The force of the breath pushed his swaying body the other way, and Helwig X. Wurmlinger felt himself tipping precariously even as his mind assured him screamingly that this couldn't be happening.
Fortunately, Remo caught him and carried him stiff as a stick to the bed and left him there, immobile. Time passed. Considerable time. During which the pair left without a word of farewell.
Having no better option, Helwig X. Wurmlinger drifted off to a mindless sleep.
When he awoke hours later, the slide containing the only known specimen of Luscus wurmlingi in the world was gone.
But at least they had left his Bee-Master collection intact.
And when he went out into the yard, the dead soldiers had begun fruiting, their mouths and empty eye sockets squirming with the most lovely maggots imaginable.
AT A PAY PHONE, Remo called Harold Smith.
"You want the bad news first or the good?" asked Remo.
"Why do you always have good news and bad news to report?" Smith asked glumly.
Remo looked to Chiun helplessly. Chiun got up on tiptoe, cupped the mouthpiece with one hand and whispered briefly into his pupil's ear.
"Because we're thorough," said Remo, into the phone. "Isn't that right, Little Father?"
"If we bear only bad tidings and not good, or good tidings, but no bad," Chiun said in a too-loud voice, "we would be accused of doing our duty without sufficient diligence. If in the future, Emperor Smith prefers not to know certain things, let him tell us of these things in advance and we will scrupulously avoid them in our travels."
Smith sighed.
"Give it to me as you wish," he said glumly.
"Okay," said Remo. "Wurmlinger isn't our man."
"How do you know this?"
"We know when a guy is lying to us. He wasn't. He's just a bug nut, pure and simple. And the only bees we found were sick ones."
"That proves nothing."
"But we found a whole bunch of dead guys scattered around. Ever hear of the Iowa Disorganized Subterranean Militia?"
Smith was silent, so Remo assumed he was working his silent keyboard. A sudden beep confirmed this. Then Smith said, "I have almost nothing on them other than they are commanded by a former corn farmer named Mearl Streep."
"Well, that gives us one solid motive. He jumped to the same conclusion Tammy Terrill did and tore off to avenge the cornfields."
"Odd," said Smith.
"What?" asked Remo.
"I have input his name, but the system keeps spell-correcting it and giving me information on a Hollywood actress."
"Forget it. Those guys are out of the picture," said Remo. "Oh, there was one of those talking guard bees here. It tried to warn us away from Wurmlinger."
"Is that not proof of his complicity?" asked Smith.
"Nope. Not to us."
"Then we are at a dead end," Smith said morosely.
"Not exactly. The Bee-Master tried to sting us again. This time, he sent one of those swarms after us. You know, the things that got that guy in Times Square."
"What did they look like?"
"They looked like the way bees sound, only louder and meaner."
"Excuse me?"
"They're too small for the naked eye to see. We beat them off, but captured one. I guess it died in all the excitement."
"You have another bee specimen?"
"Sort of. It's no bee. It looks like something out of a monster movie except it's smaller than a nit."
"Remo, an insect that small would be microscopic."
"This one practically is. And it's the ugliest thing you ever saw. What do you want us to do with it?"
"Bring it here."
"We're on our way."
Hanging up, Remo turned to Chiun. "I guess it's back to Folcroft for us."
Chiun held the glass slide up to the afternoon sun. "I pronounce you ...Philogranus remi."
"What does that mean?" asked Remo.
"Seed-lover Remo."
"Why are you naming it after me?" Remo Hared.
"Are you not both brainlessly drawn to corn seed?" huffed the Master of Sinanju.
Chapter 41
Edward E. Eishied couldn't be wrong. He wasn't wrong about Wayne Williams. He hadn't been wrong about the Green River Killer.
How could he be wrong about this?
All events leave a mark. All minds create emotional or circumstantial footprints. That was the key. Figuring out the whys and the wherefores of criminal acts.
A serial killer had been assassinating people who had only one thing in common: insects. They either killed them, or ate them and killed them. Therefore the unknown subject felt a kinship with insects.
That much seemed reasonable.
Eishied had generated a profile. Certain elements were basic. Well educated. A WASP. Drove a Volkswagen Beetle. It was amazing how many serial killers were WASPS who drove VW Bugs. The irony of that linkage had never occurred to Edward Eishied until these insect-related serial killings. He wondered if this might open up an entirely new psychological aspect to serial killers, but he had no time for that now.
He was the FBI's chief profiler, and the word coming back from ASAC Smith was that his profile was in error. An UNSUB fitting the profile perfectly had been investigated and it wasn't him.
When he received the e-mail message from ASAC Smith to that effect, Eishied had e-mailed back, "Then look for another UNSUB fitting that profile. I have never been wrong."
ASAC Smith had replied almost before the message was sent:
"Your profile is in error."
To which Eishied rebutted, "Your data may be in error."
Smith said nothing to that. Maybe he was steamed, but Eishied took the silence as a signal to keep working.
So he did.
There were certain unavoidables. The UNSUB had to be highly educated. An idiot doesn't breed new kinds of insects. That was a given.
The UNSUB was a Charlotte Hornets fan, but maybe that wasn't an indicator of geographic locality as much as a need to announce his kink to the world.
The longer Eishied pondered the facts in the case, the more maddening it became.
For some reason, his mind kept drifting back to his childhood. There used to be a cartoon character on TV. Bee-Man. No, Bee-Master. Yeah, that was the name. Guy could fly like a bee, sting like a bee and control bees like a queen bee, even though there was nothing fey about him. Other than his leotards, that is.
Maybe it was the long hours. More than likely, it was the growing indignation Edward Eishied felt that his ability as a profiler had been called into question. But he decided to have some fun with ASAC Smith. He began typing.
UNSUB was traumatized by multiple bee stings as a child. As time went on, he learned to master his fear of the insect kingdom. A more serious tragedy in his young adult life-possibly the murder of parents or spouse-had caused him to dedicate his life to causes he believes to be worthwhile. However, owing to trauma, even this positive expression takes a dark turn.
It was as near as he could dredge up the thirty-year-old memory of the origin of the Bizarre Bee-Master. "UNSUB's initials will be 'P.P.,'" he added, grinning in the privacy of his office. "Let that Smith bastard figure this one out," he chortled, and he pressed the Send key.
Chapter 42
Harold Smith was looking at the insect through a microscope borrowed from the serum lab of Folcroft's medical wing.
Remo and Chiun were hovering beside his desk like expectant parents.
"Brace yourself," said Remo as Smith brought the slide into focus. "It's uglier than sin."
"I have named it Philogranus remi," sniffed Chiun, "in honor of its corn lusts, but its hideousness of countenance also played a role in my decision."
Remo glared at Chiun.
"A minor one," Chiun amended.
Smith brought the slide into focus. His rimless glasses lay on the desk. One eye was pressed to the microscope eyepiece.