by Кей Хупер
"What are you talking about?" Bonnie was frowning.
"I'm talking about Steve and his stupid, stupid plots and plans. You think he wanted to work in the paper mill all his life? Oh, no, not Steve Penman. He wanted something bigger, something better. The problem was, he didn't want to earn it or work for it — he just wanted it. And he always had some kind of plan, some scheme for taking the best shortcut to get just what he wanted."
"Amy, are you talking about something specific? Do you have some idea who might have killed Steve?"
"I know he had some idea who it was that killed Adam Ramsay — and why."
"What? How long have you known that?"
Amy shrugged. "Just after they found Adam's bones, I guess. Steve hinted that he knew why somebody would have killed Adam. He wasn't going to tell me anything more at first. It makes . . . made him feel more important to know things other people didn't know. Me, anyway."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said Adam had a real talent for rinding out things he shouldn't have, that he was always sticking his nose into the wrong places. He said he'd bet that's what happened, that Adam got too close to something dangerous. And he said he thought he knew how he could find out what it was that Adam had stumbled onto."
Slowly, Bonnie said, "Amy, why didn't you tell us any of this before?"
Amy went back to pleating the sheet between her fingers. "I don't know. I was so upset when he disappeared . . . and I don't really know anything else. I warned Steve not to go looking for whatever had gotten Adam killed, but he just laughed at me. He said he'd be careful." Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. "He said he'd be ... but I guess he wasn't, was he? He wasn't careful enough."
"No," Bonnie said. "He wasn't careful enough."
"When are the deputies due back with Marsh?" Tony asked.
Bishop checked his watch. "Maybe half an hour or so, depending on the roads." Sitting on the conference table as usual, he returned to brooding over the bulletin board.
"Something bothering you?"
"Just trying to figure the bastard out. I keep coming back to the way he killed Lynet."
"Because he drugged her?"
"Because he drugged her and then beat her that way. If you look at what he did to the others — say, Kerry Ingram, for instance — what he did was deliberately torture someone who was acutely aware of what he was doing. It wasn't just physical torture but emotional and psychological as well."
Miranda came into the room in time to hear, and said, "But with Lynet, the torture was physical — and she was entirely unaware of it."
Bishop nodded. "So why did he bother? I mean, kill her, sure — once he grabbed her, even if it was a mistake, he had to follow through. But why beat her to death?"
"Because he's a perverted son of a bitch?" Tony offered.
"Because he was angry," Bishop said. "Not angry at her, or he would have made sure she felt it."
"At himself?" Miranda guessed.
"Maybe. Or his situation. Maybe he realized that Lynet was the beginning of the end, literally. Maybe she was the one who proved to him that he wouldn't be able to go on much longer if he had to kill kids he knew."
Tony shook his head with a snort. "So he's pissed at his poor victim because she's somebody he knows, and because he's pissed he beats her to death — but he drugs her first because he doesn't want her to know he's hurting her? Jesus."
"You're missing the point, Tony."
"What point?"
Bishop looked at him. "That uncontrolled rage. It's a change in him, in his behavior. If you look at the Ramsay boy and Kerry Ingram, what he was doing to his victims could almost be termed . . . clinical. Emotionless. He strangled Kerry again and again to the point of unconsciousness, then waited for her to revive and did it again. As if he was . . . studying her responses somehow. And even though we only have the Ramsay boy's bones, it's obvious from them that his killer came up with more than one creative method of torture. If it was torture."
Tony said, "What are you driving at?"
Bishop returned his gaze to the bulletin board. "Maybe I've been looking at this the wrong way. Maybe his goal isn't to torture as much as it is ... to learn."
With a grimace, Tony said, "The way the doctors at Auschwitz wanted to learn?"
"Could be. It might explain how he's choosing his victims. How he rationalizes it, I mean. He may view teenagers as disposable somehow, as less valuable than adults. That could be how he justifies this to himself. Teenagers are . . . emotional, combative, driven by their hormones. They flout authority, assert their independence, cause trouble for their parents and society at large."
"So he's using them as lab rats?" Tony shook his head. "But to what end? If he's convinced himself he's doing something noble and worthwhile for mankind, then what's the ultimate goal? Or am I being too logical?"
"No, he'd have a goal," Bishop said. "An ultimate aim or at least an avenue of pursuit."
"Just tell me he's not building a creature," Tony begged.
"No," Bishop said slowly. "No, I don't think he's doing that."
When he saw the Ouija box atop the stack of games on the coffee table, Seth thought that Bonnie must have changed her mind about using it. But then he remembered her voice and the expression on her face when she'd talked about how dangerous it was to be even unconsciously tempted to use it, and about promising Miranda she wouldn't try it again. And he knew it wasn't Bonnie who had brought the game back into the ward. He stood there just inside the room, holding the juice he'd fetched for the two young patients. Across the room, Bonnie was reading them a story. No one had yet noticed his return. He'd been gone barely ten minutes.
What bothered Seth was a very simple question. If Bonnie hadn't brought the game, if he hadn't, and if neither of the little girls — confined to their beds — had done so ... then who had? Who would have?
He looked at the stack of games again, and this time a feathery chill brushed up his spine.
The Ouija board was now out of its box, the planchette centered on the board and ready.
Christ, it even tempted him. To put his fingers on the planchette and see if it moved, see if the dead really could speak by spelling things out on a board . . .
With an effort, Seth snapped himself out of it.
He wanted to tell himself again that this was just a dream, a figment of his strained and anxious imagination. But he was standing there, wide awake, and a game that hadn't even been in the room ten minutes before had in the space of a few seconds arranged itself so as to be ready to be ... played.
And if he listened intently, concentrated really hard and closed out the sound of Bonnie's musical voice reading the story, he was almost positive he could hear that unearthly whispering.
"Seth?"
He jumped slightly and looked toward the girls to find Bonnie gazing at him questioningly. "I didn't want to interrupt," he said, surprised his voice sounded so calm. He carried the juice to the girls.
"It's a good story," Jordan confided.
"Bonnie reads it real good," Christy said.
"We're about halfway through," Bonnie told him.
He nodded, glanced at his watch, and summoned a smile. "Dad's just down the hall. I'll go check with him, see how things are going."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "We'll be here."
As he turned toward the door, Seth realized that from where she was sitting Bonnie couldn't see the coffee table. He made a slight detour and replaced the board and planchette in the box, not surprised that his hands shook a bit.
He half expected the damned thing to bite him or something.
But the game appeared perfectly innocent now, and didn't do anything supernatural like jump out of his hands as he carried it back to the storage room and placed it on the high shelf.
"I'm not going to scare Bonnie," he muttered, stacking three other games and a bucket of wooden blocks on top of the Ouija board. "She has enough to worry about without some damned stupid game haunting her."
It was enough that it was haunting him.
He gave the box a final shove and left the storage room, closing the door very firmly. And pretended to himself he didn't hear a thing as he walked away.
Sandy Lynch poured a cup of coffee and used it to warm her cold hands. "How come I get all the crappy duties?" she demanded of the room at large.
Carl Tierney, lounging at his desk as he waited for the sheriff to buzz him, said lazily, "Because you're the baby deputy."
"That sucks," she said roundly.
"We've all been there, kid." He smiled at her. "Besides, it wasn't such a crappy duty. I was there too."
"You got to drive. I got to sit in the back and listen to Justin Marsh go on and on and on."
At his desk nearby, Alex said absently, "He does tend to do that."
Sandy, not quite certain how to treat the recently bereaved and cautious about trying, adopted what she hoped was a perfectly brisk and professional tone. "No kidding he tends to do that. And the man has radar when it comes to gossip, I'll swear he does. I heard things about people I really didn't want to know."
"For instance?" Carl probed curiously.
"Shame on you."
"Hey, it's better than being bored. Give."
"No." But Sandy couldn't resist adding, "Just tell me how he heard, from way out where he lives, that it was the sheriff's sister told us where we could find Steve Penman's body. I mean, gossip's probably spreading like wildfire by now, but way out there? And of all the screwed-up stories he might have heard, that's the one he believed?"
"That story's as good as any other," Carl said with a shrug. "I heard it from a guy who's married to one of the nurses at the clinic, so why not?"
"Why not? I'll tell you why not. Just how would that sweet girl know anything about a murder?"
"Tarot cards, I heard. Or maybe it was a Ouija board."
Alex looked up from the files spread out on his desk, frowning slightly. There was something he needed to remember, something he needed to say. But whatever it was drifted away before he could quite grasp it.
He was so tired he could barely think, his eyes were scratchy from staring at spiky handwriting, and his throat had nearly closed up from the dust.
Of course from the dust.
He'd barely slept in the last forty-eight hours, had downed enough coffee to put an entire platoon on a caffeine jag, and judging by the way his stomach was gnawing at itself and grumbling loudly he probably should have eaten something along the way.
Liz would have said he was just asking for trouble, letting himself get run-down like this—
No. He wasn't going to think about Liz. He wasn't ready to think about Liz. Close that door, just close it.
He forced himself to tune back in to the conversation between the veteran and the baby deputy.
"And what's the point of learning how to shoot if I'm never going to draw my gun?" Sandy was saying aggrievedly. "I push papers, I answer phones, I hold lights for FBI doctors, I listen to religious fanatics gossip about their neighbors, I even make the damned coffee. What kind of cop am I?"
"One just learning about things," Carl replied soothingly but with amusement. "Give it time. Even the sheriff had to do the same sort of stuff when she first signed on."
"She did?"
"Sure, she did. All of us did. Of course, I don't recall her puking her guts out the first time she saw a body."
"Bones," Sandy reminded him coldly. "Horrible bones with bits of — of skin and hair still sticking to them. That's what I saw, Carl Tierney. Not a body. Bones. And you're one to talk; everybody knows you got sick too."
"That's slander."
"Not if it's true."
"It isn't. Vile gossip."
Alex tuned out the conversation again, wondering vaguely what had interested him the first time. He turned his attention back to the old file before him, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He was dimly aware of people talking, moving through the room, phones ringing, but none of it touched him.
Could he survive this?
Would he?
"This is disgraceful!" Justin Marsh announced.
"It's just an interview, Justin," Miranda told him mildly. "A routine interview."
"Routine? Just an interview? You sent a patrol car to get me, Sheriff! You had armed ruffians drag me from my own home before my stricken family!"
Miranda thought that both Sandy Lynch and Carl Tierney would have been appalled by that description of themselves, and that Selena probably had been more bewildered than stricken, but all she said was, "They didn't drag you, Justin. They asked you politely to come back here with them so we could discuss a few things. That's all. Just discuss."
"I'll have something to say about this to my attorney!"
"Go ahead and call him," Miranda invited, knowing very well that Bill Dennison would tell Justin to stop being such a fool and answer the questions.
Justin knew it too, judging by the glare he fixed on Miranda. "I'll sue you and the Sheriff's Department," he said, sounding more sulky than anything else. "Questioning me like a common criminal! And with an FBI agent standing over me in a threatening manner!"
Since Bishop was across the room leaning rather negligently against the filing cabinet, that was such an obvious exaggeration that Miranda could only admire it for a moment in silence. She propped an elbow on her desk and rubbed the back of her neck wearily.
Maybe if I drew my gun and pointed it at him? Bishop suggested telepathically.
Don't tempt me, she returned without looking at him. "Justin, the past couple of weeks have been a real bear, and this week isn't shaping up to be a whole lot better. I've got at least four teenagers dead, along with a lady I happened to like an awful lot, and I intend to get to the bottom of things."
"There's evil here, I've warned you—"
"So what I'd like you to explain to me is how your Bible ended up on Liz Hallowell's nightstand."
Justin paled, then flushed a vivid red. "Beside her bed? Sheriff, are you implying that my relationship with Elizabeth was in some way illicit?"
Miranda resisted an impulse to sigh. "I just want to know how she ended up with your Bible, Justin."
"I have no idea," he said stiffly.
"Well, when did you miss it?"
"I didn't."
Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him.
Flushing again, Justin said, "I've been preoccupied with the storm, Sheriff, like everyone else. We lost power in the first few hours, and I was kept busy tending to the fire, bringing in firewood and such. I didn't think about the Bible until you showed it to me."
"When do you last remember having it?"
He frowned at her, still indignant but reluctantly interested. "I suppose ... it was at Elizabeth's coffeeshop. Just before the storm began. I must have left it there."
"Saturday night?"
"Yes."
"How long were you there?"
"Not long. Half an hour, maybe a little longer. It must have been about quarter after nine or so when I left."
"And after that?"
"I went home, of course. The snow had started."
"What time was it when you got home?"
"Nine-thirty, or a little after. I didn't dawdle. I knew Selena would be anxious."
It went without saying that Selena would back up what Justin said, and it was about what they had expected to hear. Miranda pushed a legal pad and a pencil across her desk to him. "If you wouldn't mind, Justin, try to remember everyone you saw or spoke to at the coffeeshop that night."
He picked up the pencil, but the frown remained. "You don't suspect me of killing Elizabeth?"
"Did you?" Miranda asked politely.
"Of course not!"
"Then why would we suspect you?"
"You brought me here to—"
"I brought you here to ask you about the Bible, Justin, that's all. We have to check out all the details, you know. Like the Bible. That was an anomaly, something out of plac
e, and we have to try to explain how it ended up where it did. A list of everyone who had access to it and might have picked it up will undoubtedly be helpful to the investigation." Gravely, she added, "Thank you."
He stared at her for a moment, then muttered, "Of course, of course. Glad to help." He bent over the legal pad.
You ought to go into politics.
I'm in politics. She shot Bishop a rueful glance.
Oh, yeah — you are, aren't you? He stirred and said aloud, "Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Marsh?"
"I don't see how I can stop you," Justin said, far from graciously.
Miranda thought he probably remembered how easily Bishop had bested him in the contest of Biblical quotations, and his wounded vanity amused her.
If Bishop was also amused, he didn't let it show; he was expressionless and kept his voice matter-of-fact. "You've been warning us about the evil in Gladstone for some time now. Is this just a general feeling of yours, or can you point to something specific?"
"How specific do I have to be?" Justin snapped. "People are dying."
"We know that, Justin." Miranda was patient. "And unless you have something useful to add as to who might be killing these people or why, reminding us continually that it's evil isn't entirely helpful. We know it's evil. We'd like to stop it. If you have any suggestions as to how we can do that, we'd appreciate hearing them."
His eyes on the pad as he quickly and neatly printed a list of names, Justin said calmly, "Then you might want to find out who ended up with Adam Ramsay's car."
NINETEEN
To get an answer from Justin unaccompanied by any religious or bombastic trimmings was so unexpected it took Miranda several seconds to respond. "There was no car registered to Adam Ramsay."
"That doesn't mean he didn't have one." Justin sent her a wry look "Seventeen-year-old boys might not be able to legally own cars, but surely you don't expect that to stop them. I imagine his father probably registered the car in his name."
"Adam's mother specifically said he didn't have a car. That's why we never looked for one."
"Julie Ramsay doesn't have the sense to raise a pup, much less a boy. There was a lot she didn't know about him."