Feast or famine, p.7
Feast or Famine, page 7
Remo grinned. “No one could ever replace me, right?”
“No one could ever replace you,” the Master of Sinanju agreed.
Remo’s grin widened.
“Without my guidance and assistance,” Chiun added. “And of course I would mourn. For a time. Not long. Enough to be seemly. Too much mourning would be unseemly. I will not mourn long. Only a prescribed interval.”
“Can it, Little Father.”
Chiun resumed his examination of the sleek aluminum wing, which he feared might fall off. It was a longtime phobia. It had never happened, but as Chiun was forever reminding Remo, aircraft fell out of the sky constantly. At least three per season—which was too many.
Remo remembered what the Master of Sinanju had said at the Manhattan morgue about the cause of death of the late medical examiner.
“Hey, Chiun. When is a bee not a bee?”
“When it is not,” Chiun said flatly.
“Care to elaborate?”
“My wisdom would be wasted upon small minds.”
“Bees are bees.”
“Except when they are not.”
“I saw a bee. A very tiny bee.”
“And you do not question what your eyes see?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Then you saw a bee.”
“What did you see?”
“A not-bee.”
“Is that anything like a knothole?”
“I will not answer your riddle because it has no answer,” Chiun said elliptically.
“Suit yourself. I’m going to catnap. It’s a long way to L.A.”
“With you snoring at my side, an eternity,” Chiun sniffed.
But Remo dropped off to sleep anyway.
He dreamed of stewardesses dressed in bumblebee uniforms. They kept trying to sting him with their fingernails.
Chapter Eleven
Los Angeles County Deputy Coroner Gideon Krombold was certain of his diagnosis.
“Dr. Nozoki succumbed to anaphylactic shock,” he was saying.
“I concur,” said his visitor. He was long of body, with the pinched, inquisitive face of a locust. His features twitched. Dr. Krombold thought Helwig X. Wurmlinger was twitchy because he was used to dissecting insects, not humans. But as his dark eyes lifted from a cursory examination of Dr. Nozoki’s undraped body, his face continued to twitch. The man clearly suffered from a nervous tic.
“The cyanosis, facial mottling, constricted windpipe and other symptoms all point to toxic systemic shock induced by hypersensitivity to a bee’s sting. In other words, death by anaphylaxis.”
“Did you discover the ovipositor?”
“No. There is a puncture wound. But no stinger.”
“Show me,” said Helwig X. Wurmlinger, his left eye twitching to the right. His mouth twitched in the opposite direction. He wore glasses whose lenses were as thick as ice pried off a midwinter sidewalk.
They distorted his tea-colored eyes into the swimmy orbs of a frog.
Dr. Krombold lifted a dead gray arm and turned it so the elbow was visible beneath the overhead fluorescents.
“Here.”
Wurmlinger took off his glasses, and his eyes jumped back to normal size with a speed that was unnerving.
He used one lens like a magnifying glass to inspect the dead man’s elbow.
“I see a puncture wound consistent with a bee’s sting, but there is no barb.”
“Maybe he scraped it out,” Dr. Krombold suggested.
“It is possible. That is the recommended procedure. But typically, those who are allergic to the toxins of Apis fall into respiratory distress very quickly. He would have to have had great presence of mind to have removed the stinger before collapsing.” Wurmlinger replaced his glasses and regarded Dr. Krombold with his froggy orbs. “Was there any evidence of a tool in his hand when he was found?”
“No.”
“Any sign of disarray?”
“No. In fact, he was found seated in his chair.”
“Wearing long or short sleeves?”
“Long.”
“Odd. A lone bee rarely stings though clothing.”
“But one could, am I not correct?”
“It is possible. The bee in question might have entered via a sleeve by accident and, becoming trapped, grew enraged. Was a bee found?”
“No.”
“Peculiar. No sting and no dead bee. Bees die after they sting, for the barbs prevent the stinger from being withdrawn from human flesh. The effort required for the bee to disassociate itself from its victim literally disembowels it. There should be a dead bee. It is inescapable.”
“I had Dr. Nozoki's office vacuumed. No dead bee was found.”
Dr. Wurmlinger’s face twitched in every direction conceivable. “Peculiar. Most peculiar,” he murmured.
“Maybe it flew away and died under something,” Krombold offered.
Wurmlinger shook his head firmly. “Upon losing its sting, the bee suffers immediate distress. It cannot fly and can barely crawl. This is much the same as losing a leg. It could not have gotten far.”
“Well,” Krombold said helplessly, “there was no bee.”
“There was no bee found,” Wurmlinger corrected.
“True.” Dr. Krombold cleared his throat. He was becoming uncomfortable with this pedantic entomologist. “Would you like to see the other victims?”
“No. I would prefer to see the contents of their thoraxes.”
“You mean stomachs.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“This way, Dr. Wurmlinger.”
In a laboratory, Dr. Krombold sorted through several blackish green piles of organic matter—the partially-digested stomach contents of Perry Noto, his wife, Heather, and their chef, Remy.
Wurmlinger was as methodically creepy as a night crawler, Krombold thought after watching him pick through the stomach contents and take tiny bits of insect matter to a waiting microscope for study.
Krombold had to leave in the middle of it, but Wurmlinger seemed as happy as a dung beetle in shit.
“I’ll wait for you in my office,” the deputy coroner said, closing the door after himself.
Wurmlinger nodded absently.
Dr. Krombold wasn’t in his office very long when a blond woman with the energy of a hyperactive Ritalin candidate stormed in.
“Are you the coroner who died?”
“Obviously not. That was Dr. Nozoki. I’m Dr. Krombold. Gideon Krombold. Who are you?”
“Tamara Terrill, Fox News.” She called over her shoulder. “Joe, get in here!”
“The name’s Fred,” said a man with a minicam for a face—or so it seemed to Krombold on first impression.
“Has Dr. Wurmlinger got here yet?” Tammy Terrill demanded.
“Yes. But he’s busy.”
Tammy showed him her portable mike. “I’ll talk to you first. Tell me everything.”
“You have to be more specific than that.”
“No time. Just spill your guts, and we’ll edit them in the studio.”
Dr. Krombold blinked.
“I’m talking about the killer bees. I know they’re out here,” Tammy prodded.
“Nonsense. Dr. Nozoki succumbed to an ordinary bee sting. The others—”
“Tell me about the others,” Tammy interjected.
“I haven’t yet finished telling you about Dr. Nozoki.”
“This is TV. We can’t dwell on stuff. People lose interest. Especially our audience.”
“You know,” Dr. Krombold said, picking up his desk telephone, “I think it would be best if you two left the building. I have not consented to an interview.”
“Too late. Once you’re on tape, the only way not to look bad is to go with the flow.”
Dr. Krombold jumped from his seat and pointed an angry finger at the minicam lens that was recording his complexion going from florid to brick red.
“Turn that thing off!” he blazed.
It was spoken in anger. Krombold probably never expected an instant response, never mind compliance. But he got both.
The cameraman let out a strident yell, screamed and the minicam hit the yellowed linoleum with a bang. The light fizzled out.
Tammy shouted down at the man, “What the hell are you doing, you clumsy—!”
The cameraman was on his back, going into convulsions. He gasped, the gasping turning to a wheezing with his face becoming as mottled as wine sprinkled on satin.
“What’s wrong?” Tammy demanded.
“B-b-b-b-bee!” he managed to say.
And up from between where his fingers were clutching his belly crawled a fat, fuzzy black-and-yellow insect. With a nasty ziii, it took to the air.
“Killer bee!” Tammy screeched, picking up a chair. “It’s a killer bee. Damn, and it’s not on tape.”
“Don’t become excited!” Dr. Krombold said. “Please calm down. It has stung your cameraman. It’s only a matter of moments before it dies a natural death.”
“I’m not letting it sting me,” Tammy shrieked.
“Be still. Don’t attract its attention,” Krombold urged, coming around from behind his desk. “It will die soon. And it can’t sting again. It has lost its sting.”
“Tell that to the damn bee,” said Tammy, trying to whack it with the chair.
The bee didn’t die. It buzzed around but Tammy kept it at bay with her chair.
Finally, it took up a position atop a file cabinet and turned around completely once, then sat there looking at them with its many-faceted eyes.
“Grab a rolled-up newspaper,” Tammy hissed, holding the chair between her and the intent bee. She knew that chairs were the best defense against knives. She figured a bee was just a tiny blade with wings.
“No need,” Krombold assured her. “It is dying.”
“You positive?”
“Bees can only sting once. Then they die. Dr. Wurmlinger said so.”
“Well, he’s the expert, right?”
Slowly, carefully, Tammy set the chair down.
She knelt over Bob or Ted or whatever his name was and shook him vigorously.
“Get up, you slacker.”
The cameraman just lay there. His eyes were swelling shut.
“Hey, I think he’s sick.”
Dr. Krombold jumped to her side. His expert hands went to the man’s throat, felt for a pulse, opened one eye and then the other and tested the open mouth for the warm breath of respiration. He found none of those signs of life.
“This man is dead,” he said.
“I knew it! I knew it was a killer bee.” And grabbing up the fallen minicam, she trained it on the bee.
“Smile for America, you little monster. I got you now.”
The harsh light fell upon the bee. In response, it lifted its wings and launched itself at Tammy.
Venting a shriek, Tammy then launched the minicam at the bee, praying the tape would survive a second jolt.
Bee and camera collided in midair. The camera hit the floor for the second time.
This time, the bee came roaring back. It flew straight up into the air and attempted to dive-bomb Tammy. She slithered out of the way, grabbed up a newspaper and made it into a tight, hard roll.
“I’ll teach you, you little bugger!” she screamed.
Her first swipe missed. The second, coming on the backswing, knocked the bee clear out into the hall. It landed on the black-and-white diamond-pattern linoleum of the hall with a distinct but tiny clink.
“Where did it land?”
Dr. Krombold eased out into the corridor. “I can’t see it.”
Then the bee crawled onto a white diamond from a black one.
“There!” said Tammy, descending on it with blond fury. The newspaper smacked it hard.
“Got it!”
But the bee wasn’t dead yet. It continued to crawl.
Tammy hit it again.
Smack.
She hit it twice more and, when it still wouldn’t die, unfolded the paper and dropped it square on the stubborn bee. Amazingly, the paper marched along the floor, pulled along by the still-not-dead insect.
“What does it take to kill you?” Tammy complained.
This time, she stomped on every crumpled inch of the newspaper with both feet.
“I think I got it this time,” she panted, stepping back.
“It’s dying anyway,” Krombold said.
When Tammy lifted the paper, the bee was still intact. It just hadn’t moved much.
“I fixed its fuzzy ass!” Tammy chortled.
The bee then resumed its painful crawling.
Before Tammy could descend on it again, it crawled under a closed door. The funereal black letters on the frosted panel said Togo Nozoki.
“Damn, that is one ferocious bee,” she panted. “No wonder they’re feared from Brazil to Mexico.”
“It looked like an ordinary bumblebee to me,” Krombold allowed.
“That shows how much you know,” Tammy snorted. “That was a killer bee. An Africanized killer bee. Loaded with neurotoxins and other poisons lethal to people.”
Dr. Krombold frowned. “I must be mistaken…”
“About what?”
“I think we should bring Dr. Wurmlinger into this.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Chapter Twelve
Dr. Helwig X. Wurmlinger was no different from any child who went through a normal bug period. He just never grew out of his.
There was no insect on earth he didn’t know, but he specialized in what others called pests. He was the leading authority on the social life of fire ants, on scuttle-fly dispersal and migration patterns of the corn borer.
He knew whiteflies from gypsy moths, and could tell the summer temperature from the pitch of the cicadas chirring in the trees.
It was true that not all of the multitudinous species of insects on earth had been cataloged and classified. But Wurmlinger was the first to identify every insect of his native Texas, the state with the greatest diversity of insects in the United States. He could at a glance distinguish an ant thorax from that of a wasp, although they were in fact closely related. He could tell the forelegs of a praying mantis from the hind legs of a grasshopper and separate wartbirt from field crickets.
And after three hours of methodical sorting and classifying, he came to one inescapable conclusion: the owners of La Maison Punaise had not ingested any portion of any species of bee known to man.
He rendered his expert opinion when Dr. Krombold returned with a rather breathless-looking young blond woman in tow.
“The victims in question didn’t die from ingesting bee parts or associative glands or toxins,” he said.
“Forget them!” the blonde snapped. “We got a killer bee cornered in an office. It just murdered my cameraman.”
“How do you know it’s a killer bee?” Dr. Wurmlinger said, twitching in curiosity.
“It zapped my cameraman, and he died just like that!” Tammy snapped her fingers once. “It’s a damn shame he didn’t have the presence of mind to point the lens back on himself. It would have made great pictures. Death by killer-bee sting.”
“No, you misunderstand me. How do you know it was an Apis mellifera scutellata?”
“A what?”
“Bravo bee, or so-called killer bee.”
“It looked like one. It was big and yellow and fuzzy.”
“Africanized killer bees are not distinguishable to the naked eye, and they are not in any way or shape fuzzy,” Wurmlinger noted.
“This one was.”
“I would like to see this bee with my own eyes.”
Dr. Wurmlinger was led to the locked door of the office that formerly belonged to Dr. Nozoki. He gave the dead cameraman a sidelong glance and, evidently finding him less interesting than a live bee, ignored him.
“I have the key,” Dr. Krombold offered.
“Is this safe?” Tammy asked. “Maybe we should spray some Raid under the door.”
Wurmlinger visibly flinched. “No doubt the bee is dead by now,” he said.
Dr. Krombold unlocked the door and pushed it open gingerly.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” Wurmlinger assured him.
Tammy had retrieved her minicam and had it up on her shoulders. The light was burning hot, but the protective glass was broken, exposing the hot bulb. Faint vapor curled out from it.
Dr. Krombold went in first and looked around. His puzzled gropings caused Tammy to say, “It crawled in, remember? Look on the floor.”
Dr. Krombold did. “I see no bee,” he reported.
Thereupon, Wurmlinger entered and gave the room the benefit of his practiced eye.
There was no bee on the floor. Nor was there a bee, dead or otherwise, under the heavy mahogany desk. He looked in other places. Behind a trio of beige filing cabinets. In the wastepaper basket. Even at the base of a human skeleton suspended from a chain on some kind of dull metal standard.
The brownish white bones, held together by steel wire, rattled.
“No bee.”
Tammy had slipped into the room. She directed the hot beam all over, saying, “This ought to flush the little bugger out.”
“It is no doubt dead by now,” Wurmlinger insisted.
“I’ll believe it when I see its fuzzy dead behind.”
Wurmlinger started and gave Tammy a goggly look. “You say the bee was fuzzy?”
“Very. It looked like a tiny black-and-yellow mitten.”
“You are describing the common bumblebee.”
“There was nothing common about this guy. He had more lives than Felix the Cat.”
“Bumblebees are not aggressive by nature. They rarely sting.”
“That one stung. We all saw it.”
Wurmlinger frowned. “It could not be the morphologically similar male drone honey bee. They are not equipped by nature with a modified ovipositor, or stinger. It is impossible for it to sting. Nor do drones possess venom sacs. The drone can neither sting nor inject poison, possessing neither biological apparatus. Yet bumbles are not violent.”
“Find that bee, and you’ll see different,” Tammy insisted. “It’s vicious.”
This time, everyone searched except Tammy. She was busy working her minicam. She rolled tape as she blazed light in every direction.
In the end, they were forced to give up. There was no sign of the bee or its tiny furry corpse.
