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.
Griffin waited until everyone had calmed down again, then thanked parents and kids and sent them on their way. He asked the Sparkses to stay.
“She makes things up,” said Mrs. Sparks, a stout woman with her daughter’s green eyes. “I’m sorry she’s wasting your time, Agent Hammersmith. I’m always telling her to stop spinning tales, but she says she’s going to be an actress when she grows up