by Kay Hooper
“I am so pathetic,” she told her Ragdoll cat Tetley, who was crouched companionably at the end of the breakfast bar watching her move about the kitchen.
“He still loves Janet. And who can blame him? She was a wonderful woman, wasn't she?”
Tetley blinked agreeably at her.
Liz sighed. She finished her cup of tea, then sat beside her cat at the bar and studied the leaves. Within seconds, she got a flashing image of a scene she had seen once before plainly and a second time more ambiguously. A dark man with a mark on his face— Bishop—throwing himself in front of someone Liz couldn't see clearly. The bullet hit him squarely in the center of his chest. Scarlet bloomed across his white shirt as he fell heavily to the ground and lay still. Liz knew without any doubt at all that he was dead.
The cup clattered to the bar and Liz pushed it away from her, shaken. “That's three times. But I shouldn't keep seeing that,” she told her cat. “It's my cup of tea, not his, why am I seeing his fate?”
But was it Bishop's fate? Or did Liz keep seeing it because she was somehow involved, somehow in a position to change what she saw?
Was she the one he would give his life to save?
“Symbolic,” she muttered, staring at the cup but not daring to look at the leaves again. “What I see is almost always symbolic. Signs and portents. So what does it mean? What does it portend? Help me, Gran, help me figure it out.”
The peal of the doorbell nearly made her jump out of her skin, but she felt relieved as she went to let Alex in. There was such a thing as being alone too long, she thought, and one sign of that was probably talking to one's dead grandmother.
“Is something wrong?” Alex asked immediately, his smile fading.
“No, I was just starting to talk to—myself. Come on in.”
He followed her back to the kitchen and uncorked the wine while she set the meal on the table. They were, as usual, quite comfortable together. Casual. They talked about the nervous, frightened mood of the town, and about how unbelievable it was that a killer walked among them, and they soberly pondered the fate of Steve Penman.
“Could he be alive?” Liz asked.
“Sure he could. But if this sick bastard follows what looks like his pattern, the poor kid would probably prefer to be dead. I know I would.”
Repeating what she had told Bishop, Liz said, “I think he's doing something different to Steve. Not because he wants to—more because he has to. Maybe because he made a mistake before and now he has to correct it. Or because you cops have figured out more than he bargained for and now he wants to throw you off his scent.” Suddenly self-conscious, she added, “It's just a hunch.”
“A hunch.” Alex grimaced. “You know, I seem to be the only one around here who isn't having hunches about this investigation, and it's beginning to bother me.”
“Randy's always had hunches,” Liz noted. “It never bothered you before.”
“Yeah, but this is different. From the minute the feds got here, it was like there was something going on that everybody but me knew about. It's in the way they all look at each other, the careful way they talk sometimes, the way they suddenly change the subject if I walk into the room.”
“You sound a little paranoid, Alex.”
“Don't you think I know that? But just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not also right.”
Liz considered it. “Maybe it's just this history between Bishop and Randy. His people could know about it, and—”
“That's part of it, I think, but there's more to it. And it's not just between the two of them, it's all four of them—the three agents and Randy. I noticed it from the very first. It's like they share a secret.”
Quite suddenly, Liz recalled how Bishop had seemingly read her mind, and with that memory came a host of others. “Alex … do you remember last summer when Ed and Jean Gordon's little girl wandered away and got lost?”
“Sure. Randy found her.”
“Yeah. Even though the dogs lost the trail at the river. Even though that little girl had gotten herself into an old rowboat and floated two miles down the river, and then managed to get out without drowning before hiding in that old shed you couldn't even see unless you knew it was there. But Randy found her there, didn't she?”
“Yeah,” Alex said slowly. “She said it was a … hunch.”
“And what about last April when she insisted the school board get a fire inspector to check the temporary classrooms even though it wasn't time to have them inspected again? He said another month and they'd have had a fire for sure with that faulty wiring.”
“I remember.” Alex was frowning.
Carefully, Liz said, “And there've been other things, other … hunches. Yesterday, Bishop said something to me that made me think he—he might have The Sight. What if he does? And what if Randy has it too?”
She more than half expected Alex to scoff, but he only continued to frown. He drained his wineglass, refilled it, then looked at her finally. “After they got here, I went back and reread that Bureau bulletin about the task force. It's cagey as hell, but if you read it carefully, what it says is that the reason this new group of agents is so successful is that they use unconventional and intuitive investigative methods and tools to solve crimes.”
Liz felt her eyes widen. “You mean … they all have The Sight? The FBI gathered together a group of agents because they have The Sight, and that's what makes them effective?”
“Maybe. I would have said it was damned farfetched for the Bureau, but more people seem open to the idea of the paranormal these days.”
“New millennium,” Liz said promptly. “Historically, mysticism and spirituality become more accepted and popular around the turn of a century—and a new millennium just multiplies the effects.”
“I'll take your word for it.” Alex paused. “If that is what's going on, I can understand their caution. No police department I've ever heard of wants to willingly admit they use psychics in investigations. If it got out publicly that the FBI has an entire unit of them on the government payroll …”
“But Randy would know about them if she has The Sight herself, especially if it's really strong in her. She's probably lived all her life with it, and understands the doubt and mistrust they'd face. So they can all talk freely with her—even though they'd still have to be careful around other people.”
“Like me.” He shook his head. “Hunches. Damn. Things are starting to make more sense. When Bishop said there was a well out near the lake even though he'd never been there before, I asked how he could possibly know that. And all Randy said was—‘he knows.’ In spite of the obvious antagonism between them, she didn't hesitate to start looking for that well.”
Liz watched him brood for a moment. “Will you confront Randy? Ask her if it's true?”
“I don't know.”
“Not telling you was probably more habit than anything to do with trust, you do realize that?”
He half nodded. “Still, if she doesn't want me to know, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.”
Liz hesitated before saying, “Just before you got here, I saw it again. I saw Bishop die. That's three times, Alex.”
With more gravity than he'd ever shown before, Alex said, “Exactly what did you see?”
Liz closed her eyes and tried to bring the details into focus. “It was outside, in the woods, I think, but I didn't recognize the place. There were patches of snow here and there. I saw a gun, a pistol, held out in a black-gloved hand, but I couldn't see who was holding it. Then the scene tilted, almost like a camera falling, and I saw Bishop lunge in front of somebody else, put himself between the gun and whoever it was he was trying to protect. I couldn't see who it was. But I saw the bullet hit him in the center of his chest, saw the blood, saw him fall.” She opened her eyes. “He was dead.”
“You're certain of that?”
“Yes. What I don't understand is why I keep seeing it when I read my own tea leaves. That isn't the way it's supposed to work,
Alex, not unless—unless I'm either the one holding the gun or the one Bishop dies to protect.”
“It isn't you holding the gun,” Alex said flatly.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He smiled, but said, “Maybe you're not actively involved in what happens. Maybe you're seeing it because you can change it.”
“Maybe.” She frowned. “There have been a few times in the past when I saw something that didn't quite happen the way I thought it would. I thought I'd misinterpreted the signs, but maybe what I saw was more like … a warning. What could and would happen if I didn't change something.”
Alex said, “But the tea leaves gave you no idea what that might be, right?”
“Not that I could see.”
He got up to help clear the table, and said somewhat ruefully, “What good is psychic ability if everything is shrouded in symbolism and all the important bits are left out?”
“Gran told me it worked that way because it's an ancient ability we've forgotten how to use properly. She said our modern brains try to process the information and present it to us as best they can, using signs and symbols only our primal instincts can truly interpret.”
Alex thought about that while they scraped plates and loaded the dishwasher. “So if you are being … invited to change what you see, then there must be a clue buried there somewhere. A sign, a symbol. Right?”
“I assume so.” Liz was delighted to find him willing to discuss the subject so calmly, since he'd always scoffed—however gently—in the past.
They carried their wine into her living room, where a crackling fire in the old stone fireplace made it warm and cozy, and sat on the couch. Liz tried to take heart from the fact that there was nothing separating them but the space of half a cushion, but since Alex was clearly preoccupied by signs and portents she didn't count it as much of a victory.
“Signs,” he muttered. “Signs are visible, they stand out. What stood out to you in what you saw? Was there anything that seemed … out of place?”
“His shirt,” Liz said immediately.
“His shirt?”
“Yeah. There was snow on the ground, it was cold— and Bishop wasn't wearing a jacket. Not even a long-sleeved shirt. It was a T-shirt, so white it almost hurt my eyes.”
“A T-shirt. A very white T-shirt.” Alex drained half his wine. “Symbolic of what—that he does his laundry?”
Liz didn't blame him for feeling frustrated. Gently, she said, “It takes a lot of practice to read signs, Alex, and even then it's often guesswork.”
“So what do you guess that white T-shirt means?”
She sipped her wine as she considered it. “If the color is important, white means purity.”
“I don't think,” Alex said, “that Bishop is all that pure.”
She hid a smile. “It might not have anything to do with him personally. The sign is for me to see, remember? So white can mean purity or innocence. It also used to be a color of mourning. On the other hand, it might not be the color at all, but the vivid cleanness of the shirt, or the fact that it's short-sleeved. It might not be the shirt at all, but the lack of a jacket that's important.”
“This just keeps getting better,” Alex muttered.
“I'm afraid it may take some time to interpret, assuming we can. Alex … do you think I should tell Randy about this?”
“Could she do anything to change it?”
“Probably not.”
After a moment, he said, “I think Randy's got about all she can handle right now. No matter how she feels about him, telling her Bishop might be slated to get himself shot is just going to pile on the stress.”
“I didn't warn Bishop,” Liz confessed. “But when we shook hands yesterday, I was thinking he should be careful—and he knew that. He said he would.”
“Then let's hope he will. For what it's worth, I can't see anything we know so far in the investigation leading to a shooting like that.”
“If it has anything to do with the investigation,” Liz reminded him. “It might not.”
“Great. Then we really don't have a clue.” He drained his glass and set it on the coffee table. “I should get out of here and let you get some rest. Thanks for supper, Liz.”
“You're welcome.” The part of her Liz couldn't seem to control went on in a casual tone that didn't fool either one of them. “And you're welcome to stay, you know that.”
His face changed, and she didn't need The Sight to read reluctance, regret—and a touch of discomfort.
“Liz—”
“It's all right.” She was desperate to head him off before he said what she didn't want to hear. “I thought you might want to talk or something, but—”
“Liz, what happened at Christmas was a mistake, you know that. I was lonely, and I'd had too much to drink.” His voice was gentle. “Hell, I'm still lonely— and I hate sleeping alone. But you deserve more than gratitude.”
She forced herself to say, “Stop apologizing, Alex. I was there too, remember? And I'm a big girl, all grown up and everything. Go on home. I'll see you tomorrow.”
He lifted one hand as though he would touch her, then swore under his breath and left.
By the time the fire died down, Liz had emptied the bottle of wine. But it didn't help her sleep.
It didn't help anything at all.
TEN
Saturday, January 15
When Miranda came into the conference room late in the morning, she found Tony Harte writing a list of names on the blackboard, and Bishop sitting at his accustomed place on the end of the table while he studied a file.
“Missing kids?” Miranda asked.
Bishop looked up and frowned slightly, but nodded. “Your deputies are backtracking through the files, and following up on missing persons reports to rule out kids who later turned up somewhere either alive or dead. So far, we have three missing teenagers from '98, five from '97,and two from '96.”
Hardly aware of doing it, Miranda sat down in a chair near Bishop. “Ten kids? Ten kids in three years?”
“All either last seen or last known to be within a fifty-mile radius of Gladstone,” Bishop confirmed. “The youngest was fourteen when she ran away from home in '96—in the company of her nineteen-year-old boyfriend, who wanted to go to Nashville to become a singer. Nobody reported him missing, but so far we've been unable to trace either of them beyond this area, so we're including him on the list.”
Tony turned from the blackboard. “Of course, we have no evidence that any of these kids only got as far as Gladstone. Falling between the cracks of the system is all too easy, especially for kids on the streets. They could have made it to Nashville—or wherever else they were headed. They could have been picked up on the road somewhere along the way and wound up six states from here.”
“All we do know,” Bishop finished, “is that none of these kids reappears anywhere in the system under these names. We've cross-checked FBI files, NCIC, every database available. No sign of them.”
Slowly, Miranda said, “Before the new highway, a lot of strangers passed through Gladstone from week to week. Aside from the Lodge on Main Street, we had two more motels just outside town that were usually at least half full.”
Tony came to the conference table and consulted a legal pad. “Let's see … The Starlite Motor Lodge and the Red Oak Inn, right?”
Miranda nodded. “The Starlite burned to the ground about six months ago, long after it had been abandoned. The Red Oak closed its doors the day the new highway opened. The town bought the property, and the fire department's been using the building for practice drills.”
“Some of these kids may have had a few bucks for a room,” Tony noted. “Any way to get our hands on the guest registers?”
“Oh, hell, I don't even know if they still exist.” Miranda thought about it. “No problem getting the registers from the Lodge, since they're still doing business, but the owners of the other two places cleared out when they closed. I assume they took the
ir records and other paperwork with them.”
Tony made notes on the legal pad. “Well, we can check the Lodge at least. If we can actually place any of these kids here in Gladstone, at least we can ask a few more questions. Maybe somebody will remember something.”
Bishop said to Miranda, “I looked through that special edition of The Sentinel this morning. Some of the letters to the editor were a bit…”
“Bloodthirsty?” She grimaced. “Yeah. We've had to disarm a few citizens, especially since the Penman boy disappeared. I've doubled the usual patrols just to try and keep an eye on things, but if and when suspicion falls on any one person I'm going to have a lynch mob on my hands.”
“Justin Marsh isn't helping matters,” Bishop said.
“With his street-corner harangues? I know. I've warned him twice, told him he's crossing the line between free speech and yelling fire in a crowded theater. If I catch him one more time urging people to purge the evil in Gladstone with their own hands, I'll see if a night in jail helps him see reason.”
“His kind doesn't see reason,” Tony said. “Ever.”
“Talked to him, have you?” she murmured.
Tony grinned at her. “Oh, yes. I was treated to a ten-minute lecture on the corruption within government agencies.”
Miranda sighed. “On a normal day, very few people really listen to him, and he's mostly harmless. But with all this going on … I'm afraid he might actually inspire a few of the hotheads to do something stupid.”
Bishop said, “We probably don't have too much to worry about as long as they don't have a definite focus for their rage. We certainly haven't a suspect to offer them. And as far as I can tell, not even the gossips have suggested anyone for the role of possible killer.”
“That's true enough—today, at least,” Miranda agreed. She looked across the table to see Tony drumming his fingers on the legal pad, and said, “Is something bothering you, Tony?”