Savich said, “But your granddaughter, Mrs. Backman, you found Autumn to your liking?”

“I told you, that woman took her away too quickly for me to judge.”

“We know about Autumn’s gift, and you do too, don’t you, Mrs. Backman? Didn’t she tell you she spoke often to her father when they were apart? Isn’t that why you sent Blessed and Grace to Titusville, to fetch Autumn back to you?”

“That, young man, is quite absurd.”

Savich said, “Did you tell Blessed and Grace to murder Joanna while they were at it?”

Her eyes revealed arrogance nearly off the scale. The old woman believed herself invulnerable, believed no one could touch her. She was dangerous, Savich thought, despite her age, a woman who could kill without a moment’s hesitation and feel not a moment’s remorse. Like Blessed. What about Grace?

If Autumn was right about the bodies Mrs. Backman and her boys had buried, then this little old lady had already killed many times. He said again, “Did you tell Blessed to kill Joanna when he got ahold of Autumn?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Agent Savich. For you to accuse Blessed of all this, it only shows what a small, common mind you have. You will leave now. I have cooperated with you; I have told you Blessed and Grace aren’t here. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“Then let me tell you about Blessed,” Sherlock said, sitting forward on the settee a bit. “He is currently in a hospital, a blindfold over his eyes. His wrists are strapped to the bed railing so he can’t remove the blindfold and stymie anyone.”

She didn’t look at all surprised. “Why is my boy in the hospital?”

Savich said, “I shot him. He had surgery last night. But Grace called you, didn’t he? He told you how Blessed broke into Sheriff Merriweather’s house to kidnap Autumn. Maybe Grace is afraid of what you’ll do to him because Blessed was caught? Maybe Grace is afraid you’ll blame him? Did you give him further instructions, Mrs. Backman? Would you like to tell us what you told him to do?”

“You’re telling me you shot Blessed? You are despicable! You tried to kill my boy!” Her voice rose an octave, and rage pumped red into her parchment cheeks. Her eyes darkened to almost black.

“You will be punished for that,” she said. “I will see to it that you are punished.”

Sherlock said pleasantly, “If that happens, I will kill you myself so you won’t know the pleasure of it. Now let’s get to it.” She pulled a warrant out of her jacket pocket. “This is a warrant, Mrs. Backman, to search your family cemetery for the bodies Autumn saw you and your sons burying.”

The old woman wanted to blight them, they saw it in her eyes, and they saw it in her white-knuckled fists. She said finally, “That is nonsense, and you know it. You actually believe a little girl’s nightmare because her mother wants you to? What, are you sleeping with her, Agent Savich?”

“Take the warrant, Mrs. Backman,” Savich said. Still, she didn’t reach for the warrant in Savich’s outstretched hand, merely looked at them both without emotion. “I will call Sheriff Cole if you do not leave immediately and take that ridiculous warrant with you.”

“But the sheriff already called you, didn’t he, ma’am? About fifteen minutes ago? Telling you we were looking for you?”

“I’m going to call Sheriff Cole,” she repeated. “He’ll deal with you two.”

Savich looked down at his watch, then up again when he heard a car outside.

“If that isn’t the sheriff, then it’s our forensic team here to go over your family cemetery.” He stood and put the warrant in her lap. “Feel free to read it. Feel free to call Sheriff Cole again, tell him he’s too slow.”

“I’m calling my lawyer too.”

“You might as well call Caldicot Whistler.”

It was a hit, they could see it. She sucked in a breath, but she held herself together and remained quiet.

Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Backman. “I believe it’s our forensic team.”

43

THE SEARCH WAS A BUST.

An hour later, forensic expert and team leader Dirk Platt walked to where Savich and Sherlock stood watching the operation at Martin Backman’s grave site. He was shaking his head even as he said, “Sorry, guys, but there are no bodies here.”

“She moved them,” Sherlock said. “Blessed notified her and she moved them. Or she suspected either Autumn or Joanna saw what they did and that’s why they ran.” Sherlock looked out over the cemetery. The forty graves positioned in odd triangles. The last graves were not two feet from a thick stand of oak trees that reached up the sides of the bowl to spear green and fat into the sky. The trees surrounding the cemetery laced their branches together, creating moving shadows in the breeze.