Out of the Shadows Page 4

  “Nope. I was blocked just about the time we topped the hill. You?”

  “The same. Remarkable, isn't it?”

  Harte watched as Sheriff Knight made her way up the slope. Her lovely face was singularly without expression. “Poor Bishop,” he murmured.

  If he knew his subordinates were discussing him, Bishop gave no sign, but he joined them only moments before the sheriff and her deputy reached them.

  Deputy Mayse said, “Nothing more we can do here tonight, so—”

  “We can search for an abandoned well,” Bishop said. “There's one nearby.”

  Mayse stared at him. “How can you possibly know that?”

  “He knows,” Sheriff Knight said. She looked at her deputy matter-of-factly. “Most of the men are probably exhausted, Alex, but ask for volunteers to search around the lake. The moon will be rising, so we'll have some light.”

  The deputy clearly wanted to question or argue, but in the end just shook his head and went back down to talk to the searchers.

  Harte exchanged looks with Edwards, then said, “The more people we have searching, the quicker we're likely to find something. Our gear's in the car. We'll go change into boots and get our flashlights, some rope— whatever else looks like it might be helpful.”

  “Better have a compass or two,” Sheriff Knight said. “This is tricky terrain. It's easy to get turned around, especially in the dark.”

  “Understood.” Harte glanced at Bishop, who was already wearing boots, then traded another look with Edwards and shrugged. They both turned and trudged back up the slope toward the top and their rental car on the other side.

  With one last glance back at the two people standing several feet and a light-year or so apart, Harte muttered, “I guess it could be worse. She could have shot him on sight.”

  Bishop knew it would be up to him to break the silence between them, but when it came down to it, all he could think of was an absurdly lame comment.

  “I never thought you'd be in law enforcement.”

  “It was a logical choice. With a law degree I couldn't use … and the right kind of experience.”

  “And it kept you … plugged in, didn't it? Connected to all the right sources of information.”

  “It did that.”

  He let the silence drag on as long as he could bear, then made one more inadequate comment. “Knight. Another interesting choice.”

  “I thought it was apt.”

  He waited for elaboration, but she coolly changed the subject.

  “I see your spider-sense is working as well as ever.”

  She kept her gaze fixed on the lake as if the barely visible movements of the men were fascinating. He wondered what she was thinking but dared not touch her to find out. She had been the first to call it his spider-sense, this ability he had to sharpen and amplify his sight and hearing to the point that he was often able to see and hear far beyond what was considered normal. He wondered if she had any idea that now he seldom thought of this ancillary skill by any other name.

  “We'll know that if we find a well,” he said finally.

  “Oh, there's a well.”

  He really wished she would look at him. “And a body?”

  Miranda nodded. “And a body.”

  “There was no anonymous tip, was there, Miranda?”

  “No.”

  “You had a vision.”

  Her shoulders moved in a faint, restless shrug that belied her calm expression. “I had a … very vivid daydream. I saw this lake. I knew she was here somewhere. I know it now. A well … feels right.”

  “Still reluctant to call them visions, I see.”

  “Visions? I'm the elected sheriff of a small, conservative town where the churches actually outnumber the car dealerships. Just how long do you suppose I'd keep my job if word got out that I was seeing visions?”

  “Have you been able to hide it that well?”

  “It's amazing how many nice, logical reasons one can find for possessing surprising knowledge.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I'm intuitive. I have hunches. I'm lucky. I'm very good at my job. I make sure there's evidence to support me. If all else fails, I rely on the traditional anonymous tip. And I'm very, very careful.”

  After a moment he said, “You have very loyal deputies.”

  “To take me at my word? I suppose. But I've been right before, and they've learned to trust me.”

  “Any idea who's behind these killings?”

  Miranda's smile was twisted. “If I knew that, you wouldn't be here.”

  The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable, telling him with certainty for the first time that she was hardly as indifferent as she seemed on the surface. She didn't want him there. She hated him. And the strength of his own reaction to that surprised him.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” he said abruptly.

  The light was going fast, but they could both see Alex Mayse on his way back up toward them.

  “Hurting me,” Miranda said, “was the least of it.” Then she moved to meet her deputy.

  THREE

  It took less than two hours to find the well.

  It took two more to bring up the hideously battered body of Lynet Grainger.

  They had rigged several battery-powered lights to illuminate the clearing around the well, and that made it possible for Dr. Edwards to perform a preliminary exam at the scene. While she was doing that, the area was cordoned off and meticulously searched.

  “Not that we'll find anything useful,” Alex said to Miranda. “It rained again last night, and I'm betting she was dropped in there either before or during the rain. Nice way to wash away all the evidence. Doesn't miss a trick, our guy.”

  “You think it's the same killer?”

  “I think you noticed the same thing I did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well then?”

  She nodded slowly. “I think we have only one killer here. But … there's something different about this victim.”

  “What?”

  “I don't know.”

  Alex waited a beat. “She's fully clothed, is that it? The other two were naked, or near enough.”

  “No … not that. Something else.” She met his gaze and grimaced slightly. “Nothing I can explain, obviously. A hunch, I suppose.”

  “Your hunches are generally pretty sound.”

  “They haven't helped us much on this case.” Miranda rubbed the back of her neck in a characteristic gesture of weariness.

  Alex checked his watch. “Nearly ten. You've been out here more than eight hours, Randy. No supper, no lunch—and I'll bet you hardly slept last night.”

  Her gaze shifted to the other side of the cordoned-off area where Bishop stood talking to Agent Harte, but all she said was, “I'll sleep tonight. Too tired not to.”

  “Is Mrs. Task staying with Bonnie?”

  “Till I get home, yeah. As usual. I don't know what I'd do without her.”

  “It goes both ways,” Alex said. “She would have been in bad shape if you and Bonnie hadn't come here eight years ago. Widowed and left up to her ears in debt by that louse she was married to, no other family, no skills, no friends. Taking care of the two of you gave her a new lease on life.”

  “If that's the case, she's more than repaid me. I just hate keeping her up all hours waiting for me.”

  “She doesn't mind. It's not like you make a habit of it—I mean, before the last couple of months.”

  That was true enough, Miranda admitted silently. Being the sheriff of a small and generally peaceful town was a nine-to-five job for the most part. There were occasional town council meetings and other evening commitments, but she was usually able to spend her nights home with Bonnie.

  Even when she'd been a deputy serving under the last sheriff, the hours had been reasonable and the work mostly pleasant and undemanding.

  But that was before a killer began stalking Gladstone.

  Before the visions had returned.

 
; Before Bishop came back into her life.

  She looked at the doctor to avoid the temptation of watching Bishop, and saw Edwards make a subtle gesture toward him. By the time the doctor reached her and Alex, Bishop and Agent Harte had also joined them.

  “I have a preliminary report, Sheriff,” Edwards said briskly. “I'll know more later, of course, but …”

  “Go ahead, Doctor.”

  “Death occurred approximately twelve to twenty-four hours ago. She's in complete rigor, and judging by the position in which we found the body, she was probably dropped into the well no more than two or three hours after death but certainly well before rigor commenced. In these colder temperatures, of course, rigor would have been retarded for some time.”

  “Yes,” Miranda said. “Go on.”

  “There are no external signs of rape or other sexual abuse. No signs she was tied up or otherwise bound or physically restrained. No defensive injuries. Nothing under the fingernails. She's been severely beaten by a blunt object, something wooden, possibly a baseball bat. The cause of death, I believe, will prove to be internal injuries caused by the beating. The body's been completely exsanguinated, and by someone who knew what they were doing.”

  Alex said, “There are people who specialize in draining blood? If anybody mentions vampires, I'll—”

  Edwards shook her head, but showed no mockery. “Morticians, doctors, even a vet would know. But it's not just a matter of knowledge. This wasn't done out in a field somewhere. He had to have the right place and the right equipment.”

  “Running water,” Miranda said. “Tubing, drains. Containers for the blood, if he kept it.”

  “Exactly.” Edwards nodded. “He might have read up on the procedures, at least enough to have done a professional job, but we can be sure he had to have enough uninterrupted time and privacy to get the job done.”

  Miranda gazed steadily at the forensic expert. “Okay. And you're sure she didn't fight him? No defensive injuries, she wasn't restrained, nothing under her fingernails—she just let somebody beat her to death without a struggle?”

  “I doubt she knew what was happening. A tox screen will tell us for certain, but I believe she was drugged, possibly to the point of coma, before she was killed.”

  “Bingo,” Alex said quietly, looking at Miranda. “That's what's different.”

  “We haven't seen the detailed reports of the two other cases yet,” Bishop reminded them.

  Miranda answered the implicit question. “We don't know about Adam Ramsay, but the tox screen on Kerry Ingram came back negative, and all indications are that she was awake and aware through most of her ordeal. In fact, our medical examiner believes she was repeatedly strangled to the point of unconsciousness and then allowed to revive. A blow to the head finally killed her.”

  Agent Harte muttered, “I'll interpret that data to mean this guy is a real sicko.”

  “Amen,” Alex agreed.

  Edwards said, “I'll be able to test the remains of the Ramsay boy. We should know fairly quickly if he was drugged. And I'll know more about this one after the post.”

  Miranda said, “You didn't mention her eyes, Doctor.”

  “Removed, as you obviously noticed. And, again, by someone who knew what they were doing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the eyes weren't hacked out or gouged out. They were very neatly removed from the sockets. Whoever did it was careful not to damage the surrounding tissue. In fact, that was the only injury above her neck.”

  “I'm no profiler,” Alex said, looking at Bishop, “but that sounds significant to me.”

  “Could be,” Bishop said dispassionately, as if he hadn't noticed the direct challenge. “By blinding his victim and yet leaving her face essentially undamaged, he could be telling us she knew him and he felt something for her, possibly even some kind of affection. He took her eyes because she'd seen him, and probably covered her face with something while he was beating her so he could think of her as a nameless, faceless object. On the other hand, though it's comparatively rare for a killer to take a body part as a trophy, that could also be a valid guess.”

  “I'm sorry I asked,” Alex muttered.

  “Why did he take her blood?” Miranda asked. “And Kerry Ingram's blood—possibly the blood of all three of them? What does that signify?”

  “A ritualistic or cannibalistic obsession, most likely,” Bishop answered promptly. “Assuming he kept it and didn't just drain it from the body, he needs the blood or believes he does. Either to drink it or use it some other way in a ritual that's important to him.”

  “Then maybe,” Miranda suggested, “he needed Lynet's eyes as well.”

  “It is possible,” Bishop agreed. “At this point, I barely have enough information to offer a threshold diagnosis, much less a complete profile.”

  Edwards said, “And I've learned all I can from this body, at least for the moment. Also, in case the rest of you haven't noticed, it's getting damned cold out here. I suggest we bag the body and take it to your autopsy facility, and I'll get started on the post.”

  “Our autopsy facility,” Alex said, “is the morgue of the county hospital. I think they threw out the leeches a year or so ago.”

  Edwards smiled faintly. “Fieldwork demands accommodations, Deputy. I always bring my own equipment along.”

  “Wise of you.”

  Miranda said, “The hearse we've been using to transport the bodies is back with the other vehicles, Doctor. Take as many of my people as you need to help.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  After Edwards and Harte moved away, Alex said, “Randy, why don't you head on back? It's been a hell of a long day, and tomorrow won't be any better.”

  Very conscious of Bishop's silent attention, Miranda shook her head. “I still have to go tell Teresa Grainger about her daughter, before she hears it from someone else. Besides, we'll be finished up here in another hour.”

  “A word, Sheriff?” Bishop's tone was impersonal.

  Miranda followed him a few feet away, keeping a careful and deliberate distance between them. She didn't have to wait long to hear what he had to say.

  “Miranda, if my team's to be of any real use to you, they have to be able to do their jobs.”

  She stiffened. “I wasn't aware anyone was interfering with them.”

  “You are.”

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but he didn't give her a chance.

  “You closed down like a steel trap the moment we got here. And whatever else may have changed in eight years, that hasn't. You're blocking them, Miranda. They can't pick up a damned thing, from the body or from the area, as long as you're here.”

  “You didn't seem to have any trouble.” She refused to look away from those pale sentry eyes of his, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still get under her skin—even if not inside her head.

  “And we both know why,” he said flatly. “But my team doesn't have the same … advantage.”

  It took every ounce of her willpower not to hit him. She couldn't say a word, didn't trust herself to speak at all.

  Obviously not suffering from the same paralysis, he said, “Let us do what we came here to do, Miranda. And you do what you have to do. Go tell that kid's mother she won't be coming home. And then get some rest. We'll start fresh in the morning.”

  She still couldn't say a word, because she knew if she did it would become a torrent of words. Words about betrayal. Words about dishonesty and deception, about hurt and loss and bitterness and rage.

  So she didn't say a word. She just turned and headed around the lake to her Jeep. She left Bishop to explain to Alex and the others why she had left so abruptly.

  She knew he'd think of something to tell them.

  “My God, we do have a serial killer,” the mayor said, horrified.

  John MacBride was seated across the desk from Miranda, who wished for the third time that she had gone straight home from Teresa Grainger's
place. Instead, she had stopped at the office for what she'd thought would be no more than ten minutes. But MacBride showed up and the ten minutes stretched into twenty.

  “We don't know that for sure,” she told him patiently.

  “With three dead teenagers? What else could it be?”

  “They used to call serial killers ‘stranger killers,’ because they seldom had any connection to or prior knowledge of their victims. I don't believe that's the case here. And given the way we found the bodies, I think the task force will eventually classify these as bizarre murders—killings committed to satisfy the needs of some kind of ritual.”

  MacBride looked more appalled. He was normally a handsome man, but signs of strain had appeared in recent weeks, and his expression of dismay made the dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face much more evident.

  “Ritual killings?” he exclaimed. “Do you mean we're dealing with satanism or some other kind of occult shit?”

  “I don't know, John. But if you're imagining black-robed figures dancing around a fire out in the woods under a full moon, forget it. We have one killer here, and whatever his reasons for killing, whatever his sick rituals are, I believe we'll find he's acting alone.”

  “That doesn't make me feel any better, dammit! The bastard's done a hell of a lot of damage alone.” He brooded for a moment. “It has to be a stranger. Someone who doesn't actually live in Gladstone but just—”

  “Just hunts here?” Miranda shrugged. “It's possible. And now, with three killings to reference, at least we should be able to note enough commonalities to ask law enforcement in surrounding counties to check their own unsolved cases for similar killings.”

  “The publicity,” MacBride moaned.

  Miranda decided she wasn't up to reassuring a worried mayor tonight; no matter what she said, it would only upset him more. With a sigh, she rose to her feet.

  “Look, John, let's not borrow more trouble, all right? We'll do our best to limit publicity. Besides, if this FBI task force is as good as their reputation, chances are we'll have this case solved and the killer in custody very soon.”