Outside, the sheriff paused for a moment, looking from the empty garage across the spreading lawn to the elegance of the building—the fantail window over the door, the Greek pilasters, all the trimming done with craftsmen’s passion for perfect detail. It was a waste of breath to say they didn’t build them that way anymore. And this lawn that generations of Scotts had tended. It wasn’t easy to grow this lush a green carpet around a Yarkie house in the salt air. The gardener had done well with the flowers, too. Portulacas, and the pink petunias like his own wife favored, and hollyhocks, with columbine and daffodils. The plants seemed to be opening in expectation of the promised rain. The colors of the petals seemed somehow brighter in the dark day than they did in bright sun. Another paradox, but it was the contrast, he supposed.

The wind was blowing leaves off the elm trees almost as if it were already fall. Well, August did bring autumn pretty early up here, especially in a long dry spell.

At the loveliness of the spot, anger shook Amos Tartell. This beauty and the decent people who lived in it should not be at the threat the scientists were talking about! Rampaging cockroach armies on Yarkie!

At the edge of the garage wall a motion caught his eye. His heart turned over. One of them? It disappeared around the corner. Tarbell tiptoed after, holding his breath, squinting at the cement floor. There! A cockroach at least five inches long, like a loathsome living cigar, was vibrating its antennae up at him. Violent hatred churned in the officer. He remembered what the scientists had said about these bugs not having emotions, but this lurking roach seemed to be daring him, even taunting him. Along with its acrid odor, he took in a maliciousness from the creature that iced his blood.

Tarbell looked around alertly. Was this a vagrant, or were there others? No, this bastard seemed alone.

In a reflex of his own, the man hopped forward. He landed on the roach with all his weight. Even through his thick sole, he felt the shell cracking and smashing. It was a noise as soul-­satisfying to him as it was abhorrent. In a cursing fury, the man kept turning his shoe on the floor, wanting to grind the creature out of existence.

When finally Amos Tarbell looked down, he glared at splinters of shell flattened in a disgusting mash of dirty liquid and innards.

Disgusting. Like the odor of the dead cockroach, stronger now. The smell. Tarbell recalled what the scientists had said about the phero-­somethings that were signals among them. This acidy stink might be a cockroach SOS to muster the tribe. He’d better get the hell out anyway. He wiped the bottom of his shoe furiously on the grass, kicking back and forth. He hurried to the police car.