Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

The Gaffer’s Ridge sheriff’s station on High Moon Street had gotten a paint job and a new roof the previous year to show the tourists the townspeople cared about law and order. But the station was still what it was—a 1950s box-style concrete building, with two skinny windows in the front.

  Sheriff Bodine and his deputies marched Griffin and Carson through an empty hall with benches along the walls to a high counter presiding over a central room behind it, topped with an ancient computer, a printer, and two telephones. No one was there.

  The sheriff stopped and whispered, “Fayreen, get in here.”

  The young deputy, Jewel, said behind them, “Just you wait. Fayreen’s got mother-in-law ears. She can hear a guy chewing tobacco in the men’s room.”

  Brewster nudged him with an elbow. “Shut up, Jewel.”

  Sure enough, a heavyset older woman came barreling out of a door opposite them. She was about the same age as the sheriff, and wore a deputy’s brown uniform a size too small, the buttons pulling over her healthy bosom. Her gray-brown hair hung straight and long, nearly to the middle of her back, and she even wore a woven band holding it back. It was a hippie look that stopped there. She wore a boatload of 1970s-style makeup, from fire-engine-red lipstick to black eyeliner. “Sorry, Booker, had to use the facilities and refresh my lipstick.” She said toward Griffin and Carson, “I’m Fayreen Hertle, I’m the dispatcher here, and the sheriff’s right hand.” She pointed a finger at Griffin. “And you’re the critter who hurt Rafer, aren’t you?”

  Sheriff Bodine said, “He sure is, and the girl here helped him. What do you think, Fayreen? Bonnie and Clyde pretending to be real folk?”

  She looked Griffin and Carson up and down. “He’s eye candy, for sure, and this one? Even looking like a mutt, dirty and her hair all squirrelly, you can see she’s hot. How’d she get so dirty? Did she try to escape?”

  “Nah, she’s got claims against Rafer, says she’s dirty because he had her duct-taped in his basement.”

  Fayreen snorted. “Yeah, right. As if anyone would believe Rafer would hurt a fly. Listen, Booker, there’s a man holding on the telephone. He refused to hang up, says he’s Special Agent Dillon Savich of the FBI and he wants to talk to you.” She shot a sneer at Griffin. “Says he’s this fellow’s boss, wants to clear up any confusion you might have.”

  “Yeah, well, he could be this guy’s cousin, for all we know. Tell him I don’t have the time. He can leave his number if he likes.” He sounded quite pleased with himself.

  “You got it. My pleasure,” and Fayreen marched to the big front desk, picked up one of the phones, and turned away. Griffin wanted to grab the phone but knew he couldn’t. When she hung up, the sheriff said, “Call Tommy Denmark, tell him Judge Pinder’s out fishing for bass on Commodore Lake and I need him here as a witness.”

  “On it, Booker.”

  The sheriff led them back down the short hallway and into a nicely furnished office at the back of the building with two large windows overlooking the parking lot. Beyond the dusty lot sprawled the ever-present mountains, blurred with low-lying haze. There was a big antique partner’s desk with two chairs facing it and a beautiful mahogany credenza behind it, one photo on top showing the sheriff, a striking-looking older woman, and a young man and woman, big smiles on their faces. A rich black leather sofa sat against the far wall, a coffee table with a dozen perfectly aligned magazines on top, flanked by four matching leather chairs. There wasn’t a coffee stain anywhere. The AC was set on freezing, and felt wonderful.

  Carson said, “I thought you didn’t appreciate antiques, Sheriff.” She nodded toward the impressive desk.

  The sheriff grunted and eased his bulk down into an oversize black leather chair that creaked beneath his weight, motioned them to the two chairs in front of the desk. The deputies, Jewel and Brewster, stood at attention by the door, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating. Griffin wanted to laugh but didn’t.

  “My wife,” the sheriff said. “She told me a fancy office impresses the tourists. The mayor agreed but said I had to pay for it myself.” He fell silent, gave them the rheumy eye, began tapping his blunt fingers against the desktop. Once again, he said in a whisper, “Fayreen, get in here.”

  A moment later, the door opened and she was there, a notebook and pen in her hand. “I’m here, Booker, ready to take down what these two jokers have to say. When I called Tommy, I think I woke him from a nap, but he was excited about coming over to be a witness for your interview. Well, I hear him already. I’ll bring him in now, all right, Booker?”

  The sheriff nodded, resumed tapping his heavy fingers on the desktop. They waited in silence.

  Fayreen came back into the room followed by a vampire-pale older man, so pale Griffin wondered at first if it was makeup. He had longish ink-black hair with no gray, and dark-rimmed glasses. Of all things, in this blistering heat, he was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. Why didn’t he fall over with heatstroke? Griffin wondered if he was the local mortician.

  Booker rose. “Come in, Tommy. I want you to listen to these two, they’ve got a story to make you shake your head in wonder at the strangeness of human nature.” He didn’t introduce Carson or Griffin, simply waited until Mr. Vampire and Fayreen sat down on the leather sofa, the fat cushions whooshing under their weight. Finally, he said, “This is Mr. Thomas Denmark, one of Gaffer’s Ridge’s councilmen. He’s going to be our witness.”

  Griffin started to open his mouth, knew in his gut it wasn’t a good idea, and kept quiet. He wished he’d somehow fallen into a bizarre dream, but knew it wasn’t a dream, and he wouldn’t be jerking awake anytime soon.

  The sheriff said, “I know Fayreen didn’t have time to tell you much, Tommy, but we’re holding these two for questioning and we’re about to interview them. I wanted to be sure you folks over at city hall know we’re doing everything by the book until Judge Pinder gets back.” He turned to Carson. “Now, missy, I want you to tell Fayreen and Councilman Denmark here all about what you’re saying happened today. Take your time, so Fayreen can write it all down. Be clear and don’t get hysterical.” He added to Griffin, “When she’s done, we’ll get to you, boy.”

  The words occasionally telepathic wouldn’t ever cross her lips, not in this town—well, not in any town, not even with her aunt Casey or any of Carson’s friends. Carson cleared her throat, ready to go through it all again, with only slight adjustments. “I was coming out of the market—”

  “Which market?” Fayreen said. “We got two, you know. Booker always says to get all the specifics you can think of, so’s we can check out what you tell us.”

  “Ellerby’s Market,” Carson said, and looked more closely at Fayreen Hertle, realized she looked a bit like the sheriff. A cousin, a sister? Did the sheriff’s family run Gaffer’s Ridge? Great, just great.

  “All right, get on with it.” The sheriff began tapping his large fingers against the desktop again.

  Carson stared at those heavy tapping fingers and said, “He was coming toward me—Rafer Bodine, although I didn’t know his name at the time. He didn’t see me. His head was down and he was talking to himself, but still, I heard him clearly. He was talking about the three missing teenage girls.” She ignored the looks of patent disbelief and plowed ahead. She told them how he’d even said their names—Heather, Amy, and Latisha—how he’d hit her on the head. She spoke slowly, fluently, describing how she’d escaped and how she’d managed to unscrew the jagged pipe and gone upstairs to find him there, back to kill her. “I screamed bloody murder. That’s when Agent Hammersmith came crashing through the open front door and kicked the gun out of his hand, and I ran at Rafer and hit him on the head with the pipe.”

  19

  * * *

  Three faces stared at her, more with disdain now than disbelief, as if Carson hadn’t even managed to spin them a good tale. No Oscar for her. She stared back. She’d told them all of it calmly, in a clear timeline. She wondered how they’d be looking at her, what they�
��d say, if she’d told them the truth, all of it. Without doubt they’d cart her away to the funny farm. She waited. She became aware Mr. Vampire was staring fixedly at her, like she could be a tasty blood donor. She looked at his thin fingers, nails too long for a man, and tried not to shudder. He really was white as new sheets, and his black-framed glasses magnified his eyes. He cleared his throat, but didn’t smile. So he wouldn’t show his fangs? He said in a surprisingly deep voice, “Ms. DeSilva, you’re Portuguese, is that right?”

  “What? No, I’m an American. And like most Americans, my ancestors came from elsewhere. In my case, my dad’s parents came from Portugal, thus my Portuguese last name. And I’m Dr. DeSilva. Are you from Copenhagen, Mr. Denmark?”

  He blinked at her, gave her a rictus of a smile. “You’re very fast, Ms.—Dr.—DeSilva. Are you a medical doctor or an academic doctor?”

  “My field is journalism. I’m thinking about writing an article on police behavior in small towns. What do you think?”

  “We’re not here for your sarcastic comments, missy,” the sheriff said.

  Mr. Vampire only blinked again, a habit, she supposed, and gave her another pained smile. Again, he didn’t open his mouth. Fangs were a real possibility. He gave a small nod, said to the sheriff, “May I question her, Booker?”

  “Feel free, Tommy.”

  His magnified eyes focused on her. “Tell me why you came to Gaffer’s Ridge, Dr. DeSilva.”

  “I came to interview Dr. Alek Kuchar, a Nobel Prize–winning physicist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  “Oh yes, he’s something of a hermit, I understand. Now, let’s speak more about what you think you heard Mr. Rafer Bodine saying as he was walking toward you. It was more like mumbling, wouldn’t you say? Not really speaking aloud, not in the middle of Gaffer’s Ridge, in a public place, in front of a grocery store, actually confessing to kidnapping? Don’t you think that sounds a bit hard to believe, Dr. DeSilva? A bit far-fetched?”

  Well, yes, actually. She kept her voice smooth and controlled. “Nonetheless, he was talking to himself, not mumbling, and I heard him clearly.”

  Was Councilman Denmark looking at her neck? Was she getting hysterical?

  “And you said you and Special Agent Hammersmith had never met until you screamed for help, when, you claim, Rafer Bodine drew a gun on you?”

  “Yes.”

  Griffin saw the pulse in her neck pounding. He said, “Let me add that when I ran into the house, she was already poised to take a run at him with the pipe, to save herself.”

  Calm, calm. “I would have tried, yes. But if Agent Hammersmith hadn’t come, there’s no question in my mind Rafer Bodine would have shot me, probably buried me with the three girls.”

  “All right, boy, since you think it’s your turn, you can start at the beginning, too. Like with who you claim to be.”

  When Griffin finished repeating who he was and what had happened, he said, “Maybe you can get Rafer to tell you where he buried the girls. Even if he doesn’t, you have enough, Sheriff, to investigate him thoroughly. You can find out if Rafer Bodine has an alibi for the dates each of the girls went missing. You can ask if anyone ever saw any of the girls with him, whether he knew them. You can begin at his house, in his backyard. If you don’t have access to a cadaver dog, the FBI can help. The FBI can also assist you in the investigation, with all our resources.

  “Even now, that house is open, unsecured. Rafer could have some of his friends destroying important evidence right now. I’m sorry this man’s your nephew, but you are the sheriff, and that means you can’t ignore the facts.”

  “Your facts,” the sheriff said, sitting forward, his hands now fists, “they’re ridiculous accusations, nothing more. And she’s not claiming he actually admitted to murdering the girls, are you, missy?”

  “No, not in so many words.”

  The sheriff smiled, said to Griffin, “Ah, I’m beginning to see what might have happened here. She was obviously in Rafer’s house with him, don’t know exactly why, but I imagine the two of them may have been having an argument, don’t know about that, but I’m having trouble not yelling at her myself. If you are an FBI agent, you probably misunderstood and broke in. Rafer must have fired his gun in self-defense when you came at him, all physical like that, in his own home. If there’s a crime here, it’s that you broke in and assaulted him.”

  Carson looked ready to rise out of her chair and leap on him. Griffin grabbed her hand. He said, “Whatever you may think, Sheriff, you have a lead on the three missing teenage girls now. You have a suspect.”

  Councilman Denmark cleared his throat. “Sheriff Bodine, may I give you my preliminary thoughts?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Go ahead, Tommy.”

  Mr. Vampire sat forward, his hands flat on his bony knees, and cleared his throat. “There are some serious accusations flying around here about Rafer. There appears to be no proof of anything, except those accusations. I have to agree with the sheriff. We know Rafer, but we don’t know you two. Are you who you claim to be, or are you lying con artists of some sort? I think Judge Pinder is going to have his hands full with you.”

  Fayreen patted Mr. Vampire’s bony knee. She put down her pen, sat forward. “I agree, Booker. Listen to me, you young yahoos, Rafer’s a lovely boy, always has been. High spirits, sure, he’s a Bodine, the boys and girls in the Bodine clan are all high-spirited. But what you two have accused him of, it shows me you didn’t do your homework.”

  “What Fayreen is saying,” the sheriff interrupted, “is that if you had a brain, you’d realize your accusations won’t cut it, not here in Gaffer’s Ridge. I think that’s enough for now. We’re going to check out your stories, and we’re going to wait for Judge Pinder.” Sheriff Bodine rose. “Thank you for coming, Tommy. As for you two, our deputies are going to make you feel at home in our cell.”

  Griffin said, “May I have my one call first?”

  “You already had your call back at Rafer’s house,” Sheriff Bodine said, and he smiled.

  20

  * * *

  WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  Savich slipped his cell back into his pants pocket, then turned to face Sherlock. Her eyes were clear, thankfully, and there was only a single Band-Aid covering the cut over her left temple. She was looking at him steadily, a half question on her face, a look he knew well. “We have an agent—Griffin Hammersmith—he’s in trouble in a small town in western Virginia called Gaffer’s Ridge.” He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. “You remember Griffin?”

  “I don’t know, but when you said his name—does he look like a god?”

  “Yes. It’s his cross to bear.”

  She cocked her head at him, a long-standing habit. “What happened to him?”

  Savich told her what little Griffin had said before the sheriff took away his phone. “So I called the sheriff, but he wouldn’t speak to me, his dispatcher told me he didn’t have time, and she hung up on me. Whatever’s going on, Griffin wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t serious.”

  “You sent him to this Gaffer’s Ridge on a case?”

  “No. He was taking a short vacation to visit a couple of friends from college who live there and own a restaurant downtown, Jenny’s Café.”

  “Are you going to call them? Maybe they know what’s going on.”

  “You don’t miss a step, do you? I will now. I need to find out more about the situation before I call Bettina Kraus.” At her blank look, he added, “Bettina’s the SAC of the Richmond Field Office, took over from Walt Monaco. She’s tough as nails and the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. She’s a good leader, fair to a fault, and what’s best—she’s got a sense of humor.” He pulled out his cell, got the number for Jenny’s Café. A woman’s harried voice answered on the second ring. “Sorry, but we’re closing in fifteen minutes so we can’t take you now.”

  “Is this Jenny? Jenny Wiley?”

  “No, this is Aimée Ro
se Wallberger. Who are you?”

  “I’m FBI Agent Dillon Savich, Griffin’s boss. Griffin called me, said he was in trouble. Have you spoken to him?”

  “Trouble? How could that be? I saw him only a couple of hours ago. He was perfectly fine, going for a walk around town to keep himself upright and not nap away the afternoon. He was really tired. He’s expected for dinner with Jenny and me at our home at seven o’clock. Jenny’s already there, cooking his favorites.”

  Savich told her about Griffin’s call and his own follow-up call to the bizarre woman at the sheriff’s station. “I believe this Sheriff Bodine has taken him and a woman whose name I don’t know to jail, apparently for no good reason. Griffin was worried, especially for the woman. The sheriff refused to speak to me and his dispatcher hung up on me. Before I call the Richmond Field Office, get them over to Gaffer’s Ridge, can you tell me about this sheriff?”

  Aimée Rose stopped wiping the long counter in the kitchen. “This is bizarre. I can’t imagine what happened. All right, the sheriff’s name is Booker Bodine and he’s a pompous moron, and a bigot as well. But here’s the thing, he’s the sheriff because his family, the Bodines, are fixtures here, they’ve practically owned Gaffer’s Ridge for generations. The sheriff’s father, Calder Bodine, was sheriff before his son. The largest bank is owned by Quint Bodine, the sheriff’s brother. He’s the rich one, also owns a car dealership, a half dozen retail stores, and lots of land with mineral rights he leases out for big bucks.”

  “What has Sheriff Bodine done to qualify as a moron and a bigot?”

  “He hates that Jenny and I are gay and live together openly and don’t keep it in the closet, where he thinks such perversions belong. But he loves Jenny’s Mexican food as much as everyone else in town, so he doesn’t sneer at us when he comes to get fed. As far as I know, and I would know, he doesn’t talk trash about us around town, either. He wouldn’t dare. But I’m sure as I can be if Jenny’s Café wasn’t so popular and say instead we owned one of the antique stores, he’d be busy trying to run us out of Gaffer’s Ridge, tarred and feathered with signs around our necks. I suppose I have to give him credit for running a tight, peaceful town. Hardly anything bad happens here, no drugs, no gangs, no violent crime.