Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (115 page)

Nick sat with Kathryn and Alena at a table by themselves. They sat three-in-a-row on a single bench to keep the tabletop in full light. The checkered vinyl tablecloth was scattered with the diagrams the students had completed that afternoon. On a single sheet of paper Nick had compiled all their numbers and locations onto one master diagram.

“Just what I thought,” he said.

Kathryn leaned closer. “What?”

Nick slid the diagram to the center of the table where both women could see. “Look at the numbers. They're large here, but they gradually get smaller until they disappear about here. See? They fan out from this point, sort of like a rock dropped into a pond—the ripples get smaller as they go out.” He put his finger on the spot where the largest numbers converged. “That's where we found the original marijuana.”

“What does that tell us?” Alena asked. “Don't we already know that the bugs came from the eggs that were in the drugs?”

“Yes, but we don't know why.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Look—the eggs of
Manduca sexta
take three or four days to hatch at eighty degrees Fahrenheit. We found our eggs about two days ago and they've already hatched—that means the eggs were placed in the marijuana a day or two before that.”

“Placed? You mean on purpose?”

“There's no other way to account for their presence.
Manduca
lays its eggs on tobacco and tomatoes—never on marijuana. And even if it did, marijuana is always dried and processed before it's shipped—that would kill any eggs that were present. There's no way to explain why this insect's eggs would be present in these numbers—unless somebody purposely put them there.”

“But why would anyone do that?”

“I can't say for certain—but there's an obvious possibility.”

“What?”

“Somebody wanted to destroy your tomato field.”

Kathryn looked doubtful. “There must be a dozen ways to destroy a tomato field—why would anybody do it like this? It seems like way too much trouble.”

“I'm not saying that's the answer,” Nick said. “I just think it's something to consider. I find it just a little too coincidental that an insect that devours tomato fields would just randomly appear in yours.”

“But why the marijuana? And why would Michael be involved?”

“I can't answer any of that. So far all we know is that the hornworms seem to be confined to this one area. They're just larvae—they can't crawl very far from where they hatch. I wanted the students to chart their distribution so we could see if they were released anyplace else in your field. Fortunately, they weren't—so far.”

“So far?”

“Insect development is all about temperature; the warmer the temperature, the faster the eggs hatch. These eggs hatched today, but they were on the edge of the field in the full sun. It's cooler under the tomato plants; if there are other eggs out there, they could take another day to hatch.” Nick turned to Alena. “That's why you need to keep searching the fields for any more marijuana. If you can find it before the eggs hatch it would be a big help.”

“You got it,” Alena said. “I'll get on it first thing in the morning.”

“What can I do?” Kathryn asked.

“Keep checking your tomato plants for hornworms,” he said. “The kids were bound to miss some. In another week you won't be able to miss them—they'll be three inches long and as thick as your little finger. After that they'll pupate. We have to catch them before they do, because once they pupate we won't be able to find them, and if the moths mature and start laying eggs, we've really got a problem.”

Kathryn looked at her little finger and shuddered.

“You don't have to pick them off yourself,” Nick said. “Just show them to Alena—she can pick them off for you.”

Alena rolled her eyes. “Sure, Alena's got nothing better to do.”

“And one more thing,” Nick said to Kathryn. “You might want to think about who would want to destroy you.”

Pasha unlocked the door to Nick's lab and let himself in, then quietly closed and locked the door behind him. He left the lights off and made his way across the room, using only the moonlight pouring through the window to navigate by. When he reached the rearing chamber he took the textbook from under his arm and opened it on the table. He held the flashlight like a dagger and illuminated the pages; the two-page chart was titled “Forensic Fly Species: Development Times for Egg-to-Adult Emergence.” He ran his finger down the chart until he found the number he was looking for.

He raised the flashlight and pointed it at the row of dials across the top of the rearing unit. He reached for the one marked “Temperature” and lowered it by twelve degrees.

18

H
abib Almasi ran his hand over the glossy hood of the new Ford Focus.
A car for women and children
, he thought—nothing like the Mercedes and BMWs that lined the streets of the Financial Centre in Doha. He circled around to the driver's-side window and cupped his hand over his eyes; the interior looked boring and cheap. It was the car that Ford was currently pushing overseas, and it might do well in Eastern Europe where they were still greedy for second-rate Western goods—but it would never sell in Qatar.

Habib checked the sticker in the rear window. The bottom line read, “EPA estimated mpg 24 city/35 hwy with manual transmission.” He shook his head—no wonder they put it at the bottom. He checked the tank capacity: 13 gallons. He quickly did the math: gasoline at four dollars per gallon, fifty-two dollars to fill the tank, crude oil on the New York Mercantile Exchange at roughly $110 per barrel . . .

“Welcome to Crossroads Ford,” a cheerful voice said behind him. “How can I help you today?”

Habib turned. “Show me something larger.”

“Glad to. Let me ask you a couple of questions just to get started. Are you married? Any kids?”

“No.”

“Then you probably won't be interested in an SUV. Have you seen the new Mustang GT? It has a 4.6 liter V-8, 300 horses under the hood—very sweet. You need to hear this audio system. Ten speakers and four subwoofers—two on the doors and a dual thumper in the trunk—”

“What gas mileage does it get?”

The salesman paused. “To tell you the truth, I've never been asked.”

Habib smiled.

“You're interested in fuel economy, aren't you? Then let me show you—”

“Are any of your vehicles equipped to burn E85?”

“You mean ethanol? There's a flex-fuel version of the Crown Vic. The F-150 pickup too—best-selling pickup in the U.S. for over thirty years.”

“Where is the truck, please? Just point—I can find it.”

The salesman directed him to a hulking midnight-blue truck with gleaming chrome trim. Habib stood staring at the vehicle. He didn't need to consult the sticker; he knew the numbers by heart. The standard F-150 had a 5.4 liter, 8 cylinder engine capable of a pathetic fourteen miles per gallon in the city at an estimated annual fuel cost of just over four thousand dollars—four thousand dollars' worth of gasoline. But the flex-fuel version of the vehicle was capable of burning E85 instead—a mixture of 85 percent ethanol and only 15 percent gasoline—and for an oil-producing nation, that was not good news.

Ironically, the truck got even poorer mileage burning ethanol—but the Americans were not concerned about that. The goal of using ethanol wasn't better fuel economy—not at first, anyway. The goal of developing biofuels like ethanol was to wean America from its dependence on foreign oil. The growth of ethanol could mean stability and independence for the American economy—and disaster for the economy of Qatar.

In most of America ethanol was still unheard of—but not in the Midwest. Ethanol was made from corn, and Midwestern farmers were growing rich from the increased demand. Twenty percent of America's corn crop had already been diverted into fuel tanks, and the demand was increasing every year. Numbers continued to run through Habib's mind:
U.S. ethanol production will reach seven billion gallons this year—more than double what it was just five years ago. One bushel of corn will produce 2.7 gallons of ethanol. Ethanol production will require 2.6 billion bushels of corn this year . . .

Habib tried to imagine his country as it used to be, when Qatar was just a way station for British ships on their way to India. Then Qatar was nothing but a string of fishing and pearling villages, where descendants of the Al Khalifa and Al Saud clans squabbled endlessly over water rights and the true ancestral borders of useless stretches of sand. Then came the discovery of oil in the 1940s—and then came the British oil companies with their pipelines and refineries. Money poured into Qatar, and money poured out again—and in just six decades Qatar became the wealthiest nation per capita on earth. It all happened in just sixty years—and it could all change just as fast.

Eighty-five percent ethanol, and only fifteen percent gasoline . . .

The little dancers flitted across the stage like doves, spinning and leaping and pirouetting as they went. No one kept in step; they barely kept time to the music, but no one in the audience cared. They were only children, after all, and they deserved their chance to dance for the sheer enjoyment of it. The world would force them to get in step soon enough.

Jengo Muluneh and his wife, Mena, sat in the darkened auditorium at Meredith College and watched their daughter dance. Ayanna was so beautiful—like the African flower she was named after. She was dressed in white tights and a matching tutu that rode high on her waist and made her slender legs look even longer. The dancers scurried into line now and began to do demi-pliés, dipping at the knees and allowing their arms to rise up at their sides. On some of the children the move looked awkward—like clumsy seagulls trying to leave the ground. But Ayanna had long, graceful limbs that flowed like wind and water, and her arms seemed to float like feathers in the air. Jengo looked at his daughter's face. Her ebony skin made her features difficult to see against the dark stage scrim—but not her smile. Ayanna beamed from ear to ear as she danced, and her smile glistened like the little plastic tiara on top of her head.

Jengo glanced at the girl beside Ayanna. She was shorter and stockier in build and she had a little round belly that protruded above her tutu. Jengo tried not to look, but he couldn't stop himself. His eyes kept returning to that belly, and his mind kept returning to a memory that he could never forget.