Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (129 page)

Donovan shrugged. “Corn bin suffocation.”

“What?”

“When corn is harvested it's loaded into a bin or a silo—that gives it a chance to dry out. They load the bin from the top, but they empty it from the bottom—they just open a door and use a powered auger to pull the grain out. The grain starts sinking from the top down and it makes a vortex—sort of like a whirlpool. Sometimes the grain crusts over and gets stuck and some idiot climbs in with a shovel and tries to break it free—but the grain acts like quicksand and he can't get out. It sucks him under and he suffocates.”

Macy stared at him. “How do you know all this?”

“I grew up on a farm, remember? It happened to me once.”

“You were an idiot?”

“I was a boy.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Size, mostly.”

“How did you get out?”

“My dad saw me go in. He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out—my head was almost under before he got to me. Who knows—he probably tried it when he was a kid and his dad probably had to pull him out.”

Macy shook her head. “You know, it never ceases to amaze me that there are any adult males on our planet.”

“It makes you appreciate me, doesn't it?”

“It makes me glad we're having a girl.”

“I thought you contacted the NCTC about Nick's theory,” Donovan said. “Why all the interest in Petrov?”

“Petrov's autopsy report listed the place of his death as
Podlesny
. I looked it up—Podlesny's in a huge farming region south of Moscow. All the land around there belongs to one man—a man named Yuri Semchenko. Recognize that name?”

“No. Should I?”

“Semchenko is one of the richest men in Russia,” Macy said, “and Petrov died on one of his farms.”

“So?”

“So what was Petrov doing on a farm?”

“He was in the Ministry of Agriculture, wasn't he? Maybe he was from a farming background; maybe he retired to a farm.”

“Petrov wasn't a farmer, Nathan; he was a bioweapons scientist and his father was a diesel mechanic. What was Petrov doing around a farm—a farm owned by one of the richest men in Russia? You can bet Semchenko wasn't paying him to pull weeds.”

“Maybe Semchenko wasn't paying him at all,” Donovan said. “Maybe Semchenko never even met the guy. No offense, sweetheart, but I think you're being a little paranoid.”

“I work in counterterrorism, Nathan—I get paid to be paranoid.”

Donovan's cell phone rang and he began to search through the pockets of his dangling bathrobe.

“Who in the world could be calling at this hour?” Macy said.

“Do you really need to ask?” Donovan put the phone to his ear. “Nick—don't you ever sleep?”

“Put your wife on the phone.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Don't you have a clock? Put your wife on the phone.”

“Can't this wait until morning?”

“Of course it can wait—what was I thinking? Put your wife on the phone.”

“This had better be good.”

“Can you hurry it up? It's kind of late.”

Donovan set the phone on the table between them and pushed the Speaker button.

“Hi, Nick.”

“Macy—is that you?”

“It better be me—Nathan's sitting here in his boxers.”

“You sound funny.”

“We're on speaker phone.”

“I need you to check on something for me.”

“What, right now?”

“Of course not—in the morning.”

“Then why didn't you call her in the morning?” Donovan asked.

“Because I'm thinking about it now.”

“Nick—Macy is pregnant.”

“Well, don't look at me.”

“She needs her sleep.”

“Then let's stop dawdling. Have you got a pen?”

“Hang on a minute,” Macy said. “Okay, go ahead.”

“I want you to check on a Russian named Pasha Semenov—he's a graduate student here at NC State.”

Macy blinked. “Did you say ‘Russian'?”

“That's right. Why?”

“What part of Russia?”

“Why do you think I'm calling you? He says his family owns a farm somewhere. He's here doing a PhD in entomology.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“I want to know his background—his family, his employment history, whatever you can find. He's Caucasian, about six feet tall with red hair and fair skin.”

“A Russian with red hair and fair skin—that should narrow it down.”

“He's also got a blue rose tattoo on the right side of his chest. I'm pretty sure that's his only distinguishing mark—he was only wearing a towel.”

“I'm not even going to ask,” Macy said. “Why are you interested in this guy?”

“It's just a hunch. Look, I'm not asking for a full-blown investigation. Can't one of you just ask around about Semenov?”

“I can,” Donovan said. “I can make an inquiry through the FBI's legal attaché in Moscow—but it might take time, Nick, so don't keep pestering me about it.”

“Who, me?”

“By the way, how did that date go?”

“How do you think?”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“Just get back to me when you have something, okay?”

There was a click and then a dial tone.

Macy looked across the table at her husband. “Still think I'm being paranoid?”

34

C
ome on, Callie.” Kathryn jammed the shovel into the compost pile and wiped her forehead with her shirtsleeve before hoisting the wheelbarrow and heading for the field. Callie followed with her oversized sun hat and dark glasses and a pair of floppy leather work gloves that made her fragile arms look like soda straws.

Kathryn rounded the barn just as an unfamiliar Chrysler Sebring pulled up in front of her and stopped. The driver's door opened and a man stepped out with ragged reddish hair and fair skin. “You people should learn to call first,” she called out to him.

“I'm sorry?”

“You're a salesman, aren't you?”

“How did you know?”

“There's a rental car sticker on your bumper—that means you're from out of town. What are you selling?”

He smiled. “You don't waste any time.”

“I can't afford to—I have a farm to run. I sure hope you know I'm organic. I actually had a guy stop by here once trying to sell me pesticide.”

“Pesticides are destroying our planet. The residue ends up in our drinking water. I believe many cancers are caused by this.”

Kathryn looked him over. “Well, I like you so far. Have you got a brochure or something? Just leave it by the barn and I'll call you if I'm interested.”

Pasha pointed to an old picnic table in the shade of a tall red oak. “I wonder, could we sit down?”

“Look, you should have called.”

“I apologize. Please—I'm new to the area.”

Kathryn set down the wheelbarrow. “You've got five minutes.”

They walked to the picnic table and sat down. Callie crawled up onto the bench beside her mother and opened one of her books.

The man set a business card on the picnic table and extended his hand. “My name is Stefan Miklos.”

She took his hand. “Kathryn Guilford.”

“The name on your mailbox says Severenson.”

“Guilford is my maiden name. My husband passed away about two weeks ago.”

“I'm sorry.” The salesman nodded to Callie. “Your daughter?”

“Yes. Her name is Callie.”

“She is beautiful,” he said.

“And you're a salesman.”

The man smiled. “If I was a fisherman she would still be beautiful.” He reached across the table and touched the back of Callie's hand. The moment he touched her skin Callie let out a shriek and jerked her hand away.

“I'm sorry,” the man said. “I didn't mean to upset her.”

“Don't worry about it. She does that sometimes.” Kathryn pointed toward the fields. “Go see Alena, honey. She's right over there. Go and play—give the grown-ups a chance to talk.”

Callie scooted off the bench and ran.

“Still think she's beautiful?” Kathryn asked.

“Yes—she has her mother's eyes.”

Kathryn liked his voice. It was soft and even and he measured his words carefully as he spoke. “I like your accent,” she said.

“Thank you. I like yours.”

“I didn't know I had one.”

“To me you do.”

“Where are you from?”

“Romania.”

“You're a long way from home. What brings you to North Carolina?”

“Business. I recently purchased a company here—an insectary.”

“An insectary—you sell bugs?”

“Yes, I do.”

Kathryn grinned. “Boy, have I got a friend for you.”

“I would appreciate the contact. I see you grow tomatoes here.”

“Also pole beans, greens, peppers, squash—but mostly tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes have a number of insect pests. I believe the beet armyworm is the worst—
Spodoptera exigua
. There are also many species of fruitworm and flea beetle. You face a greater challenge because you grow in the open field. A greenhouse makes it much easier to control insects.”

“Believe me, I know. I just had a run-in with tobacco hornworms.”

“Perhaps I can help. My company is a
beneficial
insectary. Are you familiar with this?”

“Sure—you breed insects that are natural enemies to my insect pests. In other words, your bugs eat my bugs.”

He smiled again. “Yes, very good. Your tobacco hornworm, for example; we breed two types of parasitic wasp—
Cotesia
and
Trichogramma
. Both are natural enemies of the tobacco hornworm. Have you used the services of a beneficial insectary before?”

“No. Most of them seem to be located out west.”

“My company is not far from here—in Raleigh.”

“Good luck,” Kathryn said. “You might need it—organic farming is just catching on around here. You'd probably be better off in California or Oregon.”

“Soon it will be catching on everywhere. Organic farming is the future. We can no longer afford the unsustainable farming methods of the past. The antibiotics, the pesticides—they poison us. We fight against the land instead of learning to use it. Food is no longer food; it is tasteless and empty. We ship it across country instead of growing it in our backyards; it sits in cold storage for days and weeks. Did you know that the average meal travels fifteen hundred miles before it reaches your dinner table? Think of the gasoline, the vehicles, the pollution. Did you know that a head of lettuce traveling from California uses thirty-six times more fuel energy than it provides in food energy?”

“You sound like my husband,” Kathryn said.

“I'm sorry. Is that a painful memory?”

“No—that part's a good one. So you're an idealist too.”

“It would appear we both are. I have great respect for what you're doing here.”

“Scratching out a living?”

“A woman like you could make a living many ways. You have chosen a difficult way but a good one—I respect that.”

“Before you butter me up too much, I should tell you—I can't afford what you're selling.”

“How do you know? I haven't given you a price.”

“It doesn't matter. Things are pretty tight right now.”

“Think of the cost if your insect pests are not controlled.”

“You either have the money or you don't,” Kathryn said. “I don't, so I'll have to take my chances.”

The salesman looked out at the tomato fields. “How old is your daughter?”

“Four.”

“She is beautiful. Since you have no money you can believe me.”

Kathryn smiled. “Do you have any kids?”

“No, but I would like to—perhaps when my business succeeds.”

“Now that's not fair. I'm preventing you from having kids?”

“I have no wife,” he said. “That is what prevents me—you are only slowing me down.”

They both laughed.

“Perhaps there is a way we can help each other,” he said.