Out of the Shadows

by Kay Hooper

  Alex stared at him. “Is there a reason why you suddenly brought that up?”

  Tony reached for the last slice of pizza and tested it with a finger to see if it needed to be nuked in the microwave. “Oh, no. No reason at all.”

  Miranda wasn't really asleep when the phone rang, just drifting pleasantly in a cocoon of warmth and contentment as she listened to the storm. Since she was on her side facing the nightstand she was able to reach for the receiver without even opening her eyes.

  “Hello?”

  “Randy, it's Alex. Are you— Is everything okay? When Bishop didn't check in, we got a little worried.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand, only mildly surprised to find it was nearly midnight. “Everything's fine, Alex.” She felt Bishop's arm tighten around her, and had to smile to herself at words that didn't begin to describe truth. “We'll wait out the worst of the storm here, though, and not try to get back until sometime tomorrow morning.”

  “From the weather reports we're getting, this thing may go on the biggest part of tomorrow,” Alex warned. “But, so far, no major power outages and no other problems to speak of.”

  “Let me know if anything changes.”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “And if Bonnie calls tomorrow before I get in, tell her I'm at home, will you, please?”

  “You bet.”

  Miranda hung up, and for a moment or two just lay there enjoying the peaceful interlude. The warmth of Bishop behind her, his hard body pressed against hers, was a potent reminder of what they had shared and the undeniable truth that they were stronger together than apart.

  She wondered if, even now, she was able to accept that.

  She was aware of the easy connection with Bishop, of the complex weave of gossamer threads that linked their two minds, but she also knew that what had happened when they had first become lovers more than eight years before had happened again. Their minds touched just as their bodies did, but there was no active mental communication now, no exchange of thoughts or emotions. A kind of psychic overload had temporarily numbed every one of their “extra” senses.

  The first time had been the strongest, leaving them unable to use their psychic abilities for days afterward—and leaving them understandably apprehensive about the cost of being lovers. Not that it had stopped them. And they had eventually discovered that the effects were short-lived, always fading within hours.

  It was, Bishop had said, their own unique afterglow.

  Miranda wondered how long the effects would last this time. Would it be days or hours before they could use their abilities again? And when they could, would they discover, as they had before, that their joining had created something remarkable?

  Bishop moved behind her, and she turned onto her back to look up at him as he raised himself on an elbow.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “I think you said that the first time,” she observed.

  “I wouldn't be a bit surprised.” He touched her face gently. “I guess I'd expected all the years we were apart to change everything.”

  “Some things,” Miranda said, not without ironic humor, “seem to be immutable.”

  Bishop smiled. “In this particular case, I hope you don't expect me to be upset about that.”

  Honestly curious and a little surprised, she said, “Then it doesn't bother you to be so … exposed?”

  “To you? No,” he answered without hesitation.

  “It did once.”

  “I was an idiot then. I think I've mentioned it.”

  “I think you have.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I don't know how much came through just now, how much you've had a chance to think about, but you have to realize I never meant to go behind your back, Miranda.”

  “I know that.” She had felt his regrets, so intense even after all these years that it had been painful. “I know that Kara agreed to help you only after you promised you wouldn't tell me.” She paused. “But you did go to her without telling me, and you did that because you knew I would have said no.”

  Bishop didn't deny it. “I told myself she was old enough to decide what she wanted to do, that you were just being the protective older sister, worrying too much, and that once she helped us catch the bastard you'd agree it had been for the best. But I knew it was wrong. Going to her without telling you first was a … betrayal of you, a betrayal of everything we were trying to build between us. But—”

  “But,” she finished dryly, “you thought you could justify it.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He didn't try to do that now, didn't argue as he had then that to catch a vicious killer virtually any means could be justified. He simply said, “I was wrong. Nothing could have excused hurting you like that, destroying your trust in me. Even if … even if it had turned out differently, it would have been over between us. It took me a long time to realize that. And understand why.”

  She was silent, watching him.

  “And it was a professional mistake too. I closed my mind to all the facts I should have considered. You knew Kara far better than I did, understood her abilities in a way I never could have. You realized how vulnerable she was to a stronger mind, especially a psychic one.”

  “You had no way of knowing Harrison was psychic,” Miranda reminded him. “None of us had.”

  He nodded, but said, “The difference is that it was a possibility you would have considered—if I'd given you the chance.”

  “Maybe.”

  He frowned slightly as he gazed down at her. “Miranda, you haven't spent all these years thinking any part of it was your fault, have you?”

  “If we hadn't been arguing about it that last day, if I had just let you get back to doing your job, then maybe—”

  “Miranda.” His hand lay warmly against her face, his thumb moving in a gentle, soothing motion across her cheekbone. “It wouldn't have made a difference, you know that. You have to know it. There were two teams of agents and half a dozen plainclothes officers stationed all around the house. I would have been outside with them. Even if I'd been there, I wouldn't have known what was happening inside until too late.”

  “Your spider-sense might have—”

  “You're forgetting.” His mouth twisted in self-loathing. “I wanted to confess, but I had some idiotic idea that you'd be more likely to forgive me if I confessed after we made love that morning.”

  She had forgotten that, which might have been surprising except for the utter chaos of the emotions that had followed during that endless day and all the days afterward.

  “Very much a man thing, that sort of notion,” she murmured, unable to resist.

  “Apparently. And a stupid thing.” He grimaced. “You know, I think it's one of the things I'm most ashamed of, that I had the colossal conceit to believe— honestly believe—that you wouldn't be able to stay mad at me when you were …”

  “Weak with satisfaction?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I don't believe I've ever been so wrong about anything in my life.”

  In retrospect, Miranda couldn't help but see the humor in it, but all she said was, “Let's call it a lesson learned and move on.”

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Moving on—since we had made love that morning, the spider-sense was temporarily out of order. Psychically, I was blind as a bat. So I wouldn't have had a clue that something bad was happening inside the house. Hell, I couldn't even sense a direct danger to myself.” He briefly touched his left cheek. “Which is why I got this.”

  “I wondered. I knew you got it that day when Harrison—when he got past all the cops, but I never thought about how he was able to get that close to you.”

  “That's how. I never saw him coming. In any sense.” Bishop paused. “He also got my gun. Killed four more people with it.”

  Miranda hadn't know about that. “I'm sorry.”

  He nodded. “Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that you weren't to blame in any way for what h
appened. It was my fault. Start to finish, it was my fault.”

  “Ultimately, it was Harrison's fault. He killed my family, Bishop, not you.”

  “Yes, but I made them a target. If I had gone to you first, it would have all been so different. I don't know if I'd have been able to convince you, but I do know that if you'd been involved, you would have been able to protect Kara, maybe even prevent Harrison from following that psychic connection back to her.”

  “I think you overestimate my abilities,” she said, deliberately light.

  “Do I?” He kissed her, taking his time about it, then said, “You knew this would happen. Us.”

  She didn't try to deny it, ruefully aware that he had mined that little nugget from her own brain during the wild kaleidoscope of mental communication. “I knew. And I wasn't happy about it, not then.”

  “What about now? Regrets?”

  “No.” She reached up to briefly touch his cheek, absently tracing the scar. “I don't know how I feel, except that I'm glad you're here. I'm not thinking past that.”

  “I'll settle for that. For now.” He kissed her again, his brows drawing together as he sorted through the images and emotions stored in his brain. The exchange between them had been rather like viewing a videotape in extreme fast-forward mode, and it was only now that they could begin to sift through and understand all the information.

  “You knew we'd be lovers again,” he said slowly. “But there was something else, wasn't there? Something else you saw even before any of this started.”

  Miranda hesitated even now, not because she didn't want to confide in him but because she was uneasily aware that she might already have changed the future she had seen. Everything else had happened in the expected order, except for this. Five. Five victims, and then they became lovers again—that's what she had seen.

  Had she changed the future? In building up her shields so strongly to close Bishop out and try to avoid any closeness between them, had she inadvertently caused the ideal situation that would make it possible for him to revive their relationship—and their bond?

  And if she had … what would be the repercussions?

  “Miranda?”

  She smiled. “I don't know about you, but I'm starving.”

  “Miranda—”

  “I'm not stalling. Well, not much.” Whether or not she had changed the future, sooner or later she'd have to tell him what she had originally seen. Or he'd find the information stored in his own mind. And since she was reasonably sure of what would happen when he discovered it, any delay seemed wise. “I just think that since neither of us is sleepy and the storm may knock out the power at any time, we should take advantage of all the modern conveniences while we can.”

  He stared at her. “You aren't going to tell me.”

  “I really am starving, Bishop.”

  “Have I told you what a stubborn woman you are?”

  “Once or twice.” She threw back the covers on her side and sat up. “We'll argue about it later. For now, I'm hungry and I'd like to check the Weather Channel just to see what we're in for. And if you want a shower while the water's hot, I'd suggest now, just in case we do lose power.”

  He watched her gather their scattered clothing and leave it on the foot of the bed, then put on a thick terrycloth robe from the closet.

  “I'd forgotten how beautiful you are,” he said. “I thought I hadn't, but… Jesus. It's like a kick in the stomach.”

  Amused, she said, “You sweet talker, you.” She found a pair of fuzzy cat slippers Bonnie had given her for Christmas and slid her feet into them. They looked absurd but were both comfortable and warm.

  He grinned at her. “You still don't give a damn, do you? You're no more impressed by your looks than by your psychic abilities.”

  “Because I'm not responsible for either one. A genetic roll of the dice is. Ask me about my black belt or sharpshooter medals, or about my ability to finish a crossword puzzle in record time, and I'll brag a little bit.”

  “I wonder if you would,” he mused.

  “See you downstairs, Bishop.” Halfway there, Miranda realized she was smiling. She had told him the truth: she really wasn't looking beyond the fact that she was glad he was with her right now. She didn't want to think about anything else.

  She went into the living room to turn on the TV and got a weird sense of déjà vu. For a moment, she paused there, looking around with a frown. There was her shoulder harness hanging over the chair, the gun in it. Several lamps burning. The Ouija board on the coffee table.

  She moved close to it, then bent and moved the planchette to the center of the board. She had the nagging sense that something was wrong with this picture, but couldn't figure out what it was. She also couldn't clearly remember last being in this room.

  All she recalled was… coming home. And then being in bed with Bishop.

  “I hope he can fill in a few of the blanks,” she murmured to herself, and continued on to the kitchen.

  Behind her, the planchette moved slowly back until it was centered over the word NO.

  FIFTEEN

  “If you had any sense,” Alex told Tony, “you'd go on back to the Lodge and get some sleep.”

  “I'm a glutton for punishment,” Tony agreed. “Besides, it hardly seems worth the bother at this point. The roads are so bad it'd take an hour to get there, and it's nearly two in the morning now. And storms are even less fun when you're all alone, that much I'm sure of.”

  “Um. Where did you say Dr. Edwards was calling from?”

  “From your Dr. Shepherd's house. Not that I bought that old ‘we only got this far before the storm stopped us’ story. If you ask me, those two would have ended up at his house, storm or no storm.”

  Alex grunted. “You psychics seem to move awfully fast.”

  Tony grinned at him. “Think so? Sorry, pal, but it's not such an easy answer. In my experience, psychics actually tend to move more slowly than the average in romantic matters. Being more sensitive than most, we're wary of being hurt.”

  Alex decided he didn't want to pursue that subject. “Now that the pizza's all gone and we've run out of cheerleading competitions to watch,” he said, “and since you don't want to call it a night, what do you say we try to get some work done?”

  Tony sighed and propped his feet on the conference table once again, this time directing his attention to the bulletin board rather than the muted television showing weather reports. “It's all right with me. Assuming we can get anything done, which is doubtful. It'll be Monday at the earliest before Quantico can get us a workable list of tire dealerships in the area. And we've got three deputies out there reading through those copies of classified ads looking for a few our missing teens might possibly have replied to. I don't know about you, but I don't want to go down into the basement and hunt through more missing-persons reports, not tonight.”

  “No, me either. It's not the most cheerful place in the world even without a blizzard.”

  “So, we're left with brain work. Trying one more time to put the puzzle together.” Tony frowned at the bulletin board. “I wonder what it was the killer wanted from Adam Ramsay.”

  “You think Bishop's right about that?”

  “I think he's a damned good profiler even without the psychic edge, and I've learned not to bet against him.”

  Alex gazed at the bulletin board. “With no more than the boy's bones as evidence, how're we supposed to figure out what might have had value to the killer?”

  Tony twisted around to hunt through the stack of files on the table, finally producing a folder containing various interviews and the autopsy report on Adam Ramsay.

  “How many times have you looked at that?” Alex asked.

  “God knows. But maybe this time I'll see what I've missed every time before.”

  Alex shrugged and pulled another folder across the table so he could go through it. Before he opened it, however, he said slowly, “What does it say about a town that it might have hidden a m
onster for years? What does it say about us?”

  Tony looked at him soberly. “It says this particular monster isn't wearing horns and a tail to make him easy to spot. They mostly don't, you know. They hide in plain sight, looking pretty much like the rest of us, daring us to see them, to recognize them for what they are. Problem is, even those of us with extra senses have trouble spotting the monsters, so don't beat yourself up about it. But I can tell you this much. When we do find him, his final victim will be this town, because none of you will ever be the same again.”

  “How did you find me when you got here?” Miranda asked as they sat at the kitchen table with coffee after their meal and listened to the storm wailing.

  “Out cold,” Bishop replied succinctly. “And I do mean cold. Your body temperature was dropping like a stone.” He watched her, aware that she was edgy about something and that these first tentative hours together as lovers might well decide their future. It was the major reason he hadn't pressed her to discover what vision she had seen in the beginning. “Don't you remember?”

  She frowned. “I remember coming home, letting myself in. I remember checking the machine out in the hall. And then … your voice in my head telling me I was dying.”

  Wary that she might believe he'd latched on to any excuse to invade her mind, Bishop said, “I found you in the living room, on the floor, as if you'd just fallen. No outward sign of injury. I'm no doctor, but I've seen plenty of dead and dying, Miranda. You were dying. It wasn't just the dropping temperature; your pulse was fading away, respiration slowing. It was like your body was just… stopping. Your mind had let go or been cut off somehow, was drifting away, and without it, all your systems were shutting down.”

  She accepted that only because she didn't have an alternate explanation. “But what caused it to happen? That's what I don't understand.”

  Bishop hadn't wasted much time in working it all out then, not with Miranda so still and seemingly lifeless. He hadn't thought about anything but getting her back, and had acted instantly and instinctively to do that.