Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (78 page)

“I've seen this before,” Victoria said. “This is my family tree.”

“I'm very proud of that,” Agnes said. “It took months to make it all up.”

“You—made it up?”

“See, I wanted to find you a good family—but to find you a good family you needed to come from a good family, and mine just wouldn't do. I'm a librarian, sweetheart—I just looked up some old Virginia families and dropped you into one. That way you got a good start
and
a good finish. What more can a mother give her little girl?”

Victoria turned the page—there were her adoption papers. She looked at the bottom and recognized her parents' signatures. “You're listed here as my foster parent.”

“What else could I tell them? I don't exactly fit in that fine family tree. I told them your real parents died in a car crash, and I guess that's what they told you. Didn't that work out nice?”

Victoria's head was spinning. It had to be a mistake—but there were records. It could all be a lie, but the birth certificate contained a footprint and there was a lock of hair—it could all be verified. She turned and looked at Agnes as if for the first time. She studied her face: the shallow forehead, the thinning hair, the mottled flesh, the sagging neck and chin—

“I—I have to go,” she stammered, turning for the door.

“But honey, wait—there's so much more to see. I have another whole scrapbook to show you!”

Victoria shook her head and kept moving forward.

“Victoria! Victoria!”

She stopped in the doorway and looked back. She saw the old woman smile.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”

She stumbled across the lobby and out the front door. She took only a few seconds to collect herself before hurrying down the sidewalk toward her waiting entourage.

Behind her, the library door opened again and Riddick stepped out.

“Oh, yeah,” he said with a grin. “Welcome home.”

24

“Mind if I join you?”

Nick looked up from his dinner. He didn't recognize the man smiling down at him.

“You're Dr. Polchak, aren't you? You're the bug man Nathan Donovan called in at the Patriot Center.”

“And you are?”

“Paul Decker, WRTL.”

“You're a reporter.”

“Hey, you're quick. Can I sit down, or do I have to stand here and watch you eat?”

Nick glanced around the Endor Tavern & Grille. “I see a lot of empty tables.”

“A reporter never eats alone.” He pulled out the chair across from Nick.

“That's because reporters don't eat—they just suck blood.”

“Now, that's no way to talk. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Are you looking for an interview?”

“Always.”

“Then talk to the FBI liaison officer at the Patriot Center—he'll be glad to oblige.”

“I was hoping to interview you.”

“If he gives his permission—in writing—I'll answer any question you've got.”

“I just want to know if there have been any recent developments at the Patriot Center. I haven't been there all day—I was stuck here in Endor covering Mrs. Braden's visit.”

“Lucky you.”

“Do you have any idea how boring this town is?”

“Poor baby, you had to follow Victoria Braden around all day. I can think of more boring places to point a camera.”

Decker looked down at Nick's plate. “What is that? Is it any good?”

“Are you a reporter or a restaurant critic?”

“I'm a guy who hasn't had dinner yet.”

“I believe the menu refers to this as ‘Number Five.'”

“How is it?”

“They're off by three.”

Decker leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “What's this I hear about your cadaver dog trainer disappearing?”

Nick looked at him. “I don't know. What did you hear?”

“C'mon, Nick—can I call you Nick?”

“No. A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

“Well, for starters, I heard the police are looking for her.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From a sheriff 's deputy at the Patriot Center.”

“Elgin,” Nick said. “He's a nice guy, but he needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“It would have been public knowledge in another day or two.”

“But you're planning to make it public before that.”

“That's my job. News is all about timing. Get the story a day early and it's news; get it a day late and it's history. It's a lot like your job if you think about it.”

“How do you figure that?”

“There might be a serial killer around here somewhere. Maybe he'll have a change of heart and confess; maybe he'll get tired of all the publicity and turn himself in. But you're not willing to wait for that to happen, are you? You want to figure it out now, whether he's ready to talk or not.”

“There's a slight difference,” Nick said. “I'm trying to dig up dirt on the bad guy—you're doing it to the people in charge. People can get hurt that way.”

“Is that what you think happened to the cadaver dog trainer?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Doesn't it seem like an odd coincidence that she disappeared the day after she did that interview with me?”

“You did that interview?”

“That's right.”

“Tell me something, Decker. Did the FBI give you permission to interview her?”

“Are you kidding? They gave me permission to stand in their nice little playpen and ask polite questions. You don't get a story that way.”

“But you might get the facts, if you're interested in that sort of thing.”

“I love facts—when they make a good story. I understand she was staying at the Skyline Motel, where you are.”

“I believe that's public knowledge.”

“And she disappeared the day after the interview—right after she found all those graves. Think she went on a bender somewhere?”

“It's possible.”

“But she left her dog behind.”

“Maybe he's not a party animal.”

He smiled. “You know, I like you. You and I are a lot alike.”

Nick pushed his plate away. “There goes the rest of my appetite.”

“You didn't like her, did you?”

“Who?”

“Marge—that's what they tell me you called her. I'll bet she loved that.”

“You should hear what I'll call you when you leave.”

“Can you think of anybody else who didn't like her?”

“I'd talk to the dog if I were you—he had means, motive,
and
opportunity.”

Decker paused. “Then you think she's dead too?”

Nick leaned toward him and rested his elbows on the table. “You know, our jobs do have something in common: A criminal investigation is about timing too—it's about who did what and when. That's what I'm trying to figure out here, and I just might be able to do it if people like you don't screw it up for me. So if you've got a job to do, go do it— but don't expect any help from me. Elgin never should have talked to you; Marge shouldn't have either, but they were both too inexperienced to know any better. I don't have that problem.”

Decker grinned. “Good speech—can I quote you?”

“How? We never met.”

Decker got up from the table. “Well, if we had met, it would have been a pleasure. Tell me, do you eat here every night?”

“There aren't many options in Endor.”

“Then maybe I'll see you here tomorrow.”

“I thought you were eager to get back to the Patriot Center.”

“I'm eager to find a story,” he said. “I have a feeling there might be one around here.”

Nick watched him as he left. The last thing he needed was a reporter snooping around Endor. How long would it be before he heard about the “Witch of Endor” and began to get suspicious? Maybe he'd never make the connection—but Nick kept thinking about something Decker had said: “You and I are a lot alike.” What bothered Nick most was that it was true; Decker was the kind of guy who wouldn't stop digging until he found what he was looking for. The problem was, when he found it, he would broadcast it all over northern Virginia.

Nick's cell phone rang. He opened it and pressed it to his ear. “Nick Polchak.”

“Nick, it's Carlyn down at UVA.”

“How's the research going?”

“Good and bad.”

“I was hoping for a little more detail.”

“I checked for the grave registries like you asked me to—no luck. I did find two sources listed in the online card catalog that might possibly have included those registries—but the books themselves are both missing.”

“Any record of when they were last checked out?”

“They're part of a special collection, Nick—they can't be checked out.”

“They were stolen?”

“Or lost, or misshelved—all I know is that I can't find them. I can't even say for sure that the grave registries were inside—but they might have been.”

“Who else might have a copy of those books?”

“I did a query with the Library of Congress; I'm also checking with the Library of Virginia down in Richmond and the Virginia Historical Society, but I wouldn't get your hopes up. Special collections contain a lot of one-of-a-kind books.”

“So you have nothing to tell me. How much has this cost me so far?”

“Wait, there's more. When I couldn't find the grave registries I began to ask myself, ‘Where else might the location of a graveyard be mentioned?'”

“And did your self come up with anything?”

“Yes—oral histories.”

“Oral histories?”

“They started collecting them back in the thirties—personal recollections and reminiscences. You know, ‘My mother told me that my grandfather once said . . .' UVA has some terrific collections, along with a lot of diaries and memoirs and random information like that.”

“How does that help us?”

“Formal histories tend to be written around grand themes, like politics and economics and so on. These collections are more slice-of-life stuff—simple descriptions of what people did on a day-to-day basis. They're fascinating—by far the best way to get a feel for what life was really like back then.”

“I believe we were talking about graveyards.”

“Well, think about it: People are born, they live, and they die—and when they die they're buried, and then there are funerals and graveside vigils. I figured somebody might mention a death in the family—and where they were buried.”

“That's good. So what did you find?”

“There was a ton of stuff. I had to wade through volumes and volumes of—”

“Thirty bucks—that was my final offer.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Now where did I put that excellent information?”

“Blackmail doesn't become you,” Nick said. “C'mon, Carlyn, a deal's a deal.”

“Well, it was worth a try. I found two mentions of graveyards in the area around Endor. Here's the first one: ‘In the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and ninety, the soul of our beloved son Jacob Mallory was laid to rest in the old cemetery, by the great oak overlooking the dog's leg.'”

“The
dog's leg
,” Nick said. “It sounds like some kind of landmark.”

“Listen to the second one: ‘Dear Sara, God rest her soul, now watches the sunrise over the waters of the dog's leg.' I think it's a lake, Nick—a lake shaped like a dog's leg. You know, a dogleg—like on a golf course.”

“Was there anything else?”

“That's it. Sorry there's nothing more specific—there must be all kinds of lakes in the mountains around Endor.”

“Yes, but names tend to stick around here. If they used to call it ‘the dog's leg,' they probably still do. I'll ask around. Thanks—that was good work.”

“And speaking of money.”

“Oh, yeah—now where did I put that excellent check?”

“Nick—you wouldn't do that to me.”

“Stiff a blackmailer? What kind of person would do that?”

“Nick, I was kidding.”

“A professor benefiting from a grad student's work without reward? Unheard-of.”

“Nick.”

“Don't worry, Carlyn, you'll get paid—but I'm not done with you yet. There's something else I need you to find.”