Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (139 page)

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.