Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (92 page)

Or so he hoped.

Next they came to the long stables and Nick hesitated at the open door. He could hear the sounds of the horses breathing and stamping in their stalls. He knew the horses would quickly pick up Trygg's scent, and he knew they would find the scent unfamiliar—but he didn't know how they would respond. The last thing he wanted was an entire stable of horses panicking and bolting from their stalls; that would bring everyone in the house running, and he would have a difficult time explaining his presence there—especially to Riddick. He took Trygg around the outside of the building instead and let her sniff at the walls and foundation; he hoped that the generous cracks in the board-and-batten siding would allow any scent to pass through. Trygg took her time, searching the entire building carefully, but once again found nothing.

Not far from the house was an old hay barn, clad in siding weathered gray from age and the bleaching effects of the sun. The barn had twin doors that were framed in flat wooden trim and crisscrossed with a decorative
X
; each door was supported by a pair of metal wheels at the top that allowed it to be rolled aside. Nick shoved hard against one of the doors and it slowly began to give way—but the rusted wheels made a loud groaning squeak and he stopped. He looked back at the house and held his breath—Riddick could easily have heard the sound from this distance— but he saw no porch light switch on or door swing open, so he tried the barn door again, pushing it a little at a time, easing it open until there was a space just wide enough for the two of them to slip through.

He heard a skittering sound at his feet; he looked down and saw half a dozen startled barn rats scatter in every direction. He quickly reached out to silence the dog, but Trygg just stared at the rats disinterestedly, as if they were nothing but dust balls blowing across the floor. To Nick's surprise he was able to see reasonably well; the old plank roof was so thoroughly split and cracked that it allowed long shafts of moonlight to illuminate the floor, and the dust that lingered in the air made the beams of light appear almost solid—like the columns of a great stone building.

He looked around the barn; it appeared to have been abandoned long ago—just another decorative element on the Bradens' faux farm. The stalls that lined the walls were empty except for a crumbling hay rake and a few other relics rusting from decades of disuse. The floor was compacted dirt covered by a thin layer of scattered straw. The walls were bare except for the occasional coil of rope or dust-encrusted oil lantern; there seemed to be no bins or closets of any kind—no place where a body might be concealed—but Nick still allowed the dog time to wander the barn and sniff each corner thoroughly.

Nothing.

They squeezed out the door and Nick carefully eased it shut again. He looked around the grounds; there were only a couple of outbuildings left and he was beginning to lose hope. Maybe he was wrong; maybe Riddick wouldn't have taken a chance on bringing Alena here. Maybe he did dump her body somewhere along the way, knowing that it would eventually be discovered but counting on the fact that no one would connect the murder to him. Riddick was probably right—there was no physical evidence that would implicate him. Nick's rental car, wherever it turned up, would probably be found wiped clean of prints—and there would be no evidence at Alena's trailer except for the tire tracks from Nick's own vehicle. There were bullets that could be recovered from the two dead dogs, but Riddick wasn't stupid enough to hang on to the gun—they'd never get a ballistics match. What was Nick supposed to tell the authorities—“I know he did it because a dog told me”? He could level the accusation, he could try to raise suspicion, but he knew none of it would stick.

He walked slowly toward the next of the outbuildings with Trygg by his side. There was nothing else to do but finish what he had started— but he had the sinking feeling that he was finished already.

Suddenly his shadow appeared on the ground before him in a field of brilliant blue—someone had switched on a security light back at the house. Nick snapped his fingers and took off running, hoping that the dog would follow and that he could reach the outbuilding before they were spotted. Just as he ducked into the shadow of a small shedrow barn, he heard a door swing open behind him. He pressed back against the side of the barn and peeked around the corner; in the distance he saw Riddick exit the Braden house and walk across the grass toward the old abandoned hay barn. Nick adjusted his glasses and looked carefully—he had nothing in his hands.

As Riddick approached the front of the barn, Nick lost sight of him; the barn itself was blocking his view, but he could hear the squeaking of the metal wheels atop the doors—Riddick was opening them. He was apparently entering the barn—but why? Of all the outbuildings Riddick might be expected to visit, the hay barn would be last on Nick's list—there was nothing inside. Nick did a quick mental review of the interior of the barn and the objects he had seen there—he could think of nothing that might interest the man. Then why was he there?

He surely went to the barn for some reason: either to drop something off, or to bring something back, or to pay a visit to something inside—or possibly some
one
. The thought gave Nick a glimmer of hope. He'd know soon enough; he sat down and waited, making sure Trygg stayed deep in the shadows behind him.

Minutes passed.

Nick waited—but as he waited he found his hope slipping away. He had already been inside the barn, and there was no place to hide a body there. Even worse, Trygg had already searched it too—and one of the finest cadaver dogs on the face of the earth had found no trace of Alena Savard.

39

Alena opened her eyes but saw nothing—everything around her was black. She couldn't be certain that her eyes were even open; she blinked hard twice to make sure. Maybe she was dreaming; maybe she was still asleep and only imagining herself waking up—but when she felt the throbbing pain in her skull she knew this was no dream.

She was lying on her right side with her arms pulled tight behind her back. Her right shoulder ached terribly and she tried to twist her arm out from under her body—but when she did she found that her wrists were bound together with some kind of sticky tape. She lifted her head and felt bits of grass and debris clinging to her cheek; she seemed to be lying on a hard dirt floor. When she moved her head, the pain in her skull became excruciating, radiating from the crown downward in agonizing waves. She felt her stomach begin to heave, but when she tried to open her mouth to gag she realized that another strip of tape prevented her lips from parting. The thought of choking to death on her own vomit horrified her, and she put her head down again and lay perfectly still, breathing slowly through her nose.

She tested her legs—they were taped together at the ankles. Her right side was almost numb and she wanted to try to sit up, but not until she was sure that her nausea was under control. She lay still for a few more seconds, steeling her nerve and steadying her stomach—then all at once swung her legs around and brought herself up to a sitting position. She almost fell back again; it felt as if someone had driven a railroad spike through the center of her brain. She sat quietly sobbing with her head hunched over her knees, praying for the pain to stop and for someone to help.

Where am I?

She tried to think back, but her mind was still thick and muddled by the pain. She could remember sitting in her trailer; she remembered hearing the sound of a car outside—Nick's car. But it wasn't Nick inside the car, it was a stranger—a man she had never seen before. Acheron attacked—the man pulled out a gun—he fired! She remembered now: Acheron was dead—no,
two
of her dogs were dead. The memories came flooding back all at once and she shut her eyes hard to fight back the grief.

She remembered running toward the kennels, the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, then a flash of light and a searing pain in her head—a pain that was even worse now. The man must have hit her with something—maybe his gun—then tied her up and brought her here. But where was
here
? Where was the man now? And what was he planning to do to her next?

Nick—where are you?

She stared into the blackness around her; she could see now that the room was not completely dark—faint, pencil-thin shafts of light radiated down from above. She looked up; the flat ceiling looked to be about eight feet over her head, and it didn't appear to be one solid surface. Dots and dashes of light penetrated the ceiling everywhere, suggesting that the ceiling was constructed of strips of wood with thin gaps in between.

She tucked her taped ankles under her thighs and rocked forward onto her knees, then with great difficulty struggled to her feet, tottering precariously as she fought to keep her balance. Now she knew how Trygg must feel. Standing was difficult one limb short, and it was even more difficult to move—she had to travel in short broken hops, and each time her feet hit the floor a blast of pain echoed through her skull.

With just a few short hops she bumped into a wall. She turned her face to the side and felt the surface with her cheek; it was made of smooth wooden planks. She turned her shoulder to the wall and shoved against it, but the wall was solid—it didn't budge an inch. She began to hop forward, rubbing her shoulder and arm along the wall as she went, hoping to find a window or a door—some way she might get out. In just a few steps she came to a corner; she turned and followed the next wall, then the next, until she was back where she started again. She leaned her back against the wall to rest, drenched in sweat and breathing hard through her nose. She had hoped to find a nail or a splinter projecting from the wall somewhere, something sharp enough to allow her to cut through the tape that bound her wrists and ankles, but she found none. It was a small, square room, no more than ten feet on a side, and there were no doors or windows anywhere. No way in, and no way out.

How did I get in here?

She looked up again, and this time she noticed bits of dust and dirt drifting down in the blue-white shafts of light like tiny angels descending from heaven. Suddenly she understood: She was looking up at the floor. This wasn't a room at all—it was some kind of pit.

She slowly slid down the wall until she rested on the dirt floor again. There was nothing she could do other than wait—but she was terrified at the thought of what she might be waiting for. There was no sense letting fear get the better of her, though; she tried to calm herself, deliberately slowing her breathing and trying to project her thoughts to a better place.

Then she heard a loud rolling squeak from somewhere above her— like the sound of a closet door that had slipped off its track. She pulled her feet under her and struggled upright again; she looked up and waited. A moment later she heard heavy footsteps on the wooden planks over her head; the steady shafts of light were suddenly shattered into a thousand bits of confetti, and pieces of dirt and straw drifted down on her head. Someone was standing directly over her now. She rammed her shoulder against the wall but it made no sound at all; she jumped up and down and stamped her bound feet, but the dirt and straw absorbed the impact. On the third jump she came down askew and lost her balance, falling silently onto the floor. She looked up and saw the figure's shadow moving away—he was leaving! In panic she filled her lungs with air and emitted the loudest muffled scream her sealed lips would allow—a kind of piercing groan that savaged her vocal cords but made dismally little sound. She did it again and again until her voice began to fail—and then she saw the ceiling begin to move.

It lifted from one end, opening like the lid of a lunchbox; dirt and straw rained down everywhere, and she shut her eyes and turned her face away.

“You're awake,” a man's voice said. “I was beginning to wonder if I hit you harder than I thought—not that it matters much.”

She instantly recognized the voice—it was the man in Nick's car. She squinted and looked up at him; she could see nothing but a towering silhouette standing and staring down at her.

He squatted and dropped down into the room beside her.

Alena scooted away until she collided with the wall; she felt as though a python had just been dropped into the pit.

“It's an old threshing floor, in case you're wondering. Sorry about the rats. Have you bumped into any yet? Sorry—maybe I shouldn't have mentioned them.”

She used the wall to struggle back to her feet again.

The man stepped closer and looked her up and down, then held up one finger and wiggled it. “Let's see the head.”

She turned away.

He grabbed her by the jaw and jerked her closer. He twisted her head to one side and ran his fingers roughly over the crown of her skull—it hurt terribly.

He rubbed his fingers together. “You're okay—not even a drop of blood.” He turned her head forward again and brushed the hair back from her face. “The Witch of Endor,” he said. “So how come people think you're a witch? You look pretty much like any other woman to me—better than most.”

Alena wished she could drive a knee up into his groin, but her ankles were bound tight. All she could do was twist her face away from him and shove one shoulder into his chest, hoping he got the idea.

He released her and let her fall back against the wall.

“Your boyfriend was here looking for you, in case you're interested. You know—the weird guy with the funny glasses. He stopped by a few minutes ago—that's why I thought I'd better check on you—but you look okay to me.”