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12
Carson kept waving the pipe back and forth in front of him like a metronome, kept her voice hypnotic. “I told you, moron, you were shouting your thoughts so loud anyone listening could have heard you. I saw the three girls, heard you say their names, like you were their boyfriend, their lover. And isn’t that stupid, since you’re way too old for three young girls? How old were they? Fifteen, sixteen? Young girls, teenagers, so guess what that makes you?”
“Shut your stupid mouth!”
“Maybe you dreamed about dating them? Now that’s a joke, isn’t it? Or maybe you wanted revenge on their parents?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Or are you insane?”
“Shut up!” Rage poured off him like roiling black clouds crashing into each other. He was shaking his head wildly back and forth. “This shouldn’t be happening. I don’t understand how you saw what you saw, how you got out of the duct tape—but I can’t let you leave here. And you’re too old, way too old.”
“Yeah, I’m too old. There’s no chance I could make the junior high cheerleading squad. Hey, I’ve never met a pedophile before.” Had she gone too far?
“I’m not a pedophile!” To her horror, he casually pulled a gun from the back of his jeans.
A GUN! HE’S GOT A GUN!
Griffin approached the yellow cottage, took in the new black Chevy SUV in the driveway, and ran flat-out. He didn’t have his Glock, but it didn’t matter. He burst into the house, and this time he yelled aloud, “Down! Now!”
Carson hit the floor.
Griffin whipped around to the man. “Put down the gun! FBI!” The man fired wildly toward Carson and kept firing even as she rolled, his bullets slamming into the front wall and blasting wooden shards from the front door. Griffin’s leg was already in motion. His foot struck the man’s wrist and he heard the bone snap. The gun went flying. The man screamed in pain and rage, grabbed his hand, then tried to dive after the gun spinning away from him across the old oak floor.
Carson rolled up on her feet and leaped at him. She brought the pipe down hard on top of his head. He shuddered, slowly sank to his knees, fell onto his side, and then his back, his arms flung out. He tried to raise his hand to his head, moaning, and stared up at her. Then his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.
Carson stood over him, panting, the pipe still held at the ready. Her hands were shaking, she was trembling so badly, but it didn’t matter, she really wanted to hit him again.
Griffin said in his calm FBI voice, “No, that’s enough. You did good. But no more.” Griffin went down on his knees beside the man, pressed his fingers to his throat. He looked up at her. “There’s a pulse.” He rose, smiled at her, stuck out his hand. “Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. That was quite a whack you gave him. Your timing was perfect.” Griffin picked up the gun. It was a German Walther, an older model but still a fine weapon, a deadly weapon.
Carson straightened, drew a deep steadying breath. Still holding the pipe in her right hand, she shook his hand with her left. She said simply, “I can’t believe you actually heard me. And you did. And isn’t that crazy? I’m Carson DeSilva. Thank you. That kick, it was amazing, so fast, so hard you broke his wrist.” She’d bulleted out her words, but now he watched her take another big breath, get a grip on herself. She said slowly, “I didn’t want to die, and—then there you were, loud in my mind. I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. You’re really an FBI agent? Here, in Gaffer’s Ridge? In this neighborhood? At the exact moment I was sure he was going to kill me? And you heard me, you really heard me?”
Griffin laid his hand on her arm. “Yes, I heard you, loud and clear, loud enough to break my eardrums. Listen, you did great, Carson. Everything’s under control now.” Griffin felt her excitement and her adrenaline blast at him. At least she wasn’t going into shock. He said easily, “I’ve heard the name Carson before, but well, that was a Carson on my high school football team. You’re the first female Carson I’ve met. Sorry it took me so long to find you, but at first I couldn’t tell where you were.”
“Since I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell you.” She drew a deep breath. “I think he murdered those three missing young girls. He was going to murder me, too.”
Jenny had mentioned the three missing teenagers to him. He stared at Carson. “I want to hear all about this while we’re waiting for the police.” Griffin took the man’s wallet out of his pants, pulled out his driver’s license. He took his cell out of his shirt pocket and dialed 911.
She touched his arm. “Can’t you wait to call them? Maybe he’ll die if we wait a while. He really is a monster, it’d save the taxpayers a lot of money.”
Griffin was charmed, but alas. “Not a bad idea, but sorry, FBI, remember? And I really don’t like to kill people, even passively. Let’s go out on the front porch. We’ll leave the door open so we can see him if he moves.”
An older woman with a smoker’s voice and a drawl so thick he could barely understand her answered on the third ring. “Yeah, 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?”
