Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (69 page)

“I think you know where you belong. We've been over that.”

“I thought I knew—I'm not so sure anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

“I've been working for you for almost three years now—that's a long time. I think that kind of loyalty deserves a reward, don't you?”

“You've been paid for your services.”

He smiled. “Not all of them. But that's okay, I'm not complaining— some work is its own reward.”

She walked around behind him and closed the office door; when she returned she said, “How dare you—I told you never to bring that up in my presence again.”

“And I never thought I would. But like I said, I've been doing some thinking.”

“And?”

“Everybody around here seems to have a ticket on the Braden train— except me. Brad looks like a shoo-in for White House chief of staff; I figure Sandy for a senior adviser or deputy chief of staff, and probably Luis for press secretary. I'm sure you'll hang on to both of your assistants, and you'll probably hire at least one more.”

“You've got it all figured out, don't you?”

“Well, that's the thing—I can't figure out where I fit in. A few weeks from now the Secret Service will take over my job, and they sure won't ask for any help from me—in fact, they probably won't let me near you anymore.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Wouldn't that be too bad?”

“It would, Vic, it really would. I've worked for you for three years now and I feel like part of the family. There are things that family members know—things that should stay within the family.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice to a rumbling growl. “I would really, really hate to think that you're threatening me.”

“Why would I threaten you? I'm responsible for your security. That's all I want, Vic—security. Yours
and
mine.”

“What is it you want, Chris? Just say it.”

“I want a job. Not stuffing envelopes in some White House mailroom— I want something up front, something with a little class and a decent paycheck.”

“I'm not sure we have a position for an ex–security guard.”

“Find one. I'm a multitalented guy, Vic—but I don't need to tell you that. The fact is, I wasn't really hired because of my security guard skills, now was I? At least that wasn't the only reason.”

Victoria stared at him for a long time before she spoke again. “All right—I'll see what I can do. You'll have to go through the same personnel process as everyone else; we'll need a financial disclosure form from you, and the FBI will have to run a background check.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

“One more thing, Chris. You're right, I didn't hire you because of your ‘security guard skills'—I hired you because you're pretty, and I like pretty things. But times have changed; I've changed. I've got a future now, and you're just a part of my past—a part I'd like to forget. I'll find you a job, but it won't be like your old one—that job is gone forever. Am I making myself clear?”

“Too bad,” Riddick said. “I really enjoyed that job.”

“Never mention it again—I mean it, Chris. Now get out.”

Riddick slapped the arms of his chair and stood; Victoria returned to her desk without looking back. He shut the office door quietly behind him and stepped out into the foyer.

It worked—he had a job now—but Riddick was not a fool, and he knew exactly what would happen next. Few men knew Victoria Braden better than he did—maybe no one did, including her husband. No doubt about it, she was one of the world's most beautiful women—but inside that pretty head was a set of microprocessors ticking off zeros and ones, estimating angles and calculating odds. Of course she had offered him a job—it was a simple matter of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” She would keep him securely within the Braden family until the election—but the day after the election he would find his suitcase out on the sidewalk and there would be no retirement party. And sure, he could tell his story to the press about his steamy affair with the new First Lady in her younger days—and he would just sound like a thousand other disgruntled ex-employees trying to settle a score or make a buck. Yes, he had a job—but not for long. He had bought himself four extra months, nothing more. Worst of all, he had made an enemy out of Victoria Braden— and that was a dangerous thing to do.

But Riddick had learned a lot from Victoria in the last three years, and he was calculating a few odds of his own. In four months his threat would lose all power. He needed something else, something more—and he needed it soon.

15

Nick opened the door of the Skyline Motel and stepped inside. The lobby was like a time capsule—it reminded Nick of a blue-collar recreation room from the early sixties. The walls were covered with fake pecan paneling that was printed with a wood-grain pattern, but its surface was as smooth as glass. The carpet was a pale avocado green, about the same quality found on the fairways of a miniature golf course. Lanterns with black iron scrollwork and yellow scalloped glass hung from chains in the corners of the room. The furniture was green and gold vinyl with thin wooden arms—a sort of doctor's-waiting-room style that was so out-of-date it was almost retro. In the center of the lobby sat a folding card table and two chairs, where night after night Nick found the Skyline's proprietors sipping coffee and making no discernible headway on a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.

The man looked up as Nick entered. “Evenin', Dr. Polchak.”

“Evening.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” his wife offered. “I'll fetch it for you.”

“No thanks. I was just about to have dinner.” He held up a grease-stained paper sack and a thirty-two-ounce cup with Captain Jack Sparrow on the side.

The woman frowned at Nick's dietary selection. “You need a woman bad.”

“Tell me about it. I just met the world's most beautiful woman today.”

“Who's that?”

“Victoria Braden.”

Her eyes widened. “Victoria Braden? She's from right here in Endor.”

“So I hear.”

“I wish she'd stayed here,” her husband commented. “That one's a real looker.”

“What he needs is a woman who can cook,” his wife replied.

Nick started down the hallway toward his room. “That's what I kept thinking today: ‘But can she cook?'”

“I sure hope the dog's all right,” the man called after him.

Nick stopped and looked back. “What?”

“The dog—it's been whinin' all day.”

Nick came back a few steps. “What dog are we talking about?”

“The only dog we got here—the FEMA lady's dog. You know, Marjory Claire what's-her-name. I'm sorry, but that's more names than I can remember. You two are the only tenants we got right now.”

“Bosco? He's been whining all day?”

“Dogs get lonely too,” the woman said. “Marjory's been gone all day—she's probably out doing more news interviews. Did you catch the one last night?”

“I've been trying to forget it all day.”

“Marjory's practically a celebrity now. Everybody's been talkin' about her—that was a Washington TV station, y'know, not just little ol' WAZF over in Front Royal. Marjory said that dog of hers found every one of those graves—imagine that.”

“That is hard to imagine,” Nick said. “You say Marge has been gone all day?”

“Haven't seen hide nor hair of her.”

“And she left her dog here? Locked up in her room?”

“Judgin' by the sound of it. Why?”

“No reason.” He glanced over at the front desk. “You know, I just remembered—I locked my key in my room this morning. Have you got a spare?”

“Sure, let me get it for you.”

“Don't bother, I can see it from here. I don't want you two to miss out on any of the action there.”

Nick stepped behind the front desk and scanned the rack of room keys; there were two keys on every hook except for two of the rooms. He took the spare key to his own room to keep from arousing suspicion, then took the key to Marge's room as well. He lifted one of the keys from an adjacent hook and placed it on Marge's to cover the empty space.

Nick stopped at the card table as he passed and lifted a puzzle piece from the corner. “See that one over there? The one with a little bit of orange?”

“This one here?”

“This piece fits on the right side.”

The man took the piece from Nick and tried it; it snapped perfectly into place. He squinted up at Nick. “How'd you do that?”

“I don't know. Thanks for the key—I'll bring it right back.”

He went down the hallway to his room and opened the door—then quietly closed it again and continued down the hallway to Marge's room. He listened at the door for a moment; he could hear the tinny, echoing sound of Bosco clawing at the metal grating of his crate—but nothing else. He quietly knocked and waited, but there was no response. He used the spare key to open the door and let himself in.

There was Bosco, locked in his dog crate in the corner of the room— but there was no sign of Marge anywhere. The dog became agitated and began to whimper at the sight of Nick. Nick walked over to the cage and bent down to quiet the dog; he was met by the stench of feces and urine. He looked into the cage and saw a pair of aluminum food and water bowls; both were empty. Nick had a bad feeling; even if the dog lacked a nose, it was still a very expensive and well-groomed animal. It was conceivable that Marge might overlook the dog for a couple of hours, but not like this—she would never neglect the animal's basic needs.

He took a quick look around the room. There was no sign of a disturbance. He found a set of car keys on the dresser; Nick remembered seeing the white SUV in the parking lot when he pulled up. He found no purse or pocketbook; Marge had apparently taken it with her, suggesting that she had left on foot and of her own free will.

But she didn't return—and Nick had a feeling he knew why.

He knelt down in front of the dog crate again. He opened the door just enough to slide out the aluminum water dish, then took it to the bathroom and filled it. He returned it to the cage, then peeled the wrapper from his burger and crumbled it into the other dish.

“This may have to hold you for a while,” Nick said. “There's something I need to take care of.”

He left the room and hurried back down to the lobby.

“Find your key?” Ralph asked as Nick headed out toward the parking lot.

“Yeah, thanks,” Nick said. “By the way—where's the nearest hardware store?”

Nick pulled his car up close to the gate until his headlights illuminated the lock and chain. It was raining lightly; tinsel strands of water streaked through the brilliant light. He got out of the car and took a pair of red-and-gray bolt cutters from the backseat; he positioned the jaws on the hasp of the padlock and cut through it like butter. He dragged the chain off the poles with a ratcheting sound and tossed it aside; he swung the double gate open wide and got back into his car, then drove on into the witch's lair.

The gravel road was just a single lane, and it wound back and forth like a snake with dense trees and thick brush surrounding it on both sides. The rain made visibility poor and Nick drove slowly. He had no idea where the road went, but he knew it was his best bet; roads are built to go somewhere, and he would get a lot farther driving through these woods than walking—he had learned that the hard way.

He had driven almost a mile when he sensed motion on his left; he looked and saw one of the huge black guard dogs lumbering along beside his car with its great jowls flapping like the canvas of a ship. Nick looked out the passenger window; there was the second dog, and he had no doubt that the third was close behind. He glanced down at his gas gauge and was relieved to see the needle on three-quarters of a tank.

About a quarter mile ahead, the road abruptly widened and Nick found himself driving into the center of a large circular clearing. On his right he found a series of kennels—narrow concrete slabs surrounded by chain-link fences, lined up side by side like the keys on a piano. Each of the kennels contained half a dozen dogs of various shapes and sizes, and every single dog began to bark furiously the moment Nick's car came into view.

On the left Nick saw a double-wide trailer, more politely referred to now as a “manufactured home”—but the change in moniker didn't improve the quality or appearance. It looked to Nick like a saltine box lying on its side. It had a barely sloping roof covered with some kind of black composite—just a few rolls of overlapping tar paper to shed water. The trailer's walls looked flat and smooth and monotonous. There were no shutters or fasciae, and the windows had no moldings or sills—they were nothing but glowing rectangular holes cut in the sides of the box. The entire unit was surrounded by a rusting corrugated apron that peeled back at one corner to expose a narrow I-beam resting on a column of cinder blocks. In the center of the unit the roof projected out about three feet, forming a small overhang that sheltered the only door.