Out of the Shadows Page 23

  It took Seth only a moment to understand. He stopped walking and turned Bonnie to face him. “You mean the killer might think you're a threat to him?”

  “It's possible. The storm is probably slowing the spread of gossip, but Randy wants me to stay here and not be alone just in case the killer hears something.” She didn't add that Miranda had also warned her to keep her shields up in order to protect herself from another potential but more tenuous threat.

  “Why isn't there a deputy here?” Fear for her made his voice angry.

  “It would only draw attention to me, Seth. You know how garbled gossip gets; chances are, even if the killer hears something, he won't be sure what the truth is.” She smiled at him. “If somebody knocks on the clinic door with a flimsy excuse, we probably shouldn't let him in—but other than that there really isn't much to worry about.”

  “Maybe for now,” he said grimly.

  Bonnie hesitated again, then said, “Randy thinks it's nearly over. If they can find out who the killer is before he has a chance to …”

  “Come after you?”

  “Before he has a chance to come after anybody else.” She looked at him gravely. “We're all in danger, you know that. We have been all along. But Randy and Bishop will stop him.”

  “Will they?”

  “Yes. I'm sure of that.” But what Bonnie was less sure of was the cost. There was always a cost. Always.

  “Okay, look,” Seth said in a determined voice. “From now on, I stay within sight of you at all times. Promise me, Bonnie.”

  “I promise—as long as you allow me a little privacy in the bathroom.”

  He was young enough that some things still had the power to make him blush, but he said stolidly, “I'll wait outside the door.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin. “Deal. Now, why don't we go see if we can calm down two sick little girls?”

  Seth nodded and held her hand a bit tighter as they continued down the hall. As they passed a corner, he had another of those weird feelings, and almost told Bonnie that he could swear he'd caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, as if a shadow had fleetingly reached out for them.

  But he decided once again not to let his imagination get the better of his good sense.

  Bishop stepped out onto the porch and zipped his jacket. The gray sky looked heavier and more threatening by the minute. It was just after noon; if the storm held off another hour they'd be lucky.

  He was aware of the activity behind him, of Shepherd and Edwards, the muted sounds of voices and Brady Shaw's cameras, but he had gained all he expected to from the scene. Which wasn't all that much.

  He looked down at the plastic evidence bag in his hands and studied the Bible through it. Old, dog-eared, and quite distinctive, he had recognized it the moment he'd seen it on Liz Hallowell's nightstand.

  Under his breath, he muttered, “Just how stupid do you think I am?” Then he shook his head and tucked the bag inside his jacket.

  The door behind him was shoved open wider and Sandy Lynch rushed past him. Bishop didn't have to catch a fleeting glimpse of her pallor or panicked expression to know she was about to lose her breakfast. She stumbled through the snow to just beyond the closest parked vehicle, which happened to be the hearse that would take away Liz's body, and disappeared behind it.

  Poor kid. If she still wanted to be any kind of cop when this was over, it would be a miracle.

  She came back to the porch a few minutes later and flushed a little under Bishop's sympathetic gaze. Jerkily, she said, “They turned her and I saw her face. I didn't think—but then the doctors were talking about it and— and— God!”

  Both to inform and to give her time to compose herself, Bishop said, “You know, when kittens reach adulthood, their mother sees them as just other cats. She's done her job, her babies are grown—and they aren't her babies anymore. Maternal ties last only as long as necessary. That's a very practical idea in nature.”

  Sandy frowned. “But—but it ate some of her! I heard Dr. Shepherd say she'd had that cat for years, how could it do that? Was it so ravenous that—”

  Bishop shook his head. “It had nothing to do with being ravenous and everything to do with being a cat. Experienced pathologists and cops will tell you it's more common than you might think. Die alone in your home with the family dog, and he'll wait until he's absolutely starving to death before he considers you a meal. Die alone with a pet cat, and he won't even wait until you're cold. Once dead, you stop being you and become just… flesh. It's his nature to be opportunistic; if there's food, he'll try it. Even if the food is the hand that fed him for years.”

  Sandy's face worked for a moment, and she finally muttered, “Oh, yuck. And I have a cat.”

  With a faint smile, Bishop said, “I like them myself. In spite of understanding them.”

  “I think,” Sandy said, “I'll start closing my bedroom door at night. Misty can sleep on the couch.”

  Bishop didn't bother to remind her that given her age she was unlikely to die peacefully in her bed, at least during the probable lifetime of her cat. Instead, he merely nodded. “Probably not a bad idea, if only for your own peace of mind. For what it's worth, you don't have to worry that your cat is watching you and thinking of you as supper, Deputy Lynch. As long as you're a living being, she would never see you as a meal.”

  “Just don't stop breathing?”

  “Something like that.”

  Sandy gazed past him at the doorway and drew a deep breath. “Right. And, for now, do my job. You don't have to say it.”

  “I think you're doing fine in a very difficult situation. Don't be so hard on yourself.”

  Obviously surprised, she flushed again and then ducked her head in acknowledgment as she went back into the house.

  Tony passed her in the doorway and joined Bishop on the porch. “They just called to say the tow truck made it back to the Sheriff's Department with no trouble,” he reported. “Her car'll be secured in the garage there, so we can take our time and go over it bumper to bumper.”

  Bishop nodded. “It took the direct route, right down Main Street?”

  “As ordered. Brutal way for some of her friends to find out about Miss Hallowell. Calls are already coming in.”

  “Yeah. But I want this bastard to know we've found his latest kill.”

  Tony looked at him curiously. “And do you want him to think he's fooled us, at least for the moment?”

  “If it'll buy us a little time, why not? If he thinks there's even half a chance somebody else could be convicted of his crimes, I'm willing to bet he'll sit tight and wait to see what happens.”

  “Pretty blatant, leaving that Bible,” Tony mused.

  “He hasn't shown much talent for subtlety, that's for sure. I don't know, maybe he's just trying to confuse things as much as possible. Killing someone who doesn't fit the previous victim profile and leaving evidence pointing to Marsh could be his way of slowing us down, distracting us.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Slowly, Bishop said, “I think he made his first serious mistake. I think he killed Liz because he was afraid of her, because he heard a garbled version of what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse to remove what he perceived as a threat. And it was only when he'd killed her that he realized he had to disguise his intent.”

  “Why?”

  “So we wouldn't know he was afraid. He had to know that the only reason for him to kill Liz was an obvious one. Fear. When he saw that, he had to try to frame somebody else for the murder. Even if we believed Marsh committed only this crime, at least we wouldn't think the real killer was afraid.”

  “He didn't want us to think he was sexually interested in his victims, and he doesn't want us to think he's afraid of anything.” Tony shook his head. “I guess homicidal maniacs are screwed up by definition, but this guy takes the prize.”

  “No kidding.” Half consciously, Bishop turned to look toward the road.

  “Miranda
's coming?” Tony guessed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought the transmitter was up and running again,” Tony murmured. “So you two are sort of … linked?”

  “You could say that.” Bishop glanced at him, noted the professional as well as personal curiosity, and sighed. “It's like a corridor with a door at either end. With the doors open, we can communicate telepathically almost as easily as you and I are talking now.”

  “And with the doors closed?”

  “There's just… an awareness. A sensitivity to mood, other emotions. Nearness.”

  “Ah.” Tony nodded. “Mind me asking if the doors are open or closed right now?”

  Bishop hesitated, then shrugged. “My side is open. Hers is closed.”

  “Could you open her door?” Tony asked.

  “Probably. But it would be … a forceful act. An invasion of privacy. We all need our privacy sometimes.”

  “Jeez,” Tony said seriously, “you just know communication between the sexes is a bitch when even telepaths with a direct line to each other have problems talking.”

  Bishop had to smile, even though he felt little amusement. “Like every other part of the human condition, Tony, it just makes things more complicated—not less.”

  “I guess so.” Tony saw Miranda's Jeep turn into the driveway. “In any case, I certainly don't envy her the last hour or so, telling Alex about this.”

  “No. It wasn't pleasant.”

  As Miranda walked toward the porch, her face drawn and still, Tony murmured something about helping the doctors and retreated into the house.

  “How's Alex?” Bishop asked her.

  Miranda made no move to go inside. “Lousy,” she said, not mincing words. “I left him at the office with Carl and a bottle of scotch. That song about not knowing what you've got till it's gone keeps running through my mind. Thinking he was still in love with his dead wife was such a habit, Alex never realized until today that he was falling in love with Liz.” She sighed, then added immediately, “Do we have any preliminary reports?”

  He told her what they had so far, along with his speculations on the killer's motives.

  Thoughtful, Miranda said, “We've never publicly focused suspicion on anyone, so the killer might not have any idea that Justin Marsh has pretty solid alibis for the other murders. But I agree with you. I think he's less interested in offering us a suspect for all the murders and much more intent on making us believe he had nothing to do with this one.”

  “So we pick up Marsh. Pretend we've taken the bait.”

  Miranda rubbed the nape of her neck, frowning. “The only question is, either we do it now, before the storm hits, and suffer Justin's undoubtedly pissed-off company for God knows how many hours—or we take our time getting back to the office and let the storm logically and obviously delay things a bit.”

  “If you're calling for votes, I vote for the second option.”

  She smiled faintly. “Yeah, me too. Are they about done in there?”

  “I think so. Sharon and Peter are going to take the body to the hospital and get started on the autopsy. We'll have her car to go over, and there are a few fibers and prints to sort through, but we can do that at the office. Tony took the cat to one of your local vets for now, by the way.”

  “Good.”

  “Miranda—”

  The door behind them swung open, and Sharon Edwards joined them on the porch. “We're ready to move the body,” she told them briskly. “Preliminary exam shows she died of blood loss due to a stab wound to the abdomen. From what I saw, most of the blood lost ended up in the backseat of her car, so we know how he transported the body here.”

  “He didn't take any of the blood with him?”

  “I don't think so. If he did, it wasn't much. No signs of torture, no mutilation—other than that caused by the cat, of course.”

  “Of course,” Miranda echoed flatly. “Did you pick up anything from the scene?”

  “Nothing useful. The Bible must be one Justin Marsh has carried for years, because it practically screams his name. We didn't find the murder weapon, so there was no help there. And if the killer left anything else behind, it wasn't anything I could see or sense.”

  “Was the time of death last night?”

  Bishop was conscious of an almost overwhelming urge to keep that question from being answered. But he couldn't, of course.

  Sharon nodded. “I'd say sometime between nine and midnight.”

  “Between nine and midnight. I see.” … if Liz is dead… if she died last night before you came to me … then it's all happening just the way I saw it happen, in spite of what I tried to do to change it.

  It was starting to snow again.

  Miranda drew a breath. “It looks like we'd better get moving. Sharon, we may end up snowed in for a couple of days, but you or Peter will call with the autopsy results?”

  “As soon as we've finished.”

  “Thank you. Bishop, will you make sure the house is left locked, please?”

  “Of course.”

  “I'll see you back at the office.”

  “Right.” As he watched her return to her Jeep, all he thought of was Alex and those undiscovered, undeclared feelings; was it sheer, obstinate human nature to so often remain blind to the truth until it was too late?

  Was it too late?

  “Funny,” Sharon said thoughtfully. “I mean, that she still calls you Bishop.”

  Gazing after the departing Jeep, he said slowly, “She's never called me anything else.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The back side of the storm hit Gladstone just before two in the afternoon, and as promised it was proving to be even more vicious than what had gone before. The wind howled like something tortured, and snow mixed with sleet angrily pelted the windows, so much of it falling and blowing around that there was little to see outside except white. White everywhere.

  Miranda stood at her office window, looking out at all the white and trying not to worry about all the things she couldn't control, when someone knocked on her door at a little after four o'clock. “Come in,” she said, almost adding his name.

  Bishop came in and closed the door. “Brought you some coffee,” he said, moving around the desk to hand her a cup.

  She accepted it. “Thanks. You know, I'd heard about white hurricanes but never saw one until now.”

  Instead of going back around to a visitor's chair, Bishop remained where he was, sitting on the edge of her desk. “The weather reports say it'll be another hour before the worst of it is past. That means the cleanup starts tomorrow.”

  “Most of the cleanup. As soon as the snow slacks off, I'll have patrols out, and there'll be power crews and snow plows starting on the mess. With most of the town without power, that'll be our priority.”

  “How long will the generators last?”

  “We have enough fuel for several days, so there shouldn't be a problem here. Same goes for the hospital and the clinic. School's been canceled for tomorrow, like all shifts at the paper mill, and I doubt many of the other businesses will even make an attempt to open.”

  Bishop watched her profile, very aware of their connection and even more conscious of the closed door shutting him off from what she was thinking. Or feeling, for that matter; whether deliberately or not, Miranda's mind and spirit were both so still and quiet that they offered him no clue to her emotions. “I talked to Alex a few minutes ago. You know he never opened the bottle of scotch?”

  “I know. He's not the sort to drown his sorrows. He just keeps going blindly forward until he hits the wall.”

  “He's down in the basement digging through old files. Said he'd rather keep busy.” Bishop paused. “But he's worse than walking wounded. I'd say that wall is close.”

  “Yes. I know. He was the same way when his wife died. Cancer. She was sick for months, but even with the time to prepare for the inevitable, he wasn't ready to let her go.”

  For just an instant, Bishop almost changed his
mind, almost convinced himself that patience would be best. But remembering Alex's white face and numb expression drove him on. “I seem fated to always be advising other men to let go of the women they love.”

  “Is that what you told Alex? To let go?”

  “No. But there've been other times. It was … easy advice to give. Rational, logical.”

  “But not welcome.”

  “No. Never welcome. Sometimes I think I said what I did to them only to remind myself. How impossible it is to let go. No matter how rational or logical it is. No matter how much time passes and how empty you feel, or how much you ache alone at night. No matter how many times you tell yourself what a fool you are.”

  “So we're going to talk about this,” she said.

  “I think we'd better, don't you?”

  Miranda turned from the window at last and looked at him with a faint smile. “You have a captive audience this time.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can't grab my sister and run away. This time.”

  Bishop barely felt the edge of the desk biting into his hands. “No,” he agreed. “Do you want to?”

  “Run away?” She lifted her cup in a little salute. “It didn't help before, did it? Nothing was resolved, it all just… stopped.”

  “That isn't an answer.”

  “It's the only one I have.”

  “Miranda, you knew I loved you.”

  “Yes. And you knew that wasn't the problem.”

  “Trust.”

  She nodded. “You wanted what we had together, the euphoria of it, the incredible exhilaration, but afterward the closeness disturbed you. The intimacy. Being so … connected to another person. You didn't want to be known that well. You didn't want anyone to see or touch you that deeply. Not even me. So you closed the door.”

  “It wasn't always closed,” he said roughly.

  “Be honest, Bishop. It would have been closed even when we were in bed together if you could have figured out how to make that work. But you couldn't. Letting your guard down then was the price you paid for the thrill. And what do you think that was worth to me? How was I supposed to value a trust that was granted only reluctantly and when the barriers were torn down by passion? A trust you took back the instant you could.”