Out of the Shadows (8 page)

*  *  *

"Oh, come on, Bonnie, it'll be fun." Amy kept her voice low even though Mrs. Task was downstairs getting supper ready.
"I don't think Randy would like it," Bonnie protested.
Exasperated, Amy said, "Bon, it's very boring how you always do what your sister wants. I mean, come on—what's the harm? It's just a game."
Bonnie looked at the Ouija board lying on the bed between them. It made her feel very nervous, a reaction she could hardly explain to Amy; there were some secrets even best friends couldn't share. Stalling for time, she said, "I can't believe you sat through church with that in your backpack. Reverend Seaton would call it a tool of the devil, you know he would."
"It was out in Steve's car," Amy said. "Besides, Reverend Seaton isn't going to know. And neither is Miranda, unless you tell her." Amy read the hesitancy in Bonnie's expression and added quickly, "Even if you did tell her, Miranda isn't religious, so why would it bother her? It isn't a tool of the devil, it's just a game. Come on."
"You just want to find out if Steve means to ask you to the prom," Bonnie said dryly.
"No," Amy said, feeling heat rise in her face, "I want to find out if he gives a damn about me."
Bonnie's clear, startlingly blue eyes suddenly turned gentle. "He isn't dating anyone else. You'd know if he was."
"That doesn't mean he cares about me. I give him what he wants, Bonnie. And maybe that's all he wants."
It was a question Bonnie could have answered, but that was a rule she dared not break. She glanced down at the Ouija board, wondering guiltily if just bending the rule was really so bad when her intentions were good.
"Please?" Amy begged. Confident of the response she wanted, she moved one of the tables Bonnie used as a nightstand to the side of the bed so she could place the board on it. She put the planchette in position in the center of the board and placed her fingertips on it.
Bonnie wavered for a moment longer. "Oh, all right. But keep the questions very specific, Amy."
Amy laughed. "Why? Is it a dumb board?"
Secrets really were amazingly restrictive, Bonnie reflected, wondering how to explain to her friend that when you opened a door you couldn't always control what came in. "Just don't wander off the point, all right? Ask about you and Steve, and that's all."
"I thought you'd never played this game before," Amy said suspiciously.
"I told you I'd never used an Ouija board, and I haven't." Bonnie drew a breath and placed her fingertips lightly on the planchette. "Let's get on with it."
Amy began, "What I want to know—"
The planchette jerked violently and centered itself over the word NO.
"Hey! You're not supposed to make it move," Amy exclaimed indignantly.
"I didn't." Bonnie stared down at the planchette and the adamant word showing through it.
"But I didn't even ask—" Amy shook her head and guided the planchette back to the center. "We'll try again. What I want to know is—"
The planchette jerked again, and again decisively indicated the word NO.
"Bonnie ..." Every time Amy moved the planchette back to the center, it returned immediately to no. "You swear you aren't—"
"I'm not moving it." Not consciously at least. Not deliberately. Staring down at the board, she said softly, "Who are you?" The planchette moved instantly.
L ... Y ... N ... E ... T.
Amy jerked her fingers away. "That isn't funny, Bonnie!"
Bonnie removed her own fingers and looked at them as if they belonged to someone else. "I didn't do it."
Amy opened her mouth to argue, then realized with a little chill that this was hardly the sort of joke Bonnie would find amusing. "You mean ..."
"I think we'd better stop, Amy."
"You don't really think ... It's just a game."
"Some games are dangerous."
Amy felt a thrill of fear not unmixed with excitement. "But if there's a chance ... Bonnie, what if we can find out who killed her? Everybody wants to know that, and if we can find out—"
Bonnie chose her words carefully. "Amy, Randy says the one thing you can never afford to do in this life is assume. You're assuming that whoever—or whatever— spelled out that name really is Lynet."
"But who else could it be?"
"If her ... spirit... could reach out to us, don't you think other spirits could as well? Maybe bad spirits?"
"Are there bad spirits?"
Bonnie looked at her sadly. "There are bad people. Why wouldn't there be bad spirits?"
"Well, but... spirits can't hurt us. Can they?"
"I don't know," Bonnie lied. "But I imagine it's not a good idea to open a door for them."
Amy bit her lip. "Bonnie, aren't you scared there's some maniac running around killing kids? Don't you want to look back over your shoulder every time you're somewhere by yourself? And just before you turn a corner, aren't you afraid there might be something awful waiting for you?"
Half-consciously, Bonnie fingered the small, oddly shaped scar on her right forearm. "Yes," she said. "Yes to all that. But, Amy, doing anything because we're scared is bound to be a bad idea. We have to trust Randy and the deputies and the FBI agents to find the killer. It's what they do."
Amy looked at her friend searchingly. "You really don't want to play this game anymore, do you, Bon?"
"I really don't," Bonnie said steadily.
"Okay, then we won't." Amy reached for her backpack to put the board away, and when she picked up the planchette neither she nor Bonnie noticed that it had once again centered itself over the word no.

*  *  *

Miranda glanced at Bishop with a frown, trying to ignore the increasingly frequent stabs of pain behind her eyes. "Why was the killer's mistake not burying Adam Ramsay deep enough? Because we found him?"
Bishop nodded. "I don't think that boy's body was ever meant to be found—unlike the other two."
Alex said, "Granted, Kerry Ingram was found lying openly in a ravine like discarded trash, but Lynet was pretty thoroughly hidden at the bottom of that well."
"Yes, but for how long? I did a little checking, and it seems your local paper reported just a week or so ago that the property around the lake had been sold to a group of buyers from Florida who plan to build vacation homes there. Clearing off the home sites in preparation is due to start in just a couple of weeks. And according to the land surveys, one of those sites is within twenty yards of the well."
"So the body probably would have been found," Miranda agreed. "Okay. But did he want us to find the girls, or just not care whether we did?"
"You tell me," Bishop said, looking at her steadily.
"Me? How would I know?" She was practically daring him to say something about extra senses in front of Alex, and both of them knew it.
Instead, Bishop said, "You know the basics of how to profile a killer, Sheriff. Why would one victim among three be transported miles farther than the others and buried in a forest where even hunters seldom go?"
She thought about it. "Because something about the victim or the way he was killed points to the killer."
"Exactly." Bishop reached back over his shoulder and tapped his knuckles against the photographs on the bulletin board. Photographs of Adam Ramsay's remains. "He took the boy first and kept him alive longest, and when he was finished he buried the remains where he had every reason to expect they would be hidden indefinitely."
"Unfortunately, they nearly were," Alex said. "And by the time we found them, there wasn't much left. How're we supposed to find any evidence pointing to the killer when all we have are bones—and precious few of them?"
"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 cafe 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."

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."
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."