31
LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA
LEXINGTON COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Everyone piled into Griffin’s Range Rover for the short ride to the community hospital near Lexington. The skies were blue, dotted with cumulus clouds. The temperature wasn’t quite as brutal, dialed back a bit by a fresh breeze, and the AC in the Range Rover worked like a champ. Griffin told them about his meeting with Booker Bodine that morning. “Of course, he wanted to shoot me, but he’s not a stupid man, he knew he had to at least appear to cooperate. I didn’t rub his nose or his deputies’ noses in any of it, didn’t accuse him of taking evidence from Rafer’s house or calling Rafer’s family so they could take care of it. I didn’t think it would be worth it, not without real proof. I told him and his deputies to talk to law enforcement in Marion and Radford, let them know what’s happening, bring back copies of their files, which, amazingly, Booker hadn’t read and didn’t have. We’ll see if he does as he’s told. My guess is he won’t do anything overt to mess up the investigation since one of the girls is from Gaffer’s Ridge. As for how he’ll deal with me, we’ll see.”
Carson nodded. “Yes, a tire iron at night to the back of your head has probably occupied his thoughts. But you know, I’m thinking he has to at least wonder if Rafer did kidnap the girls.”
Griffin looked at Sherlock in his rearview mirror. She was pale, silent, looking out the window. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, but caught Savich’s eye and kept quiet. He asked instead, “Savich, do you think we could get Dr. Hicks out here to interview Rafer Bodine?”
“Sure, Dr. Hicks would love it, but I strongly doubt Rafer Bodine would allow him to pull out his gold watch.”
Sherlock listened only vaguely as they discussed how to move forward with the investigation, how to best utilize Slick and DeAndre, the two agents from the Richmond Field Office now taking turns guarding Rafer Bodine. Finally, the two aspirin she’d taken at Jenny’s Café got her headache under control.
It was as if he knew. Savich turned in his seat. “Better now, Sherlock?”
She nodded. “I was thinking about bringing Sean here before it gets cold. Camp out in the forest, go for hikes, cook him hot dogs over a fire.” She hoped her enthusiasm didn’t sound put on because it wasn’t.
Savich said, his eyes on her face, “Sean loves s’mores. Maybe after we’re through here and Carson’s had a chance to run over Rafer Bodine a couple of times with her rental car, we can visit for a weekend.” He was pleased to see she smiled.
They pulled into the parking lot of the community hospital a few minutes later. The hospital was a square three-story concrete building built in the eighties, surrounded by parking lots on all sides. It was framed by distant tree-covered mountains and set in a forest of the ubiquitous pines and oaks, and an occasional chestnut and beech, a beautiful setting, soothing for both body and soul. Inside it was bustling, since it was the only hospital in a sixty-mile radius.
They were directed through the lobby to a bank of elevators to take them to the third floor. “I know it’s strange,” the grandmotherly woman at information had said, “that room 415 is actually on the third floor, but what happened is the hospital CEO had them skip the three hundreds because of a scary dream he considered a portent, so there you have it.” She shrugged, rolled her eyes. “We all make do.”
They spotted Slick, aka Special Agent David Foxx, halfway down the wide corridor, sitting outside the partially open door, a Sports Illustrated magazine on his lap. He said hello to Griffin and Savich, then stood a moment and stared at Carson. “You clean up well, Dr. DeSilva.”
“Thank you, Agent Slick. You, too, although I miss the awesome impact of the riot gear.”
Slick smiled, then turned to Sherlock. The FBI grapevine was the fastest in the land, and he’d found out quickly enough she had amnesia from the accident Tuesday. Imagine waking up next to someone you didn’t know and not recognizing your own kid. It had to be hard on both of them. He studied her face a moment, took her hand. “I’m Agent David Foxx, Richmond Field Office. You can call me Slick. I’m very glad to see you up and moving, Sherlock.” He gave her a grin. “I gotta say, you don’t look too pitiful after your accident, but I guess the big guy here has been waiting on you hand and foot. How do you feel?”
Sherlock stared up at the man with his charming smile and cop eyes, and said, “I’m better, thank you.” Nothing else.
Slick nodded. “Most of us have heard about the guy who struck your windshield while you were whirling around like the teacup ride at Disney. Is he all right?”
Savich said, “He hasn’t been found yet, Slick. People have turned in cell phone videos from after the accident, but none are clear enough to run facial recognition. They’re running his blood, hoping he’s in the DNA database. We all hope he’s not too badly injured.”
Sherlock swallowed. Twice now she’d seen the huge smear of the man’s blood on her windshield, heard the heavy thump of his body when he struck the hood. But this time the image didn’t simply disappear behind the white door as it had those times. It faded slowly, and she realized it was more like a memory, not a flashback. Didn’t that mean her memory was mending itself? But why hadn’t she seen his face? She smiled up at the stranger who evidently knew her. “Will you tell me sometime how you got the nickname Slick?”
“Ah, there’s a story. I might need permission from Savich to tell you. And maybe my wife. And maybe my kids. The dog’ll be okay with it.”
“I wish we had the time,” Savich said, “but things are happening fast. Fill us in on what’s happened here.”
Slick pulled out a small notebook. “Last night at eight o’clock, Sheriff Booker Bodine, his brother and Rafer Bodine’s father, Quint Bodine, and a lawyer by the name of Harmon Jobs came to see Rafer. The lawyer closed the door, said he and his client were entitled to privacy. They stayed for thirty minutes. I heard the sheriff tell Rafer as they were leaving that he’d be going home soon. He looked pretty pleased with himself. Rafer’s dad, Quint Bodine, looked pissed, didn’t say anything to me. As for the lawyer, his card said he’s from Richmond, from the firm of Pringe, Weldon and Hayes. I looked them up, they’re big into criminal defense.
“As for Rafer Bodine, he was bitching nonstop—his head hurt, his wrist was killing him. He was claiming to anyone who’d listen that you, Griffin, kicked him in the ribs, in the leg, in the kidney, just about everywhere. He wanted to press charges for police brutality. However, after his visit with the sheriff, his dad, and the lawyer, he’s been quiet, not a word out of him.” Slick paused, looked over at Carson again and did another double take. He was married, blessed with three girls, all hellions, but as his brother always said when his wife wasn’t in the vicinity, he wasn’t dead yet, and DeSilva was a knockout. He said, “Dr. DeSilva, before the lawyer closed the door, I heard Rafer telling his uncle he wanted you arrested for hitting him so hard on the head with that pipe you nearly killed him. He claimed both you and Griffin were laughing as you slammed your boots into him.”
A thick lock of blond hair curled around Carson’s cheek and she tucked it behind her ear. “It’s a bummer, but I was wearing sneakers.”
Sherlock spurted out a laugh. “I can’t wait to meet this putz.”