She paused, took her sister’s arm. “One more moment, Jess.” She said to Carson, “You might as well know, Dr. DeSilva, I called you a liar because I know Rafer didn’t mumble anything at all under his breath. You and that man next to you who hurt Rafer, both of you have a gift you can’t claim because no sane person on the planet would believe you, so none of it will matter.”
She looked at Sherlock. “You’re not like these others, but you’re not exactly common, there is some light in you.”
Sherlock said, “Any light you see in me is very low wattage, Mrs. Bodine.”
“You’re clever. You notice things, things other people don’t necessarily pay attention to. But your headache is worse, you need to rest.”
Cyndia started to walk away arm in arm with Jessalyn toward the kitchen, her sandals slapping on the oak floor, Jessalyn’s boots making no sound at all. “It’s time for you to leave. You may all let yourselves out.”
“Mrs. Bodine,” Savich said, “would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
“What? All right. It’s down the hall to your right. The rest of you can wait outside. Jess, come with me to the kitchen. I want you to taste my lasagna sauce.”
Savich waited until they were out of hearing, and said quietly, “Griffin, Carson, look around in the woods, check for possible grave sites. Sherlock, you have an excellent eye. Check out the size and shape of the buildings and the garage.”
“A hidden room?”
“This would be a perfect place for it, but more than one room, I imagine, since three teenagers were kidnapped.”
The house was large, at least six thousand square feet, and there wasn’t enough time to do any sort of search. Savich was lucky to find Mr. Bodine’s home office near the bathroom at the end of a wide, carpeted corridor. He gave Sherlock one final look, saw her walking down the front steps, and hoped she’d go back to the car if she felt ill.
Sherlock ignored the niggling headache and walked quickly to the large four-car garage. She looked through the window of the first dark-blue-painted bay door. It was pristine inside, a workbench along the back wall with tools laid out neatly on shelves above it. Four cars lined up like soldiers at attention—a new white Mercedes sedan, a black BMW SUV, a Chevy Silverado truck, and a classic baby-blue Mustang older than she was. There was road dust on the Mustang so she guessed it was Jessalyn Bodine’s car. She stood back and examined the space. No doubt in her mind the garage interior should be deeper. She examined the space again, walked it off again. And stopped, her head cocked. It was strange, but now the measurements appeared exactly right. She had to hurry, Dillon would be out at any moment and they’d have to leave. She quickly examined the outbuildings—a small woodworking workshop, a toolshed with tractor, lawn mower and gardening tools, and a well-constructed storage building with skiing equipment, odds and ends from the house, and some paintings stacked against the wall, a white sheet covering them. There was a painting still on an easel that wasn’t covered. Rich vibrant colors were splashed on with abandon, it seemed to her, with no theme, no attempt to be anything but wild untamed colors themselves. Cyndia Bodine’s?
She walked quickly past the guest house. It didn’t look like it had been used in a long time, given the layer of dust she saw through the living room window.
She walked back to the house, disappointed, hoping the others had better luck. Her headache was gone. She felt lighter on her feet, less tired. She saw Mrs. Cyndia Bodine standing in the doorway of the entrance hall, and, oddly, Cyndia seemed to be staring at her. Where was her sister, Jessalyn?
Cyndia said to Sherlock as she walked up the steps, “You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see, now could you?” Sherlock felt the weight of her focus. Cyndia turned on her heel and walked back into the house and down the oak steps into the great hall. She’d left the front door open, so Sherlock saw her pull open the side French door and walk to stand at the deck railing. She never looked back at Sherlock.
Where was her sister? Where was Jessalyn Bodine?
Sherlock wasn’t about to let herself be spooked. What had Cyndia meant—You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see? She stood quietly a moment in the open doorway, studying the woman’s back, playing the words over in her mind. She felt a sudden, sharp flash of pain in her head, like a blow from a hammer, then another, blinding pain, more agonizing than the pain she’d awakened with in the emergency room. She stumbled, pressed her palms to her temples, but the sharp battering pain kept digging into her. She felt the earth begin to spin, fast, then faster still. She grabbed at the front door, but it slipped out of her hand and seemed to move away, growing smaller and smaller until she was standing by herself in a vast space, weaving, dizzy, her head pounding so fiercely she couldn’t bear it. Was she dying? She gave a small cry and went down.
38
* * *
The walls of Quint Bodine’s home office were covered with glass-encased tribal masks, spears, and an elaborate ancient headdress. Savich walked quickly to a massive mahogany desk. Behind it were large French doors that gave onto a wide wooden deck with incredible views.
His pulse kicked up when he saw the top-of-the-line iMac. He pushed a jump drive into the USB port and kept his eye on the door as he booted up the computer. He watched the progress as the jump drive transferred its program to the computer’s hard drive. He quickly powered down, plucked the jump drive back out, and left the office, smiling. When the computer was powered up again, the program he’d tweaked himself would hide from view, search for the computer’s passwords, and allow him remote access. Unless Bodine took a great deal of care and was over-the-top paranoid, he would never know.
Done. He was past the bathroom when he heard Sherlock cry out. Then nothing.
He raced to the front entrance hall, his Glock at the ready. He saw the open front door swinging as if pushed by an unseen hand or the wind, only there wasn’t a wind. He saw Sherlock sprawled on her back outside on the porch.
He caught sight of Mrs. Cyndia Bodine on the deck, her back to them, leaning over the railing, staring toward the mountains, seemingly unaware. He ran to Sherlock, heart pounding, went down on his knees, found the pulse in her throat. Her pulse was there, slow and steady. Had she fainted? The trip had been too much for her. It was his fault. He touched his fingers to her face, cupped her chin, leaned down, kissed her, whispered, “Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes. Smile up at me.” He gathered her in his arms. She felt as boneless as a sleeping child, her head lolling back on his arm. He lightly slapped her face, bent close, whispered again, “Sherlock, come on, sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me. Call me an idiot for bringing you to Gaffer’s Ridge, for bringing you here to this cursed mountain.” He felt her move. He waited. He looked over at Mrs. Bodine, who still stood quietly on the deck, her back to them. Hadn’t she heard Sherlock scream? There was no sign of her sister. Where was she?
Sherlock moaned, but didn’t open her eyes. Her fingers clutched his arm. “Thank heaven you’re here. My head, it hurt so bad I thought I was going to die. It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get away from it, I couldn’t—” She swallowed.
“How is the pain now?”
She opened her eyes, blinked to clear her vision, and stared up into his hard, sculpted face, his cheekbones high and surely sharp enough to slash ice, and his eyes dark like night—“Are you the Prince of Darkness?”
That’s what she thought, looking at him? He shot another look toward Mrs. Bodine, who still hadn’t moved, and lightly stroked a fingertip over her cheek. “Do you want me to be?”
She raised her hand to touch his face, then dropped it. He caught her hand and laid it over her stomach. “I wish I knew who you were, really knew. I mean, everyone agrees you’re my husband, and that means you’ve seen me brush my teeth and paint my toenails. I guess you’ve seen a lot more, too, but I don’t remember any of that. You told me I don’t snore. Did you say that to make me feel better?”
She was beginning to sound like herself, a huge
relief. He wanted to tell her he’d kissed the small birthmark on her left hip a good thousand times over the past six years. “Sometimes you make little snorting sounds, like Sean. I’m not the Prince of Darkness, I’m your husband, and that makes me proud and happy.” He lightly touched his fingertips to her forehead. “I’m in there, locked deep inside your brain, sweetheart, you’re just not ready to let me back out yet. Now tell me, how’s your head—any more pain?”
“No, the pain’s gone, but I still feel weak—” Her voice fell off a cliff.
Savich held her against him, rocked her. Slowly she pulled back. “I think I’m okay now.” She looked at the front door. “It was so strange, Dillon, I felt so good, so normal when I came back toward the house, but suddenly a hammer hit me on the head, and it was worse even than right after the accident. I was nauseated and dizzy, so I grabbed for the door, but I swear to you it began moving away from me. It got smaller and smaller.”
“I heard you scream.”
She stared up at him. “I screamed? I don’t remember making any sound at all.” She dug out a smile. “I had something strange to tell you, but I can’t remember what it was now.” She felt another hit of pain in her head that made her jerk, then held herself very still.
Savich turned to see Mrs. Bodine looking through the glass French door, focused on them. Her lips were moving. He gently laid Sherlock on the deck. “I’ll be right back.” He ran to the glass door, shoved it open, grabbed Mrs. Bodine’s arms, and shook her until her head snapped back on her neck. He yelled in her face, “Stop it! Now!”
She gave a small guttural sound, shoved against him, hitting his chest with her fists. “Stop what? Are you crazy? Get away from me!”
He pinned her arms to her sides, leaned in, and said very quietly, “I’m giving you one warning, Mrs. Bodine, only one. You hurt her again and I will kill you. Do you understand?” He shook her, then pushed her away from him.
She was breathing hard, the pulse leaping in her throat. She looked at him, furious, and he felt a sudden shock of pain in his head. He formed a stark, clear picture in his mind of her holding her own head, and reflected the pain back on her. She didn’t fall, but she did stagger and fetch up against the deck railing, mouth agape, shock clear on her face. She whispered, “You’re very strong.”
“Yes,” he said, “I am. I hope you believe me—I will kill you if you try to hurt her again, Mrs. Bodine. This is your only warning. Tell me you understand me.”
“Of course I understand you. Yes. You’re a violent man from a violent world. You should be in jail, not my innocent son. Listen to me, I didn’t touch her. How could I? She’s outside by the front door, and I’m here, looking at my beautiful view. Go away, Agent Savich, all of you go away. I want you out of my house.”
He left her on the deck and hurried back to his wife.
Sherlock’s head didn’t hurt, nor was she dizzy any longer. In fact, she felt perfectly fine lying on her back and not moving. She saw Dillon coming toward her, saw the wild mix of emotions on his dark face, quickly tamped down when he saw her looking at him. She slowly sat up. She tried to remember exactly what had happened, but there was only that blank white door again. The blasted amnesia. She hated having to pretend to be what everyone believed her to be, when she was no one at all, a one-dimensional being who lived in the present with only an occasional glimpse of someone she knew, or madly enough, of Dillon’s red Porsche. She didn’t flinch when he came down beside her. He cupped her chin in his palm, studied her eyes. “Don’t sugarcoat it, how do you feel?”
The strange words floated through her brain, and she remembered: You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see. She raised her hand to his face. “I’m all right. Really, I feel fine. Why am I on the floor, Dillon? Don’t get me wrong, I’m really comfortable. I remember you laid me on my back and left me here.”
“Yes, but only minutes ago.” Savich wanted to carry her away from this place, but first he had to tell her the truth. “It wasn’t your concussion that made your head hurt so much, made you pass out. It was Cyndia Bodine. I guess what we saw was her ‘shining’ you.”
Sherlock gaped at him. “You mean she attacked me psychically? From clear across the room? But how is that possible? She didn’t get near me.”
“She didn’t need to get near you or touch you. She attacked you psychically because you’re the most vulnerable of the four of us.”
“Because I’m not gifted like the rest of you.”
“Maybe.”
Sherlock licked her dry lips, shot a look toward Mrs. Bodine still standing on the deck staring at them, rubbing her arms up and down, as if she were cold. But why would Cyndia Bodine attack her? Then she remembered the words again and repeated them aloud. “ ‘You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see.’ She said those words to me because she was worried I’d see something she didn’t want me to see. But what is it, Dillon? I walked around the garage, checked the outbuildings, the guest house, but I didn’t see anything that set off an alarm.”
They saw Griffin and Carson approaching the house. She let Dillon help her to her feet, steadied herself.
Carson called out, “Why were you lying on the porch? Are you all right?”
Savich nodded toward Cyndia Bodine. “She’s fine now. Cyndia Bodine attacked her, shined her. But she won’t do it again.”
Griffin said, “Where is her sister? Where is Jessalyn Bodine?”
Carson said, “She’s probably in the basement, stirring a cauldron.”
39
* * *
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
THURSDAY EVENING
Claire Farriger stood at her office window watching rain-bloated black clouds scuttle across a starless sky. She knew it was still hot outside, the humidity near 100 percent, and rain was close now. She should leave soon or she’d get soaked. But she couldn’t. What a mess Nikki had made of something as simple as picking an unsuspecting computer nerd like Justice Cummings off the street. Even at a preset location. It was Nikki who’d insisted her people be the ones to grab Cummings, that they would keep him hidden until he understood fully what was at stake, and they had his agreement. A deal breaker, she’d said. It was the price Claire paid for agreeing to work with amateurs, without field experience, without guts to do what was necessary. Keep Cummings safe? It was ridiculous. Bad enough Cummings had happened upon the chatter about the smart wall before she could shut it down. He could have ruined everything, even exposed her. She could have taken care of it herself, but Nikki and her blasted conscience insisted she and her people could handle it. She sighed. It would have been so much easier for her to arrange a fatal accident. Of course, she hadn’t spoken about Nikki’s massive failure the night before at the dojo. What good would it have done?
She heard a light knock on the door.
“Come.”
The door opened and Alan Besserman walked in. He worked under her as a resident expert in Russian technology and weaponry, and he was Justice Cummings’s group chief.
Farriger started to take a strip off him for keeping her waiting, but she saw his reflection in the window glass. He looked beyond exhausted, his suit rumpled as if he’d slept in it, his shoulders slumped—and something else. There was both fear and alarm in his pale, bloodshot eyes. Obviously neither he nor the half dozen agents she’d assigned had managed to track down Justice Cummings. Farriger closed her eyes a moment. She reviewed her options if they didn’t find him before the inevitable phone call from FBI Assistant Director James Maitland. Besserman had already put him off. Maitland wasn’t a man she wanted to set against her. And of course he’d have Savich with him.
She stated the obvious, without turning, “So I gather you still haven’t found Cummings?”
“No, ma’am.” She saw Besserman push his fist against his palm in the window reflection. “We know he took an Uber from about three blocks from the accident to Alexandria. We went through the neighborhood where he was dropped off, b
ut no one there recognized his photo. He smashed his cell phone, as you know, so no help there.
“We’ve been checking cams in Alexandria, but no sign of him. If he’s alive, why would he hide? Why didn’t he call in? Call me? It doesn’t make sense otherwise.” He paused, then said in an emotionless voice, “I’m beginning to think it’s possible he died from his injuries after striking that car. That wherever he was planning to go in Alexandria, he didn’t make it.”
“Then where is his body?”
“Hasn’t been found yet.”
“Does he know anyone in Alexandria?”
“Not that we could discover. We’re doing a wide grid search to find him—or his body. Still no sign.”
Farriger watched Besserman start to pace her office, a long narrow room. She saw him momentarily distracted by her paintings of medieval tapestries on the walls. Why was Alan being so slow? She nudged him forward. “Alan, there has to be a reason Justice ran. We backtracked him to the Blaze Café—a waiter said he was obviously expecting someone, kept looking at his watch. But he got impatient and left. The bodega cam across the street shows two people walking toward him—and shows him running away. Why was he there? Who were these people he was running from?”
Besserman stopped on a dime, stared at her reflection in the glass. Farriger slowly turned to face him. “Think, Alan. I know you like the guy, you think he’s smart, and I agree he’s done excellent work, but—” She said nothing more, let her silence speak.
Besserman knew what this looked like, and he didn’t like it. He had no idea what had happened, but it couldn’t be what she was hinting at, absolutely not. He said slowly, his voice firm as a judge, “I am as sure as I can be Justice wasn’t at that café to meet with a foreign operative. Justice isn’t a traitor.”
Farriger shrugged. “Alan, I don’t want to think it, either, but we have to consider it. Remember, you told me about the chatter he’d picked up about some kind of breakthrough in surveillance technology on Russian back channels? You brought it to me and we decided it didn’t merit our attention. Well, maybe he lied to you, maybe he managed to identify the source of the chatter about ‘smart walls’ in Russia, and found out more, maybe someone offered him money to funnel them information. There had to be something going on to set this off. Have you finished the forensics on his workstation? His clearance was high enough that even if he didn’t escalate it, he could have copied enough sensitive information to hurt us badly. Let’s hope he’s not trying to be another Edward Snowden.”
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