Out of the Shadows

FOUR

Sunday, January 9

The Cox County Sheriff's Department was housed in a building less than twenty years old. And back when it was designed, the city fathers had envisioned continued economic growth along the happy lines of what the town had then been experiencing. Unfortunately, they'd been wrong, but at least their optimism had led to a building with numerous offices and a spacious conference room, which was used mostly for storage.

Miranda had left orders, and by the time she and two of the three FBI agents met there early the following morning, the conference room had been cleared of boxes of old files and supplies, and provided a decent base of operations for the task force. Extra phone lines were already in place, as were fixed blackboards and bulletin boards, and the three large partner desks contained all the usual supplies. There was a conference table big enough to seat six, several pieces of antiquated audiovisual equipment, and one five-year-old desktop computer hastily shifted from one of the outer offices.

The coffeemaker, at least, was new.

Miranda didn't bother to apologize for the inadequacies of her department; since Dr. Edwards had brought her own equipment along, and both Bishop and Harte arrived this morning with the latest thing in laptop computers, she figured they'd expected small-town deficiencies from the get-go.

And if they didn't like it, tough.

She got them settled in the room with all the files on the investigation, assigned a regrettably awed and nervous young deputy to fetch and carry for them, and retreated to her office to handle the morning's duties.

She called the morgue first and was told by Dr. Edwards that the postmortem on Lynet Grainger was well under way.

"By the way, I've studied Dr. Shepherd's report on the post he performed on Kerry Ingram, and I don't believe there'll be any need to exhume the body."

Kerry was the only victim whose body had been released to the family for burial, and Miranda was intensely grateful that she probably wouldn't have to return to those grieving relatives and ask to dig up their little girl for another session on the autopsy table.

"Dr. Shepherd was quite thorough," Edwards said cheerfully, "and careful in preserving the slides and tissue samples, so there should be no trouble in verifying his findings."

In the background, Peter Shepherd could be heard to say that he appreciated that.

Miranda was relieved yet again by that little aside. Not that she'd expected trouble from him since calling in a more experienced forensics expert had been his suggestion — but you just never knew about professionals, especially doctors. So jealous of their authority.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said to Edwards. "If there's anything you need, please call me here at the office."

"I will, Sheriff, thanks. I should have a written report for you by the end of the day."

Miranda hung up, then turned to the stack of messages that had come in already this morning. She spent considerable time returning calls and soothing, as best she could, the fears and worries of the people who had voted her into office.

Not that there was much she could really say to reassure anyone.

She did try, though, listening patiently to suggestions ranging from a dusk-to-dawn curfew of everyone in town under the age of eighteen to the calling in of the National Guard, and offering her own brand of calm confidence.

They would catch the killer, she was certain of it.

She told no one what else she was certain of — that more teenagers would have to die first. Unless she found a way to frustrate fate.

That was possible. She had done it once before, after all.

By eleven o'clock, Miranda couldn't listen to one more anxious voice, so she went back to the conference room to escape the ceaseless ringing of her telephone.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Bishop and Harte had been busy. Files were lying open or stacked neatly on the conference table, alongside legal pads covered with notes. Their laptops and the old desktop were humming, and an even older printer was laboring in the corner to produce a hard copy of somebody's request.

The big bulletin board on the wall had been divided into three sections, one for each victim, and all the photos of the bodies at the crime scenes were tacked up, along with autopsy reports. Agent Harte was writing a time line on the blackboard, printing in block letters the names and ages of the victims, when and where they'd disappeared, and when and where the bodies had been found.

Bishop, who was half sitting on one end of the conference table and watching Harte, greeted Miranda by saying, "You saw the time pattern, of course."

Miranda wasn't especially flattered that he expected her to see the obvious. "You mean that the disappearances were almost exactly two months apart? Of course. Any ideas as to why that particular amount of time?"

"I wouldn't want to hazard an opinion until we find all the commonalities between the victims and start developing a reasonable profile of the killer."

That made sense and was what Miranda had expected. Still, she had to make a comment. "He does seem to be killing them quicker each time."

Bishop consulted the legal pad beside him. "Your M.E. estimates the Ramsay boy was killed as much as six weeks after he disappeared, the Ingram girl less than four weeks. And since Lynet Grainger disappeared only a few days ago, we know she was killed in a matter of hours."

Tony Harte stepped back to view his work. "So we have several possibilities. He might have drastically stepped up his timetable for some reason important to him and his ritual. He might have discovered soon after he grabbed her that the Grainger girl didn't fit his requirements as he'd expected, and therefore killed her in rage. Killing her quickly might have been part of his ritual, a new step. Or there was something different about Grainger, something that made him treat her unlike the other victims."

Miranda thought those were pretty good possibilities.

"So we don't know if we have two months before he grabs another kid."

Harte shook his head soberly. "Ask me, he could grab another one today or tomorrow. Then again, he could also wait two months or six — or move to a new hunting ground. We don't know enough yet."

Since she was alone with the agents, she said pointblank, "Did any of you pick up anything last night after I left?" She looked at Harte but it was Bishop who answered.

"Tony thinks the killer knew the girl, probably quite well. He got a strong sense of regret, even sadness."

Miranda regarded the agent with genuine interest. "So that's your other specialty, huh? You pick up emotional vibes?"

He laughed softly. "That's as good a definition as any, I guess."

Miranda sat in a chair at the opposite end of the conference table from Bishop. "What about Dr. Edwards? What's her non-medical specialty?"

"Similar to mine. Only she picks up bits of information rather than feelings, hard facts. Tunes in to the physical vibes, I guess you'd say. We lump both abilities under the heading of 'adept.' "

"I see. And did she pick up any physical vibes out at the well last night?"

"None to speak of. She thinks he lingered only long enough to dump the body. I agree." It was his turn to look at her with interest. "And I must say, it's a nice change to deal with local law enforcement without having to find alternate explanations for how we gather some of our information."

"If you use unconventional methods," Miranda said, "you've got to expect that sort of suspicion and disbelief."

"But not from you."

"No. Not from me." She smiled faintly. "And don't try to tell me you don't know why."

"Because you're pretty good at picking up vibes yourself?"

"Picking up vibes isn't really my strong suit. It's what Bishop used to call an ancillary ability," she said, keeping her gaze fixed on Harte. "Like his spider-sense, only not nearly so focused."

"Ah. One of the rare psychics possessing more than a single skill. And your primary ability?"

"Once upon a time, it was precognition. But I burned that one out pretty thoroughly years ago. The . . . visions ... are few and far between these days."

Harte's spaniel-brown eyes widened, and he looked at Bishop with something like wonder.

"My God," he said softly. "Three separate abilities?"

"Four," Bishop said. "Aside from being adept, pre-cognitive, and able to project a shield, she's also a pretty fair touch telepath. On our scale . . . probably eighth degree."

"Wow," Harte said, again very softly.

Miranda wasn't entirely sure she liked Bishop's frankness, but knew only too well that she herself had opened the door. It just felt odd to be discussing it so openly after so many years of careful silence.

She didn't want to admit even to herself that it also felt sort of nice to talk to people who understood and accepted.

But curiosity drove her to ask, "Eighth degree? What the hell kind of scale are we talking about?" Since Harte still appeared a bit stunned, she had no choice but to look, finally, at Bishop.

He gazed at her steadily, his pale eyes unreadable. "A scale we developed at Quantico while putting the program together the last few years."

"Being anal feds," she said dryly, "you just had to weigh, measure, and evaluate even the paranormal, huh?"

"Something like that."

She realized he wasn't going to tell her unless she asked, and it annoyed her. "Okay, I'll bite. So how high does this scale of yours go?"

"To twelve."

"Which, I suppose, is your degree?"

Bishop shook his head. "We have yet to encounter a psychic with any kind of twelfth-degree ability. I rank at a little above ten telepathically."

"How about the spider-sense? What does that rank?"

"Maybe six. On a good day."

"To put things into perspective," Harte murmured, "Sharon and I both come in around three on the scale as adepts. Most of the other members of the unit, in fact, don't go above five. And only one other agent besides Bishop has even an ancillary ability, far less a fullblown secondary ability. This is the first time I've ever met anybody with more than two. In fact, it's the first time I've even heard of it."

"Yeah, well. I come from a long line of overachievers." Miranda wasn't as impressed with herself as Harte was. Familiarity had not bred contempt, but it had bred acceptance; to Miranda, the paranormal was just a part of life.

"Why in hell are you stuck way out here in the boonies instead of playing on our team?" Harte exclaimed, then winced and sent an apologetic look to Bishop. "Yikes. Sorry, boss."

"Tony," Bishop said mildly, "I think the coffeepot is empty. Why don't you go fill it?"

"Hey, you don't have to drop a house on me to get me to go away. I'm psychic — I can take a more subtle hint than that." He grabbed the coffeepot and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door gently behind him.

Miranda didn't know which emotion was stronger, furious embarrassment that her past was not, apparently, as private as she had supposed, or furious pain that Bishop had evidently discussed her with at least one member of his team.

"I'm sorry, Miranda."

She forced herself not to look away, and called on all her self-control to present an indifferent front. "About what? Discussing me with your agents? Should I have expected anything else?"

"I hope so. It isn't what you obviously think."

"Isn't it?"

"Miranda, they're psychics. And even though my walls are fairly solid, I can't project an impenetrable shield the way you can — even around my own mind."

She was glad her shield was firmly in place just then, glad he had no idea of her thoughts and emotions. But all she said was, "So whose idea was this new unit of yours? It doesn't sound at all typical of the Bureau."

For a moment, she thought he would fight her, but finally he answered.

"It isn't. There was a great deal of resistance at first, until it was proved that unconventional methods and abilities could produce tangible results."

"And who proved that? You?"

"Eventually."

"Really? How?"

He drew a breath. "I tracked down the Rosemont Butcher."

Miranda rose to her feet slowly, staring at him. "What?" she whispered.

"Lewis Harrison. I got him, Miranda. Six and a half years ago."

Alex had been more or less ordered not to come into the office on Sunday. He'd been working nearly three weeks without a break, and Miranda claimed the town council would have her head on a platter if she didn't see to it that he took time off whether he wanted to or not. Overtime was one thing, she said, but he was carrying it to extremes — even if they did have a serial killer to find.

He hated days off. He wasn't a sporting man, so hunting and fishing held no appeal for him. Neither did golf. Watching sports on television was an enjoyable pastime only during baseball season. He ran and worked out to keep in shape, but a man could hardly do that all day.

And then there was the house. It was too big and too damned empty. He should get rid of it, he knew. But Janet had loved the house, had decorated it with painstaking care, and in the year since her death he hadn't been able to face the thought of someone else living in Janet's house.

But living in the house alone had its own kind of pain, and though sleeping there was, finally, possible, Alex could seldom spend much time in it when he was awake.

Unfortunately, Sundays in Gladstone didn't offer a lot in the way of entertainment once church let out. And even less if one wasn't particularly interested in church.

He finally drove to town, resisting the urge to stop by the office and find out what was going on. Instead, he parked near Liz's bookstore and coffeeshop, forced to wait nearly forty-five minutes for Liz to unlock the doors at two o'clock.

"I heard about Lynet," she said.

"Yeah, poor kid." Alex sat at the counter rather than his usual booth, since Liz worked alone on Sundays.

"And I heard the FBI is in town."

"Well, three agents anyway." He smiled. "Your dark man with a mark on his face is one of them. And Randy knows him." Then Alex recalled what Liz had said about the fate of that man, and his smile faded. "You don't still think—"

Liz chewed on her bottom lip. "When I read the leaves again, it was more fuzzy, less definite, but I'm sure it was the same thing, Alex. Does — does Randy like him?"

Alex considered the question. "To be honest, the only thing I'm sure of is that she feels a lot about him. Whether it's like or dislike, positive or negative, I can't tell."

"Maybe I should talk to her about what I saw," Liz suggested hesitantly. "She's never scoffed. Never let me read the leaves for her, but—"

Alex shook his head. "Not right now, Liz. Randy has enough on her plate, I think, without having to worry about something that might not happen."

"I knew it would be a strange year, new millennium and all, but I really don't like all these bad omens, Alex."

"More dogs howling at night?"

Before she could answer, Justin Marsh stormed into the coffeeshop, his thin little wife, Selena, on his heels like a mute shadow.

"Elizabeth, I'm asking you again not to conduct business on the Sabbath!" he thundered as though from a pulpit.

Alex sighed. "Justin, why're you picking on Liz? Half the retail businesses and all the restaurants and cafes open up after church. Afternoon, Selena."

"Hello." She smiled timidly, holding her Bible with both hands as though she feared it would escape any minute. She might have been pretty once, but Selena had been married to Justin Marsh for nearly thirty years and the ordeal had worn her down. She was seldom seen in public without him, and Alex couldn't recall hearing her say much more than hello and goodbye, with an occasional Praise the Lord or Amen thrown in at appropriate pauses in Justin's oratory.

"As a matter of fact," Alex went on, "didn't you use to open up your car lot on Sundays before you retired and sold out?"

"I saw the error of my ways," Justin declared piously, his face reddening. "And now I'm commanded by the Lord to guide the others of his flock toward the light of salvation!"

Alex almost gave that one an Amen himself. He always appreciated a good dramatic performance.

Gravely, Liz said, "Can I get you two some coffee, Justin? Purely on the house, you understand — not a business transaction."

He leaned across the counter, eyes intent on her face.

"Elizabeth, I will place your feet upon a godly path. You must not be allowed to follow the evil way. A good woman such as you should have an honored place in the house of our Lord."

Normally Alex was patient with Justin's excesses, but with the memory of poor little Lynet's battered body vivid in his mind, he snapped. "Justin, if you want to seek out evil, you might begin with whoever killed our teenagers. I'd think that would be a damned sight more important to any god than whether Liz should sell coffee and books on Sunday!"

Justin made a choked sound, then turned away. Selena, out of long practice, skipped nimbly aside, then shadowed him faithfully as he stalked out of the store.

"I don't like that man," Alex said.

"But you shouldn't have said that, Alex. You know he'll go straight to the mayor."

"Oh, don't worry about it. Right now, even the mayor has more to worry about than Justin Marsh's ruffled feathers."

Sharon Edwards stripped off her rubber gloves and looked across the table at Peter Shepherd. "No question about it."

Shepherd grunted. "I don't get it," he said. "What would be the point?"

"We'll add that to our list of questions to ask this lunatic when we catch him. In the meantime, if you'll box up all the slides and tissue samples, I'll get started on the report for the sheriff."

"Six and a half years ago," Miranda repeated numbly. "But. . . there was nothing about it on the news."

"Not the national news, no. Coincidentally, a far more famous killer was captured that week — a mass murderer out in Texas — and he got all the national media attention."

"I checked NCIC," Miranda protested. "As soon as I joined the Sheriff's Department here and had access, I checked every month to see if he'd been caught."

"I'm sorry," Bishop said. "Some inside the Bureau were convinced Harrison had a partner, that one man couldn't have done everything he'd confessed to doing. The decision was made to keep the case file open, to list him as at large to make certain any similar crimes would send up a flag."

"But how could they do that unless — " She sat back down in her chair. "He's dead?"

Bishop nodded.

"You?"

"Yes."

She was, on some level, surprised to feel so little about the death of Lewis Harrison. For so long, he had been a part of her life, a continual threat, the monster hiding in the closet ready to spring out when darkness came.

She doubted there had been a single night in the last eight years that she had not thought of him in the instant before she turned off her bedside lamp. As for Bonnie, the poor kid still had nightmares, horrible ones. Not so often now, but it was clear she had forgotten nothing of terror.

Miranda couldn't help but wonder how her life might have been different if she'd known Lewis Harrison could never take anything away from her ever again.

What would have changed?

"I wanted to tell you, Miranda. I tried to find you."

"I didn't want to be found," she murmured.

"That became obvious sooner rather than later. Not even FBI resources can locate an angry psychic if she doesn't want to be found."

Miranda didn't explain the methods she had used to start her life over again, though she knew he was curious. Even with the threat of Harrison gone, she was wary enough to want to protect secrets she might need again someday.

Always assuming she survived the next few weeks.

She looked across the table at Bishop and suddenly a dark, chilling doubt twisted inside her. He was ruthless, always had been. When it came to doing his job, he believed the end justified the means, and he was perfectly capable of doing whatever it took to accomplish his objectives.

God, how well she knew that.

So what were his objectives now? To persuade her to drop her guard, her shields, so he could use her abilities to track down a vicious killer? To convince her there was no threat to her and Bonnie, no reason for her to protect herself and her sister?

Would he lie to convince her?

Even though he certainly couldn't read her thoughts, Miranda saw a change in his face, as if he realized what she was thinking.

"I am not lying," he said evenly.

She conjured a brittle smile. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't take your word for that."

Bishop moved slightly, an unconscious shifting of his weight in protest or denial, but all he said, in that same level voice, was, "I'll make sure you're allowed access to the sealed records concerning Harrison."

"You do that," Miranda said.