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.”