She shrieked a resounding "Eureka" when she came to an illustration in the version of The Killer Bees, copyright 1977, that showed a projection graph of killer-bee migration that predicted they would reach New York by 1993.
"Perfect!" she added, rushing off to make a photocopy.
Leaving the library, clutching her notes, she found her cameraman eating a hot pretzel with mustard at a vending cart.
"I got everything I need," she said, waving her notes in his slowly chewing face.
"Except a talking head of an expert," the cameraman reminded.
"Expert what?" asked Tammy.
"On bugs, natch."
"Oh, damn. Where do I find one of those?"
"That's what news directors are for. Ask yours."
CLYDE SMOOT, news director of WHO-Fox, listened patiently to Tammy's breathless recitation of factoids and said, "You're on to something."
"I knew it! I knew it!"
"But you need a talking-head expert," he added.
"Told you so," the hovering cameraman said.
"Where do I find one?" Tammy asked.
"In the Fox research library," Smoot said.
"We have one of those?"
"For paranormal stories, absolutely."
And crooking a finger, Smoot motioned Tammy to follow him.
In a room marked Storage, he flicked a light switch and rummaged through shelves of black videocassettes. Finding a certain one, he popped it into a deck and fast-forwarded it to the end.
"Isn't that Fox Mulder?" Tammy asked, squinting at the off-color image.
"Yeah."
"Since when is an 'X-Files' episode considered news research?"
"Since it's the killer-bee episode."
"They did one?"
"Here's the end credit." Smoot slowed the tape down. Eerie music floated through the air, and he hit Pause.
"What's that?" Tammy asked.
Smoot laid a finger on a jittery line in the end credits and read it aloud.
" 'Special thanks to Helwig X. Wurmlinger, special consultant.'"
"On what?"
"If this were the poltergeist episode, I'd say poltergeist. But it's the killer-bee episode, so it's gotta be-"
"Killer bees!" Tammy cried joyously.
"There you go. Call the 'X-Files' production office in Toronto, and they'll point you in the right direction."
"Shouldn't I air a preliminary report first?"
"With stuff from stuffy old books and morgue shots? No way. We need a talking head for credibility."
"Oh, all right..."
At her desk, Tammy worked the phone.
"I'm doing a story on killer bees," she explained.
"They're old hat," the "X-Files" production office told her.
"My story will prove they've hit New York. A guy's already plotzed with his brain eaten out."
"Damn!"
"What's the problem? You're way down there in Canada."
"Canada is up. And we already did a killer-bee episode. We can't do another. We're already in secondary syndication."
"Tough break. Now, how about Wurmlinger's address?"
"All my Rolodex has is a telephone number."
"Shoot," said Tammy.
After hanging up, Tammy immediately dialed the number of Helwig X. Wurmlinger.
"Hello?" a low, buzzing voice said.
"Is this Earwig Wurmlinger?"
"It is not. And I cannot talk to you at present."
"This is for TV."
"I will have no statements until I have examined the victim."
"Which victim?"
"Why, the deceased medical examiner, of course."
"I saw the autopsy. They think it's bee poison."
"Toxin. Bees produce venom. Poison is another secretion entirely."
"How about I meet you at the New York morgue?"
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Because I am about to catch a flight for Los Angeles and the L.A. County morgue."
"But the New York morgue is here in Manhattan," Tammy protested.
"I do not know what you are talking about, but the stricken medical examiner is in Los Angeles."
"Are we talking about the same M.E.? Died of a bee sting?"
"A suspected bee sting. After autopsying a person who appeared to have succumbed to the same malady."
"There are killer bees in L.A.?"
"I deal in theories," Helwig X. Wurmlinger said stiffly, over what Tammy realized was a background buzzing.
"And I deal in coincidences," exulted Tammy. "I'm on my way to L.A. See you there."
Turning to her cameraman, she said, "It's a bicoastal story. Can you believe it? Bicoastal. My story has gone nationwide, and I haven't even been on the air yet!"
Chapter 10
On the flight to Los Angeles, Remo found he had time on his hands.
The flight attendants were ignoring him as if he didn't exist. There was only one exception.
"Don't I know you?" asked a fleshy blonde whose lips were so red they were almost black.
"Search me."
"You look familiar to me," she said as she lowered his seat-back tray and laid down a monogrammed napkin.
"All stewardesses look the same to me," Remo said truthfully.
"How's that?"
"Hungry for love."
"I'm happily married," the blonde said disdainfully. Her name tag said Loma. Her eyes went to Remo's thick wrists. Recognition bloomed in them.
"I know you! I served you on a Detroit flight a few years ago." Then, memory clarifying, she blushed a beet red. "Oh."
"Don't tell me," said Remo. "You tried to sit on my lap while I was standing."
"I-I wasn't married then," she stammered. "Would you like a refreshment, sir?"
"No," said the Master of Sinanju, who was indifferent to stewardesses.
"And you?" she asked of Remo.
"Mineral water."
As she poured mineral water into a short plastic glass, the stewardess said, "I want to apologize for my behavior."
"Apology accepted."
"I don't know what possessed me. I never tried to sit in passengers' laps, married or not."
"No problem. I put it behind me a long time ago."
"Did you age or something?"
"No."
"Lose weight?"
"No," said Remo, taking the glass. "Why?"
"It's just ...I don't know what I saw in you." Her fingers flew to her mouth. "Oops. That just came out."
"Don't sweat it," Remo said sourly as the flight attendant bustled on to the next row.
In his seat, Remo's face darkened in cast.
"What troubles you?" asked Chiun.
"I don't know... I think I'm starting to miss stewardesses falling all over me."
"Stop eating malodorous carnivorous fish, and they will return to their former predatory ways."
"I wonder if I'm going through a midlife crisis."
"Not unless you are planning upon dying young, and if you are, I would consider advance warning a boon, for I must train your replacement."
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?"