Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (143 page)

“Callie must be right in front of us!” Kathryn shouted. “Why can't I see her?”

“Nick told us to get out of the way!” Alena yelled to her.

“Not until I find her!”

Alena heard footsteps moving toward her in the darkness. “I think I see her!”

Phlegethon stepped out of the corn and nuzzled her leg.

“Did you find her?”

“No—it's just the dog.”

Suddenly the area where Kathryn was standing exploded in light—the combine was only ten yards away and its blinding headlamps cast everything between them in razor-edged silhouette.

Kathryn spotted her. “
Callie!
”

“Where?” Alena shouted.

The little girl was standing just a few feet ahead of her, staring up into the headlamps, paralyzed by the clatter of the monstrous machine.

Kathryn lunged for her daughter, thinking to grab her by the shoulders and snatch her out of the combine's path. She could do it—she could make it with just seconds to spare . . .

She caught her foot on a root and fell headlong in the dirt at Callie's feet.

By the time she looked up it was too late.

She pulled the little girl to the ground and crawled on top of her.

Callie screamed.

Nick heard the scream and searched the corn frantically. The stalks were falling like grass under an elephant's feet and the advancing headlamps were constantly bringing new ground into view.

There!

He saw Callie—and he saw Kathryn sprawled facedown on top of her.

Nick scrambled toward them through the corn while his mind made a hopeless calculation of time and distance. He knew it was impossible—there was no way to carry both of them to safety. He could pull Kathryn off her daughter's body and leave the little girl to be crushed by the combine—or he could drag Callie out from under her mother and leave Kathryn to the same fate.

I can't do it,
Nick thought.
I can't do either one.

There was only one way to get the combine operator's attention.

There was only one way to stop the machine.

Alena heard Callie's scream and hurried forward with Phlegethon and Ruckus by her side. The entire scene came into view all at once—like a panorama of black paper cutouts pasted against a backdrop of searing white light.

She saw Kathryn with her face pressed to the ground, shielding her daughter's tiny body with her own.

She saw Nick running toward them—and then she saw him stop.

She saw him turn to face the machine and plant both feet firmly on the ground.

Oh, God, no!

Alena looked down at Phlegethon.

She threw her arms around the huge dog's neck and sobbed, “I love you!”

She made a sweeping gesture with both hands and sent the dog running toward the combine.

50

B
y noon the following day, the area around Kathryn's farm was swarming with people: FBI agents, Homeland Security officials, investigators from the U.S. and North Carolina Departments of Agriculture, and Sampson County police brought in to make sure the curious remained behind the roadblock positioned half a mile away. Tables had been set up in Kathryn's yard, and the farmhouse had been sequestered to serve as temporary headquarters for half a dozen separate federal and state investigations that were already under way.

In the cornfield across the street the huge combine sat in exactly the same location where it had ground to a halt the night before. The remainder of the corn had been left unharvested by Special Executive Order of the governor so that scientists in white Tyvek suits and hoods could take samples and collect specimens. Nick himself had assisted early in the morning, setting up insect traps to help determine the distribution of the
Trichogramma
and using a sweep net to capture flying specimens so that USDA scientists could test them for the presence of
Diplodia
.

Nick tapped Donovan on the shoulder. “Have they found him yet?”

Donovan turned. “Nick—that's the fifth time you've asked me.”

“Sorry to be such a nuisance,” Nick said. “Did I mention that I just saved the entire U.S. economy from total collapse?”

“There'll be no living with you now,” Donovan said. “No, we haven't found him yet. Semenov had a few hours' head start thanks to your little field trip last night—and because of all the rain that came later we're having trouble picking up his trail. We think he'll probably head for the coast and try to find a way out of the country.”

“You need to catch him, Donovan.”

“Hey, good idea—now why didn't I think of that?”

They were interrupted by a man in a denim shirt and a green John Deere cap. “Hey—are you Donovan?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Somebody said you're in charge here. I wanna know who's gonna pay for all this.”

“Excuse me?”

“There's the lease extension on the extra combine, the downtime for my hired help, and the damage to my fields while you people trample all over my corn. I'm losing money here, Donovan—how do I get reimbursed?”

Donovan looked him over coolly. “Who're you?”

“This is Tully Truett,” Nick said. “He owns the corn farm that surrounds this place. He's the guy who almost ran us over with a combine last night.”

“That wasn't very nice,” Donovan said.

“That was an accident. How was I supposed to know there was somebody there?”

“Maybe by the sound of a two-hundred-pound dog slamming into your combine—that should have given you a clue.”

“Sorry about the dog. That was too bad.”

“Yeah, I hear he was a real favorite of yours. I kept throwing things at your cab, but you never looked over. What does it take to get your attention, anyway?”

“I was . . . focused.”

“You were asleep. Who falls asleep driving a combine?”

“It happens,” Donovan said. “I grew up on a farm. During harvest you work until you're done—all night if you have to. Drivers push themselves too long; sometimes they drift off.”

“I'm glad somebody understands,” Tully said.

“I didn't say I understand—I said it happens. You were behind the wheel of a twenty-ton vehicle, Mr. Truett—that makes you responsible. Hire an operator next time. Just because you bought a big toy doesn't mean you should play with it.”

“Look, can we skip the lecture? I'm in kind of a hurry. I just want to know who to talk to about damages, okay? I'm losing money by the minute here. I've got five thousand acres of corn to bring in, and I want to get back to work.”

Donovan slowly shook his head. “Man—you really don't know what's going on here, do you?”

“What?”

“You know, if you weren't such a jerk I'd feel sorry for you. As it is, it's kind of a beautiful thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

Donovan waved over a man in a green blazer. “This is Special Agent Cohen—he's with the Department of Agriculture's Office of Inspector General—that's the law enforcement arm of the USDA. Mr. Cohen, Mr. Truett here owns all the corn around us—five thousand acres, I think he said. He wants to know when he can get back to work.”

“That depends,” Cohen said. “Doing what?”

“Finishing my harvest,” Tully said.

“You can forget that.”

“What?”

“Your corn has been infected with a highly toxic fungus, Mr. Truett.”

“So I spray some fungicide in the spring. So what?”

“Not this fungus. It's absolutely imperative that it doesn't spread. It's a good thing your property surrounds this little tomato farm—it forms a natural buffer. We were lucky—even with that wind last night we don't think the insects carrying the fungus could have spread beyond your property. Your farm has been officially quarantined by the USDA, Mr. Truett—nothing goes in or out. The grain you've already harvested will be destroyed. The corn still standing will remain where it is—our research people will be studying the fungus
in situ
for the next couple of months. Come winter we'll burn the fields and plow it all under. In the spring we'll watch to see if the fungus reemerges.”

“But—I'll lose two harvests.”

“Or three. It all depends on how persistent this fungus turns out to be.”

Tully's jaw dropped. “You gotta be kidding me.”

The OIG agent looked at Donovan. “Did I sound like I was kidding?”

“But you don't understand. A lot of my land is leased from other farmers—I'm under contract to pay them at the end of every harvest. They'll sue—I'll go bankrupt.”

“You must have crop insurance.”

“I just bought a new combine. Corn prices were off the charts. I put everything I had into more land. I never thought—”

“Uh-oh,” Nick said. “Sounds like somebody's been cutting corners.”

“I'll be ruined. What am I supposed to do?”

“Here's an idea,” Nick said. “You could sell the place to Kathryn—I'm sure she'd give you a fair price.”

They watched as Tully turned and staggered away.

“Too bad the girls aren't here,” Nick said. “I think they would have enjoyed that—I know I did.”

They heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Nick turned and saw Kathryn's pickup truck roll to a stop in front of the barn. Kathryn and Alena got out and Kathryn held her door while Callie slid down off the seat. Both women looked around wide-eyed at the bustling farmyard.

“Is that them?” Donovan asked.

Nick nodded. “They've been at a veterinary clinic in Clinton all night. Kathryn's the redhead—that's her daughter, Callie. You remember Alena.”

“Sure—the witch.”

“Callie's the one we were searching for in the field last night. Kathryn threw herself on top of her to protect her, but the combine would have killed them both. She must have known that, but she did it anyway. What kind of a woman does that?”

“A mom,” Donovan said. “They've been known to do things like that.”

“It was Alena's dog who stopped the combine. He charged right into the thing—he didn't even hesitate. You know, she's got thirtyseven dogs, and every one of them would gladly die for her. How does she do that? If I was on fire, my students wouldn't even put me out.”

“Maybe if you offered extra credit,” Donovan suggested.

“Thanks.” Nick started toward the truck.

“Where are you going? We've got work to do.”

“I'll be right back,” Nick said.

Kathryn called out as he approached. “Have they caught him yet?”

“Not yet,” Nick called back. “He had a big head start. They think he might be headed for the coast. Don't worry; they've got a lot of people looking for him.”