Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “Not a whole lot,” Nick replied. “Are you a betting man, Deputy?”

  “At times. I play the lottery when the numbers get high enough.”

  “How many graves would you bet there are in this graveyard?”

  The deputy considered. “No way to tell.”

  “If you had to bet.”

  The deputy looked over the area. “Well—I see four in a row right there. I suppose that could be the end of it, but most likely not—I figure they’s at least another one or two on either side. But it don’t make sense they’d plant ’em all in one row like peas or pole beans, so I figure they’s another row or two behind ’em—maybe more.”

  “That’s good figuring,” Nick said. “So what’s your guess?”

  “If I had to bet? I’d say thirty—thereabouts.”

  “And how many of those thirty has Bosco found so far?”

  “Maybe he’s just warmin’ up.”

  Nick looked at his watch. “What is he, a Crock-Pot?”

  The dog wandered back and forth across the open area with its nose to the ground; from time to time Marge would call the dog back, reaching into a pouch at her waist and handing the dog some kind of tasty reward—for what, Nick had no idea. Then she would send the dog off again, sniffing and pawing in his brilliant orange vest. Throughout the whole process the woman would issue piercing commands with the silver whistle, causing the dog to constantly stop and shoot off in a different direction like a fur-covered bumper car.

  “Any idea what she’s doin’?” the deputy asked.

  “I’m picking up a little of it,” Nick said. “When she wants the dog to come, she blows the whistle; when she wants the dog to change direction, she blows the whistle; when she wants to give the dog a reward, she blows the whistle. I think I understand: After years of constant training, the dog has taught her to blow the whistle.”

  The whistle shrieked again and Elgin winced. “Sure wish she’d stop blowin’ that thing.”

  “Me too,” Nick said. “If I were the dog I’d go for her throat.”

  They watched a while longer. The dog constantly stopped and sniffed but never seemed to show any more interest in one spot than another.

  “Nice-lookin’ animal,” Elgin offered.

  “So am I,” Nick said. “I can’t find graves either.”

  He took out his cell phone and dialed again. There was a click and then a pause at the other end.

  “Now what?” Donovan sighed.

  “The wonder of caller ID,” Nick said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “The dog—it’s got a nose like a brick.”

  Another pause. “You know what I’ve always admired about you, Nick?”

  “Nothing that I know of.”

  “You’re not a whiner. I was just saying to Macy the other day, ‘You know, Nick Polchak is weird and he wears big funny glasses, but he’s no whiner.’”

  “Flatterer.”

  “Whenever there’s a problem, you always find a way around it. That’s a great quality, Nick—I’d sure hate to see it stop now.”

  “I’m telling you, the dog can’t smell. How am I supposed to analyze insect evidence from graves that we can’t find?”

  “How long has this dog been searching?” Donovan asked.

  “An eternity,” Nick said.

  “Three hours—that’s when you called to annoy me last. Has it occurred to you that this dog is trying to pick up the scent from bones that could be two or three hundred years old?”

  “What about the bodies buried on top?” Nick said. “They could be a lot more recent—possibly only a few years old.”

  “And the dog has to pick up the scent through a couple of feet of compacted soil.”

  “I’m not expecting him to replace the headstones and plant flowers,” Nick said, “but it’s been three hours and he hasn’t found a single grave.”

  “Give the dog some time. You’ve got two graves to get started on; do your work and let the dog do his.”

  “I can’t,” Nick said. “Apparently I’m a ‘distracting scent.’”

  “The dog told you that?”

  “No, the woman did.”

  “So who are you distracting—the dog or the woman?”

  “I’m not calling you anymore,” Nick grumbled.

  “Good. That Nick—he’s no whiner.”

  Nick closed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.

  Elgin looked at him. “What’d the boss have to say?”

  “FBI agents don’t always think clearly,” Nick said. “Too much time at the shooting range.”

  Another thirty minutes passed.

  The sun was just beginning to dip behind the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains now; the woman, taking note of the shadows stretching toward her, attached a leash to her dog’s collar and began to walk back toward the parking lot.

  “Nice work today,” Nick called out as she passed. “One suggestion: You might tell the dog to search for graves instead of all the places where there aren’t any. That might save time—it’s a big planet.”

  The woman sniffed. “It’s the temperature.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The warmer the temperature, the more difficult it is for the dog to pick up the scent.”

  “It gets cooler here in the fall,” Nick said. “Why don’t you come back then?”

  “We will be back in the cool of the morning,” she said.

  Nick and Elgin watched her as she turned and led the dog away.

  “An entire day wasted,” Nick groaned.

  “I take it you’re not one for sittin’ around.”

  “I’d rather be driving in the wrong direction than waiting at a stoplight.” “Felt that way myself at times.”

  “I can’t just sit here and wait for Bosco to grow a nose. Somebody else around here must have a cadaver dog. What about the sheriff ’s department—don’t you guys have any contacts in the area?”

  “None that I know of—not much need. Y’know, if you really want to find those graves, you ought to ask the witch.”

  Nick turned and looked at him. “Who?”

  “The witch—the Witch of Endor.”

  “There’s a witch in Endor?”

  “Not in Endor exactly—she lives in the mountains up above the town. Her people have lived up there as long as anyone can remember. She’s the only one left now. She practically owns the whole mountaintop— got a big fence around the whole thing. I seen it myself.”

  “Does she ever come into town?”

  “Oh, no, sir—witches don’t associate. They only come out at night, and generally by a full moon. She only associates with animals.”

  “Animals?”

  “Witches have power over animals, y’know. She can speak their language— make ’em do anything she wants.”

  “Uh-huh. And what makes people think she’s a witch?”

  “Well, she dresses the part—that’s for sure. She wanders the woods at night with a three-legged dog—people catch a glimpse of her sometimes under a full moon. She does weird things with her hands—she makes these signs, puts the hex on people that get on her bad side.”

  “Your average witch stuff,” Nick said.

  “Pretty much—except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She can raise the dead.”

  4

  “Pizza for Polchak,” Nick said.

  A moonfaced boy in a grease-stained apron nodded and headed for the kitchen.

  Nick leaned back against the counter and looked around the restaurant. The Endor Tavern & Grille was the only eating establishment in the town of Endor—not exactly a surprise, since the entire downtown consisted of nothing more than a single intersection. On the southwest corner stood the Skyline Motel, where Nick had checked in just a few minutes ago. He fished his room key from his pocket and held it up: It was a football-shaped disk of green plastic attached by an S-hook to a shiny brass key. Nick shook
his head; he hadn’t seen a keychain like this in years. The only places that used them anymore were truck stops and gas stations, to keep forgetful patrons from driving off with the restroom key. He wondered how long it would be before the Skyline Motel made the leap into the twenty-first century. Probably never, he thought. The twenty-first century could drive right past on I-66 and the little town of Endor wouldn’t miss it one bit.

  Across from the Skyline and up the hill was the Endor Regional Library. An odd location for a regional collection, Nick thought, but then again reading might be a very popular activity in a boring little town like this. Catty-corner to the Skyline was Endor Resurrection Lutheran Church—a mountain-style hamlet with a tall, sloping slate roof. The entire church was constructed of the local stone, making it look as if the building were just one huge outcropping jutting from the mountainside.

  On Nick’s left there was a long bar with a mahogany railing and six padded barstools—evidently the Tavern portion of the Tavern & Grille. It was “Grille” with an e, he noticed—probably somebody’s idea of a way to add a little class to an establishment that otherwise had none. Across from the bar the room opened into a spacious eating area—the Grille. In the center of the room was a canoe-sized salad bar, currently vacant, with a well-buffed Plexiglas sneeze guard suspended like a tent above it. The room was dotted with round four-tops and eight-tops draped in red-and-white vinyl checkered tablecloths with draperies to match, and there was a single row of red vinyl booths along the far wall. The walls themselves were made of brick with dark wood trim, and little yellow lanterns gave the room a dingy hue. Lovely décor, Nick thought—sort of a Tudor/Swiss/Shakey’s Pizza motif. Part watering hole, part gathering place, part do-it-yourself, part sit-and-serve—a little something for everybody, because everybody in Endor had no place else to go—and neither did Nick.

  It seemed to be a quiet night in Endor. Only one table was occupied— a table in the far corner surrounded by a group of teenagers. Nick watched them for a few minutes.

  “Pizza for Kojak,” a voice behind him announced.

  Nick turned. “Polchak,” he corrected, and handed the boy a twenty-dollar bill. “Do you know those kids over there?”

  The boy looked over Nick’s shoulder. “Sure.”

  “What high school?”

  “Endor.”

  That figures. “What’s their mascot?”

  “Mountaineers.”

  That figures too. “Thanks. Keep the change—your government sends its greetings.”

  Nick took the pizza and walked over to the table. As he approached, conversations began to drop off and heads turned to look at him one by one. Without a word he leaned out over the table and set the pizza in the center, then pulled up a chair and sat down—then he opened the box, took out a slice, and began to eat.

  The group stared at him in silence.

  “Help yourself,” Nick said through a mouthful. “I ordered ‘the works,’ so just pick off anything you don’t like.”

  No one moved.

  “So how did the Mountaineers do this year?”

  There was a long silence before one of the boys ventured to ask, “Football or basketball?”

  Nick cocked his head and looked at him. “Now what do you think?”

  One of the girls covered her mouth and giggled. “Yeah—we suck at basketball.”

  They all laughed—Nick could sense the release of tension.

  “Did you go to Endor?” one of them asked.

  “I’m from out of town,” Nick said. “I’m staying across the street at the Skyline. I ordered this pizza, but when I got the thing I realized it was too big for me—so I thought maybe you guys could help me eat it. Hope you don’t mind me barging in like this.”

  The girl closest to Nick squinted hard and said, “You’ve got really huge glasses.”

  “And you’re a very observant young woman,” Nick replied.

  “Why do you wear them?”

  “To keep insects out of my eyes at high speeds.”

  She blinked.

  “So I can see,” Nick said.

  The girl leaned closer and studied the soft brown orbs that floated behind the lenses. “How big are your eyes?” she asked.

  “They’re the size of Frisbees,” Nick said. “The glasses make them look smaller.”

  She still didn’t change expressions, but some of the others laughed.

  Nick lifted his glasses and showed the girl his eyes, then gave her a wink.

  “You’ve got pretty eyes,” she said.

  “Thanks. I wish I could say the same for you, but I’m afraid you’re just a big blur right now.” He turned to the rest of the group and said, “What are you guys waiting for? It’s lousy pizza anyway—it won’t taste any better cold.”

  They were on the pizza like jackals on a gazelle.

  Nick listened to the group as they talked; his eyes darted behind his glasses like a pair of rebounding basketballs. These kids were like a collection of insects to Nick, each with its own rituals and pairing behavior. The girl on his right was holding hands with the boy next to her, but she kept looking at a taller boy across the table. The shorter boy beside her kept clinging to the girl’s hand, but it was too late—a more suitable potential mate had already caught her attention. The boy directly across from Nick kept his arms folded with his fists tucked behind his biceps to make them appear larger than they really were, exaggerating his size and status. One girl wore more makeup than all the others combined; she kept touching it up with a pocket mirror, seeking to distinguish herself from the drabber females in the colony.

  But the focus of Nick’s attention was the boy seated to his left. He was the largest in the group, with a tousle of brown hair and a splatter of pimples across his fair skin. He was athletic and obviously proud of it—he wore a wool letter jacket with leather sleeves, even though the temperature outside was well over eighty degrees. He spoke with more volume and more self-assurance than the others, and other members of the group quickly deferred to him. This boy was the dominant male in the colony; he was the one Nick was looking for.

  Nick turned and looked at him. “How’s the fall look for you guys? Tough schedule?”

  “We’re gonna kick butt this year,” the boy said. “We’ve got our whole front line and half the backfield returning.”

  “Who’s your big rival?”

  “Front Royal,” the boy growled, and the whole group sneered with contempt. “We’re gonna kill them this year.”

  “Front Royal,” Nick said. “I’ve heard of them—I heard a guy mention them just this morning. He said Front Royal is gonna jerk your jocks up over your heads this year.”

  They all stared at Nick while he took another bite of his pizza.

  “Who told you that?” the boy demanded.

  “Like I said—I’m from out of town.” Nick pointed to the ’09 on the boy’s jacket sleeve. “Senior year coming up—any college prospects?”

  The boy shrugged. “I’ve had some calls.”

  “Think you’re big enough?”

  “You bet I’m big enough—strong enough too.”

  “College football is a whole new ball game,” Nick said. “Size is important but what really matters is toughness—courage—guts.”

  “I’ve got plenty of that.” The boy glanced around the group for confirmation, and his friends dutifully nodded. “We’re gonna destroy Front Royal this season, and you can tell that guy I said so. Better yet, you tell him to come say that to my face, and I’ll straighten him out personally.”

  Nick did his best to look impressed. He turned to the rest of the group. “So what’s it like living in a town the size of Endor?”

  “Boring,” they groaned in unison.

  “You must know everybody in a town this size.”

  “Everybody.”

  “What about the kid who sold me this pizza?”

  “That’s Donny,” one of them said. “He’s a dork.”

  “What about the ol
d guy who runs the Skyline Motel—the one with the hair sticking out of his ears?”

  “Mr. Denardo,” someone said. “He’s got artificial knees—both of ’em.”

  Nick let a beat pass before he asked, “What about the witch?”

  No one answered.

  Nick looked around the group. “C’mon—somebody here must know the witch.”

  There was a pause. “We know about her,” someone said quietly.

  “You mean nobody’s actually met her? Nobody’s talked to her?”

  They shook their heads in astonishment. “Nobody talks to the witch. She lives up on the mountain, and she never comes down.”

  “Never? What does she do for food?”

  “She eats dogs.”

  “She eats dogs?”

  “It’s true,” one of the girls said. “My friend Keisha saw her—at the animal shelter over in Cedarville. She was opening all the cages and feeling all the puppies—she was looking for the fattest ones to take back with her.”

  “What does the witch look like?”

  “They say she’s a hundred years old, but she looks no older than you do. Keisha says she has long black hair that comes down to her waist. She was wearing dark sunglasses so she wouldn’t give anybody the evil eye unless she wanted to. Keisha just stared at her—but then all of a sudden the witch turned and looked right at her and then she made a quick sign—sort of like this,” she said, waving her hands in front of her in a mystic-looking gesture. “And you know what? One week later Keisha had to have her appendix out. She almost died—I swear, no kidding.”

  “That was a close call,” Nick said. “You know, if your friend saw the witch at an animal shelter, then she must come down from the mountain from time to time.”

  They all looked at one another and slowly nodded, as though the thought was occurring to them for the first time.

  “What’s the best way to contact her?”

  They looked at Nick in amazement. “You want to meet the witch? Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to her,” Nick said. “Sort of a project I’m working on.”

  No one responded.

  “She must have a phone.”

  One of the boys stared at Nick as if he had just said, “Pigs must have wings.” “The witch don’t have a phone,” he said. “The witch only talks to animals, and animals don’t have phones.”