Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (140 page)

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

P
hlegethon 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 time. 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.

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

A
lena 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.