Out of the Shadows

by Kay Hooper

  “Oh, Christ,” Alex muttered.

  Slowly, Bishop said, “Lynet Grainger might have seen him, seen his temptation, so he took her eyes. He took Steve Penman's tongue because the boy might have spoken … might have told someone something dangerous to him.”

  “I'd think killing the boy removed that threat,” Tony said.

  “Maybe he didn't think so,” Miranda said carefully. “Maybe we have a … superstitious killer here. Maybe he believes in ghosts.”

  Surprisingly, it was Alex who said, “If that were true, wouldn't he have done the same thing to the others? I mean, they all had to see him at some point, right, if only when he grabbed them? They all probably knew who he was. So if he believed in ghosts, he had to believe any one of them could have—have named him as their killer.”

  “That makes sense,” Miranda admitted.

  Bishop said, “The simplest reason is probably the right one. Punishment. He took Lynet's eyes as punishment because she saw his temptation. He took Steve's tongue as punishment because he would have talked.”

  “And the blood he took from all of them?” Alex asked.

  “He needed it.”

  Alex sighed. “Great. Sooner or later, that little item is going to get out. Anybody want to bet as to how soon this bastard is nicknamed the vampire killer?”

  Bishop was brooding and didn't respond; Tony shook his head solemnly; Miranda returned her attention to the doctor with a question.

  “How was Steve subdued?”

  “Blow to the head, probably with a bat or something else made of wood. A solid blow. The skull is fractured, and I doubt very seriously if the boy ever regained consciousness.”

  “There's consciousness,” Tony murmured, “and then there's consciousness.”

  Alex seemed about to ask something, so Miranda spoke quickly. “What was the immediate cause of death?”

  “Loss of blood.”

  “Any signs of torture?”

  “No, none. There isn't so much as a bruise or cut anywhere on the body except for the throat and the tongue. Even the ropes around the ankles were no tighter than necessary. It's as if he was very careful not to damage the boy any more than he had to.”

  “Or,” Miranda said, “very careful not to display too great an interest in Steve.” She looked at Bishop. “So we wouldn't think it was sexual?”

  Bishop nodded. “I'm surprised he stripped the boy. Leaving him naked was taking the chance we might think he enjoyed looking at him that way.”

  Miranda frowned. “Unless there was a greater risk in leaving the clothes on. Forensic evidence, maybe?”

  “Could be. He had to transport the boy here, and given where he was abducted, there was no opportunity at that end to guard against picking up fibers from whatever vehicle was used.”

  Miranda looked back at Sharon. “The body was washed?”

  “Just like the Grainger girl's,” Sharon confirmed. “I found traces of the same mild liquid soap.”

  Bishop looked toward the millhouse. “No running water inside, but—”

  “The waterwheel,” Miranda said. “Something about it was bothering you.”

  “The trough,” he said slowly, realizing. “It was still damp. He put the boy in the trough to wash him. The wheel no longer turns, but he could dip water from the river with a bucket and use the trough as a tub.”

  “Steve Penman was no lightweight,” Miranda said. “And there are no signs the killer used anything but a car to transport his victim. Carrying him to and from the water wheel definitely took some muscle.”

  “Or sheer determination,” Bishop said.

  Miranda sighed, glanced around at the deepening twilight, then said to the doctor, “There's been no time to discuss it until now, but you said you had found something interesting about the bones of the first victim?”

  “You could say that. While he was still alive, the boy had been injected with a chemical compound that leached all the nutrients from his system and forced his bones to appear to age much more rapidly than normal.”

  Miranda stared at her for a moment. “Why?”

  “If I had to guess, knowing what little we do about this killer, I'd say he did it just to see what would happen. I have no doubt the process would have been agonizing for the victim, and if he gets his kicks by causing pain …”

  “A lab experiment,” Alex said incredulously. “A goddamned lab experiment.”

  Miranda felt too sickened to speak, and it was Bishop who said, “Is there any other reason he might have done it? Anything he could have gained?”

  Sharon pursed her lips. “Well, maybe one thing, though I'm damned if I know why. One result of the chemical process would have been to … enrich the blood. All the nutrients leached from the bones and organs would have been deposited in the bloodstream. So if he exsanguinated that body—and I believe he did— the blood he got as a result would have been much higher in minerals and nutrients than normal.”

  After a long silence, Alex said, “Am I the only one starting to believe in vampires?”

  “No,” Miranda said. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

  Liz hadn't been thinking much about the weather, but when the flow of customers to the café and bookstore increased dramatically in the late afternoon she knew something was up. People tended to make last-minute runs to the grocery story and—depending on their tastes—either a bookstore or a video store whenever bad weather was expected. Nobody wanted to be stuck at home without food or entertainment.

  And in this case, Liz soon realized, they also wanted a last chance to linger in the relative safety of a public place and explore the latest gossip. Word had spread that Steve Penman's body had been discovered, and the mood of those Liz talked to seemed evenly divided between frightened and furious. They wanted the killings to stop,wanted this madman caught and punished, and they wanted it now.

  Which was why when Alex came in just after six o'clock, three of Liz's customers pounced on him and demanded to know what the Sheriff's Department was doing to make the streets of Gladstone safe again.

  “Everything we can,” Alex told them patiently.

  “Like what? It's getting very scary out there, Alex,” Scott Sherman told him, waving his copy of the latest thriller in unconscious irony.

  “Then don't be out there, Scott. Go home. There's a storm coming, or haven't you heard?”

  “Of course I've heard. Why do you think I'm here looking for a few good books? Alex, I voted for Sheriff Knight, and I really hope she doesn't make me regret it.”

  “Then leave her alone to do her job—and help her by getting off the streets so we can all put our energy where it needs to go.”

  “But, Alex,” Linda Bolton said anxiously, “if Steve Penman can be taken off Main Street in the middle of the afternoon, how can we expect our kids to be safe even at home?”

  “Keep them inside and lock the doors.” Alex sighed. “Look, I know it's a nervous time, but there's no sense in imagining a boogeyman around every corner. This killer is being hunted and knows it—and chances are he'll stay inside during bad weather just like the rest of us. So buy a few books and a jigsaw puzzle or two, and wait for the storm to blow over, okay?”

  “But what if—”

  Liz rescued him, waving the others back to their shopping or coffee and taking Alex to the counter, where he could sit and have a cup of coffee himself. She fixed his favorite and set it before him. “I don't have to ask if it's been a bad day. We heard you'd found Steve.”

  “Yeah.”

  Determined not to allow either of them to remember the last time they'd spoken, Liz kept her voice matter-of-fact. “Was there anything out there that might tell you who killed him?”

  “Hell, I don't know.” Alex sipped his coffee.

  Liz hesitated. “I heard something about Steve coming back from the dead to tell his girlfriend where his body could be found.”

  Alex scowled. “So that's the latest garbled version? Shit. Not but what it's pro
bably for the best that the story is getting outrageous. If we're lucky, nobody'll believe whatever they hear.”

  Grave, Liz said, “How did you know his body was out there?”

  Sourly, Alex said, “How else? Randy got an anonymous tip.”

  TWELVE

  “Her parents wanted to take her home, especially with a storm on the way,” Bonnie said into the receiver, “but Dr. Daniels said better not. She's in pretty bad shape, Randy.”

  “Do her parents know yet?”

  Bonnie lowered her voice even though she was alone at the reception desk and not likely to be overheard. “About the baby? I'm afraid so. I think her mom's in shock, and her dad looked … well, he looked awful. Like somebody had hit him.”

  “Somebody did,” Miranda said.

  “Yeah. Anyway, Dr. Daniels said she needed to sleep, straight through the night at least, and he wants to keep her here where she can be watched closely. I think he's afraid she—she might try to hurt herself or the baby.”

  “Do you think she could?”

  “She's really scared, Randy. I mean, a few days ago she didn't even suspect she was pregnant, and then Steve disappeared and she started thinking and … and now he's gone and there's a baby coming. I don't know what she's capable of doing, I really don't. But I know I want to be here for her.”

  “You could be stuck there if this storm hits big.”

  “I know. And so does Seth. His dad and mom are both staying here because there are a few kids that can't be moved without making them worse, and we can help out. Part of the kitchen staff are staying, and two of the nurses. There are plenty of supplies, and a generator if we lose power. We'll be fine here even if we get snowed in.”

  Miranda sighed, sounding incredibly weary. “Well, I'd rather you were there at the clinic with Seth and his parents than home alone with Mrs. Task, for now at least.”

  Bonnie hesitated. “Randy, I don't think anybody's going to take what Amy said seriously. She was obviously hysterical and not making much sense at all.”

  “I hope you're right. But it gives people … possibilities … to talk about, sweetie. And right now, that's about all they have. Until I can give them a solid suspect with believable evidence, they're bound to speculate.”

  “I know. I'm sorry, Randy.”

  “Don't be. Finding Steve before the killer was ready for us might turn out to be a huge break.”

  “I hope so. Will you stay there tonight?”

  “That's the plan. I'll leave before the storm breaks and make sure Mrs. Task gets home safely and the house is battened down, then come back here.”

  Bonnie felt uneasy for no reason she could explain even to herself. “Be careful, okay? I mean … the roads could be bad.”

  “It isn't even snowing yet. But don't worry, I'll be careful. And you be sure and check in tomorrow morning whether we end up snowbound or not. Don't leave the clinic, even with Seth, without telling me first.”

  “No, I won't.”

  “I'll talk to you tomorrow. 'Bye, sweetie.”

  “ 'Bye.” Bonnie hung up and went down the hall to look in on Amy, who was sleeping with the utter stillness of sedation or exhaustion—or both. Seth had been standing by her window gazing out at nothing, but when Bonnie looked in he joined her at the door.

  “She won't wake for hours,” he said, keeping his voice low. He eased Bonnie back out into the hall and pulled the door almost closed.

  Restless, Bonnie said, “If there's anything I can do to help your parents with the other patients—”

  “Dad said they might need us later, but not now. We have some time to ourselves. I think we should talk, don't you?”

  Bonnie wanted to deny that, but she was ruefully aware that Seth had been uncommonly patient and he certainly deserved an explanation. Or two. So she followed him to a small waiting room just down the hall. It wasn't what you'd call the ideal place for a serious conversation, since it was decorated in bright primary colors and boasted decals of cartoon characters on the walls—decor geared to the mostly young patients the clinic treated—but there were a couple of comfortable couches, and lamps turned low kept it from feeling too much like Disney on parade.

  “Who's Bishop?” Seth asked as soon as they sat down.

  It surprised her that it was his first question given everything that had happened that day, but when she thought about the abrupt and strained meeting with Bishop on the steps of the Sheriff's Department her surprise faded somewhat. From the point of view of someone who didn't know the story, it had quite likely been a decidedly enigmatic meeting.

  Cautiously, she said, “You know he's an FBI agent.”

  “Yeah, I know that. But what is he to you and your sister? What happened that isn't his fault? It has something to do with that scar on your arm, doesn't it?”

  Bonnie looked down at her right forearm, absently brushing the sleeve of her sweater back to expose the white, raggedly crescent-shaped scar. She was trying to decide how much to say, worried about overwhelming Seth; given how sensitive and empathetic he was, she was inclined to say as little as possible even if it wasn't the whole story.

  “Bonnie?”

  She chose her words with care. “When I was a little girl, before we came to Gladstone, I lived outside L.A. with our parents and our sister Kara.”

  “I didn't know you had another sister.”

  Bonnie nodded jerkily. “I … I did. Randy didn't live with us, she had her own place. She had just finished law school. It was in the spring that year when a man the newspapers called the Rosemont Butcher started killing people. He always chose families, and he got inside their homes so easily it almost seemed like magic. Alarm systems, guard dogs, even armed security guards— nothing could keep the families safe once he'd picked them.

  “The police needed help, so they asked the FBI. And that whole summer, agents and cops were trying to figure out how to stop the killer. And he kept on killing.”

  Seth reached over and took her hand. “What happened?”

  “My sister Kara was… psychic. And the ability she had was a very unusual one. A dangerous one. Sometimes she had visions, and in those visions she could … see through the eyes of someone else. Sometimes she could even make it happen, see through a particular person's eyes by holding something they had touched.”

  She paused, waiting anxiously for Seth to comment, but he just said, “Go on.”

  Bonnie drew a deep breath. “Bishop was part of the FBI investigation. He and Randy had met, I don't know how, and had gotten involved that summer. Pretty seriously involved. He found out about what Kara could do, and he thought he could use her abilities to help him catch the Rosemont Butcher.”

  “Did it work?” Seth asked slowly.

  “No. Maybe it would have, but what Bishop didn't know, what nobody knew, was that the killer was psychic too. When Kara tried to see through his eyes, he saw her instead. And he came after our family.” She looked down at her arm, at the scar. “I was the only one in the house who survived.”

  Seth reached for her other hand, his face pale. “Jesus, Bonnie, I'm sorry.”

  Bonnie hadn't intended to add anything else, but heard her voice, thin and unsteady. “The worst thing … the worst thing was that Kara realized too late that he was in the house. There wasn't time for her to do anything except—except hide me. So she did. And I saw … everything he did to her.”

  “Bonnie …”

  She looked up finally to meet his horrified eyes, and whispered, “She made me promise. When she hid me, she made me promise not to make a sound. No matter what. So I watched him kill her, and I didn't make a sound.”

  Seth looked at her scar and suddenly realized he was seeing what her own teeth had done to the flesh. In the desperate need to remain silent, she must have bitten down almost to the bone.

  “Jesus Christ,” Seth said, and pulled her into his arms.

  Miranda didn't like storms as a rule. She supposed if she could curl up in front of a roaring fire
and sip hot tea while watching snow fall, she'd feel different, but she had never had that luxury. From the time she and Bonnie had first moved to a part of the country that actually had four distinct seasons, she had been more concerned with the inconveniences and possible dangers of bad weather than its beauties.

  It wasn't her job to get Gladstone prepared for a storm; there were other authorities to take care of that. But she had to get her people and the Sheriff's Department ready, and that took time. It was after seven-thirty when she went into the conference room to check on any progress in the investigation.

  She knew before she opened the door that Bishop wasn't in the room—or in the building, for that matter—but asked as casually as she could when she found only Tony Harte there.

  “He's at the hospital with Sharon,” Tony replied. “Said he wanted to sit in on the autopsy. Didn't say why. I don't know, maybe he's got a hunch. Or maybe he's just looking for something to spark one.”

  Miranda sat on the table, unconsciously taking Bishop's accustomed place, as Tony worked on his laptop. “And you're trying to get something from the tire track?”

  “Trying being the operative word. The good news is that we got a terrific clear cast of the treads.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “It's one of the best-selling tires in the country. I've got someone back at Quantico trying to narrow down the possibles, but half the dealers aren't on computer yet. It's going to take days just to get a reliable list of retailers within a hundred miles who sold the damn things—never mind finding out from those dealers who their customers were and getting a list of them.”

  “Did we get anything else from the scene at the mill-house? Anything at all?”

  “Not much. The bastard might not have been ready for us to find his victim, but he runs a pretty clean murder. We have the rope around Penman's ankles, which is your basic garden-variety hardware-store rope, and there was nothing fancy about the knot. We have a few—a very few—forensic odds and ends that might eventually help us build a case in court, but nothing helpful at this point. A few carpet fibers that could be from his car or his house; a couple of strands of hair we found caught in the door frame that may or may not match the victim's; a sliver of a footprint—without a distinctive tread.” He shrugged. “What we can't interpret here we've sent back to Quantico for analysis. For what it's worth.”