Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  Riddick opened his door and got out. “This way.”

  Nick followed him toward the trees; as he approached, he heard a flurry of wings and saw a gray-and-white bird rise from the grass just a few yards away. There was an echoing blast followed by a puff of feathers— then the bird fell silently back to earth.

  “Thanks for flushing that one,” Braden said, stepping out from the shadow of the trees. He thumbed the lever on his over-and-under, and the shotgun folded in half; he pulled two smoking hulls from the barrels and dropped them into his left jacket pocket. “Rock doves,” he said. “You can’t eat ’em, but they’re good for target practice. They’re in season year-round—they’re a nuisance species.”

  “Who are they bothering?” Nick asked.

  “Senator, this is Dr. Nick Polchak,” Riddick said. “He says he has news for you.”

  Braden approached and eyed Nick warily. “This had better be good, Polchak—you’re interrupting my personal time, and I don’t get much of it. Let’s have it.”

  “We found two more bodies at the Patriot Center.”

  “More of those double graves?”

  “That’s right. The bodies were deposited exactly like the others: in shallow pits on top of existing graves. That makes four, Senator—if the remains all indicate foul play, the Patriot Center case will be officially classified as a serial killing.”

  “The papers will be all over that.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What else have you got?”

  “Not much. We’ve excavated twelve graves so far—at least deep enough to know that there are no extra bodies in eight of them; that still leaves us seventeen more to go. The remains have all been shipped back to Quantico for analysis. We should get preliminary results in a couple of days. We’ve got four bodies so far—you should expect more.”

  “You drove all the way out here just to tell me that?”

  “No. I came out here to ask you something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “What can you tell me about this graveyard?”

  Braden paused, then looked at Riddick. “Chris, I wonder if you could give Dr. Polchak and me a little privacy.”

  Riddick straightened. “Senator, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Well, son, since I’m standing here holding a twelve-gauge shotgun, I think we can afford to take a chance, don’t you? Why don’t you wait in the car.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Nick said. “You can review the driver’s manual while you’re waiting.”

  Riddick reluctantly left and Braden turned to Nick again. “Who exactly are you, anyway?”

  “I’m the lead forensic specialist on this investigation.”

  “You’re with the FBI?”

  “No—I was hired by the FBI. I’m a forensic entomologist.”

  “And you think I might have information about this graveyard— information I haven’t yet revealed. I don’t believe I like the sound of that.”

  “I think you might have information you don’t know about.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “I understand you’ve got deep roots here—dating back to Jamestown, I believe.”

  “The Bradens are one of Virginia’s founding families. I’m very proud of that.”

  “I’m sure you are. A family like yours keeps records: birth certificates, baptismal records, marriage covenants, title deeds—burial records too. It must be quite a collection after four hundred years—a small library, I would imagine. Somewhere in all that information there could be a mention of this graveyard. I’ve checked with the regional library in Endor—they have no grave registries for the area around the Patriot Center. Maybe you do.”

  Braden looked at him without expression. “It’s Nick, isn’t it? Mind if I call you Nick?”

  “Everybody seems to,” Nick said. “Sometimes I wonder why I got a PhD.”

  “Well, Nick, I’m gonna tell you something—not because I need to, because the fact is you’re working for me and I don’t owe you a thing.”

  “I thought I was working for the FBI.”

  “You go right on thinking that. The truth is, this slowdown at the Patriot Center could cost me millions—and I don’t have millions to lose right now, because in case you haven’t heard, I’m running for president. That takes money, Nick—a whole lot of it. I don’t need deep roots right now, son; I need deep pockets. Nobody wants this fiasco taken care of more than I do, so yes—I have family records—and I’ve already been through them. If I had anything more to tell you, I would have told you already.”

  Nick watched his eyes as he spoke.

  “Any more questions?”

  “Just one—but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “I’ve got thick skin, son—I’ve been dragged across the Senate floor a time or two.”

  “In your records, is there any mention of bad blood with some other family? Some kind of family feud, perhaps?”

  “You’re asking about those four extra bodies—you’re wondering if someone in my own family might be responsible for that.”

  “Whoever buried them had to know the graveyard was there. That limits the field considerably.”

  “Yes, it does. But as I said, my family has no record of that graveyard— so that eliminates my family, doesn’t it?”

  Nick paused. “If you say so.”

  “Are we done here, Nick? Is there anything else?”

  “Just one more thing: I understand your wife has pretty deep roots here as well.”

  “Victoria? That she does.”

  “She’s from the town of Endor, isn’t she? Would you mind if I spoke with her? She might know something that you don’t.”

  Braden smiled. “I can promise you that. I doubt Victoria knows anything more about this graveyard matter, but you’re welcome to ask. She’ll be in her office; she usually is—Chris can take you to her. C’mon, I’ll walk you to the car.”

  “Mind if I ask one last question? It’s a little off the subject.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why do humans hunt—for pleasure, I mean?”

  “This is Virginia, son—this is hunt country. Turkey, fox, deer, black bear—we hunt it all here.”

  “Insects kill only for food or defense. It’s something I’ve never understood about our species. You’re shooting birds just for target practice— wouldn’t a clay pigeon work just as well?”

  “Wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Why not?”

  “A target’s too predictable—you just load and fire. But you never know what a living thing will do next.”

  “No,” Nick said. “You don’t.”

  Braden looked at him. “A forensic entomologist—what is that, exactly?”

  “We study necrophilous insects—insects that consume bodies after they die.”

  “Sounds disgusting.”

  “It’s a necessary part of nature—it keeps the fields from piling up with dead birds.”

  Braden extended his hand and Nick took it. “You just dropped in on a U.S. senator unannounced—not many men can say that. Don’t make it a habit, son—I made an exception for you.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I want your people to know that I’m behind them. I want this thing resolved too—as soon as possible. Now get back to work.”

  14

  “Mrs. Braden? Am I interrupting?”

  Victoria Braden looked up from her desk. “You must be Dr. Polchak— Johnny called and told me you were coming.” She rose and met Nick halfway across the room. Nick glanced around her office. It was smaller than her husband’s and clearly more functional; there were far more books and papers and fewer stuffed bears.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to a seat and then returning to her own. Nick watched her as she walked. She was easily the most beautiful woman Nick had ever seen: tall, poised, and every bit as stunning as her photographs—a quality few people possess. He shook his head—it was like visiting the
Homo sapiens exhibit at some museum. The Bradens seemed to be perfect specimens of the human species; in fact, everything about this place was perfect—the perfect woman and her perfect husband in the perfect home. Definitely the deep end of the gene pool, he thought, and he suddenly felt strangely self-conscious.

  They both sat down and looked at each other. Victoria smiled and waited. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Nick said.

  “Well—thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “Why do you suppose people get flustered in the presence of beauty?”

  Victoria blinked. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”

  “No, but you seem like a good person to ask.”

  She paused. “I’ve never really thought about it before. I suppose it’s because beauty is desirable—to be close to beauty is to be close to something you want. When you want something badly but can’t have it, you get flustered.”

  “But why is beauty desirable? In the insect world, beauty usually indicates danger. Bright colors or patterns warn predators or attract prey. Among insects, desiring beauty is a good way to get eaten.”

  She smiled. “Are you feeling flustered, Dr. Polchak?”

  “Yes—and it really annoys me.”

  “Then let’s talk about something else. My husband tells me you’re looking for information.”

  “I understand you’re from Endor.”

  “That’s right—though I moved away when I was very young.”

  “Do you have any family records? Any kind of family history?”

  “My background is a little different from my husband’s. My biological parents died when I was just a baby; I was adopted by a childless couple. My biological parents came from very old Virginia families, but due to my early adoption I have only a few of their family records—just genealogies and things like that. I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for, is it?”

  “I’m looking for information about the graveyard we’re excavating at the Patriot Center.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Who’s buried there? When did they die? Who else might know the location of that graveyard?”

  “Did you ask in Endor? They have the regional library there.”

  “It was my first stop.”

  “What about UVA? They have some extensive historical collections there—especially dealing with Virginia history.”

  “It’s worth a try, but Virginia is a big state with a long history—since you’re actually from Endor I thought I’d try you first.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much help.”

  Nick paused. “Would you help me if you could?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Sorry,” Nick said. “I know that’s an awkward question.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant, Dr. Polchak. You’re wondering if my husband and I might be withholding information—if there might be some skeleton in our closet that we’d rather not reveal just prior to a presidential election. Is that the basic idea?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Do you have a specific reason for wondering about this, or are you just generally suspicious?”

  Nick looked around the office. “I can see that you take a great interest in your husband’s affairs.”

  “They’re my affairs too.”

  “May I ask what your official capacity is—other than ‘wife’?”

  “I serve as office manager and political strategist. I also handle media relations.”

  “Who does the hiring and firing?”

  “I do, in general.”

  “Did you fire Nathan Donovan?”

  She hesitated. “That was my husband’s decision. I agreed with him, though I found the decision . . . disappointing. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve known Donovan for years; he was your best shot at solving this thing. Firing him was a bad decision—so bad that it made me wonder if you really want this thing solved at all.”

  She tilted her head to one side and studied Nick’s face as though she were trying to remember his name. “Believe me, we want it solved—and we want construction to resume on the Patriot Center just as quickly as possible. But there are aspects to this that you may not have considered.”

  “Such as?”

  “How much do you know about Virginia?”

  “I’ve been here once or twice.”

  “Did you know Virginia has produced more U.S. presidents than any other state?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you know why? We breed them here.”

  “You breed them?”

  “The very same way we breed show dogs and feeder cattle and thoroughbreds. In Virginia good breeding is everything, and breeding is all about appearance—it’s about stature and bearing and length of bone.”

  “Are we talking about horses or presidents?”

  “Both. My husband is about to become the next president of the United States. Do you know why?”

  “As I recall, it has something to do with voting.”

  “Voting is simply registering a decision that’s already been made. Do you know why people want my husband to be president? Because he looks like a president; he sounds like a president; he carries himself like a president. Johnny was born to be president, Dr. Polchak—it’s in his breeding.”

  “And you were bred to be a First Lady?”

  “According to the last Gallup poll, 71 percent of Americans think so.”

  “I hate to sound naive, Mrs. Braden, but I like to think the American public is a little more sophisticated than that. They care about substance too.”

  “Substance is important, but let’s be honest: I have substance—I have degrees in business and political science—but substance didn’t get me on the cover of this month’s Vogue and Vanity Fair. And like it or not, that’s what people will remember on Election Day: my face—my evening gown—not my résumé.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Good breeding will put my husband in the White House, Dr. Polchak, and as I said, breeding is about appearance—that’s the aspect you may not have considered. I requested Nathan Donovan because it created the right appearance. It told the American public that we were willing to deal with this issue in a forthright manner—that we were willing to send in our best and our brightest. Unfortunately, Mr. Donovan’s current celebrity status seems to have attracted the wrong kind of publicity. Johnny is extremely cautious about negative appearances, so he requested Mr. Donovan’s immediate transfer. I considered the decision regrettable, but necessary.”

  “I appreciate the position you’re in,” Nick said. “I still think it was a bad decision.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s done—so let’s move on. The question now is: How do we deal with the situation at the Patriot Center?”

  “Are we talking about appearance or substance?”

  “You take care of substance—let me worry about appearance.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Braden, because there’s something you need to understand about me. I didn’t grow up on a horse farm in Virginia—I grew up in a dying little factory town north of Pittsburgh. I don’t have stature or bearing or ‘length of bone’—whatever that is. I’m a little too tall and my arms are too long; I’ve got big feet and bad eyes; I pick my clothes at random and I have to wear glasses the size of portholes. I don’t have any breeding at all, Mrs. Braden. I’m all substance— that’s all there is to me. So if you need somebody to create the right appearance for you, you’d better fire me too—but if you want this thing figured out, I’m your man.”

  Victoria smiled. “Why, Dr. Polchak—you don’t sound flustered anymore.”

  “I guess I’ve grown comfortable in the presence of beauty.”

  “Congratulations. Most men never do.”

  She glanced down at the papers covering her desk and Nick took the hint. He walked to the door
and then stopped and looked back. “You know, there’s another strange thing about beauty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Human beings associate it with goodness. Have you noticed that? The wicked stepmother is ugly, but Cinderella is a knockout. Why do you suppose they do that?”

  “I’ll bet you have a theory.”

  “I do. I think they’re hoping to find substance behind the appearance. But that’s just my theory. Who knows? Our species does some very strange things.”

  Riddick looked down at the bouquet of velvety pink roses that he clutched in his left hand. He spread the stems apart a little and picked off a wilted petal. He smoothed back his hair with his right hand, lifting the coal black comma from his forehead momentarily before it dangled back down again. He straightened his shirt collar, stepped into the doorway, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden frame.

  Victoria Braden looked up from her desk.

  “I got these from the garden,” Riddick said. “I thought you might like them.”

  Victoria gave the roses the barest glance and returned to her work. “I hope those weren’t the floribundas—we’ve got a garden reception for the DAR coming up, you know.”

  “Want me to put them in a vase for you?”

  “Just leave them in the kitchen—I need the desk space in here.”

  Riddick took a step into the room. “Have you got a minute?”

  She looked at him impatiently. “Is it important, Chris? I’ve got a lot on my plate today, and people seem to keep dropping by.”

  “It’s important to me.” Without waiting to be invited he took the seat directly across from her desk and settled in.

  Victoria rose from her own chair and walked around to the front of the desk, as if to say, “Don’t get comfortable.”

  Riddick glanced down at her legs.

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest and said, “What’s on your mind, Chris?”

  “The future—my future.”

  “What about it?”

  “A man can’t live in the past, Vic—even if there are some very pleasant memories there. A man has to think ahead.”

  “And you’ve been doing some thinking.”