by Tim Downs
“Did you kick my dog?” she demanded.
“Are you the witch?”
“I said, ‘Did-you-kick-my-dog?’”
“What’s your problem, lady? I only wanted to talk to you.”
She raised her right hand and made a fist; both dogs began to slowly tighten their grips.
“I’d consider your answers very carefully if I were you,” Nick said. “Trust me, I’ve had some experience in this area.”
Alena glared down at him. “Do you know what a ‘crush bite’ is? It’s the way dogs bite—not by puncturing the skin like cats do, but by crushing and tearing. A dog this size can bite with a force of four hundred pounds per square inch—what do you think he’ll do to your windpipe if I give him the command?”
“Get these dogs off me right now,” Decker demanded. “These are dangerous animals—I could call the authorities and have them destroyed.”
“Wow,” Nick said. “I was just wondering if it was possible for you to get any stupider. Apparently it is.”
Alena knelt down beside him and glared directly into his eyes. “You’re right,” she said, “these are dangerous animals. I’ve taught them to hunt the way their ancestors did—in a pack. That one grabbed your leg to keep you from escaping; I had to train him not to follow his instincts and tear your hamstring out. I trained this one to go for your throat but not to crush it. That was a very difficult skill for him to learn—it’s like learning to carry an egg on your tongue. And this one down here—the one who’s drooling over your potbelly right now—he’s the one who would kill you. The other two are just supposed to paralyze you—to hold you down and stretch you out nice and tight while their partner disembowels you.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Decker said.
“I’m a witch,” she whispered. “What did you expect?”
“I’ll see you in court, lady. This is a violation of the First Amendment— you’re infringing on the freedom of the press.”
She slowly rose to her feet. “There’s only one way to deal with a man like you.”
At that moment Gunner came crashing through the brush into the clearing and collapsed to his knees, panting. “Alena—don’t!”
But Alena ignored him. She snapped her fingers and pointed to Ruckus, then to Decker. The little dog trotted over and positioned itself beside the man, then looked up at its master for the final command. Alena held out her left hand and raised her little finger.
Ruckus lifted his left leg and sent a jet of water onto Decker’s head.
Gunner heaved a sigh of relief.
“Hey!” Decker shouted as loudly as his constricted throat would allow. “What the—What’s he doing?”
“What a coincidence,” Nick said. “I was just thinking of doing the same thing.”
“Tell him to stop that!”
“Tell him yourself. Give him that line about ‘freedom of the press’— that one really impressed me.”
Decker reached up for the little dog—but when he did he felt his throat tighten. He dropped his arm to his side again; he had no choice but to lay there until the dog had finished his business at his leisure.
“That’s quite a bladder for a little dog,” Gunner said. “I’m jealous.”
“I know what you mean,” Nick said. “That’s a performance any man would admire.”
“Are you going to let me up or not?” Decker growled.
Nick squatted down beside him. “Let’s get a couple of things straight first: Number one, as of tonight Alena is assisting the FBI in an investigation— that means she’ll be subject to the same interview restrictions the rest of us are. If you want to talk to Alena, talk to the public liaison officer at the Patriot Center first. Got it?”
“Whatever.”
“And number two, when you climbed that fence you became guilty of trespassing, and the First Amendment won’t protect you there. If I ever see you up here again, I’ll make sure charges are filed and your credentials are pulled—and if Alena catches you up here again, you’ll get worse than that. And you know what, Decker? These are trained security dogs and this is posted private property—I don’t think a jury in the world would convict her.”
“I’m still going to do this story.”
“Go ahead, scuzzball—the damage has already been done. Just don’t come back here unless you’re invited. Do we understand each other?”
Decker blinked his assent.
Nick looked up at Alena and nodded; she snapped her fingers, then closed her fist and opened it again. The dogs immediately released their grip and took sitting positions beside her.
Decker stood up and wiped himself off. “All I wanted to ask you is—”
“My dogs will escort you back to the fence,” Alena said. “And if you feel like kicking one of these dogs, please—go right ahead.”
The three of them watched in silence until Decker was well into the woods. Alena scooped up Ruckus and cradled him in her arms.
“Is he all right?” Gunner asked.
“Nothing seems to be broken.”
“He’s a tough little guy,” Nick said.
“I told you—it’s his gift.”
“It could have been worse, Alena. It could have been you.”
“He was just a reporter.”
“This time.”
“I told you before, I can take care of myself.”
“Is this the way you want to spend your life—listening for sounds in the woods every night? Wondering if somebody else has climbed your fence? Wondering if they’re coming for you?”
She shrugged. “That’s what I do anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Gunner said. “Listen to Nick, Alena. Somebody’s going to come looking for you—the same guy who came looking for that FEMA woman. Please—help the FBI find him before he finds you. Everybody knows about you now; there’s no reason for you to hide anymore—no reason you and Nick have to sneak around at night.”
“Every time I help him, things get worse.”
“Sometimes things get worse before they get better,” Nick said, “but they will get better—and they’ll improve a lot faster if you help.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me to Dogleg Lake in the morning. Help us find the body in the water. You and Trygg can pinpoint it for us—without your help we’ll have to search the whole lake.”
“Why is that body so important?”
“Because it’s Marge’s body—I’m sure of it. The lake water’s cold— that slows down decomposition—and the body’s only been there for a couple of days. So far we’ve had to track this guy with nothing but a pile of thirty-year-old bones. This time we have a fresh body—a chance of finding forensic evidence that could lead us right to him.”
“You can find the body without me,” she said. “It’ll just take a little longer.”
“It could take a lot longer, and in the meantime somebody could be looking for you. Marge disappeared the day after her interview, remember? Well, news about you has been circulating for about a day now. We don’t have time to mess around, Alena—we need to move fast.”
“Listen to him,” Gunner added. “Nick’s making sense.”
Alena considered their words. “I can’t go down there—not in the daylight— not when people will see me.”
“The FBI will declare the area a crime scene. We’ll cordon off the whole place—no one will be allowed in except you and me and a handful of FBI personnel. Believe me, it’s the safest place for you to be right now.”
“The safest place for me is with my dogs.”
“We’re talking about a murderer,” Nick said, “and that little dog can’t protect you. I’m afraid the others can’t either—they’re big, and they’re smart, but they’re not bulletproof.”
“Don’t ever say that. Ever.”
“I’m sorry. You need to hear it.”
“I want you both to go away. I can’t go back down there. I won’t— and you have no right to as
k me to help you again. I’ve helped enough.” She turned and started back through the woods.
“Alena, wait,” Gunner said.
“Then help yourself,” Nick called after her. “You want this guy more than I do.”
Alena turned and looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whoever killed Marge needed a place to dump her body fast. He took it to the old graveyard by the lake, but he knew he couldn’t bury it like he did the others—not while people are looking for graves—so he dropped it in the lake instead. He knew about the graveyard, Alena—the one you helped me find last night.”
“So?”
“I went back there this morning. I started excavating that grave— the one you said had the most recent remains. You were right, just like always. There was a second body—one that wasn’t supposed to be there.”
Alena waited.
Gunner took a step closer. “We didn’t want to tell you like this.”
“Tell me what?”
Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out the buckeye; he pushed on it with his thumb.
CLICK clack.
Ruckus barked once.
Alena sank to the ground, and Gunner hurried to her side.
30
Riddick led the mare from her stall and tied the lead to a wooden post in an open section of the stable. It was a magnificent animal, a classic reddish-brown bay with a black mane and tail. He took out a soft-bristled brush and began to stroke the mare’s forelock and face, being careful to avoid her eyes. Then he switched to a medium brush and moved to the neck, working his way down to the powerful shoulders with a brush in one hand and a grooming mitt in the other.
I’m definitely getting one of these, he thought. He imagined himself sitting in the saddle, holding the reins loosely in his lap while the mare cantered smoothly around the exercise arena. He was a good rider—for someone who grew up in the suburbs of Virginia Beach and never saw a horse outside of a petting zoo. But he used to ride with Victoria, and she had taught him well. She taught him how to keep his shoulders back and how to keep constant pressure on the irons with the balls of his feet; she taught him how to push his heels down to stay square in the saddle and how to hold the reins to keep a constant light pressure on the bit. Victoria grew up on a horse; she knew how to ride, and now Riddick did too—and he was looking forward to riding again.
“Is she ready?”
Riddick turned. Victoria was dressed in khaki breeches with knee-length riding boots and a black blazer over a white cotton blouse; she was working her slender fingers into a pair of pigskin gloves. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail today—something Riddick rarely saw and few cameras were ever allowed to record.
“Almost. Thought I’d give her a once-over first.”
“Good.” She took a quilted saddle pad and threw it across the mare’s back.
“Want some company? I could saddle the Appaloosa.”
“I prefer to ride alone. You’d slow me down.” She glanced around the stable for any sign of listening ears. “I thought this might be a good place to have a little talk, Chris. I can’t have you popping in and out of my bedroom ever again. Are we clear on that?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night—about those two scrapbooks and what they contain—about what would happen if people found out.”
“And?”
“You said that the old woman is the town gossip, and that I should think about that. What did you mean?”
“Just food for thought.”
“Don’t get coy on me, Chris. What did you mean?”
He looked at her. “I think you know what I meant.”
“What I want to know is, what are you willing to do about it?”
He paused. “What do you want me to do?”
“Not a thing. That old woman is my biological mother, Chris— believe it or not, that means something to me. Besides, I don’t think she’s a problem. After all, she’s kept this secret for over forty years; if she wanted to tell someone she would have done it a long time ago. She wants to see her little girl make it to the White House; I think she wants it even more than I do. She’s no problem; the secret’s safe with her.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“Because—I want to know how far you’re willing to go.” She turned to the wall and lifted an English saddle from a rack.
Riddick reached out to take it from her.
“Don’t.” She hoisted it onto the mare’s back and folded down the saddle flaps. “You said something else I’ve been thinking about—you said you weren’t asking much. You’re wrong about that, Chris—you’re asking for everything.”
“No more than I’m entitled to.”
“You’re not ‘entitled’ to anything—you get what you earn around here. That’s the way it works in the big leagues, and that’s what you’re really asking for: You want to play with the big boys now—isn’t that right?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“Good. There’s a woman who lives in the mountains above Endor. She lives all by herself in the woods. The people there think she’s a witch. That’s what they call her: the Witch of Endor.”
“Nice little hometown you’ve got there.”
“People get some crazy ideas in their heads, don’t they? Take you, for example: You think you’ve got a free ticket to Washington just because you know something that I don’t want revealed. Sorry, Chris, it’s not that easy. You can have Washington—we can work something out—but you’ll have to earn it.”
“How?”
“This woman—the one they call the witch—she’s a dog trainer. She has a cadaver dog that can find almost anything—even bodies buried hundreds of years ago. You know the graveyard at the Patriot Center? She’s the one who found every one of those graves—and the four bodies that weren’t supposed to be there. They thought a different woman found the graves at first—everybody did. That woman has disappeared; the FBI thinks someone killed her.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“From the nice young FBI agent in charge of the investigation.”
“So now you own an FBI agent.”
“Don’t be silly—no one ‘owns’ an FBI agent. He simply keeps me informed as a professional courtesy, that’s all.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You disappoint me, Chris—I thought you were smarter than that. Think about the scrapbooks: Do you know who killed the four people they found at the Patriot Center?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“So do I—but the FBI doesn’t know, and we don’t want them to. All they’ve had to work with so far is four very old skeletons, and that’s not enough for them to figure out who did it. But they just found another body—in a different graveyard—and there could be more. Every time they find another body, they find more evidence, and that puts them one step closer to figuring it all out. Guess who found that fifth body, Chris? The witch did—the Witch of Endor. She’s the real problem here.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just telling you my problem, that’s all—I’m just telling you what’s weighing on my heart. That’s what women do, Chris. They find a man they feel close to and then they share their burden with him. If the man really cares, he’ll do something about her problem—without waiting to be asked. That’s how she knows if he really cares—if he does something.”
She turned her back to him and stepped in close until they were almost touching. She looked back at him over her right shoulder. “Help me up, will you?”
She fit her left foot into the stirrup. He put his hands on her waist and lifted; she slowly rose up in front of him and swung her right leg over the saddle.
Chris looked up at her. “When?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But my problem is getting worse
every day—if anyone cares.”
He nodded.
She tugged on the reins and backed the horse away. “Oh, and Chris— muck the stall while I’m gone, will you? I gave the stable boy the day off.”
31
The bass boat cruised silently across the lake. Trygg balanced on her three legs in the shallow bow with her head draped over the edge and her nose hovering just above the water. The dog’s head swung slowly from side to side like a pendulum, and the walls of her nostrils flexed in and out as she tested the air for scent. She wore a different bandanna this time—a green one with a checkered pattern—the one that reminded her to search for submerged remains. Alena knelt in the bow beside the dog, studying her eyes and the movements of her body, watching for any sign of an alert.
Nick sat on the casting deck behind them, steering the boat with two foot pedals; they used an electric trolling motor to keep gasoline fumes from obscuring the scent. He glanced back over his shoulder; on the distant shore he could see Kegan and Danny and the FBI’s forensic tech crew excavating the remains of Alena’s father. He looked at Alena. Her eyes were red and swollen; she had cried most of the night while Gunner sat beside her and held her and Nick watched helplessly from across the room. Nick knew she was exhausted and he knew she deserved to be left alone to grieve, but he had no choice; they had to find this body soon—for Alena’s sake. Nick knew that a decomposing body was like a ticking clock; with every passing hour valuable forensic evidence would be lost. So far they had been trying to find a killer with nothing but a handful of ancient bones. The bones of Ken Savard were more recent, but even they were already more than two decades old. But Marge—she had been dead only a day or two, and the killer’s hand-prints might still be all over her body—if they found it in time.
But mountain lakes can be deep, and the pressures at greater depths can keep a body from bloating and rising to the surface—it could stay down there for weeks, even months. Deep lakes can have thermal layers where icy water at the bottom slows the process of decomposition, keeping the body submerged. And this killer wasn’t stupid—he might very well have taken the time to weigh the body down, in which case it would remain submerged even if it did bloat. That could be a big problem, because mountain lakes have craggy bottoms littered with rotting tree stumps, where a body can stay hidden for years. But they didn’t have years to wait; they needed to find this body now, and Nick knew they might never find it without Alena’s help.
