Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  “Dougie?”

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Justice. How did I get here?”

  “You’ve been kind of out of it since Hummer found you huddled in on yourself in his doorway, and dragged you inside. Me, I prefer my box. It’s too dark for me in here. We’ve been taking care of you ever since.

  “You offered Hummer a wad of cash to hide you, but he didn’t take it, so your money’s still in your wallet. Not much, though. Hummer said you had some fancy ID. You’re CIA and that’s sure enough interesting. That’s a real funny name. Why’d your folks name you that?”

  “Wishful thinking on their part—they wanted me to be a judge, like my dad was. That, or a priest.”

  Dougie placed a lone dirty finger on Justice’s forehead, tsk-tsked, then said, “Your daddy was a judge? Well, I guess everybody’s daddy’s gotta be something. A long time ago, my daddy was something, too, but I don’t remember what now. Don’t think you got a fever, but you did—maybe two days ago, but I don’t remember.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Day? Not important enough to know. You’re lucky. Hummer got back last week from the world out there, or maybe it was last month sometime, time is weird, you know? Anyways, Hummer was a major in the army but nobody cares about him now and Ruth left him a hundred dollars because she had to take a necklace she found in his nest, stolen, she said, and she had to return it. Anyways, that was a long time ago, too. Then there was his friend, he had a weird name, weirder than yours. Hummer called him Manta Ray. Hummer saved his bacon, too. He was all shot up, and you know what? Manta Ray came back flying in a helicopter all the way from Ireland, and he brought Hummer a buttload of money. Hummer bought us all blankets and pillows and a grill and charcoal and steaks and three bottles of vodka. Ireland’s a long way from here. It’s really green there. Here comes Hummer now.”

  Justice’s brain was squirreling around trying to make sense of what Dougie was saying. Then he let it go. It hurt too much to worry about it. Oddly, he felt safe.

  Dougie sat back cross-legged and began singing “Take Me Home, Country Road” in a sweet voice, true and soft as summer rain. Justice looked at the man striding toward him. He was military straight, tall, with buzz-cut hair. He looked fifty, maybe sixty, and he was clean. He was wearing green camouflage pants and shirt, a leather belt around his lean waist.

  “I remember now, I made it here to the warehouse district,” Justice said.

  “Yes, you did,” Hummer said. He set down a bag and stuck out his hand. “I’m Major Hummer, and this is Dougie, and you’re Justice Cummings. A good name, I like it. Here’s water, and more antibacterial cream for the cut on your leg and maybe it’ll help your nose, too. I splinted your leg, don’t know if it’s broken, but if it is, at least it won’t heal all crooked. Here, drink.”

  Major Hummer twisted off the lid of a plastic bottle of water and handed it to Justice. Justice drank most of the bottle down in one long gulp, choked and started to cough.

  No one bothered to thwack him on the back, Major Hummer and Dougie simply looked at him and waited. He realized when he finally caught his breath the aspirin must be kicking in. He was starting to feel better. “Thank you, Major.”

  Dougie said, “I was telling him about Manta Ray. Too bad we ate all those steaks. Justice, you’re looking better, not like you’re going to croak it anymore.” Dougie straightened the listing towel on his head. “You hold still now and let Hummer rub in the cream. Did you kill anyone?”

  “Me?” Justice’s voice was nearly a squeak. “Not me. I’d never kill anybody.”

  “That’s good, but maybe not. There’s lots of folk in the world out there rotten clean through.”

  Major Hummer’s hands were gentle, a surprise, as his big rough fingers massaged in the cream with a Kleenex he pulled out of a small packet.

  “Isn’t bad,” Hummer said, sitting back on his haunches. “Healing good. Now, let me bandage you up again, I got some sterile pads and a roll of paper towels to wrap around the pads.”

  After two more aspirin, Justice was feeling even better. He saw his pants, folded up neatly beside him. He was wearing only his shirt and his boxers and a thick pad of paper towels wrapped around his thigh. He vaguely remembered the Uber he’d taken to Alexandria, to a blighted neighborhood he’d passed through three years before, and then he’d walked three blocks to the warehouse district. It was desolate, derelict, the buildings falling in on themselves. It was home to a dozen or more homeless people, depending on the season, their cardboard nests propped against the buildings to keep them from collapsing inward. Odd how he’d remembered this place, known to his bones he’d be safe here. If his leg didn’t kill him.

  Justice looked at Dougie, who was humming again, then at Major Hummer on his knees beside him. “Thank you both. I owe you my life, Major Hummer. And no, I didn’t kill anybody. But people are after me and I don’t know who they are. I ran out into the street and slammed onto the hood of a car that was spinning around because another car had hit it. They ran after me, but I got away.”

  “You’re young,” Dougie said. “You should be able to run even with a gimp leg. I once had a daughter—I think she was my daughter, and I do remember she liked to run, but it was a long time ago. Maybe she’s about your age, that’s what I thought when I saw you. Had to help you, could have been my daughter. Did Ruth send you?”

  “Who’s Ruth? Is she your daughter?”

  “No, she’s not my daughter, but she’s real important. I’m her snitch.” Justice watched Dougie preen. “She’s an actual special agent, FBI, and she’s a good person. She’s smart, is Ruth. Hummer, you got your cell phone? I can call Ruth for you, Justice. She’ll know what to do.”

  FBI? Dougie was a snitch? Justice felt like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole, but then he really looked at Dougie, realized he wasn’t crazy—well, he was, but still, it did sound like this Ruth woman might indeed be FBI.

  He started to say no, don’t call her, but then he thought about it. She wasn’t CIA, no way would this Ruth agent even know about him, no way could she be involved with the people after him.

  “Let me think about it, Dougie,” Justice said. “Do you know Ruth’s last name?”

  “I did, once upon a time, but time’s slippery, you know? Names are slippery, too.”

  “Yes, I know. Let me rest awhile, think this through—” And Justice closed his eyes under the watch of two homeless people who’d probably been on psychotropic meds once, but no longer. They were forgotten now, left to fend for themselves, but they’d helped him. Justice heard Dougie rise. “I’m gonna get Sally, Hummer, she can come and watch him awhile. I got to get more Wild Turkey. Over at Bilbo Baggins—you know Stan the barkeep, he puts a half bottle near the dumpster for me, wrapped in the Washington Post.”

  Justice had eaten at Bilbo Baggins a couple of weeks before. He didn’t know Stan the barkeep, but realized he liked him. Justice fell asleep and dreamed he was running, running so hard his side was hurting something fierce, but he knew he had to keep going or they’d catch him. And what? Kill him? He saw her face, a strong face, set and hard with purpose. Why? The woman was gone and he saw his boss’s face. Mr. Besserman was standing over him at his workstation, eyeing the odd intel Justice had come across, and he was saying something, but what? Then he was running again and he saw another woman’s face, frozen with disbelief, wild red hair in bouncing curls all over her head and blue eyes, yes, she had blue eyes, but somehow she was out of time. Then everything hurt, and he jerked awake, blinking in the dim light.

  He heard breathing, knew someone was close, and tightened with fear. A woman’s scratchy voice said, “Hold on, Justice—that’s your name, isn’t it? That’s what Hummer told me. Okay, let me turn on some light. It’s always so dark in here, but that’s the way Hummer likes it even when the sun’s shinin’ real bright outside like it is right now. I’m Sally. Dougie was drinking his Wild Turkey Stan left him, but Hummer, he’s upstair
s in his nest, napping with the angels, like he always does for a while after he comes back from the world out there. Did I tell you? I’m Sally.”

  A flashlight came on. And he looked into the raddled face of an older woman who might have been his mother if she didn’t look so derelict. She was wearing ragged clothes, her hair an improbable red with black and gray roots two inches long, but she was smiling at him sweetly. She was no threat. “Open up,” she said, and when he did, she poured some more water into his mouth. “Slow—good. Now, how is your leg? Your nose?”

  He thought about that. “A dull throb, but nothing bad.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Hummer said to give you more aspirin anyway.”

  He dutifully swallowed the aspirin, drank more water, and lay back against what was probably a very dirty pile of—what? Blankets? He didn’t know, didn’t really care.

  “Did you kill anybody?”

  Was that their only theme? He couldn’t blame them, living this hardscrabble life. “No. I didn’t kill anybody. I don’t know what I did, but someone sure wants me bad, someone wants to kill me.”

  Sally sat back, straightened her long, once dark-blue skirt, now a dingy gray around her skinny legs. She wore ancient flip-flops on her dirty feet. “I wish someone wanted me, not to kill me, you know, wanted me the other way, the good way.” She shrugged, shined the flashlight in his eyes, then turned it off. “Gotta save the batteries. You promise no cops are gonna come here and shoot us?”

  Could he make that promise if they—whoever they were—found him? “No,” he said firmly. “No one will find me here.”

  “Well, you can’t trust the cops, now can you? But Ruth, she’s good people.”

  Ruth, Justice thought. Ruth, the FBI agent. He slept again.

  47

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE

  FRIDAY MORNING

  Griffin and Carson left Fayreen, silent and glaring, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Griffin said, “The bank is one block over. I read up on Quint Bodine, since I doubt he’ll tell us much himself. Even though Savich is focused on Sherlock and their case back in Washington, he’ll still have MAX decrypt those files as soon as possible.”

  Carson patted his arm. “If my wife had been in an accident and had her memory wiped, I’d be distracted, too. I’d probably forget even your name, much less a bunch of files.”

  Griffin smiled at her, couldn’t help it. Then he thought of Rafer Bodine, of what he’d done to her, or what he might have done to her—if—if Griffin hadn’t been close, if he hadn’t heard her, what would have happened? No, he wouldn’t go there. And Rafer’s mother, Cyndia Bodine. Given what she’d done to Sherlock, she was, to his mind, even more dangerous. And now Rafer was going home. “After we see Quint Bodine, I want you to know we’re sticking together. If you need a bathroom break, you check in with me first, all right?”

  Carson would have rolled her eyes, but he had a point. She nodded.

  They looked up to see Jenny striding down the sidewalk toward them. She stopped, grinned. “I just missed you guys. I took Fayreen a lovely frittata for brunch—with my famous breakfast fries so maybe she wouldn’t try to poison you, Griffin. She even thanked me, added under her breath you guys were up to no good in here, trying to ruin Gaffer’s Ridge. Hey, will you be coming to the café for lunch today? There’s a college kid who works at the FedEx, comes by for a slice of my meatloaf afterward every single day. He heard you kicked Sheriff Bodine out of his office and he’s dying to meet you, shake your hand, probably ask for an autograph.” She grinned.

  “It’s a plan,” Griffin said. “I’ve never signed an autograph before.”

  Griffin and Carson split off from Jenny and walked the block over to Gaffer’s Ridge First City Bank on High Moon Street. It was a warm day already, the sun bright overhead, the boutiques and antique shops doing great morning business.

  The bank was a square redbrick building with a sign over the double doors stating it had been built in 1909. It looked straight out of the Old West, complete with two original-looking hitching posts out front.

  “I wonder if they sprinkled sawdust on the floor,” Carson said as she preceded Griffin into the bank.

  “How about a free beer if you open an account?”

  There wasn’t a western bar or any sawdust inside. The floors were highly buffed wide oak planks, and Remington-type color murals covered the walls showing a cattle drive, a rodeo scene with a cowboy doing rope tricks, and a western hoedown, with cowboys riding through on horses and women walking in long dresses and bonnets, carrying baskets, their children playing with hoops. A line of half a dozen customers waited their turn to be beckoned by the tellers seated behind a long counter made of dark oak etched with more scenes from the Old West. They heard soft music in the background, a spaghetti western theme.

  Suddenly everyone went quiet.

  “We’ve been spotted,” Griffin said low, and smiled and waited until everyone in the bank had turned toward them. Griffin held up his creds. “Hello. I’m FBI Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, from Washington, D.C. We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Latisha Morris, Amy Traynor, and Heather Forrester. We’d appreciate any help you can give us. If you or your neighbors have any information, please come by the sheriff’s station.” Griffin knew that in a town this size, everyone knew everything about everybody. If anyone did know anything, particularly about Heather Forrester, he hoped they’d come forward.

  There was a buzz of conversation too low for Griffin or Carson to make out. Carson touched his arm and he turned to see a tall, aristocratic-looking older man, beautifully dressed in a gray three-piece suit, a pale blue tie, and black Italian loafers, stride out of a room at the back of the bank next to a huge vault. He paused, frowned, then closed the door behind him.

  They recognized his son, Rafer, in him as he got closer. While Rafer would have fit into the western setting, his father looked like he’d be at home in an old-world drawing room, holding a brandy in his long, thin fingers.

  All eyes were on them again when Quint Bodine stopped directly in front of them, gave a cursory look at Carson, looked at her again, then resolutely turned to face Griffin.

  He said in a melodic voice, pitched low so no one would overhear, “My wife called to tell me my son has arrived home. He’ll be staying with us, since his cottage has been marked with yellow crime scene tape and he was told he couldn’t return. May I ask how long it will be until you’ll be satisfied, finally, that you have nothing at all against my son?”

  Griffin said, “Mr. Bodine, I assume?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “I’m Agent Hammersmith, and this is Dr. Carson DeSilva.” He handed Bodine his creds. Bodine waved them away. “I know who you are.” He looked at Carson. “And you. You are the woman accusing my son of kidnapping you and tying you up in his basement.”

  Carson nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Duct tape, not rope. You left out the part where he pulled a gun on me and would have killed me if Agent Hammersmith hadn’t come in and kicked the gun out of his hand.”

  Bodine went silent, studied the two of them. Griffin saw he kept looking back at Carson. Because she was drop-dead gorgeous? Griffin didn’t think so. He had more the look of a man who wanted to—what? Maybe strangle her with his bare hands? Make her disappear?

  Quint finally said, “Come to my office.” He turned on his heel and walked to some discreet stairs tucked behind an unmarked door.

  That brief meeting would be fodder for gossip for days, Carson knew, giving a quick look back at the lobby with at least twenty people staring after them. If no one had heard what they’d said, it wouldn’t matter, they’d fill in the blanks.

  48

  * * *

  Quint Bodine’s office didn’t look like it belonged in the Wild West any more than he did. Rather than old-world, it was painfully modern, with Swedish furniture that reminded Griffin of the IKEA warehouse.

  Bodine nodded toward two chairs, and
moved behind his very plain blond-wood desk, with only a computer and a phone on top. He sat down in his ergonomically engineered desk chair. He said nothing at all, merely steepled his long, thin fingers and gave them an emotionless look. Carson took Griffin’s cue and looked back blankly, waiting him out.

  He finally said, “You have absolutely no evidence against my son. All you have is Dr. DeSilva’s statement she heard my son mumbling about the three missing teenage girls, which is ridiculous on its face. Or at least, that’s what you told Sheriff Bodine. Don’t push this, Dr. DeSilva.

  “Agent Hammersmith, I suppose you’ll claim you’re only doing your job. Those three girls are missing, and an investigation is already under way, has been since Heather Forrester was taken here in Gaffer’s Ridge. But you’ve mistreated my son. You unlawfully entered Rafer’s house and broke his wrist. You also mistreated my brother. You had Booker threatened with machine guns and have occupied his office so he and his deputies can barely function. Yesterday you entered my own home without my permission and your Agent Savich physically attacked my wife. Believe me, I will be discussing this with our mayor, and he with our congressman. You should know I have other ways as well to deal with you.”

  Griffin studied Rafer’s father a moment. He saw a man who was used to power, to wielding it with no hesitation whenever it would gain him what he wanted. “Do you know, Mr. Bodine,” he said slowly, “I’ve already been physically threatened more than once in this town. And now you give me a barely cloaked threat to use your influence. Or was your threat psychic?”

  Bodine smiled, a shark’s smile, with teeth. “What do you think?”

  “I think you could be capable of both. When we were at your home yesterday, your wife attacked another FBI agent, Agent Sherlock, and that is what led Agent Savich to protect her. Surely none of this is a surprise to you?”