She laughed. “What was the bone?”
“I honestly don’t remember, but I bet Mom would. I guess this gift, or whatever you want to call it, I inherited from her. She knew it, but she never spoke of it to me. I like that your mom talked about it with you.
“And like you, I can never predict when there’ll be somebody knocking on the front door in my mind. There’s one other person I know who’s like us. That’s Agent Dillon Savich, my boss. You’ll meet him and maybe another agent, who happens to be his wife.” He paused a moment. “Sometime I’ll tell you about how Savich and I dealt with a very scary old woman, name of Louisa Alcott, no relation to the author.”
“Does Louisa have your gift?”
“Not exactly. She had a different gift—actually, she had an amazing power that almost killed us.” He leaned down and sniffed at a wildly blooming red bougainvillea.
“Will you tell me what happened someday?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll remind you. Now, you believe hooking up happens when the right person is in the right place at the right time. Like you were today.”
“Sounds sort of reasonable. I think strong emotion may be a factor, as it was with you.”
“I was knocked out and kidnapped and scared out of my mind when Rafer pulled out that gun, so I’d say I was pretty amped up. Agent Kraus doesn’t know about you? About what really happened?”
“Nope. No reason to drag her into it.”
“Do you know how much longer she and her agents will stay?”
“She’s done her job. I imagine they’ll head out tomorrow. She’s leaving DeAndre and Slick—that’s Agent David Foxx—to guard Rafer. Also, she’ll come back if I call her, which I don’t think will be necessary. Savich is coming. I’m thinking he’ll be all the backup we need.”
“You make him sound like Superman.”
“Let’s say in a fight I’d want him at my back. Like I said, Sherlock, his wife, is also an agent. He told me she was in a car accident, but apparently she’s okay. She’s got this amazing gift—no, a different amazing gift—she walks into a crime scene and she’s crazy good at reconstructing it. It’s like she can see what happened.”
“Do you know, I’ve lived in New York all my life and never even saw a mugging? Okay, I’ve seen some drug deals on street corners, at least that’s what I thought they were. A day in Gaffer’s Ridge with its six church spires and antique shops, and this—” She waved her arms around her, eyed him. “I still find it amazing you’re an FBI agent. Can you imagine what would have happened if you were an insurance salesman or a vet running an animal clinic? Hey, will you teach me how to kick like that?”
Griffin laughed. “Sure, why not?” He was glad Savich was on his way, since his gut was telling him he was going to need him. Griffin wasn’t going to question his gut. When he had in the past, things hadn’t worked out well.
Carson said, “You know the sheriff is only going to pretend to cooperate, right, Griffin?”
“That’s exactly what I expect. Although Agent Kraus may have scared him enough to make him useful to us, at least for the short term. When I see him and his deputies in the morning, I’m going to send them to Radford and Marion—the towns where Amy Traynor and Latisha Morris lived. I want him to tell the local sheriff or police chief what’s happened here, that these kidnappings are all under the purview of the FBI now. He can bring back copies of their case files and share his work with them, which I doubt he’s done. Then I’m going to contact them myself, see what they’ve been up to, any and all the angles and leads they’re following.”
“And Heather Forrester, who’s from here?”
Griffin smiled. “Do you know, I imagine the sheriff has done due diligence, since she’s from Gaffer’s Ridge. I’ll review all the interviews he and his deputies have conducted, see if I need to speak to the family. But I’ll bet you he’s been very thorough.”
“What if the other law enforcement people won’t cooperate with the sheriff? I mean, I wouldn’t even want to give him my name.”
“Don’t forget, Bodine knows these people. They’ll see he’s cooperating, even though he doesn’t like us, even though his nephew is involved. I think that’ll help us. We can also ask Agent Kraus to arrest him, and he knows it.”
When they turned the corner onto Cedar Lane, they saw FBI agents lounging around the FBI van, no longer wearing their tactical gear but looking like regular folks in jeans and T-shirts. Jenny and Aimée Rose were on the front porch of their white 1940s cottage, inviting them in for dinner.
Carson stopped, breathed in deeply. “Can you smell that spaghetti, Griffin? Delicious, and after all, we did only get a taste. I hope she’s got lots of garlic toast.”
29
* * *
ON THE ROAD TO GAFFER'S RIDGE
THURSDAY MORNING
As Savich turned onto Route 60 out of Richmond and headed due west toward the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests and the Appalachians, he said to Sherlock, “Only about an hour and a half before we’re in Gaffer’s Ridge. It sits in a long sleeve of land between two mountain ridges, maybe fifteen minutes south of Lexington, Virginia. Not to be confused with Lexington, Kentucky.” Slight pause, then, “How do you feel? Any head pain?”
“No, I’m fine, don’t worry. I took two aspirin, so I’m good to go. Sean isn’t worried, is he, that his mom’s really sick?”
“No, he vaguely understands it’s more a pain in the butt than any serious disease. And believe me, he’s a happy camper now he’ll get to spend several days at his grandmother’s house. Talk about a huge treat. She’s the chocolate chip cookie queen. He’ll be fine, Sherlock, don’t worry, okay? A couple of days in Gaffer’s Ridge, and we’ll head back.”
Sherlock looked at the man who’d been her husband for six years. He’d brought her clothes to the hospital and she’d changed in the bathroom, not in front of him. She’d looked at herself in the mirror and seen what he’d told her was her usual uniform—white blouse, black pants and boots, a black leather jacket it was too hot to wear, and her credentials. He’d even handed her her service Glock and her small Glock 380, along with an ankle holster, saying, “I took both your Glocks home, no sense freaking out the nurses. They’re yours. You always wear the little 380,” and she’d strapped it on her ankle. It had felt completely natural. Her hair was clean, pulled back in a clip at the base of her neck, curling tendrils already corkscrewing around her face. She touched on lipstick, rubbed in a bit on her cheeks because she was too pale, and stared at herself. Whoever you are, you’ve got a seriously good-looking husband. Not only is he hot, he seems nice and very concerned about you. Are you nice? Are you smart? Are you a good agent? I heard one agent say he hoped I could still read a crime scene, whatever that meant. But she knew, deep down, she knew. But she didn’t know the woman in the mirror. She said now, “Dillon, riding in the Porsche—it feels familiar.”
He felt a leap of hope, shot her a sideways look. She was tilting her head to the side, it was a familiar gesture, too.
“Excellent. That’s the second time you’ve remembered my Porsche.” He paused a moment. “Remember that video I showed you? You were wearing shorts and a cut-off top, flip-flops, and said you had made lemonade for Sean, Marty, and me? I dreamed about you in that video last night. Marty wasn’t there this time, but she was probably close by. You remember, she’s Sean’s future Number One Wife?”
“I remember, that is, yes, you told me about Marty, showed me a photo of her and her family. The video—I wish I could remember.” She shook herself. “You said we’ve known them forever?”
“That’s right.” He turned on his blinker, passed an eighteen-wheeler. The driver honked, whistled at the Porsche, and gave Savich a thumbs-up.
Savich returned the wave, eyed Sherlock, and plowed ahead. “Before I could drink your lemonade, Griffin called, interrupted my dream. I sure wanted that lemonade, but he was insisting.”
She cocked her head
at him again, graceful, inquisitive, a look that held a wealth of meaning to him, though she didn’t know it. He said, “Griffin wanted to talk to me again.”
“How do you know? I didn’t hear your cell phone.”
Was it time to tell her? Would it make this even harder for her, or help her remember? “Sherlock, sometimes I know when people want to talk with me. Particularly Griffin. That’s one of the reasons I wanted him to transfer from the San Francisco Field Office to Washington, to the CAU.”
“What are you saying? That you and Agent Griffin Hammersmith are psychic?”
He shot her a quick look. She didn’t appear horrified or alarmed and she wasn’t laughing. She looked fascinated, like she wanted to pull the words out of his mouth.
He said, “Well, yes, you could say that. It doesn’t happen often, and as I said, I appear to have a strong connection to Griffin, but he’s not the only one. I don’t suppose you remember the Alcott family? Griffin and I dealt with them while you were keeping watch on the JFK terrorist?”
Terrorist? She saw a flash of a man in a security line holding a grenade—and then he was gone, behind the white door, as she was starting to think of it. “I think I just saw him, I mean I saw the terrorist. What was his name?”
“Nasim Conklin. Maybe in bed tonight, I’ll tell you about him. That’s why people recognize you, and they do—you were on TV. You’re the heroine of JFK.”
She could only stare at him, then she grinned. “A pity I didn’t save the president.”
He reached over and grabbed her hand, felt her still, and released her. It didn’t matter. He grinned at her. “While you were worrying about terrorists, I was meeting the Alcotts. One of them had some scary abilities of her own, well, not more than Autumn Backman, but different.”
The solid white door opened again and Sherlock saw a pale little girl lying motionless on a hospital bed. She drew in her breath. “I saw her for a moment. Did she die?”
“No, she woke up, her gift thankfully intact.”
“Her gift? What could she do?”
“She helped me take down some very bad people.” There was much more, of course, but he stopped. Sherlock had enough on her plate, he didn’t want her wondering if she should call the people with the straitjackets.
She said, “I’m glad she didn’t die. Why don’t you call me Lacey? That’s what my first name is.”
“You’ve always preferred Sherlock, like your father—the federal judge in San Francisco. He says it scares the criminals.”
She nodded. “Yes, you told me. It’s a cool name.” She’d spoken to her parents, reassured them she was fine, deciding not to mention she wouldn’t know them if she passed them on the street.
“Don’t you like Sherlock any longer?”
“Yes, I do. It’s different. I was only wondering.” Act normal, no choice, but nothing was normal. She watched him punch a number into his cell phone, put it on speaker: “Griffin. Talk to me. You’re on speaker.”
They both listened as Griffin filled them in on what he’d been doing. In an emotionless voice, Savich assured him Sherlock was all right and they’d be in Gaffer’s Ridge in an hour.
Savich punched off, and said now, his voice matter-of-fact, “We’re going to need your excellent eye, your assessment of the people we meet in Gaffer’s Ridge. We’re going to need you with us as a federal agent, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” She looked at his profile: straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, and swarthy complexion, his hands on the steering wheel. He wore a wedding band that matched hers, and, of all things, a Mickey Mouse watch strapped around his wrist. He had big strong hands. She cleared her throat. “You said you’d tell me all about the JFK incident—tonight in bed. What did you mean exactly?”
Ah, there it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the car, wedged between them. He gave her a quick look. “Give me your hand, Sherlock.”
She didn’t want to, he knew it, but he was patient. His right hand remained open, waiting. Finally, he felt her cool palm against his, felt her fingers lightly touch his. He squeezed. “We’re married, I know your body as well as I know my own. I also realize I’m a stranger to you, and you can’t imagine climbing into bed with me. I want you to know I have no intention of stripping in front of you, no intention of jumping you. But we will sleep together, Sherlock. I don’t snore, usually, and neither do you. You usually sleep with your head on my shoulder, or we spoon. I like both. You do, too. But that’s up to you.” He turned to see her staring at him, her face pale, a bit of alarm in her eyes.
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was barely above a whisper, not because she was at all afraid of him, but because her head was aching something fierce, and the highway was weaving back and forth in wide, dizzying loops. She felt drunk and nauseous, closed her eyes, swallowed. She didn’t want to throw up, she wouldn’t. She heard him speaking again, but his words didn’t make sense, they were jumbled, moving and changing, like the road. “Stop the car!”
He pulled over onto the shoulder.
She opened the door and threw up. She’d eaten so little there wasn’t much, mostly dry heaves. She felt his hands rubbing lightly up and down her back, holding her shaking shoulders. At last she whispered, “I’m okay now.”
Savich handed her a bottle of water, watched her drink, then spit it out. She handed him back the water bottle.
“Thank you. I think it was all the curves in the highway, made me nauseous. I’m all right now, but I think I could nap.”
He handed her a Kleenex, then worried. Should he turn around and take her back to the hospital? Should he have brought her in the first place? “Do you still feel nauseated? We can stop at the hospital in Lexington, let them take a look at you.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but reached out her hand. Instead of touching his hand, her palm landed on his thigh. She jerked her hand away. He said nothing, only took her hand in his and gently squeezed. After a moment, her hand lay quiescent in his. Finally, she said, “No more hospitals, Dillon, I’ll be fine. It was the oddest thing. When you were speaking, it seemed all the words were mixing themselves up. It was like I was dyslexic, even though I was listening, not reading, and I couldn’t understand you. Really, I’m okay now. Don’t worry. It’s the concussion, it’s messing me up a little bit, but you know there’s nothing to be done. Time and rest. And maybe some distraction, but only after I wake up.” She tried to smile at him.
“All right, take a nap, Sherlock. I’ll wake you when we get to Gaffer’s Ridge.” He watched her lean her head against the door, close her eyes. He knew a hospital wasn’t the answer, that keeping her with him was best. No way could he have left her with strangers. What was going on in Gaffer’s Ridge would engage her, and he’d make sure she got her rest. He’d tell her stories about cases they’d had, people they knew. He eased the Porsche back onto the highway and prayed. He heard her breathing slow as she fell asleep. He wished he had a pillow or a cover for her, but he didn’t, hadn’t thought of it. He kept driving, slowly, heading toward the west and into the distant mountains.
30
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE
RAFER BODINE'S HOUSE
THURSDAY, NOON
Sherlock awoke as Dillon entered Gaffer’s Ridge, assured him she felt fine, which was mostly true. She looked around at the lovely little town with its hills and dips as Savich slowly drove the Porsche down Winchester Street toward Berger Lane, where the forensic team from the Richmond Field Office was processing Rafer Bodine’s house. Griffin and Dr. DeSilva would meet them there.
Savich pulled the Porsche behind the FBI forensic van in the driveway. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, and that was good. “Any headache, any nausea, anything wonky, you tell me, you promise?”
She smiled at him, a real smile, and nodded. “I promise.”
“Stay put.”
She waited until he opened the door for her, gave her his hand to help her out. She stood quietly a moment, takin
g everything in. “An old house, more a cottage,” she said, looking around, “but there’s charm here, or there could be, if someone did something with the yard, planted some colorful flowers. I guess Mr. Bodine isn’t much for regular yard maintenance.” She didn’t realize she was studying the scene like a trained investigator, but Savich did. They turned to a black Range Rover pulling in behind the Porsche. Sherlock said, “Is that Griffin Hammersmith? And the woman?”
“Yes, that’s Griffin. I would assume the woman with him is Dr. DeSilva.”
The two of them got out of the car and headed over. The man waved. Sherlock said, “Would you look at those two. I’ve gotta say, they’re close to being the most beautiful duo I’ve ever seen. They should be on a red carpet.”
Savich grinned. “Even women FBI agents stop and stare at Griffin in the Hoover Building. Worse, the word’s out he and his fiancée are no longer together, so he’s fair game. I heard he had half a dozen invitations to lunch last week. Not to mention to dinner, the movies, to see etchings, whatever.
“He and Ruth—Agent Ruth Noble—finished a hairy case in Arkansas a couple days ago so I gave them both time off. So that’s Dr. Carson DeSilva. You’re right, she’s a looker, too.”
She said suddenly, “Griffin has a cat named Exxie.” She blinked, turned to shake her head at him. “I remember his fricking cat’s name, go figure.”
“Alas, his ex-fiancée, Anna, is Exxie’s mother, so Exxie had no choice but to go with her. She and Exxie now live in Seattle. She’s DEA.”
Griffin stopped in front of Sherlock, smiled down at her, not all that far since she was tall. He saw no recognition in her eyes. He said, “I’m Griffin. You and I have been through some wars together. I imagine we’ll be in a lot more before we both hang it up in the misty future. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, Sherlock, but your eyes are clear, the flame’s still burning. Another couple of days and you’ll be line-dancing again, and keeping us all safe,” and he grinned at her.
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