Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (38 page)

“Now where did I put that book,” he mumbled, wandering about the office. “Ah!” He spotted a single green volume atop the lone filing cabinet. Nick wasn’t sure the old man could even lift the massive tome; he stepped over and took it down for him, wiped the dusty cover against his shirt, and spread it open on Noah’s desk.

Nick agonized as Noah slowly leafed through page after page of crowded text.

“Now this is interesting,” he would say from time to time—and then point out some obscure tidbit of entomological trivia that had nothing at all to do with their quest. Nick’s impatience grew more and more obvious, but Noah was unflappable.

“You must learn to enjoy the journey, Nicholas,” he said without interrupting his reading. “You must learn not to weary the soul by longing only for the destination.”

Endless, agonizing minutes passed.

“Here it is,” he said at last. “Exactly as I suspected. These references are organized very poorly, very poorly indeed. There really should be a cross-index of morphological features. I must speak to the publisher about this, I—”

“Noah!”

Dr. Ellison looked at him implacably. “It is a Chrysomya megacephala, Nicholas—commonly known as the Oriental Blow Fly.”

“I know that species,” Nick said. “It has anterior spiracles. It’s greenish blue with purple highlights, and the posterior margin of the second and third abdominal segments is jet black.”

“Precisely. Megacephala is an immigrant species that was introduced into Florida sometime in the eighties. It prefers the warmer winters, and so its range is limited—but it seems to be adapting and slowly moving north.”

“How far north?”

“Central Georgia. No farther.”

“Not North Carolina?”

Noah looked at him with disdain. “The last time I consulted an atlas, Nicholas, Central Georgia was about eight hours from North Carolina.”

“And you’re positive?”

Noah raised a single eyebrow. His meaning was unmistakable.

Nick extended his hand. The old man took it and gripped it tightly until they both made eye contact.

“I wasn’t joking about the black arts, you know. Be careful, Nicholas. I’ve lost one colleague this week—I wouldn’t care to lose another.”

Nick hurried down the hall, stopping at the insect collection just long enough to retrieve the crucial specimen.

“Your mail!” the secretary yelled to him as he raced past the doorway of the departmental office. “Don’t you want your mail?”

Nick snatched the rubber-banded stack of envelopes without a word and sprinted across the Brickyard to his car. He pulled the pink square of paper from under his windshield wiper, crumpled it, and threw it into the car, then roared out of the parking lot with a clatter of valves and a trademark puff of blue smoke.

Nick picked up his cell phone and punched in Kathryn’s number.

“Mrs. Guilford,” he said. “I need you to do something for me. I need you to call the sheriff and invite him over to your house. That’s right, your house. Because I need to take a look at his patrol car, that’s why; and I can’t very well do it while it’s parked in front of the sheriff’s office. I figure I need about thirty minutes—thirty uninterrupted minutes, Mrs. Guilford—I don’t think my ribs can stand another encounter with the sheriff just yet. Whatever you do, keep him in the house for thirty minutes. Got it?

“What? I don’t know. Tell him you want to talk. Tell him you want to cry on his shoulder. Tell him you’re having second thoughts about him—that should do it. And once he’s inside, well … you think of something.

“I’ve got to stop at the lab first, but I can be at your place by a quarter to four. Tell him to meet you at four o’clock. I’ll park down
the street and watch for his car. What? There’s no time now, I’ll explain everything when I … Hello? Mrs. Guilford, are you there?”

Nick looked down at the phone. The green LCD panel flashed the words, SEARCHING FOR SERVICE. He looked out the window; he was east of I-95 now, well outside the city. He thought about Walter Reed and its location at the northern tip of Washington, almost to the Maryland border.

Nick reached over for the stack of mail and tugged off the rubber band with his teeth. He pinned the rumpled envelopes against the steering wheel and rifled through them: a departmental notice, a schedule of summer classes, a past-due notice from the University Safety Patrol …

Mr. Vincent Arranzio, Washington D.C. PERSONAL.

He tore off the end of the envelope and fumbled open the single sheet of paper inside. In large letters was scribbled a single sentence:

THE GUY’S NAME WAS PETE.

Nick slammed the pedal to the floor.

I’ll see you at four then. Thank you, Peter.”

Even before Kathryn hung up the phone, she felt a familiar tightening in her stomach. Nick said Beanie must have killed Teddy. Could it be true? Was it even possible? If Beanie really did it, then Peter had to be behind it. But why would Peter want Teddy dead, unless …

Did I just invite a murderer over to my house?

There was no evidence. There was no proof. She had no way to know—but Nick was right. Somehow, there was the strangest smell.

The knot in her gut began to grow.

What was she supposed to do with Peter for thirty minutes? She told him she wanted to talk—about what? What would she say to him, “I invited you over to tell you again that I don’t love you?”

She checked her watch: 3:15. Forty-five minutes until Peter would arrive. What was she supposed to do until then? She glanced around the house: The coffee table was stacked with unread newspapers and unpaid bills, the kitchen counter was dotted with spills and stains and articles of glass and plastic, and the carpet was cluttered with everything dropped there in the last week and a half.

She decided to clean up. It was a lesson she had learned from her mother, which her mother had gleaned from her mother before her and so on back to the beginning of humankind: When the world makes no sense, clean up. Sometimes the truth is simply buried beneath the clutter.

She started with the paper: the magazines, the flyers, the junk mail that seemed to accumulate like falling leaves. She dumped a mound of unfolded laundry onto the bed, then made a sweep of the house with the laundry basket gathering shoes and books and a score of other wayward items.

She picked up the ancient Macanudo cigar box from the coffee table and carried it into the kitchen. There on the kitchen table sat Jimmy’s black leather King James Bible, still bound by an ancient rubber band and stamped in gold by the Gideons International. Kathryn smiled. It was just like Jimmy to include among his possessions a copy of the Book of Righteousness—one that he had stolen from a motel room.

She set the Bible on top of the cigar box and stretched the rubber band around them both—but the brittle rubber band snapped, and the Bible fell to the floor. When she lifted it, the leather cover came loose and slipped away. To her surprise, the text within was not Scripture at all; it was some kind of diary in Jimmy’s own broken handwriting. The first entry was dated August 3, 1990—the week before the 82d Airborne was called to active duty. It was more than just a personal diary—it was Jimmy’s war journal, his own record of what happened to him in the Gulf. What went wrong, what depressed him, what he could never bring himself to say aloud.

Kathryn scolded her imagination for running ahead of her, and with trembling hands turned the first fragile page.

August 3, 1990

2d Brigade had inspection today. In a few days we start our rotation as DRB. Six weeks on two-hour recall. So what—I got no place to go anyway.

Lots of talk about Iraq and Kuwait and all. Where IS Kuwait anyway? Word is the 82d might get called in to clean things up just like in Grenada and Panama. If the balloon goes up on our shift, 2d Brigade will be first to go.

Can’t stop thinking about Kathryn, but I got to try—she’s married and gone now. If it couldn’t be me, I’m glad it was Andy. Better Andy than Pete. What’s the difference? Pete, Andy, either way she’s gone. Gone for good.

Can’t believe I ever had the guts to ask her. What was I thinking—that she’d take me just because I was first in line? Who am I anyway? Nobody, that’s who. I’m nobody and I got nothing. Hi Kathryn, I’m nobody. Will you marry me? You can have half of my nothing. Now you’re Mrs. Nobody, with nothing.

Kathryn could hardly bear to read on. She knew that she had hurt Jimmy, but she had only experienced his heartache through the protective buffer of others: through a letter from Andy or a comment from an acquaintance or a scathing look from Amy. But here were Jimmy’s own words, the distilled putrescence of all his anger and pain. It was almost too much to endure.

Almost.

August 28, 1990

Arrived in Saudi Arabia, someplace called Dhahran. Lots to do, lots going on. Desert training, trying out our biological suits. Hot as Hades in those suits, but I guess we’ll be glad enough if the Iraqis try to gas us like they done to Iran.

Tough schedule. First call at 0430. Hot, crowded, grunts everywhere. 1500 of us so far, twice that many soon. Food stinks.
Burgers and fries from Hardees today, twice last week too. They got Hardees over here! Everything was cold.

Some of the boys get mail by the truckload. I get nothing. Tough to watch Andy get so much from Kathryn—cookies, boxes, good-smelling letters. Pictures too. Look at me in my swimsuit, look at me with my hair up. Makes me crazy sometimes. I guess if you win the chicken you get the eggs.

Kathryn began to read faster now. The words seemed to fly from the pages, and the pages seemed to turn by themselves. She felt like a little girl careening downhill on a bicycle, out of control, thrilled by the ride but terrified of what might await her at the end.

October 12, 1990

Redeployed to Ab Qaiq 80 miles southeast—80 miles farther away from the action. Started drawing imminent-danger pay two weeks ago, but nothing to spend it on. One day off each week, but nothing to do. Plenty of training—thank God for the training. Keeps me busy, keeps me from sitting around and thinking.

Somebody said the 82d will head home once all the heavy forces arrive. I hope not. I didn’t sign on just to clear the way for somebody else to get the medals. I got to have my chance to show what I can do, I got to prove myself.

Prove myself to who? I got nobody to impress. I got nobody back home. Truth is, I still want to prove myself to Kathryn. But why? So Kathryn will say Boy did I make a mistake, Boy did I get the wrong guy. Then she’ll say Sorry Andy, I made a mistake, I got the wrong guy.

Sure she will.

November 3, 1990

Got a letter from Kathryn today. Not a fancy letter, not a good-smelling one, just a white envelope with white paper from the Ramada Inn Beaufort where Andy took her on their wedding night. So she sends it to me. Dear Jimmy, I’m married, how are
you, I’m married. I bet Pete got one too. I wonder who else got one? Maybe she made copies for everybody.

November 21, 1990

I swear I’m going nuts. Nothing but tents everywhere like some kind of shantytown. No space, no room to breathe. Everybody keeps their stash under their cot. Cookies and cake and soap and toilet paper from home. From girlfriends and wives and lovers back home. But I got nobody back home, so I got nothing to stash. I keep empty boxes under my cot so nobody will ask.

November 28, 1990

No beer here because the Saudis want it that way. The Saudis want it! Somebody needs to tell the Saudis we came over here to keep the Iraqis from whipping them and taking their oil. Who’s protecting who here? Why do we care what the Saudis want?

Some of the boys do a little snow from time to time. Put it in a nasal spray, mix it with a little vodka and water. Like they got allergies or something so nobody knows, nobody cares. They say it’s like a couple cups of coffee. Doesn’t sound so bad. One thing I know—a soldier got to kick back sometimes or he loses his edge.

What do they expect anyway? No beer!

Kathryn felt as though she were staring through the window of a burning building at a confused and frightened child. But there was no way into the building and no way out. All she could do was watch the flames grow higher and hotter, knowing how the story had to end.

December 16, 1990

More waiting. Four months in country and nobody knows what’s going on. First we’re supposed to be guarding marines, next we’re guarding oil wells. Where are the bad guys?

Made a new friend—best one I’ve had for a while. Don’t know
what all the fuss is about. I hardly even feel it. Helps me relax a little, gives me a little lift—no big deal.

No more letters from Kathryn. Just as well—great girl, but I got a little shopping to do before I buy.

December 25, 1990

Andy called Kathryn today. Free phone calls, three minutes to anyone in the States. Who are they trying to fool? The line is bugged—somebody listens in the whole time. I told them to take their phone call and shove it.