Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (5 page)

The sheriff put his hand on Mr. Wilkins’s shoulder and turned him aside. They walked several steps away, much to Mr. Wilkins’s relief, but they were still easily within earshot of the others.

“I hate to admit it, Will, but I think you’re right,” the sheriff said. “You know Jimmy McAllister and I go way back. We grew up together here in Rayford. We were both at Fort Bragg, and we served together in the Gulf. But the fact is”—he glanced over to be sure that no one overheard—“things didn’t go so well for Jim after Desert Storm. A lot of chronic fatigue, long bouts of depression. He even made a few trips up to Walter Reed to be treated for Gulf War Syndrome. Nothin’ helped for long. He started stickin’ to himself more and more, went on hunting trips for weeks at a time. Some of us were beginning to wonder how long it would be before something like this happened.”

“That settles it, then,” Mr. Wilkins said. “A definite suicide. I’ll notify the medical examiner’s office in Chapel Hill that no autopsy is necessary.”

“You’re the expert. What else do you need to do here?”

“In most cases,” he said, “we draw a blood sample for a standard toxicology screening. Drugs and alcohol, that sort of thing. But I doubt we could get a sample at this stage. So, I sign the death certificate, and then I call Schroeder’s to pick up the body and hold it until we can notify the next of kin. Didn’t he have a sister?”

“Amy. I’ll make sure she knows.”

Mr. Wilkins made a final inquiry of the hunters. “Any of you boys know a reason I shouldn’t call this one a suicide?”

Each man solemnly shook his head.

“Then it’s uncontested.” He paused to look at his wristwatch. “I’m recording the legal time of death as 8:04 a.m. on June 14, 1999. And I’m getting out of this kill-dog humidity just as fast as I can.” And wringing out his handkerchief as he went, the Holcum County coroner lumbered back toward the opening in the woods.

Sheriff St. Clair pulled out a cell phone and flipped it open.

“You callin’ Amy?” Ronny asked.

“I got one other call to make first.” The sheriff paused, waiting for an answer at the other end.

“Good morning, Central Carolina Bank.”

“I want to talk to Kathryn Guilford,” the sheriff said. “Just tell her it’s Peter—and tell her it’s important.”

Thirty-year-old Kathryn Guilford slowed her car as she approached the small gravel road that cut a hole deep into the woods just outside of Sandridge. Sandridge was the extreme western boundary of Holcum County, a remote area of old abandoned home fields that had been slowly but thoroughly reclaimed first by brush, then by pines, then by the overpowering hardwoods. She turned the nose of her ’97 Acura onto the crunching gravel and peered as far as she could down the path. Thirty yards ahead of her, it curved slowly to the right and disappeared behind a gnarled red oak. To her left was a rectangular white sign, too small and with too many letters to be read from the main road. It didn’t seem to advertise or welcome, Kathryn thought; it seemed to exist simply to mark a location, like a survey marker or a gravestone. In red gothic letters it stated plainly,
NORTH CAROLINA STATE UNIVERSITY—DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY—HOLCUM COUNTY RESEARCH STATION.
In the center of the sign was the seal of the university, but freshly pasted across the seal was a blue and gold bumper sticker emblazoned, GO NITTANY LIONS.

Kathryn rolled down her window and listened. From the woods came the slow, heavy, rolling chant of the cicadas, already laboring in the rising morning steam. A thousand invisible wood crickets joined the lament, and blunt-bodied beetles, weighed down by the morning haze, buzzed slowly back and forth across the path.
The woods were thick and crowded with life, all groaning and complaining in the early summer heat.

Kathryn felt a shudder flutter down her spine. She fastened the top button of her white satin blouse and rolled the window up tight, instinctively glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure that each window had sealed completely. Then, flipping the air conditioning to high, she proceeded slowly down the gravel path.

Thirty yards past the red oak she came to a tall chain-link fence topped by a spiraling roll of razor wire. An unchained gate swung open away from her, and beside the gate was a bright yellow sign bearing a single word: BIOHAZARD. Below the sign was a piece of weathered poster board with a frowning face markered at the top. Below it in rough hand-lettering were the words Mr. Yucky says GO HOME.

“Strange sense of humor,” Kathryn whispered, and proceeded through the gate.

The road straightened and widened now, and she relaxed a little and accelerated down the path. Her eyes began to pool with tears when she remembered Peter’s phone call, less than three hours ago, with the gut-wrenching news that Jimmy McAllister was dead—and by his own hand. The coroner checked everything out. He was depressed, they had said. It was only a matter of time before something like this would happen. Everything fits; everything is in order; everyone is so sure.

Everyone but me.

Kathryn snapped back to attention at a buzzing sound from under the dashboard. To her utter horror, a single wriggling yellow jacket squeezed from the left floor vent and fanned its cellophane wings. Before she could even scream, the yellow jacket shot forward and landed on her left thigh just below the hemline, then crawled a few quick steps upward. Kathryn found her voice and let loose a scream, snapped both legs straight, and slapped violently at her leg. The car lurched abruptly left, and she jerked the wheel back toward the center of the road. The yellow jacket, now decidedly annoyed, shot upward and buzzed close across her face, then disappeared into the backseat behind her. She threw herself forward and flailed her right arm wildly over, around, behind her head. A venomous hiss sizzled past one ear, retreated, then streaked across the other.
With a shriek of terror and rage, Kathryn released the wheel with both hands and swung madly at the air.

In that instant Kathryn Guilford was no longer a thirty-year-old bank executive driving a shining silver Acura. Somehow, one tiny black-and-yellow insect had projected her back through time and space, back to that place that was so long ago and yet never far away … She was once again a seven-year-old girl in an upsidedown ’57 Chevy Bel Air.

The car weaved from side to side in a widening arc, then abruptly lunged from the road. With a crumple of metal and the dull whump of exploding air bags, it came to a final stop against a massive, smooth-faced silver beech.

She was stunned for only an instant—then she groped frantically for the chrome handle, flung open the door, and bolted out. She spun to face the car and her invisible assailant, her arms still beating at the air, backing away into the center of the road. Exhausted, she began to slow down and then stopped. She stood silently for a moment, panting, then lifted both arms and examined herself. Her navy blue A-line skirt was blotched with a musty white powder. Her blouse hung loose and her silver wire choker was nowhere in sight. She stared in dismay at her shoes, her legs, and her arms; she wiped her face with the back of her forearm and studied her hands.

Finally, she looked at her car.

The gleaming silver hood lay crumpled back, echoing the contour of the stately beech, and steam hissed up through the grill and from under both sides. The driver’s door was still open, revealing two limp air bags sagging from the console, and the once-spotless black interior was now blasted with the same white powder that thoroughly covered her.

Kathryn took a deep breath and inched back toward the car, hesitating at the open door; there was her purse, still resting in the center of the passenger seat. She ducked her head, anxiously searching every inch of air space inside. Then, with a lunge, she snatched her purse and scrambled backward, taking one last swing at the air in front of her face.

She dusted her skirt, straightened her blouse and hair, and then stopped. She listened again to the chorus of cicadas, crickets,
and beetles that now seemed to completely surround and press in on her. She stood for a moment weighing her options. She glanced back up the road toward the open gate now a quarter of a mile behind her. She could go back—but back to what? Back to ignorance and frustration and doubt? Back to where no one would listen or help? Back to a funeral where the truth would be buried forever along with the body? Along with Jimmy’s body …

She peered down the road in the direction of the mysterious biohazard, still nowhere in sight. She refastened the top button of her blouse and then, turning toward the invisible research facility somewhere in the distance, Kathryn Guilford continued to do what she came to do.

Ten sweltering minutes later her blue sling-back sandals were coated with gravel dust. Sweat ran freely down her face and neck, and her satin blouse clung heavily to the center of her back. Rounding a bend, she came at last upon a building—a pale green Quonset hut attached to a rectangular outbuilding at the back, forming a large T. The curved, corrugated surface of the roof was broken by a series of large skylights, giving it more the appearance of a greenhouse than a building. The gravel road dead-ended into a small parking lot directly in front of the Quonset.

In the parking lot were two automobiles. On the right was a tidy, silver-blue Camry; on the left was a faded, rusting relic that during some geologic era had been a ’64 Dodge Dart. The car slumped decidedly to the left; the original color was anyone’s guess. The backseat was split open across the top with puffs of twisted oatmeal poking through. The seat itself was piled with stacks of black and blue vinyl binders and thick stapled papers, accented by a single Papa John’s Pizza box on top. In the rear window black-and-gold Pittsburgh Pirates and Pittsburgh Steelers caps posed proudly side by side.

Kathryn stepped up onto the narrow landing, took one last accounting of herself, and knocked. There was no answer. After several moments she knocked again; still nothing. She turned and looked again at the two cars behind her. It occurred to her that the rusting relic on the right may not be in working order. Judging by its appearance, it may not have been driven since Watergate, but the Camry looked in perfect condition. Someone must be home.

Just then the screen door began to open, and Kathryn had to step back to make room for it. Behind the door stood a pleasant looking, round-faced little man no more than five feet in height. He was balding down the middle and long strands of chestnut hair were combed strategically from one side to the other. He wore small, round spectacles, which accented perfectly the roundness of his cherubic cheeks and nose. It was an altogether kind and friendly face.

“May I help you?” he asked, self-consciously raking his hand from left to right across the top of his head.

“I’m here to see Dr. Polchak.”

“You are?” His eyebrows rose up behind the little spectacles. “Is he expecting you?”

“No … Actually, I was just driving by, and I thought I’d stop in.”

He peered over Kathryn’s shoulder into the driveway. There was a silver-blue Camry and a Dodge Dart—nothing else.

“I … had a little car trouble.”

The little man seemed to come alive at this news. “Where are my manners? Please forgive me. Won’t you come in? Please do.”

Kathryn gladly stepped into the open doorway, anticipating the cool rush of air conditioning that is the salvation of every home and business in the South. Instead, to her dismay she found that it was just as hot inside the structure as it was outside—but without the breeze.

“Please forgive the appearance of the place—we’re not accustomed to receiving visitors here, especially such lovely ones. I am Dr. Tedesco, a research associate of Dr. Polchak,” he said, extending his hand. “You look dreadfully hot. Can I get you anything? Water? A cold drink?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine. If you could just tell Dr. Polchak I’m here?”

“Of course, of course.” He glanced back into the laboratory doubtfully. “And whom shall I say is calling?”

Kathryn reached into her purse and handed him a card. In green thermographic letters it declared: Kathryn Guilford, Central Carolina Bank & Trust, Commercial Mortgage Capital.

“And please—tell him this is not about banking.”

The little man held up one finger, winked, and scurried back into the lab.

The interior of the Quonset was a large, open rectangle. Light from the twin rows of skylights streamed down onto a long, double-sided worktable that occupied the center of the room. Worktables lined all four walls, in fact; stopping only for the doors at either end. The only open space in the room was a narrow aisleway that ran the perimeter of the room, separating the tables along the walls from the one in the center. On the far wall was a door, and the center of the wall was filled with one great, rectangular window looking out into the office beyond.

Kathryn watched the little man disappear through the door and approach a seated figure in the office beyond. The figure was facing away from Kathryn, bent over a desk, intently occupied by some task before him. The little man began to speak in his effervescent style, holding out the tiny business card and gesturing occasionally in Kathryn’s direction. The figure never moved or looked up; he simply continued to focus on the task at hand.