Out of the Shadows

ONE

Thursday, January 6

The body had been exposed to the elements for at least two or three days. And before last night's heavy rain had washed them away, the tracks of dozens of paws and claws must have crisscrossed the clearing.

It was shaping up to be a long, cold winter, and the animals were hungry.

Deputy Alex Mayse shivered as he picked his way gingerly past the town's single forensics "expert," a young doctor who'd been elected coroner because nobody else had wanted the job. The doctor was crawling around the clearing on his hands and knees, his nose inches from the wet ground as he found and flagged the scattered bones and other bits the animals had left.

"You don't have to hum to yourself, Doc," Alex muttered sourly. "We all know how happy you are."

Remaining in his crouched position, Dr. Peter Shepherd said cheerfully, "If a murdered teenager made me happy, Alex, I'd be worse than a ghoul. I'm just fascinated by the puzzle, that's all."

Waiting patiently just a few steps behind the doctor, camera in hand as he waited to take pictures of each flagged spot, Deputy Brady Shaw rolled his eyes at Alex.

Alex grimaced in sympathy, but all he said to Shepherd was, "Yeah, yeah. Just find something helpful this time, will you?"

"Do my best," the doctor replied, studying what appeared to be a bleached twig.

Alex walked to the area where most of the body had been found, noticing with a certain amount of sympathy that Sandy Lynch was over behind a tree puking her guts out. She was having a lousy introduction to the job, poor kid. Not that the old hands were handling it any better, really. Carl Tierney had had the misfortune to find Adam Ramsay's mortal remains, and the ten-year veteran of the Sheriff's Department had promptly lost his morning Egg McMuffin.

Alex himself had suffered through a few teeth-grittingly queasy moments during the last couple of hours.

In fact, the only member of the Cox County Sheriff's Department who had shown no signs of being sickened by the gory sight was the sheriff.

There was an irony there somewhere, Alex thought as he joined the sheriff, who was hunkered down several feet from what was left of Adam Ramsay, elbows on knees and fingers steepled. In its entire history, the small town of Gladstone had seldom been troubled by murder. A long line of sheriffs had grown old in their jobs, dealing with petty crime and little else of consequence, needing no more police training than how to to load a gun, which would in all likelihood never be fired except at targets or the occasional unlucky rabbit. It was a local saying that all the Cox County sheriff had to be good at was filling out the Santa suit for the annual Christmas parade down Main Street.

Until last year, anyway. The town finally elected a sheriff with an actual law degree and a minor in criminology — and what happened? Damned if they didn't start having real crimes.

But they were blessed in that this particular sheriff had very quickly displayed an almost uncanny ability to get to the bottom of things with a minimum of time wasted.

At least until recently.

"This makes two," Alex said, judging that the silence had gone on long enough.

"Yeah."

"Same killer, d'you think?"

Startling blue eyes slanted him a look. "Hard to tell from the bones."

Alex started to reply that there was a bit of rotting flesh here and there, but kept his mouth shut. There was little remaining on the skeleton of Adam Ramsay, that was true enough, and what was there didn't immediately offer up any evidence as to who had killed him and how. Impossible to tell if the boy's body had borne the same bruises and cuts as they had found on Kerry Ingram. Still, it was a fair guess that two bodies turning up in less than a month had to be connected in some way.

With a sigh, Alex said, "We won't be able to quiet the gossip by suggesting this death was an accident. We might not know how he died yet, but it's a cinch a victim of an accident wouldn't have buried his own body. And you can bet that little fact won't stay out of circulation for long."

"I know."

"So we have a problem. A big problem."

"Shit," the sheriff said quietly after a moment.

Alex wondered if that was guilt he heard. "Announcing that Kerry Ingram had been murdered wouldn't have saved this one," he reminded. "I may not be an expert, but my guess is that Adam died more than a couple of weeks ago."

"Yeah, probably."

"And his own mother didn't report him missing until just before Halloween, even though he'd already been gone for weeks by then."

"Because they'd had a big fight and he'd run off to live with his father in Florida just like he'd done at least twice before — or so she thought."

"My point," Alex said, "is that there's nothing we could have done to save Adam Ramsay."

"Maybe," the sheriff said, still quiet. "But maybe we could have saved Kerry Ingram."

Breaking the ensuing silence, Alex said, "Good thing he was wearing his class ring. And that he had that gold tooth. Otherwise we'd never have been able to identify him. But what kid his age has a gold tooth? I meant to ask before now, but—"

"Not a tooth, just a cap. He had a ring of his father's melted down, and a dentist in the city did the work."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"His mother didn't know or wouldn't say. And we can't ask him now." Still hunkered down, the sheriff added, "I doubt it's important, at least to the question of who killed him and why."

"Yeah, I guess. You have any ideas about that, by the way?"

"No."

Alex sighed. "Me either. The mayor isn't going to like this, Randy."

"Nobody's going to like it, Alex. Especially not Adam Ramsay's mother."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I know." Sheriff Miranda Knight sighed and rose from the crouched position, absently stretching cramped muscles. "Shit," she said again, softly.

Deputy Sandy Lynch, still very pale, ventured a step toward them but kept her gaze studiously away from the remains. "I'm sorry, Sheriff," she said nervously, new enough at the job that she feared losing it.

Miranda looked at her. "Don't worry about it, Sandy. There's nothing you can do here anyway. Go on back to the office and help Grace deal with all the phone calls."

"Okay, Sheriff." She paused. "What should we tell people?"

"Tell them we have no information at this time."

"Yes, ma'am."

As the young deputy retreated to her car in visible relief, Alex said, "That won't hold 'em for long."

"Long enough, with a little luck. I'd like a few more answers before I have to face John with a recommendation."

"Since that flap over in Concord spooked him, you know he'll overreact and declare we have a serial killer on our hands."

"Two murders don't make a serial killer."

"You know that and I know that. His Honor will prefer to err on the side of caution. He likes his job and he wants to keep it. Concord's mayor was practically run out of town for not insisting that task force be called in sooner. John MacBride is not going to make the same mistake."

Miranda nodded, frowning. "I know, I know."

"So get the jump on him. Tell him your recommendation is to call in the task force now."

Her frown deepened. "You read the bulletin, same as I did. The task force was set up to handle unusual crimes with inexplicable elements, crimes ordinary police work can't solve. For all we know, what we have here are two teenage victims of grudges or impulsive violence. Both of them were probably killed by someone they knew, and for depressingly mundane reasons. We don't know there's anything unusual."

"Randy, nobody'd blame you for calling in the feds whether these murders are unusual or not. We're a small-town sheriff's department with little manpower and almost no high-tech toys. Before we found the Ingram girl, the last murder any Cox County sheriff had to investigate was twenty years ago — when a cuckolded husband shot his wife's lover while the man was trying to escape out the bedroom window. Hardly a tricky investigation. The cases you've handled so far were demanding, and God knows you dealt with them well, but what they required was skill, intelligence, and instinct, all of which you certainly have. What you don't have are state-of-the-art crime scene investigation tools, a computer system that isn't five years out of date, enough deputies to effectively cover the county you're responsible for, and a medical examiner whose specialty — not his hobby — is forensics."

"I heard that," Doc Shepherd called out.

Unrepentant, Alex called back, "I meant you to hear it." He returned his attention to Miranda and went on in a lower voice. "Call in the feds, Randy. Nobody'll think less of you. And, goddammit, we need the help."

"They don't help, they take over."

"Then I say let 'em have it."

She shook her head. "I can't say that, Alex. I can't just hand this problem over to somebody else because I'm afraid it might be too difficult for me."

"MacBride can pull rank — and you know he will. Randy, there were just enough doubts about electing a woman sheriff to make him very, very nervous of any criticism from the voters. First sign this department can't handle the investigation, and he'll be yelling for help as loud as he can."

"No," she said. "He won't do that, not publicly."

"Then he'll pressure you to do it."

"Maybe."

"Randy—"

"We don't know there's anything unusual here," Miranda repeated stubbornly. "And just because we've gotten nowhere investigating Kerry Ingram's murder doesn't mean we won't have better luck with this case. One thing I'm sure of is that I'm damned well planning to give it my best shot. I'm not calling in outsiders unless we have no other choice." She lifted one hand and rubbed the nape of her neck, where tension had undoubtedly gathered, and scowled at the remains of Adam Ramsay.

Alex watched her, not bothering to be subtle about it because he had long ago realized that Miranda was never conscious of masculine scrutiny. Not on the job, at any rate. She tended to wear sweaters and jeans, kept her black hair pulled back severely from her face, her nails short and unpolished, and her makeup to a minimum. And none of it mattered one little bit.

Miranda Knight was one of those rare women who would have been beautiful even if you wrapped her in a burlap feed sack and dipped her in mud.

She wasn't in uniform even on duty, a perk she had more or less demanded before taking on the job, and the snug jeans and bulky sweater she wore today did little to hide either the gun on her hip or measurements of true centerfold proportions.

Alex had never been sure which attracted Gladstone's mayor more, the gun or the body, but it was an open secret that John MacBride had had his eye on Miranda long before they'd both been voted into office over a year before.

What Miranda thought of the mayor, on the other hand, was a secret known only to her. She might refer to him casually when speaking to Alex, but in public she was invariably formal, polite, and respectful to His Honor, and if she had so much as allowed him to buy her a cup of coffee she'd managed to drink it where nobody in this very curious town had been able to observe.

Still, Alex couldn't help but wonder if MacBride's determined pursuit of the last few months would change if Miranda refused to ensure the mayor's political safety by handing the investigation over to the feds with all speed.

"We don't know there's anything unusual here," she said again, the emphasis making Alex look at her in sudden awareness.

"Have you noticed something?" he asked.

Obviously conscious of his stare, Miranda nonetheless didn't meet his eyes. "I just said—"

"I know what you said. I also heard how you said it. And I know that sometimes you see things everybody else misses. What do you see that I don't, Randy?"

"Nothing. I see nothing."

Alex thought she was lying to him. But before he could press her, Doc Shepherd came up to them.

"I have a preliminary report," he told Miranda. "I'll write it up as soon as I get back to the office, of course, but if you want to hear what'll be on it while Brady's getting shots of everything—"

"Let's hear it."

"No way to tell if the boy was strangled like the Ingram girl, but there is evidence that a few bones were broken prior to death."

"Could they have been broken in an accidental fall?" Miranda asked.

"Not likely. I'd say his arms were twisted hard enough to snap, which would require considerable, deliberate force. And two bones in his left hand were crushed, probably by a hammer or similar tool."

Alex offered a reluctant question. "Are you saying he was tortured?"

"I wouldn't rule it out, but there isn't enough evidence for me to be absolutely sure."

"What are you sure of?" Miranda asked.

"I'm sure he's been dead at least three or four weeks, possibly longer. I'm sure he was killed somewhere else, then brought here and buried in a shallow grave that didn't protect the body very

long from scavenging animals. " Peter Shepherd paused briefly. "Now let me ask you something: Are you sure these are the remains of Adam Ramsay?"

Alex was surprised by the question, but when he looked at Miranda he realized she wasn't.

"We found his class ring here," she said neutrally. "And the gold crown on that front tooth matches our information. Height and estimated weight in the right range. And the patch of scalp still attached to the skull has red hair like Adam Ramsay. We have every reason to believe the I.D. is accurate."

It was her turn to pause, and when she went on, she asked what sounded like an unwilling question. "You think it isn't him?"

Clearly enjoying his role, Shepherd said, "I think if it is him, his mother must be a hell of a lot older than she looks. I'll know more after I conduct a few tests, but I'll be surprised if I find out those bones belonged to any man less than forty years old."

Again, Miranda didn't seem surprised, but all she said, in the same dispassionate tone of before, was, "We have complete dental records, so verifying identity — if it is Adam — shouldn't take long."

Bewildered, Alex said, "Adam was seventeen."

"Those bones are older," Shepherd answered with a shrug.

"There's barely enough of him left to put in a shoe-box," Alex objected. "How can you possibly know—"

Miranda lifted a hand to stop Alex. "Why don't we wait until we have a few more facts before we start arguing? Doc, if you'll take the remains back to the morgue, I'll have the dental records sent over."

"I don't know who his family doctor was, but if you could get those records as well..."

"I'll send them along."

Alex followed as Miranda retreated several yards to give the doctor room to work, and said accusingly, "You knew what he was going to say, didn't you?"

"How could I have known that?" Her tone wasn't so much evasive as matter-of-fact. She watched Shepherd work the remains into a black body bag.

"That's what I'm asking you, Randy. How did you know? You been hiding a degree in medicine or forensics?"

"Of course not."

"Well then?"

"I didn't see anything you didn't see, Alex."

"But you knew that skeleton wasn't Adam Ramsay?"

Miranda finally turned her head and looked at Alex. There was something in her face he couldn't quite read and didn't like one bit, a shuttered expression he'd never seen before. For the first time in the nearly five years he'd known her, Alex felt he was looking at a stranger.

"On the contrary," she said quietly. "What I knew — what I know — is that we've found all that's left of Adam Ramsay."

"I don't get it."

"It's Adam Ramsay, Alex. The dental records will prove it."

"But if the bones belonged to an older man—" Alex broke off and made his voice low. "So Doc is wrong about that?"

"I hope so."

Alex didn't make the mistake of thinking Miranda was engaged in a game of one-upmanship with the doctor. Thinking aloud, he mused, "If Doc's right about the age of the bones, it'd mean this victim is someone nobody reported missing. And it would mean we might still find Adam Ramsay's body. If you're right—"

"If I'm right, it would mean something else," Miranda cut in. "It would mean we have a much bigger puzzle than who killed two teenage runaways."

Liz Hallowell had lived in Gladstone all of her thirty years, which meant she knew just about everybody. And since the bookstore she'd inherited from her parents was centrally located in town and boasted the recent addition of a coffeeshop where people could sit and chat as long as they liked, she tended to know everything that was going on within hours of its happening.

So she knew the latest news on this cold January morning. She knew that a body — or bones, anyway — had been found in the woods just outside town by an off-duty sheriff's deputy trying to get in a little early-morning hunting. She knew it was believed the bones were Adam Ramsay's. And she knew there was something decidedly odd about the whole thing.

Not that murder wasn't odd, of course. But something else was going on, she was certain of it. The leaves in her morning cup of tea had made a chill go through her entire body, and even before that there had been several other unsettling omens. She'd heard a whippoorwill last night and afterward dreamed about riding a horse — which was supposed to be sexual, hardly surprising to Liz given her frustrations of late — and about a door she couldn't open, which wasn't a good sign at all.

She'd been awakened twice by a dog howling, and just before dawn thunder had rumbled even though there was no storm. This morning her neighbor's pet rooster had faced her own front door while crowing, which meant a stranger was coming. She'd spilled salt three times in the last two days, so even doing what she could to immediately negate the bad luck wouldn't get rid of it all.

And a bird had struck the window of her breakfast room, a dove no less, breaking its poor little neck. Since she lived alone, Liz assumed she was the one whom death was hovering near.

Alex would shake his head when she told him, but Liz's grandmother had been Romany and she herself had been born with a caul — and she knew what she knew.

Bad was here, and worse was coming.

So before Liz had ventured out of her house today, she'd made damned sure to put several amulets in the medicine bag that hung around her neck on a black thong: a couple of ash-tree leaves, a clove of garlic, bits of lucky hand root and oak bark, and several small stones — bloodstone, carnelian, cat's eye, garnet, black opal, staurolite, and topaz. She also carried a rabbit's foot in her purse, and her earrings were tiny gold wishbones.

None of which protected her from Justin Marsh, which was a pity.

"This is blasphemy, Elizabeth," he declared, waving a book beneath her nose.

She pushed the book gently back far enough to bring the title into focus, then said mildly, "It's a novel, Justin. A made-up story. I doubt very much if the author is trying to persuade anyone to

actually believe that Christ was a woman. But if it makes you feel any better, you're the first one I've seen even pick it up."

His pale brown eyes glittered in his perpetually tanned face. The healthy thatch of white hair and the customary white suit made him look like a televangelist, she thought. He sounded like one too.

"Books like this one should be banned!" he told her stridently.

Liz noted that few of her other early-morning customers even looked up, as accustomed to his tirades as she was herself. "We don't ban books around here, Justin."

"If innocent minds should read this—!"

"Trust me, innocent minds don't venture into that section of the store. They're all three rows over reading stuff about ninjas and how to hack into computer systems."

He missed the irony, just as she had expected.

"Elizabeth, you're responsible for protecting impressionable young minds from corruption such as this." He waved the book under her nose again.

Behind him, a deep voice said dryly, "No, their parents are responsible for that. Liz just runs a bookstore."

"Morning, Alex," she said.

"Hi. Coffee would be heaven, Liz."

"You got it." Leaving Alex to deal with Justin, she went behind the counter to pour a couple of cups of the Swiss-chocolate-flavored coffee Alex had recently become addicted to. By the time she joined him at their customary table near the front window, Justin had vanished.

"If he's over there tearing up another book ..."

"I warned him the next episode would mean a fine and jail time, for all the good it'll do." He blew on the coffee automatically, but began sipping before it had a chance to cool. "I don't know why he can't go away somewhere and start a nice pseudo-religious cult, leave us the hell alone."

"He isn't charismatic enough," Liz said definitely. "Just a not-too-bright kook, and it's obvious. It's Selena I feel sorry for."

Alex grunted. "I never heard she was forced to marry him. Besides, the way she looks at him it's obvious she considers him the Second Coming — if you'll forgive the blasphemy."

"I guess every town has to have at least one Justin Marsh. What else would we have to talk about otherwise?"

"Murder?" he suggested dryly.

Liz looked at his tired, drawn face and said slowly, "I heard it was Adam Ramsay's body this time."

"Sheriff says it is. Doc says it isn't. We'll know for sure when Doc compares the dental records."

"What do you think?"

"I think Randy isn't often wrong." He shrugged, frowning down at his coffee. "But if she's right this time, something very weird is going on, Liz."

Without thinking, Liz said, "The leaves told me that this morning."

Alex looked at her with resignation. "Uh-huh. Did they happen to tell you anything else? Like maybe if we have a vicious killer in this nice little town of ours?"

"You don't think it's one of us?" she exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

He smiled at her with an odd expression she couldn't quite define. "Liz, Gladstone might as well be the town that time forgot. Or at least the town travelers bypass. How many strangers do you notice in any given week?"

"Well... not many."

"Not many?"

"All right, so strangers are rare, especially if you discount insurance salesmen. But that doesn't have to mean one of us is doing these terrible things, Alex."

"I don't like to think it either, you know. But how likely is it that a stranger picked Gladstone as his base of operations to begin killing teenagers?"

"When you put it like that..."

"Yeah."

After a moment of silence, Liz said reluctantly, "Whatever is going on, it isn't over, Alex."

"Tea leaves again?"

"I know what I know." It was her standard response to doubt or disbelief.

"Because your grandmother was a gypsy? Liz—"

"I know you don't believe, but you have to listen to me this time. I've never seen so many dark omens and portents. There's evil here, real, literal evil hanging over this town."

"That much I'll buy. Have you checked your crystal ball lately to see how it'll all turn out?"

"You know I don't have one of those." She hesitated. "But I do know someone's coming. The leaves showed me that. A dark man with a mark on his face. An outsider. He'll come to help, but for some other reason too, a secret reason. And I think ... I know . . . he'll give his life to save one of us."