by Tim Downs
“Just yesterday,” Donovan said. “The pilot of a commercial airliner spotted the body lying on the tarmac. Apparently Semenov was planning to hitch a ride out of the country. Somebody canceled his flight.”
“Maybe he had too much luggage,” Nick said. “The airlines are getting very strict.”
Donovan took the photo back and dropped it into a manila envelope. “We found his car just north of here; we think he made his way to Wilmington on foot. He cut through an airport security fence in a remote area and hid in the brush near the runway until after dark.”
“Boarding a plane isn’t like hopping a freight,” Nick said. “Somebody must have arranged to meet him there.”
“Yeah—a private charter from the Virgin Islands. The pilot and passenger were John Does. They’ve disappeared; we don’t expect to find them.”
“I don’t get it,” Kathryn said. “Are you saying somebody met him there just to kill him?”
“And they left the body for us to find.”
“Who would do that?”
“His grandfather.”
“What?”
“His godfather, actually—a Russian named Yuri Semchenko. We’re convinced Semchenko was the driving force behind this whole thing. He’s the biggest corn farmer in all of Russia. He figured he could become the world’s top corn exporter by eliminating his top competitor—the U.S. So he found himself an ex–Soviet bioweapons scientist with an old recipe for a really nasty fungus, and he convinced a couple of graduate students to make a few hi-tech upgrades. Then he told his godson to deliver it.”
“So are we planning to arrest this Semchenko guy?” Alena asked.
“No, we’re not.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, Semchenko is a Russian citizen—that makes things a lot more complicated. Second, the guy’s got tons of money. That means he’s got a lot of friends in the Russian government—people who aren’t about to turn him over without some really convincing proof. We don’t have that proof; we probably never will.”
“Then what’s to keep him from trying it again?”
“My wife had a talk with him.”
“Your wife?”
“Macy works for the State Department. She dropped by to see Semchenko the other day—at his home in Russia. Very nice place, she said.”
“What did she say to him?” Kathryn asked.
“She told him we were very sorry his godson had gotten into trouble.”
Kathryn waited. “That’s it?”
“That’s what they call ‘diplomacy,’” Donovan said. “I’m not very good at it myself, but Macy—she’s a real expert. That woman can pat you on the back and leave a footprint. Believe me, I know—I’m married to her. She was telling Semchenko, ‘We know exactly what you did, and if you ever try it again, there’ll be hell to pay—now clean up your mess.’” Donovan held up the manila envelope. “That’s what this was all about. Semchenko was sending us a message.”
“By murdering his own godson?”
“By cleaning up his mess.”
“Wow,” Nick said. “Talk about tough love.”
Donovan looked at Kathryn. “Sorry about your farm. What are you planning to do for the next couple of years?”
“I suppose it’s back to banking,” Kathryn said. “That’s what I did before I met Michael. Callie and I might move back to Holcum County for a while. It’s too depressing here; I just shut off the water a few days ago and the vines are already dying. Alena’s been helping me mothball the place.”
Donovan turned to Alena. “What about you? Back to northern Virginia?”
“My dogs need me,” Alena said. “My pastor’s been feeding them for me, but I’ve been away too long. Not much holding me here.”
“Sorry for all the trouble,” Donovan said. “If it’s any consolation, you both have your country’s deepest gratitude.”
“Allow me to translate,” Nick said. “You’re not getting any money.”
“Seriously,” Donovan said. “Thanks for helping us catch this thing in time.”
“Nick’s the one who figured it out,” Kathryn said. “You should thank him.”
“I can’t do that,” Donovan said. “It’s against my religion.” He shook hands with both of the women and got up from the sofa.
“Tell your wife we’d like to meet her sometime,” Alena said. “She sounds like our kind of girl.”
“I’ll do that,” Donovan said.
Nick jumped up from his chair. “Hang on a minute—I’ll walk you out.”
When the farmhouse door closed behind them Donovan said, “Since when are you the gracious host?”
“I need to ask you something,” Nick said.
Donovan stopped and turned to him. “Well?”
“How do you propose to a woman?”
Donovan blinked. “What?”
“I’ve never done it before. I’ve done grant proposals, but I’m not sure it’s the same thing.”
“Nick—are we talking about a proposal of marriage?”
“Well, obviously. What did you think?”
“Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page, because we never are. Are you actually planning to propose?”
Nick nodded.
“When?”
“In about two minutes—so can we cut the chitchat and get to the tutorial?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“You heard what they said, Donovan—they’re both planning to leave.”
“Poor Macy,” Donovan said. “She’d give her right arm to see this.”
“How did you propose to Macy?”
“We were in New York back then,” Donovan said. “I took her to this really nice restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side—blew a whole week’s pay. After dinner we did the carriage ride thing in Central Park. A little corny, maybe, but—”
“Skip all that. Tell me what you said.”
“Nick, it was a long time ago.”
“Just give me the gist.”
Donovan shrugged. “I just told her that I loved her, that’s all. I told her that I couldn’t live without her, and that my life wouldn’t have any meaning or purpose unless she—”
Nick took out a pen and paper and began to scribble notes.
Donovan took the pen away from him and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Hey—I need that.”
“No, you don’t. Now listen to me: This is not a classroom lecture and you don’t need notes. And this is nothing whatsoever like a grant proposal—if you treat it like one, I guarantee you’ll crash and burn. Just speak from the heart, Nick—just tell her what’s on your mind. It doesn’t have to be poetry; she’ll know whether you mean it or not.”
“But I’m no good at that.”
“Then you’d better start learning, because this proposal isn’t the last time you’ll have to speak from your heart—it’s just the first. She doesn’t want a greeting card, Nick. She doesn’t want to hear what somebody had to say to somebody else—she wants to hear what you have to say.”
Nick looked at him hopelessly. “But I don’t have anything to say.”
“Okay, here’s a couple of tips to get you started: No bug references, understand? No matter how much you love insects, she won’t appreciate the comparison. And remember the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Get right to the point—don’t beat around the bush—the longer you talk, the dumber you’ll sound. Think like a fighter pilot: Fly straight to the target, drop your load, then go to afterburners and get your butt out of there.”
Nick squinted at him. “You lost me at ‘afterburners.’”
“Just go, okay? The longer you put it off, the harder it’ll be to do.”
Nick turned and looked at the farmhouse. “I can do this.”
“Sure you can. You’re the man—you’re the Bug Man.”
“I’m going in,” Nick said. “Wish me luck.”
Donovan watched him as he marched toward the house. “Luck, nothi
ng,” he said under his breath. “You need a miracle.”
Nick charged into the parlor and stopped so abruptly that Kathryn and Alena both looked up from the sofa.
“I have something to say,” he said, “and if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you not to interrupt me until I’m finished. I’d appreciate it if we could defer any questions or discussion until after my presentation.”
They waited.
“Okay, here it is: I love you. I never thought I’d say that to a member of your species, but that’s how it is. I love you, and I can’t live without you. My life wouldn’t have any meaning or purpose without you, and . . . I can’t remember the rest. It’s like a blowfly . . . Wait—scratch that—it’s not like a blowfly at all. What I’m trying to say is, I’m a forensic entomologist, okay? That’s not just what I do, that’s what I am. And it’s all I ever thought I’d want to be, only when I’m around you it doesn’t seem like enough anymore. And that drives me a little crazy, you know? But it’s not your fault. Well, it is your fault, only I’m not blaming you. Do you understand what I’m saying? Is any of this making sense? Because I have no idea what I’m talking about.
“What I’m trying to say is . . . What I mean is . . . Will you marry me?”
I know what you’re thinking . . .
“It can’t end like that!”
It doesn’t have to. There’s a bonus chapter.
. . . but you have to decide what it says.
If you visit my Web site at www.timdowns.net you’ll find two bonus chapters that suggest two very different paths for the characters in Ends of the Earth. Read them both and decide which one you find most satisfying—then cast your vote for the version you prefer. The votes of my readers will determine the official outcome of the story.
Don’t leave Nick hanging! His future is in your hands.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank those individuals who took the time to answer my questions about agroterrorism, drug smuggling, plant toxins, and brain-devouring fungi without turning me over to the authorities: Dave Baumann; Eric Blinka, PhD, Technology Development Representative Associate for Monsanto; J. R. Bradley, PhD, retired professor of Entomology at North Carolina State; Dave Bubeck, PhD, Corn Research Director for Pioneer Hybrid; Beverly Cash, director of the NCSU Insectary; Kevin Hardison, Agricultural Marketing Specialist, North Carolina Department of Agriculture; Bob and Kathy Helvey; Sally Jellison, Supervisory Special Agent, FBI; Fred Miller, owner of Hilltop Organic Farms, Willow Spring, North Carolina; Jim Walgenbach, PhD, professor of Entomology at North Carolina State; and all the others who took the time to respond to my e-mails, letters, and phone calls.
I would also like to thank my literary agent and friend Lee Hough of Alive Communications; story editor Ed Stackler for his keen insight into plot, pacing, and character development; copy editor Deborah Wiseman for her unerring red pen; my editor Amanda Bostic for her guidance regarding a woman’s desire for closure; my publisher, Allen Arnold; and the rest of the Nelson staff for their kindness and dedication to the elusive craft of creative writing.
“ . . . stands out from the pack of CSI-inspired mysteries with its quirky hero and creative handling of the Hurricane Katrina disaster.”
—Publishers Weekly
Starred Review
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“ . . . taut writing and well-developed characters should gain him a wider audience and reward long-time Bug Man fans.”
—Publishers Weekly Starred Review of First the Dead
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Someone wants you dead.
But he doesn’t want to kill you.
He wants you to do it for him.
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“ . . . dispenses humor, interesting technical details and the trademark ‘ick’ factor that characterizes his previous books. He throws in enough surprises and unusual events to keep the story fresh . . . Downs’s best book to date.”
—Publishers Weekly
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