Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  “Booker Bodine, the sheriff, and Jessalyn have two children of their own, a boy and girl, Miller and Dixie, both in their twenties, both work for their uncle Quint at his bank, both unmarried.”

  Savich paused when he saw a woman come out through the large mahogany front door. Good, she couldn’t stand waiting for them. And that meant she was worried. He stilled, felt her reaching out to him. A show of power? Or was it the illusion of power, which was a power in itself? He looked at Griffin and Carson, saw Griffin had grown quiet as well.

  She called out in what sounded like a smoker’s voice, “My husband told me you’d be showing up here. I told him I’d rather think you’d want to speak to him, not me, but he shook his head, told me no, you would come here. Sure enough, here you are, though you didn’t call ahead and no one asked you. So, come in, I won’t stop you.” She turned on sandaled heels and walked back into the house.

  Carson said quietly, “Mrs. Bodine seems straightforward enough, if a little on the rude side. But not scary.”

  Griffin said, “Don’t underestimate her. It could be dangerous.” He looked toward the house. “Be careful, all of you.”

  Sherlock said, “Mrs. Cyndia Bodine, dangerous? She looks like an upper-middle-class housewife ready to meet a friend in town and go antiquing. I guess I was expecting a long braid, a tie-dye dress, and bare feet, maybe some hoop earrings, but here she’s wearing sexy sandals and capris. How old is she, Dillon?”

  “She’s fifty-five, her husband, Quint, is sixty-three. Odd she said her husband told her we were coming here.”

  They walked up wide wooden steps through the large open door and into a vast entryway covered with big ochre-shaded Italian pavers. The entryway gave onto five wide steps leading down into a great room at least forty feet long and thirty feet wide, with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching from one end to the other on the far side. French doors opened onto a wide deck with an incredible view of the mountains. There was a mammoth white stone fireplace at one end of the room. Persian carpets were scattered here and there over a shining oak floor. There were burgundy leather sofas, chairs and coffee tables, a seven-foot grand piano. The furniture was oversize to fit the scale of the enormous room. At the other end of the great room was a dining area with a long glass table, a dozen chairs around it, a large bouquet of roses set in the middle. Behind the dining area was an open archway, probably leading into the kitchen.

  Savich said, “You have a lovely home. Do you call it Eagle’s Nest for a reason?”

  “Don’t worry, there’s no Nazi subtext here. This was the site my husband’s father picked out for their family home when he was a young man. He liked the fact an eagle had made its home here before him. Of course, we’ve completely rebuilt and expanded the house to my own liking.”

  “And where did you hide the cameras by the gate? We couldn’t see them.”

  She gave Savich a small, satisfied smile and a brief wave of her hand. “Of course you didn’t see them. What good would they be if you could see them?”

  Griffin asked, “Is your husband here?”

  She shook her head. “You must already know he’s a very busy man, many demands on his time. He trusts me to deal with you. Naturally I know why you’re here. And I know of Agent Hammersmith, my brother-in-law described him perfectly. As for you other two, give me your names and tell me exactly what you want. No, not you, Dr. DeSilva. Booker described you to me as well.” She stared at Savich.

  He introduced himself and Sherlock and handed her their creds, but she waved them away.

  Cyndia Bodine cocked her head at Sherlock. “Agent Sherlock, an odd name—but I’m sure you find it effective.”

  “Perhaps I do. Mrs. Bodine, we would like to speak to you about your son, Rafer, and three missing teenage girls.”

  Mrs. Bodine seemed to look inward for a moment, her eyes going darker. Then she blinked. Sherlock looked thoughtfully at this woman with her dark eyes, green maybe, but hard to tell, and black hair pulled in a fat chignon at the back of her head, thick lustrous hair, with not a single gray strand she could see. The woman was very lady-of-the-manor, but—not quite. Something about her made Sherlock jittery.

  Cyndia Bodine said, “Agent Sherlock, you really shouldn’t be here. You belong in bed. Another couple of days, I’d say.”

  Sherlock felt her heart give a leap, but said only, “Why do you say that, ma’am?”

  “I have eyes in my head. It’s obvious to me your pallor isn’t natural or normal. Perhaps you’ve been in an accident of some sort?”

  36

  * * *

  “I’m an FBI agent, ma’am, made of sturdy stuff. I have no problem being here. We’ve been told your husband, your brother-in-law Sheriff Booker, and your lawyer visited your son at the hospital last night.”

  Sherlock saw a flash of—not anger exactly, more like contempt, in the woman’s eyes. Those dark inward-looking eyes scared her, she admitted it. She felt her small 380, snug in its ankle holster, her Glock in its belt clip. She was glad Dillon had given them to her. But what good would a gun be against something you couldn’t see?

  Cyndia Bodine waved them toward the sofas in the vast great room. “I suppose you should sit down.” Once seated, she said, “I’m not worried about my son. He is innocent of any wrongdoing. Rafer wouldn’t hurt any living creature, it’s not in his nature. He’s a good boy, strong and resilient. Trustworthy. Our lawyer, Mr. Jobs from Richmond, assures us Rafer won’t be spending a day in jail. There is no evidence he is guilty of anything, except protecting himself in his own home. Would any of you like some tea?”

  Sherlock doubted any of them would want to eat or drink anything this woman offered. She said, “We’re fine, thank you.”

  Cyndia Bodine didn’t sit, she moved to stand by the fireplace. “My brother-in-law, the sheriff, has told me your story, Dr. DeSilva—your claim you heard Rafer talking to himself about those three poor missing teenage girls. All the rest of your wild tale, too—you were kidnapped by my son, he duct-taped you in his basement—” She shot a look at Griffin. “And of course the exciting break-in by Agent Hammersmith. I must say, it sounds like a B movie. Still, it’s inventive. I have wondered why you would make up such a tale, but I’ve decided I really don’t care.” She shrugged, added, “However, I will give you some advice. I strongly recommend you don’t try to foist your story about hearing my son mumbling out loud about the three missing teenagers outside Ellerby’s Market on anyone else. Our lawyer assures us you would be ridiculed in court.”

  Carson sat forward, realized her hands were fisted on her legs, smoothed them out. “Doesn’t it concern you, Mrs. Bodine, that your son was going to murder me? To keep me from going to the sheriff, which, as it turns out, would have been a big joke on me?”

  “Come now, Dr. DeSilva, it seems to me you’re already a proven liar, on record claiming you heard Rafer talking aloud to himself. That certainly wasn’t true. I’m also informed the FBI forensic team has gone over Rafer’s house and found not a shred of proof of your accusations. Give it up, Dr. DeSilva, give it up and go home. Go back to New York. Forget about Gaffer’s Ridge, forget your interview with Dr. Alek Kuchar. Yes, Booker told me. Give Alek a call, send him a text, not that he’d answer you.”

  Carson couldn’t help asking, “You know Dr. Kuchar?”

  Cyndia Bodine said, “Of course. He and I share tea now and then, here or at his cabin. It’s only a quarter of a mile that way.” She nodded vaguely toward the west. “He’s a fascinating man, but very damaged. In any case, Alek won’t want to talk to you, especially if I ask him not to. Believe me on that.”

  Griffin said, “Mrs. Bodine, even if we can’t prove your son kidnapped those girls, he will still go to prison for kidnapping Dr. DeSilva, and for attempted murder of the two of us. Those will be federal charges. I’m an FBI agent and a very credible witness.”

  To his and Carson’s surprise, Cyndia Bodine laughed, shook her head. “Come now, Agent Hammersmith, what would you
expect him to do when you attacked him? And she hit him on the head when he was down? No, don’t bother to spin more tales to me.” She moved from the fireplace to a burgundy leather chair and sat down, crossed her legs and began swinging her long, narrow foot like a metronome. Sherlock found herself staring at that foot, and her pretty light blue toenails.

  “I was very glad Agent Hammersmith and I incapacitated him,” Carson said. “I was afraid, ma’am, he had come back to kill me.”

  Savich saw Cyndia Bodine’s dark eyes go inward, heard her begin humming deep in her throat. Then she blinked, looked at each of them, and smiled. “I will say this only one more time. My son is not a murderer. A dozen, two dozen people, will testify to that. So stop your lies, Dr. DeSilva. Go home.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Carson’s arms. What was Cyndia Bodine thinking when she seemed to look inside herself, as if she’d gone off somewhere? Carson was sitting across from a fifty-five-year-old woman with a youthful face, wearing a lavender summer top over white capri pants, light makeup, nothing at all to set off her large eyes. She wasn’t classically pretty, but what she had in spades was presence, gravitas. She was more than a well-to-do rich man’s wife who knew her own importance. She was something else entirely, and it scared Carson to her bones.

  Savich said in his deep, matter-of-fact voice, “Rafer told us, ma’am, that you’d fix us, that you’d ‘shine’ us. I’ve never heard the word ‘shine’ used that way. What did he mean, exactly?”

  “I’m his mother. What mother wouldn’t try to ‘fix’ anyone who threatened her child? ‘Shine’ you? Come now, what drama. Rafer was having you on, nothing more. I can see from your ring, Agent Savich, that you’re married, and so is Agent Sherlock. Perhaps to each other, if I have it right? Tell me, what would you do to someone who threatened your child? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect him?”

  Savich wasn’t about to let her see he was impressed. She was arrogant enough, utterly convinced they were only temporary annoyances. He sat back, crossed his arms. “We all have our lives, our families. As for your family, Mrs. Bodine, all the members sound fascinating. Has your family always lived here in Gaffer’s Ridge?”

  She looked at her watch, shrugged. “No, not always. I myself am a descendant of Mariah and Elija Silver of the Grantville, Tennessee, Silvers. My family has been celebrated in those parts for generations. My sister and I both married cousins, brothers actually, and, of course, moved here to Gaffer’s Ridge, where we have lived now for many years.”

  She looked down at her watch again. “My husband will be home in three hours and fourteen minutes and I have errands to run in town. Is there anything else?”

  Carson stared at her. “Ma’am, how can you be so exact?”

  “Long years of marriage and habit, Dr. DeSilva. My husband is always punctual.” She looked again at Sherlock. “Would you like an aspirin? For your headache?”

  “No, ma’am, thank you, I’m fine.” No need to tell this woman she’d kill for two more aspirin.

  Cyndia turned back to study Carson. “Before I had Rafer, I had a daughter nearly as beautiful as you, Dr. DeSilva, but she ran away. She was a teenager with all the usual teenage angst and rebellion, and one day she was simply gone.” She broke off, then said, “Her hair was as dark as mine, but her eyes weren’t a dark green like all the women in my family, more a dark gray. She was still so young, but already quite striking. Her name is Camilla, after her grandmother, who lived with us before she died. She was very independent, always anxious to fly free. She was driving at twelve, no matter what we said, and, as you now know, the road to Eagle’s Nest is difficult. I suppose you could say she was wild, undisciplined, but she laughed and danced under a full moon, nearly to the edge of the cliff. But then one night, she packed a suitcase and left. I have searched for her, and waited many years, but she hasn’t contacted me. I wish I knew why she left in the first place and what she’s doing with her life.”

  Sherlock said, “Was your daughter disturbed in some way?”

  Cyndia splayed her hands in front of her. “Of course not. I still have some of her birthday cake in the freezer.” Her voice caught, her face shadowed. “My husband believes it’s time to throw it away. Now, if that is all—”

  Savich pointed to the far wall. “Your scrying mirror is very old, isn’t it?”

  All of them looked toward a small jet-black convex bubble mirror, its frame black as well, elaborately fashioned in the art deco style.

  “Ah, so you recognize it. Very few people would know what it is. Yes, it is very old, made by my grandmother in the late 1920s.” She added to the rest of them, “If you don’t know, a scrying mirror is a divination tool, nothing more. Its purpose is to provide focus to the practitioner.”

  Savich asked, “It is my understanding scrying mirrors are always passed from mother to daughter, usually to the eldest. Isn’t your sister, Mrs. Jessalyn Bodine, the sheriff’s wife, two years older than you? Why is it in your possession?”

  37

  * * *

  A deep musical voice said from behind them, “Why yes, we are exactly twenty-one months apart and yes, I’m the elder.” They turned to see a tall, dark-haired woman walk gracefully down the five steps into the great room. She was striking, probably a knockout in her younger years. She was taller than her sister, with the same brilliant dark green eyes and glossy black hair, and no sign of gray. Rather than her sister’s chignon, she wore her hair like a younger woman, in a ponytail, but it looked right on her. She wore boots, tight jeans, and a fitted white top, and carried a light green jacket over her arm. She gave a little wave to her sister. “Hello, Cyn, sorry I’m late. I did hurry when I heard from Booker this bunch might be coming to hassle you, but wouldn’t you know—that idiot Glynis Lars hit the back of Wallace’s hay truck and it overturned and blocked the road just outside of town. No need to ask, yes, she was drunk as a skunk, as usual. Poor old Wallace was sputtering at her, since he doesn’t curse.” She turned to look at each of them, her eyes resting a moment longer on Sherlock.

  “My name is Jessalyn Bodine and I’m Sheriff Booker Bodine’s wife. I know you’re all FBI agents except for you.” She studied Carson, said finally, “Cyn, she reminds me a bit of Camilla, despite the difference in coloring. What do you think?”

  “A bit, I suppose. She’s so much older than Camilla was when she left.” Cyndia Bodine was quiet a moment, then made introductions, waved her sister to a chair beside her, but Jessalyn didn’t take it. She continued to stand, her arms crossed. She said, “Agent Savich, I heard you ask about the scrying mirror. I gave it to my sister since she has more use for it than I. I find it interesting an FBI agent would know about such an esoteric tradition.”

  Savich said easily, “More use than you would have, Mrs. Bodine? Can you tell me why?”

  Jessalyn laughed. “I suppose you may have heard around town the Bodines are blessed with some special gifts? Alas, neither Rafer nor my poor Booker, nor our two children, I might add, were blessed with much of anything. I married Booker anyway, even knowing he would get fat, like his father did. He entertains me, you see. I didn’t want him to sell the hardware stores to become sheriff, but he wanted it so badly, wanted to leave his own mark, also like his father did.” She shrugged. “I let him have his way.”

  Griffin stared at this woman. “How did you know he would get fat?”

  “He loves his beer and buffalo wings, loved them even when he was young and fit and handsome as Rafer.” She nodded toward Griffin and Carson. “Booker should have known no one would lie about being an FBI agent. Of course, once he realized he was wrong, he behaved himself. He’s adaptable, always a positive virtue in a husband. A pity. Usually, he’s faster on his feet.”

  “You’re admitting he removed the duct tape and Rafer’s computer from his house?”

  A dark eyebrow went up, accompanied by a look of astonishment. “What did you say, Agent Hammersmith? Why would he do something so ridiculous?”

  Cyndia sai
d, “Jess, you told me you married Booker because you liked his name and you could drink him under the table.”

  Jessalyn laughed. “I still do and I still can. It’s like you knew Quint would stay skinny as a snake and make buckets of money. I gather all of you very serious people have been here for some time. Cyndia and I have errands to do. Are we all finished?”

  Cyndia Bodine rose to stand beside her sister.

  Savich rose as well. “Actually, Mrs. Bodine, we would like your permission to look around your house and property.”

  She raised a perfectly arched brow, laughed. “Tell me you’re joking, Agent Savich? No? For myself, I really don’t care if you wish to spend your time grubbing about my house, we have nothing to hide, but Quint would not be pleased. I’m sure he would demand a warrant, for which you have absolutely no grounds. I must say I find it incredible that you accuse my son of monstrous acts, then expect me to let you tear up my home.”