Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (126 page)

“Don't worry about it,” Nick said. “I'll be talking to them soon—we'll straighten it out.”

“Then that isn't the reason for your visit?”

“No,” Nick said. “I need to ask your advice.”

“Always glad to help. What are we discussing today?
Diptera
?
Lepidoptera
? Perhaps that fungal growth on your
Manduca sexta
specimens—was Dr. Lumpkin able to help with that?”

“No, it's something else.”

“All right. What would you like to talk about?”

Nick paused. “Women.”

The old man raised his bushy eyebrows. “Women?”

“I need some advice, Noah.”

Noah hesitated. “For the first time in thirty years I wish I had a door. I should warn you, Nicholas, the topic is a little outside my area of expertise—so
caveat emptor
.”

“At the party the other night—I had a chance to talk with your wife.”

“Yes, I recall. Barbara said she found you quite charming.”

“See, that's just the thing—your wife would find anyone charming. That's because
she's
so charming. She reminds me of a
Scarabaeus sacer
.”

Noah blinked. “Barbara reminds you of a dung beetle?”

“Have you ever looked at one closely? The cuticle is shiny black with tinges of iridescent red and green and blue around the edge. It looks elegant and mysterious—it almost seems to change color when you look at it from different angles. You know, the Egyptians considered them sacred.”

“You're saying Barbara is elegant and mysterious.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you for clarifying, Nicholas. I'll pass on the compliment, but I may leave out the reference to the dung beetle.”

“How do you find a woman like that?”

“Are you interested in finding one?”

“I'm not sure. How do you know if you're interested?”

“Nicholas—that's a bit like asking how to know if you're hungry. You either are or you aren't. Are you?”

Nick paused. “Imagine being in a coma since the day you were born. You've never had to feed yourself; you've survived on life support the entire time. Then one day you wake up and you feel something you've never felt before: an emptiness, a craving. You're hungry—but you don't even know what hunger is.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“What? What have I got?”

“Your description fits perfectly. The emptiness, the longing—the sense of waking up to life for the very first time. You may not be a poet, Nicholas, but I think you've captured it rather well. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say you're in love.”

Nick didn't respond.

“I sense this is more than just a theoretical discussion. Am I correct in this assumption? In my experience, Nicholas, the emotion of ‘love' only presents itself as a response to a specific stimulus. Is there one?”

Nick nodded.

“The young woman at the party, perhaps? I thought she was striking.”

“That's one of them.”

“One of them? How many are there?”

“Two.”

The old man paused. “I must say, Nicholas, once you get started you don't waste any time.”

“I can't help it,” Nick said.

“Yes—that fits the description as well. Tell me about these women.”

“The one at the party—her name is Alena. I worked with her a few months back in Virginia. She has a cadaver dog.”

“Well, what man could resist that?”

“She's a professional, someone I can respect—someone I could work alongside. She doesn't mind long hours and hard work; she doesn't mind the bugs and the bodies.”

“In other words, she's a lot like you.”

“Is that bad?”

“It explains the attraction. How could one fail to be captivated by someone with such admirable qualities?”

“Aren't you supposed to look for someone you're compatible with?”

“Don't confuse compatibility with identity, Nicholas. Two chemicals can be compatible, but when they combine, heat can be released in the process.”

“What about you and Barbara?”

“It might surprise you to learn that Barbara and I are as different as night and day.”

“But you seem so similar.”

“Compatible, yes—similar, no. It would be sheer folly to assume that the two of you are similar just because you both enjoy ‘bugs and bodies.' I assure you, you are also as different as night and day—and it will take years to ferret out all the differences.”

“Terrific.”

“Don't let that discourage you, Nicholas. The important thing is not how different you are; the important thing is the attitude you take toward your differences. Barbara completes me. You might say she ‘combines' with me, and the chemical reaction isn't always pleasant.”

“‘Heat is released in the process.'”

“Precisely. It's one of the virtues of marriage, I think—it tends to take away one's delusions of grandeur. What about this other woman?”

“Her name is Kathryn. I worked with her before too—a few years ago. She's a very caring and compassionate woman—very loyal to her friends.”

“In other words, she's nothing like you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It's not a criticism, Nicholas, just a helpful observation.”

“Kathryn's a single mom. She's got a four-year-old girl.”

“Responsibility for a child—are you prepared for that?”

“I don't know.”

“Why do you suppose you find yourself attracted to someone so unlike you?”

“I'm not sure. She seems to sort of make up for what I don't have.”

“Her strengths correspond to your weaknesses.”

“Right.”

“Which you find very fulfilling—for now.”

“And later on?”

“You will tear your hair out by the roots—because her weaknesses also correspond to your strengths.”

“Then you think I should choose the other one?”

“Not at all. A man who marries his equal has set his standards too low.”

“Stop playing the Zen master, Noah. Tell me what to do.”

“Well, what kind of woman are you looking for?”

“I want someone like Barbara—at least, someone who will turn out that way thirty years from now. How do I find a woman like her?”

“You don't.”

“Barbara's the only one? Lucky you.”

“You're thinking of a woman the way you think of a car—just pick one with the features you're looking for. But a woman grows and changes over time, Nicholas. The woman you marry today will not be the same woman thirty years from now. A woman is an investment; what she becomes has very much to do with what you're willing to invest in her.”

“Tell me something, Noah: Did marriage interfere with your career in any way?”

“In every way.”

“Really?”

“Your hours, your schedule, your sacred privacy—they all become subject to interruption. But isn't that what you're looking for, Nicholas—something to interrupt the monotony of a career?”

Nick shrugged.

“These two women—do they both return your affections?”

“I think so.”

“Then you face a difficult choice.”

“I know.”

“The fundamental question is, ‘Do you wish to choose at all?'”

Nick paused. “I think maybe I do.”

“Bravo, Nicholas—this is a major step forward for you. Call me a doubter if you will, but I never thought I'd see the day.”

“So how do I choose?”

“Follow your heart. What does your heart tell you?”

“How would I know? This is completely new to me.”

“I'm going to tell you something, Nicholas. I don't think you're going to like it, but you need to hear it anyway—and after all these years I believe I've earned the right to say it.
You are not an insect.
I've allowed you to persist in this illusion because it seems to gratify you—but the truth is, you're a man. You have an exemplary intellect, but it's a human intellect. You have remarkable instincts, but they're the instincts of a human being. Your instincts have served you well in the past; use them now.
What does your heart tell you?
”

Nick slowly shook his head. “It tells me I must be out of my mind.”

The old man smiled. “Welcome to the human race, Nicholas.”

“Well, don't send the Welcome Wagon just yet—I might only be visiting.” Nick got up and pushed the chair back in place. “Thanks for the advice, Noah. Say hi to Barbara for me.”

“I'll tell the dung beetle you send your greetings.”

30

W
hat do you mean, ‘nothing'?” Nick asked.

“I mean
nothing,
” Detective Massino replied. “Zip, nada—not a trace.”

“You're telling me that a murderer can drive right up to Kathryn's farm, put two bullets in her husband's back, and drive off again without anybody even seeing him?”

“That's assuming he drove.”

“How else would he get there? Kathryn's farm is in the middle of nowhere.”

“We prefer to call it ‘the country' around here.”

“What about those security cameras you mentioned—the ones in the towns on either side of her? You can't get to her place without driving through one of those towns. Did you check the video records?”

“We checked. Good pictures—nice and clear. Nothing.”

“Okay, so there were no unfamiliar vehicles—then the murder must have been committed by a local. What about local vehicles? Did you get any license plate numbers from the video? Have you talked to any of the owners?”

“There were no cars, Dr. Polchak.”

“What?”

“Like you said, Mrs. Severenson's place is a little out of the way—there's not a lot of traffic out there. The date you gave us was a Sunday—her roadside stand was closed, and that's about the only reason people make the drive out that way. We checked the video cameras, and during the four-hour period you specified, there were no cars headed in her direction—and nobody in either town remembered seeing anybody out of the ordinary.”

“Then it must have been a neighbor—somebody on foot. Kathryn told me about one of them—a corn farmer who's been trying to—”

“Already talked to him,” Massino said. “Tully Truett says he was with his family at Topsail Beach all weekend. We checked it out; he's telling the truth. Bottom line, that four-hour window you gave us turned up nothing.”

Nick paused. “Did you check
six
hours like you said?”

“We checked six hours, then we checked eight hours—still nothing. So there's something else we need to check.”

“What's that?”

“That postmortem interval you gave us. It has to be wrong, Doc.”

“It can't be wrong. I checked the math three times.”

“Maybe it's not your math. Maybe it was something with the bugs.”

“You mean maybe I misidentified the species? Not a chance. They were
Phaenicia sericata
. They're a brilliant metallic blue-green—there's no mistaking them.”

“Maybe these were especially fast growers or something. I've got a teenager like that.”

“It doesn't work like that, Detective. Each species develops according to an established timetable.”

“Then you're still sure about this PMI.”

“I've never been more sure.”

Massino paused. “Well—that only leaves one other option.”

“No,” Nick said. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Doc—she had motive.”

“What motive?”

“How about a deadbeat husband? The guy was schizo, he was ruining her financially, and he was getting into drugs. I've known women to bump off their husbands with a lot less motive than that.”

“What about the gunshot wounds—the range, the accuracy?”

“Women can't shoot? Welcome to the twenty-first century. She lives out in the country—there's no gun ordinance out there. And her husband was away a lot. Plenty of time to practice—plenty of reason too.”

“It's just not possible.”

“You know better than that.”

“I've known Kathryn for years.”

“Yeah, you told me—that's another possible motive.”