Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (81 page)

“I thought so. I can always tell. So what did you think of your hometown?”

“A grimy little backwater with no economy and substandard housing and education—I wish we could bulldoze the place so we could save the tax dollars on infrastructure. The mountains are full of these little hovels.”

“Not exactly a glowing assessment.”

“But fair.”

“Still, I think you were right to go there. You got a lot of good press coverage today—and those are cameras that weren't at the Patriot Center. You met a lot of people too, and every one of them is in our back pocket now.”

You met a lot of people
, she thought—but she could only remember one.

The senator smiled. “So you won't be moving home just yet?”

“I told you, that's not funny. Look, I was just about to take a bath— is there something you need?”

“Just wanted to check in. I don't see a lot of you these days.”

“Well, the schedule's pretty tight.” She walked to the door and opened it, then turned to him and waited.

He nodded and got up from the bed; in the doorway he stopped and looked at her. “I just don't want us to end up like some of the others,” he said. “You know—holding hands but leaving fingernail marks.”

“Thanks, I'll add it to the agenda.”

He turned to leave but she stopped him; she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. “Some other time,” she whispered.

She shut the door firmly behind him.

She walked into the bathroom and twisted both handles on the Jacuzzi, sending a torrent of water cascading into the deep white basin. She almost felt sorry for Johnny—almost. She wasn't naive enough to believe that the junior senator from Virginia had simply fallen in love with her eight years ago; he was an ambitious man and it wasn't that easy. John Henry Braden saw in her the same things the cameras saw: beauty, grace, and poise. He needed those things—not to fill his soul but his ticket. She wasn't angry or resentful, because she knew in her heart that she had struck the same bargain. Johnny was a handsome man, a successful man, but he was empty: a beautiful package that had nothing inside—at least, nothing that called to her. They were just two images that complemented each other well; two faces that voters could remember; two travelers on a journey to the same place.

But now everything had changed. She wasn't the woman Johnny thought she was; she no longer filled out the image—and she wondered what would happen if he ever found out. She felt sick to her stomach; she didn't understand what was going on inside of her. This morning she'd felt no need to be loved by John Henry Braden—but this evening she did.

She slipped off her bathrobe and let it drop to the floor—then she heard the bedroom door open and close again.

“Johnny?”

There was no answer.

She shut off the water and listened.

“Johnny, it's been a long day.”

Still no answer.

She put the robe back on and cinched it tight. She walked to the bathroom door and poked her head around the corner; there was Chris Riddick, sprawled out on her chaise lounge with a grin on his face and his hands folded behind his head.

She charged into the bedroom. “How dare you come into my private quarters without my permission!”

“Nice outfit,” he said. “A little casual, but then I suppose this is an unscheduled meeting.”

“Get out of here!”

“Or what—you'll call your chief of security? I'm already here.”

“You're fired. I want you out of this house in ten minutes.”

He just looked at her and smiled.

She ran her fingers up the front of her bathrobe and closed the neckline a little. “I'll call my husband—he was here just a minute ago.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you—Beulah.”

She sank down on the edge of the bed.

“You never have understood my job,” he said. “I sure hope you pay more attention to the Secret Service than you do to me. See, my job is security: I walk into a room before you do; I keep people from getting too close; and I never,
ever
allow you to meet with a stranger alone—even if you want to. It's just too dangerous; you never can tell what a stranger might do—or say. So what I do is stand right outside the door—that way I can listen in and make sure nothing goes wrong. See?”

She nodded.

“It's a thankless job, believe me. There are lots of things I do that you probably aren't even aware of. When you spilled coffee on your dress the other day, who drove home and got you another one? I did. When you broke a heel on your way up the Capitol steps, who ran over to the Old Post Office Pavilion and bought you another pair? I did. And when that sweet old woman at the Endor Library showed you all those nice pictures and you ran off like your hair was on fire, who went back to say thank you?” He grinned. “I did.”

“What do you want?”

“The same thing as always: security.” He reached over and picked up a large manila envelope from the floor. “Family records are precious,” he said. “You of all people should know that. What if there was a fire? You could lose everything: baby pictures, birth certificates—everything. The smart thing to do is to make copies.” He tossed the envelope; it landed beside her on the bed.

She opened the envelope and took out the copies.

“Convenient place, a library—it has a copier and everything. You can do whatever you want with those. I've got plenty more.”

She tossed the envelope aside. “Okay, you know. Now what?”

“
Beulah
,” he said with a grin. “It didn't grab me at first, but it kind of grows on you. I can see it embroidered on a bowling shirt, or maybe tattooed on some auto mechanic's forearm.”

“What do you want, Chris?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just what I asked for before: a job with a salary, that's all. And—”

“And what?”

“I think I deserve benefits too, don't you? That's what I want: a salary plus benefits.”

“What kind of benefits?”

“The personal kind. The kind I had before.”

“Chris—”

“That's not asking so much, is it? I mean, it's not like I'm asking for something new—they were voluntary benefits a couple of years ago. That's all I want, Vic: my old job back. You give me a salary plus benefits, and I give you security. You'll never have to worry about the rest of those copies and where they might turn up.”

She stared at him for a long time before she finally said, “No.”

“No?”

“Do whatever you want with them. Sell them to the
Post
or the
Times
—I don't care.”

“Are you sure that's wise?”

“I can survive this. Think it over, Chris—this isn't about me, it's about something that happened to me when I was just a kid. It makes me look better, not worse: Look how I started out—look at the adversity I've had to overcome—that's the way we'll spin it. Show everybody the copies if you want to; you'll be doing me a favor. Hey, I might even show them myself.”

“And what will John Boy think?”

She hesitated for just an instant. “He'll get over it. He'll have to. He needs me to reach the White House; he'll never do it without me.”

“But think of the humiliation,” Riddick said. “Beautiful Victoria Braden is really Beulah what's-her-name. I didn't catch the last name, did you? Oh, that's right—you don't really have one. Momma isn't sure who Daddy was.”

“It's
Braden
,” she said. “That's the only name I need.”

“What about all that ‘good breeding' you always talk about? What about your membership in the Mayflower Society and the Colonial Dames of America? I don't think they take trailer trash, do you?”

“They need me more than I need them.”

He just looked at her.

“Is that all you've got, Chris? Was that your best shot? Then we're done here—pack your bags and get out.”

He nodded. “That's pretty much what I thought you'd say. You're a smart girl, Vic—it's one of the things I like about you. You know what you want and you know how to get it—and you don't let anything get in your way. Don't take this the wrong way, but I wasn't surprised to find out where you really came from.”

“No?”

“It explains a lot about you. You've got the survival instincts of a pit bull, and somehow I never thought that came over on the
Mayflower
. You're right, you can survive this—you'd rather not face all the embarrassment, but it wouldn't stop you. I never thought it would.” He reached down to the floor again; he picked up a second manila envelope and set it in his lap, then looked at Victoria.

She glanced down at the envelope.

“A salary,” Riddick said, “plus benefits.”

“Never.”

He smiled. “You know, you left that library awfully fast this afternoon. You must have had a lot on your mind—you didn't even see me standing by the door. You probably didn't hear Momma calling after you either—she kept saying, ‘Wait! I have more to show you!' I thought she just meant there were more pages in the scrapbook, but I was wrong—there was a second scrapbook. Shame on you, Victoria— your momma made a whole scrapbook for you, and you didn't even bother to open it.” He tossed the envelope onto the bed. “You should have. You really don't understand your family history until you do.”

She opened the envelope. She pulled out a stack of copies and began to read. Her mouth dropped open.

“Talk about a page-turner,” Riddick said. “I couldn't put it down.”

She turned the pages with trembling hands. Her breathing became shallow and erratic. She kept looking up and staring at the wall as if she were searching for something written there.

“It explains a lot, doesn't it? A lot about a lot of things.”

The papers slid off her lap and scattered on the floor. “I—I need some time to think about this.”

“Sure you do—it's a lot to take in, in one day. I'll get out of your hair and give you a chance to think.” He got up and went over to her; he brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed it. She made no effort to stop him, and she showed no recognition of his touch.

“I'm really not asking much—just my old job back, that's all. Your secret is safe with me—but from what I hear, that mother of yours is the town gossip. I'd think about that if I were you.”

He walked to the door. “Sleep tight, Vic. Don't stay up too late reading. And don't worry—I made extra copies of those too.”

28

Nick removed the first two feet of earth with a spade; he didn't dare go deeper for fear of damaging any remains he might discover. He was on his hands and knees now, poking through the soil with a pointed trowel like a soldier probing for land mines. Maybe there were no remains—in which case he would spend the rest of the day troweling his way down inch by inch until he struck the wooden planks of a coffin lid six feet below. Maybe Trygg got it wrong this time—maybe it was asking too much of a cadaver dog to pick the most recent remains from a graveyard full of ancient corpses. How could the dog even know what was expected of her? He knew the answer:
The witch can talk to animals.
From what Nick had seen so far, he almost believed it.

He stood up in the shallow pit and stretched. It was almost noon and the sun was already high overhead. The day was hot and still; wisps of morning mist still clung to the trees, making the humidity oppressive. He unbuttoned his dripping shirt and peeled it off, then draped it over the handle of the spade to dry. He walked to the lake and knelt down; he scooped up some water and drank. He looked at his hands; the water was cold and clear, but he knew this mountain lake wasn't as pristine as it looked on the surface. Somewhere under all that water there was a decomposing body.

Nick and Alena had talked about it all the way back to her trailer just a few hours ago. Trygg had alerted on a scent blowing in from the lake, but the odor of ancient remains submerged beneath several feet of water would have been too faint for the dog to detect—the wind would have dispersed the weak scent too widely. But the dog did pick up the scent—that meant the odor was strong and the remains must be fresh, probably still in a putrefying state—and Nick had a feeling he knew who the remains belonged to. He needed to find that submerged body—but he had another body to check out first.

He went back to the grave and began to dig again. Even if he did find human remains here, he knew he couldn't excavate the grave by himself— he needed Kegan's help for that. But he couldn't exactly ask for her help just on the hunch that they might be there—he needed to know first. He actually found himself wishing that he could tell Danny about all of this—that way he would have the full resources of the FBI at his disposal. He could excavate the entire graveyard and dredge the lake for the submerged body too. But how was he supposed to tell Danny? How could he explain how he just “happened” to find another lost graveyard without mentioning Alena? Gunner was right: Nick got Alena involved in all this, and now it was Nick's responsibility to keep her out of it—even if it did make his work painfully slow.