Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (80 page)

“A little.”

Nick looked toward the lake and spotted Trygg stretched out peacefully beside the water. She no longer wore the red bandanna with the polka-dot pattern.
It figures
, Nick thought. The bandanna was probably like a necktie, something the dog wore to work but couldn't wait to get out of at the end of a hard day. “You can't blame her for being tired,” he said. “She sure put in a long night.”

Alena looked up. She immediately clapped her hands and summoned the dog to her side.

“Why don't you let her rest for a while?” Nick said. “You know—‘let sleeping dogs lie.'”

“She wasn't resting.” Alena waited until Trygg sat motionless beside her, then made a quick tossing motion; the dog returned immediately to the lake and began to sniff along the edge of the water.

“What's going on?”

“Wait.” Alena dropped her head and let her hair hang down over her face. She watched the tips of the long strands drift in the direction of the lake. She waited; after a few seconds the strands hung motionless, pointing directly at the ground—and then they began to drift back toward her body.

“Now,” she said, and looked up—just as the dog lay down again beside the water.

“There's one more grave,” she said.

“Where?”

“Out there somewhere—in the lake.”

26

“Hello again.”

Agnes didn't bother to look up. “Library closes in five minutes— checkout's closed already.”

“That's all right, I'm not looking for a book. I was wondering if I could have a word with you alone.”

Agnes looked at the man. He was tall and handsome, dressed in a black blazer and a crewneck shirt.

“Remember me?” he said with a smile.

“You were with my Victoria today.”

“That's right. I didn't get a chance to introduce myself this afternoon. I'm Chris—I've been your daughter's chief of security for almost three years now.”

“Security?”

“Yes, ma'am, that's my job. Your daughter has become quite an important person, you know. She has to be careful; she needs someone to look out for her.”

“Then—she told you about me?”

“She was barely out the door before I knew all about it. You should have seen her—she was so excited.”

“Really? I wasn't sure—she seemed in such a hurry when she left.”

“I think she was just overwhelmed at first. Imagine how she must have felt—meeting her own mother for the very first time. She thought you were dead—she didn't even know you existed—that's a lot for a person to take in all at once.”

“I didn't mean to upset her—I wouldn't hurt her for the world.”

“The important thing is that you told her. She's so glad you did.”

“She is? She said that?”

“She sure did. Your daughter and I have become very close in the last three years—she tells me everything. That's why I'm here tonight. She asked me to come; she sent me.”

“Why didn't she come herself ?”

“Like I said, your daughter has become a very important person. She can't just jump in a car and drive off by herself. There's always a driver and at least one assistant and, of course, there's always me—and then there are the reporters and the photographers who follow her wherever she goes. What you told her today was very personal, and she wants to keep it that way. That's why she sent me instead.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants me to say thank you and to tell you how much she loves you—and she wants me to tell you she's sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For the way things have to be right now. She'd just love to tell everyone about you, but news like this would be very distracting just before an election. She hopes you understand.”

“I do—of course I do. I know Victoria can't have an old sow like me around—that's why I did what I did. I only wanted her to know, that's all.”

“She also wants you to know how sad she is.”

“Sad? Why is she sad?”

“She feels cheated. It's like she said in her speech today: She didn't get to grow up here. Now she meets you and she feels like she missed out on even more. She has no photographs, no mementos—she feels like her entire childhood is one big blank.”

“I have plenty of photographs. She can see them anytime she wants.”

“She told me all about the wonderful scrapbook you put together for her. I sure wish I'd had a chance to see it. I wonder—is there any chance I could take a look?”

“I'd be more than happy,” Agnes said. “You come with me.”

Riddick followed Agnes into the small room off the lobby and watched as she unlocked the lower drawer and pulled out the leather-bound scrapbook. He noted the drawer's location and looked at the lock; it was a simple single-tumbler device that any moron with a bobby pin could pick. He looked at his watch.
Closing time, Grandma—time to go home so I can get to work.

He watched over her shoulder while Agnes turned the pages, showing him the photographs, the birth records, the adoption papers. He shook his head in amazement and grinned from ear to ear.
Poor Victoria
, he thought.
Looks like you're not the purebred you thought you were—no wonder you just about had a coronary today. Poor little Victoria—or should I say, poor little Beulah? Given away by her own mother to a family on the other side of the tracks. Hey, who says you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear? Your folks sure did. Man—what would happen if the wrong people got their hands on this? Can you imagine, Victoria? 'Cause I sure can.

“This is just wonderful,” Riddick said. “Are these documents originals?”

“Every last one.”

“I don't suppose you have any copies? I'd love to surprise Victoria with them—I know she'd die to have them.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't. These things can never leave this room.”

“I understand completely.”

“Would you like to see the other scrapbook too?”

Riddick looked at her. “What scrapbook is that?”

“Victoria left in such a hurry, I never got to show it to her.” She bent down to the drawer again and pulled out a second scrapbook almost equal in size to the first. She set it in front of Riddick and began to turn the pages.

Riddick threw back his head and laughed.

“How's it goin' at the Patriot Center, Elgin?”

Sheriff 's deputy Elgin Tate swiveled around on his barstool and looked at the table behind him. “Evenin', Mr. Decker—didn't see you sit-tin' there.”

“Thought I'd stop off for a quick one on the way home.”

“Haven't seen you here before.”

“First time. Good crowd—looks like a popular place. I asked where all the sheriff 's deputies go after work—cops always know the best watering holes. Can I buy you one?”

“I was just about to head home to the wife.”

Decker pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. “Sit for a minute. Don't make me drink alone.”

“Just one then.” Elgin moved from the crowded bar to the table.

“So how was your day?”

“No complaints.”

“What's new at the Patriot Center? Find any more bodies?”

“Nah. Looks like four is all there is—now they're just haulin' up all those coffins.”

“I bumped into that bug man up in Endor. What a character.”

“Nick? Real smart fella—a little strange, though.”

“Did you get a look at those glasses of his? Spooky.”

“He puts in a long day's work, I'll give him that. I'm usually there before sunup, and sometimes Nick's already there.”

“I did a little interview with him this evening. He says he thinks that cadaver dog woman might be dead.”

“He said that?”

“Not directly, but he sure hinted at it. Do you think it's possible?”

“It's a little early to think that. Did Nick say why?”

“Let me run a theory by you. See what you think of this: Suppose somebody saw Marge on the evening news admitting that she found all those graves. Suppose somebody saw that interview—somebody who didn't want any more graves to be found—so they killed her. What do you think?”

“I think it would be a real shame. Marge didn't find those graves.”

“What?”

“Nah—that dog of hers couldn't smell fish in a bucket.”

“But she said she did.”

“Nah. She was just wishin' real hard.”

“Then who found the graves?”

“The witch.”

“Who?”

“Yep—saw her drivin' out one mornin' just as I was pullin' in. Musta worked all night. Nick was there—he could tell you.”

“Did you say
witch
?”

“The Witch of Endor. The woman's got powers; she can talk to animals; she can raise the dead.”

Decker looked at him for a long time before he finally waved to the bartender. “Let's get you that drink,” he said.

27

Victoria sat down on the plush rolled-arm settee, slid off her black-and-silver Giuseppe Zanottis, and slowly massaged her heels. She looked at her closet, which spanned one entire wall of the dressing room. She tossed the shoes onto the closet floor and watched them tumble to a stop. She looked at all the other pairs of shoes—dozens of them—perfectly aligned heel-to-heel and toe-to-toe on their own little slanted shelves. She wondered who put them away every morning; she wondered who picked up all the dresses and blouses and slips she left hanging from chairs and doorknobs every night.

Beulah.

The name kept haunting her—she couldn't get it out of her mind. Twice that afternoon she had turned and looked, imagining that someone had whispered the name behind her—but there was no one there.

Beulah.

She began to undress, then stopped and looked at herself in the closet mirror. She stood up a little straighter; she turned her head from side to side and looked at her cheekbones and jawline. She lifted her chin and patted the skin of her throat with the back of her hand.

She felt numb—the kind of aching emptiness you feel after fear and panic have left you dry. She kept thinking about Agnes—about her
mother
—and she couldn't bear to put the two thoughts together. She thought about the scrapbook again—the photographs, the birth certificate, the adoption papers signed by the only parents she ever knew. She kept wondering if it could somehow be a mistake—a joke—a ploy—but the look on the old woman's face told her it was all true. She tried to imagine her first six months of life in some trashy trailer park in Endor— she couldn't do it. She remembered lying in bed as a little girl, feeling a proud sense of destiny as she imagined her noble ancestors—and it was all just a fiction compiled by a librarian with no husband and no future. She felt robbed—she felt
raped
—as though a part of her own soul had been stolen.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the bedroom door; she pulled on a robe and wrapped the belt around her waist. Halfway across the bedroom, the door opened slightly and her husband slipped his head inside.

“Darling? A word?”

“Come on in, John.”

The senator stepped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him. He was dressed in a crisp cotton bathrobe with wide lapels and square-cut shoulders that looked good enough to hold a press conference in. He was clean shaven as always—the senator always shaved twice a day to avoid that incriminating Nixon shadow. His hair was neatly combed and fixed, and it occurred to her that she had almost never seen his hair mussed—as though the wind was somehow cooperating with his press agent. She glanced down at his legs and noticed a sharp crease in his pin-striped pajamas.
Starched pajamas
—something really bothered her about that, and she wasn't quite sure what it was. She tried to remember if it had always bothered her, but she couldn't.

“What's this I hear about Endor?” the senator asked.

She felt a cold jolt in her gut. “What do you mean?”

“I hear you're planning to move there.”

“What?”

He grinned. “From what they tell me, every living soul in town fell in love with you today—one man can't hope to compete with that.”

She let out a breath. “That's not funny, John.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“It was a long day, that's all.”

He walked to the end of the bed and sat down. “I caught your speech. I thought it was perfect. Was that Evan's work?”

“He wrote the rough draft—I added a few touches of my own.”