“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.”