by Tim Downs
He jumped up from the ground and ran into the trailer. He searched the countertops and end tables until he found the keys to Alena’s truck. As he was about to leave, he noticed a small peg rack on the wall beside the door. Four wooden pegs projected from it, each one holding a brightly colored bandanna printed in a distinct pattern. Nick stopped and looked at them—then swept up all four and ran for the truck.
37
Victoria Braden sat at her office desk with the door securely locked. It was very late, and she had an exhausting agenda the next day, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the stack of photocopies that lay on her desk.
She’d been over them at least a dozen times and there was nothing new to find in their contents, but still she kept reading them again—like a man staring at an X-ray that revealed a malignant tumor. She shuddered at the realization of what these pieces of paper implied; she trembled at the thought of what would happen if it ever became public knowledge. The photocopies from the first scrapbook—the one that revealed her true background and identified the old librarian as her biological mother—she could survive that revelation. But this—this would mean the end of everything she had worked for: the election; the presidency; the White House—everything.
Through the office door she heard the main doorbell ring once, followed by an insistent knock. She looked at her watch. Who in the world would be visiting Bradenton at this hour? A few seconds later she heard the knock again, even louder this time. She listened for the sound of the dead bolt unlatching and the hinges squeaking open, followed by the sound of Chris’s deep voice dealing with this arrogant intrusion. It never came.
But the knock came again—and this time it was almost pounding.
She immediately gathered the photocopies and dropped them into a desk drawer, then shut the drawer and locked it with a brass key; she tugged on the drawer pull twice to make certain it was secure. She went to her office door and unlocked it; she opened it a few inches and peered out. A second later she saw the foyer light switch on, and she saw Johnny in his bathrobe and pajamas headed for the door. The sight of the soon-to-be president of the United States answering his own door in the middle of the night made her feel indignant; in another month the Secret Service would be crawling all over this place, and no one would get near that door without credentials and a full security clearance—but until then all they had was Chris.
Chris—he wasn’t even a decent security guard, and he expected to be a player in the big game? What a joke. Victoria had made a few mistakes along the way, and Chris was definitely one of them; but she had always learned from her mistakes and moved on—that’s what it took to survive in Washington. And Victoria was a survivor; she had learned her lesson; she had moved on, and she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But where was Chris tonight? She wondered—but part of her didn’t want to know.
Across the foyer she saw the door open and a man stepped into the doorway—a man she recognized. He was wearing large glasses that flashed white in the bright foyer light. Beside him was a dog—a dog with only three legs.
She wrapped her robe tighter and stepped out into the foyer.
“We need to talk,” she heard the man say to her husband.
“This is completely unacceptable,” the senator replied. “I told you never to come here again. Now you get out of here before I—”
Both men stopped and looked at her as she approached.
“Victoria, you needn’t concern yourself with this. I was just telling Dr. Polchak to—”
“It’s all right, Johnny,” she said. “I don’t think Dr. Polchak would have come here at this hour unless it was very important.” She glanced at Nick and froze; tucked under his left arm was a large leather scrapbook. She stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up at him.
Nick met her eyes and nodded. “Very important. In fact, it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Very well then,” the senator said, stepping aside to allow Nick to enter. “We’ll talk in my study—but if you don’t mind, leave that ugly cur outside. What a pathetic-looking creature.”
“I’d like to keep her with me,” Nick replied. “She’s a service dog.”
The senator grimaced. “A service dog? What service could that mongrel possibly provide?”
“She’s sort of a seeing-eye dog. She picks up things that I have trouble spotting.”
They moved to the senator’s office and took seats—the senator in his usual captain’s chair, and Nick and Victoria across from him. The dog sat quietly on Nick’s left.
“Now what’s this all about?” the senator demanded.
Nick held up the scrapbook and looked at Victoria. “Do you know what this is, Mrs. Braden?”
“I’m not sure I do. May I see it?”
Nick handed it across.
Victoria set the scrapbook in her lap and slowly turned the pages without changing expression. She recognized the documents immediately. It was the same scrapbook her mother had shown her at the Endor library—but how did Polchak get it?
When she finished she looked up at Nick and said pleasantly, “Yes, I’m familiar with its contents. Why do you ask?”
“Is your husband familiar with its contents too?”
She felt a quick twist in her gut but managed to conceal it perfectly. “It’s just a bit of family trivia. I’m not sure John would be interested.”
“It’s a little more than ‘trivia,’ Mrs. Braden.”
The senator turned to his wife. “What have you got there, darling?”
Victoria closed the scrapbook and smiled at her husband. “Just a few old family mementos that were presented to me during my visit to Endor. Nothing of interest, John—I’ll tell you about it later if you like.”
“A man was murdered tonight,” Nick said. “Danny Flanagan—the FBI agent in charge of the investigation at the Patriot Center.”
Braden sat up straighter. “Murdered? How? Where?”
“At the Endor Regional Library, just a couple of hours ago.”
Victoria felt a wave of nausea.
“How do you know this?” Braden asked.
“I was there. I found the killer preparing to dispose of Danny’s body.”
“Is the killer in custody?”
“Yes. We’ll have a full confession soon.”
“Has a motive been established for this terrible deed?”
“A very clear one.”
Victoria’s face felt hot and she wondered if it showed. Polchak’s answers weren’t answers at all—they were assaults, specifically designed to prod her for a response. She kept her eyes fixed on her husband, but she could feel Polchak staring at her from the side.
The senator hesitated for an instant before asking his next question: “Is this murder connected in any way to the investigation at the Patriot Center?”
“Your compassion for Danny is touching,” Nick said. “His mother lives in Lexington and he’s survived by two married sisters—in case you’re interested. His skull was smashed in with a baseball bat, by the way.”
“Victoria and I will convey our sincere condolences,” Braden said. “We’re not without compassion, Dr. Polchak. We both liked Danny very much, but you have to understand the larger circumstances here. The situation at the Patriot Center is potentially explosive; I need to know about any event that could have bearing on it.”
Nick nodded. “You’re right, Senator—you deserve to know.” He looked directly at Victoria. “Don’t you think he deserves to know?”
Victoria turned and looked at Nick’s face; his umber eyes, magnified by the thick lenses that covered them, darted about like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Victoria was used to being stared at by men—but not like this. These eyes were different; they moved over her, through her, watching the way she sat and moved and even the way the muscles shifted under her skin. Polchak made her feel like a specimen on a microscope slide. His questions were more than simple queries; they were like jabs from a metal pro
be that he systematically administered while he watched to see which way the specimen would crawl. Polchak knew the contents of the scrapbook, and he knew that she did too; he was offering her the chance to admit it rather than have it exposed through awkward confrontation. But it was more than politeness or nobility; he was testing to see how much her husband already knew—and what she might be trying to protect.
Before she could reply, they were interrupted by a knock on the office door. It was Chris; he poked his head in and said, “I spotted a truck outside. Is everything okay in here?”
“Where have you been?” the senator demanded. “You’re supposed to be a security guard. What exactly are we paying you for, anyway?”
“Sorry. I was out—I had an errand to run. I thought you two would be in bed by now.”
“We were, until Dr. Polchak here decided to pay us a visit.”
Chris stepped into the room and looked at Nick.
Victoria watched Chris’s face. It showed surprise—alarm—apprehension. Fool—he was giving away way too much information, and Polchak wouldn’t miss a thing. Even she felt exposed by those eyes of his, and her composure was almost perfect—Chris must have looked like a fish flopping on the floor.
The senator glared at Chris. “You’re interrupting a very sensitive conversation. Now if you don’t mind—”
“Let him stay,” Victoria said. “Chris is our chief of security after all— at least for another few weeks. I think this issue involves our security, don’t you?”
Braden looked at his wife doubtfully, but she gave him a reassuring nod. Chris’s interruption was a godsend; she couldn’t be expected to reveal family secrets with a low-level employee in the room. Besides, she didn’t know how far Polchak was intending to go with this, and Chris’s imposing physical presence might serve to remind Polchak of what could happen if things got too far out of hand.
“Pull up a chair,” the senator grumbled reluctantly. “But do us all a favor and keep your mouth shut.”
Chris dragged up a chair equidistant between Braden and his wife and sat down.
All of them stared at Nick.
“Who murdered Danny Flanagan?” the senator asked.
“An eighty-year-old woman named Agnes. She’s the head librarian in Endor.”
Chris jerked forward in his chair. “What?”
Victoria turned on him before he could say another word. “I believe my husband told you to shut up. If you wish to remain in the room, do so.”
Chris slumped back with a look of astonishment on his face.
“An eighty-year-old woman,” Braden said. “I find that unbelievable.”
“So did four other men—and one woman. That’s probably how she was able to sneak up on them: Nobody expected a grandma to pack such a wallop.”
“Are you saying this woman is responsible for other murders as well?”
“That’s right. We found three of her victims buried on top of other graves at the Patriot Center. The fourth we found near a lake outside Endor. The woman—well, we found her in the lake.”
The senator blanched. “The Patriot Center? Then this old woman—”
“Is your serial killer. I’m afraid so, Senator—she murdered each of them over a period of about forty years. She apparently dug the holes and buried them herself; great little gardener, that one.”
“But—why? What in the world did she have to gain?”
Nick slowly turned and looked at Victoria. “Do you want to take that one, or should I?”
Victoria was trapped; the best she could do was to postpone—to get Johnny alone where the issue would be simpler to defuse and the man would be easier to handle. “I’ll deal with it,” she said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to leave first. This topic is very personal—I’m sure you understand.”
“I need to ask you something first,” Nick said.
Braden cut in. “We’ll be more than happy to answer any—”
“Your wife,” Nick said bluntly. “I need to ask her.”
“Dr. Polchak, I assure you that anything you can learn from my wife you can also—”
“John,” Victoria said firmly. “Go ahead, Dr. Polchak. Ask your question.”
“A woman disappeared tonight—I’m trying to find her, and I think you might be able to help.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Alena Savard. She lives alone in the mountains above Endor. She’s the one people call ‘the witch.’”
Braden leaned forward in his chair. “The Witch of Endor? Danny told us about this woman—the one who found all the graves at the Patriot Center. Is she in some way connected to—”
“John. Please.” Victoria kept her eyes on Nick, but she could feel Chris tensing like a coiled spring beside her. “I’ve heard about this woman, but mostly through rumors—I doubt that much of what I’ve heard is true. I’ve never met her personally.”
“She was kidnapped a couple of hours ago—taken from her trailer by force.”
“How terrible. How can I help?”
Nick paused. “I thought you might have some idea where she is.”
“Me? How would I possibly know that?”
Nick glanced down at the scrapbook in her lap.
She nodded with her eyes. “Do you think this woman’s disappearance is related to the deaths of those other people?”
“I think Alena Savard was kidnapped for the same reason the others were killed—to keep something secret.”
“But you said the old librarian was responsible for all those deaths.”
“That’s right—and that’s what I can’t figure out. There was a fourth body discovered at the Patriot Center, remember? Only Agnes wasn’t responsible for that one—that body was two hundred years old. Something else is going on here, Mrs. Braden, and I was hoping you could help me understand what it is. Someone else besides Agnes has a secret to keep—a very old one. I need to know what—”
Nick suddenly stopped; he turned and looked down at the floor beside him, then quickly looked around the room.
“Is something wrong, Dr. Polchak?”
“My dog—where’s my dog?”
“Right here,” Chris said. The dog was stretched out on the carpet beside him; Chris slumped down low in his chair, allowing one arm to dangle down over the side, casually stroking the dog’s back.
Nick stared at the dog, then at Chris.
“Riddick!” the senator shouted. “Don’t you know any better than to touch a seeing-eye dog? You’re distracting the animal from its duties!”
Chris shoved at Trygg with his toe, but the dog refused to move. “I can’t help it—the old mutt just came over and flopped down beside me.”
“It’s okay,” Nick said. “She’s just friendly, that’s all.” He pulled off his glasses and began to rub at the bridge of his nose.
Victoria watched him. Something was wrong, but she had no idea what. Polchak suddenly seemed flustered, as if something unexpected had just taken place. He was covering his eyes, taking time to think; something was going on in that mind of his that he didn’t want to reveal.
A few seconds later he slid his glasses back onto his nose and looked up. “Mrs. Braden, do you have any information at all about the whereabouts of Alena Savard?”
“I’m sorry,” Victoria said. “I sincerely hope you find her.”
Polchak stood up and started for the door—then stopped and looked back at the dog. “Trygg—come!”
The dog looked up at him but didn’t obey. Nick walked over to the dog, hooked a finger under her collar, and pulled; only then did the dog rise to its feet and follow.
“Not a very obedient animal,” Victoria said.
“She’s a female—they can be unpredictable. Sorry to bother you all. I’ll be going now.”
“Wait,” the senator called after him. “The Patriot Center—the investigation— what happens now?”
“Ask your wife,” Nick said. “The two of you will have to work that o
ut together.”
Nick let himself out.
They watched until the door shut behind him.
“What a nutcase,” Chris said. “If you ask me, he’s—”
“Get out,” Braden commanded.
Chris got up and left without any further word, leaving the senator and his wife staring at one another across the empty room.
38
The minute the truck was out of sight of the house, Nick pulled off the road and turned off his headlights. He slumped forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. His mind scrambled, trying to formulate his next logical move—but a terrible realization kept creeping in, crowding out his other thoughts: The dog was lying down.
Alena was already dead.
Adrenaline flooded his system; his entire body trembled and he felt like vomiting.
Trygg was lying at Riddick’s feet—that was her alert. She detected the odor of death on Riddick’s hands or shoes or clothing. Riddick admitted that he was out earlier this evening; he said he had an errand to run, an errand that the Bradens seemed to know nothing about. But wait a minute: Only the senator asked about Riddick’s absence, not Victoria—did she know where he went? Apparently the senator knows nothing about the scrapbook and his wife’s true identity; maybe she thought she could keep it that way. Maybe it’s not just Mommy’s little secret anymore—maybe it’s her daughter’s too now, and maybe Riddick is helping her keep it. But would Victoria be willing to go as far as her mother did?
Nick twisted around and looked back through the rear window into the camper shell; he saw Trygg balancing on three legs in the center of the truck bed, staring back at him. He looked at the dog, and for the first time Nick thought he could read the meaning in the animal’s doleful eyes. It was as if she was saying, “Where are we going? That was the guy back there.”
“I know,” Nick said aloud, “and we’ll go back for him—I promise.”
He shook his head; he was talking to a dog. It made no sense—or maybe it did. Trygg reminded Nick of the child prodigies he had read about in studies—the one-year-olds who had memorized the faces of all the U.S. presidents before they had even learned to talk. That was Trygg’s problem: The dog knew far more than she was able to communicate. She had detected the scent of death, but was it Alena’s scent or someone else’s? The dog was trained to detect the telltale odor of tissue and fluid and blood—but which one was it? Alena once told him that a dog’s chief ability was to distinguish between scents; where a man smells only beef stew, a dog detects the individual odors of carrots, potatoes, and meat. But which is which? Only the dog knows, and she has no way to tell. Did Trygg detect the odor of Alena’s dead body already beginning to putrefy? Or was it only her blood—in which case Alena might be wounded but still alive? The dog had no language to communicate the things that she undoubtedly knew.