Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (141 page)

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

W
here 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.