by Tim Downs
When the last of the photographers was finally satisfied, Riddick and Victoria stepped out onto the sidewalk. Victoria waved to the rest of their entourage to catch up with them while Riddick lit a cigarette.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” she said.
“Concerned about my health?”
“I could care less about your health. It reflects badly on me.”
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out. “I don’t know how you do it, Vic.”
“Do what?”
“Handle all the attention. Smile for all the photographers. Act like you’re listening when you’re not. I’d feel like screaming at the end of a day like this.”
“It doesn’t matter how you feel,” she said. “It only matters how you look. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”
“Victoria! There you are!”
Victoria turned; standing behind her was an old woman no more than five feet tall, with curly gray hair and a broad grin that exposed the tips of twisted yellow teeth.
“Well, hello there,” Victoria responded, smiling warmly and extending her hand.
The old woman eagerly took Victoria’s hand with both of hers, holding it with one and stroking it with the other. “I’ve been trying to see you all day, but it’s just been impossible! I waved to you in the parade but I don’t suppose you saw me. I called your name over and over again—but I guess everyone else did too. I came to the high school but you were already gone. I was at the park, of course, but there were so many people and a little soul like me—well, I just couldn’t squeeze through! I started to get all panicked—I thought, What if Victoria goes away and she never meets me? The thought was almost too much to bear!”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Victoria purred. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Agnes,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you’ll call me that.”
“I’d be proud to, Agnes.”
The old woman suddenly released Victoria’s hand and threw her arms around her waist, pulling her in close and squeezing her tight. Riddick immediately stepped forward, but Victoria looked at him and shook her head. She wrapped her arms lightly around the old woman’s shoulders and patted her on the back. A few seconds later Victoria let her arms fall to her sides, but Agnes continued to hold on.
Riddick stepped up behind her. “Ma’am.”
The old woman released Victoria and turned to him.
Riddick handed her a business card. “If you’ll write to me at this address, I’ll see that you get an autographed photo of Mrs. Braden— would you like that?”
“Oh, I have all sorts of photographs of Victoria—ones she hasn’t even seen yet.” She turned back to Victoria. “I’m sorry for being such an old fool. It’s just that—well—I never thought I’d get a chance like this. I thought I might never see you again.”
Victoria put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “You’re no such thing. In fact, I think meeting you has been the highlight of my visit to Endor.”
Tears began to well up in the old woman’s eyes. “I have something to show you, Victoria—something I made just for you—something I know you’ll want to see.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“It’s at the library—right across the street there. I wonder, could you come with me and see it?”
Victoria glanced at her watch.
“I promise, it will only take a moment. Please? It would mean so much to me—and to you too.”
Victoria smiled. “I think we can spare just a moment for Endor’s finest citizen, can’t we, Chris? All right, Agnes—lead the way.”
They crossed the street to the library. Agnes unlocked the main door and Riddick went in first while Victoria and Agnes waited outside. He stepped out a few seconds later and said, “It checks out—you can go in.” Agnes allowed Victoria to enter first—but when Riddick tried to follow she held up a hand and stopped him. “If you don’t mind, what I have to say to Victoria is personal.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am—that isn’t allowed.”
“It’s all right, Chris,” Victoria said. “Wait outside.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Braden. It isn’t procedure.”
“We’re making an exception for Agnes. I’ll be right back.”
They disappeared into the building and left Riddick standing there, staring angrily at the closed door.
Agnes led Victoria into a small room just off the lobby. Victoria looked at the walls; they were covered with photographs and magazine covers and newspaper clippings of her.
“Well—I must say I’m flattered.” She moved quickly around the room, pausing to look at a few of the photographs. “This is quite a collection, Agnes. You put a lot of time and effort into this. You’re right— this is very special to me.” She glanced at her watch.
“Oh, this isn’t what I wanted to show you.” Agnes took a key from around her neck and unlocked a lower drawer, then took out a large scrapbook with a brown leather cover; she set it on the table in the middle of the room and opened it to the first page. “This is what I want you to see.”
Victoria looked. The page was filled with faded black-and-white Polaroids of a beautiful baby girl. “What a lovely child. Is this your granddaughter?”
“That’s my baby girl.”
“She’s beautiful. Where is she now?”
Agnes smiled up at her. “She’s right here, Victoria.”
Victoria blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I don’t expect you to remember—you were only six months old at the time.”
She stared at the photographs. “Are you saying that’s me?”
“I don’t expect you to remember me at all—a child can’t remember its mother after only six months.”
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Victoria said. “I left Endor when I was just a baby.”
“That’s right, dear—that’s when I gave you away.”
“What?”
“I loved you, of course—more than you’ll ever know. But I wanted something better for you, and I knew I couldn’t give it to you. I was dirt poor, you see, and I was raising a baby all by myself. I know it’s hard to believe now, but I was a pretty little thing back then—I had all kinds of boys sniffing around my door. There were two of them in particular— well, I just couldn’t choose between them. And when I told them I was in a family way, they both ran for the hills. I can’t really blame them; they were just boys. But that left me to raise you by myself, and—”
“Wait a minute. I know all about my birth parents—they were killed in a car crash.”
“That’s the story I made up—that’s the story I told your new parents.”
Victoria began to turn the pages of the scrapbook. On the next page she found a birth certificate; the date of birth was the same as hers, but the name was different.
“Beulah Deluca?”
“I named you after your grandmother—isn’t it lovely? But your new parents liked ‘Victoria’ better, and I suppose it’s done you just fine.”
On the next page was a baptismal certificate and a lock of delicate hair tied with a pink ribbon. The following page contained a single sheet of paper—it seemed to be some kind of genealogical chart.
“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 ex
actly 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.”
&nb
sp; “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.”