Out of the Shadows tbscus-3

by Кей Хупер

  With all the snow on the ground, there was no way it could be dark at three in the afternoon even in January, but a heavily overcast sky made it at least not quite as bright as it could have been. Bishop said he supposed they should be grateful for small favors.

  Miranda frowned at the landscape spread out before them and said "Shit."

  "We can't approach any way at all except on foot and even hope to get close without being seen," Bishop said.

  "Then we go on foot." Miranda got out of the Jeep, wishing the snow didn't crunch so loudly underfoot, her gaze still fixed on the house barely visible through the thick forest of mostly pines all around it.

  Bishop joined her. "How soon before you figure Alex tumbles to us being gone?"

  "I'm counting on Tony to distract him as long as possible. There's no way I want him anywhere near here. He's just too wild to get his hands on Liz's killer. Much better for him and Seth to be concentrating on trying to find some connection to John in those files of missing kids."

  Mildly, Bishop said, "We could have brought along another deputy or two."

  "I don't trust anybody else to handle this," she said flatly.

  "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He drew his weapon just as she had and checked it, thumbing off the safety. "I suggest we circle the house once we get under those trees, see what we can see without getting too close."

  "Right."

  They moved toward the house cautiously, careful of their footing in the deep snow, keeping to the shelter of trees and overgrown bushes wherever possible, and when they were close enough, they split up to bracket the house.

  It was darker here under the shelter of the big old pines, and the house loomed above them. No light shone from any of the windows, though clear tire marks leading to the detached garage indicated that MacBride had left and then returned at least once today.

  Miranda reached the back of the house before Bishop, and waited there, watching a greenhouse she hadn't even known was behind the place. It was a large structure, and the glass was either frosted or dewed with condensation, because it was opaque, but there was definitely a light on in there.

  Bishop joined her in uncanny silence, only their connection warning her before he appeared.

  "Where's your jacket?" she demanded, keeping her voice barely above a whisper.

  With the hand not holding his gun he gestured toward the front of the house. "Left it back there."

  "Why? You'll freeze."

  "It was too dark and too noisy. I never realized how noisy leather is," he told her. "Remind me to oil that thing or something. Later. In the meantime, I won't freeze unless we crouch here much longer. The greenhouse?"

  "He's practically shining a beacon," Miranda said uneasily.

  "Then he's either expecting us — or has absolutely no idea that we could be on to him so soon. Either way, what choice do we have except to go on in?"

  "None that I can think of."

  "Then we go in."

  "He's talking, I think," she said, tilting her head slightly to try to focus all their extra senses on the building.

  "As long as he's talking, his attention is occupied. It's the best we can hope for. I see two doors, one at either end. And the light's somewhere in the middle. Let's go."

  There was no time to discuss a plan, but neither of them worried about that. Their connection was wide open once again, which made communication instant and silent and provided all the edge they needed to coordinate their approach and movements.

  Opening the doors and easing inside was no problem, but then they discovered themselves in a virtual jungle, an overgrown forest of plants and trees draped with vines and nearly strangled by thickets of weeds.

  Oh, great.

  No choice but to go on.

  It was impossible to see more than a foot or two ahead, and the place smelled horribly of rotting vegetable matter and damp earth. Trailing vines dangled slimy tendrils across them and thorns hooked at their clothing as they crept through the profuse growth, trying to follow paths that long ago had narrowed to mere memory.

  It was their extra senses that told them they were nearly at the middle of the greenhouse, but even with that help it was impossible for them to know for certain what lay ahead. They paused, both trying to reach through the wall of greenery. The droning of MacBride's voice continued, a low muttering that sounded to them wordless, so they literally jumped when he suddenly spoke in a perfectly calm and even casual voice that seemed to come from no more than a few feet away.

  "If you two would care to walk a few more paces, I'm sure it would be easier for all of us."

  Goddammit.

  Still no choice.

  They moved forward as ordered, and emerged within the promised few paces into what looked like a clearing in the center of the greenhouse.

  It must once have been a work area; there was still a rickety table at one side of the space holding a few rusting tools and empty clay pots. Hanging crookedly high above the table was a long fluorescent light, and though it flickered from time to time, it threw an almost painfully bright light over the scene below.

  Bishop and Miranda standing frozen.

  Mayor John MacBride smiling at them as though greeting welcome guests, his expression pleasant, his stance relaxed.

  Except for the gun he held, cocked and ready, at Bonnie's temple.

  Bonnie was clearly frightened but amazingly calm, pale but not crying. She even attempted a smile at her sister, obviously wanting to reassure her that she was okay.

  Miranda had a sudden, overwhelming sense that this was the place she had seen in her vision, and she had a helpless awareness of fate rushing, of events carrying her toward whatever destiny was intended for her. She didn't look toward Bishop, but she was very conscious of their connection, and of his absolute certainty that she would not die here.

  Still, she knew that if what she had seen was right, the abrupt severing of their link could be as devastating for the living as the dead; gently and without warning, she closed the door on her side.

  "You might want to drop the guns," MacBride suggested.

  Neither of them hesitated. They dropped their guns. Not only because of the gun he was holding to Bonnie's temple but also because of what he held in his other hand. It was obviously an explosive device — some kind of small but undoubtedly deadly grenade, with the pin out.

  A dead man's switch.

  "Kick them toward me," he instructed.

  They did so, and when MacBride gestured commandingly with the gun, Bishop moved closer to Miranda until he was hardly more than a couple of yards away from her. MacBride could cover them both easily now. They were facing him across fifteen feet or so of rotting mulch and little else, with the tangled jungle all around them seeming to hover, to press inward. That and the sour smell of rotting vegetation made the place feel so claustrophobic it was difficult to breathe.

  Or maybe, Miranda thought, that was just her terror. It clogged her throat, cold and sour. And her heart thudded against her ribs with heavy urgency.

  She had promised to protect her sister. She had sworn.

  Bonnie's hands were tied behind her back, her ankles tied together. She was completely helpless. And she looked very small to her sister, very fragile. She still wasn't crying, but there was something resigned about her calm, something fatalistic.

  Miranda hadn't told her all that she'd seen, but she had always suspected Bonnie had guessed the rest.

  Conversationally, MacBride said to them, "I keep asking her if she can really talk to the dead. But she won't tell me. I thought it was Liz, you know, when I heard the story that night at her coffeeshop. I thought she had helped you, had told you where to find Steve's body. But it wasn't Liz. Poor Liz."

  "You made a mistake." Miranda was surprised her voice sounded so calm. "Don't make another one, John."

  "I didn't want to hurt Liz. I liked her. You know I liked her, Randy. But what choice did I have? I was careful with her. And I di
dn't take anything." His tone was reasonable but held a hint almost of pleading, as though for her approval.

  Miranda tried not to gag. "You mean no body parts or blood? That was big of you, John."

  "You don't understand," he said, shaking his head.

  "Then make me. Make me understand." She had no idea if it was even wise to keep him talking, but a glance had shown her that Bishop's expression was unreadable, so she was following her instincts.

  "You're a cop, you know all about the need to deal with threats," MacBride said. "Liz was a threat."

  "No, you only thought she was. And you were wrong." She saw a faint quiver disturb his complacency, and concentrated on that chink in his armor. "You were wrong, John."

  He smiled suddenly. "I know what you're trying to do, Randy. But it won't work. I'm sorry about Liz, but that's past now. Done. This" — he gave Bonnie a little pat, almost friendly — "is hardly a mistake.I can learn so much from Bonnie."

  "No. You — "

  "Because if she can talk to the dead, that opens up a whole new avenue to explore. I've been thinking about it for some time, you know, about what to do next. I'd already realized I couldn't go on finding my subjects around here."

  Your subjects? But Miranda couldn't say it, couldn't force a word out. Her fear was choking her again.

  Bishop either knew or guessed, because he spoke up then, his voice steady. "Because you knew them. Knew their names, their faces. Their mothers and fathers."

  MacBride responded to that easily, almost eagerly. "That proved to be... surprisingly difficult. Adam wasn't so bad, the sneaky little bastard, but Kerry ... she kept crying and asking me why. And then there was Lynet, little Lynet. ... I liked her."

  "But you killed her anyway," Bishop said.

  "I had to. Once I'd taken her, well. . . she had seen me. I couldn't let her go. But I made sure she didn't suffer."

  Miranda swallowed hard and said, "That might earn you a cooler corner of hell, but I doubt it."

  "You still don't understand. It was research, Randy, that's all. Study."

  "To figure out what makes bodies tick? Sorry, John, but medical science has pretty much got that pegged."

  "Do you think so? I don't agree. There's still so much to learn. I wanted to learn." His expression darkened for the first time. "I wanted to be a doctor. But they said my grades weren't good enough in college. My grades. Idiots. I've learned more on my own than any school could have taught me. All it took was a certain amount of. . . detachment."

  Bishop said, "We've been wondering about something. Why take the blood?"

  Not at all reluctant to supply the information, MacBride said, "I was working on various ways to naturally preserve organs and flesh. I thought blood might do it. But I haven't found quite the right combination of blood and chemicals just yet."

  Bishop nodded gravely. "So I guess you were experimenting with the chemicals when you discovered how to age bones?"

  MacBride shrugged dismissively. "I used the chemicals to clean the bones, but I noticed how it aged them. I wondered how the formula would affect a living subject, so I tried it on Adam. I'm afraid it was very painful — but he deserved it, the little sneak."

  "He found out about you."

  "Little sneak. Poking his nose into places he had no business being. If he'd just done the yard work I hired him for, everything would have been fine. But, no, he had to snoop. He took my knife. One of my jars. Other things, probably." MacBride laughed suddenly. "The little bastard wanted to blackmail me, can you believe that? Wanted me to pay him to keep his mouth shut."

  "So you killed him," Bishop said. "But he didn't talk, did he, MacBride? He didn't tell you where he'd hidden the things he took from you."

  "No. He seemed to have it in his head that as long as he had that stuff hidden he'd be all right in the end. Idiot." MacBride shifted slightly and, perhaps tired of remaining in the position, stepped back away from Bonnie. He didn't push her to the ground so much as guide her down with his gun hand until she was sitting. He kept his gaze steadily on the two people in front of him.

  Miranda wanted to go to her sister so badly that she could feel her muscles tensing, and forced herself to relax as much as she was able. It wasn't time to act. Not yet.

  MacBride no longer held the pistol to Bonnie's head, but he still had the grenade.

  He straightened, the gun held negligently but not so carelessly as to offer Miranda any hope. "Of course, I didn't like not knowing where the stuff was, but that kid was so sly and sneaky, I doubted he'd told anyone about it."

  "A chance you were prepared to take," Bishop said. "Until Steve told you he had it."

  "He didn't mean to tell me," MacBride said with a shrug. "It was an accident, really — a very fortunate accident. I ran into him in front of the drugstore, and he asked me about the knife. He knew I collected them, so he thought I could tell him who else in town did. I said I had a collectibles catalog in my car, and he went with me to see it. After that, it was easy."

  "Too easy," Bishop said. "You hit him too hard."

  "Well, I figured the kid would have a thick skull, as big as he was. I was wrong, worse luck." He frowned suddenly and glanced down at Bonnie, his thoughts obviously having come full circle.

  "I was surprised when you found him so soon, before I wanted you to. But if she did it... that does open up new possibilities. Maybe I don't need lots of other subjects. Maybe just one will do."

  Miranda felt a chill so icy that she went cold to her bones. Bonnie in the hands of this madman, the subject of his insane "research" for God only knew how long?

  No.

  "She can't help you," Miranda said.

  "She can if she can really talk to the dead," MacBride said in a reasonable tone. He seemed undisturbed as he put the pin back in the grenade and dropped it negligently into the mulch. "That's an aspect of the human experience I haven't explored yet. I understand the death of the flesh, but not what happens to the mind and spirit." He glanced down at Bonnie. "Is there a heaven? A hell? A God?"

  Very quietly, Bonnie answered, "All three."

  That reply startled Miranda, but MacBride was, for the first time, visibly shaken.

  "You're lying," he accused, his eyes now shifting back and forth between his captive and the pair facing him.

  "No." Bonnie's voice was still quiet. She even smiled. "It's the truth. Didn't you know? Didn't you realize there'd be judgment and punishment?"

  Miranda had to bite her lip to keep from saying, Be careful! Don't push him too far! Don't frighten him!

  Obviously trying to recapture his earlier clinical tone and only partially succeeding, MacBride said, "Your brain must be different if you can talk to the dead. That would be interesting to study, your brain."

  As if she hadn't heard him, Bonnie said, "Your victims would love to judge and punish you. They're just looking for a door so they can come back."

  "Door?" MacBride was frowning, plainly uneasy.

  "Between our world and theirs. Victims of murder are unhappy souls, and angry. They stay in limbo for a long time, unable to move on."

  "Dead is dead." He didn't sound nearly as sure as he obviously wanted to. "I know. I've watched death again and again. It's just like flipping a switch. Alive — then dead. There's nothing after. Nothing."

  Bonnie turned her head and looked up at him with an oddly serene smile. "Nothing? Then how did we know where to find Steve? You thought it was Liz, reading tea leaves. But it wasn't. It was me. And Steve. Poor dead Steve."

  MacBride's throat moved convulsively.

  "Shall I open the door again, Mayor? Shall I let poor dead Steve and all your other victims back in?"

  Don't frighten him, Miranda thought again. MacBride was like a cornered animal when he was frightened. . . .

  "Ghosts can't hurt me," MacBride scoffed, only a faint quiver betraying his apprehension.

  "Are you sure about that, John?" Miranda asked, trying to draw his attention away from Bonnie. "Are you re
ally sure?"

  "Sure enough." But a white line of tension showed around his lips, and his eyes were still moving restlessly as though searching the profuse vegetation all around them for something threatening.

  "They want back in," Bonnie said softly. "They want to ... talk to you, Mayor."

  "There's nothing after death." The gun in his hand moved until it was pointed at Bonnie. "Nothing. No heaven. No hell. No ghosts." His voice was suddenly toneless, and dawning in his face was the look of a man confronting a nightmare he hadn't dared to imagine.

  Miranda could almost hear the screams of his victims, and knew that John MacBride heard them. She saw his finger tightening on the trigger, and understood in a moment of utter clarity that he would kill Bonnie because he dared not leave her alive.

  Bonnie could talk to the dead. And John MacBride couldn't bear to hear what the dead would say to him.

  Miranda knew she had to act, and now. But she also knew that the extra pistol she had stuck into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back was too many long seconds away from her hand because of her heavy jacket.

  She also knew there was no choice.

  She went for her gun.

  Seeing or sensing a threat more immediate than Bonnie, MacBride moved with lightning speed, his gun jerking around to point at Miranda. He fired, and in the same instant Bishop was there in front of her, throwing his body between her and that lethal bullet. As her fingers closed over her own gun, she heard the shot, heard the sickening wet thud as the bullet struck Bishop. Everything in her cried out in desperate, violent protest, but it was too late. With dreadful suddenness, their connection was severed, his hot agony washing over her and through her, and Miranda could barely see as she drew her gun and leveled it at MacBride.

  And it was her vision. Bishop lay on the ground, momentarily out of her sight. Bonnie tied up and helpless, the gun aimed at Miranda, a shot echoing — and the agony of death.

  But not hers.

  She fired three times, hitting MacBride dead center in his chest, and even as he fell she was dropping her own gun and kneeling at Bishop's side.

  Terrified by the deathly pallor of his face, she stared at his once white T-shirt, horribly marked by a spreading scarlet stain. She fumbled with the shirt, pulling it up so that she could see how bad it was. The wound was a small, round hole in Bishop's chest, neat, hardly bleeding now. It looked so innocent. So minor. But Miranda knew all too well the irreparable damage a bullet did to the human body. The ripped muscle and shattered bone, the internal organs torn beyond repair ...