Out of the Shadows Page 9

  “Those bones.” Miranda looked at Edwards. “Are you sure there isn't something you can tell us now about those bones, Doctor?”

  “Sheriff, to be honest, all I have is a hunch—and it's pretty far out. I need a few days to finish my tests. All I can tell you right now is that the Ramsay boy's bones had been … altered.”

  “Aged,” Miranda said.

  Edwards nodded. “Artificially aged.”

  Alex said, “Why, for God's sake?”

  “That's the question, isn't it, Deputy? Why—and how. I hope to find those answers, but I need time.”

  “I hope we have time,” Miranda said. “But if Lynet was a mistake, killing her might have altered his needs and his rituals in ways we can't begin to understand let alone predict.”

  “He could be hunting again,” Harte said. “And since we all seem to be having hunches, another one of mine is that he's looking around for his next victim even as we speak.”

  “In a county with several thousand teenagers.” This time, Miranda didn't stop herself from rubbing her temples. “Shit. At the very least, I'm going to have to declare a dusk-to-dawn curfew for everybody under eighteen, try to keep the kids at home, at school—and off the streets.”

  “I doubt you'll get an argument,” Alex told her. “Except from the kids, of course. The mayor will be thrilled to announce any action that sounds like he's helping to keep the town safe.”

  Miranda sent him a faint smile, then glanced at her watch. Addressing the three agents but looking only at Edwards, she said, “I don't know if you three plan on working tonight, but I do know the café and most of our better restaurants will be closing in less than two hours. If you want my advice, you'll go get something to eat while you can.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Harte stood up and stretched. “If I don't get something besides caffeine in my system, somebody'll have to peel me off the ceiling.”

  Edwards nodded agreement and looked at Bishop as she rose too. “I'll need a couple more hours at the morgue tonight, then there's nothing I can do until tomorrow.”

  Bishop, his gaze on Miranda, seemed about to say something, but finally just followed his agents out of the conference room.

  Mildly, Alex said, “I guess we could offer to feed them now and then, since they're here to help us.”

  “I had Grace send for takeout for their lunch and made it a standing order for the remainder of their time here,” Miranda said. “Even had something sent over to the hospital for Edwards. I'm not being inhospitable, Alex. But I also don't intend to socialize with them. They're here to do a job, and I sincerely hope they're very good at what they do.”

  “We all hope that. And I'm not saying we have to make nice outside the office. You may not have noticed, but I don't especially care for Bishop.”

  “No, really?” Miranda murmured.

  “Okay, so maybe it was a little more obvious than I thought.” He paused. “Was it?”

  “Let's just say I can't see the two of you going running together at dawn like best buds.”

  “Oh, he runs?” Alex's tone was innocent.

  Miranda drew a breath and rubbed her temple again. “Now? I couldn't say. But he used to, and he looks to be in good shape, so I'd guess he still runs.”

  “Oh, yeah, I'd say he was in fair shape. Is he any good with that gun he wears?”

  “Yes,” Miranda replied without elaborating.

  “Uh-huh. And I guess he earned that scar fighting bad guys?”

  “In the best heroic tradition,” she said, only half mockingly.

  “What about his hunch about the killer? How close is that likely to be?”

  “Let's just say I wouldn't bet against him. He was always … very good at his job.”

  There was a short silence, then Alex said casually, “So you two knew each other pretty well, huh?”

  She laughed under her breath. “Are you asking me if we were lovers, Alex?”

  “Just tell me if I'm being too nosy.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “And I guess … it ended badly?”

  “You could say that.” She shrugged, very conscious of the tightness in her shoulders.

  “Working with him now can't be a whole hell of a lot of fun.”

  “No,” Miranda said. “I wouldn't call it fun.” A sudden stab of pain made her breath catch.

  Alex stared at her, his brows drawing together in a frown. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  “Headache, that's all.” Miranda pretended the momentary pause wasn't caused by a surge of nausea. “I'm going home. You too. And don't come back tonight.”

  “Randy? This killer. Do you suppose it's somebody we know? I mean, know well?”

  “I don't think we know him, Alex. I don't think we know him at all.”

  Tony Harte leaned back to let the waitress set his plate before him, and waited until she had left before saying, “Granted, I only had the use of the usual five senses, but am I the only one who thought the sheriff was in pain? A lot of pain?”

  “She said it was a headache,” Bishop said.

  “That,” Sharon Edwards said, “was no ordinary headache. Her pupils were dilated. Is she subject to migraines?” That last brisk question was aimed directly at Bishop.

  He hesitated. “Not as far as I know.”

  Edwards watched him intently. “But?”

  “You know as well as I do. Better than I do.” Bishop wished this weren't Sunday in a small town where he couldn't even buy a beer, much less the raw whiskey he craved at the moment. “One theory is that psychic ability is caused when some of the electrical impulses in the brain misfire and forge new pathways to previously unused areas.”

  Harte frowned. “Yeah, I remember reading about that. So?”

  “So,” Bishop said unemotionally, “if that theory is true, then it follows that especially frequent or especially powerful misfires could, instead of forging new pathways, begin to destroy old ones. Begin to destroy the brain itself.”

  “Miranda Knight,” Harte said slowly, “is definitely what I'd call an especially powerful psychic. Since she has four separate abilities to call her own, there must be an awful lot of electrical activity in her brain. Especially since she's using an incredible amount of energy to shield herself—and block us.”

  “Yes,” Bishop said.

  Edwards put down her fork. Reluctantly, she said, “In such a case, the early symptoms would most likely be intense headaches, sensitivity to light and noise, dilated pupils. Like a migraine, but growing worse and causing more damage with each event.”

  “Until?” Harte asked warily.

  Edwards avoided his gaze and picked up her fork again. “There hasn't been enough research to offer any definitive answers to something so theoretical. Even if we had the technical knowledge to understand it, the instruments to measure and evaluate …”

  Harte looked at Bishop and didn't like what he saw. Or what he felt. “Until?” he repeated.

  “Until she's a vegetable.” Bishop's voice was stony. He turned his head to stare out the window at the dark, chilly winter night. “Of course … it's only a theory.”

  SEVEN

  Tuesday, January 11

  Seth Daniels eased into second gear, babying the car, aiming for a smooth transition, and scowled at the betraying jerk. He knew Bonnie was watching him in amused understanding but refused to meet her eyes. It was hard enough on a guy that his girlfriend was the sheriff's sister; it was downright embarrassing to have that same girlfriend teaching him how to drive a stick shift.

  “It just takes practice,” she said, her carefully neutral voice doing nothing except underline the fact that she was trying not to further damage his fragile male ego.

  “I know that,” he said.

  “And coordination.”

  “I know that too, Bonnie.”

  “All I'm saying is that you'll get the hang of it. It can't be harder than playing football, and you do that.”

&n
bsp; Seth winced as the shift into third was accomplished with another jerk and a grinding noise. “Oh, yeah— how hard can it be?” he muttered. A sideways glance showed him Bonnie was biting her lip, and he struggled with himself for a moment before finally laughing.

  “Okay, okay. I'll get the hang of it. Just tell me Miranda didn't teach you how to hunt bears or fly a jet.”

  “You want to learn how to hunt bears?” she asked innocently. “Because if so—”

  “Bonnie.”

  She laughed. “No, she didn't teach me either of those things. Just the more usual stuff. Cooking, sewing, driving a stick … sharpshooting.”

  “Jesus.”

  Bonnie smiled at him. “Well, she was trying to be mother and father, you know.”

  “Well, yeah, I understand that—but sometimes I wonder if she wasn't also trying to be a commando. Sharpshooting?”

  “With a gun in the house, she just thought I should know how to handle it.”

  “But sharpshooting? Knowing how not to shoot yourself in the foot is one thing, but how often in life will you need to blow the wings off a fly at a hundred yards?”

  “The light's yellow, Seth—use the clutch and downshift.”

  He obeyed, eventually bringing the car to a halt at the traffic light in a maneuver smooth enough to partially soothe his ruffled feathers. “You changed the subject,” he told her.

  “There was nothing more to say. Randy taught me what she thought might be useful someday. So I can bake biscuits and sew on a button, and I can also change a tire and handle a gun.”

  Seth looked at her for a moment, then eased the car forward when the light changed. “I'm surprised she let you come out with me today.”

  “We have to be back home by curfew, Seth.”

  “Yeah, I know that.” He was seventeen, which put him in the age group required to be off the streets and under parental or employer supervision by 5:00 P.M.

  “But she's always been so protective of you, and with a killer running loose—”

  “I promised her I wouldn't go anywhere alone even before curfew, that I'd either be with you or home with Mrs. Task. She likes you, and she trusts you.”

  “She does?”

  “Why are you so surprised by that? You could be the poster child for good teenagers.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “It's true and you know it. Your grades are good enough that you tutor other students, and we all know you'll go to medical school. You work part-time in Cobb's garage and in your father's clinic every chance you get. You even help teach a Sunday-school class and have a paper route.”

  “I've had that route since I was ten,” he said defensively, then glanced at her and found her smiling at him. It was a smile that never failed to raise his blood pressure and make him think so many absurd things he dared not say aloud. Even if he could say anything coherent, which he doubted.

  Bonnie didn't seem to notice the effect she had on him. “Well, anyway, Randy trusts you. She knows I'm safe with you.”

  Glancing at her again, Seth saw a shadow cross her face, and it distracted him from surging hormones. “Every time you say something like that, I get the feeling …”

  “What?” Bonnie said, but more like she was just responding brightly than because she really wanted to know.

  Seth listened to the tone rather than the words and backed off. “Nothing.” He was honest enough to ask himself if he did it because he knew she didn't want to confide whatever it was—or because he was afraid to hear it. And he didn't know the answer.

  Distracting them both, he said, “Hey, there's Steve. Want to stop and say hi?”

  “He looks like he's in a hurry. Doesn't he have to go in to work?”

  “At six, yeah.” Seth downshifted and heard the gears grind. “Damn. Maybe I'd better concentrate on what I'm doing.”

  “Maybe you'd better.” She sounded amused again, but her tone sobered when she added, “Steve is planning to dump Amy, isn't he?”

  “I don't know what Steve is planning to do.”

  “Don't you?”

  “No. Honest, Bonnie, I don't.” He hesitated. “He's a great guy, it's just that he likes…”

  “Variety?” she supplied wryly.

  “I'm not saying it's a good thing—just his thing. Come on, Amy must have known that going in. It's not like Steve's reputation is lily white. She did know, right?”

  “Knowing is one thing. Believing and understanding are something else.”

  Seth grimaced. “She thinks she can change him?”

  Bonnie sighed. “I guess so.”

  “She won't change him, Bonnie.”

  “I know.” She checked her watch. “It's after four, Seth.”

  He accepted the change of subject with relief. Keeping his own romantic relationship on an even keel was difficult enough; trying to manage someone else's was beyond him. “Yeah, I know. Time to head for home. Do you want to stop by and see Miranda first?”

  “No. She'll probably be home by seven or so. There isn't much they can do at night except keep going over and over all the reports and information, and after a while it's like …”

  “Like a dog chasing its tail?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Must be driving Miranda crazy. She's always been so good at solving crimes quickly. But I guess there's never been anything like this killer.”

  “No,” Bonnie said. “There's never been anything like him.”

  Hearing an odd note in her voice, Seth shot her a glance. She was unconsciously rubbing the scar on her forearm, something he knew she only did when she was worried or anxious about something. “They'll get him, Bonnie.”

  “I know. I know they will.”

  “You're worried about Miranda?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “She'll be all right. I don't know anybody better able to take care of herself than Miranda.”

  “You'd think so,” Bonnie said, “wouldn't you.”

  They had taken to locking the conference room whenever it was empty, keeping their reports and speculations away from the eyes of the curious. Even Miranda's deputies, with the exception of Alex Mayse, knew only as much as necessary. So Bishop was not happy when Miranda came in at nearly six o'clock Tuesday evening accompanied by the mayor.

  Bishop had met John MacBride the day before and hadn't been terribly impressed—but that might have been because MacBride had made a point of touching Miranda in a casual manner guaranteed to alert the instincts of any other man. Miranda had been polite, professional, and unresponsive to the attention—but she hadn't objected.

  When His Honor stood staring at the gruesome display on the bulletin board with a sickened expression on his face as Tony explained their procedures, Bishop moved as close to Miranda as he dared. “This isn't a good idea,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said, equally quiet. “But he insisted. And if this visit reassures him that we're doing everything we can to find the killer, then maybe he'll be able to reassure the town council and all the other worried citizens. Right now, no one is bringing any undue pressure to bear on the investigation, much less trying to run things. I'd like to keep it that way.”

  Bishop was politically savvy enough to get the point, but it didn't make him like the situation any better. “If some of these details get out, you'll have a major panic on your hands—and our job won't get any easier.”

  “He won't talk about the details.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Miranda sat on the edge of the conference table and lifted an eyebrow at him. “Because I told him not to.”

  Bishop didn't know whether to be amused or irritated. “And he always does what you tell him to?”

  “He does when it's my job.”

  A glance showed Bishop that MacBride and Tony were still occupied. “Can you read him?”

  Miranda shook her head.

  “Even when he touches you?”

  “Even then.”

  Bi
shop silently debated if it would be wise to ask about this touching, then forced himself to remain professional. “Because of your shields or his?”

  “His.” Miranda shrugged. “It's not an uncommon trait in small towns. You must have noticed.”

  “I have. Yesterday when Tony and I were walking around downtown meeting the merchants, I couldn't read two-thirds of them. Neither could Tony.”

  “Like I said, it's not so extraordinary. In small towns, privacy is especially hard to come by, so the tendency is to guard oneself. Over a lifetime, that could easily and logically equate to mental and emotional shields and walls.”

  “Is that why you settled here?”

  “It was one of the reasons.”

  “And because small-town life would be good for Bonnie?”

  “That too.”

  Bishop reflected somewhat bitterly that she was only willing to talk to him like this when there were other people around. He had tried to take advantage of such moments, but since he could hardly say some of the things he wanted to say when there was every chance of being overheard, he had forced himself to bide his time, to concentrate on the investigation and keep their conversations relatively professional.

  It wasn't getting any easier.

  Hoping to make a breakthrough of sorts, he reached into his jacket pocket for a folded piece of paper and held it out to her. “I meant to give you this earlier.”

  She didn't move. “What is it?”

  “Access to those sealed files we talked about.”

  Still, she didn't move.

  He pretended not to notice her hesitation. “The files have been copied from the Bureau's database into a separate, secured area, and you've been granted temporary access. Nothing can be downloaded or copied, you'll have to agree to that. The computers here are capable of establishing the link. These are the codes you'll need.”

  Finally, Miranda took the paper from him without, needless to say, touching him.

  Bishop didn't wait to find out if she would thank him, since he suspected he'd be waiting a long time. He joined the two men at the bulletin board.

  He didn't have to be a telepath to interpret Tony's quick roll of the eyes, and when he heard the nervousness in MacBride's voice he realized the other agent was probably holding on to his patience with both hands.