by Kay Hooper
“I need him.” Bitterness had crept back into Miranda's voice, and reluctance, and something that might have been loathing.
“You're sure?”
“Yeah, I'm sure.”
“It's been a long time, Randy. Eight years—”
“Eight years, four months, and an odd number of days.” Miranda's laugh held no amusement. “I know how long it's been, believe me.”
“I only meant that things change, Randy. People change, you know they do. Even he must have changed. It'll be different this time.”
“Will it?”
Bonnie hesitated. “You've seen something else, haven't you? What is it? What have you seen?”
Miranda looked down at her coffee, and her mouth twisted. “Inevitability,” she said.
Friday, January 7
“I can't explain it,” Dr. Shepherd said, his habitual cheery smile replaced by a baffled frown. “The dental records match, without question. What we found are the remains of Adam Ramsay.”
“But,” Miranda said.
“Yeah—but. The bones show all the signs of belonging to a man at least forty years old. The sutures of the skull were filled in. Calcium deposits and other changes in bone structure also indicate forty to fifty years of life.” He paused. “This one's beyond my knowledge, Randy. Obviously someone with more training and experience in forensics, a forensic pathologist or anthropologist, should examine the remains. I must have missed something somehow, misread the results or performed the wrong tests—something.”
Miranda looked at him across her desk. “Setting that aside for the moment, maybe we're losing sight of the point. The point is that we found the remains of a seventeen-year-old runaway. Do you know how he died?”
“Enough of the skull was intact to reveal evidence of blunt-force trauma in at least two spots, and I don't believe it was postmortem.”
“Not accidental blows?”
“If you're asking for my opinion, I'd say not. For the record, a blow to the head probably killed him. Whether that blow was deliberate or accidental is impossible for me to state with any medical—or legal—certainty.”
Miranda made a note on the pad in front of her. “I appreciate you coming into the office to report, Doc.”
“No problem. I knew you had your hands full. Any word on Lynet Grainger?”
“Not yet. I've got all my deputies, Simon's bloodhounds, and every volunteer I could get my hands on out searching for her, but no luck so far. She left the library Wednesday night and vanished into thin air.” Her mouth tightened. “If her mother hadn't been drunk that night and failed to report Lynet missing until yesterday afternoon, we might have had a better shot at finding her. As it is, with nearly forty-eight hours gone now, the trail is ice-cold.”
Shepherd studied her. “You look like hell, if you don't mind me saying so.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Did you even go to bed last night, Randy?”
Miranda drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Doc, I've got two teenagers dead and a third one missing, and no evidence to persuade me we're just in the middle of a series of tragic accidents and random disappearances. I also have no evidence pointing me toward the killer—or killers—of the two dead kids, and no clue to help me find Lynet Grainger. I spent half the morning arguing with the mayor and the other half fielding calls from terrified parents. Somebody in my nice, safe little town has apparently decided to start torturing, maiming, and killing teenagers. And I have a sixteen-year-old sister at home. What do you think?”
“I think you didn't go to bed.”
She straightened in her chair as if to refute his accusation, then lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck wearily. “Yeah, well, I couldn't have slept anyway. I don't want to find another dead teenager, Peter.”
“Do you think you will?”
“Do you?”
He hesitated for a beat. “Honestly? Yes. I don't know what's going on, Randy, or who's behind it, but I think you're right about one thing. Someone is after our teenagers. And that someone has some very strange … appetites.”
In an abrupt turnabout, Miranda shook her head. “We don't know that's what's going on.”
“Don't we?”
“No.”
“I see. Then I guess you have a reasonable explanation for why Kerry Ingram's body was drained of almost all its blood.”
“Don't tell me you think the killer drank it,” Miranda objected dryly.
“No—although that sort of thing is more common than most people would like to believe.”
“I wonder why.”
Ignoring the muttered aside, Shepherd went on, “I believe that the killer had some need for the blood, undoubtedly one a rational person could never understand. And—not that you missed this detail, I'm sure—it's interesting to note that we actually found only a small percentage of Adam Ramsay's bones out there.”
“The animals. Scavengers.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he wasn't all there to begin with. Maybe the killer took his blood as well as the girl's. And a few bones to go with it. And maybe he took Lynet Grainger because he didn't get all he needed from the first two.”
“Speculation,” Miranda said firmly. “We don't even know that Kerry and Adam were killed by the same person, and Lynet's disappearance doesn't have to end with us finding her body.”
“That's true enough.” Shepherd got to his feet. “But here's something just as true: It's not like you to hide your head in the sand, Randy.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He smiled faintly. “I also think you're honest enough—maybe especially with yourself—to face up to it sooner rather than later. At least I hope so. I don't read tea leaves like Liz Hallowell, but I don't need to have gypsy blood to know there's something very strange going on in Gladstone.”
“Yes. Yes, I know that.”
“Nobody will think less of you for calling in help, not when something like this is going on.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“And they're telling the truth.” He paused. “We need to get an expert in to look at those bones, Randy. Tell me who, and I'll make the call.”
She looked at him for a long while, then sighed. “No, it's my job. I'll make the call, Doc.”
But she didn't pick up the phone after Shepherd left. Instead, she went through the case files one more time, studying every piece of information gathered on Kerry Ingram and Adam Ramsay. She fixed all her will on finding something, some tiny, previously overlooked clue, that would tell her these were ordinary murders, committed in anger or for some other perfectly tragic, perfectly human reason.
But no matter how many times she went over it all, the photos of a young, battered body and skeletal remains, the medical reports and the interviews with relatives and acquaintances, the traced movements of the two teenagers during the last weeks before they disappeared—no matter how many times she went over the information in the files, only the same unalterable, inescapable chilling facts jumped out at her.
Kerry Ingram's exsanguinated body.
The bones missing from Adam Ramsay's remains.
The aged condition of the bones they had found.
Miranda closed the last file and stared across the room at nothing. “Goddammit,” she whispered.
Inevitability.
Some people called it fate.
He watched the girl as she lay in a drugged stupor on the cot where he had placed her. She was pretty. That was a shame. And she'd been trying to improve her lot in life, working hard in school, doing her best to keep her lush of a mother from driving drunk or burning down the house.
Definitely a shame.
But there was nothing he could do to change things.
He hoped Lynet would understand that.
Saturday, January 8
“So when're the feds due in?” Alex asked Miranda. They stood near the top of the hill and watched as half a dozen small boats slowly crisscrossed the lake down in the holl
ow. The last light of day was shining just over the mountains and painting the lake shimmering silver; another few minutes and they'd have to put up floodlights or stop the search for the night.
“Any time now.”
Alex turned to her. “So how come you're out here instead of back at the office waiting for them? Dragging the lake is a good idea—anonymous tip or not—since we haven't found a trace of the Grainger girl anywhere else in the area, but I can call in if we find anything.”
Miranda's shoulders moved in an irritable shrug. “They'll have to drive in from Nashville, so it could be late tonight. Anyway, I left Brady on duty at the office with instructions to send them out here if they arrive before I get back.”
“Do you have any idea how many are coming? I mean, isn't this crack new unit of theirs supposed to be made up of a dozen or more agents?”
“I don't know for sure. There isn't much information available, even for law enforcement officials. We'll get what we get, I guess.” She sounded restless, uneasy.
Alex was about to ask another question when he saw Miranda stiffen. He wasn't sure how he knew, but looking at her he was certain that all her attention, all her being,was suddenly focused elsewhere. She no longer saw the lake or the people below, and wasn't even aware of him standing beside her.
Then he saw her eyes shift to one side, as if she was suddenly, intensely aware of some sound, some thing, behind her and didn't want to turn her head to look.
“Randy?”
She didn't respond, didn't seem to hear him.
Alex looked behind them. At first, all he saw was the hilltop flooded with light because the sun had not yet set. Then there was an abrupt, curiously fluid shifting of the light, and the silhouette of a tall man appeared.
Alex blinked, startled because he hadn't heard a sound. Two more silhouettes appeared on either side of the first, another man and a woman. They paused on the crest of the hill, looking at the activity below, then lost the blinding halo of light as they moved down the slope toward Alex and Miranda.
The man on the left was about six feet tall. He was maybe thirty, on the thin side, with nondescript brown hair. The woman was likely the same age, medium height, slender, and blond. Both were casually dressed in dark pants and bulky sweaters.
But it was the man in the center who caught and held Alex's attention. Dressed as casually as the other two in jeans and a black leather jacket, he was a striking figure, over six feet tall and very dark. His black hair gleamed in the last of the day's light, and a distinct widow's peak crowned his high forehead. He was wide shouldered and moved with the ease and grace of a trained athlete, navigating the rock-strewn slope with far more dexterity than his slipping and sliding companions. As he neared them, Alex saw a vivid scar on the left side of his coldly handsome face.
Liz's dark stranger,Alex thought, with a lack of surprise that would have surprised her.
He looked back at Miranda and saw that her gaze was fixed once more on the lake below. But her breath came quickly through parted, trembling lips, and her face was pale and strained. He was astonished at how vulnerable she looked. For a moment. Just a moment.
Then she closed her eyes, and when she opened them a moment later all the strain was gone. She looked perfectly calm, indifferent even.
Quietly, he said, “Randy, I think the feds are here.”
“Are they?” She sounded only mildly interested. She slid her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “They're early.”
“Guess they had a fast car.”
“Guess so.”
Intrigued, but willing to await events, Alex returned his attention to the approaching agents. When they were close, the tall man in the center spoke, his voice deep and cool but with an undercurrent of tension that was audible.
“Sheriff Knight?” It wasn't quite a question, and his pale, oddly reflective eyes were already fixed on Miranda.
She turned to face the newcomers. “Hello, Bishop.”
Bishop's companions didn't seem surprised that this small-town sheriff knew him, so it was left to Alex to ask, “You two know each other?”
“We've met,” Miranda said. She introduced Alex, and just as calmly Bishop introduced Special Agents Anthony Harte and Dr. Sharon Edwards. Nobody offered to shake hands, possibly because Miranda and Bishop kept their hands in their pockets the entire time.
“I'm the forensic pathologist you requested,” Edwards said cheerfully. Alex thought that Doc Shepherd was about to meet a kindred spirit.
“My specialty is interpretation of data,” Harte explained when Miranda's gaze turned questioningly toward him.
“Good,” she said. “We have some puzzling data for you to interpret. In the meantime, just to catch you up on events, we're following a tip that our missing teenager might be found here in the lake.”
“A tip from whom, Sheriff Knight?” Bishop asked.
“An anonymous tip.”
“Phoned in to your office?”
“That's right.”
“Male or female?”
Her hesitation was almost unnoticeable. “Female.”
“Interesting,” he said.
His voice held no accusation, hers no defensiveness, but Alex felt both existed and was even more puzzled. Then he realized something else. “Hey, you're both chess pieces. Knight and Bishop.”
Miranda looked at him, one brow rising. “How about that,” she said dryly.
Alex cleared his throat. “Well, anyway. We're losing the light down on the lake, Sheriff. Want to call off the search for the day?”
“Might as well.” She glanced at the agents. “If you'll excuse me for a few minutes?” Without waiting for a response, she made her way down to the shore where the boats were gathering.
Bishop never took his eyes off Miranda. Alex was curious enough to be nosy, but something in Bishop's face made him stick to professional inquiries. “So what's your specialty, Agent Bishop?”
“Profiler. Who took the anonymous call, Deputy Mayse?”
Alex wasn't sure he liked the question but answered it anyway. “Sheriff Knight.” Then he found himself defending where Miranda had refused to. “That's not at all unusual, in case you think it is. The sheriff makes a point of being accessible, so lots of people call her directly if they have information or questions.”
Those cool, pale eyes turned to him at last, and Bishop said almost indifferently, “Typical of small towns, in my experience. Tell me, has this area been searched?”
“No. Until we got the tip about the lake, there was no reason to think the Grainger girl would be this far out of town.”
“And do you think she's here?”
“The sheriff thinks there's a chance. That's good enough for me.”
Bishop continued to gaze at him for a long moment, making Alex uncomfortable. Then the agent nodded, exchanged glances with his two companions, and moved several yards away to a rocky outcropping. From there he could see most of the hollow, the lake, and the surrounding hills.
“What's he doing?” Alex asked, keeping his voice low.
Sharon Edwards answered. “Getting the lay of the land, I guess you'd call it. Looking for … signs.”
“Signs? It's nearly dark already, especially down there; what can he possibly see?”
“You might be surprised,” Tony Harte murmured.
Alex wanted to question that, but instead said, “I gather he's in charge?”
“He's the senior agent,” Edwards confirmed. “But your sheriff is the one in charge. We're just here to help, to offer our expertise and advice.”
“Uh-huh.”
She smiled. “Really. We have a mandate never to interfere with local law enforcement. It's the only way we can be truly useful and be certain we're called in when the situation warrants. We're a lot more likely to be contacted when police are confronted with our sort of cases if word gets around that we never ride roughshod over local authorities.”
Alex looked at her curiously. “Your sort o
f cases?”
“I'm sure you saw the bulletin the Bureau sent out.”
“I saw it. Like most Bureau bulletins, it didn't tell me a hell of a lot.”
Edwards smiled again. “They can be cryptic when they want to be. Basically, we get called in on cases where the evidence just doesn't add up or is nonexistent, or there are details that seem to smack of the paranormal or inexplicable. Often those elements show up only after local law enforcement has exhausted all the usual avenues of investigation.”
“So you guys pursue un usual avenues?”
“We … look for the less likely explanations. And some of the methods we use are more intuitive than scientific. We try to keep things informal.”
“Is that why no trench coats?”
She chuckled, honestly amused. “We are considered something of a maverick group within the Bureau, so when it was suggested that we dress more casually, the powers that be gave their permission.”
Alex wanted to know more, but Miranda hailed him from the lake and he went down to help the search teams get their gear ashore.
Gazing after him, Tony Harte said, “Think you told him enough?”
“To satisfy him?” Edwards shook her head. “Only for the moment. According to his profile, he's curious and possesses a high tolerance for unconventional methods— probably why he hasn't questioned his sheriff too closely about all the hunches and intuitions since she took office. But he's protective of her, and he's wary of us. He'll be cooperative as long as he's sure we're contributing to the investigation without making Sheriff Knight look bad.”
Harte grunted, then glanced at Bishop, still standing several yards away and looking down at the lake. “What about this sheriff? Did you know who she was?”
“I had my suspicions when I went to do a deep background check on her—and found she didn't have one.”
“So it is her?”
“I think so.”
“No wonder he was in such a hurry to get here. But I've seen warmer greetings between mortal enemies.”
“What makes you so sure that isn't what they are— at least from her point of view?”
“Never thought I'd feel sorry for Bishop.”
“I imagine he can handle his own problems.” Edwards smiled faintly. “In the meantime, there's this little problem we're supposed to be helping with. Are you getting anything?”