32
Rafer Bodine was sitting up in bed, his wrist in a cast, looking fit, truth be told. He sneered at Hammersmith, the one his uncle Booker called the pretty boy, and wished he could have another go at him. Who cared if he was FBI? Were these some of the people with machine guns who drove their armored truck into Gaffer’s Ridge—his town—and took it away from his uncle Booker? And all because Booker couldn’t get his mind around Mr. GQ being a federal cop? Rafer understood the way his uncle’s mind worked—sometimes he saw what he wanted to see, believed what he wanted to believe, but in this case, Rafer knew the reason his uncle had hauled them to jail. He’d quickly called Rafer’s pa, and taken charge. Last night when Booker and Rafer’s pa and ma had visited the hospital, he’d told Rafer not to worry, there was no proof he’d done anything to Carson DeSilva, and Rafer knew he’d gone through the house himself, made everything they shouldn’t find disappear, including his SUV and computer.
Rafer eyed the agents as he raised the bed. No way was he about to look up at these bozos. They were staring at him like he was a loser. He shrugged and said, his voice indifferent, “What do you lot want? My lawyer told me I don’t have to talk to you, so forget it.” He stopped when the woman, DeSilva, came forward to stand beside Mr. GQ. She looked bright and shiny as a new penny, as his grandma used to say, her thick blond hair loose to her shoulders, most of the beautiful stuff hooked behind her ears. She wore small diamond studs. He had to admit she was as beautiful as Charlize Theron, and everyone knew he’d worshipped the actress for years, even recorded her perfume commercials on TV. It didn’t matter how DeSilva looked, screw the top-notch packaging. He hated her for the crawling fear she’d made him feel, the fear that had made him panic. She’d known somehow about the girls, and then he’d really messed up, and all because of what he’d seen on her face, seen in her eyes. His brain had screamed at him, She knows, she knows, she knows it all. He’d felt instant corrosive fear because he’d believed to his soul she was dangerous, believed she was like his mother. His mother called it a gift, and said it was only for the special few, like his sister, Camilla. He remembered how his mother went on and on to his father about how fast Camilla was learning to do things even she couldn’t do. And he’d known for the longest time he had no gift, known there was nothing special about him, known they were disappointed in him, whispered about him. No, he wouldn’t think about his sister.
He forced himself to look away from DeSilva, to the man and woman standing behind Hammersmith, both looking at him with mild interest at best, both spit-shined in their cool black clothes, all sharp and hard, doubtless more FBI agents. Well, maybe not the girl with the curly red hair, but where were the freckles? He couldn’t see any. Was she that white all over? He wouldn’t mind checking that out for himself, then maybe, well, who knew? He stared hard at her. “You’re an FBI agent, too?”
Sherlock gave him her patented sunny smile, not realizing it was her trademark. She appeared to give his question some thought. “I’m told I am. Actually, I don’t remember, but I will soon.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not important. Now, I understand, Mr. Bodine, you were involved in the kidnapping of three teenage girls, very probably murdered them. Amy Traynor—we know she’s dead—that’s what you let on to Dr. DeSilva. But what about Heather Forrester and Latisha Morris? Are they still alive?”
Rafer’s lawyer had told him to keep quiet, and he’d meant to, but her question made him yell, “That isn’t true! Don’t believe anything she says, she’s lying. She claims she read my mind. Can you imagine anyone taking that seriously? You know it’s nuts, she’s nuts.” He saw his lawyer’s stern expression in his mind’s eye, and shook his head. “I’ve got nothing more to say.”
Sherlock said, “At least tell us why you kidnapped those sixteen-year-old girls. Did you rape them? Have there been other young girls, but from farther away, nowhere near Gaffer’s Ridge so they couldn’t be traced back to you? Were all of them sixteen? Are you a serial killer, Mr. Bodine?”
Rafer felt bile rise in his throat. He wasn’t about to sit here and let her spew this crap at him. He managed to keep his voice calm. “I didn’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone. The lot of you, go away. Leave me alone. Get the nurse, I want pain meds. My lawyer said you have nothing on me, I’ll be going home soon. Uncle Booker told me all about your takeover, but there’s no way that’ll last for you. You’ll see.” He stared at Savich. “Who are you?”
“I’m Agent Savich and you’ve already spoken to Agent Sherlock. It’s all very straightforward, Mr. Bodine. Help us find the missing teenagers, tell us where you took them, and it could save your life.”
Quiet, keep your mouth shut, that’s what his pa had said, too, last night after the lawyer laid it out. He said, “You’ve got no proof, you’ve got nothing at all. Go away.”
Sherlock cocked her head at him. “Help me to understand, Mr. Bodine. If Dr. DeSilva didn’t read your mind, if she didn’t scare you witless, then why did you knock her unconscious, take her to your house, and duct-tape her in your basement? Surely you and your lawyer have come up with a story, an explanation, right?”
“I didn’t! I never touched her, I don’t even know her. She’s fricking crazy. You should be locking her up.”
Sherlock said, “Does your family know what you’ve been up to? Are they involved? Or are they covering up for you out of habit?”
“My family is none of your business.”
“Oh, but they are, because someone not only removed your car from your driveway, this same someone probably also removed your computer and the duct tape. Which makes me wonder, how does a homeowner make do without any duct tape?”
“Very funny. Look, I came home and walked in and there she was holding that pipe, ready to brain me.” He flicked a look toward Griffin. “And that one, that pretty boy, came running into my house and attacked me. They’re probably sleeping together and he’s lying to protect her.”
His wrist hurt, his head hurt, and he was scared to his bones, but no way would he let these bastards see it. He looked over at Carson, managed another credible sneer, coated it with sarcasm. “You’re a journalist for this big shot in New York City, and everyone knows you people make up stuff all the time.” And then to Griffin, “So, are you going to charge me? My lawyer says even if you do, you can’t hold me for long. There’s no proof I did anything wrong.”
Carson still wanted to leap on him, but instead she took another deep breath, even managed to smile at him, watched him jump. For the first time in her life, she tried to hear what someone was thinking, but there wasn’t anything to hear.
Sherlock said, “Tell us, Mr. Bodine, what did you mean—Agent Hammersmith won’t last for long?”
He held it in, shook his head.
Sherlock studied Rafer Bodine. He was a fairly good-looking man, early thirties, and probably tall, but she couldn’t tell with him in bed. His hair was blond, more gold, really, with some wave to it, a bit on the long side. She’d bet he moseyed when he walked. She wished she could see a monster behind those dark brown eyes, but she didn’t. What she saw was anger and fear, and petulance. She said to get him talking again, “Mr. Bodine, we hear your family has been in Gaffer’s Ridge for generations, that many of you run successful businesses here. Is this true?”
Rafer stared at all the curly red hair, the pale face, the incredible light blue eyes. He said slowly, “Maybe I’ll tell you, if you tell me if you’re white all over. Or are you sick?”
“Your father, Mr. Bodine,” Sherlock said without pause. “Isn’t he the president and owner of Gaffer’s Ridge First City Bank? His name is Quint Bodine?”
Rafer looked at the four faces, then back at her. “You call yourself Sherlock? That’s dumb. A girl can’t be Sherlock.”
“Your father, Mr. Bodine?”
Why not? It was common knowledge. Why would the lawyer mind? “That’s right, he owns a lot of things, not only the bank, but some of the stores in town, like the dry cleaners, and two gas stations, and a whole lot of land. My pa signed over a share of the lumber mill to me three years ago and I run it. I’m a respected citizen around here, not that you strangers would know anything about that.”
“And your mother? What does she run?”
He said with no hesitation, “She runs the family. No one screws with her. She’ll fix you in ways you can’t imagine, she’ll fix the whole lot of you. She doesn’t need anyone else. I’m not talking anymore. Go away.” He seamed his lips and looked away from them.
Sherlock said, “That sounds mysterious, Mr. Bodine. Are you saying we should be afraid of her?”
He turned back to look at Sherlock. He didn’t see how it could hurt to tell her the truth. He said simply, “She’ll shine you, she’ll shine all of you.” He turned his head away from them again, stared out the window, and really did stop talking.
“You’ll see us again soon, Rafer,” Griffin said as they left.