Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (19 page)

“What question?”

“Jimmy’s question. The one he never quite got out.”

“Well,” Kathryn said indignantly, “you’ll never know unless you ask.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Jimmy knew without asking.” He wiggled his finger. “Come here for a minute.”

Kathryn sat glaring at him. There was something about his arrogance and overconfidence that infuriated her—but there was something else about it that she couldn’t quite explain. She stamped over to him and stood, arms folded, nose turned upward.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and stared deep into her eyes.

“What are you doing?” She arched away from him.

“Looking for my answer—just like Jimmy did.”

“How do you know what Jimmy did?”

“Something tipped him off, and I’m betting it was your eyes. You say everything with your eyes. Always have. And they never lie.”

“So what do you see?”

He pulled her closer and looked again. “I see yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you love me. Yes, you always have. And yes, you’ll marry me.”

“You just might be mistaken,” she scolded.

“I’m not.” He smiled.

“What makes you so cocksure?”

“ ’Cause when I look in your eyes this close I see my eyes—and I know what mine are saying.”

She looked into his eyes, and he was right. It was all there, and there could be no mistake about it.

He pulled her in tight and they kissed, long and deep.

She slowly opened her eyes again—and Andy’s face began to somehow change. It grew longer and more angular. Not less handsome, just … different. She had never noticed it before, but he wore glasses. They began as tiny round spectacles like an elf might wear, but as she watched they began to grow to an enormous
size, and Andy’s beautiful brown eyes began to soften and fade until they floated away like two gray orbs—then they disappeared completely. Still the spectacles continued to grow; now they were the size of windows. In place of the eyes a pair of tiny black-and-gold spots appeared, then two more, then more, until there were thousands crawling and wriggling and pressing against the glass. She frantically struggled to get away, but the arms still held her fast. At last she broke free, but the spectacled figure only laughed and tipped his glasses downward, and the thousands of angry black spots streaked toward her, swarming over her arms and legs, clinging to her face and neck, filling her eyes and nose and mouth …

Kathryn shrieked and threw herself from her bed. The lamp from her nightstand crashed to the ground and shattered in a flash of blue light. She stood in the darkness, flailing at the air, trapped inside the black cloud that always hung so near.

She scraped furiously at her legs and arms—and then stopped, panting, gradually recognizing the familiar walls around her and the fan still spinning overhead.

She sank slowly to her knees and began to weep in long, hopeless sobs.

It was just after dawn when Nick came jogging into the parking lot. He wore a gray Penn State sweatshirt torn off at the shoulders and a pair of sagging black running shorts that hung to his knees. He sported a spotless pair of Nike’s, the nicest article of clothing he owned. He stopped beside the Dodge and pulled off his cap—the Steelers this time—and tossed it through the back window.

Parked beside the Dodge was a trim black sedan. Nick checked
the license plate; in the upper left corner it bore a Holcum County sticker, and below the cherry red “First in Flight” insignia were stamped the words, PAX DEI. Nick headed for the lab.

As he approached the office, Nick could see a figure seated inside. He was a black man, ancient in years and as thin and brittle as a reed. His head was large and seemed to dominate his body, and his magnificent brow overshadowed his sloe-black eyes like a mahogany cornice. He was dressed immaculately in a blue-black suit and a silver tie. Oversized hands projected from slender wrists and rested gently on either side of a large, open book. There was a profound calmness about him; his hands moved slowly and deliberately, with the beautiful economy of motion that comes only with age.

Nick rapped on the office door and stepped inside. The old man looked up and smiled. “I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. The door was unlocked, and it was a bit muggy outside.”

“No problem,” Nick said. “What can I do for you?”

“Dr. Malcom Jameson.” He extended his hand. “Pastor of Mount Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church.”

“Nick Polchak, NC State University.” Nick returned the handshake and glanced down at the massive tome that lay open before him. The text was entirely in Latin. It was Jerome’s Vulgate, opened to the Gospel of Matthew.

“Adtendite a falsis prophetis qui veniunt ad vos in vestimentis ovium,”
Nick read aloud. “Beware of false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing.”

Dr. Jameson’s eyes brightened. “You read Latin? I can’t say I’m surprised. I was admiring some of your specimens in the outer office—especially the Pandinus imperator Koch.”

“My Emperor Scorpion.”

“A magnificent specimen, with an imperial name to match. But then, you know the old saying:
Quidquid latine dictum sit altum viditur
.”

Nick smiled. “‘Anything said in Latin sounds profound.’ No offense, Dr. Jameson, but what’s a smart guy like you doing in a town like this?”

Now the old man smiled. “I am a fisher of men. The biggest fish is not always found in the largest pond.”

Nick nodded. “I’ve caught a few in small towns myself.”

A look of recognition spread across the old man’s face. “You are that Bug Man fellow, are you not? I believe I read about you in the papers. A fascinating discipline, this fo-ren-sic en-to-mol-o-gy of yours.” He pronounced the words slowly, delighting in each syllable. “I’m afraid a man of your—how shall I put it—breadth of experience may find life a little dull in a town such as ours.”

“Things are picking up,” Nick replied. “I’ve been hired to investigate the death of Jim McAllister.”

Dr. Jameson seemed taken aback. “I understood that the young man took his own life. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for reasons. How did you hear about his death?”

“I have been requested to preside at Mr. McAllister’s memorial service.” The old man pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. “I received a call from a Kathryn Guilford asking me to meet her here today, to arrange any necessary details.”

“We had a long day yesterday,” Nick said. “It might be best if I had her call you. Did Mr. McAllister attend your church?”

“Mr. McAllister was unchurched,” the old man said. “That is, he was not a member of any local congregation. In situations such as this, I am often called upon to perform the services.”

“In other words, you get the white trash.”

Dr. Jameson looked at him sternly. “There is no such thing. Will you be attending the funeral, Dr. Polchak?”

“Never had much use for them.”

“Oh yes, I see. You only handle the clinical side of death. I suppose there’s nothing clinical about a funeral.”

“Just a lot of fuss over a little shoofly pie.”

“Shoofly pie,” the old man repeated thoughtfully. “An interesting euphemism. The body dies, it starts to decompose. What remains becomes food for other living things. And what happens after?”

“After what?”

“After you die.”

“Your question has no meaning,” Nick said. “After you die is like saying after the end. If it’s the end, there is no ‘after.’”

“You believe there is nothing after?”

“What I believe is irrelevant. I’m telling you what I know. I see a body; it ceases to function; it decomposes. That’s what I know.”

“Sometimes knowing is not enough, my young friend. Sometimes you have to believe. That is my business.”

“Different lines of work,” Nick shrugged.

The older man studied Nick. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We have more in common than you may think, Dr. Polchak. You seek guilty men to administer justice; I seek guilty men to offer grace and forgiveness. But it seems to me that, in our own way, we are both fishers of men.”

He closed his book and slowly rose to his feet. He extended his hand to Nick once more.

“I will pray that you find what you are looking for. Much more importantly,” he said with a penetrating gaze, “I will pray that you discover what it is that remains when even the shoofly pie is gone.”

Nick walked the old man to his car. Just as the black sedan disappeared from view, Kathryn’s silver Contour rounded the corner and came to a stop directly in front of the Quonset.

“Was that Dr. Jameson?” she said.

“I told him you’d call. Oversleep?”

“Didn’t sleep.” She followed Nick to the front door, where she hesitated. “Aren’t we doing another interview this morning? What do we need to go in there for?”

“Dr. Jameson wanted me to show you something,” Nick said.

Kathryn followed him cautiously, stepping only as far through the doorway as was absolutely necessary. “What is it?” she asked, eyeing the glass cases on either side.

Nick stepped around to the right and removed the lid from a terrarium. He reached in and slid his right hand under something that looked like a black leather glove. He returned to Kathryn with a smile on his face, holding his hand in front of him like a waiter with a dessert tray.

It was not a glove, but it was black—black as coal tar. Two bulbous arms extended before it like the claws of a lobster and a thick knotted tail curved up behind it like a whip—a whip with a very sharp tip.

“This is Lord Vader.”

Kathryn began to back away. “Dr. Jameson wanted me to see that?”

“He was quite impressed with him. ‘A magnificent specimen,’ I believe he said. ‘Be sure to show it to my dear friend Kathryn.’”

“I’ve never met Dr. Jameson.”

“Lord Vader is an Emperor Scorpion. He’s quite impressive, don’t you think? A good eight inches if he’s an inch.” Nick held his hand at eye level and stepped forward, smiling. Kathryn stepped back.

“I can see it just fine from here.”

“From way over there?”

Another step forward, another step back.

“Emperors are very unusual—first, of course, because of their enormous size. But they’re also unusual in that they’re social. You can keep several together in one tank, like I do, and they get along just fine. But they do like to be alone every now and then, so from time to time I allow Lord Vader to go for a stroll here in the lab.”

“You let that thing run loose? It could kill someone!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Lord Vader rarely stings—only in self-defense. He doesn’t need to, really, because of these.” He stepped forward and pointed to the enormous black projections the scorpion held menacingly aloft.

“Are those pincers?”

“They’re called pedipalps. They’re remarkably powerful. I feed him mostly crickets and giant mealworms, but every now and then … See that metal box under the table? That’s a rodent trap—a live rodent trap. Whenever an unfortunate Muridae tries to invade our sanctuary, he must face the wrath of Lord Vader. It is his destiny. It’s an amazing battle—arachnid against mammal, invertebrate against vertebrate.”

“You let that thing loose on a helpless mouse?”

“A mouse isn’t defenseless, Mrs. Guilford. It has teeth and claws. It can crack through a kernel of corn or gnaw its way through a floorboard. But it’s no match for Lord Vader, I’m afraid. Would you like to hold him?”

“No. Thank you.” She retreated a step farther.

“You’d think Lord Vader would use his stinger. After all, a mouse is the size of a cow to him. But he doesn’t. He just grabs hold of Mickey with those pedipalps and tears him limb from limb.”

As he spoke, Nick continued to inch forward. He held his hand out to one side and gestured to it as he sidled closer to Kathryn, then swung his hand back slowly in her direction. Each time she would back away, and they would repeat this maneuver, over and over like a kind of waltz, both of them moving slowly down the aisle toward the office door.

“The fact is, his sting is no worse than a wasp’s. There’s a rule of thumb in the scorpion world: the bigger the pedipalps, the more harmless the scorpion. The little brown ones with the long, slender pedipalps—now those are the ones to watch out for.”

“Do you have any of those?”

“Of course. The entire row of cases just inside the door is my Scorpionidae collection. On the right, Lord Vader and his Imperial Stormtroopers. In the middle, common southwestern U.S. species. But on the left, watch out—those are my North Africans.”

“For heaven’s sake, what do you keep them for?”

“It’s a hobby,” he said, placing Lord Vader on the floor and nudging him forward until he skittered away. “I think from time to time everybody needs a bit of distraction. Don’t you?”

He reached past Kathryn, opened the office door, and stepped inside.

She stood motionless for a moment, realizing in amazement her current location; then she quickly slipped into the office and slammed the door, eyeing the floor behind her as it closed.

“You look much less wrinkled today,” Nick said. “Now how about that interview?”