Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (113 page)

“Just shipping and handling, but the product itself is free. How's that for a bargain? Now you're probably wondering, ‘How can they afford to do that?' The answer is that we can't—not forever—but we're just getting established, and we're trying to build a client list. The fact is, a lot of organic farmers aren't as knowledgeable as you are—they've never heard of a beneficial insectary before. Our goal is to educate people—to let them know about our company and what we have to offer. We think once you try our service you'll be hooked, and we can talk about price after that. How does that sound to you, Mr. Ostendorff? No charge for the product and just a modest fee for shipping and handling. You can't go wrong with an offer like that, wouldn't you agree?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I'll take that as a yes, then. Let me just verify your shipping address and get a credit card number for the shipping charge. Your eggs will go out in about two weeks.”

“Eggs?”

“Yes, sir. Our insects are shipped as thousands of tiny eggs glued to little paper cards. All you have to do is place the cards on your plants—the eggs hatch in a couple of days and nature takes care of the rest. It doesn't get any simpler than that, does it?”

“How many eggs are we talking about?”

“As many as it takes, Mr. Ostendorff—as many as it takes.”

Pasha went to the Telephonix Marketing Services Web site and entered the user name and password for Carolina Insectary's account. A list appeared of the day's sales statistics—calls made, contact names, acceptances and refusals. A database provided the shipping addresses of all new clients—and there were dozens.

“Brilliant,” Habib said. “Using an offshore telemarketing firm to handle sales.”

“Filipinos have excellent language skills,” Pasha said. “They pick up English easily and they speak without an accent—much better than the Indians. Many of the Fortune 500 companies employ call centers in the Philippines.”

“Do they know what they are selling?” Jengo asked.

“They know what I have told them,” Pasha said. “Nothing more. Their firm handles dozens of companies and hundreds of products. I give them a list of potential clients and tell them what to say. They do the rest—we can focus on replication.”

Habib got up from the computer and looked around at the cavernous warehouse and the equipment mothballed along the walls. “What was this place?” he asked.

“A pharmaceutical research company. Our patron recently purchased it.”

“It's perfect,” Habib said. “The tables and desks—all the laboratory equipment.”

“Do you have everything you need to breed the insects?”

“I believe so, yes. Equipment and plenty of workspace.”

“What about you, Jengo? Can you replicate the toxin here?”

Jengo looked up from the computer screen. “What?”

“Do you have everything you need here?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“The incubators can serve as rearing chambers,” Pasha said. “We have only to rear the insects and apply the toxin. I have employed an order fulfillment firm in Durham to take care of packaging and shipping.”

Habib beamed. “This is a stroke of genius, Pasha—posing as an insectary to ship our product. No more dangerous illegal drug shipments—our ‘customers' will actually request our ‘product'!”

“Customers all over the United States,” Pasha said, “not just a handful of drug dealers in rural areas. Our distribution will increase a thousandfold.”

Habib laughed and clapped his hands.

Pasha looked at Jengo. “Why so solemn, my friend? Did you have a fight with your wife?”

“I was just . . . thinking.”

Pasha put a hand on his shoulder. “You've done your thinking, Jengo—the time for thinking is past. In a few weeks our work here will be completed and we can all finish our degrees, claim our diplomas, and return to our countries. Dr. Jengo Muluneh, the man who fed millions; Dr. Habib Almasi, the man who secured his nation's future; and me, Dr. Pasha Semenov, the man who saved the environment—at least for a little while. No one will ever know what we did here, but we will know—and we can be proud.”

16

K
athryn carried a tray of sandwiches and drinks to the old red oak where Alena and Callie sat resting in the shade. Alena's three dogs sprawled around her and snoozed lazily in the early afternoon heat. The smallest dog, Ruckus, lay beside her leg with his hairless rib cage fluttering like a paper lantern.

Alena looked up as she approached. “Is it always this hot down here?”

“It's always like this in August,” Kathryn said, “but this has been an especially hot summer. You know what they say: It's not the heat, it's the humidity.”

“Yeah, that's what they say about hell.”

“Any luck out there?”

“Not yet. We picked up where we left off yesterday. It's hard to say how much ground we've covered so far. It's a big field, and Ruckus doesn't set any speed records. He's kind of small, but that's an asset in a scenting dog. His nose is low to the ground where the scent collects in pools. Ruckus doesn't miss anything; if there's any more of that stuff out there, he'll find it.”

“I thought you might need a break.” Kathryn set the tray down beside her.

Alena took a sandwich and peeled back the bread. “What is it?”

“Turkey. It's organic—no steroids, no antibiotics. I hope that's okay.”

“It'll do.” She tossed the bread aside and dangled the meat in front of Ruckus. The little dog's nose quivered and his eyes opened; two seconds later the meat was gone.

“I made that for you,” Kathryn said.

“He needs it more than I do.” Alena wiped her hands and took a glass from the tray. She cupped her left hand under the dog's snout and filled it with water; the dog's little pink tongue began to quietly lap. “They can get dehydrated fast in heat like this—you have to watch real close. He needs regular breaks. Little dogs handle the heat better than the big ones, but still.”

“Do your dogs always come first?” Kathryn asked.

“Who eats first, you or Callie?”

Kathryn looked at her daughter. She was sitting cross-legged beside the big dog, gently patting its fur. “I hope she hasn't been bothering you out here. I could keep her in the house if you want—”

“She's fine. She's been following me around all morning.”

“I can't believe the way she's taken to that dog of yours. Maybe I should get her a dog of her own.”

“What dog?”

“You mean what breed?”

“I mean what
dog
. You picked yourself a husband—how'd that turn out? Isn't one man as good as another?”

Kathryn lowered her voice. “You know, you can be a little blunt.”

“Why do you think dogs are any different? Your daughter doesn't like dogs in general—she likes that one. I can't get her to pet my other two—I tried. Kindred spirits, that's what they are.”

Kathryn watched her little girl. “So how do you find a kindred spirit?”

“For you or for her?”

Callie walked over to the tray and picked up a sandwich. She took a bite out of it, then handed it to Alena. Alena accepted the sandwich from her and took a bite herself—then she reached up and placed one finger on the top of Callie's head. The little girl instantly broke into a smile.

Kathryn watched in astonishment. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That finger thing you did—she just smiled at you.”

Alena shrugged. “I just told her I was pleased with her. You got any mustard?”

“Wait a minute,” Kathryn said. “My daughter is not a dog.”

“So?”

“So stop treating her like one.”

“Chill out,” Alena said. “She doesn't seem to like a lot of touch, so I used a simple ‘conditioned reinforcer,' that's all. I smile real big, then I put one finger on her head, and she makes the connection. I taught her that this morning. Smart kid—she picked it up in no time. I do the same thing with my dogs.”

“Callie is not a dog!”

“Yeah, you said that. What's your problem? I'm just learning to speak her language—you should be doing the same thing.”

“I don't want to learn to speak her language, I want her to learn to speak mine—do you understand? I don't want to have to say ‘I love you' by poking her on the head or throwing her a bone.”

“Well, I wish my dogs could speak English, but they can't—so I have to learn to talk their way. Like it or not, that's what you have to do with Callie. You might as well get started.”

“I didn't ask your opinion.”

“Fine. I should get back to work anyway.”

“Fine.” Kathryn grabbed the tray and stuck out her hand to her daughter. “Come on, Callie.”

Callie didn't budge.

“Come
on
, Callie. You've bothered the nice lady enough for one day. She has a job to finish so she can go back home where it's nice and cool.”

Callie just stared at Kathryn's feet.

“I said, ‘
Come on
.'” Kathryn grabbed Callie by the hand and the little girl let out an ear-piercing scream. Kathryn hauled her daughter all the way back to the farmhouse, shrieking in protest as they went.

“Great technique,” Alena called after her. “You'll have to teach me that one.”

Kathryn dragged Callie into the house and slammed the door behind them. She stood in the center of the parlor with her fists on her hips, fuming.

She looked down at her daughter, then slowly sank down on her knees in front of her.

The little girl stood motionless with her hands twisting in circles and her eyes fixed on her mother's left shoulder.

“I love you,” Kathryn said. “Do you know that?”

Callie didn't respond.

“I
love
you,” she said again. She folded her hands over her heart. “Love. See this, Callie?
Love.
”

Callie still didn't move.

“Callie, listen to me. This is how people show love.” She gently reached out to put her arms around her daughter—but the moment she touched her shoulders the little girl shrieked and ran to her room.

Kathryn knelt in the center of the floor and stared at the bedroom door.
What's the matter with me? I acted like an idiot out there. Alena didn't do anything wrong—why am I so angry? All she did was figure out a way to communicate with Callie. I should be thanking her.

But Kathryn didn't feel grateful. Callie was her daughter—her own flesh—the product of her womb. Callie was all she had left in the world, and all Kathryn wanted from life was the chance to lavish love on her little girl and to feel her daughter's love in return. In four years she had barely been able to touch her daughter—but in two days' time a perfect stranger could learn to stroke her arms and make her smile.
What's wrong with me? Why didn't I figure that out? Shouldn't that be part of a mother's instinct?

She tried to think of reasons for hating Alena, but she couldn't. She knew in her heart that it wasn't really hatred she felt—it was jealousy. An undeserving stranger had a stronger bond with her daughter than she did, and it broke her heart. But it wasn't Alena's fault, and she knew she needed to tell her.

There was a knock at the door.

Kathryn saw Alena's silhouette through the white lace curtains. Kathryn opened the door and said softly, “I was just coming to talk to you.”

“There's something I think you should see.”

“Where?”

“The edge of the field—over there, where we found the drugs the first night.”

Kathryn followed Alena across the lawn toward the edge of the tomato plants. “Why are you still searching here?” she asked.