Savich said, “Yes, you are. You’ll be fine in a couple of days. You’ll need to get your nose looked after, and your leg checked out. We will help you with that. We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Cummings. You up for it?”
Justice grabbed Sherlock’s hand, held on for dear life. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? You’ll keep them away from me?”
“Don’t worry. We won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“You found my cell phone? How did you know it was mine? I really smashed it but good.”
“No, we didn’t find it, it went offline so we figured you’d destroyed it. Justice, we haven’t located your wife and kids, either. Where are they?”
“My—oh, Melissa—Mellie—she and the kids are in the Poconos, at her aunt’s cabin. There’s no cell service, so you have to know to call Aunt Josie’s landline to reach them. I was supposed to be with them, but then she got really pissed at me. She wants me to quit the CIA and get a real job. And that’s the problem. I really like being an analyst. I think I’ve helped our country. She called this a time-out—sounds stupid, it’s what she says to the kids. She got pregnant my senior year at MIT, her senior year at Boston College, and we eloped. We had another kid two years ago—Nate’s his name, his older sister is Annie, and I’m sorry, you don’t care about that.”
Ruth said, “Trust me, Mr. Cummings, we care about everything you care about. Go on.”
“Please, call me Justice.”
“He needs some hy-dration, Ruth. Major Hummer said when you’re sick you gotta keep hy-drated.” Dougie put the bottled water to Justice’s mouth. Justice guzzled down nearly half the bottle. He was breathing hard when Dougie pulled it away.
“Thank you, Dougie.”
“I remember my wife wanting me to change jobs,” Dougie said, shaking his head, making the towel list to the left. He straightened it. “I don’t remember what I was doing that upset her or what she wanted me to do. It was a long time ago, ten years, twenty? I don’t know. Do you remember, Hummer?” Dougie craned his head around to look at him. Major Hummer shook his head, said, “Don’t worry about it, Dougie. Time doesn’t mean much. All that’s important is what’s here and what’s now, and who cares in the end? There’s always an end, isn’t there?”
Ruth said, smiling at Hummer, “Yes, but the end isn’t now, not for Justice. How do you feel now, Justice?”
“Agent Ruth, ma’am, I’m okay. My nose throbs, you know, and my leg sort of aches, but it isn’t bad. Can you find out who’s after me?”
Savich said, “We can and we will, but first, Justice, you’ll need to help us. Who were you meeting at the Blaze Café Tuesday afternoon?”
Justice didn’t meet his eyes, but he slowly nodded. “I really don’t have a choice, do I? All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I was really pissed at my wife for giving me that ridiculous ‘time-out,’ for acting like my job isn’t important enough. It really is, I mean, it’s about keeping us all safe. So when this pretty woman asked me if I’d like to have coffee with her after work on Tuesday, I said yes. I didn’t plan to sleep with her, believe me, but I was pissed. I wanted to spend some time with someone who appreciated who I am and what I do. So we made a date to meet at the Blaze Café, but she didn’t show. I waited, then walked outside, looking for her, and that’s when I spotted them—a man and a woman, looking at me, but trying to be cool about it. But I’m a CIA analyst, I know all about surveillance and how it should be done, and they’d screwed up. So I ran. Took them off guard, but they ran after me. When I came out of that alley I looked back and saw them. I ran into the street and hit a car, your car, you said, Agent Sherlock, and I flew off the other side of the hood. My leg was hurt, my nose was bleeding something fierce, but there were so many people running this way and that, talking on their cells, shooting videos, total chaos, so I managed to get away. I ended up here, and Major Hummer and Dougie took care of me.”
Savich said, “A man and a woman? Strangers to you?”
He flushed, nodded. “At first I thought maybe they were there because of the woman I was supposed to meet, maybe she was married and they were private investigators and that’s why she didn’t show up. But only for an instant. Even though they were wearing sunglasses I could tell their faces had that fixed look I’ve seen on faces before, giving nothing away, except they were there to take me, or worse.”
Savich said, “Can you describe them to us, Justice?”
“He was wearing a ball cap. I remember thinking he was bald because all I saw was scalp around the cap—not naturally bald, I remembering thinking, more like he shaved his head, but I could be dead wrong. And he had a big mustache. The woman had on a beret thing so I couldn’t see her hair, it was all tucked under the beret. They were average size, I guess, and both of them were wearing dark sunglasses. The woman was smaller than he was.”
Sherlock said, “Excellent, Justice. Tell us the woman’s name—the one you were supposed to meet?”
“Christy, her name was Christy Blake.”
Savich pulled out his cell and scrolled to a photo, showed it to Justice. “Is this Christy Blake?”
53
* * *
Justice stared, swallowed, looked like he’d be sick, then pulled himself together. He slowly nodded. “Yes, that’s Christy. She—she looks dead. Is she dead?”
“Yes,” Savich said. “Her name is—was—Eleanor Christine Corbitt. She was murdered in the middle of last night.”
Justice gaped at Savich, bewildered, confused. “She was—murdered? But why? What is happening here?”
Savich was aware Ruth and Sherlock were staring from him to the photo of Eleanor Corbitt on his cell, waiting for him to answer. He said, “It’s likely it all ties in to you, Justice. And what happened on Tuesday. Tell us what she said to you.”
“Christy said she worked at Langley, in personnel resources. She said she’d seen me off and on and thought I was cute and she always liked talking to analysts because we were all so smart and she’d heard I had a great sense of humor.” He swallowed. “But—I don’t understand. Why would she target me? I mean, it’s not like I’m the captain of the CIA ship, I’m only an analyst. And why would anyone kill her?” His eyes grew stark. “Someone killed her because of me? Last night? She’s dead because of me?”
Sherlock said, “Did you meet Eleanor Corbitt at Langley?”
“Sure. Wait, the first time I met her was in the parking lot at Langley, after work. She’d dumped her bag on the ground and I helped her clean it up. The second time we met, it was in the cafeteria.”
Savich said, “She didn’t work at Langley, Justice. She was an accountant at the Bexholt Group, in Coverton, Maryland.”
Justice was shaking his head. “But then how did she get in the cafeteria?”
Savich said slowly, “Only employees can eat there? No visitors?”
“Not as far as I know, only those of us who actually work there. I guess a bigwig could bring a guest, but why? I mean, it’s not exactly Chez Langley.”
Savich said, “It looks like Eleanor Corbitt targeted you specifically, Justice, set you up to be taken when you left the Blaze Café. Can you think of any reason why an accountant at Bexholt would do this? Why she would pretend she worked at Langley?”
Justice thought back. Christy—Eleanor—was dead. She’d seemed so interested in him, genuinely interested. She’d laughed at his humor, she’d touched his arm with her fingers, leaned in close. All of it had been an act. Her real name was Eleanor Christine Corbitt, and whoever was after him, they’d killed her. He felt numb, then angry. “It doesn’t make any sense. Like I told you, I’m an analyst, not one of those guts-for-glory operatives. I don’t know any secrets. What do they want with me?”
Sherlock asked him, “What do you do exactly, Justice? That is, what are you working on right now?”
“I—why? Oh, I see.” They could practically see his brain working through what he was allowed to say. Finally, “Look, I’m breaking some rules here, but there
is something I’ve been occupied with that’s been frustrating me. I was making my usual rounds on the Russian dark web, sites I can’t really talk about. I picked up an exchange about some kind of breakthrough in surveillance technology, something that can’t be detected with current sweep technology. There was talk of a sale or an auction very soon, something about a demonstration.
“I was worried enough to show the chatter to my group chief, Mr. Besserman. I believe he was concerned enough to take it to his boss, Assistant Director Claire Farriger, but he didn’t actually tell me he had, so I’m not sure.
“Monday before last, Mr. Besserman came back to me, wanted to know if I’d heard anything more, but I hadn’t. I remember he shrugged, said it was a ninety-nine percent chance it was nothing, only some bozo mouthing off, and we saw this sort of thing all the time on the dark web. Of course we do. It happens, not at all unusual, but I didn’t forget about it. There was something about it that made me think I’d chanced to hit on something big. Then I saw something more, same source, and there was talk about ‘smart walls,’ which I didn’t understand. What about smart walls? And I told Mr. Besserman and he told me to let it go and put me on something else. But I decided I’d pursue it on my own time. It was after that I met Christy—Eleanor Corbitt—and you know the rest.”
No, Savich thought, they didn’t know the rest. Not yet.
His cell rang. It was Griffin. “What’s up?”
Griffin said, “We have another missing teenager, this one from Whytheville, not all that far away from Gaffer’s Ridge. Her father said she was supposed to be with friends at a movie, but she didn’t come home when she was expected. They rang her cell, but there was no answer. Her father said she and that phone were inseparable, like all teenagers today. That’s when they suspected something was wrong.
“Savich, she celebrated her sixteenth birthday last Friday, makes her the same age as the other three missing girls.”
“Where’s Rafer Bodine?”
“That’s the thing, Savich. We could have held Rafer until there was a court order, but I didn’t see the point. Rafer left the hospital this morning. If he’s involved in this, it’s my fault.”
“You couldn’t have known, Griffin. Taking another girl now, with the FBI in Gaffer’s Ridge, already asking questions, it’s more than reckless, it’s insanity. You know what to do, Griffin. We’re up to our necks in alligators here. If you need outside assistance, give Bettina a call and she’ll send DeAndre and Slick back. Keep me informed.”
Savich punched off, said to Sherlock, “Another missing teenager near Gaffer’s Ridge. Sixteen years old, like the other three.”
Sherlock stilled. “Is it always like this? One horrible thing after another? All on top of each other? And we’re supposed to fix everything?”
Ruth patted her shoulder. “That’s pretty much our job description. Now, Justice, let’s talk more about the man and woman you saw outside the Blaze Café. Close your eyes and picture them. Think back. Did they look at all familiar to you?”
54
* * *
WHYTHEVILLE, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
Griffin studied Linzie Drumm’s distraught parents. Mrs. Drumm was bowed in on herself, rocking back and forth in the visitor’s chair in Sheriff Cruisie’s office. Mr. Drumm was pacing, trying to keep calm, but he was so angry and frightened, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He whirled to face the sheriff and yelled, “What are you going to do now? Three girls already missing—and now our daughter. Yes, she and two friends went to see a movie. Then Linzie told them she had time to do some shopping and they split up. She’s not at home. Her friends don’t know where she is. And all you want is to sit here talking to us?”
Sheriff Bale Cruisie listened to Donny Ray Drumm’s rants. It was his job as sheriff, just as Donny Ray fixed his Ford F-150 and did it well. His patience, however, was nearly at an end. He sat forward. “Listen to me, Donny Ray, I know Linzie. She’s a cute girl, just turned sixteen, and from what I hear, she and her friends are stretching their wings. I know she likes to sneak out and see her girlfriends and go to Buffett’s for hamburgers and to hang out with boys. Why should I believe it was anything more than she left her friends to go look for a good time?”
Wrong thing to say, but before Griffin could defuse the situation, Donny Ray yelled, “You idiot! You make it sound like it’s our little girl’s fault, like she’s loose!”
It looked to Griffin like Mr. Drumm was ready to attack Sheriff Cruisie, and Griffin managed to catch his arm before he smashed his fist into the sheriff’s face. He said in his calm, deep FBI voice, “Mr. Drumm, that’s quite enough. Sit down. Let’s all calm down.”
Maybe it was Griffin’s tone, but Drumm shook himself, seemed to deflate, and sank into the other visitor’s chair. “Sorry, Bale, she’s my little girl. She’s missing, like the other three girls. Three months and no word about any of them.” He looked up at Griffin. “Agent Hammersmith, does the FBI know anything yet? Do you have any kind of plan?”
“Yes, I do,” Griffin said. “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Drumm, I want to show you some photos. Tell me if you recognize any of these men.”
Griffin scrolled up a photo of Agent Ollie Hamish, one of Agent Davis Sullivan, and finally, one of Rafer Bodine.
The parents studied each of the photos, shook their heads.
Griffin said, “I’d like to speak to your daughter’s friends, get the exact time they last saw Linzie, and if they recognize any of these men. The quickest way is for you, Mrs. Drumm, to call her friends and their parents over to your house right away. Can you do that?”
When the Drumms left with something useful to do, Sheriff Cruisie said, “It’s a start. Two of the photos look like FBI agents, right?”
Griffin smiled. “That’s right. We use photos of male and female agents in circumstances like this one, sort of a lineup.”
“Who’s the third?”
Griffin said, “His name is Rafer Bodine, from Gaffer’s Ridge.”
Sheriff Cruisie cursed. “Now, that’s a big surprise. I’ve known Sheriff Bodine and his brother, Quint Bodine, forever. Rafer is Quint’s son, but of course you already know that. You sure about this? I’ve never heard anything hinky about Rafer.”
Griffin said, “Let’s say he’s our primary person of interest for now.”
Sheriff Cruisie turned to the gorgeous young woman who’d said not a single word since they’d briefly met. He’d have pegged her as a model, and here she was with a PhD. She was standing in front of his ancient file cabinets. “What do you have to do with this, Dr. DeSilva?”
Carson smiled at him. “I guess you could say I’m an FBI agent in training, Sheriff Cruisie. More an interested party, really.”
He nodded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to accompany you folks to the Drumms’ house. I can help you with those teenage girls. I know them and their families. I can help keep all the parents calm, too.”
Carson said, “I think we should get the boys in their group there, too. Could you call Mrs. Drumm, make that happen, Sheriff?”
“Will do. Also, let me print up the three photos, easier to show them around town, see if anyone’s seen Rafer Bodine today.” He rose, rubbed his hands together. “Can’t say I’m not glad you’re here, Agent Hammersmith. Everyone in towns around here has been dead worried, me among them, and to be honest, it’s hard to know how to proceed. Then I got a call from Bud Bailey over in Marion and he said the FBI was now in charge. I was about to call you when you walked in. I’m glad you’re here.” He shook his head. “None of us have ever seen anything like this before.”
* * *
The Drumms lived in a pretty yellow single-story house with a big front yard and an inner tube hanging by a stout rope from an oak branch. The property looked homey and settled, like the surrounding houses in this solid middle-class neighborhood. It looked safe. Yet a girl who lived in this lovely house had been taken. Cars with Linzie’s friends and their parents were
already arriving, filling the driveway and lining the sidewalks.
Griffin and Carson walked into a comfortable, old-fashioned living room, filled to brimming with parents and teens, both boys and girls. The parents were subdued, most looked scared. The teenagers, particularly the boys, looked excited. The immortality of youth, Griffin thought, and wondered when it would hit the kids that Linzie Drumm could be dead.
It took time and patience since the parents all wanted to interrupt, question their children themselves. It was interesting how the boys acted as opposed to the girls. When the questions started, they turned nervous and scared, but they tried not to show it. The girls, for the most part, were openly shocked and afraid, and huddled into one another. None of the girls or boys had seen Linzie Drumm after midday, and those who’d seen her before then had been at the movies. Some believed she’d gone home, but no one knew for sure, and her two friends said she’d gone shopping.
Griffin pulled out the three photos and the teenagers gathered around, studying the pictures, looking at one another. Two of the boys shrugged, said they might have seen Agent Ollie Hamish pumping gas at the Exxon station and coming out of Clemson’s Pharmacy. The girls were excited at first, but tears hovered when they didn’t recognize any of the men. It was one little girl, short and plump, with beautiful green eyes and wispy blond hair, who whispered, “I saw him.”
She pointed to Rafer’s photo.
Her name was Melanie Sparks. She was nine years old, there because her sister, Nina, was Linzie’s best friend and one of the girls who’d been at the movies with her. Her sister told her to stop making things up and her parents joined in the chorus, and the little girl slinked back behind her mother.
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