Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop

HERE’S WHAT READERS ARE TELLING US ABOUT THE FIRST BUG MAN NOVEL!

“I read this book on vacation this past weekend, and once I began, I couldn’t put it down. The writing is clever, intelligent, humorous, and suspenseful. The words are so visual that the whole time I was reading, I was picturing the book as I would a movie. I’m already looking forward to the next Bug Man mystery.”—MD

“I’ve read every Grisham novel and loved them all; however, not since
The Firm
have I enjoyed a book this much.”—LA

“I loved Nick Polchak! He is quirky and fascinating. The humor is great and the story had a ton of fun twists and surprises.”—DG

“Being a big fan of the TV show
CSI,
I looked forward to the release of this novel. But it blew my expectations away! If Bug Man is any indication of the types of novels Howard Publishing will publish, this new series will be a fantastic hit!”—SH

“I can honestly say that I was held by every page. The characters were so unique and believable. I learned a great deal about insects in a very pleasurable format.”—LD

“I could hardly put it down—when I get one this good it always makes me mad at myself because I finish it too fast and it is over.”—WH

“How wonderful to discover a hero who hasn’t stepped out of the pages of
GQ.
His human frailties and quirky personality give hope to mere mortal men! My hat is off to Tim Downs. A masterful job!”—RF

“I loved the Bug Man. What a wonderfully funny and bright character—well done.”—DC

“I LOVED THIS BOOK! I read a lot of books, and I have to say that this is one of the best I have read in a long time. I am waiting for the sequel with great anticipation.”—KB

“It was so well written that I could hardly put it down once I started reading it … and I hate bugs.”—MD

“I was surprised that I liked it so much because I am not fond of bugs myself and secondly I don’t really like mystery novels, but I could hardly put the book down!”—MT

“I seriously could not put it down. I loved Nick Polchak’s character and was amazed at the level of detail regarding forensic entomology. It was fascinating. The mystery kept me turning the pages and I am eager to read the next installment.”—BC

A BUG MAN NOVEL

TIM DOWNS

Our purpose at Howard Books is to:

• Increase faith
in the hearts of growing Christians

• Inspire holiness
in the lives of believers

• Instill hope
in the hearts of struggling people everywhere

Because He’s coming again!

Published by Howard Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.howardpublishing.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Shoofly Pie and Chop Shop
© 2009 Tim Downs

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, Simon & Schuster, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

ISBN 978-1-4391-3615-7
ISBN 978-1-4391-6691-8 (ebook)

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact: Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

Cover design by David Carlson Design
Interior design by Gabe Cardinale

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

SHOO FLY PIE

BUG MAN NOVEL 1

For my beautiful Joy,
whose constant love and encouragement
keep the bugs away.

Remember, I can do anything you think I can do.

I would like to thank the following individuals and organizations for their generous contributions to this book: Dr. John Butts, chief medical examiner of North Carolina; Steve Bambara of North Carolina State University for his help with beekeeping; Major Dominic Caraccilo, commander of Headquarters Company, 2d Brigade, 82d Airborne, during Operation Desert Storm; Bill Poston of the North Carolina Department of Correction; Randy Young of Young Guns, Inc., in Apex, North Carolina; Chuck Henley at the Defense POW/Missing Personnel Office; the Department of Entomology, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution; the U.S. General Accounting Office; Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Biosystematics Unit; Gulf War Health Center; U.S. Army’s
Armor
magazine; U.S. Army Center of Military History; Brown-Wynne Funeral Homes of Cary, North Carolina; the American Beekeeping Federation; and scores of others who took the time to respond to my e-mails, letters, and phone calls.

I would especially like to thank the forensic entomologists who generously gave their time to help me understand their remarkable field: Dr. Boris Kondratieff of Colorado State University, for helping me with the basics of FE; Dr. Robert Hall of the University of Missouri, for introducing me to Chrysomya megacephala; and Dr. Neal Haskell, for allowing me to attend his fascinating Forensic Entomology Workshop (a.k.a. Maggot School) in Rensselaer, Indiana. Thanks for assisting me with the science behind what is, in the end, a work of fiction.

I also want to thank the individuals who made the publication of this book possible: literary agent Kathryn Helmers, who was as tenacious as a tick in shopping my manuscript; Jeff Tikson, my longtime advisor and friend; Ed Stackler, for his invaluable skills as an editor and story consultant; and the wonderful people at
Howard Publishing, for their creativity, vision, and passion for the written word.

Thanks, too, to the faithful friends whose opinions helped shape this book into its final form: Tim Muehlhoff, Kent Kramer, Joy Downs, Bill and Laura Burns, Jim and Renee Keller, and Dan and Julie Brenton.

And thank God for the Internet.

Holcum County, North Carolina, 1975

Zachary Sloan stepped out of the Rayford ABC Package Store and walked to the bed of his primer-gray Ford pickup. Two eager dogs greeted him. The first, Sloan’s favorite, was an aging black Labrador, now walleyed and graying at the muzzle; the other was a spotted pup of questionable lineage but unlimited enthusiasm. The dogs nuzzled the paper package in the old man’s right hand.

“Get back, mutt. That’s for me.” He slipped the bottle into the right pocket of his khaki hunting coat and took a crumpled sack from under his arm. “This is for you two no-goods.” He tossed a fat pig’s knuckle onto the rusty truck bed, then climbed into the cab. He revved the engine, coaxed the transmission into reverse, and backed out on to Highway 29. The dogs took two quick steps back as he accelerated east.

Fifty yards away to his right the tracks of the Norfolk and Southern ran parallel to the road, the side of the towering embankment silhouetted gray-blue by the afternoon sun. Sloan watched the telephone poles click by, each one clipping the hood of his truck with the tip of its shadow. Not far ahead, County Road 42 descended from the left through a vast, open expanse of fledgling corn and tobacco. It dipped down to cross Highway 29, then abruptly rose again to traverse the train tracks fifty yards away. There was no stoplight or sign at the intersection; none was necessary. Sloan could see vehicles approaching for miles in all directions—except from the right on County Road 42, where the Norfolk & Southern shielded the intersection like an ancient fortress wall.

Three miles away, a forty-foot flatbed trailer lumbered cautiously down a dirt road and passed beneath a brightly painted sign that hung across the exit to the Good ‘N Plenty Orchards. Strapped to the bed of the open trailer was stack after stack of neat, white cabinets, each with a kind of oversize box top that overlapped at
the edges. Each cabinet seemed to contain several drawers, expertly dovetailed at the edges. In the lowest drawer of each cabinet was a long horizontal slot stuffed tight with a rag and secured with twine. The drawers could not be opened, yet each cabinet was completely filled … with 40,000 honeybees.

The dirt road ended with a sudden rise to join the county highway just north of the town of Rayford. The teamster cautiously eased the left wheel up onto the roadway. With one great gun of the diesel engine, the right wheel followed. The flatbed behind him rocked right, then lurched left. The beehives flexed and shifted uneasily like tottering stacks of cups and saucers. An angry murmur rose from within the whitewashed columns, then quieted once again as the flatbed settled onto the level roadway of County Road 42. With each grinding shift of gears, the diesel sent a plume of blue smoke into the sky, slowly gathering speed as it headed south toward the tiny town of Rayford.

Sloan spotted the long flatbed with the alabaster cargo approaching from far away to his left. He eyed the intersection, then the flatbed, then the intersection again. Their two vehicles seemed to be approaching at equal speeds. Sloan pushed steadily on the accelerator, and the flatbed accelerated in kind.

“Grits-for-brains,” the old man muttered. There was a common understanding in Rayford that commercial rigs should always yield to the locals—a common understanding, that is, among locals. Sloan took a different view entirely. His tariffs and duties had paid for these roads, thank you, and the meandering locals could get out of the way.

Now Sloan had the accelerator pushed flat against the floor. Behind him, the dogs stood straight and alert, sensing a force of wind and a whine from the engine that they had never felt before. The pup stepped nervously to his left, stopped, then started right again. He began to whimper and pushed his nose into the side of his more experienced companion. The aging Labrador slowly hung his head, circled once, and lay down.

High atop the railroad tracks fifty yards to Sloan’s right, three bicycles raced side by side in a dead heat, clattering across the half-buried crossties of the old Norfolk and Southern railway.

Eight-year-old Andy Guilford suddenly veered to the right, forcing Pete St. Clair’s bike up against the steel railhead.

“No fair!”

Pete jerked back on the handlebars and jumped the rail altogether. His back wheel spun wide and cut a deep arc in the loose gravel ballast.

“You can whine or you can win,” Andy shouted back. He swerved left now and jammed his foot into the rear tire of Jimmy McAllister’s rusting red beach cruiser. The bike lurched violently, almost throwing Jimmy onto his handlebars.

The three bicycles simultaneously crunched to a stop at the crossing of County Road 42. For a while the three boys said nothing; they stood straddling their bikes, panting and mopping their foreheads, staring up the road one way and then down the other.

“We did it!” Jimmy beamed. “We beat her!”

“And I beat the both of you,” Andy chided.