Out of the Shadows

by Kay Hooper

  “Because nothing's been easy so far,” Miranda told him.

  “I wouldn't mind a little easy about now.”

  “Neither would I, but we aren't likely to get it.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  MacBride glanced from one of them to the other, his mouth twisting, but his voice was easy when he said, “Can we talk for a minute, Randy? In private, if Agent Bishop doesn't mind.”

  “I'll be in the conference room,” Bishop said agreeably. He took the legal pad out of Miranda's hands and went on without waiting for a response.

  “What is it, John?”

  “I just wanted to know how you were,” he said with a touch of awkwardness. “We've barely talked in the last week, and—”

  “I'm fine. Tired, but otherwise okay, all things considered.” She smiled faintly. “Thanks for asking.”

  “You know I care about you, Randy.”

  Miranda was aware that Bishop was unabashedly eavesdropping, but it didn't disturb her because her response would have been the same even if the conversation had been a complete mystery to him. Quietly, she said, “I've always appreciated your friendship, John.”

  “Friendship.”

  “There was never anything more, you know that.”

  “There might have been, if not for—”

  She shook her head. “It has nothing to do with anyone else, not really. We've known each other for years, John. Don't you think something would have happened long ago if it had been meant to?”

  Unhappily, he said, “You're very sure, aren't you, Randy?”

  “Very sure. I'm sorry.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, so am I.” He settled his shoulders and tried a laugh that didn't quite come off. “I'd better get on to the office and let you get back to work.”

  “See you later, John.”

  Miranda stood there for a moment after he'd gone, then went into the conference room. Tony was on the phone, Bishop at his accustomed place on one end of the table as he studied the bulletin board.

  It could have been an entirely silent conversation, but instead Miranda went to Bishop and murmured, “That was not exactly fair to John.”

  “Fair, hell.” He smiled. “I told you I wouldn't let you out of my sight, and I meant it.”

  She eyed him. “Oh, that was why you eavesdropped?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You'd better try it again in a more convincing tone.”

  Bishop chuckled. “Okay, so I had other reasons.”

  “Jealousy. I never would have expected it of you.”

  “Oh, I don't imagine it'll be a problem,” he said calmly. “Once you fully commit yourself to me, that is, and tell me I don't have to worry about it anymore.”

  Miranda was trying to decide how to reply when Tony hung up the phone and said briskly, “Found it. There's a green '89 Mustang registered to Sam Ramsay—Adam Ramsay's uncle. Lives here in the state but not close by, and probably means to come in for the funeral when there is one.”

  “And pick up his car then,” Bishop said.

  “Yeah, or arrange to sell it, something like that.”

  “The question is,” Miranda said, “where the hell is that car now?”

  It took an hour to track down Sam Ramsay, who was indeed Adam's uncle and had indeed agreed about six months before to register a car in his name that was intended for his nephew's use.

  “His dad paid the insurance,” he told Tony somewhat truculently over the phone. “And made sure the car was inspected and everything. I am—was—holding the pink slip until Adam got old enough to put the car in his own name.” He paused, cleared his throat, and added, “I'd planned to see about the car when I came to Gladstone for the funeral. Knew Julie wouldn't want it, and it's too much trouble to drive or ship down to Florida even if his dad was interested.”

  “Adam apparently didn't keep the car at his home,” Tony said.

  “No, Julie pitched a bitch at just the idea of him having his own car, really raised hell about it. Said he was too young. So Adam fixed it with a friend to park the car at his house.”

  “Do you know the friend's name?”

  “Lemme think. Steve somebody. Can't remember the last name.”

  “Penman?” Tony suggested.

  “Yeah, that sounds right—Steve Penman.”

  “Adam kept the car at Steve's house?”

  “That's what he told me. I think they lived close by, so it wasn't any trouble for Adam to walk over and get his car when he wanted it.”

  “I see. Thanks, Mr. Ramsay, thanks very much. If we have any more questions—”

  “I'll be here.”

  Tony cradled the receiver and reported the conversation to Bishop. “So that's the first real connection we have between the two male victims,” he noted.

  “Call the Penman boy's father,” Bishop suggested. “See if he knows anything about that car.”

  “Right.”

  While Tony was doing that, Miranda returned to the conference room; she had been handling reports of a couple of fender-benders and checking on the progress of the power crews.

  Bishop reported the latest findings aloud. The mental link between him and Miranda remained, but in order for them to concentrate on separate things without distracting each other, they had consciously eased their “doors” almost closed. Emotions and sometimes the flicker of a thought got through, but except for their questioning Justin, and Miranda's conversation with the mayor, they had settled on communicating verbally.

  It was also less confusing for Tony that way.

  He watched them as he waited for Steve Penman's father to come to the phone, fascinated as always by their relationship. Bishop had been characteristically brief in explaining why his transmitter had been rather abruptly muted, saying only that he was able to “borrow” Miranda's ability to shield selectively. Tony promised himself that when there was time and leisure to explore the matter, he'd ask a few nosy questions, but what he was really interested in was the apparently effortless telepathic link between Bishop and Miranda.

  Now, that was really something.

  They had emerged from Miranda's office late yesterday having obviously put at least one major hurdle behind them; she was oddly serene, no longer shut off or withdrawn, and Bishop no longer paced the floor— though something in his eyes when he looked at Miranda told Tony that not everything had been settled and that worries remained. In any case, they seemed entirely comfortable with each other, the only visible tension between them being of the electric, sensual variety.

  Not, Tony reflected, that they were acting like a couple of horny teenagers, all secret glances and sweaty hands grabbing at each other. No, it was something a lot more subtle than that. Tony had the feeling that if he could see psychic auras, he'd see theirs merging, melding together whenever they were near each other—and eagerly reconnecting after they had been apart for a few minutes. Because that was the sense he got, that they were touching even when they weren't.

  It was really fascinating.

  The telepathic communication had become obvious rather quickly, and after the second or third time one or the other of them turned to him with a comment that had clearly been the end of a conversation rather than the beginning, Tony had strongly objected.

  “Will you guys quit that? It's getting spooky. Not to mention confusing.”

  “He's probably right,” Bishop had said, clearly amused. “Or he's just jealous that he can't do it.”

  Tony had made a rude response to that, even though all three of them knew it was at least half true.

  “Hello?”

  Recalled to duty, Tony said, “Mr. Penman? This is Agent Harte. I'm really sorry to bother you again, but…”

  “So,” Miranda said to Bishop, thoughtfully, “Adam did have a car. Since when?”

  “Last July, according to his uncle,” Bishop replied.

  “A couple of months before he disappeared.” She leaned her hands on the table and gazed absently toward the bul
letin board. “Has anybody checked traffic violations?”

  “Tony did. None on record. The kid was either a safe driver or lucky. Either way, there was certainly nothing to make any of your deputies notice that car and mention it later when he disappeared. I'm sure his friends knew about it but, like you said before, none of us asked the right question.”

  She nodded, then frowned at a stack of files threatening to topple over. “Is that—”

  “More missing teenagers, yeah. Alex brought the files in a little while ago. We've gone back to '87 so far, and the count is up to twenty-nine.”

  Miranda sank down in a chair, visibly shaken. “Twenty-nine missing kids? In thirteen years?”

  “Twenty-nine reported disappearances of teens last seen within a fifty-mile radius of Gladstone,” Bishop confirmed, more than a little grim himself. “We don't know for certain they even vanished, Miranda, much less vanished here. They could have resurfaced somewhere else under assumed names, or died of drugs or just life on the streets. We don't know.”

  “No, we don't know,” Miranda murmured. “But there's at least an even chance that none of those kids got out of this town alive. My God … how could so many disappear without notice?”

  “If you mean without official notice, consider that the disappearances averaged two or three a year over more than a dozen years. How many administrations in that time? How many strangers passing through Gladstone on their way to Nashville? And consider too that the old files weren't put on computer, where the pattern might have been seen before now.”

  “Still. We should have noticed. We should have seen something.”

  There was nothing particularly reassuring Bishop could say, so instead he said, “One thing these files make more likely is that our killer has had a lot of practice. The steady stream of young people through this town for so many years, kids who wouldn't be missed or at least whose disappearance wouldn't be noticed by or tied to anyone locally, gave him plenty of time and opportunity to get very good at killing.”

  “And to get very good at disposing of the bodies.” Miranda frowned. “That's another thing I don't get. If he's been successfully killing all these years, why suddenly begin leaving the bodies where they'd be found relatively quickly and easily? Both Kerry Ingram and Lynet were left in such a way that it was clear they'd be found sooner rather than later. Why?”

  Bishop turned his gaze to the bulletin board and, slowly, mused, “The only thing we can be pretty certain about is that the new highway forced him to kill local kids, even kids he knew. As long as they were strangers, he could enjoy himself. But once he knew them, once he could call them by name and see their eyes or their smiles afterward in the faces of their relatives … maybe that was too much. Even if only subconsciously, maybe he's hoping we'll stop him.”

  Musing herself, Miranda said, “Adam was the first local kid to be killed. But he buried Adam just as—presumably—he buried or disposed of earlier victims, in such a way that his body wasn't likely to be found. So … did he bury him that way just out of habit? Because he hadn't yet even subconsciously realized he wanted to be caught? Or was there a different reason?”

  Bishop thought about it, then said, “I still believe something about Adam or his murder will point directly to the killer. That's why he was buried how and where he was—because the killer knew we could discover something about him by studying that victim or that murder. And whatever it is … he doesn't want us to know it.”

  “We still aren't sure how he picks his victims,” Miranda offered. “Maybe it has something to do with that? Maybe he grabbed Adam for all the wrong reasons, and knew or feared we'd discover that eventually?”

  Nodding, Bishop said, “That's more than possible. It looks like he kept Adam alive the longest of the local victims, tortured him in the worst, most painful ways— like the chemicals to age his bones. Even if it was done for some other reason, that could also have been punishment, pure and simple, something inflicted to cause the most suffering. Didn't Sharon say that, that he probably did it just to see what would happen—for kicks?”

  “Yeah, she did. And you said you thought the killer got Adam because he needed something from him.”

  “I still think that. Suppose … Adam knew something damaging or potentially damaging to the killer, and he either told the killer outright for some reason or else let his knowledge slip at just the wrong moment. And became a victim. He was punished for what he knew, and maybe tortured partly so he'd reveal everything to the killer.”

  “But did he reveal everything?”

  “No. Although I can't at the moment tell you why I'm so sure of that.”

  “Instinct, maybe,” she said.

  “Maybe. Or sheer practice at understanding the methods and minds of monsters.”

  “Whichever it is, I think you're right. And it all sounds even more plausible when we add in what Bonnie called to tell us earlier—that Amy is sure Steve knew why Adam was killed, and that he went looking for answers himself. It can't be coincidence that Steve ended up a victim. That argues the possibility that there is—or at least was—some evidence or information for him to find. Maybe he found it. And maybe he died for it.”

  At that timely moment, Tony hung up the phone and turned to face them, saying briskly, “Mr. Penman is willing to swear on the Bible that Adam Ramsay never even parked his car at their house, much less kept it there.”

  Bishop eyed him. “I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

  “You're so right. With a little prodding and skillful questioning from yours truly, he did allow as how the family owns quite a bit of property thereabouts—including an old barn a mile or so from their house. An old, supposedly unused barn not too far off the road that would provide fair shelter for a car.”

  “If it was there,” Miranda said, “Steve must have known about it. Why say nothing all this time?”

  Bishop said, “Maybe when Adam disappeared, Steve checked, saw the car was still there, and decided to bide his time and see if Adam turned up. When he turned up dead, Steve wondered about the car—and decided to check it out for himself.”

  “The arrogant stupidity of youth,” Tony muttered.

  “Maybe,” Miranda said. “Or maybe Steve just made one mistake too many, like Adam.” She got to her feet. “I say we go find out if that car is there.”

  Bonnie came out of Amy's room and closed the door.

  Seth, who had been waiting nearby, asked, “Is she asleep?”

  “Finally. I think she's dreading her mom's visit this afternoon. Your dad was right, though—with nothing much to do but think about things, she prefers sleep, sedatives or no sedatives.”

  “You must be pretty bored by now yourself.”

  Bonnie smiled at him. “No, I'm fine. Tired of being cooped up, I guess, but not really bored.”

  “Well, at least you can get some fresh air. Miranda just called. I don't know if anything new's happened—I mean, since Miss Hallowell was killed—but she wants you at the Sheriff's Department. She's sending a cruiser with two deputies, and we're not to open the door until we're positive it's them. I told her I was coming with you, and she said it was fine.”

  “Seth, you really don't have to—”

  “Yes,” he said, taking her hand, “I really have to. Don't argue, Bonnie.”

  She smiled at him again, and didn't argue.

  The car was there.

  Miranda, Bishop, and Tony found no marks in the deep snow surrounding the barn to indicate that anyone had been near since before the storm, but they were nonetheless careful in clearing snow away from the wood-barred but not padlocked door far enough to pull it open.

  A dusty green 1989 Mustang met their eyes.

  They studied the car from the doorway for a few minutes, every sense each could claim probing and alert.

  “There is,” Miranda said, “something off about this place or that car.”

  “I don't get anything,” Tony said.

  “It isn't an emotion,” she
told him. “Something else.”

  Bishop added, “Something almost… primal.”

  Tony looked from one to the other. “Primal? You mean instinct?”

  “No. I mean … basic. It's almost… I can almost smell blood, but not quite.”

  “This is a barn,” Tony pointed out. “Probably been blood in here over the years, from animals being born or being slaughtered. Maybe that's it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let's check it out,” Miranda said.

  Again, they were careful in approaching the car, each carrying a flashlight and wearing latex gloves so as not to disturb any prints they might have the luck to find.

  Opening the driver's door, Miranda said abruptly, “If Steve did find something here in the car, what are the chances it's still here?”

  “Fair to good, I'd say,” Bishop responded as he opened the passenger's door. “Safer to leave it here until he decided what to do with it. Remember, the killer probably didn't have the chance to question the boy about what he might have known or found. It was undoubtedly a mistake when he hit his victim too hard initially, trying to subdue him.”

  “That,” Tony said thoughtfully, “could explain the unfocused rage I felt out at the old millhouse. If he knew Steve had something on him and he had missed his chance to get his hands on whatever it is, I'd guess he'd be furious.”

  “Probably.” Bishop took a seat as he began looking through the glove compartment. “One way or another, I figure he's been angry since he killed Lynet.”

  Miranda was checking behind the visor and under the mat, and to Tony said, “No keys. You'll have to pop the trunk the hard way.”

  Slightly offended, Tony said, “What makes you think I know how to do that?”

  “Because you work for him.”

  Tony eyed Bishop, then sighed and dug into the pocket of his jacket for a small leather tool case. “He told us the skill might come in handy.”

  Miranda said, “He was right, then, wasn't he?”

  Sighing again, Tony went around to work on the locked trunk. He didn't consider himself very adept at picking locks, but got the trunk unlocked quickly.

  “Bingo,” he said. “I think.”