Out of the Shadows (15 page)

*  *  *

Miranda didn't like storms as a rule. She supposed if she could curl up in front of a roaring fire and sip hot tea while watching snow fall, she'd feel different, but she had never had that luxury. From the time she and Bonnie had first moved to a part of the country that actually had four distinct seasons, she had been more concerned with the inconveniences and possible dangers of bad weather than its beauties.
It wasn't her job to get Gladstone prepared for a storm; there were other authorities to take care of that. But she had to get her people and the Sheriff's Department ready, and that took time. It was after seven-thirty when she went into the conference room to check on any progress in the investigation.
She knew before she opened the door that Bishop wasn't in the room—or in the building, for that matter—but asked as casually as she could when she found only Tony Harte there.
"He's at the hospital with Sharon," Tony replied. "Said he wanted to sit in on the autopsy. Didn't say why. I don't know, maybe he's got a hunch. Or maybe he's just looking for something to spark one."
Miranda sat on the table, unconsciously taking Bishop's accustomed place, as Tony worked on his laptop. "And you're trying to get something from the tire track?"
"Trying being the operative word. The good news is that we got a terrific clear cast of the treads."
"And the bad news?"
"It's one of the best-selling tires in the country. I've got someone back at Quantico trying to narrow down the possibles, but half the dealers aren't on computer yet. It's going to take days just to get a reliable list of retailers within a hundred miles who sold the damn things—never mind finding out from those dealers who their customers were and getting a list of them."
"Did we get anything else from the scene at the mill-house? Anything at all?"
"Not much. The bastard might not have been ready for us to find his victim, but he runs a pretty clean murder. We have the rope around Penman's ankles, which is your basic garden-variety hardware-store rope, and there was nothing fancy about the knot. We have a few—a very few—forensic odds and ends that might eventually help us build a case in court, but nothing helpful at this point. A few carpet fibers that could be from his car or his house; a couple of strands of hair we found caught in the door frame that may or may not match the victim's; a sliver of a footprint—without a distinctive tread." He shrugged. "What we can't interpret here we've sent back to Quantico for analysis. For what it's worth."
Miranda was silent for several minutes, staring at the bulletin board already displaying the grisly crime-scene photographs from that afternoon. "Two things bother me," she said.
"Only two?" Tony's voice was wry.
"Well, two at the moment." She turned back to the agent. "What the hell is he doing with the blood—and what happens if we've really pissed him off by finding Steve Penman before he wanted us to?"
"For the first, I haven't a clue. I'd think the second was potentially more dangerous. Like I said out at the scene, I really don't want to see this guy pissed off."
"I don't either. But I'm afraid we will."
Tony pursed his lips. "Think he might find out how you got the tip?"
"If he listens to gossip, he'll certainly have a possibility."
"But is it something he'll believe?"
Slowly, Miranda said, "If Bishop's profile is accurate, it might be the only possibility the killer can believe. He thinks he's all-powerful and in control, that he seldom if ever makes a mistake. The fact that we found his latest victim before he was ready for us to will shake him. He might eagerly accept the idea that we had to use some ... paranormal means to do it."
"It tracks," Tony admitted. "But if he believes Bonnie sent us out there ..."
"Then she's a danger to him." Miranda's voice was grim. "Which is why she won't be alone at any time until this is over and done with."
"I know you're accustomed to taking precautions, but this has to be worrying you."
"You could say that." Miranda wondered almost idly what it would feel like not to be worried. After so many years, it was familiar, a normal state of mind.
"We'll get him, Miranda."
"Yes, I know we will." But would it be in time?
"You're doing everything you can," Tony reminded her.
"Am I?"
"The police work's all on target. Step by step and by the numbers. As for other things ... we're using all the tools we've got. And so are you, right? Any insights?"
"Insights?"
"Vibes, let's say."
"I don't pick up vibes, remember?" she reminded him.
"Yeah, but you're precognitive. And even if you have burned out on that ability, chances are good there're still some residual flashes there."
Miranda hesitated, then shrugged. "None to speak of."
Tony was watching her steadily. "Because you're shut off?"
"Maybe."
"If so, this might be the time to turn it back on," he suggested lightly. "We can use any help we can get."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, equally light.
Obviously realizing that pursuing that subject would gain him nothing, Tony tried another tack. "It's probably none of my business," he began.
Miranda half laughed. "Whenever somebody says that, you just know it isn't."
He grinned. "Touché. But I'm incurably nosy, so I've gotta ask."
"About?"
"Bishop."
Miranda told herself it was poetic justice for her to discuss him with his subordinates since they had obviously discussed her, but she was honest enough to admit to herself that wasn't why she readily answered. "What about him?"
"Well, he's becoming something of a legend—quietly—within the Bureau because of his success record, especially in the last few years. And he's far and away the most powerful and accurate telepath in the unit. So what most of us can't understand is how he could have ... screwed up so badly eight years ago."
Miranda got off the conference table and went to pour herself a cup of coffee.
"I said it was probably none of my business," Tony murmured.
She was surprised to hear herself say, "So that's the general assumption, that he screwed up?"
"We all know the operation went south in a very bad way. That people—that most of your family died. And some of us know that Bishop blames himself for that. To be honest, it really doesn't sound like him to screw up that way. I mean, sure, he makes mistakes—but not like that. He's fanatical about making sure that anybody at risk is fully protected."
Miranda went back to the table and sat down again. "Mistakes are easier to make when you believe you have all the answers. When you've seen a vision of the future you absolutely believe will come true."
Tony thought about that. "He saw a positive outcome, and that's why he took the chances he did? But how? He's a touch telepath, not precognitive—"
"He was then," she said. "Just for a while ... he was."
"He was temporarily precognitive?"
"Yes."
Tony blinked. "I don't understand. He's been tested, he isn't precognitive, not in the slightest degree. Abilities like that are born in us, not created. I mean, a head injury might trigger a latent ability— A head injury. That scar of his?"
Miranda shook her head. "No, the scar came later."
"Then there was no head injury? No unusual trauma to trigger a new ability temporarily?"
"Trauma." Miranda laughed under her breath. "I guess you could say that was it. An unusual trauma."
"What?"
"Me." Miranda lifted her cup in a mocking little salute. "I triggered it."
"How?" Tony asked.
Miranda wavered briefly, but finally laughed again, and took her coffee with her when she headed for the door. "I'm afraid that really is none of your business," she said. "Sorry, Tony."
"That," Tony said indignantly, "is really cruel."
"Life is unfair," she agreed. "Are you planning to be here awhile?"
He sighed. "Yeah, at least until the snow gets good and started. Nothing to do at the Lodge but watch TV, so I'd just as soon work while I might be able to get something done. Both our rentals are SUVs and we know how to drive in bad weather, so we should be able to get around okay unless it turns into a real blizzard."
"Then I'll probably see you later."
She went to her office, absently leaving her door open, and sat down behind the big desk.
What on earth had possessed her? To talk about it at all, even to 
think
 about it, wasn't something she had allowed herself for so long. It was stupid, just plain stupid, to let herself get dragged back into the past.
Miranda sat there staring at the coffee cup on the center of her blotter, remembering so much more than she wanted to. She remembered his face transformed, hunger and tenderness naked in his eyes, in the bittersweet curve of his lips. She remembered how he had touched her hair, how he had held her against him all night, even in sleep.
Most of all, she remembered the unexpected force of his passion, the intense need that had half-frightened her. It had never been casual for him, not even in the beginning.
She hadn't even imagined what would happen. Half-consciously pressing her cool palms to her burning cheeks, Miranda closed her eyes. Even Bishop, she thought, hadn't realized what passion would ignite between them.
Please, God, he hadn't known or even suspected, hadn't been 
that
 cold-blooded....
"Randy?"
She jerked in surprise, hands falling, eyes opening to see Alex standing in the doorway.
"Sorry," he said. "But the door was open. I can come back later."
Miranda got hold of herself. Or tried to. The hand she used to pick up her cup was, she saw, shaking. "No, now is fine," she said, lying grimly. "What's up?"
Alex came in, closed the door, and sat in a visitor's chair. "Couple of things. The snow still hasn't started, but we're ready for it. The off-duty deputies went home to get a few hours' sleep in case they're needed later, but all are on call from here on out. We've set up a few cots in that empty office, and we have supplies enough to get us through a couple of days, just in case."
"Good."
"Tomorrow being Sunday, there won't be the usual traffic to worry about, especially since the churches will all cancel services if the weather's bad. We've raised the age for curfew to twenty-one, and asked that none of the kids go anywhere alone even before dusk. Safety in numbers, or at least we can hope there is."
Miranda nodded. "Then we've done all we can for the time being."
"Yeah."
She waited.
"I don't quite know how to put this, Randy, so I'll just say it straight out. The rumors are getting pretty wild, but I saw your face when I told you what Amy Fowler was claiming. I know you didn't get a phone call before you and Bishop went out to the old millhouse, and I know the only visitors you had were Bonnie and Seth Daniels." He paused. "I can guess the so-called anonymous tip came from them, and I have to assume there was at least some truth in what Amy claimed—as wild as it sounds. But I need to understand. About... uncanny hunches. About FBI agents who seem to know things they shouldn't. I need to know what's going on, Randy. And I'm asking you to tell me the truth about it."
"It won't make your life any easier," she warned bluntly.
"So what else is new?" He smiled faintly.
"Okay, then." Miranda drew a deep breath and told him the truth.
Almost all of it.

*  *  *

Liz had decided to keep the store open past regular hours—until eleven or until it began to snow, whichever came first. Business was fairly brisk, both in books and in coffee, not 
to
 mention gossip, and she was hardly eager to go home and spend too many hours petting her cat and wishing for things she just couldn't have.
But she was also unwilling to provide a forum where some of the more hotheaded people in town could plan to do something stupid. So when Justin Marsh came in—ostensibly for a cup of coffee, but really to sound out his fellow citizens on the depth of their fear and fury—she did her best to head him off, before he could do any serious damage.
"Where's Selena, Justin?"
"Home," he replied.
"Here, have some coffee."
"Thank you, Elizabeth, but—"
"I hear it's getting really cold out there, so I'm sure you could stand something warm inside, right?" From the corner of her eye, she was amused to see a couple of her regular customers sidle out the door, clearly intent on avoiding one of Justin's tirades.
Justin caught her wrist even though she had made no move to walk away. "Listen to me, Elizabeth. Something must be done—there's an evil in our midst!"
"I don't think you'd get an argument about that, Justin. But it's not really our job to hunt down that evil, not with the sheriff and these FBI agents working so hard at it."
His fingers tightened around her wrist, and his pale eyes took on a more-than-usually fanatical gleam. "They are lost souls wandering aimlessly," he said, lowering his voice as though to bestow a confidence. "They can't recognize the evil they seek. But I can. I know the face of the evil."
Liz was tempted to ask him to draw the face for her, but overcame the impulse. "We all have our theories, I'm sure. But accusing anybody without cause is just going to get trouble started, you know that. Listen, we all know there's a storm on the way, and right now everybody is pretty worried about that. So why don't you drink your coffee and then go home to Selena, okay, Justin?"
He released her but shook his head, scowling. "Like lambs to the slaughter. They don't know. They don't know...."
Liz went back to the counter, hoping he was in one of his brooding periods and no longer inclined to share his ideas and his wisdom with those around him—for the moment, at least.
John MacBride pushed his cup across the counter for a refill, murmuring, "Do you think if I sit very still, he might not see me?"
She smiled ruefully at the mayor. "It's worth a shot."
He sighed. "I should go, though. We're all set for the storm, but the voters don't seem to like to see their mayor just sitting around drinking coffee in the middle of a crisis."
"Half the town council is in here too," she pointed out. "Some looking for books, but a few just drinking coffee like you. And deputies have been in and out the last couple of hours."
"Have you seen the sheriff?"
"Not today. Between the storm and finding another body, I imagine she's pretty busy."
MacBride frowned down at his cup. "Yeah. I've gone by there a few times these last days, but she's always busy. And those FBI agents always seem to be around."
Liz knew the mayor had wholeheartedly welcomed the arrival of the FBI, and she knew why. But it didn't take The Sight to tell her he was a bit disgruntled by the continued presence of at least one of those agents, and by Randy's preoccupation with the investigation.
She felt a certain amount of sympathy, having herself waited with what patience she could muster for the man she loved to realize he hadn't been buried along with his dead wife. But all she said was, "I guess the harder they work now, the more likely they are to catch this killer quickly. We all want that."
"Of course we all want that." He must have realized how petulant he sounded, because he flushed and added quickly and with more positive emphasis, "Of course we do. It's Randy's job to make the streets safe for our citizens, and she's very good at her job. Devoted to her job. Of course."
"Mayor MacBride, I'd like to speak to you," Justin said force fully from just behind his left shoulder.
MacBride's comical grimace of dismay almost upset Liz's composure, but she stopped herself from laughing. She left him to cope with Justin, which, to his credit, he usually did very well, and went on serving her customers.
At nine o'clock, the first flakes of snow began to drift lazily downward.