“Since I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell you.” She drew a deep breath. “I think he murdered those three missing young girls. He was going to murder me, too.”
Jenny had mentioned the three missing teenagers to him. He stared at Carson. “I want to hear all about this while we’re waiting for the police.” Griffin took the man’s wallet out of his pants, pulled out his driver’s license. He took his cell out of his shirt pocket and dialed 911.
She touched his arm. “Can’t you wait to call them? Maybe he’ll die if we wait a while. He really is a monster, it’d save the taxpayers a lot of money.”
Griffin was charmed, but alas. “Not a bad idea, but sorry, FBI, remember? And I really don’t like to kill people, even passively. Let’s go out on the front porch. We’ll leave the door open so we can see him if he moves.”
An older woman with a smoker’s voice and a drawl so thick he could barely understand her answered on the third ring. “Yeah, so talk to me and make it fast and to the point. I’m busy. What’s your problem?”
That sounded friendly. “I’m Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. I have an injured man at 237 Berger Lane. His name is Rafer Bodine.”
He heard a quick indrawn breath, then, “Rafer, you say? How injured? How did you come to be with him? Did you hurt him?”
13
* * *
“He’s had a blow to the head, and appears to have a broken wrist. You need to send the sheriff, along with an ambulance. We have reason to believe Rafer Bodine is responsible for the disappearance and probable murder of the three teenage girls who are missing from the area, and the kidnapping and attempted murder of Ms. Carson DeSilva.”
There was a whoosh of breath, and the voice turned hard. “Don’t you lie to me, boy. That’s a crock, and you know it. You, an FBI special agent? Carson DeSilva? Now that surely sounds like a made-up name to me. What sort of game you playing, calling 911? Interrupting the smooth march of the law? Interrupting my afternoon tea?”
“Bodine needs an ambulance and the sheriff,” Griffin said again, his voice calm, patient, though he wished he could reach through his cell, grab the idiot woman around her neck, and tell her to stop smoking.
“All right, all right, boy. You can bet the sheriff will be there when he can, he’s gotta come from Wilfred Hoag’s place, had to go over and pull the old codger out from under his tractor, the paramedics are with him. This isn’t good, isn’t good at all. Don’t you move a muscle and believe me, you’d better pray Rafer don’t die from that blow to the head. You got that?”
“I surely do.” Griffin stared at his cell as he punched off. “That was odd. I guess Rafer is a popular guy. Or maybe the 911 operator is his mother.”
Carson swallowed a laugh. A laugh—amazing. She shrugged. “It’s a small town. Sure the 911 operator knows him, but I bet everybody knows everybody. Gotta say though, what you told her sounds pretty unbelievable.”
Griffin went back inside to see Rafer Bodine still lying on his back, awake now, pressing his right wrist against his chest, gasping out curses. Griffin took Carson’s arm and led her outside. “Why don’t you tell me what happened while we wait for the police?”
They sat side by side on the porch in view of the open front door, Griffin silent to give her time to settle, waiting for her to tell him what had happened. She’d nearly died, and that was a lot for anyone to take in. He felt a hot breeze on his face, heard oak tree branches rustle and a bird he couldn’t identify let out a mellow chirp.
Carson drew a deep breath, flattened her palms on her legs. “I thought it was all up to me, either put up or die. But you were there on the street and you heard I was in trouble, I mean you didn’t hear a noise—you heard me. Several times I believe I’ve heard what someone was thinking, but nothing like this, not someone actually hearing me. Again, Agent Hammersmith, thank you. Has this ever happened to you before?”
He nodded. He thought of Savich. “Yes, but it’s not something I plan to talk about to the sheriff. Let’s compare notes later. What’s important now is the man lying inside the front door, cursing us nonstop. Rafer Bodine looks like a good old boy, doesn’t he? Macho, tough, beard scruff, the kind who enjoys kicking butt, no provocation needed. Now tell me what happened before the sheriff gets here.”
She began with her hearing Bodine’s thoughts outside the market, then waking up in the basement, and finally freeing herself because, thankfully, she’d been a trained gymnast. “—I dropped to the floor when you blasted through the front door and shouted at me.” She stopped, drew a deep breath. “Again, thank you.”
He smiled, marveled at her. “You must have scared him spitless when you looked at him that first time. He knew you were dangerous to him, as if he understood what you’d seen and heard. The missing teenagers—Jenny said one had disappeared every month for the past three months, too many to be runaways. She said a lot of people were beginning to talk about a serial killer, the parents with teenage girls were keeping a tight rein on them, never letting them out alone, particularly here in Gaffer’s Ridge. This was where the first teenager, Heather Forrester, lived, then up and gone, no clues.” He took her hand. “I do believe you might have caught a Serial.”
“Is that how you say it? It makes it sound even scarier. You think the Gaffer’s Ridge mayor will give us medals?” She paused, took another deep breath, looked back to see Rafer Bodine still clutching his broken wrist to his chest, moaning louder now, in between curses. “It’s true I freaked him out, but even so, he’s still too big, too strong. In the end I wouldn’t have had a chance, even if he hadn’t pulled out that gun.”
Griffin said, “You can put the pipe down now. You don’t need to worry, I’ve got his gun.” He nodded at the Walther stuffed into his belt.
“Sorry, not yet,” and she gripped the pipe even tighter. “I can’t, not until he’s behind bars, then I’ll consider letting it go.”
He smiled at her, shook his head. “I guess I don’t blame you.” And for the first time he really looked at her. Before, he’d seen a tall woman in skinny jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, sneakers on her feet. But now, he really saw her. Even with her streaked blond hair falling out of a ratty ponytail and smudges of dirt on her face, he saw her chiseled features fit together perfectly, set off by a stubborn chin that probably helped people look past all the rest and take her seriously. Her chin, and the fierce intelligence in her hazel eyes. He watched her push back a hank of hair, hook it behind her ear, where it didn’t stay. She pulled the ponytail free, efficiently gathered all the hair together, and rubber-banded it again.
“Are you a model?”
She jerked, grinned at him like a loon, showing perfect white teeth. “No, goodness, a model? Me? As in walking a runway? I’d trip over my feet, not to mention I like to eat too much. I’m a writer for American Democracy, a monthly news and business magazine. I’m here in Gaffer’s Ridge to do an interview with a Nobel Prize laureate.” She paused a moment, stared at him. “I see you’re not bad-looking yourself. And here you are an FBI agent. What are you doing in town?”
“I’m supposed to be taking a rest. Well, I guess that’s over.”
“You want to tell me how you found me? How I could hear you in my head, answering me? Do you do that a lot?”
“Nah. Hearing what other people are thinking rarely happens to me. My opinion? I think most people have natural shields. Occasionally, I’ll pick up flashes of anger, or joy, but rarely anything specific. With this guy, Rafer, all I picked up from him was fear and confusion. You definitely spooked him.”
Griffin turned to look back at Rafer Bodine. Blood snaked slowly down the side of his face from the blow from the pipe. How long would it take the paramedics and the sheriff to get here?
“He’s trying to get up.” Carson jumped to her feet and ran back into the house, Griffin on her heels. Bodine had managed to lurch up, and Carson smashed her foot down on his chest. “Stay down, you monster! The sheriff and the paramedics might not want
me kicking you again.”
Rafer spat at her, not a good idea because he was on his back and the spit landed on his chin. He tried again to pull himself up. “You bitch, you caved in my head!”
“Yeah, I did, and if you keep moving around I’ll do my best to kick your ribs into your back, sheriff or no sheriff. I only wish I had on my boots, not these wimpy sneakers, then you’d be smart to say your prayers. Don’t forget, there’s always the pipe,” and she waved it at him.
“You’ll regret this, both of you will.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah,” Carson said.
He stared at her out of pain-glazed dark eyes, licked his lips. “You were just like my granny and my ma. Granny’s dead, last year, finally, but Ma, she gets that same weird, distant stare like she’s looking into someone’s head or talking to someone who’s not there. It’s not right. I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to! It’s evil, you’re evil!”
Griffin said, “What, exactly, didn’t you mean to do?”
14
* * *
“Nothing, I didn’t mean anything.”
Carson went down on her haunches beside him, but not too close, a full-blown sneer on her mouth. “You say I’m evil? Now, that’s a joke, Rafer, coming from you. You murdered three young girls, and you would have murdered me, too. I’m tempted, really tempted, to whack you in the face with my trusty pipe and send you to hell, where you belong.”
“I didn’t kill anybody!”
“Then what do you mean you didn’t mean to do it? Answer Agent Hammersmith. Do what exactly?”
“Nothing!”
“Don’t hit him again,” Griffin said. “I want him to think about spending the rest of his miserable life in prison.”
She cocked her head up at him, slowly rose. “Well, I’ve heard it said Red Onion prison is lovely this time of year. Or maybe Pennington Gap, another vacation spot.”
Griffin was pleased. There didn’t seem to be a wimpy bone in this woman’s body. Rafer Bodine didn’t react. He was quiet now, eyeing the pipe, which meant he wasn’t completely stupid. Griffin said from behind her, “Let’s go back outside and wait. Mr. Bodine knows enough now to lie still and keep quiet.”
When they were seated on the edge of the porch again, Griffin said, “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to bring their bound wrists out from under their butt. You’ll have to give me a demonstration.”
“Maybe,” she said, but Griffin could see that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. He said, “You’re sure you never saw Bodine before this morning when you came out of the grocery store?”
She shook her head, but didn’t answer because they heard the sirens. They watched a white Crown Vic with SHERIFF on the side in bright green letters careen into the driveway a half minute later, an ambulance on its rear bumper. Griffin gave her his hand and together they stood watching.
Two more sheriff’s cars pulled up onto the grass, even though there was no reason to, this far out of town. A deputy got out of each car, and they waited, their hands on their guns, until the sheriff hauled himself out of his Crown Vic and raised his hand.
The sheriff was a big man, in his midfifties, had probably been good-looking before he’d gained too much weight. Still, he had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. To Griffin’s surprise, he drew his gun, shouted, “Don’t you two move a whisker! Marv, Haddy, get inside and see to Rafer! I’ll take care of these two.”
The paramedics ran past Carson and Griffin into the house.
The sheriff waited silently until one of them called out from the front door, “Rafer’s going to be all right, Sheriff, banged on the head, but he’s awake, cursing a blue streak. Looks like it’s true, he has a broken wrist. We’ll get him splinted and bandaged up a little, get him over to community hospital.”
“Good, good,” the sheriff called. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
Griffin said, “I told your 911 operator about his injuries and that he was all right.”
Carson said, “Agent Hammersmith didn’t have any handcuffs with him, Sheriff, but we’ve been keeping an eye on him.”
The sheriff stopped six feet from them, his gun, a Beretta, still aimed at Griffin’s chest. “Fayreen said you claim to be an FBI special agent, said she didn’t believe you for a second. What’s this all about? You’d better pray Rafer’s not bad hurt. All right, tell me right now who you are and why you hurt Rafer.”
Griffin started to pull his creds out of his pants pocket when the sheriff shouted, “Easy! You be careful, hear, or I’ll have to shoot you.”
Griffin pulled out his creds with two fingers, held them up. “Sheriff, I’m Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. This is Carson DeSilva from New York. We’re both visitors to Gaffer’s Ridge. Like I said, this man—Rafer Bodine—is dangerous. He kidnapped Ms. DeSilva, held her prisoner in his basement. I suggest you warn the paramedics.”
The sheriff walked to within six inches of Griffin’s face, grabbed his creds, backed away, his Beretta still aimed at him, even though Carson was the one holding the pipe.
“You got a gun tucked into your pants. Hand it over, boy, butt first.”
Griffin handed the Walther to the sheriff, who eyed it. “This here looks like Rafer’s gun.”
“Yes, it is. I took it from him.”
A thick eyebrow went up. “We’ll get to that. First things first.” He studied Griffin’s creds, waved them in his face. “Looks to me like this could be a fake ID. You can be sure I’ll check it out thoroughly.” He stuck Griffin’s creds in his pocket. “I’ve never seen a lawman who looks like you do, more like you could be here to scam some old ladies out of their pensions, and sure enough, that would make you good at forging credentials. I can’t see you putting Rafer down, you don’t look tough enough.” The sheriff stepped back, lowered his Beretta, but kept it in his hand. “Listen to me, boy, no way Rafer would hurt our paramedics, known Marv and Haddy all his life. Now, I’m sheriff of Gaffer’s Ridge, been protecting this town for over twenty years.”
“Sheriff.” Griffin gave him a curt nod.
Carson said, “Agent Hammersmith looks tough enough to me, Sheriff. You should have seen him kick Rafer Bodine’s gun out of his hand. I would have cheered if I wasn’t so scared.”
The sheriff snorted. “He took Rafer by surprise, that’s all. Rafer’d break his pretty face in a fair fight.”
Griffin studied the big man, his eyes so pale a blue they were nearly silver, his thick eyebrows salt-and-pepper like his hair. He was seriously out of shape, the buttons pulling over his big belly, his holster fastened to a big leather belt. He looked familiar, and why was that?
The sheriff flipped a large hand toward the cottage. “This here is Rafer’s house, used to be his uncle Cauly’s, but he got himself killed jumping his Harley over too many trucks, so now it’s Rafer’s. I don’t know either of you. I don’t know why you’re even here in my town, claiming Rafer was going to kill you, claiming he killed those three missing teenagers. We all know Rafer better than that.” He turned to Carson and spat at the ground in front of her sneakers. “And you, a woman, you claim you hit him on the head with a pipe? All right, this fellow here said your name’s Carson DeSilva.”
“Yes.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Well, not your fault then, is it? No accounting for what names people pin on their kids. First, I want to know why you’re making all these bizarre accusations. Fayreen told me everything the boy here said, and I don’t mind telling you, she was pretty upset by it all.”
Carson looked him dead in the eye, knowing there was no way she could tell him the truth. He’d lock her up for sure. “I overheard him talking to himself, muttering about the three young girls. He even said their names, and said ‘Amy died hard.’ Then he looked up, realized I’d overheard him. He caught me by surprise at the house I’m renting, before I could get to you at the sheriff’s station, he hit me on the back of the head, brought me here, and tied me up in his basement. I got loose an
d managed to hit him on the head with this pipe when Agent Hammersmith kicked the gun out of his hand. It all sounds pretty straightforward, Sheriff, but let me tell you, it was close. Rafer Bodine was planning to kill me, and he would have killed Agent Hammersmith if he’d been able.”
To her astonishment, the sheriff laughed, then spat again, this time barely missing her sneaker. “Well now, missy, that’s some story you’re spinning. You’re actually claiming Rafer’s a murderer, killed those poor missing girls? And you’re claiming he was going to kill you because you overheard him talking to himself, out loud? That’s crazy, makes no sense at all.”
This wasn’t going well. Carson had to keep going, no choice. “Yes, I think he killed the missing girls, he said their names—Heather, Amy, and Latisha. As I told you, he knew I’d overheard him muttering about them, and that’s why he was going to kill me, too.”
The sheriff looked at her like she was a bug to be stepped on.
“You know what, girl? I agree with Fayreen. That’s some wild tale. It’s time to introduce myself. I’m Sheriff Booker Bodine.”
15
* * *
Carson couldn’t get her brain around it. “You’re saying you’re this madman’s father?”
The sheriff raised his Beretta, then slowly lowered it again. “Watch your mouth, missy. Rafer’s my brother Quint’s only son, a fine boy, born and raised in Gaffer’s Ridge, not a crazy bone in his body. He runs his pa’s lumber mill and hires out to take tourists rafting on the Snake River. He’s a prominent citizen of Gaffer’s Ridge, you might say. It’s not helping you calling him names like that. Who knows what people will think? I do know his granny would be royally pissed if she were still alive. You’re lucky she passed to the hereafter last April.”
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