxin into the air—the wind would do the rest. Your husband just got caught in the middle, and you just happen to own a tomato farm. It’s a good thing you do, or we would never have spotted those hornworms.”
“But we picked off all the hornworms, didn’t we?”
“The hornworms never carried the fungus,” Nick said. “It was just an experiment—a failed experiment. I think they realized that the drugs made the strategy too dangerous—too unpredictable. That’s why they switched to Trichogramma instead.”
“You mean the wasps?”
“Yes—the ones he just released in your fields. The wasps can fly and the wind will disperse them everywhere.” He looked at Pasha. “I have to hand it to you, Pasha; it was a brilliant idea to use a beneficial insectary to distribute your insects. All you have to do is drop the insects in the mail and some unsuspecting farmer will distribute them at the other end—the poor guy has no idea what he’s doing. Was that your clever idea?”
Pasha just shrugged.
“Too bad you didn’t think of it before. If you’d tried the Trichogramma first instead of hornworms, we never would have caught on.”
“I tried to tell him,” Pasha said. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Who wouldn’t listen? Yuri Semchenko?”
Pasha didn’t answer.
“So you did adjust the temperature on the rearing chamber,” Nick said. “I knew I wasn’t wrong about that PMI.”
“Thank you for the entomology lessons. I could not have done it without you.”
“You were a good student—too bad you happen to be a terrorist.”
“I am not a terrorist, Dr. Polchak. I am a businessman.” He looked at each of them in turn.
“You’re wondering what to do next,” Nick said. “That’s easy enough—you’re going to walk out of here and we’re going to try to clean up your mess.”
“What makes you think I will let you live?”
“Simple mathematics. There are three of us and only one of you.”
“But I have a gun.”
“—that fires only one bullet. You’ll have to use that bullet on me; you have to assume that I’m your biggest threat. But that would leave you facing two women armed with knives.”
“They have no knives,” Pasha said.
“Oh, that’s right,” Nick said. “Kath, go into the kitchen and grab a couple of knives, will you? Big sharp ones.”
“Don’t move,” Pasha told her. “I will shoot.”
“Go ahead and shoot,” Nick said. “But there goes your bullet and then you’ve got me to worry about.”
Kathryn hesitated, then turned and ducked into the kitchen.
Pasha followed her with the zip gun but did nothing else.
She reappeared a few seconds later with a carving knife in each hand; she slid one of them across the floor to Alena.
Alena picked up the knife and turned to face Pasha again. “I think we can take him now,” she said.
“We’re not ‘taking’ anybody,” Nick said.
“Nick—we can’t just step aside and let him walk out of here.”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Why?”
“Because he does have one bullet, and one of us would probably die. I’d rather not lose either one of you—and to tell you the truth, I’m kind of fond of me.” He slowly stepped away from the door and opened a pathway for Pasha.
Pasha edged toward the doorway. “You are a very smart man, Dr. Polchak.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same for you. The State Department and the FBI are on to you, Pasha—where do you think you can go?”
“It’s a very big world,” Pasha said, “with many places to hide.”
“And lots of angry people to search for you. Good luck—you’ll need it.”
Pasha slipped out the door and disappeared into the storm.
Nick ran to the door and watched until Pasha’s car pulled away. “He’s gone,” he said. “I’ve got to get in touch with Donovan—he thinks Pasha’s still in Raleigh. The FBI needs to get down here and grab him before he has a chance to crawl under some rock and disappear.”
He took out his cell phone and tried the number. There was still no signal.
“The wonders of technology. Doesn’t anybody have a landline anymore?”
“Maybe in town,” Kathryn said.
“I don’t have time to go looking. Where’s the Sampson County police station? They’ll have radio dispatch.”
Alena dropped to her knees beside her wounded dog. “She’s still breathing—we need to get her to a vet fast.”
“We’ll put her in my truck,” Kathryn said. “We can take her while Nick goes to the police. I’ll go get Callie.”
Alena looked up. “Callie?”
48
Where is she?” Kathryn shouted over the storm.
“I don’t know,” Alena shouted back. “I sent her off in that direction—across the road and into those cornfields.”
“Are you out of your mind? There’s a hurricane coming!”
“I had to get her out of here and it was the only way I could think of, okay?”
Kathryn looked frantically at the cornfields. “Tell your dog to bring her back—please, hurry!”
Alena raised both hands over her head and clapped as loudly as she could, but the wind drowned out the sound completely.
“She’ll never hear you that way,” Nick said. “Try shouting—our voices might carry farther.”
They all began to shout Phlegethon’s name. A minute later the huge black dog emerged from between two rows of corn and trotted toward them across the street.
The dog was alone.
Kathryn began to panic. “I thought you said Callie was riding on his back!”
“She was—she must have fallen off somewhere.”
“Fallen off! Where?”
They all looked at the vast expanse of corn.
“Wait a minute,” Nick said. “What are those?” He pointed to a row of six headlights slowly moving toward them in the distance and another row just like it off to the right.
“Oh, no,” Kathryn moaned. “Those are combines! Callie’s in that field somewhere!”
“They’ll never see her,” Nick said. “We have to find her fast.”
Kathryn turned to Alena. “Talk to the dog—ask him where Callie fell off.”
“He doesn’t speak English, Kathryn.”
“Didn’t you teach him to ‘fetch’ or something?”
“Callie’s not a tennis ball, okay? You don’t teach a dog to run across the street and bring back the first little girl they find.”
“What about Ruckus?” Nick asked. “He’s a scenting dog—can he find her?”
“In this wind? Not a chance.”
“What if we send Phlegethon back again? Maybe he’ll retrace his steps and we can follow him—we might find Callie somewhere along the way.”
“It’s possible,” Alena said. “I can send him off in the same direction, but there’s no guarantee he’ll take the same exact path he did before.”
“It’s worth a try,” Nick said. He turned to Kathryn. “What would Callie do after she fell off?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would she stay put or would she wander off somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” Kathryn said
. “She might be petrified by the storm and just curl up in a ball—but sometimes she just up and takes off. I can never predict what she’ll do.”
“Then we’ll have to split up,” Nick said. “There are two combines out there, and we need to stop both of them. You and Kathryn follow Phlegethon. If you don’t find Callie along the way, just keep heading for that combine and get them to stop. I’ll do the same with the other one—then I’ll come and find you.”
“Nick—what about Pasha? What about the FBI?”
“Callie first,” Nick said. “Let’s go.”
Nick ran across the street, jumped the ditch, and disappeared into the tall corn.
Alena led Phlegethon to the same spot where she had released the dog before.
Kathryn bent down and stared Phlegethon in the eye. “Find Callie,” she said to the dog. Then she looked at Alena: “It can’t hurt.”
Alena made the same sweeping gesture as before and sent the dog galloping off toward the cornfield again. “I hope you’re in good shape,” she said to Kathryn.
“Don’t worry about me,” Kathryn said. “I’m a farmer.”
They followed the dog into the corn with little Ruckus bounding along behind.
Nick was a hundred yards into the corn before he realized he had made a big mistake. The rows ran perpendicular to the road, but the combine was somewhere off to his right—he should have followed the road until he was even with the combine before starting into the corn. Nick was tall but the corn was even taller—there was no way to see over it. He had to jump to catch a glimpse of the combine’s headlights and then readjust his course accordingly, following one furrow for twenty or thirty yards before crashing across several rows of corn into another. The stair-step process was exhausting and progress was painfully slow.
As he hurried along he shouted Callie’s name and listened for a response, but the wind rustled the corn like thousands of strips of paper and the sound swallowed up everything—even the sound of his own breathing. He knew his chances of hearing the little girl’s voice were remote at best—he’d have to almost walk right over her, and that would be like finding the needle in the proverbial haystack.
Nick knew he would never find her; he knew he had to stop that combine before it found her first.