Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel) (8 page)

Alena had come down from the mountain extra early just in case Nick couldn’t wait until nine to call; that thought made her feel like a silly little girl. Apparently Nick had no problem containing himself until nine—or ten, or eleven, or whenever he finally got bored enough to call her. She wondered if he knew she was waiting on a street corner in the dark; she wondered if it would bother him if he did. Sometimes she wondered if anything bothered Nick; she wondered if he thought about her at all.

One thing’s for sure: He’s not thinking about this wedding
.

But that thought made her feel angry and she scolded herself for letting her imagination run wild like that. Nick didn’t tell her to wait in the dark on some street corner—that was her choice, not his. She was standing outside the Endor Tavern & Grille because she didn’t want to go inside, pure and simple. She didn’t want to go inside because she knew the looks she would get in there—the looks and the whispers and the nodding heads that always made her feel like some kind of freak. Just because she lived on a mountain by herself; just because she had done so since the age of ten; just because she chose to surround herself with dogs of every imaginable shape and size; just because she had learned to command those dogs without ever speaking a word.

Just because they think I’m a witch
.

But none of that was Nick’s fault. She loved Nick, and they were getting married on Saturday, and she wasn’t about to let her hatred for the people of Endor poison her thoughts about the man she loved. So she shoved the poisonous thoughts aside and tried to call up a pleasant memory instead . . . Six months ago, not long after they were first engaged, when Nick made the long drive up from Raleigh just to visit her.

***

It was a clear and perfect night and they were lying on their backs on a blanket in a clearing in the woods, staring up at all the stars you can see only from the top of a mountain.

Nick pointed at three faint dots in the sky. “That’s called Orion’s Belt,” he said, “and over there is—”

“Stop it,” Alena said.

“Stop what?”

“Naming them. It’s wrong.”

“It’s wrong to name stars?”

“People only name things to control them. We don’t control the stars—we just like to think we do.”

“People name things to understand them,” Nick said, “to classify them—to compare them. Take insects, for example—”

“Nick.”

“What?”

“Shut up and look at the stars.”

Half an hour passed in peaceful silence.

“Nick.”

“What?”

“When do I get my ring?”

“What ring?”

Alena turned her head and gave him a look.

“Oh,” Nick said. “That ring. Well, what kind do you want?”

“I want a diamond,” she said. “A big one—a doorknob.”

There was a long pause. “I’ve never really understood the attraction for diamonds,” he said. “I mean, look at it practically: The average person can’t tell a diamond from a piece of glass— yet we’re willing to pay a fortune just to be able to tell someone, ‘It’s a diamond.’”

“Nick—don’t be a weasel.”

“And when you go to buy a diamond the jeweler goes on and on about ‘cut’ and ‘clarity.’ You’re supposed to spend thousands more for a ‘flawless’ diamond, one that doesn’t have the tiniest little speck in it—something you couldn’t even see without a jeweler’s loupe. The whole thing’s a scam, if you ask me. Have you ever looked at a cubic zirconium?”

“You want to buy me a fake diamond?”

“Believe me, it’s a lot more economical.”

“That’s good, Nick. You buy me a fake diamond, and I’ll pretend to be faithful.”

There was another long pause . . .

“I’m having you cremated,” Alena said.

Nick rolled his head to the side and looked at her. “Excuse me?”

“If anything happens to you, I’m having you cremated. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“That’s planning pretty far ahead, isn’t it? Aren’t we supposed to pick a china pattern first?”

“I read about this company in Illinois—LifeGem, I think it’s called. First they cremate you, then they take the carbon out of your ashes. They put all the carbon in this big press and they squeeze it for a couple of weeks, and when they’re done you’re a diamond. I’m serious. For twenty thousand bucks they’ll turn you into a one-carat diamond—any color I want.”

Nick didn’t respond.

“Yep,” Alena said. “One way or another, I’m getting a diamond out of you.”

***

Alena flexed her fingers and looked at her ring; the flawless diamond sparkled blue and white under the halogen streetlamp. She felt raindrops patting softly on her hair; she looked up and saw silver needles streaking toward her from the darkness. The rain was beginning to fall harder now. In another few minutes she would be completely drenched.

She looked at her cell phone one last time—it was 10:05.

She snapped her fingers and made a little flip with her right hand. Both dogs rose to their feet and followed as she began the long walk back up the mountain.

8

H
ey.”

Nick didn’t look at the man sitting across from him in the holding cell; he’d been very careful not to make eye contact since the man was dragged in kicking and screaming about midnight the night before.

“Hey. You.”

He was a very large man, so large that he seemed to taper at both ends—like a third-instar maggot that was just about ready to pupate. The man had obviously been displeased with his incarceration when he first arrived, which he expressed by fuming and pacing and slamming his hamlike fists against the cinder-block walls—but he gradually calmed and cooled as the hours went by, and by dawn he had become positively chummy. Nick liked him better angry.

“Hey—guess what they arrested me for.”

“It’s none of my business,” Nick replied.

“We got nothin’ else to do. Go ahead, take a guess.”

Nick let his eyes sweep the man like a basting brush passing over a turkey. “Well, there’s only one knuckle on your left hand that doesn’t look like it belongs to some simian; that means you used to wear a wedding ring, but you took it off recently—probably just last night. You’ve got three parallel scratch marks on your left cheek, and they angle down from your ear to your chin—so she’s not as tall as you are and I take it she wasn’t in a very pleasant mood. You’re wearing that T-shirt inside out, which I really appreciate if it says what I think it does, and you’re only wearing one sock—so either you’re trying to start a new fashion trend or you got dressed in a big hurry. Now, we put all these mysterious clues together and what have we got? She walked in on you and she didn’t like what she saw. Things got ugly and somebody called the cops—my guess would be the girlfriend—so you’re probably here on a domestic disturbance charge.”

“Hey, you oughta be a detective,” the man said admiringly.

“What’d they haul you in for?”

“Being a detective.”

“No kidding? I figured you for some kind of pervert.”

Nick looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Those eyes of yours—they’re the size of hockey pucks.”

“Hockey pucks,” Nick mumbled. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“Yeah, I can see you pokin’ your head outta the bushes somewhere. Some woman steps outta the shower, she takes a look out the bathroom window—”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “I’ve got the picture. And you’re right— there’s definitely a pervert in the room.”

Just then the metal security door opened with a loud
clack
and an officer stepped into the holding area. “Dr. Nick Polchak,” he read from a clipboard. “Let’s go.”

Nick stood and waited while the officer unlocked the cell.

“You’re a doctor?” the big man asked.

“That’s right,” Nick said. “You’d be surprised how many perverts get PhDs.”

As Nick exited the holding area he found Nathan Donovan waiting for him—and Donovan didn’t look happy.

“Don’t start,” Nick grumbled. “I had a very long night.”

“What’s the matter? Didn’t bond with your cell mate?”

“Nice guy,” Nick said. “I think he might start evolving any day now.”

“Well, here’s a helpful tip for you, Nick: If you don’t like the kind of people you meet in holding cells,
stay out of jail
. Or is that too hard for you?”

“Are you always so chipper first thing in the morning? I don’t know how Macy puts up with you.”

“Neither do I—especially when she gets woken up by phone calls in the middle of the night from some idiot in Philadelphia who expects her husband to jump out of bed and drive all the way up there just to get him out of jail.”

“Tell her you’re sorry—that’s what I would do. How long does it take to get up here from DC, anyway? I called you hours ago.”

Donovan shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just shoot you myself. Think of the time I’d save—think of the wear and tear on my car I’d avoid. I could get away with it too— I’d probably get commendations from police departments all over the country.”

“Would you stop whining? Who else could I call?”

“How about your fiancée? You’re supposed to be her problem now.”

Nick slapped his forehead with the butt of his palm. “Oh no—I forgot. I was supposed to call Alena last night—I told her I’d call her at exactly nine o’clock.”

“Well, call her now. And put it on speakerphone—I want to hear this. ‘Hi, hon! Sorry I didn’t call last night—I got myself arrested and they threw me in jail.’ ”

“Maybe my future wife is more understanding than yours,”

Nick said.

“You think so? Let’s call her and find out.”

“I can’t,” Nick said. “She doesn’t get cell phone reception up on that mountain of hers. That’s why I told her nine o’clock— she has to drive down to Endor to get a signal.”

“Let me get this straight,” Donovan said. “Your fiancée had to travel all the way down a mountain just to get a phone call from you, but you didn’t call because you got yourself arrested and spent the night in jail.” He threw back his head and let out a deep belly laugh. “Man—she better be
way
more understanding than my wife.”

“I’m glad to see your mood is improving.”

A voice behind them said, “Are you two still here?”

Nick turned and found himself looking into the smug and self-satisfied face of Detective Danny Misco. Nick let out a groan. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”

“We were just leaving,” Donovan said. “Any last words for your prisoner before he returns to society? Maybe something about ‘respect for authority’ or ‘a citizen’s duty to obey the law’?”

“Yeah,” Misco said. “Now that you mention it, there’s a couple of things I’d like to clear up.” He looked at Nick. “That big yellow tape you found on the door? That’s not for decoration— that means it’s a crime scene and you’re not supposed to go in.

If you look real close, you’ll find it actually says that right on the tape: police line—do not cross. But maybe you couldn’t see that because it was so dark and all.”

“Look, Detective—”

“No,
you
look. I told you I didn’t want your help and you wouldn’t listen; I told you not to come back, but you did it anyway. Do you always have this much trouble following instructions?”

Donovan let out a snort.

“Shut up,” Nick whispered.

“When you crossed that crime scene tape you violated the law, and that’s why I had you arrested. And I could press charges against you if I wanted to, but I’m not going to—you know why?”

“Because you don’t know how?”

“Because of this man here,” Misco said, nodding at Donovan. “Agent Donovan vouched for you and he told me about some of your . . .
quirks
. He tells me you’re a professional and that, believe it or not, you actually know what you’re doing. Personally, I don’t see it—but I’m taking his word for it, and I’m dropping the charges against you out of respect for him.”