Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

Flanagan shook his head. “Donovan told me you were borderline psychotic. Is that true?”

  “I have no borders.”

  “He also said you’re the best there is.”

  “He’s right about that—but then, you’re taking the word of a psychotic.”

  Flanagan stepped past Nick and extended his hand to Kegan. “You must be Dr. Alexander. I’ve read your file; it’s a pleasure to work with you.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Then you must have read Nick’s file too.”

  He glanced at Nick. “Yes, I did.”

  “I don’t know who writes those things,” Nick said. “Besides, history is open to interpretation.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Now Flanagan raised his voice so that all of the technicians could hear him. “I am Special Agent Daniel Flanagan. As of this morning I am replacing Special Agent Nathan Donovan as agent in charge here—that means you’ll all be reporting to me now. I will remain on-site as much as possible; I will be the first one here every morning and the last one to leave at night. If there are any new developments, I want to know about them. I like facts and I like details; if you’re not sure whether you should tell me or not, tell me. If there are any questions or problems, bring them to me. If there is anything you need to do your jobs more quickly or more efficiently, let me know and I will get it for you. I look forward to working with each of you. Please resume your duties.”

  Now he turned to Nick and Kegan. “Agent Donovan briefed me early this morning, but I’d like to be brought up to date on any recent developments. In addition, I expect to be briefed by each of you twice a day— once during the lunch break and once at the end of the day. Questions?”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “Do I have to raise my hand to use the bathroom?”

  “Twice a day might be a bit much,” Kegan said. “The excavation of buried remains usually takes anywhere from one to three days, and then there’s the lab work after that. I’m not sure I’ll have much to report twice a day.”

  “Nevertheless. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Dr. Polchak alone.”

  He turned and took a few steps aside and Nick followed. “I’m going to call you Nick,” he said. “It’ll save time.”

  “Pals already,” Nick said.

  “I want you to know, I did read your file.”

  “And?”

  “And I’d like to make a few things clear up front. The FBI operates by a set of procedures—procedures that have been carefully refined over a hundred-year history. I follow those procedures, Nick; I live by them, I serve them, and while you’re working for me I expect you to follow them too. Is that clear?”

  “I’d like to explain something too,” Nick said. “I believe rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men. From your little speech back there you sound like a micromanager; if you take that approach here, you’ll wear yourself out and you’ll drive the rest of us crazy. These are smart people; they know what they’re doing. You need to trust them and you need to let them follow their instincts, even if the process bends your precious rules a little. Follow the rules when you have to, Danny, but don’t serve them. Serve your people.”

  Flanagan paused. “It’s Daniel.”

  Nick smiled. “It’s Dr. Polchak.”

  Flanagan slowly smiled back. “Thanks for the advice, Nick. I can’t say I’m surprised since, as I said, I read your file. But I’m not sure you understand what I’m telling you here. I wasn’t asking for your opinion on management style or investigative procedure—I was telling you mine. And while you’re working for me you’re going to do it my way— or you won’t be working for me long. Are we clear on that?”

  “I heard every word you said. I don’t agree with one of them.”

  “You don’t have to. Just do what I tell you and we’ll get along fine.” Flanagan turned and headed for the tech tent. “Five minutes,” he said. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  When Flanagan was out of earshot Nick took out his cell phone again and punched Redial.

  “Donovan.”

  “Why do you torture me?”

  There was a pause. “I’m assuming you just met Agent Flanagan.”

  “Did you pick this guy yourself ? What did I do to you?”

  “I’m not a king, Nick—I don’t get to name my successor. What’s the problem?”

  “He’s an FBI drone, Donovan—he’s been here for five minutes and he’s already given me the ‘rules and regulations’ speech. Didn’t you tell him about me?”

  “I tried to.”

  “He said you told him I was borderline psychotic—thanks a lot.”

  “That’s a lie. I never said ‘borderline.’”

  “I can’t work under a guy like this—you know that.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Nick.”

  “I can quit.”

  “Sure you can. You can go back to NC State and maybe pick up a summer session or two. Teaching. Students. Grading papers. Faculty committees—”

  “In case you’re unaware of it, extortion is against the law.”

  “I’m a little busy here, Nick. Is there a reason for this call?”

  “I want to talk to Braden—in person.”

  “What?”

  “Senator Braden—I want to talk to him. Can you arrange it?”

  “You are psychotic. Braden wouldn’t give you an appointment in a thousand years.”

  “I know. Where does he live?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Nick—don’t even think about it. Why do you want to talk to Braden anyway?”

  “To save us all some time. We just found two more bodies, Donovan, and there might be more. This graveyard is about to turn into an incredibly complicated puzzle, and we’re missing a lot of pieces right now. We’re going to have to try to identify these people through fragments of bone and teeth and hair. That could take forever—if we can do it at all. You say this land has been in Braden’s family for generations; well, then he might have family records—something that might identify the people buried here—maybe even some clue about the victims in the double graves.”

  “If he does, he’ll never admit it.”

  “Probably not—but I’d like to look him in the eye and ask him. That might tell me something right there.”

  “Did you run this by Flanagan?”

  “This one isn’t in the Boy Scout manual, Donovan. Why do you think I’m calling you? You said, ‘Give me a call if you get stuck.’ Well, I’m stuck—help me out here.”

  Donovan paused. “What do you need from me?”

  “Just tell me where Braden lives and when I can find him there.”

  “This could backfire on you, Nick.”

  “But not on you. You’re not my boss anymore. I never called you. You know nothing about this.”

  “If it backfires, it’ll come back on Flanagan.”

  “He can’t stay green forever. Think of this as a rite of passage.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “Braden lives on a huge horse farm near Middleburg, about half an hour east of you. The place is called Bradenton.”

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “He’ll be there for the next couple of days—he has a second office there and he likes to get out of the district whenever he can. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

  “Sure you can. Despite all your bad qualities, Donovan, you’re not a Boy Scout. Deep down you and I are a lot alike.”

  “Thanks—now I feel awful.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Hey, Nick.”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep an eye on the wife—Victoria.”

  “Judging by her photos, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “I’m serious. I’m not sure which end has the rattle and which end has the fangs.”

  “Since I’m not a herpetologist, I can only venture a guess: The end with the fangs is the one
that bites.”

  “Yeah—but by then it’s too late.”

  Gunner Wendorf sat at the desk in his office arranging his sermon notes for the following Sunday. He heard a faint scratching sound and looked up; in the doorway he saw a small dog, not much larger than the head of a mop. Its pink wrinkled skin was visible through the sparse clumps of gray hair that sprouted from its body in every direction. Its head was almost bald except for one tuft of pure white hair that stood up straight on top. Its muzzle was small and pointed and had the color of an old man’s beard; it had round black eyes that seemed to have no pupils and shone like dots of ink. It had a bulldog’s jaw, misaligned so far that its lower canines jutted up on one side and its tongue stuck out on the other—a tiny pink pull tab on a grotesque little package.

  When Gunner made eye contact with the dog it barked once, then waited. He snapped his fingers and made a quick gesture, and the dog disappeared into the night.

  He turned out the light and followed.

  13

  Nick knew he had arrived at Bradenton long before he reached the entrance to the property. A stacked-stone wall ran parallel to the road for miles, topped by a split-rail fence in a kind of teepee configuration. Nick found himself staring at the stone wall as he drove, estimating the amount of stone and the number of man-hours necessary to produce such an endless structure. The wall provided no security; it was purely decorative. That’s what a man can do with money and sweat, Nick thought. Braden’s money and somebody else’s sweat.

  Beyond the wall, vast pastures of verdant green rose and fell like ocean swells under the black rail fences. Holding ponds dotted the landscape like glistening gemstones, and Nick thought the neatly painted barns and equipment sheds looked like little milk cartons on a piece of green felt. Suddenly the wall rose into a towering column of stone, marking the entrance to the property. Nick pulled in and stopped his car under an elaborate black wrought-iron arch that spelled out the name “Bradenton” in an old copperplate script, framed by a leaping thoroughbred at either end. Nick looked down the road but saw no sign of a house anywhere. It was apparently concealed behind some hill or even over the horizon; the property must have been enormous.

  He drove at least half a mile before the road curved to the right around a grove of towering red oaks. Another quarter mile ahead he could finally see the farmhouse—if the word could be used to describe such a structure. The house was enormous—a sprawling construction of massive wood beams and white stucco walls with slate roofs sliced from the same Virginia bluestone that outlined the property. A hundred yards from the house the road turned from gray crushed gravel to smooth paving stone and the car suddenly fell silent, like a man stepping onto carpet from a hardwood floor.

  So this is how the other half lives, was the thought that crossed Nick’s mind, but he knew it was nonsense. The other half lived nothing like this—no one did except for a blessed few, and that blessing was almost always handed to them on a silver platter. This was old money; there just wasn’t time for one man to earn all this in one lifetime. You could win a dozen lotteries and never afford a property like this, even if it was for sale—and places like Bradenton never were.

  The driveway looped like a shepherd’s crook in front of the house; in the center was a fountain with a bronze statue of two rearing stallions in apparent combat. Nick parked his car and approached the house. The front door was actually two doors, both very wide, and Nick wasn’t sure which one of them would open—so he pushed the doorbell and stepped back a little, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds the door on the left slowly swung open, and Nick felt a rush of cold air.

  “May I help you?”

  The man holding the door was not what Nick had expected: He was tall and athletic-looking, dressed in a dark suit with wavy black hair to match. Nick blinked; the man looked more like an Italian swimsuit model than a butler.

  “I’m here to see Senator Braden,” Nick said.

  The man looked Nick over doubtfully.

  “You’ll have to excuse my appearance,” Nick said. “I came directly from work.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes—I’m in charge of the investigation at the Patriot Center.”

  “Do you have an appointment with the senator?”

  “I only need a few minutes.”

  “Sorry—the senator isn’t at home right now.”

  “I was told the senator would be here for the next couple of days.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Like I said—I’m in charge of the investigation.”

  The man considered this.

  “Look,” Nick said, “tell the senator I have information for him about a recent development at the Patriot Center—tell him it’s something he’ll want to know.”

  “You can leave the information with me,” he said.

  It was Nick’s turn to look doubtful. “No offense, but—who are you?”

  “I’m head of the senator’s security force.”

  “And he’s got you opening doors?”

  The man frowned a little. “We have to be careful—you never know who might show up unannounced.”

  “Well, this information is confidential—for his ears only. I’ll leave if you want me to, but I don’t think your boss will be happy about that.”

  The man hesitated but finally opened the door and stepped aside. “Come in,” he said. “The senator isn’t here, but he’s on the property— he’s doing a little hunting right now. I can reach him by cell phone; I’ll ask him if he wants to see you. Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Dr. Nick Polchak.”

  “Does the senator know you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wait in there—that’s the senator’s study.”

  The man disappeared around a corner and Nick wandered through the foyer and into the study. The room was cavernous, with a tall cathedral ceiling and shaved log beams that spanned the room from one end to the other. There was a desk in the center of the room so large that Nick thought anyone sitting behind it would look like a child. The walls were covered with so many framed certificates and diplomas and the display cases were crammed with so many awards that he wondered if the senator could have actually earned them all. Who knows? Maybe he inherited those too. To the right of the desk was a seating area, where four small upholstered chairs formed a half-circle around a stately leather wingback—Nick had no doubt whose place that was. In the far right corner, under a brilliant halogen accent light, was a stuffed black bear standing in a ferocious attack position—jaws open, teeth glaring, paws held high. Nick shook his head; he wondered if bears were ever stuffed in a sleeping position, or with their backs turned, running away.

  Nick turned to his left, and to his surprise found two men standing at a round table, dressed in dark suits like the man who answered the door—except that they wore white shirts with ties. A set of blueprints was on the table in front of them—and right now they were looking at Nick.

  “Sorry,” Nick said. “Your boss told me to wait in here.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boss—the guy who answered the door.”

  Both men grinned. “We’re Secret Service,” one of them said. “That guy’s just some private security flunkie.”

  “He said he was head of the senator’s security.”

  The man chuckled. “He is, for a couple more weeks—then we take over.”

  “I thought you people only guarded the president and people like that.”

  “No, we cover presidential candidates too—starting a few months before the election. Do you mind? We’ve got a lot of work to do here.”

  The two men returned to their blueprints and Nick returned to wandering the room—but he kept an ear tuned to their discussion. They were studying blueprints of Bradenton’s farmhouse and grounds, identifying the vulnerabilities and deciding where security would need to be enhanced.

  Nick pointed to a door in the corner of the room. “Excuse me—is tha
t a bathroom?”

  One of the agents looked up. “I think so, yes.”

  “Do you think the senator would mind?”

  “I’d leave the seat down if I were you—Mrs. Braden uses it too.”

  How convenient, Nick thought. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  When he emerged again the security guard was waiting for him in the doorway. “Dr. Polchak—the senator will see you.”

  Nick looked at the office. “Here?”

  “No—I’m to take you to him. Do you ride?”

  Nick blinked. “If you’re driving, I’m riding.”

  “Horses, Dr. Polchak. This is a horse farm.”

  “I’m not very good with large animals,” Nick said. “Have you got anything with wheels?”

  “We’ll take the Land Rover. Follow me.”

  They exited by a back door into a parking lot between the house and a long outbuilding with multiple doors—stables, Nick guessed. They climbed into the car and started down a gravel road that led away from the farmhouse; a half mile later the gravel road ended and they continued to drive across open fields. Nick kept wondering where the property would end, but there seemed to be no end in sight.

  “I didn’t get your name,” Nick said.

  “Riddick—Chris Riddick.”

  “The two guys in the senator’s study—they said they were Secret Service.”

  Riddick didn’t respond.

  “And I understand you’re private security. When did you sign on?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “When Braden started to draw more attention?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When does the Secret Service take over?”

  Riddick paused. “A hundred and twenty days before the election.”

  “That’s only a few weeks from now.”

  “Thanks, I figured that out.”

  “When the Secret Service takes over, what happens to you?”

  Riddick jerked the steering wheel to the left, throwing Nick up against the passenger door. The Land Rover lurched up and over a small rise, then bounded down the slope on the opposite side. Just before a stand of tall hardwoods he slammed the brakes, bringing the car to a skidding stop.

  Nick released his grip on the dashboard and looked at Riddick. “This concludes your jungle adventure—please watch your step on the way out.”