so talk to me and make it fast and to the point. I’m busy. What’s your problem?”
That sounded friendly. “I’m Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. I have an injured man at 237 Berger Lane. His name is Rafer Bodine.”
He heard a quick indrawn breath, then, “Rafer, you say? How injured? How did you come to be with him? Did you hurt him?”
13
* * *
“He’s had a blow to the head, and appears to have a broken wrist. You need to send the sheriff, along with an ambulance. We have reason to believe Rafer Bodine is responsible for the disappearance and probable murder of the three teenage girls who are missing from the area, and the kidnapping and attempted murder of Ms. Carson DeSilva.”
There was a whoosh of breath, and the voice turned hard. “Don’t you lie to me, boy. That’s a crock, and you know it. You, an FBI special agent? Carson DeSilva? Now that surely sounds like a made-up name to me. What sort of game you playing, calling 911? Interrupting the smooth march of the law? Interrupting my afternoon tea?”
“Bodine needs an ambulance and the sheriff,” Griffin said again, his voice calm, patient, though he wished he could reach through his cell, grab the idiot woman around her neck, and tell her to stop smoking.
“All right, all right, boy. You can bet the sheriff will be there when he can, he’s gotta come from Wilfred Hoag’s place, had to go over and pull the old codger out from under his tractor, the paramedics are with him. This isn’t good, isn’t good at all. Don’t you move a muscle and believe me, you’d better pray Rafer don’t die from that blow to the head. You got that?”
“I surely do.” Griffin stared at his cell as he punched off. “That was odd. I guess Rafer is a popular guy. Or maybe the 911 operator is his mother.”
Carson swallowed a laugh. A laugh—amazing. She shrugged. “It’s a small town. Sure the 911 operator knows him, but I bet everybody knows everybody. Gotta say though, what you told her sounds pretty unbelievable.”
Griffin went back inside to see Rafer Bodine still lying on his back, awake now, pressing his right wrist against his chest, gasping out curses. Griffin took Carson’s arm and led her outside. “Why don’t you tell me what happened while we wait for the police?”
They sat side by side on the porch in view of the open front door, Griffin silent to give her time to settle, waiting for her to tell him what had happened. She’d nearly died, and that was a lot for anyone to take in. He felt a hot breeze on his face, heard oak tree branches rustle and a bird he couldn’t identify let out a mellow chirp.
Carson drew a deep breath, flattened her palms on her legs. “I thought it was all up to me, either put up or die. But you were there on the street and you heard I was in trouble, I mean you didn’t hear a noise—you heard me. Several times I believe I’ve heard what someone was thinking, but nothing like this, not someone actually hearing me. Again, Agent Hammersmith, thank you. Has this ever happened to you before?”
He nodded. He thought of Savich. “Yes, but it’s not something I plan to talk about to the sheriff. Let’s compare notes later. What’s important now is the man lying inside the front door, cursing us nonstop. Rafer Bodine looks like a good old boy, doesn’t he? Macho, tough, beard scruff, the kind who enjoys kicking butt, no provocation needed. Now tell me what happened before the sheriff gets here.”
She began with her hearing Bodine’s thoughts outside the market, then waking up in the basement, and finally freeing herself because, thankfully, she’d been a trained gymnast. “—I dropped to the floor when you blasted through the front door and shouted at me.” She stopped, drew a deep breath. “Again, thank you.”
He smiled, marveled at her. “You must have scared him spitless when you looked at him that first time. He knew you were dangerous to him, as if he understood what you’d seen and heard. The missing teenagers—Jenny said one had disappeared every month for the past three months, too many to be runaways. She said a lot of people were beginning to talk about a serial killer, the parents with teenage girls were keeping a tight rein on them, never letting them out alone, particularly here in Gaffer’s Ridge. This