by Kay Hooper
“It's possible, Miranda.”
She thought about it for a few moments. “I don't believe so, though I'm probably not the best person to ask. It's always been my impression that most of the people around here aside from Justin take their religion a lot more casually—at least to the extent of leaving it up to God to punish the evil in the world.” There was no mockery in her tone, just matter-of-fact tolerance of other people's beliefs.
“We haven't seen any signs of religious mania connected with the crimes,” Bishop mused. “Still, if Justin Marsh perceived those kids as wicked, someone else might have as well.”
“I would say only a lunatic could have, but since it's obvious this bastard is mad as a hatter, I suppose it goes without saying.” Miranda sighed. “One more possibility to throw into the hopper, I guess.” The weak winter sun made a sudden appearance in the overcast sky, and she winced and pulled a pair of sunglasses from her jacket pocket.
Bishop hesitated and then, as neutrally as he could, said, “Before we got here, you had a vision of where Lynet Grainger would be found.”
Miranda put the sunglasses on and straightened away from the side of the Jeep, obviously preparing to get in and leave. “If you're implying I could see something useful about Steve Penman, I told you I can't control it.”
“I know that. But you aren't open to it either.”
She laughed under her breath, but without amusement. “Some things have certainly changed in eight years. From jeering skeptic to dedicated believer is quite a journey for any man to make, even in a lifetime.”
“I never jeered.”
“About precognition you did. Nobody could see into the future, that's what you said. It was impossible to see what hadn't happened yet, simply impossible. You were absolutely convinced. Until—”
“Until I had a vision,” he said steadily. “Your vision.”
“Wasn't quite what you expected, was it, Bishop?” Behind the sunglasses, her eyes were invisible, unreadable. “You thought it put you in control, made you master of your fate and the fate of others. You thought seeing the future had given you all the answers.”
“And I was wrong. Is that what you want me to say one more time? I was wrong, Miranda.” He was conscious of people moving past them and wondered what they made of the obviously intense, low-voiced conversation. If he was lucky, they thought their sheriff was at odds professionally with the FBI agent.
If he was lucky.
“And no matter what you think, I don't envy you that ability.” The certainty in his voice sounded convincing because he was telling her the literal truth.
“Then don't ask me to open myself up to it. If I could help that boy, I would, but I can't. Not that way.”
“How do you know? Goddammit, you're so closed, nothing can get in. Even your intuition is blocked, smothered—”
“We've been through this, Bishop. However I choose to shield is my business, not yours. I understand my abilities a hell of a lot better than you do, and I don't appreciate this attempt at emotional blackmail—”
“That is not what I'm trying to do. I know you honestly believe you can't control the visions, but I also know you can't think clearly about them, not now. Miranda—”
“You always know what's best, don't you? Always have to make everybody else's decisions for them. No one else is even capable of rational thought, are they?”
He drew a deep breath, trying to hold on to his patience even though he knew she was deliberately goading him, that it was another of her defense mechanisms, at least where he was concerned. “You're not listening to me. All I'm saying is that you're choosing to shut down your abilities at the worst possible time. You can shield yourself without shutting down, without closing yourself off like this.”
“You'd love that, wouldn't you?”
“This is not about me.”
“Isn't it?” She opened the Jeep door, then offered him a mocking smile. “Isn't it, Bishop?”
He stood there and watched her drive away, and didn't give a damn that at least two passersby quite definitely heard him angrily mutter, “Shit.”
NINE
Friday, January 14
Alex finished his second cup of Swiss-chocolate-flavored coffee and idly watched Liz moving around behind the counter. He had no business drinking anything with this much caffeine in it so late in the day; another sleepless night lay ahead of him. And he had no business watching Liz either.
Cravings always seemed to be bad for a man.
His, at least.
“More?” Liz asked.
“Better not. I'm off for the day, so staying awake isn't a big concern.”
Liz glanced around to make sure none of the other half dozen or so customers needed anything, then leaned her elbows on the counter. “I guess nothing much is happening, huh?”
“Not much, no. We've been trying to find out if Steve Penman knew something that might have made him dangerous to somebody, but—”
“Because of what I said to Agent Bishop?” Liz looked both astonished and disconcerted.
Alex had to smile at her. “You started us asking. And when Amy Fowler told us Steve had made some kind of comment about there being several other guys who'd wanted to get Adam Ramsay, it started to look more likely. But that's as far as we've been able to get. Amy swears Steve wasn't specific, and nobody else we've questioned has added anything useful.”
Liz lowered her voice. “I overheard some customers talking, and they said Teresa Grainger came to the Sheriff's Department this morning in hysterics, demanding to be able to bury her little girl.”
“Yeah, she did,” Alex said grimly. “I've never seen anybody so wild. Her eyes were like saucers and she was talking so fast you could hardly understand her. A couple of deputies were trying to calm her down, but she didn't want to be touched and sure as hell didn't want to calm down. Some of us were afraid she was going to try to grab a gun and shoot somebody.”
“What happened?”
“Oddly enough, Bishop took care of it. He got to the reception area about two steps ahead of Randy, and never hesitated. Went right up to Teresa and put his hands on her shoulders, said something to her none of us was close enough to hear—and it was like flipping a switch. She quieted down completely, sat when he led her to a chair, and waited right there without another word until Doc Shepherd and her sister got there to take her back home.”
“Maybe the Noah isn't such a surprise after all,” Liz murmured.
“What?”
“It's not important.” Liz frowned. “How's Randy holding up?”
Alex shook his head. “Maybe it's the pressure of the investigation getting to her, I don't know—but there's definitely something wrong. She's popping aspirin like candy, wearing sunglasses when she never used to before, and when she does let you see her eyes they don't look right.”
“In what way?”
He thought about it. “Almost… glazed somehow. There's an odd, flat shine to them, like you're looking through something else first. It's weird.”
“Have you asked her about it?”
“I've asked her if she's okay. She says it's just a bad headache and for me not to worry about it.”
“Maybe that's all it is.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Hesitantly, Liz asked, “How are she and Bishop together? I mean, how do they act around each other?”
“That's another weird thing. At first, they seem fine. Professional, polite, even moments of friendliness as far as I can see. But the longer the two of them are in the same room, the more the tension builds. It's actually a tangible thing, I swear to God it is. You feel jittery yourself, catch yourself drumming your fingers against a desk or tapping your foot.”
Still tentative, Liz asked, “Has anyone else noticed it?”
Alex knew what she was thinking. “I'm not jealous, if that's what you mean. I've told you I don't think about Randy that way.”
“I didn't—”
He waved a dismissive hand, ignoring
her flush, and went on. “Yeah, everybody else has noticed it. I've heard some of the other deputies talking about it, in fact. You can't help but notice. If you look around, you see everybody in the room watching them the way you'd watch a crystal vase on a shelf you know is about to give way. And then their voices get this edge to them, and one or the other of them finds some reason to leave the room. And it starts all over again the next time they're together.”
“Who usually leaves?” Liz asked, a touch of embarrassment lingering in her voice.
“Randy,” he answered promptly. “She shuts herself in her office for a while, that closed door daring any of us to bother her. And every time it happens I get the feeling Bishop wants to kick something.”
“You do realize … they were involved once.”
Alex gazed at her curiously. “Randy more or less admitted it. But how did you know?”
“Yesterday I saw Bishop looking at her.”
“And that was enough?” he asked wryly.
“Well… for me.”
He didn't push her. “I don't know their story, but I do know it isn't over yet. Problem is, they either can't or won't settle things between them. So there's this tension building, like steam inside a pot. And sooner or later the lid's going to blow sky high.”
“Is it interfering with work?”
“So far, no.” He paused. “Not that there's all that much work going on, to be honest. I mean, constructive work. All we can do is keep going over and over the same ground, trying to pick up something we missed before. Even Bishop and Tony Harte are reduced to rearranging the pictures on the bulletin board to make the puzzle look different.”
“I thought the other agent—that doctor—was supposed to be running some kind of tests that might help.”
“Yeah, well, it turned out she needed a better lab than what she brought with her, and way more than anything we could offer. She flew back to Quantico last night. And unless they're not telling me everything, she still hasn't told Randy or Bishop what it is she suspects about those bones.”
Liz was called away by another customer, and when she came back Alex made getting-ready-to-go motions like leaving money on the counter despite her protests and picking up his hat.
“Carolyn's going to work tonight, so I'm going home in an hour,” she said, “and I made a big pot of stew this morning before I came in. If you don't have anything else planned, why not help me eat it?” The invitation was light, but a slight flush rose in her cheeks.
Alex knew he had no business accepting, but the prospect of spending an endless evening alone in his own house held absolutely no appeal. So he closed his mind to the little voice warning him that he'd be sorry. “That sounds great, Liz. Thanks.”
“I should have everything ready by seven,” she said. “But come earlier if you feel like it.”
She was always so careful, he reflected with a pang. So careful to make her invitations casual, companionable, and nothing more. Maybe it was because she and Janet had been friends. Or maybe it was just because the tea leaves had told her he was still in love with his dead wife.
“I'll bring a bottle of wine,” he said, matching her nonchalance.
Bonnie moved her fingertips in a gentle circular motion on Miranda's temples. “Better?”
“Yes, much better. Thanks, sweetie.”
Standing behind her sister's chair, Bonnie continued the soothing massage. “It's just a temporary fix, you know that. The headaches aren't going away until—”
“I know, I know.”
“Are you sure this is the right way, Randy?”
“It's the only way.”
“Maybe if you told Bishop—”
“No. Not this time.”
“It wasn't your fault. It wasn't even his fault. How many times have you told me that some things have to happen just the way they happen?”
“Some things. Not everything.”
Bonnie came around and sat on the couch. “Even so, how can you be sure he'd react the same way this time?”
Miranda kept her head leaning against the back of her chair, her eyes closed, and her voice was matter-of-fact. “Because he's a coldhearted bastard with only one moral certainty—that the end justifies the means.”
“Is he? Is that the man he is today, Randy, or only the man he used to be?”
“Bonnie—”
“What happened changed you. How can you be so sure it didn't change him too?”
“Men don't change. Get that out of your head right now.”
“I know they don't just because someone—some woman—wants them to,” Bonnie agreed, thinking of Steve Penman and poor Amy, “but life can alter them just like it can us. Experience can change them, especially something so awful.”
Miranda was silent.
“All I'm saying is that as long as you're closed up, you can't be sure of anything where Bishop is concerned. You don't know his mind, Randy. Not anymore. And it isn't like you to—to judge without a fair hearing.”
Miranda lifted her head, opened her eyes, and frowned at her sister.
Bonnie went on quickly. “You said you hadn't even used the access he gave you to find out about Lewis Harrison.” Her voice quivered very slightly on the name.
“There's no need. He wouldn't have given it to me if he hadn't been telling the truth.” Miranda shrugged. “So we know that threat is gone. What else is there to find out?”
“I don't know. And neither do you.” Bonnie rose. “I think I'll turn in. Do you mind if Amy spends the day here tomorrow? With no news on Steve, she's pretty much pacing the floor and driving her parents crazy. At least here with me she has somebody to talk to, and maybe I can get her busy, keep her mind off things.”
“It's fine with me. But don't go anywhere unless Seth or Mrs. Task is with you, okay?”
“Sure. Good night, Randy.”
“Night, sweetie.”
Alone in the silence of the living room, Miranda tried to relax but found it impossible. The dull pounding in her head wasn't exactly restful, and she couldn't seem to let go of the conversation with her sister.
Bonnie was softhearted, of course. Way too sensitive for her own good, Miranda often thought. She fed stray cats and dogs, cried when even the villain died in the movies, and invariably felt sorry for anyone she felt wasn't being treated fairly.
Even, apparently, Bishop.
“What else is there to find out?”
“I don't know. And neither do you.”
Miranda realized she was on her feet only when the sudden movement caused a surge of nausea. She gritted her teeth and waited it out, then went into the little side room off the downstairs hallway she had set up as a home office. The desktop computer was actually a couple years newer than those at the Sheriff's Department, and the modem was top of the line.
She swore, then turned on the machine. While it was booting up, she went to get the paper Bishop had given her from the pocket of her jacket.
He had provided all the information necessary for her to access the file on Lewis Harrison, A.K.A. the Rosemont Butcher, but that didn't mean the process was either quick or easy; the Federal Bureau of Investigation clearly disliked opening any of its files to outsiders, however well authorized, and made her work for the information.
But Miranda's experience with bureaucratic red tape since taking on the job of sheriff stood her in good stead, and she patiently wended her way through the security maze that led her, finally, to the files.
Six and a half years ago, Bishop had been a junior agent, so the bulk of the reports Miranda read had been written by two senior agents and their supervisor in the L.A. field office, as well as by several of the L.A. cops involved. Miranda doubted Bishop had even seen them.
The only report actually written by Bishop was his account of the final confrontation with Lewis Harrison that had resulted in the death of the Rosemont Butcher. One cop and another agent had witnessed what happened, and both agreed without apparent reservation that it had been
a justifiable shooting, that Bishop had acted in self-defense and had no other alternative available to him, a judgment the FBI's own review board had concurred with.
But long before Miranda read about that, she had absorbed account after account of one man's relentless, obsessive hunt for a killer. Both the senior agents and their supervisor were generous in their praise of Bishop, and all three, Miranda noted wryly, used very careful phrasing to note his “hunches” and his “instincts” in tracking down Harrison.
It really did look more like magic.
For nearly eighteen months Bishop had so completely crawled inside Harrison's head that the killer had found himself unable to continue with the meticulously planned murders he had prided himself on. Again and again, no sooner did he choose his victim than Bishop would be there somehow, waiting, protecting the victim even as he set trap after trap, his patience endless.
And Bishop had not moved in secret or even quietly, but boldly and openly, making himself a target Harrison could hardly help but see, a shadow always at his heels, a brilliant mind always second-guessing him, even outthinking him. Until finally the killer had been unable to do anything except turn like a cornered animal and make one desperate, vicious attempt to get the man on his trail.
He had failed.
Miranda slowly closed the file and turned off her computer, then just sat there staring at the monitor's dark screen. She thought about those eighteen months, that dogged pursuit, and wondered what kind of life Bishop could have had then. Not much of one.
For a man of “normal” senses and imagination to so thoroughly immerse himself in the mind of a brutal killer for that length of time would have been traumatic; for a psychic gifted or cursed with a far deeper and more intimate understanding, it must have been devastating.
And to willingly subject himself to that argued a degree of determination and commitment that was incredible.
“He had his own ax to grind,” Miranda murmured into the silent room. “His own score to settle. That's why he did it. That's why.”
But for the first time, she wondered.
Liz had told herself she wasn't going to push. She'd told herself repeatedly while she was getting supper ready and waiting for Alex. She would be casual and friendly, and that was all. Offer him good food and good company, and hope … And hope.