Out of the Shadows

THIRTEEN

"So, can you read me?" Alex asked.

Miranda shook her head. "No. I can read less than half the people I meet, generally speaking. Think of it like radio waves from the brain, information transmitted by electromagnetic energy. I have a receiver, but I can only pick up the AM stations, not the FM."

"No way to switch, huh?"

"If there is, I haven't found it." Miranda shrugged. "For me, it's a normal thing, Alex. One theory is that people with psychic abilities are throwbacks to a more primitive age when the senses needed to be extremely sharp for survival."

"Liz said something like that."

"And it may be true. On the other hand, there's also a theory that humans are evolving toward psychic ability, and that those of us who already have it are just. . . anticipating the rest of you. There are lots of theories. A normally dormant gene activated for some reason. An accident or illness in childhood that causes the electromagnetic field of the brain to be altered in some way. I've even heard it said that if we were all tested genetically, we'd find we share a common ancestor. Who really knows?"

"And who cares?"

"Well, I don't, to be honest. I was never interested in verifying it scientifically. I mean, what's the point? Present science knows pathetically little about the brain even when it functions according to accepted norms. Step outside those norms, and scientific understanding begins to break down in a hurry."

Alex looked at her curiously. "I gather growing up psychic wasn't much fun."

"Not much, no." Miranda resisted an urge to rub her temples. Confession might be good for the soul, but it hadn't helped her aching head. "Think about it. By the time you're seven years old, you've pretty much figured out that grownups get really nervous when you tell them about the pictures in your head. Especially when you've told them about something that hasn't happened yet — but does happen. So you stop telling them. Most of them anyway. My parents were understanding, otherwise it would have been unbearable."

"Your parents weren't..."

"Psychic? No, but both were highly intuitive, and both came from families filled with tales of paranormal things. They didn't automatically believe something wasn't real just because they didn't understand how it worked."

Alex had a sudden realization. "Bonnie — and that Ouija board. Jesus, you mean she really did get the information from a spirit?"

"When Bonnie was four," Miranda said, "she had an imaginary friend — or so we thought. A little girl named Sarah. She used to tell us all about Sarah, entertain us at the dinner table with stories about Sarah and her parents and her older brother and her dog. Then one day Bonnie casually told us that Sarah had been killed when her house fell on her. We were all startled, and Dad was curious. So he did a bit of research."

"And found Sarah?"

"Turns out our house had been built on a site where a previous house had been destroyed by an earthquake. And in that house lived a couple with a son — and a daughter named Sarah. She was the only one in the house to die in that quake."

"So how long did she hang around?"

"Bonnie never mentioned her again. Knowing what I know now about sudden deaths, I believe little Sarah just wanted to come to terms with what had happened to her. And Bonnie was the only one listening. Once the story was told, Sarah could pass on to wherever she was meant to go."

Alex shied away from questioning her on that last point, but did say, "What do you know about sudden deaths?"

"Most people who die suddenly aren't prepared to leave — especially if the death was violent. Some of them are mad as hell to find their lives cut short, and all of them want more time. Somehow, they're often able to get more time, at least in a sense."

"By haunting the living?"

"Only those who know how to look and listen."

"People like Bonnie."

Miranda nodded.

Alex thought about that. "Were there other ghosts?"

"Oh, sure, for several years. Then Kara and I were able to teach her how to shield her mind a bit, so that she only saw them when she was looking for them."

"And that was better?" Alex asked wryly.

"It's always better to be in control of this if you can. Especially for Bonnie and others like her. Like I said, Alex — people who die suddenly can be angry. And negative emotions can be very destructive."

Hardly believing he was saying it, Alex said, "I guess that's why we won't be asking Bonnie to try and contact any of these dead teenagers."

Matter-of-fact, Miranda said, "With teenage victims of violent death, you not only get the anger of a life cut short but the caldron of emotions we all have at that age. When Bonnie's older, she may be able to handle it, but right now, with her own emotions so chaotic and her empathy so strong, she'd be in very real danger."

"What kind of danger? A ghost can't hurt you. Can it?"

Miranda hesitated, unsure how much he could accept. "They want to live, Alex. They want the life they were cheated out of. So if they see an open door ... or an open mind .. . some of them come in never intending to leave."

Tony was pinning Steve Penman's autopsy photographs to the bulletin board, half-listening as Bishop talked on his cell phone to the agent leading a second team from the special unit, a team currently working on an investigation in Texas.

"You know you can't hypnotize her, Quentin," Bishop was saying. "You'll have to get at her memories another way. There's a form of conscious regression you can try, if you can find someone qualified to do it. It isn't always successful, but it might work in this case. Have Kendra check the data files. Yeah. No, we're not close to a resolution here as far as I can see." He frowned slightly. "Yes, the local authorities are being cooperative. Why?"

Tony glanced back over his shoulder, met Bishop's gaze, and was afraid he looked guilty.

Still speaking into the cell phone, Bishop said, "I'd appreciate it if you kept me advised on your progress, Quentin. Right. We'll be here. Talk to you in a day or two." He ended the connection and absently returned the phone to the pocket of his jacket. "Tony?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Not really, no." Tony let the silence lengthen, then glanced over his shoulder again to find Bishop waiting with a patience he recognized only too well. "It's like you said, boss. Sometimes it's the pits working with people who can read your mind. Everybody was in the office when the request came in from Miranda."

"I wasn't even sure it was her," Bishop objected.

"Oh yes you were. I don't know how, since she'd changed her name, but you knew. How did you know, by the way?"

"I was . . . warned a couple of months ago. That I'd come back to Tennessee, and — Christ, Tony, everybody knows?"

"Well,'you weren't being real subtle, if you want the truth." Tony went to the conference table and sat down. "I think you even asked how fast they could warm up the jet."

Bishop winced. "I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised. Anyway, I wasn't sure what was going on since all I was picking up were emotions." He doodled on a legal pad and studiously avoided eye contact with Bishop. "But some of the others apparently got it loud and clear. And it's not like the story is a secret, you know, at least at the Bureau. So it's a sure bet the others are wild with curiosity by now. Wondering how you and Miranda are getting along. I guess Quentin couldn't resist asking — as casually as he could."

There was a long silence, and then Bishop said very carefully, "So I have ... no secrets at all from the team, that's what you're telling me?"

"Really a bitch working with psychics," Tony murmured. "I told you before, boss. Being such a strong receiver apparently makes you an equally strong transmitter. If you and Miranda ever come

to an understanding, you ought to ask her to teach you how to develop one of those shields. Hers works just dandy."

"I need a drink," Bishop said.

Tony tried hard not to smile. "If it makes you feel any better, we're all pretty exposed to each other. I mean, jeez, one of us gets a hangnail, somebody else is bound to know about it."

"It doesn't make me feel better. And if you tell me you knew that, I swear to God, Tony, I'll shoot you."

"It never crossed my mind. Or my radar, as the case may be."

"Just shut up," Bishop said.

Alex stared at Miranda. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that a ghost can — can possess a living person?"

"If its spirit is stronger than the living person's, its will to live greater, it can overwhelm, control. I guess you could say possess."

"Is this just an assumption, or—"

"Oh, it's happened. The problem is that medical science can't recognize it for what it is. So if a medium cracks up, well. . . they were crazy to begin with, weren't they? Psychotic maybe or schizophrenic. Or just plain nuts."

"But how can you be so sure that isn't the truth?"

"Because I'm a touch telepath." She drew a breath. "When I was about twenty-one, I was dating a psych student. He knew I was psychic and considered it just another sense, a tool I could use. And he could use. He was working in a psychiatric hospital, and he'd become fascinated by three of the patients there. Two of them were long-term, one was recent, but all had been diagnosed as dangerously schizophrenic — so dangerously that medication couldn't touch it. And all had a history of reporting clairvoyant and mediumistic experiences. It was the only other thing they had in common. He had a theory that the experiences were tied in with the schizophrenia, even dreamed that he might have discovered I the cause of the condition."

"So what happened?" Alex asked.

"Well, there was no scientifically valid way to test his theory, but he really wanted to know if he was right. And I admit, I was curious myself. So he got me in there one night, secretly. I was just supposed to touch the patients — who were under restraints — and tell him what I got from them."

"What did you get?"

Miranda rubbed the nape of her neck. "I don't ever want to go through that again. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I touched these poor people — two women and a man — and I actually felt the other beings inside them."

"Maybe it was split personalities or—"

"No. I can't explain it in any way you'd really understand, but I knew, I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that each of those people carried within them a distinct and separate other soul." She shook her head. "The sheer energy of two spirits fighting to occupy the same body was . . . incredible. No wonder their poor brains were literally misfiring."

Alex was wide-eyed. "You realize how farfetched all this sounds, don't you?"

"Of course I do. It's one of the reasons I've been keeping it to myself all these years."

"But since I asked?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Since you asked."

He brooded for a moment, trying to decide how much of this he really believed. "What about the agents? If all of you are psychic, can you read each other?"

She chose the simplest answer. "I don't know. I've sort of had my shields up since they got here."

"Because of Bishop?"

"More or less."

"Now that I know what happened eight years ago, I can't say that I blame you," Alex said.

Miranda hesitated, then heard herself say, "I don't want you to have the wrong impression about that, Alex. However . . . personally betrayed I might have felt, the truth is that Bishop was doing everything in his power to stop one of the most vicious killers in recent history."

"And that included sacrificing your family?"

"He thought he could protect them. He was wrong. No one could have protected them."

"Are you saying you forgive him?"

Again, Miranda chose her words with care, not quite sure if it was for Bishop's sake — or her own. "I'm saying that I can understand a little better now what he was up against, and why he made the choices he made. I don't agree with those choices, obviously. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. If I had been in his position back then . . . maybe I would have made the same choices."

"And betrayed a lover?" Alex shook his head. "I don't think so."

Miranda didn't know what to say to that, so it was fortunate that her phone buzzed just then. She answered it, listened for a minute, then said thank you and hung up.

"Snow's started?" Alex guessed.

"Yeah. Listen, before it gets much worse I'm going to go home for a little while. I want to make sure Mrs. Task got out okay, then maybe take a shower and change before I come back."

"You don't have to come back tonight; your Jeep can make it easily even if the roads are lousy tomorrow."

"I know, but I'd rather be here. Besides, Bonnie is staying at the clinic with Seth and his parents, so there's no good reason for me to stay home."

"A little rest?" Alex suggested.

"I'm fine. Don't fuss, Alex."

He didn't push it. He walked with her as far as the bullpen, then went to his desk while she gave the deputy on duty at the reception desk a few instructions.

Alex had plenty to do. He'd had the librarian make copies of dozens of pages of classified ads, per his conversation with Tony Harte; now he needed to read every ad in search of those a teenage runaway might have responded to.

"Hold down the fort, Alex," Miranda called as she headed out.

"I will. And you be careful."

"Yeah, yeah." She sent him a casual salute and left the building.

It was normally a ten-minute drive home, but that night it took Miranda almost twenty, more because she was observing her surroundings than because of the scant dusting of snow on the roads. She was glad to see that very few people were out; Liz's coffeeshop was still serving, from the looks of it, but there were only three cars parked out front and Miranda doubted anyone would linger much longer.

Other downtown merchants had closed shop, with the exception of the video store and a twenty-four-hour service station, both fairly busy as customers stocked up on gas and tapes.

Four Sheriff's Department cruisers were out patrolling, and she listened to her deputies' radio chatter without interrupting. Judging from their tones as much as the words, they were keyed-up but not dangerously so.

It reminded her of just how long and eventful the day had been, and as she pulled into her driveway, she felt a wave of sheer exhaustion sweep over her. She was running on reserves and didn't know how long those reserves would last.

Long enough. It had to be long enough.

She didn't think it would be much longer. There had to be one more victim, she knew that. Five in all killed on her watch, and the last one unexpected in some way.

That death would mark the beginning of the end.

She unlocked the front door and went into the house. A cheerful message on the answering machine in the front hall told Miranda that Mrs. Task had made it home safely and that there was a big bowl of pasta salad and chicken in the fridge, and freshly baked bread in the bin.

It sounded great, Miranda decided as she walked into the living room and shrugged out of her jacket. As far as she remembered, lunch had been her last meal today. She removed her shoulder harness and hung it over the back of a chair. There were a couple of lamps burning, but it wasn't until she turned on another one that she saw the Ouija board on the coffee table.

Hadn't Bonnie said that they been up in her room when they had used the damned thing? She was almost sure that was right, and could only suppose that Mrs. Task had brought it down here for some reason. It didn't sound like the housekeeper, who probably wouldn't have a clue how one was supposed to play such a "game," but Miranda couldn't think of another reason for the board to be down here.

Actually, she admitted silently, she was having trouble thinking at all. She bent down to absently move the planchette off the NO and to the center of the board, then went upstairs to see if a shower would clear her head.

Behind her, the planchette moved slowly back across the board and centered itself over the NO once again.

"Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you realize you're pacing?"

Bishop stopped in mid-pace and frowned at his subordinate. "In case I haven't told you, you're a very irritating companion, Tony."

"Hey, I'm not the one wearing a path in the floor," Tony objected. He watched Bishop sit down decisively at his laptop, and added, "Something bothering you?"

"I hate storms."

"It isn't storming yet. I checked when I went to refill the coffeepot, and it's just snowing gently out there. Ground isn't even covered yet. Hell, the phones aren't even ringing with the sounds of worried citizens pestering their constabulary. Just nice and quiet, with deputies working industriously at their desks or playing poker in the lounge."

Bishop waited, but when it became obvious Tony was finished, he gave in and asked, "Where's Miranda?"

"Alex said she went home about half an hour ago. Supposed to be coming back, though. I gather she intends to spend the night here."

Forgetting that he wasn't going to pace anymore, Bishop got up and moved to the window. It looked out onto the lighted parking lot, which showed him a couple of cruisers and numerous other cars all dusted with snow. The snowflakes were getting larger and no longer falling straight down as the wind began to kick up.

"The storm is definitely coming," he said.

"And that's bothering you?"

"I told you. I hate storms." He was silent for a moment. "I don't know why the hell she doesn't just stay home."

"Feels her place is here, I guess."

"You said yourself nothing was happening."

"Yet."

"Even so."

Another silence fell, this one not interrupted until Bishop returned to the desk and picked up the phone.

"I guess you know her number," Tony said.

"Yes, Tony, I know her number."

Undeterred by the sharp tone, Tony watched him with interest. What he sensed in his boss wasn't dislike of the coming storm or mere restlessness but something a whole lot stronger and much less easy to define. And apparently contagious, Tony noted as he stopped his own fingers from drumming on the table.

Jeez, talk about tension.

Bishop hung up the phone. "The machine picked up."

"Maybe she's in the shower."

"Maybe." Bishop returned to the window.

"But you don't think so," Tony ventured.

For a minute it seemed he wouldn't answer, but finally Bishop said, "Something feels wrong."

"Feels wrong how?"

"I don't know."

"Feels wrong with Miranda?"

Bishop hesitated again, then nodded. "I used to— There was a time when I could feel what was going on with her. If she was happy or upset, I knew it."

"That's what you're feeling now?"

"No, this is different. It's like I saw or heard something I wasn't consciously aware of, something that's nagging at me now. Something I know that's just out of my reach."

"Something about Miranda?"

Bishop looked at the phone, his restlessness as clear as his reluctance to make a fool of himself. "I'll wait ten minutes and call again. In case she's in the shower."

Tony caught himself drumming his fingers again, and stopped. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds like a good idea."

The hot water made Miranda feel better, and by the time she'd dried her hair and dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, even her appetite had returned. She looped an elastic band around her wrist to use later in tying back her hair. In the living room she turned the television on for background noise and weather reports. It was only then that she noticed the Ouija board lying on the floor.

She grabbed her gun instantly, wondering why the game was the only thing disturbed in the room. An intruder would have taken her gun, surely; it had been clearly visible. Why knock a game board to the floor?

With her shields up and defenses cut off, Miranda could sense nothing unusual in the house. Which meant she would have to move carefully, room by room, turning on the lights, checking windows and all the outer doors, looking into closets and corners.

There was a quicker and easier way, she told herself. It wouldn't matter if she dropped her shields for just a moment or two. Just long enough to get a sense of the house, to make sure she was alone.

Miranda didn't fully realize the great strain of keeping those shields up constantly for so long until she allowed them to fall. For just an instant, the ache in her head intensified — and then vanished like a soap bubble. Her ears actually popped as though she were coming down from a high altitude, and her vision blurred before becoming so sharp that she blinked in surprise.

The moment of well-being was wonderful.

What came next was agony.

She dropped the gun, both hands going to her head, the red-hot jolt of pain making her sway. Even stunned, she instinctively recognized an attack, knew that something, some energy, was trying to force its way into her mind. Just as instinctively she defended herself.

Her shields slammed back up, reinforced by sheer desperation, and in the same instant she made a violent mental effort to deflect that probing blade of energy.

She almost saw it, white and shimmering and so rapacious it would cut its way into her. She almost saw it.

And then everything went black as pitch and as silent as the grave.

She never heard the phone begin to ring.

The last of Liz's customers left around nine-thirty, which gave her plenty of time to finish cleaning up before the snow got too bad. She left the front door unlocked, in case anybody needed to come in to use the phone, and kept the television above the counter tuned to local weather reports.

They weren't very encouraging, unless you liked a lot of snow.

Liz wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just letting her mind drift, when she suddenly understood what the white shirt meant.

Of course. Of course, it made perfect sense.

Her first impulse was to call Alex, but a moment's thought made her decide on a trip to the Sheriff's Department. So she worked hurriedly, locked the front door and turned out the lights, then let herself out the rear door and locked it.

She always parked in back, in an alley just a few steps from the door, even though Alex had told her to park in front whenever she worked nights. Liz never worried about it. Just a few steps, after all, and she'd never been afraid no matter how late it was.

It was cold, much colder than it had been just a few hours ago. And the snow was beginning to thicken and blow about as the wind whined restlessly.

Liz started her car, then got out to brush the snow off the windshield while it warmed up. Her wipers weren't the best, and the defroster wasn't very enthusiastic, so she thought a little manual help was in order.

"You're going home late."

She turned with a gasp, then managed a shaky laugh. "And I have to go by the Sheriff's Department first. But what're you doing out — " Then she saw the gleaming knife.

"I'm sorry, Liz. I'm so sorry."

She barely had time to realize that she'd been wrong about the shirt after all when she felt the cold steel of the knife slip into her body with horrifying ease.