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Savich said, “Dr. DeSilva, one more time please, tell us what happened, show us everything you touched down here.”
Carson sucked in the stale, fetid air, drew a deep breath, and told them exactly what she’d done, showed them the chair she’d used to reach the pipe. When she finished, her heart had stopped pounding. It was only a basement, an old decrepit basement.
Minter said, “We’ll see if we can pull some fingerprints from that pipe if it is indeed in evidence at the sheriff’s station, and not disappeared like everything else. We do have good evidence you were in the basement, in any case. Let’s go back upstairs, there’s something else I want to show you.”
When they were once again in the small entrance hall, Minter drew them into a loose circle around him. “Look here at the bullet holes. We found some 9mm bullet fragments, so we’ll be able to show where the shots came from. Did the sheriff also take the Walther?”
“Yes,” Griffin said.
Minter said to Carson, “Can you paint us a word picture, Dr. DeSilva, of what happened between you and Rafer Bodine once you came up the stairs?”
Minter’s two forensic techs came downstairs and introductions were made, then Minter nodded to Carson. She began to talk. She was a journalist, she was used to telling a story. She told them nearly word for word what she’d said and what Rafer Bodine had said. “—Griffin kicked out his leg and his foot clipped Bodine’s wrist, broke it, you could hear the bone snap. Bodine dropped his gun and I jumped forward and hit him on the head with the pipe.”
There was a loud bark, followed by Oscar the cadaver dog barreling into the entrance hall.
Savich turned and smiled, went down on his haunches, and rubbed the three-year-old beagle’s ears. Oscar tried to lick any part of Savich his tongue could reach, his tail wagging so fast his rear end shook. Like Astro, Oscar loved an ear rub, so Savich kept stroking, added a rub down Oscar’s back. Lotus, Oscar’s person, handed Savich a couple of dog treats. As he fed them to Oscar, he said to her, “Oscar didn’t find anything, Lotus?”
Lotus, aka Kiley Lu, shook her head, making her long, straight sheet of black hair swirl around her head. She was small and slender, and someone once said she was as delicate as a lotus blossom, and the name stuck. “There are no bodies buried in the backyard. Oscar is thorough.”
Griffin said matter-of-factly, “Then Rafer Bodine buried them elsewhere. He’ll have to tell us if he wants a deal, but I hope it won’t come to that.”
Carson said, “Or Heather and Latisha could still be alive, prisoners somewhere.” She cleared her throat, but it was so difficult to say the words. “But not poor Amy. Like I told you, Rafer said Amy died hard, but he didn’t say what exactly happened to her.” Carson realized she was breathing too hard, too fast. “Sorry, but I want to hit him over the head again.”
No one spoke, but Carson realized they believed all three girls were dead. Finally, Sherlock said in a clear voice, “Yes, I agree with you, Dr. DeSilva. It’s up to us to find Heather and Latisha. I’m very sorry about Amy. Griffin, where do the girls live?”
Griffin said, “Amy Traynor is from Radford, a small town south of Gaffer’s Ridge. We won’t notify her family until we’re absolutely certain she’s dead. She was the second teenager taken. Heather Forrester was the first, from Gaffer’s Ridge, three months ago. Latisha Morris is from Marion, on the edge of the national forest.”
Lotus said, “If you give us the place to look, Oscar will find Amy Traynor.”
At the charming Victorian Gaffer’s Ridge Inn on Winchester Street, Savich and Sherlock were shown to a large corner room on the top floor by the owner, Mrs. Carmody, who was huffing by the time they got to the third floor. She proudly showed them the amenities, told them this was her most superior room, and left.
Sherlock walked to the large double window and stared out at the miles of thickly forested hills and the distant mountains, lightly veiled in a thin summer fog. She saw green planted fields closer in, cut by flat roads, and the houses lining them were small white dots. There was a series of framed photos set up at eye level on the walls, all of Mrs. Carmody’s pets through the years, and a lovely remodeled bathroom with a stack of white towels and a big shower stall. She was grateful Dillon hadn’t said anything even though she knew he’d seen her stare fixedly at the queen-size bed.
They met Griffin and Carson for lunch at Jenny’s Café. There was only one empty booth in the large room, kept open by Aimée Rose for them. They were aware of stares from the locals, and even the tourists began to realize something was different about their group.
Griffin and Carson had told them pretty much all they knew by the time they finished their burritos. When the last piece of apple pie was eaten, Griffin said, “Let’s go pay a visit to Rafer Bodine.”
Carson said, “I can’t wait to see how he plays this,” and she popped her knuckles.
