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37
A deep musical voice said from behind them, “Why yes, we are exactly twenty-one months apart and yes, I’m the elder.” They turned to see a tall, dark-haired woman walk gracefully down the five steps into the great room. She was striking, probably a knockout in her younger years. She was taller than her sister, with the same brilliant dark green eyes and glossy black hair, and no sign of gray. Rather than her sister’s chignon, she wore her hair like a younger woman, in a ponytail, but it looked right on her. She wore boots, tight jeans, and a fitted white top, and carried a light green jacket over her arm. She gave a little wave to her sister. “Hello, Cyn, sorry I’m late. I did hurry when I heard from Booker this bunch might be coming to hassle you, but wouldn’t you know—that idiot Glynis Lars hit the back of Wallace’s hay truck and it overturned and blocked the road just outside of town. No need to ask, yes, she was drunk as a skunk, as usual. Poor old Wallace was sputtering at her, since he doesn’t curse.” She turned to look at each of them, her eyes resting a moment longer on Sherlock.
“My name is Jessalyn Bodine and I’m Sheriff Booker Bodine’s wife. I know you’re all FBI agents except for you.” She studied Carson, said finally, “Cyn, she reminds me a bit of Camilla, despite the difference in coloring. What do you think?”
“A bit, I suppose. She’s so much older than Camilla was when she left.” Cyndia Bodine was quiet a moment, then made introductions, waved her sister to a chair beside her, but Jessalyn didn’t take it. She continued to stand, her arms crossed. She said, “Agent Savich, I heard you ask about the scrying mirror. I gave it to my sister since she has more use for it than I. I find it interesting an FBI agent would know about such an esoteric tradition.”
Savich said easily, “More use than you would have, Mrs. Bodine? Can you tell me why?”
Jessalyn laughed. “I suppose you may have heard around town the Bodines are blessed with some special gifts? Alas, neither Rafer nor my poor Booker, nor our two children, I might add, were blessed with much of anything. I married Booker anyway, even knowing he would get fat, like his father did. He entertains me, you see. I didn’t want him to sell the hardware stores to become sheriff, but he wanted it so badly, wanted to leave his own mark, also like his father did.” She shrugged. “I let him have his way.”
Griffin stared at this woman. “How did you know he would get fat?”
“He loves his beer and buffalo wings, loved them even when he was young and fit and handsome as Rafer.” She nodded toward Griffin and Carson. “Booker should have known no one would lie about being an FBI agent. Of course, once he realized he was wrong, he behaved himself. He’s adaptable, always a positive virtue in a husband. A pity. Usually, he’s faster on his feet.”
“You’re admitting he removed the duct tape and Rafer’s computer from his house?”
A dark eyebrow went up, accompanied by a look of astonishment. “What did you say, Agent Hammersmith? Why would he do something so ridiculous?”
Cyndia said, “Jess, you told me you married Booker because you liked his name and you could drink him under the table.”
Jessalyn laughed. “I still do and I still can. It’s like you knew Quint would stay skinny as a snake and make buckets of money. I gather all of you very serious people have been here for some time. Cyndia and I have errands to do. Are we all finished?”
Cyndia Bodine rose to stand beside her sister.
Savich rose as well. “Actually, Mrs. Bodine, we would like your permission to look around your house and property.”
She raised a perfectly arched brow, laughed. “Tell me you’re joking, Agent Savich? No? For myself, I really don’t care if you wish to spend your time grubbing about my house, we have nothing to hide, but Quint would not be pleased. I’m sure he would demand a warrant, for which you have absolutely no grounds. I must say I find it incredible that you accuse my son of monstrous acts, then expect me to let you tear up my home.”
She paused, took her sister’s arm. “One more moment, Jess.” She said to Carson, “You might as well know, Dr. DeSilva, I called you a liar because I know Rafer didn’t mumble anything at all under his breath. You and that man next to you who hurt Rafer, both of you have a gift you can’t claim because no sane person on the planet would believe you, so none of it will matter.”
She looked at Sherlock. “You’re not like these others, but you’re not exactly common, there is some light in you.”
Sherlock said, “Any light you see in me is very low wattage, Mrs. Bodine.”
“You’re clever. You notice things, things other people don’t necessarily pay attention to. But your headache is worse, you need to rest.”
Cyndia started to walk away arm in arm with Jessalyn toward the kitchen, her sandals slapping on the oak floor, Jessalyn’s boots making no sound at all. “It’s time for you to leave. You may all let yourselves out.”
“Mrs. Bodine,” Savich said, “would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
“What? All right. It’s down the hall to your right. The rest of you can wait outside. Jess, come with me to the kitchen. I want you to taste my lasagna sauce.”
Savich waited until they were out of hearing, and said quietly, “Griffin, Carson, look around in the woods, check for possible grave sites. Sherlock, you have an excellent eye. Check out the size and shape of the buildings and the garage.”
“A hidden room?”
“This would be a perfect place for it, but more than one room, I imagine, since three teenagers were kidnapped.”
The house was large, at least six thousand square feet, and there wasn’t enough time to do any sort of search. Savich was lucky to find Mr. Bodine’s home office near the bathroom at the end of a wide, carpeted corridor. He gave Sherlock one final look, saw her walking down the front steps, and hoped she’d go back to the car if she felt ill.
Sherlock ignored the niggling headache and walked quickly to the large four-car garage. She looked through the window of the first dark-blue-painted bay door. It was pristine inside, a workbench along the back wall with tools laid out neatly on shelves above it. Four cars lined up like soldiers at attention—a new white Mercedes sedan, a black BMW SUV, a Chevy Silverado truck, and a classic baby-blue Mustang older than she was. There was road dust on the Mustang so she guessed it was Jessalyn Bodine’s car. She stood back and examined the space. No doubt in her mind the garage interior should be deeper. She examined the space again, walked it off again. And stopped, her head cocked. It was strange, but now the measurements appeared exactly right. She had to hurry, Dillon would be out at any moment and they’d have to leave. She quickly examined the outbuildings—a small woodworking workshop, a toolshed with tractor, lawn mower and gardening tools, and a well-constructed storage building with skiing equipment, odds and ends from the house, and some paintings stacked against the wall, a white sheet covering them. There was a painting still on an easel that wasn’t covered. Rich vibrant colors were splashed on with abandon, it seemed to her, with no theme, no attempt to be anything but wild untamed colors themselves. Cyndia Bodine’s?
She walked quickly past the guest house. It didn’t look like it had been used in a long time, given the layer of dust she saw through the living room window.
She walked back to the house, disappointed, hoping the others had better luck. Her headache was gone. She felt lighter on her feet, less tired. She saw Mrs. Cyndia Bodine standing in the doorway of the entrance hall, and, oddly, Cyndia seemed to be staring at her. Where was her sister, Jessalyn?
Cyndia said to Sherlock as she walked up the steps, “You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see, now could you?” Sherlock felt the weight of her focus. Cyndia turned on her heel and walked back into the house and down the oak steps into the great hall. She’d left the front door open, so Sherlock saw her pull open the side French door and walk to stand at the deck railing. She never looked back at Sherlock.
Where was her sister? Where was Jessalyn Bodine?
Sherlock wasn’t about to let herself be spooked. What had Cyndia meant—You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see? She stood quietly a moment in the open doorway, studying the woman’s back, playing the words over in her mind. She felt a sudden, sharp flash of pain in her head, like a blow from a hammer, then another, blinding pain, more agonizing than the pain she’d awakened with in the emergency room. She stumbled, pressed her palms to her temples, but the sharp battering pain kept digging into her. She felt the earth begin to spin, fast, then faster still. She grabbed at the front door, but it slipped out of her hand and seemed to move away, growing smaller and smaller until she was standing by herself in a vast space, weaving, dizzy, her head pounding so fiercely she couldn’t bear it. Was she dying? She gave a small cry and went down.
