Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (98 page)

Braden blinked in astonishment. “Why not?”

“Because I don't think this is a winning ticket anymore.”

“Don't be a fool, Victoria—this would cost you everything too.”

“Would it? I'm not so sure. See, I'm only in the first scrapbook, and I can survive that. And as for the second scrapbook, who can blame me for that? I'm just the victim of a bad marriage. How could I have known what a degenerate you were when I married you? It's guilt by association, that's all. Thank heaven my saintly mother was able to uncover all this before it was too late—and it's too bad that the stress of it all drove her to such extreme measures.”

“You're out of your mind,” Braden said.

“Am I? I can survive this, John—but not you. You're more of a liability than an asset to me now. I'm better off going on alone.”

“It would mean the election—the end of everything we've worked for.”

“
We?
I'm not sure I've ever heard you use that word before.”

“Victoria, why are you doing this?”

“You figure it out. The election's over, John—we're out of it. You're out of it for good; me, I'm not so sure. I just might wait for the smoke to blow over and make a run for it myself four years from now. Who knows?”

She took the copies from Brad and looked at him. “If you're looking for a job, let me know. I can always use a bright young man like you. The pay would be the same—and if it's not enough, we can talk about benefits.”

44

By midmorning the Warren County Sheriff 's Department was on the scene in force, barricading the wooded area with black-and-yellow crime scene tape while a CSI team was busy collecting forensic evidence under the supervision of the local coroner. The day was clear and hot, and the morning mist had already lifted from the ground; Nick and Alena stood beside Nathan Donovan, watching as the coroner made his initial observations.

“There's significant bruising on the throat,” the coroner said. “That indicates a prolonged struggle prior to death. The hyoid bone is broken; that's a sure sign of strangulation. There are bite marks on both sides of the neck, but the punctures are small and there's relatively little blood— that indicates the wounds themselves were not the cause of death.”

“Then what was?”

“I can tell you that,” Alena said. “Suffocation—his windpipe was crushed. But it wasn't Phlegethon's fault. He only did what I trained him to do.”

“And what exactly was that?”

“To take the intruder down by the throat and to hold him there until help arrived. Phlegethon would never kill anyone on purpose—he barely even broke the skin with his teeth—but once he has you by the throat, he won't let go no matter what.”

“That's true,” Nick said. “Trust me on that point.”

Alena nodded. “He must have tried to get away. He shouldn't have struggled—I would have told him that but I never got the chance.”

“He got as much chance as he gave you,” Nick said. “He got what he deserved.” Nick stepped a little closer. “You know, if we just left him here, at this temperature the blowfly and flesh fly maggots would reduce his body to a skeleton in a little over two weeks. If you look at the soft tissues around his eyes and nostrils, you can see where they've already begun to lay their eggs—it looks like grated cheese.”

“Thank for sharing,” Donovan said. “We can all hack up our donuts now.”

“No kidding, it's an amazing thing to see.”

“Sorry we have to miss that—but I think the coroner plans to take him away.”

“What happens now?” Alena asked. “They won't try to take my dog away, will they?”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Donovan said. “A security dog attacks an armed intruder on private property—it was obviously self-defense. You shouldn't have any problems.”

Donovan's cell phone rang and he stepped away to answer it.

“Now what?” Alena asked.

“Now the FBI starts asking all kinds of questions,” Nick said, “and unfortunately some of them don't have answers. Why did Chris Riddick try to kill you? Was he doing it to protect Victoria Braden, and if so, was he acting independently or under her authority? That's the one unfortunate thing about his death—nobody can ask him. And you can bet the Bradens will deny ever knowing the guy—they'll make him out to be some whacked-out employee who just went off the deep end. We know why Agnes killed four men, including your father—but why is there a two-hundred-year-old body at the Patriot Center that was killed in the same manner? The truth is, we may never know.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Donovan said, dropping his cell phone into his shirt pocket. “Two of our agents paid a visit to the Bradens early this morning—and you're right, Nick, they've denied everything. According to Victoria Braden, Riddick had become paranoid about losing his job. He was with her the day she visited Endor; they stopped at the library, and the old librarian showed them the scrapbook. Victoria says she took the news in stride but Riddick went ballistic; he thought the news about his boss's true identity would cost the Bradens the election, and that would mean his job for sure. So he decided to go after Alena—acting independently and without his employers' knowledge— to keep her from digging up any more dirt.”

“Did your people actually believe her?”

“Not at first—but then she showed them the other scrapbook.”

“What other scrapbook?”

“It seems the old librarian put a second scrapbook together, and this one held a lot of dirt on John Braden himself. Apparently Braden isn't the nobleman he thought he was; his ancestors stole all their landholdings from another family and murdered anyone who was able to expose them—then buried them in existing graveyards.”

“The two-hundred-year-old body,” Nick said. “All four victims must have been part of that family.”

“Exactly. Riddick knew about the second scrapbook too, and he figured the Bradens could never survive both scandals at once—so he decided to intervene.”

“And Victoria just handed this scrapbook over to you?”

“She said she had hoped to keep it a secret until after the election— but the moment she learned what Riddick had done she immediately handed it over. She said that she and her husband plan to go public with it—tell everyone all about it before it leaks into the papers anyway. They figure they'll take the ethical high ground and hope the American public is in a generous mood.”

Nick frowned. “Do you buy that?”

“No—but it doesn't matter what I ‘buy.' It only matters what I can prove, and I can't prove otherwise—yet.”

Nick looked at Alena. “Don't you have a liar-sniffing dog somewhere?”

“Sorry—I'll get to work on that.”

“I need to ask you a lot of questions,” Donovan said to Nick. “Can you stick around for a couple more days?”

“Yeah—I can do that.”

“I'll give you a call. Get the cell phone out of your car and put it in your pocket—you'll get better reception that way.”

“Thanks for the technology update. Can we go now?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Nick, I owe you one—and sorry for all the trouble, Alena. You shouldn't have any more.”

Nick and Alena started back through the woods toward the trailer. “Donovan's right,” he said. “Things should get back to normal around here pretty soon. No more intrusions on your privacy. No more late-night interruptions. You won't have to worry about me climbing your fence anymore.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I was starting to get used to it.”

They walked in silence until they reached the clearing in front of the trailer. When Alena saw the black lump still lying across the trailer door, she stopped in her tracks.

“Would you do me a favor?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Help me bury my dogs.”

It took three hours to roll the dogs onto plastic tarps and drag them into the woods, then dig two shallow holes and cover them with earth. Nick knew that the burial afforded little protection to the dogs' remains; the few inches of loose topsoil offered no protection at all against the insects that were already at work reducing the bodies to bone and fur. But Nick knew equally well why burials were important, and it had nothing to do with the dead. A burial is a ceremony done by the living, for the living. A burial is a chance to say good-bye, and Alena deserved that chance.

They stood leaning on their shovels and staring at the fresh mounds of dirt.

“It's not fair,” she said.

“What's not fair?”

“A dog lives only one year for every seven that a human being gets. You barely start to love them before they're gone.”

“A blowfly only lives a few weeks,” he said.

She frowned. “Nobody can love a fly.”

“That shows what you know. My life is one long funeral.”

She laughed in spite of herself.

“So what's next for you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You found your father; you got your little white towel. Now what?”

She reached into the pocket of her gown and took out her father's dirt-encrusted buckeye. She pushed it once.

CLICK clack.

“I'm a dog trainer,” she said. “It's what I do. It's what I love. Tomorrow I'll make the rounds at the local animal shelters. I'll talk to the dogs. I'll find one that can do what Acheron did—one with the right gift. Then I'll bring him back here and I'll train him—one step at a time.”

“Good. That's your gift.”

“I guess I won't be wandering the woods at night anymore. That should free up my evenings—in case you're ever in the mood to climb a fence.”

“Great—I'll bring my neck brace.”

She let her shovel drop to the ground and turned to face Nick. She brushed the hair back from her face and looked up into his eyes. The morning sun rising behind him set her emerald eyes on fire.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“You came back for me. You don't know what that means. You just can't . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Nick cocked his head to one side. “You know, I've been thinking.”

“About what?”

“Dogs and insects—they both detect the scent of death in very similar ways.”

“So?”

“I don't think they've ever been studied together. A blowfly can pick up the scent of human remains from two miles away. Can a dog do that?”

“Not likely—but can a blowfly find a body after it's been dead for a hundred years?”

“Not a chance. You know, I wonder if we might have an opportunity here.”

“An opportunity?”

“For further study. I was thinking—maybe the Department of Entomology at NC State could host a study. Dogs and insects—it would give us a chance to study them side by side—to compare their relative strengths and weaknesses.”

“Are you asking me to come to Raleigh?”

“Just for a couple of days—maybe a weekend. Dogs and insects—it's never been done. I just thought—maybe—the relationship should be explored.”

She smiled. “Dogs and insects. That could be interesting.”

I must be out of my mind
, he thought.
A woman who loves dogs and a man who loves insects—we'll never agree about fleas.

“It really isn't fair,” she whispered.

“What isn't?”

“Life. You barely begin to care about something before it goes away.”

He looked at her face. It was an almost perfect face, and he began to notice features that he had never seen before: her upturned nose, her milky white skin, the faint constellation of tawny freckles arrayed across her cheeks. But there was something about her eyes—the clarity, the brilliance, the almost mystical power that seemed to grab hold of him and draw him closer.

He began, almost in spite of himself, to slowly lean toward her.

CLICK clack.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following individuals and agencies for their assistance in my research for this book: Morris Berkowitz, CBP Supervisor, Canine Enforcement Training Center in Front Royal, Virginia; my research assistant, Samuel Thomsen; Dr. John Strasser of Kildaire Animal Medical Center; John Smathers of Falls Church, Virginia; and all the others who took the time to respond to my e-mails, letters, and calls.

I would also like to thank my literary agent and friend, Lee Hough of Alive Communications; story editor Ed Stackler for his insights into story, pacing, and character development; copy editor Deborah Wiseman for her unerring red pen; my publisher, Allen Arnold; and my editor, Amanda Bostic of Thomas Nelson, for her helpful suggestions on the story; and the rest of the Nelson staff for their kindness and dedication to the craft of writing.