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ovipositor — a beak, if you will, connected to the creature’s reproductive tract that allows for rapid injection of eggs. Of even further interest is the fact that it’s the
father
beetle who accomplishes this. I was reminded of all this by your mention of violence-enabling fathers.”
Smile. A rueful glance at the empty glass. Arthur went on, “Once his mate’s eggs have been fertilized, the male takes it upon himself to assume full responsibility for the family’s future. He reenters the female, extracts the eggs, injects them into his own thorax and feeds the brood with his body tissue until a suitable host is found.”
“Liberated man,” muttered Jeremy.
“Quite.” Arthur twirled his martini glass, ate the pearl onion, placed his large hands flat on the table.
“What happened to the patient?”
“I scooped out the entire mass, taking pains to do it cleanly. Thousands of larvae, all quite alive, thriving quite nicely, thank you, because of the high protein content of young, American military musculature. No lasting damage to the poor lieutenant other than a scar and some tenderness for several weeks. And several months of rather disturbing dreams. He applied for and received a discharge. Moved to Cleveland, or some such place. The larvae didn’t survive. I tried to come up with substitute nutrition for the little devils. Agar, gelatin, beef broth, bonemeal, ground insect parts — nothing worked. The fascinating aspect of the case was that the very existence of this particular beetle had been under speculation for some time. Many entomologists believed it extinct. A rather interesting case. At least I thought so.”
“The male beetle,” said Jeremy. “Sins of the fathers.”
Arthur studied him. Gave a long, slow nod. “Yes. You might say that.”
5
J eremy and Arthur left the bar together and parted at the hotel’s revolving brass doors.
Jeremy was drunk, needed to walk it off, and he headed out to the street. A light rain had fallen. The sidewalks smelled of burnt copper; the city glowed. He walked to the fringes of downtown, entered dark, murderous avenues, unmindful of his own safety.
Feeling curiously uplifted — fearless — after drinking with the pathologist. The gruesome story of the soldier with the larval hump cheered him. When he finally drove home, his head was clear and when he reached his small house he thought,
What a pathetic little place. More than enough for someone like me.
Jocelyn’s belongings had been packed up and shipped to the police. Four cartons, she’d brought so little.
Doresh and Hoker had stood around during the packing, and Doresh said, “Mind if we Luminol the bathroom? It’s a chemical we spray and then we turn down the lights and if it glows—”
“—there’s blood,” finished Jeremy. “Go ahead.” Not bothering to ask, Why the bathroom?
He knew the answer. The bathroom was the place, if you were going to . . .
They sprayed and found nothing. Uniformed officers carried the four cartons away. It was only when they’d left that Jeremy realized they’d taken something of his.
A framed snapshot that had sat on his bedroom dresser. He and Jocelyn, walking along the harbor, eating shrimp from a takeout stand, a warm day, but windy, her head barely high enough to reach Jeremy’s shoulder. Her blond hair all over the place, masking half of Jeremy’s face.
He phoned Doresh, asked for the picture back, never received a reply.
He stripped naked, dropped into bed, figuring he’d be up half the night. Instead, he fell asleep readily but woke up in the early-morning hours, head pounding, muscles aching, brain clawed by images of voracious, cannibal bugs.
Stay out of my life, old man.
Arthur did.
Shortly after drinks at the Excelsior, as Jeremy tagged along during psych rounds, he heard the page operator drone his name. He straggled away from the mental health army, phoned in, picked up a page from Dr. Angela
Carol Wallace, Bill Wallance
Vic Ghidalia and Roger Elwood (editors)