Out of the Shadows

EIGHTEEN

"No," Bishop said.

But he saw it now, the vision she had seen months ago, a rushing kaleidoscope of images and emotions and certainties. He saw the bodies discovered one by one, unable to see who they were but knowing what was missing from each: the blood, the organs. He knew as she had known that there would be five victims, the fifth one different from the others — and that after the fifth murder but not before, he and Miranda would become lovers and would restore the intense psychic connection they had once shared.

And after that, soon after that, the end would come with little warning. The images showed him what Miranda had seen from her perspective, a hazy background but Bonnie in clear danger, a hand pointing a gun at Miranda. And as she reached for her own gun, a shot echoing hollowly, the brutal shock of pain — and the utter certainty of death. Then, nothing.

Permeating all the rest, infusing every event throughout the vision, was another absolute certainty, a conviction so powerful there was simply no room for doubt. Bishop would save Bonnie. Without him, she would die as well. Miranda knew that, had known it all along. It was why she had contacted the FBI for help, knowing he would come.

"No," Bishop said again. He realized his eyes were closed, and opened them to find her watching him gravely. For the first time, he wished violently that their connection didn't allow him to see everything she had seen.

"You said once you'd take care of Bonnie if anything happened to me. I'm depending on you for that."

He didn't remember putting his arms around her, but now they held her tighter. "Nothing is going to happen to you. You are not going to die, Miranda. Not here, not now. Not for a long, long time."

As if she hadn't heard him, she said, "Bonnie's too young to go on by herself. She'll need someone. You'll be there for her, won't you, Bishop?"

He was unable to ignore that appeal. "You don't have to worry about Bonnie. I swear to you, I'll take care of her. But this bastard is not going to kill you, Miranda."

She didn't reply to that but kissed him instead, and despite every other emotion crowded inside him, Bishop felt desire escalate so sharply that it threatened to push aside everything else. It had always been that way between them. The hunger was instant and total, and very little short of his fear for her could have kept him from responding wholeheartedly.

You're trying to distract me.

Would I do that?

He groaned and pulled back just far enough to make her look at him. "I'm not going to lose you again. Do you hear me? If I have to lock you in your own jail to keep you safe, then that's what I'll do."

Miranda smiled faintly. "No, you won't. Because you believe what I believe. The best way to deal with a vision is to make the logical decisions and choices as they come up, to stay where you are and go on with your life, and keep an eye out for warning signs. Do something drastic to change fate, and you always end up with a worse outcome than the one you originally saw."

"Worse than you being dead? I'll take that chance."

"But I won't." She stroked his cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch.

"Listen to me, and stop being such a goddamned fatalist. You told me years ago that your visions didn't always come true, didn't always happen the way you saw them."

"Yes. But so far this one has. There's no reason to expect the end to be different."

"There's a very good reason. Me. Where the hell was I in that scene? Because if you think I'll let you out of my sight until this is over, think again."

With a little chuckle, she said, "I wouldn't expect anything else. But you do realize, I hope, that we can't sleep together again in the meantime?"

Belatedly, he did realize that. "We can't take the chance of being without our abilities just when they're needed."

"It probably wouldn't be wise. We had an excuse last night, but not now. It may well be that the only edge we have is the psychic one."

Bishop eyed the white hurricane still going strong outside the window and wasn't all that surprised that he'd been completely unconscious of it for the last little while. "Nothing's likely to happen while it's storming," he pointed out, not really arguing.

"Not likely. Not impossible." She linked her fingers together behind his neck. "Better to be safe than sorry, especially with a killer on the loose."

As badly as he wanted her, Bishop wasn't about to do anything that might put Miranda at greater risk; whether or not she had seen the actual future in that chilling scene, it was a foregone conclusion that both she and Bonnie were at risk, and he wanted all his senses at full strength. No matter what it cost him.

He kissed her, forcing himself to keep it brief. "This is going to be something we'll have to deal with in the future, you know. Maybe we'd better talk about it now and decide how we want to handle it. I mean, I have no intention of putting our love life on hold indefinitely just because we're both likely to be chasing after killers and other criminals most of the time. There is such a thing as sacrificing a little too much for king and country, so to speak."

Her smile wavered for just an instant, but her voice was calm when she said, "Why don't we talk about that later?"

"There will be a later, Miranda."

She nodded. "I'll try to stop being such a fatalist and think positively, okay?"

"That's all I ask. Well — that and one more thing. Stop calling me Bishop."

"I've always called you Bishop."

"I know."

"When we first met, you told me that everybody did. Except for your best friend from college, not a soul alive called you Noah. At least, not more than once."

He grimaced. "That was real subtle of me, wasn't it?"

"Let's just say I got the point. Would you like me to profile you now? Explain how being known only by your surname was one of the ways you used to keep people at a distance? Even lovers?"

"All right, all right. But the point is, I'm very different now and I don't want you at a distance. In any way, but especially emotionally and telepathically."

"You do recall there's a price to pay for that sort of closeness? If I should have another vision—"

"I'll have it too. Yeah, I know. They hurt, as I recall."

"That's still the same, I'm afraid, Like a blinding migraine, though thankfully lasting only a minute or so."

"Now that you're no longer working so hard to shut me out, is another vision likely? You told Tony right after we arrived that you'd more or less burned out on the precognition."

"Lied."

Bishop winced. "And even years ago, once we were linked, you said the visions were more . . . intense."

"Uh-huh. And you're much stronger now than you were then as a telepath. So with your energy added to mine, we'll probably blow the top off that scale you guys developed at Quantico to measure these things."

He knew that was quite likely true. There had been so much going on the summer they had first become lovers, both around them and between them, that exploring the limits of what was psychically possible with their connection had not been uppermost in their minds. But what they had discovered in due course was that they shared each other's abilities even when apart, and that when they were in physical contact, the energy of each enhanced the energy and abilities of the other.

They had found out quite by accident that if they were holding hands or otherwise in physical contact and either of them touched someone whom neither had been able to read alone, they were sometimes able to read that person. Not always — but often enough to, as Miranda had put it, shift their combined range well over into the FM scale.

It made them, quite simply, more than twice as powerful together than either was alone.

Following his thoughts easily, Miranda said, "We're an odd pair, there's no question about that."

"I choose to think of us as unique, not odd." He drew her a bit closer, smiling. "And you never said you'd stop calling me Bishop."

"I didn't, did I?"

"Miranda."

She chuckled. "Well, it'll take some getting used to. You've always been Bishop." Even in my mind. Her mouth brushed his, then lingered. "But I'll work on it... Noah."

For a while, Bishop forgot everything except the aching pleasure of being physically close to her. Holding her and touching her, their mouths hungry, bodies straining to be closer despite the clothing and the necessity keeping them apart.

"Wow," Miranda murmured at last, her eyes darkened, heavy lidded, and sensual.

Bishop's arms tightened for just a moment, then he eased her away from him. In a hoarse voice he said, "Much more of this and I won't have any wits left to focus on trying to catch our killer. Jesus, Miranda."

"They say self-denial is good for the soul."

"Yeah, and I'll bet the ones saying it didn't have anything they hated giving up."

Miranda smiled, but said, "Maybe we'd better concentrate on work for a while. Storm or no storm."

"Maybe we'd better," he agreed. "We can try one more time to put the pieces of the puzzle together."

Monday, January 17

Amy Fowler opened her eyes and gazed blearily at the ceiling. Same ceiling. Same stupid, dull ceiling, industrial gray squares pockmarked with tiny black specks. She was really, really tired of looking at that ceiling.

At least the wind had stopped howling like something trapped alive, and sleet no longer pelted the window panes in that unceasing, unsettling rattle. The storm was finally over.

The sedatives had blurred time somewhat for Amy, but she thought it was probably Monday morning; the light coming from the single window in the room was very bright, sunshine reflecting off lots and lots of snow.

Two days. They'd found Steve's body just two days ago.

Under the covers, her hands crept down to cover her lower abdomen, and tears welled up in her eyes. Steve was gone. Steve was gone, and a baby was coming, and Amy was so scared. She wanted to just go back to sleep, not to think about it anymore, but Dr. Daniels had told her gravely last night that there wouldn't be any more drugs, that she had to face things.

Face things. Face her mom and dad. Face the pity of her friends at school, while her belly got big and she went every Sunday to put flowers on Steve's grave.

Oh, God.

"Amy?" Bonnie came into the room, her expression wavering between worry and hope. "Dr. Daniels says you should eat something. One of the nurses is going to bring you a tray in a few minutes."

"I don't care," Amy murmured, honestly indifferent. She found the bed's controls and pressed the button to raise the head several inches.

Bonnie sat in the chair beside the bed. "A snowplow went past a little while ago, so the roads are being cleared. I think . . . your mom wants to come take you home now that the storm is over."

"I guess there's no school," Amy said.

"No. Probably not tomorrow either."

Amy pleated the sheet between her fingers. "But sooner or later. And everybody'll know."

Reasonably but not without sympathy, Bonnie said, "It isn't something you can hide for long. But you have choices, options. And you aren't alone, don't forget that."

"My dad's going to kill me."

"You know he won't."

Amy looked at her best friend and felt a little resentful. "I don't know that. All I know is that Steve is dead and he left me with a baby."

Bonnie didn't argue or point out that Amy had also helped create that baby. She merely said, "I'm sure if he'd been given a choice, he'd be here with you now."

"So I should be happy he would have chosen fatherhood over death? Great, that's just great."

"Amy, that isn't what I meant. I'm just saying that you can't blame Steve for not being here."

"You want to bet?" Amy laughed, vaguely aware that there was a shrill edge to the sound. "He couldn't leave well enough alone, that's what the problem was. That's what got him killed. He was always pushing, always going just that inch farther than he should have."

"What are you talking about?" Bonnie was frowning.

"I'm talking about Steve and his stupid, stupid plots and plans. You think he wanted to work in the paper mill all his life? Oh, no, not Steve Penman. He wanted something bigger, something better. The problem was, he didn't want to earn it or work for it — he just wanted it. And he always had some kind of plan, some scheme for taking the best shortcut to get just what he wanted."

"Amy, are you talking about something specific? Do you have some idea who might have killed Steve?"

"I know he had some idea who it was that killed Adam Ramsay — and why."

"What? How long have you known that?"

Amy shrugged. "Just after they found Adam's bones, I guess. Steve hinted that he knew why somebody would have killed Adam. He wasn't going to tell me anything more at first. It makes . . . made him feel more important to know things other people didn't know. Me, anyway."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said Adam had a real talent for rinding out things he shouldn't have, that he was always sticking his nose into the wrong places. He said he'd bet that's what happened, that Adam got too close to something dangerous. And he said he thought he knew how he could find out what it was that Adam had stumbled onto."

Slowly, Bonnie said, "Amy, why didn't you tell us any of this before?"

Amy went back to pleating the sheet between her fingers. "I don't know. I was so upset when he disappeared . . . and I don't really know anything else. I warned Steve not to go looking for whatever had gotten Adam killed, but he just laughed at me. He said he'd be careful." Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. "He said he'd be ... but I guess he wasn't, was he? He wasn't careful enough."

"No," Bonnie said. "He wasn't careful enough."

"When are the deputies due back with Marsh?" Tony asked.

Bishop checked his watch. "Maybe half an hour or so, depending on the roads." Sitting on the conference table as usual, he returned to brooding over the bulletin board.

"Something bothering you?"

"Just trying to figure the bastard out. I keep coming back to the way he killed Lynet."

"Because he drugged her?"

"Because he drugged her and then beat her that way. If you look at what he did to the others — say, Kerry Ingram, for instance — what he did was deliberately torture someone who was acutely aware of what he was doing. It wasn't just physical torture but emotional and psychological as well."

Miranda came into the room in time to hear, and said, "But with Lynet, the torture was physical — and she was entirely unaware of it."

Bishop nodded. "So why did he bother? I mean, kill her, sure — once he grabbed her, even if it was a mistake, he had to follow through. But why beat her to death?"

"Because he's a perverted son of a bitch?" Tony offered.

"Because he was angry," Bishop said. "Not angry at her, or he would have made sure she felt it."

"At himself?" Miranda guessed.

"Maybe. Or his situation. Maybe he realized that Lynet was the beginning of the end, literally. Maybe she was the one who proved to him that he wouldn't be able to go on much longer if he had to kill kids he knew."

Tony shook his head with a snort. "So he's pissed at his poor victim because she's somebody he knows, and because he's pissed he beats her to death — but he drugs her first because he doesn't want her to know he's hurting her? Jesus."

"You're missing the point, Tony."

"What point?"

Bishop looked at him. "That uncontrolled rage. It's a change in him, in his behavior. If you look at the Ramsay boy and Kerry Ingram, what he was doing to his victims could almost be termed . . . clinical. Emotionless. He strangled Kerry again and again to the point of unconsciousness, then waited for her to revive and did it again. As if he was . . . studying her responses somehow. And even though we only have the Ramsay boy's bones, it's obvious from them that his killer came up with more than one creative method of torture. If it was torture."

Tony said, "What are you driving at?"

Bishop returned his gaze to the bulletin board. "Maybe I've been looking at this the wrong way. Maybe his goal isn't to torture as much as it is ... to learn."

With a grimace, Tony said, "The way the doctors at Auschwitz wanted to learn?"

"Could be. It might explain how he's choosing his victims. How he rationalizes it, I mean. He may view teenagers as disposable somehow, as less valuable than adults. That could be how he justifies this to himself. Teenagers are . . . emotional, combative, driven by their hormones. They flout authority, assert their independence, cause trouble for their parents and society at large."

"So he's using them as lab rats?" Tony shook his head. "But to what end? If he's convinced himself he's doing something noble and worthwhile for mankind, then what's the ultimate goal? Or am I being too logical?"

"No, he'd have a goal," Bishop said. "An ultimate aim or at least an avenue of pursuit."

"Just tell me he's not building a creature," Tony begged.

"No," Bishop said slowly. "No, I don't think he's doing that."

When he saw the Ouija box atop the stack of games on the coffee table, Seth thought that Bonnie must have changed her mind about using it. But then he remembered her voice and the expression on her face when she'd talked about how dangerous it was to be even unconsciously tempted to use it, and about promising Miranda she wouldn't try it again. And he knew it wasn't Bonnie who had brought the game back into the ward. He stood there just inside the room, holding the juice he'd fetched for the two young patients. Across the room, Bonnie was reading them a story. No one had yet noticed his return. He'd been gone barely ten minutes.

What bothered Seth was a very simple question. If Bonnie hadn't brought the game, if he hadn't, and if neither of the little girls — confined to their beds — had done so ... then who had? Who would have?

He looked at the stack of games again, and this time a feathery chill brushed up his spine.

The Ouija board was now out of its box, the planchette centered on the board and ready.

Christ, it even tempted him. To put his fingers on the planchette and see if it moved, see if the dead really could speak by spelling things out on a board . . .

With an effort, Seth snapped himself out of it.

He wanted to tell himself again that this was just a dream, a figment of his strained and anxious imagination. But he was standing there, wide awake, and a game that hadn't even been in the room ten minutes before had in the space of a few seconds arranged itself so as to be ready to be ... played.

And if he listened intently, concentrated really hard and closed out the sound of Bonnie's musical voice reading the story, he was almost positive he could hear that unearthly whispering.

"Seth?"

He jumped slightly and looked toward the girls to find Bonnie gazing at him questioningly. "I didn't want to interrupt," he said, surprised his voice sounded so calm. He carried the juice to the girls.

"It's a good story," Jordan confided.

"Bonnie reads it real good," Christy said.

"We're about halfway through," Bonnie told him.

He nodded, glanced at his watch, and summoned a smile. "Dad's just down the hall. I'll go check with him, see how things are going."

"Okay," Bonnie said. "We'll be here."

As he turned toward the door, Seth realized that from where she was sitting Bonnie couldn't see the coffee table. He made a slight detour and replaced the board and planchette in the box, not surprised that his hands shook a bit.

He half expected the damned thing to bite him or something.

But the game appeared perfectly innocent now, and didn't do anything supernatural like jump out of his hands as he carried it back to the storage room and placed it on the high shelf.

"I'm not going to scare Bonnie," he muttered, stacking three other games and a bucket of wooden blocks on top of the Ouija board. "She has enough to worry about without some damned stupid game haunting her."

It was enough that it was haunting him.

He gave the box a final shove and left the storage room, closing the door very firmly. And pretended to himself he didn't hear a thing as he walked away.

Sandy Lynch poured a cup of coffee and used it to warm her cold hands. "How come I get all the crappy duties?" she demanded of the room at large.

Carl Tierney, lounging at his desk as he waited for the sheriff to buzz him, said lazily, "Because you're the baby deputy."

"That sucks," she said roundly.

"We've all been there, kid." He smiled at her. "Besides, it wasn't such a crappy duty. I was there too."

"You got to drive. I got to sit in the back and listen to Justin Marsh go on and on and on."

At his desk nearby, Alex said absently, "He does tend to do that."

Sandy, not quite certain how to treat the recently bereaved and cautious about trying, adopted what she hoped was a perfectly brisk and professional tone. "No kidding he tends to do that. And the man has radar when it comes to gossip, I'll swear he does. I heard things about people I really didn't want to know."

"For instance?" Carl probed curiously.

"Shame on you."

"Hey, it's better than being bored. Give."

"No." But Sandy couldn't resist adding, "Just tell me how he heard, from way out where he lives, that it was the sheriff's sister told us where we could find Steve Penman's body. I mean, gossip's probably spreading like wildfire by now, but way out there? And of all the screwed-up stories he might have heard, that's the one he believed?"

"That story's as good as any other," Carl said with a shrug. "I heard it from a guy who's married to one of the nurses at the clinic, so why not?"

"Why not? I'll tell you why not. Just how would that sweet girl know anything about a murder?"

"Tarot cards, I heard. Or maybe it was a Ouija board."

Alex looked up from the files spread out on his desk, frowning slightly. There was something he needed to remember, something he needed to say. But whatever it was drifted away before he could quite grasp it.

He was so tired he could barely think, his eyes were scratchy from staring at spiky handwriting, and his throat had nearly closed up from the dust.

Of course from the dust.

He'd barely slept in the last forty-eight hours, had downed enough coffee to put an entire platoon on a caffeine jag, and judging by the way his stomach was gnawing at itself and grumbling loudly he probably should have eaten something along the way.

Liz would have said he was just asking for trouble, letting himself get run-down like this—

No. He wasn't going to think about Liz. He wasn't ready to think about Liz. Close that door, just close it.

He forced himself to tune back in to the conversation between the veteran and the baby deputy.

"And what's the point of learning how to shoot if I'm never going to draw my gun?" Sandy was saying aggrievedly. "I push papers, I answer phones, I hold lights for FBI doctors, I listen to religious fanatics gossip about their neighbors, I even make the damned coffee. What kind of cop am I?"

"One just learning about things," Carl replied soothingly but with amusement. "Give it time. Even the sheriff had to do the same sort of stuff when she first signed on."

"She did?"

"Sure, she did. All of us did. Of course, I don't recall her puking her guts out the first time she saw a body."

"Bones," Sandy reminded him coldly. "Horrible bones with bits of — of skin and hair still sticking to them. That's what I saw, Carl Tierney. Not a body. Bones. And you're one to talk; everybody knows you got sick too."

"That's slander."

"Not if it's true."

"It isn't. Vile gossip."

Alex tuned out the conversation again, wondering vaguely what had interested him the first time. He turned his attention back to the old file before him, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He was dimly aware of people talking, moving through the room, phones ringing, but none of it touched him.

Could he survive this?

Would he?

"This is disgraceful!" Justin Marsh announced.

"It's just an interview, Justin," Miranda told him mildly. "A routine interview."

"Routine? Just an interview? You sent a patrol car to get me, Sheriff! You had armed ruffians drag me from my own home before my stricken family!"

Miranda thought that both Sandy Lynch and Carl Tierney would have been appalled by that description of themselves, and that Selena probably had been more bewildered than stricken, but all she said was, "They didn't drag you, Justin. They asked you politely to come back here with them so we could discuss a few things. That's all. Just discuss."

"I'll have something to say about this to my attorney!"

"Go ahead and call him," Miranda invited, knowing very well that Bill Dennison would tell Justin to stop being such a fool and answer the questions.

Justin knew it too, judging by the glare he fixed on Miranda. "I'll sue you and the Sheriff's Department," he said, sounding more sulky than anything else. "Questioning me like a common criminal! And with an FBI agent standing over me in a threatening manner!"

Since Bishop was across the room leaning rather negligently against the filing cabinet, that was such an obvious exaggeration that Miranda could only admire it for a moment in silence. She propped an elbow on her desk and rubbed the back of her neck wearily.

Maybe if I drew my gun and pointed it at him? Bishop suggested telepathically.

Don't tempt me, she returned without looking at him. "Justin, the past couple of weeks have been a real bear, and this week isn't shaping up to be a whole lot better. I've got at least four teenagers dead, along with a lady I happened to like an awful lot, and I intend to get to the bottom of things."

"There's evil here, I've warned you—"

"So what I'd like you to explain to me is how your Bible ended up on Liz Hallowell's nightstand."

Justin paled, then flushed a vivid red. "Beside her bed? Sheriff, are you implying that my relationship with Elizabeth was in some way illicit?"

Miranda resisted an impulse to sigh. "I just want to know how she ended up with your Bible, Justin."

"I have no idea," he said stiffly.

"Well, when did you miss it?"

"I didn't."

Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him.

Flushing again, Justin said, "I've been preoccupied with the storm, Sheriff, like everyone else. We lost power in the first few hours, and I was kept busy tending to the fire, bringing in firewood and such. I didn't think about the Bible until you showed it to me."

"When do you last remember having it?"

He frowned at her, still indignant but reluctantly interested. "I suppose ... it was at Elizabeth's coffeeshop. Just before the storm began. I must have left it there."

"Saturday night?"

"Yes."

"How long were you there?"

"Not long. Half an hour, maybe a little longer. It must have been about quarter after nine or so when I left."

"And after that?"

"I went home, of course. The snow had started."

"What time was it when you got home?"

"Nine-thirty, or a little after. I didn't dawdle. I knew Selena would be anxious."

It went without saying that Selena would back up what Justin said, and it was about what they had expected to hear. Miranda pushed a legal pad and a pencil across her desk to him. "If you wouldn't mind, Justin, try to remember everyone you saw or spoke to at the coffeeshop that night."

He picked up the pencil, but the frown remained. "You don't suspect me of killing Elizabeth?"

"Did you?" Miranda asked politely.

"Of course not!"

"Then why would we suspect you?"

"You brought me here to—"

"I brought you here to ask you about the Bible, Justin, that's all. We have to check out all the details, you know. Like the Bible. That was an anomaly, something out of place, and we have to try to explain how it ended up where it did. A list of everyone who had access to it and might have picked it up will undoubtedly be helpful to the investigation." Gravely, she added, "Thank you."

He stared at her for a moment, then muttered, "Of course, of course. Glad to help." He bent over the legal pad.

You ought to go into politics.

I'm in politics. She shot Bishop a rueful glance.

Oh, yeah — you are, aren't you? He stirred and said aloud, "Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Marsh?"

"I don't see how I can stop you," Justin said, far from graciously.

Miranda thought he probably remembered how easily Bishop had bested him in the contest of Biblical quotations, and his wounded vanity amused her.

If Bishop was also amused, he didn't let it show; he was expressionless and kept his voice matter-of-fact. "You've been warning us about the evil in Gladstone for some time now. Is this just a general feeling of yours, or can you point to something specific?"

"How specific do I have to be?" Justin snapped. "People are dying."

"We know that, Justin." Miranda was patient. "And unless you have something useful to add as to who might be killing these people or why, reminding us continually that it's evil isn't entirely helpful. We know it's evil. We'd like to stop it. If you have any suggestions as to how we can do that, we'd appreciate hearing them."

His eyes on the pad as he quickly and neatly printed a list of names, Justin said calmly, "Then you might want to find out who ended up with Adam Ramsay's car."