Introduction

Nick Polchak must stop a terrorist from causing a global ecological nightmare. Two beautiful women from Nick's past are competing for his heart. He's not sure which impending disaster makes him more nervous. When forensic entomologist Nick Polchak is called to the scene of a murder on a small organic farm in North Carolina he is astonished to find that the victim's estranged wife is an old friend, a woman he once worked with--a woman he once had feelings for. When she asks Nick to investigate her husband's drug-related murder, Nick seeks the assistance of Alena Savard, the reclusive dog trainer known to the people of northern Virginia as the Witch of Endor. Alena jumps at the chance to renew her relationship with Nick--but when she arrives in North Carolina she discovers that she's not the only woman who has her eye on the Bug Man. Soon Nick finds his usually analytical mind clouded by thoughts of a strangely human nature. These two women have stirred feelings that he can't quite fathom, feelings of lost opportunities and future possibilities... Now Nick must navigate the unexplored territory of his own heart while he solves an agroterrorist's plot to ignite an environmental holocaust that could spread to the ends of the earth.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Podlesny, Russia

The old man looked at the driver of the car. "Is he angry with me, Pasha?"

The young man made an indifferent shrug. "It's just business, Nikolai. He hired you; you worked for him; you no longer wish to work for him; you quit. You will take another job and my grandfather will hire another scientist. Life goes on."

"Your grandfather is a very powerful man."

"Dedushka is a businessman, nothing more."

"Then he forgives me?"

Pasha Semenov looked over at his passenger. The old man's eyes looked sunken and haunted, like a dog that had been kicked too many times. He hunched down in his seat as if a great weight was pressing down on him. Wrapped around his left wrist was a black wool Orthodox prayer rope tied into fifty knots with a wooden bead dividing the knots into groups of ten. The old man constantly fingered the knots, mouthing silent words until his fingers came to a wooden bead-then he said aloud, "Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."

Pasha smirked. "You don't look like much of a sinner to me. Maybe I should get one of those things."

"You don't know what I've done," the old man mumbled. "You don't know what I almost did."

"What did you do, old man? Go on, impress me with your sins."

Petrov paused. "I almost broke the third seal."

"What seal? What are you talking about?"

The old man stared out the windshield and recited from memory:

When he opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, "Come!" And I looked, and behold, a black horse! And its rider had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard what seemed to be a voice in the midst of the four living creatures, saying, "A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius, and do not harm the oil and wine!"

"What are you babbling about?"

"The third seal-we must not break it. It could mean the end of the earth-the end of everything. Your grandfather does not understand this. He does not believe as I do."

"What my grandfather believes is that the great Dr. Nikolai Petrov has lost his mind. Listen to you-you talk like one of those cave hermits from Kiev."

"Do you know why the Soviet Union crumbled, Pasha? It was God's judgment on us for the things we almost did-for the things we were preparing to do."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"We had the power of the seals, Pasha. We had the power to break them. I know-I helped them-I gave them the power of the third seal. But no man must break the seals, Pasha. Only the Lamb has the right to do that."

"You know your problem, Nikolai? You're living in the past. This is not the old Russia-this is the new Russia. The world is different now."

"The world does not change, Pasha. The human heart does not change."

Pasha pulled the car off the road and stopped.

Nikolai Petrov looked out his window. In a clearing to his right he saw an enormous concrete grain silo encircled by a winding metal staircase whose steps protruded like the petals of a flower, ascending to an open doorway at the very top of the silo. There was a matching doorway on the opposite side that opened into empty space. At the bottom of the silo was a third doorway where a small corn elevator offloaded the grain into a line of waiting trucks.

"This is not the train station," Nikolai said.

"You're very observant," Pasha said, opening his door and stepping out. "Dedushka asked me to bring you. He wishes to tell you goodbye."

"It isn't necessary," the old man protested, but Pasha was already out of the car.

Pasha put his fingers to his lips and made a piercing whistle.

One of the farmhands looked up.

"Dedushka," Pasha shouted.

The farmhand pointed to the top of the silo.

Pasha turned back to the car and found Nikolai still huddled inside. He waved impatiently to the old man until he reluctantly opened his door and climbed out.

"He's up in the silo," Pasha shouted over the din of the corn elevator. "Come."

They walked to the base of the metal staircase and Pasha gestured for Nikolai to go ahead of him. The old man began to timidly climb the stairs while Pasha kept one hand pressed against the middle of his back to keep him moving forward. When they rounded the silo once Pasha whistled down to the corn elevator operator and made a slashing gesture at his throat. The machinist nodded and pulled a rusted lever and the engine sputtered to a stop. The air was suddenly silent.

"Dedushka didn't have time to come to the station," Pasha told Petrov, continuing to urge him forward. "Prices are up and the corn has to get to market right away. You know how it is on a farm-always something to do."

At the top of the staircase Pasha pushed past Nikolai and looked into the open doorway. The interior of the silo was a circular room filled with an endless sea of golden corn that dipped toward the center like a draining sink. A white haired old man was standing knee-deep near one of the walls, scooping up shovelfuls of corn and tossing them into the center. There were no lights in the silo; it was illuminated only by the daylight pouring through the doorways on opposite sides.

"Dedushka," Pasha called out. "You have a visitor."

Yuri Semchenko turned. The man was built like a tree stump and only slightly stooped with arctic white hair combed straight back toward his shoulders. He was dressed in denim overalls with a white cotton shirt rolled halfway up his thick mottled forearms. His face was tanned and leathery, a field of deep folds and furrows with jowls that concealed most of his neck. His forehead was narrow and his hairline low; there was no hint of thinning or receding. His eyes were a dull hollow gray set in sunken sockets, like two slabs of slate peering out from the soil.

Semchenko looked at his visitors without expression. "Grab shovels," he said to them. "Make yourselves useful."

Pasha picked up two shovels and handed one to his companion. He waded into the corn a few steps, then turned back and motioned for Petrov to follow.

The old man did.

"Like this." Semchenko demonstrated, holding his shovel overhand and scraping the corn away from the concrete walls. "The corn can stick to the walls when it dries. We must break it free."

Pasha began to do the same.

Petrov stood near the center of the silo and stared at Semchenko's back. "Don't do it, Yuri," he said. "Please-I beg you."

Semchenko looked at him over his shoulder. "Don't do what?"

"Don't break the third seal. You have no right."

The white haired man let out a snort. "A foolish superstition. You should know better, Nikolai. You are a man of science."

"It's not a superstition," Petrov said. "Science makes possible things that should never be done."

"Who is to say what should not be done?"

"God. He is to say."

Another snort. "Then let God tell me himself-not some cowardly old man."

"I cannot have a part in this. I will not."

"Yes, you've made that very clear." He tossed a shovelful of corn in front of Petrov and nodded toward the center of the room. "Throw it there-in the middle."

Petrov slowly scooped up the corn and threw it a few feet. "I have to go, Yuri. Please, I have a train to catch."

"Pasha must help me first," Semchenko said. "The sooner he finishes the sooner he can take you to the station." He tossed another shovelful at Petrov's knees.

So did Pasha.

Petrov began to eagerly dig into the growing pile of corn and pitch it toward the center of the silo, working as hard and as fast as his aging back would allow.

Semchenko watched the old man work for a few moments, then nodded to Pasha. The two men set down their shovels and waded through the corn to the opposite doorways. Pasha climbed out onto the stairway on his side. Semchenko sat down on the ledge of his doorway, leaned out, and signaled to the corn elevator operator below him.

The engine started up again.

Petrov began to sink.

He looked up in horror and saw Yuri Semchenko calmly watching him from one of the doorways. He twisted around and saw Pasha doing the same behind him. He tried to take a step but when he lifted one leg the other leg only sank deeper. With a rustling sound the corn poured toward the center of the silo like sand emptying from an hourglass.

Within seconds the corn was up to Petrov's waist.

"Don't do this!" he cried out. "Yuri, please!"

"Sorry, old friend, but a conscience is a dangerous thing. I cannot be sure where yours will lead you."

"I won't tell anyone! I swear!"

"Yes, I know."

The corn was up to his chest now. He threw himself forward and tried to swim, but there was nothing to push against and the corn flowed up and around him and licked at him with its yellow tongue.

"Stop struggling, Nikolai. You'll only sink faster."

The old man began to struggle frantically, thrashing and clawing and beating at the corn, but nothing helped; the corn continued to swallow him like a snake with a helpless mouse. His shoulders disappeared like two rocks beneath a rising tide. His hands clawed at the air, then fell limp and slowly sank into the yellow sea. The corn rose up to his neck, then his chin, and he threw back his head and gasped for air as his lungs began to compress.

His eyes looked at Semchenko one last time. "Yuri, don't," he whispered. "The third seal-don't."

The corn poured over his face and into his mouth and he was gone.

Semchenko waited for a minute or two, then signaled to the machinist to stop the engine again.

The silo fell silent and the corn was perfectly still.

He looked across the room at Pasha. "Clean this up," he said. "Tell the authorities it was an accident. And Pasha-I was never here."

CHAPTER 2

North Carolina State University, Raleigh, August

Nick Polchak slumped in his chair in the back of the classroom and watched stone-faced as the student concluded her presentation.

"And that," she said brightly, "is the lifecycle of a fruit fly."

She tucked her poster under her chin and turned from side to side, offering her fellow students one final look before grinning hopefully at her professor.

Everyone in the classroom turned and waited for Nick's evaluation.

Dr. Nick Polchak was one of the best-respected and most-feared professors at North Carolina State University. Nick loved his academic discipline-entomology, specifically the study of the arthropods that comprise half the living species on our planet, and he had no patience for anyone who didn't share his passion or his love of learning. For Nick life was bugs, pure and simple, a perspective which long ago earned him the moniker the "Bug Man."

Nick took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "C-minus," he said. "And that's only because I'm in a generous mood."

The student did a dramatic double-take, an imaginative blend of indignation and personal affront. "A C-minus? C'mon, Dr. P!"

"Don't call me that," Nick said. "It makes me sound like a urologist."

There was a rumor widely circulated among students at NC State that Nick Polchak actually liked insects more than human beings-a rumor Nick didn't exactly discourage by announcing before each of his classes, "I like insects more than human beings."

"I deserve better than a C-minus!" The student hoisted her poster high overhead, as though Nick might have somehow overlooked it. "Look at this thing! I practically spent the whole night on it!"

"It's lovely," Nick said. "Mind if I take a closer look?"

As Nick worked his way to the front of the classroom the students began to grin like hungry hyenas. They knew what was coming; it was the main reason they signed up for the course. Nick Polchak was widely considered the Simon Cowell of NC State, and his students took perverse pleasure in watching him savage their classmates on the days when projects and papers were due. This was the first project of the semester and everyone could taste blood.

The young woman lowered the poster to chin-level and allowed Nick to look it over.

"Ms. Smith," he began.

"My name is Karnofski. I've been telling you that all semester."

"Whatever." Though Nick had at his fingertips the Latin names of hundreds of species of blow flies and flesh flies, he had only two names for students-Smith and Jones, depending on which name randomly rolled out of his mouth when summoned. "First of all, your drawing is all wrong," he said. "Drosophila is yellow-brown in color and has transverse black rings across its abdomen."

"That's awfully picky," she grumbled.

"Yes, science is like that. Secondly, their wings don't look like a couple of badminton racquets, and if I remember correctly only the Fairy Princess fruit fly is decorated with glitter."

Snorts and snickers from the classroom.

Ms. Smith-Karnofski frowned. "I wanted to make it stand out."

"Well, don't. And what, may I ask, is that?" He pointed to the fly's head, where a curved line arced beneath the two huge eyes.

"That's a smile. I was trying to make it look-you know-friendly."

Nick turned to the class. "Okay, let's get something straight. This is a course in entomology, not arts and crafts. What Ms. Smith here should have brought us was a technically accurate rendering of a Drosophila melanogaster. Instead, what we have here is essentially a Precious Moments fruit fly. I'm sorry to break it to you, Ms. Smith, but fruit flies are not cute or cuddly or friendly. They are tiny arthropods that are valuable for research chiefly due to their extremely short lifecycle."

Nick took the poster and held it up to the class. "Who can tell me the biggest problem with this drawing?"

No one dared an answer.

Nick ran his finger around the contour of the drawing. "See this? She colored inside the lines. That's an indication of a serious personality flaw that Ms. Smith will want to address before she gets any older. Had she addressed this flaw, she would have brought us an entomology project instead of a middle-school book report." He handed back the poster. "Sorry, Ms. Smith, the C-minus stands. Who's next?"

Another student stepped to the front-an eager-looking young man with a thick gauze bandage wrapped around his left forearm.

Nick looked him over. "What did you bring us today, Mr. Jones? I sure hope it's one of those lovesick ladybugs-I just love those."

"Nope," he said. "I brought this." He quickly unwound the bandage and held his arm out palm-up. In the fleshy, hairless center of his forearm was a shallow gash about three inches long. The flesh around the wound was red and swollen and in the center of the gash was a line of wriggling white maggots.

The class let out a gasp and the front row emptied out.

"My project is on maggot therapy," the student announced. "Maggots have been used for hundreds of years to clean out wounds. They eat away the dead tissue and keep the wound from getting infected."

Nick took the young man by the wrist and adjusted his glasses to get a better look. "Well, at least nobody can accuse you of coloring inside the lines. I have to ask you, Mr. Jones-is this a self-inflected wound? You didn't do this to yourself just for my project, did you?"

"Nah. I got it skateboarding."

"Good. I get in enough trouble around here." Nick turned to the class; it looked as if someone had tipped the room and deposited everyone along the back wall. "Okay, gather around. Let's see what we can learn from Mr. Jones."

No one moved.

"Oh c'mon," Nick said. "You've all seen grosser things than this. You eat in the dorm cafeterias, don't you?"

The class eased forward and surrounded their wounded classmate.

"Okay," Nick said to the young man. "Go on with your report."

Mr. Jones looked at him. "Go on?"

Nick blinked. "Was that it?"

"Pretty much. It's more of a…demonstration."

"Where did you learn about maggot therapy, Mr. Jones?"

He grinned. "From the movie Gladiator. Remember? Maximus has his shoulder ripped open and it's full of maggots, and this guy tells him, 'Leave them-they clean out the wound.'"

"Uh huh. Tell me, Mr. Jones, how much do you know about maggots?"

"Um."

"A maggot is the larval form of a fly," Nick said. "The gravid female looks for decaying matter to lay her eggs in. Some species prefer decaying flesh, like the ones on your arm-probably common green bottles. The eggs hatch into larvae and begin to feed. They have two little mouth hooks, one on either side, and they use them to scrape away the decaying tissue and stuff it into a kind of pre-stomach known as a 'crop.'"

Nick looked at the group; their faces were slowly contorting. "Give me a break," he said. "I've watched some of you eat-it isn't much different. The maggots will pass through three stages of development called 'instars.' When they reach the final stage-when they've stuffed themselves on Mr. Jones' decaying tissues-they'll drop away and look for a secluded spot to pupate. A few days later they'll emerge as adult flies. Tell me, Mr. Jones, where did you get the maggots for this little demonstration?"

"Well-we've got a lot of flies around our house."

"And why do you suppose that is?"

The young man shrugged.

"It's because you're a male, Mr. Jones, and your décor probably includes a lot of decaying matter. So you just exposed your open wound to the air?"

"It took a long time," he said solemnly. "I had to sit there for hours and act like I was dead."

"Yes, I've seen you do that in class-you're very convincing. And where did the flies come from?"

"Where did they come from?"

"Before they landed on you. You don't think your arm was their first stop of the day, do you?"

He paused. "I never thought about it."

"Flies aren't picky eaters, Mr. Jones. Yours probably landed on a dog pile on the way into the house, then stopped off for dessert on that garbage can your roommates never empty. And every time the fly lands it picks up bacteria on its feet and deposits them on the next place it visits. Take a close look at his wound, everybody-see the redness around the edges? Notice how swollen it is? That's what doctors call infection, and Mr. Jones has got himself a pretty good one."

"Oops," Mr. Jones mumbled.

"But let's give Mr. Jones credit-he was half right. Maggot therapy has been used for hundreds of years, and maggots will eat away decaying tissue and clean out a wound-the procedure is known as cutaneous myiasis. But maggots used for this purpose are always laboratory-reared-otherwise they'll spread the very infection they're meant to prevent. Now I'm afraid we'll have to excuse Mr. Jones so he can visit our campus health center, where they'll give him a massive dose of antibiotics and hopefully a psychiatric evaluation."

Mr. Jones looked chagrined. "I guess it was kind of stupid, huh."

"No, it was ignorant. I have no problem with stupidity, Mr. Jones-that's something you're born with. Ignorance, on the other hand, is curable. Next time check your facts first-and don't do your research at Blockbuster Video. Gladiator got it wrong."

"What about my grade?"

"I'm giving you a B-plus," Nick said, "because you didn't use glitter and because a guy like you is probably going to need a few breaks in life." Nick looked at his watch. "Okay, that's it for today. We'll pick up with your projects next time-and please, no more death-defying 'demonstrations.'"

As the students began to scatter Nick noticed that a much older man had been standing among them-Noah Ellison, chairman of the department of entomology.

"Nicholas," the old man groaned, "please tell me that wound was not self-inflicted."

"Of course not," Nick said. "I cut him open myself. Cadavers are expensive."

Noah's expression didn't change.

"I'm kidding, Noah. That was his entomology project-maggot therapy."

"I take it the larvae were not sterile."

"It's a new technique. Apparently it's very successful with gladiators."

"You have to admire the boy's spirit," Noah said. "It will take him a long way."

"It's taking him to the health center right now. What can I do for you, Noah?"

"I have good news and I have bad news," Noah said. "Knowing you as I do, I'm going to tell you the bad news first-otherwise you'll get overly excited by the good news and refuse to sit still for the bad."

"I'm not a child, Noah."

"Of course you are, Nicholas. Intellectually you're quite extraordinary, but let's face it-when it comes to impulse control you're essentially an adolescent."

"Thanks, Dad. So what's the news?"

"The bad news is: The entomology department is hosting a reception for incoming graduate students and we're encouraging our faculty to attend-all of our faculty."

Nick let out a moan. "Why me? You know I despise things like that."

"This is their first introduction to our department, Nicholas. We're making an effort to give our department a human face."

"Our department should have an insect face," Nick said. "If they wanted human they should have enrolled in the humanities."

"Nicholas-for some of them it's their first introduction to our nation. We have several foreign graduate students every year, you know. Who is there to greet them when they arrive? Who helps their wives and children settle in? Who tells them, 'Welcome to America?'"

"Doesn't the government take care of that? Who issued them passports?"

"Now you're just being silly. What does this really require of you?"

"In terms of physical energy or emotional trauma?"

"Nicholas."

"Okay, Noah, I give up. I'll be there."

"In body and in spirit."

"That I can't promise."

"Nicholas."

"Oh, all right-I'll do my best. Now what's the good news?"

"Our office just received a phone call from the Sampson County sheriff's department. It seems a man has been murdered there, and they're requesting the assistance of a forensic entomologist. They specifically asked for you-not that there are many options. Sampson County is about-"

"I know where it is, Noah. How long ago did they call?"

"About an hour."

"Do you have an address?"

Noah held out a slip of paper.

Nick snatched it from his hand and hurried for the door. "Why didn't you tell me this at the beginning?"

Noah watched until the door closed behind him. "That's why," he said. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Nick Polchak has seen disaster of all kinds, but agroterrorism is something new. Do you think something like this could happen on U.S. soil?

2. Why is Elena Savard referred to as the "witch of endor" by Northern Virginians?

3.Nick has always been more interested in bugs than women, yet he suddenly has two women vying for his attention. Who do you think he chose in the end?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Tim Down's web site

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