Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (67 page)

The driveway looped like a shepherd's crook in front of the house; in the center was a fountain with a bronze statue of two rearing stallions in apparent combat. Nick parked his car and approached the house. The front door was actually two doors, both very wide, and Nick wasn't sure which one of them would open—so he pushed the doorbell and stepped back a little, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds the door on the left slowly swung open, and Nick felt a rush of cold air.

“May I help you?”

The man holding the door was not what Nick had expected: He was tall and athletic-looking, dressed in a dark suit with wavy black hair to match. Nick blinked; the man looked more like an Italian swimsuit model than a butler.

“I'm here to see Senator Braden,” Nick said.

The man looked Nick over doubtfully.

“You'll have to excuse my appearance,” Nick said. “I came directly from work.”

“Work?”

“Yes—I'm in charge of the investigation at the Patriot Center.”

“Do you have an appointment with the senator?”

“I only need a few minutes.”

“Sorry—the senator isn't at home right now.”

“I was told the senator would be here for the next couple of days.”

“Who told you that?”

“Like I said—I'm in charge of the investigation.”

The man considered this.

“Look,” Nick said, “tell the senator I have information for him about a recent development at the Patriot Center—tell him it's something he'll want to know.”

“You can leave the information with me,” he said.

It was Nick's turn to look doubtful. “No offense, but—who are you?”

“I'm head of the senator's security force.”

“And he's got you opening doors?”

The man frowned a little. “We have to be careful—you never know who might show up unannounced.”

“Well, this information is confidential—for his ears only. I'll leave if you want me to, but I don't think your boss will be happy about that.”

The man hesitated but finally opened the door and stepped aside. “Come in,” he said. “The senator isn't here, but he's on the property— he's doing a little hunting right now. I can reach him by cell phone; I'll ask him if he wants to see you. Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Dr. Nick Polchak.”

“Does the senator know you?”

“Not yet.”

“Wait in there—that's the senator's study.”

The man disappeared around a corner and Nick wandered through the foyer and into the study. The room was cavernous, with a tall cathedral ceiling and shaved log beams that spanned the room from one end to the other. There was a desk in the center of the room so large that Nick thought anyone sitting behind it would look like a child. The walls were covered with so many framed certificates and diplomas and the display cases were crammed with so many awards that he wondered if the senator could have actually earned them all.
Who knows? Maybe he inherited those too.
To the right of the desk was a seating area, where four small upholstered chairs formed a half-circle around a stately leather wingback—Nick had no doubt whose place that was. In the far right corner, under a brilliant halogen accent light, was a stuffed black bear standing in a ferocious attack position—jaws open, teeth glaring, paws held high. Nick shook his head; he wondered if bears were ever stuffed in a sleeping position, or with their backs turned, running away.

Nick turned to his left, and to his surprise found two men standing at a round table, dressed in dark suits like the man who answered the door—except that they wore white shirts with ties. A set of blueprints was on the table in front of them—and right now they were looking at Nick.

“Sorry,” Nick said. “Your boss told me to wait in here.”

“Who?”

“Your boss—the guy who answered the door.”

Both men grinned. “We're Secret Service,” one of them said. “That guy's just some private security flunkie.”

“He said he was head of the senator's security.”

The man chuckled. “He is, for a couple more weeks—then we take over.”

“I thought you people only guarded the president and people like that.”

“No, we cover presidential candidates too—starting a few months before the election. Do you mind? We've got a lot of work to do here.”

The two men returned to their blueprints and Nick returned to wandering the room—but he kept an ear tuned to their discussion. They were studying blueprints of Bradenton's farmhouse and grounds, identifying the vulnerabilities and deciding where security would need to be enhanced.

Nick pointed to a door in the corner of the room. “Excuse me—is that a bathroom?”

One of the agents looked up. “I think so, yes.”

“Do you think the senator would mind?”

“I'd leave the seat down if I were you—Mrs. Braden uses it too.”

How convenient
, Nick thought. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

When he emerged again the security guard was waiting for him in the doorway. “Dr. Polchak—the senator will see you.”

Nick looked at the office. “Here?”

“No—I'm to take you to him. Do you ride?”

Nick blinked. “If you're driving, I'm riding.”

“Horses, Dr. Polchak. This is a horse farm.”

“I'm not very good with large animals,” Nick said. “Have you got anything with wheels?”

“We'll take the Land Rover. Follow me.”

They exited by a back door into a parking lot between the house and a long outbuilding with multiple doors—stables, Nick guessed. They climbed into the car and started down a gravel road that led away from the farmhouse; a half mile later the gravel road ended and they continued to drive across open fields. Nick kept wondering where the property would end, but there seemed to be no end in sight.

“I didn't get your name,” Nick said.

“Riddick—Chris Riddick.”

“The two guys in the senator's study—they said they were Secret Service.”

Riddick didn't respond.

“And I understand you're private security. When did you sign on?”

“About three years ago.”

“When Braden started to draw more attention?”

“That's right.”

“When does the Secret Service take over?”

Riddick paused. “A hundred and twenty days before the election.”

“That's only a few weeks from now.”

“Thanks, I figured that out.”

“When the Secret Service takes over, what happens to you?”

Riddick jerked the steering wheel to the left, throwing Nick up against the passenger door. The Land Rover lurched up and over a small rise, then bounded down the slope on the opposite side. Just before a stand of tall hardwoods he slammed the brakes, bringing the car to a skidding stop.

Nick released his grip on the dashboard and looked at Riddick. “This concludes your jungle adventure—please watch your step on the way out.”

Riddick opened his door and got out. “This way.”

Nick followed him toward the trees; as he approached, he heard a flurry of wings and saw a gray-and-white bird rise from the grass just a few yards away. There was an echoing blast followed by a puff of feathers— then the bird fell silently back to earth.

“Thanks for flushing that one,” Braden said, stepping out from the shadow of the trees. He thumbed the lever on his over-and-under, and the shotgun folded in half; he pulled two smoking hulls from the barrels and dropped them into his left jacket pocket. “Rock doves,” he said. “You can't eat 'em, but they're good for target practice. They're in season year-round—they're a nuisance species.”

“Who are they bothering?” Nick asked.

“Senator, this is Dr. Nick Polchak,” Riddick said. “He says he has news for you.”

Braden approached and eyed Nick warily. “This had better be good, Polchak—you're interrupting my personal time, and I don't get much of it. Let's have it.”

“We found two more bodies at the Patriot Center.”

“More of those double graves?”

“That's right. The bodies were deposited exactly like the others: in shallow pits on top of existing graves. That makes four, Senator—if the remains all indicate foul play, the Patriot Center case will be officially classified as a serial killing.”

“The papers will be all over that.”

“No doubt.”

“What else have you got?”

“Not much. We've excavated twelve graves so far—at least deep enough to know that there are no extra bodies in eight of them; that still leaves us seventeen more to go. The remains have all been shipped back to Quantico for analysis. We should get preliminary results in a couple of days. We've got four bodies so far—you should expect more.”

“You drove all the way out here just to tell me that?”

“No. I came out here to ask you something.”

“And what's that?”

“What can you tell me about this graveyard?”

Braden paused, then looked at Riddick. “Chris, I wonder if you could give Dr. Polchak and me a little privacy.”

Riddick straightened. “Senator, are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Well, son, since I'm standing here holding a twelve-gauge shotgun, I think we can afford to take a chance, don't you? Why don't you wait in the car.”

“That's a good idea,” Nick said. “You can review the driver's manual while you're waiting.”

Riddick reluctantly left and Braden turned to Nick again. “Who exactly are you, anyway?”

“I'm the lead forensic specialist on this investigation.”

“You're with the FBI?”

“No—I was hired by the FBI. I'm a forensic entomologist.”

“And you think I might have information about this graveyard— information I haven't yet revealed. I don't believe I like the sound of that.”

“I think you might have information you don't know about.”

“And how's that?”

“I understand you've got deep roots here—dating back to Jamestown, I believe.”

“The Bradens are one of Virginia's founding families. I'm very proud of that.”

“I'm sure you are. A family like yours keeps records: birth certificates, baptismal records, marriage covenants, title deeds—burial records too. It must be quite a collection after four hundred years—a small library, I would imagine. Somewhere in all that information there could be a mention of this graveyard. I've checked with the regional library in Endor—they have no grave registries for the area around the Patriot Center. Maybe you do.”

Braden looked at him without expression. “It's Nick, isn't it? Mind if I call you Nick?”

“Everybody seems to,” Nick said. “Sometimes I wonder why I got a PhD.”

“Well, Nick, I'm gonna tell you something—not because I need to, because the fact is you're working for me and I don't owe you a thing.”

“I thought I was working for the FBI.”

“You go right on thinking that. The truth is, this slowdown at the Patriot Center could cost me millions—and I don't have millions to lose right now, because in case you haven't heard, I'm running for president. That takes money, Nick—a whole lot of it. I don't need deep roots right now, son; I need deep pockets. Nobody wants this fiasco taken care of more than I do, so yes—I have family records—and I've already been through them. If I had anything more to tell you, I would have told you already.”

Nick watched his eyes as he spoke.

“Any more questions?”

“Just one—but I don't think you'll like it.”

“I've got thick skin, son—I've been dragged across the Senate floor a time or two.”

“In your records, is there any mention of bad blood with some other family? Some kind of family feud, perhaps?”

“You're asking about those four extra bodies—you're wondering if someone in my own family might be responsible for that.”

“Whoever buried them had to know the graveyard was there. That limits the field considerably.”

“Yes, it does. But as I said, my family has no record of that graveyard— so that eliminates my family, doesn't it?”

Nick paused. “If you say so.”

“Are we done here, Nick? Is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing: I understand your wife has pretty deep roots here as well.”

“Victoria? That she does.”

“She's from the town of Endor, isn't she? Would you mind if I spoke with her? She might know something that you don't.”