by Tim Downs
“That’s how it works,” she said. “You keep moving the vial until the dog learns to find the scent source and not the cinder block. Then you start hiding the vial in other places: in the woods, hanging from a tree, buried underground. You keep making it more and more difficult and you use the scent in lower and lower concentrations until the dog can find it anywhere—if he has the gift.”
“How long does the training take?”
“It depends on the dog. These pups are really too young to train. I usually wait until they’re about a year—before that they’re adolescents and they have a hard time paying attention. They just want to play.”
“Say no more.”
“That’s basically all there is to it.”
“I have a feeling there’s a lot more to it than that.”
“There’s time—days and weeks and months and years. The training never stops.”
“Even for your three-legged dog—the one you call ‘Trygg’?”
“Who told you her name?”
“Gunner.”
“You talked to him again?”
“This morning, before I came up here.”
She frowned. “What did he tell you this time?”
“He told me about your father and the Canine Enforcement Training Center in Front Royal. He told me that your father disappeared one day and that you’ve lived up here by yourself ever since—that you basically raised yourself. He also told me why you hate the people down in Endor, and I can’t say I blame you.”
“Gunner’s got a big mouth,” she grumbled.
“He told me that he and Rose love you like a daughter, and it’s pretty clear that they do. He also said that I put you in danger, and that makes me responsible for your safety.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you a lot—so does the FBI. We couldn’t have found those graves without you.”
Alena shook her head. “You didn’t come up here just to learn about cadaver dogs, did you?”
“No. I thought if I spent a little time with you, you might trust me more.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I might need your help again.”
She didn’t respond.
“Look, Marge still hasn’t come back. I told the police about her this morning; they picked up her dog and they’re beginning a search. I think Marge is dead, and I think the guy who killed her is connected to the Patriot Center murders—but we have to find him using twenty- to fifty-year-old bones, and that’s very hard to do. If it’s the same killer, then Marge might be our best way of finding him—but we have to find Marge first. That’s why we need you.”
“I don’t want to get more involved,” Alena said.
“You’re already involved. The guy who killed Marge wanted to stop the person responsible for finding those graves—that’s you. As long as he doesn’t know about you, you’re safe—but how long will that last? The only way to keep you safe forever is to find that guy before he finds out about you, and I need your help to do that. This isn’t for Marge, Alena—it’s for you.”
“But if I help you again, somebody is bound to find out.”
“We can work at night, just like before. I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Alena, but I told Gunner I’d try to keep you safe—and this is the only way I know to do it.”
She paused. “Let me think about it.”
“Fair enough—I need to get back to the Patriot Center anyway.” He turned and started off toward his car. A few yards away he turned and looked back. “Hey—can I tell you something without offending you?”
“I doubt it.”
“I like insects better than people.”
She glared at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about myself ?”
“No—it’s supposed to make you feel better about me.”
22
“You’re late,” Danny said. “The briefing is supposed to be at noon—on the dot.”
Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. “I never do anything ‘on the dot.’”
“I do.”
“Well, there are medications for that.” He nodded a greeting to Kegan.
“It’s not like you to be late for work,” Kegan said. “You’re usually the first one here.”
“I couldn’t tear myself away from Endor,” Nick said. “There’s so much to do.”
“I hear Victoria Braden is visiting there tomorrow.”
“You should see the place—crepe paper everywhere. It looks like a Polish wedding.”
“I’m sure I don’t need to mention this,” Danny said, “but you will not be visiting with Mrs. Braden tomorrow. Correct?”
“I’ve decided to break things off,” Nick said. “She was getting too clingy.”
Kegan grinned. “You wish.”
Nick turned to Danny. “Are we going to do this briefing, or are we going to keep discussing my attendance record? I’ve got things to do.”
Kegan held up a manila envelope. “We got the first DNA reports back from the lab this morning.”
Nick reached for the envelope, but Kegan held it back.
“Have you reviewed the results yet?” Danny asked.
“Yes, I have.” She glanced at Nick. “All of them.”
“And?”
“There are two sources of DNA in the body, Danny. You can get it from the nucleus of a cell—that’s nuclear DNA—or you can get it from the mitochondria. Nuclear DNA degrades rapidly—it would be almost impossible to get a good sample from bones this old, so we used mito-chondrial DNA from the teeth. Teeth are almost indestructible—they’re the toughest biological evidence around. The only problem is that you can’t tell as much from mitochondrial DNA.”
“Why not?” Danny asked.
“Because it’s passed directly from mother to child—it lacks the father’s DNA sequence. That means you can’t use it to, say, test for paternity— but since a mother and her children share identical mitochondrial DNA, you can at least use it to tell if two people have a common female ancestor.”
“And what did the tests show?”
“Are you ready for this? All four bodies are consanguine—they have a common lineage.”
“Are we talking brothers or cousins or what?”
“There’s no way to know,” Nick joined in. “All it means is that they share a common female ancestor somewhere in the past—a mother, or a grandmother, or even somebody who lived hundreds of years ago. Mitochondrial DNA doesn’t change—it mutates very slowly.” He looked at Kegan. “Did you say all four bodies?”
“That’s right.”
“Then all four victims have a familial link. That could be huge.”
Danny looked at Nick. “I hate to have to ask this, but—why?”
“Motive, Danny—somebody knocked off four members of one extended family. It suggests some kind of family feud or something— that could narrow the field of suspects quite a bit.”
Danny turned to Kegan again. “What else did the tests show?”
“They’re running the DNA profiles through CODIS—the Combined DNA Index System—to see if they get a match with any unsolved cases. No results yet.”
“Well, let me know if you hear anything. Is there anything else?”
She glanced at Nick, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. “That’s all for now,” she said.
“Okay. You two get back to work—both of you. But keep me posted.”
When Danny was a safe distance away, Kegan leaned across the table to Nick. “I’m not going to cover for you, Nick.”
“You just did.”
“I mean I’m not going to keep doing it. Danny’s the boss—he has a right to know what’s going on—and by the way, so do I. We got the results on those two hair samples of yours. Are you going to tell me about them?”
“You first.”
She looked around for Danny again, then slid the report from the envelope. “Sample number one: from the head area of an adult female, probably Caucasi
an. Brunette in color, shoulder length, chemical analysis indicates the presence of a colorant. A few of the hairs still had intact roots, so serology was able to get a DNA sample.”
“Good. What did the profile show?”
“Nothing. There’s no connection between this hair and the bodies we’ve recovered so far—at least through the maternal line. C’mon, Nick, tell me—whose hair is this, anyway?”
“Victoria Braden’s. I took it from a hairbrush in her husband’s bathroom.”
Kegan’s mouth dropped open. “Victoria Braden colors her hair?”
“Would you try to focus here?”
“Then the other sample—that’s from Senator Braden?”
Nick nodded.
“Why don’t you want Danny to know about this?”
“Are you kidding? Danny had a cow when I stopped by to see the Bradens—what would he do if he knew I was having their DNA tested?”
“But you asked the Bradens about this place, and they said they knew nothing about it. You told me you believed them.”
“I do. But there could be some connection in their pasts that they don’t even know about—or they could be very good liars. Hey, they’re politicians— they’ve had a lot of practice. What did the senator’s test show?”
“The same thing—no connection, at least along maternal lines.”
“What about the other test I asked for—the one to determine their haplogroup?”
“Why did you order that test? How does it help us to know the Bradens’ ethnic backgrounds?”
“I’m not sure yet. What did the tests show?”
She checked the report. “They tested for the four major historical population groups: Indo-European, Sub-Saharan African, East Asian, and Native American. According to his DNA, Senator Braden’s ancestors were pure Indo-European. Isn’t that what you’d expect? Wasn’t his family at Jamestown?”
“What about Mrs. Braden?”
Kegan looked. “This is interesting: Markers on Mrs. Braden’s DNA show a mix of Indo-European, African, and Native American ancestry.”
Nick arched one eyebrow. “That is interesting.”
Kegan slipped the reports back into the envelope and looked at him. “Nick, you know that haplogrouping is controversial—it borders on ethnic profiling. Why do you care about this?”
“I don’t. Personally, I come from a long line of horse thieves and swindlers; the Polchaks don’t have a genealogy, we have a rap sheet. I don’t give a rip about ethnic background, Kegan—but the Bradens do. Victoria Braden said something that I found very interesting: She said that good breeding is all about appearance. That’s all I’m trying to do here—separate appearance from reality.”
“You need to be very careful with this,” Kegan said. “Ancestry may not matter to you, but it does to some people.”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
“What about Danny?”
“I’ll tell Danny—when the time is right.”
“And when will that be?”
“Hopefully never.”
“I mean it, Nick—I won’t keep covering for you. I know you like to work outside the box, but it’s not fair to me. No more secrets, okay?”
“Thanks for covering for me this time.” He got up from his chair.
“Nick.”
“What?”
“You’re not thinking of confronting Victoria Braden with this, are you?”
“What good would that do?”
“Then you’re really not planning to talk to her tomorrow?”
“In Endor? Fat chance—she’ll have a whole town full of people trying to talk to her already.”
23
“I can’t tell you all how good it feels to be home. I left the town of Endor when I was very young, and now that I’m back and I’ve seen how beautiful this town is, I feel cheated—cheated out of the opportunity to grow up here, to graduate from Endor High, and to have each and every one of you as a neighbor.”
The good people of Endor responded with grateful applause.
Home, Riddick thought. Victoria belongs in this dump the same way Bradenton belongs in a trailer park.
Riddick stood behind Victoria Braden and off to her right, allowing him an unimpeded view of the crowd. He studied their faces, looking for the disgruntled and the potentially unstable—but all he saw was adoring smiles and affirming nods. Sheep, he thought. She could tell them to hand over their wallets and the fools would probably do it. Who knows? Maybe she will. He watched their hands too; he searched for hands that moved too quickly or hands that slipped into purses or pockets—but the hands just applauded warmly or dabbed at tearful eyes. There’s one born every minute, he thought. Looks like most of them were born here.
Victoria Braden stood behind a portable lectern on the steps of a band gazebo at Endor Recreational Park. The gazebo had been constructed half a century ago with the intention of hosting summer concerts in the park, but Endor had no band and the gazebo fell into disrepair—until word was received of Mrs. Braden’s intended visit. The gazebo was quickly reshingled and freshly painted and now stood crisp and white, draped in patriotic banners and American flags.
Chris Riddick, by contrast, was dressed in his usual dark suit and crewneck shirt, which allowed him to disappear—and that’s exactly what he felt like doing right now. The small park was packed with bodies, exactly as Braden’s organizers had planned it, so that no camera angle could suggest so much as an empty corner. It took every citizen of Endor to pull it off, and more than a few from the neighboring towns of Linden and Riverton and Front Royal—but they would have all come anyway. Little Victoria had come home, and this was their chance to see the next First Lady of the United States.
“I want to thank the Endor High School marching band for that rousing rendition of ‘Hail to the Chief.’ I should remind you that ‘Hail to the Chief ’ is the official presidential anthem, reserved only to announce the president of the United States. I’m afraid playing it for me was a breach of protocol—or at least a little premature.”
The audience erupted in laughter.
Riddick looked at Victoria and almost smiled. You’re good, sweetheart— really good. She rarely glanced down at her notes; it gave the audience the impression that she was speaking straight from her heart, though in fact her text was always prepared in advance and she rarely departed from it. But even when she did, her instincts were unerring; she knew what she wanted from an audience and she got it. You always get what you want, Riddick thought. You just get tired of the things you get.
The day had begun with a humiliating “Welcome Home” parade up Main Street—a pathetic stretch of potholes lined with appliance stores and thrift shops and gift boutiques promising tourists “authentic mountain crafts.” Next came a visit to “Endless High,” followed by a mind-numbing “high tea” with the wife of the mayor. At each event Riddick did what he always did—stand in the corner and look formidable and protect Mrs. Braden from dangers that didn’t exist. Somehow Victoria managed to throw herself into every event, smiling and waving and listening enraptured to boring drivel with eye contact like a laser-guided weapon—and everywhere she went the cameras clicked softly, capturing every caring moment.
“Some of you may not know this, but ‘Hail to the Chief ’ was first used to announce the president at the inauguration of James K. Polk. It seems that Mr. Polk was a short man, and his wife was afraid that he might arrive unnoticed. Fortunately, my husband doesn’t have that problem; when John Henry Braden walks into a room, people know he’s there. John is a man of stature—you’re going to notice that between now and November whenever he stands alongside another candidate. You’ll notice his stature—not just in height but in principles, in values, in ideas that will make this country an even greater place to live.”
Riddick could sense the climax coming. He knew the formula by heart: Once she mentioned “principles and values,” she was about to bring it home.
“I want to thank you all f
or coming out today; I want to thank you for making me feel so much at home. I will never forget Endor. This town is a part of me, and I’ll take it with me wherever I go—with your help, God willing, to the White House. Thank you—thank you all so much.”
A tremble in her voice—a tearful farewell—one final wave, and—cut! It’s a wrap, boys. Break it down and set up the next shot.
Riddick stepped up beside Victoria as a signal to well-wishers not to get too close.
“How was it?” she whispered, smiling for each of the photographers as they squeezed to the front of the crowd.
Riddick placed one hand in the small of her back. “Flawless, as always.”
She immediately moved away and turned to her assistant. “What’s next?”
“Some of the photographers are asking for more time.”
“Which ones? I’m not interested in the locals.”
The assistant checked her notes. “There’s one from the Post Arts &Living section; there’s DC Style and the Washingtonian too.”
“Good. Find them and let them know—tell them it’s ‘by invitation only.’”
“Where do you want to set up?”
She looked around the area. “Let’s take a walk—do a little window-shopping. If we don’t get away from this crowd, we’ll never stop being interrupted.”
She left the gazebo and headed for the sidewalk with Riddick close by her side. She nodded a friendly greeting to each person as she passed, but in between smiles she cocked her head toward Riddick and said, “Don’t ever—ever—touch me in public again. Do you understand?”
Riddick paused. “What if I’m taking a bullet for you?”
“Then do it in midair—but don’t touch me. It sends the wrong message.”
“Maybe that’s the message I wanted to send.”
She accelerated her pace and widened the distance between them.
For the next hour they moved from gift shop to gift shop, allowing the photographers to capture her image in every conceivable setting. There was Victoria studying the engraving of Monticello; Victoria resting in a rocking chair beside the kindly old proprietor; Victoria looking thoughtfully out the window with the shadows of the mullions cast dramatically across her face. Riddick watched, imagining how he might pose her if he were a photographer himself. He slowly shook his head; the camera never got tired of her, and it was easy to see why.