Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (88 page)

Riddick nodded. “I hadn't thought of that. You're right, I do have a problem—but it's only a small one. I can still kill you—I'll just have to do it someplace else.”

Alena said nothing; she knew he was right. “Why are you doing this?”

“You've upset a very important person, lady—someone who doesn't want your dog sniffing out any more graves.”

“Who?”

“That's none of your business. I want you to walk over to the car and get in the trunk—right now.”

Alena's mind raced. She knew she was out of options. If she got in the trunk she was dead; the man could shoot her and dump her body anywhere, and the authorities would have no idea where to look. But if she refused to get in the trunk she was dead too—the man preferred not to kill her here, but he would if he had no other choice. She was dead either way, and there was nothing she could do about it—but she had no intention of dying before she learned the truth.

“Who killed my father?” she demanded. “I won't get in the trunk until you tell me—you'll have to kill me here.”

Riddick shook his head. “You really want to know?”

Alena nodded.

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “There's a sweet little old librarian down in Endor. Her name is Agnes. She must be eighty years old—a real grandmotherly type, the kind you'd expect to find putting up preserves or knitting in front of a fire. That's who killed your old man— she took a baseball bat and bashed his brains in, along with half a dozen other poor suckers over the years. Satisfied?”

“Why would she do that?”

“That's a deep, dark secret,” Riddick said.

“But—why my father?”

“Because he had a cadaver dog, and people who can bring back the dead are dangerous to have around. Now—get in the trunk.”

Alena was devastated. She finally knew the truth—but only half of it. She knew
who
but not
why
, and that was almost worse than knowing nothing at all. Why would a woman kill half a dozen men? What kind of secret was worth that? She would have given everything to know— but she had nothing left to give. She had nothing left to bargain with, and she couldn't bring herself to beg.

She was going to die—she knew it—but if she had to die, she was going to make it as hard on the man as possible. She had no intention of buying a few additional hours of life by climbing into that trunk and making his work easier for him. No—she would make him kill her right here, and she would make sure her blood hit the ground and mingled with the dust—and he could scrape it and wipe it all he wanted, but he would never remove the scent.

She imagined the kennel door ten feet behind her. She would turn and lunge for it and throw the gate wide open. She knew that the moment she turned, the man would fire, but with luck he would shoot her in the back and not the head, and she still might have the strength to make it to the kennel and give the dogs their chance. If not—well, she was dead anyway.

“Let's go,” he said.

“Yes. Let's go.”

She spun around and dove for the kennel gate. She tensed every muscle in her body, anticipating the blast of the gunshot and the impact of the bullet slamming into her flesh—but to her astonishment she reached the kennel and slid her fingers into the chain-link fence. The latch on the gate was a foot to her left—she had never expected to get this far. She fumbled madly for the latch, and in the back of her mind she felt a desperate flicker of hope. There was no gunshot—no slam of a bullet into her spine or skull. It might work—she might make it.

As she reached for the latch she heard heavy footsteps behind her and a muttered curse. She felt a crushing blow to the back of her head and saw a searing flash of light.

Then everything went black.

35

Agnes slumped forlornly on the edge of the loading dock while Nick and Gunner stood over the body. Nick shined his flashlight down at the lifeless face.

“He's not from Endor,” Gunner said. “I don't recognize his face.”

“I do. His name is Daniel Flanagan—he was the FBI agent in charge of the investigation at the Patriot Center.”

“What was he doing here?”

“The same thing I was, I imagine—trying to figure this thing out. I hate to see this. Danny was a good kid—a little overeager, maybe, but very bright. He must have talked to my research assistant down at UVA. If he did, he had access to the same information I have. He must have put two and two together and come up with the same answer I did— he just got here first.”

Gunner looked at him. “Nick—what if you had gotten here first?”

“The thought occurred to me,” Nick said. “Thanks for not trusting me with the key.” He ran the flashlight up and down the body, searching for wounds, then got down on all fours and put his left cheek to the ground, studying the back of the skull where it rested in a small puddle of black liquid. “He appears to have been killed by a blow to the head; the back of the skull is crushed in—just like the victims at the Patriot Center.”

Gunner turned to the old woman. “Agnes, did you kill this man?”

The old woman sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, staring down at her plump feet dangling over the ledge in front of her. “Couldn't help it,” she mumbled. “He was pokin' his nose where it don't belong.”

“That's no excuse for taking a man's life. This man was a human being made in the image of God. Was he married? Did he have children? Do you have any idea of the pain you'll cause—”

Nick put a hand on Gunner's shoulder; he walked over and took a seat beside Agnes. “Where was he poking his nose, Agnes? What was Danny looking at that you didn't want him to see?”

Agnes didn't answer.

Nick glanced down at her thick, meaty forearms and gnarled hands. “What did you hit him with? You might as well tell me—they'll find the weapon anyway.”

“Louisville Slugger,” she said. “Stan the Man autograph.”

“Stan Musial—you've had that for a long time, haven't you?”

Again, no answer.

“What did you plan to do with the body? You dragged it out here to the loading dock; you must have been planning to take it somewhere.”

Agnes just shrugged.

“Did you plan to bury it on top of another grave or just dump it in the lake like you did with Marge?”

No reply.

“Agnes, there were three men buried at the Patriot Center who were all killed the same way Danny was—by a blow to the back of the head. They were all killed within your lifetime. Did you do that, Agnes? Did you kill them all? Stan the Man's been around long enough.”

Nothing.

“And what about the man who was buried at Dogleg Lake? Did you kill him too?”

Agnes had nothing to say.

“I think you killed them all,” Nick said. “You're old enough, and you're strong enough, and you're just about the right height—and Danny over there proves you've got the wherewithal to kill a man. You knew where those forgotten graveyards were located—you're the town librarian—you had access to all the historical records. What I want to know is, why? What are you trying to hide? We're talking about murder here, Agnes. I have to call the police—you know that, don't you? I have to notify the FBI too. Danny was a federal agent, and they take a very dim view of losing one of their own. They're going to ask you all these questions and a whole lot more, and they won't be nearly as nice as I am. Why don't you talk to me first? Maybe I can act as a go-between and make things a little easier for you.”

When the old woman still refused to answer, Nick got up from the loading dock and looked at Gunner. “Well, there's one way to find out where Danny was ‘pokin' his nose.'”

“How?”

Nick pointed to the smear of blood leading from the body back to the library door. “I'll be back in a minute,” he said to Gunner. “Keep an eye on her—and I wouldn't turn my back if I were you.”

Nick entered the library and followed the bloody trail to a small room just off the lobby. He immediately recognized it—it was the “shrine” to Victoria Braden. But what would Agnes be trying to hide here? It was a shrine after all—a public place, a place that welcomed visitors and admirers. But maybe there was more to this shrine than met the eye; maybe Danny somehow violated this sacred place; maybe he took a peek behind the altar and found something he wasn't supposed to see.

Bingo.

The crimson streak ended at a table in the center of the room. There was an open scrapbook lying on it; both facing pages were spattered with dots of blood. Nick took a pen from his pocket and used it to carefully turn the pages, examining the contents of the scrapbook from beginning to end. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and more than once he turned to look behind him.

A few minutes later he pushed open the library door and stepped onto the loading dock again.

Gunner looked up. “Well?”

Nick walked down the short stairway and stood in front of Agnes. “I found the scrapbook,” he said to her. “I read it from cover to cover. Was it really that important, Agnes? Was it really worth the lives of five people?”

“What scrapbook?” Gunner asked. “What did you find in there?”

“You were right about human nature, Gunner—apparently anyone is capable of murder. But you were wrong about something else: There are still secrets in a small town. Agnes here has a little secret she's been keeping for years: It seems Victoria Braden is her daughter.”

“What? Agnes—is that true?”

“It's true,” Nick said. “She's got the birth certificate and the adoption papers to prove it. Apparently she wanted to give her daughter a better life than she had, so she forged a whole new ancestry for her. She turned little ‘Beulah' into a bona fide Virginia blue blood—the kind of woman who might catch the eye of a U.S. senator.”

“It's unbelievable.”

“Not entirely. I visited Victoria Braden; I managed to get a sample of her hair and I ran a DNA test to determine her haplogroup.”

“What's that?”

“Mitochondrial DNA is passed from mother to child. It never changes, but random mutations occur over time—mutations that are specific to certain people groups. There might be a mutation that only Native Americans possess—so if I test your DNA and I find that mutation, I know that somewhere in your ancestry there was a female of Native American descent. Victoria Braden's haplogroup showed a mixed ancestry—not the simple Indo-European descent you'd expect. I knew Victoria wasn't what she claimed to be; this just explains it.”

“But how could Victoria keep this a secret for all these years?”

“I'm not sure she even knows.” Nick looked at Agnes. “Have you ever told her, Agnes? Does Victoria know that you're her real mom?”

“Told her just the other day,” Agnes whispered. “When she came to visit Endor—when she came home.”

Gunner sat down beside the old woman. “Agnes—how could you carry this burden all by yourself all these years? How could
you
keep it a secret?”

“I'll bet it wasn't easy,” Nick said. “I have a feeling three different men were about to uncover that little secret over the years. That's why you killed them, isn't it, Agnes—to keep your daughter's real identity a secret?”

No response.

“What about Alena's father? That was a little different, wasn't it?”

“It was that dog of his,” she mumbled. “He could find the graves.”

“That's why you had to kill Marge too—you thought she found all the graves at the Patriot Center, and you were afraid she might find even more. Are there more, Agnes? How many more?”

She didn't reply.

“There's still something I don't understand,” Nick said. “We found
four
bodies at the Patriot Center—but the fourth victim was two hundred years old. It was the same cause of death and the same manner of burial. You couldn't have been responsible for that one, Agnes— Stan the Man doesn't go back that far. But you knew about that body— you must have. You weren't just copying the killer's technique—all four of those men were from the same family. What's the connection there?”

Nick was interrupted by the sound of a sharp
yip
. He turned and found a tiny dog staring up at him with black bulging eyes and its little wry jaw jutting out to one side.

“It's Ruckus,” Gunner said. “Alena must need me.” He snapped his fingers and gave the “away” command, but the dog didn't move. He repeated the command, but Ruckus just continued to stare up at Nick.

“Wait a minute.” Nick walked a few steps away and the dog turned to watch him. “He's looking for me, not you. Alena must have sent him to find me.”

“Go,” Gunner said. “Alena wouldn't do that unless she's in trouble. I'll wait here with Agnes.”