Out of the Shadows

by Kay Hooper

  Like a diamond,Bishop observed. She imagined the hardest substance she knew and hid herself within it. You taught her well, love.

  Miranda wasn't at all sure this was anything of her teaching, but there wasn't time to think about it.

  Go to her,Bishop said. Be ready. When I have Harrison contained, help her free herself. It will take all three of us to throw him out—and all the way to hell.

  Thought was deed here; Miranda found herself kneeling by the crystal cocoon. She put one hand on the cool, polished hardness of one of the facets, and turned her head to watch as Bishop stalked the killer.

  She thought later how odd it was that so much of what happened was visible to her, but decided in the end that it was only the human mind's way of understanding, interpreting the pure electrical impulses of the brain as images.

  It was fascinating. And terrifying.

  Bishop, the one she knew best, was wholly visible to her, lithe and powerful as he moved through the darkness, his spirit luminous with energy and purpose. Harrison, his energy diffused as Bishop had said, was at first only the red lightning flashing through the darkness, scarlet tongues of flame that began licking at Bishop as his threat was sensed and understood. Then the flames became brighter and hotter as Harrison concentrated his attack on Bishop, circling him, seeking a weakness in his defenses.

  Without even being consciously aware of it, Miranda sent more of her energy through to Bishop, knowing without having to think about it that the attack was a deadly danger not because Harrison was stronger but because Bishop was intent on fighting—not on defending himself.

  Again and again the flames circled and probed, darting in to reach for Bishop. He seemed to sense every attempt a bare second before it was made, eluding the threads of energy with an almost mocking ease. Miranda could hear the angry hiss of energy as Harrison was thwarted, and just as she realized that Bishop was deliberately baiting his adversary, Harrison abruptly took on a ghostly human shape and launched himself at Bishop with a roar of insane rage.

  Miranda waited only long enough to see the two spirits literally locked together in a struggle so fierce and powerful that threads of white hot and angry red energy arced from them continuously. She quickly turned back to the crystal cocoon and sent an urgent summons.

  Bonnie? It's all right, sweetie, we're here. Come out.

  Heartbeats passed, seconds during which Miranda had the fearful awareness that Bishop's struggle was taking a toll on him even with her energy bolstering his; Harrison wanted to live again, and that was a drive so primal it made him almost too strong to fight.

  Almost.

  Abruptly, the crystal cocoon vanished and Bonnie was there, pale and frightened, but calm, just as she had been when another killer had held her hostage.

  Tell me what to do, Randy.

  Miranda took her hand, connecting them as they had never before been connected in their lives. Concentrate. We need all your will, all your determination to be rid of this bastard.

  I hate him. Bonnie's spirit was surprisingly strong. He killed Mama and Daddy and Kara. I want to destroy him, Randy. I… want… him … gone!

  Miranda felt those emotions, that utter determination, flow through her, the energy sharp and powerful as it coursed in a dynamic surge through the link to Bishop.

  Miranda saw Harrison's spirit weaken, saw his frustrated rage, heard his howl of wild protest as Bishop's hands closed around his throat with new power.

  This time,Bishop told him with relentless certainty, I'll send you straight to hell.

  To Seth and his father, silently watching, the struggle was no less dramatic for being utterly silent. Bishop and Miranda held hands, their free hands touching Bonnie, their eyes closed. And slowly, as the minutes ticked past, things started to happen. Their faces drained of color. Their bodies seemed to sway.

  Seth shifted uneasily and whispered, “Do you feel that?”

  His father nodded and held up his arm. The fine brown hairs stood straight out from the skin. “And there's a hum,” he murmured. “I can feel it more than hear it. Like—”

  “Current,” Seth said. “Electrical current.”

  They watched intently for another full minute. And then, abruptly, Miranda and Bishop caught their breath and opened their eyes.

  Colin and Seth both jumped, and at the same moment the room's door slammed shut with a bang.

  “He's gone,” Miranda murmured. “This time for good.”

  “Jesus,” Colin said.

  “Did it work?” Seth demanded.

  He was answered when Bonnie blinked and murmured shakily, “Has anybody got an aspirin?”

  Seth more or less launched himself at her, his relief overwhelming, but his father's attention was on the two standing on the other side of the bed.

  They held on to each other, barely able to keep on their feet and clearly on the point of exhaustion, their faces drawn and weary but also quietly triumphant. They looked like two people who had literally fought a war and emerged in some way stronger and more complete.

  But there was something else, one more thing that drew Colin's gaze and held it in a fascination that was only partly clinical. “I guess,” he said, “there's always a cost, isn't there? A scar earned in battle.”

  Miranda blinked at him, then looked up at Bishop. She was only a little startled by what she saw, and reached to touch his left temple, where a vivid streak of white hair had appeared.

  “Family trait,” he said.

  EPILOGUE

  Monday, January 24

  “Well,” Tony said, “in case we needed it, we have verification that MacBride's car has the right set of tires, that he ran ads looking for ‘willing hands for light work’ up until he got involved with the town government ten years ago and then apparently found some of his victims among those answering town and county ads, that both the knife and handcuffs we found in Ramsay's car can be traced to him, along with the ash in that cigar box—which came out of his own personal crematorium—and that the hairs we found out at the old mill-house belonged to him.”

  “Nice to know,” Alex responded gravely, “that good old-fashioned police work can accomplish so much.” He was grateful to Tony; the very talkative and humorous agent had kept his mind engaged during the past days—and off a loss he still wasn't ready to face.

  “Isn't it?” Tony buffed his fingernails on his shirt.

  Accepting his role as straight man, Alex continued. “Of course, given that we also have more than thirty jars holding various body parts, seventeen years' worth of meticulous files detailing every atrocity, and MacBride's journal in which he waxed grotesquely poetic, I'd say everything else is pretty much superfluous.”

  “You just wanted to use that word,” Tony accused.

  Alex was saved from having to defend himself when Miranda walked into the conference room. She handed Tony a sheaf of papers, saying, “Add this to the file on MacBride. They're still reading and analyzing his journal, but it appears that what he told us about Adam Ramsay being hired to do yard work and getting a little too curious was the truth. Adam was hired to trim back the bushes around the basement. Apparently, he did a little exploring. And it seems he was very good with padlocks.” In a wondering tone, she added, “I'll never understand how anyone could look at the horrors in that room and not run screaming.”

  “Instead of collecting select items for blackmail purposes?” Alex shook his head, equally baffled. “I guess it takes all kinds. The same town that produced Adam Ramsay also produced our very own Frankenstein. Except that MacBride wanted to tear bodies apart rather than stitch them together.” He refused to allow himself to think about Liz.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  Not until he could stand the pain.

  Miranda sighed. “I'm just glad most of the press is camped out around his house instead of here. I'm tired of having microphones stuck in my face and questions shouted in my ears, and I hate seeing myself on the evening news.”

  Coming into the
room just then, Bishop said, “No way are they going to stop aiming cameras at you, love. They've found their hook. Beautiful sheriff hunts down vicious serial killer and makes her town safe again.”

  Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him. “You forgot the ‘aided by handsome, enigmatic FBI agent.’ That was today's addition.”

  To Alex, Tony said, “Don't you feel invisible?”

  “And unloved,” Alex said sadly.

  Looking at Bishop, Miranda said, “We've got to separate these two. They're getting worse every day.”

  “I thought we were getting better,” Tony said, injured. “A little comedy to leaven the tragedy hereabouts.”

  Deadpan, Miranda said, “A very little comedy.”

  Alex sighed. “Misunderstood again. It's very disheartening.”

  Bishop shook his head at Miranda. “I told you to just say the word and I'd take you away from all this. Well, from part of this—Tony's on the team, I'm afraid.”

  Tony brightened visibly and grinned at Miranda. “Oh, are you coming to play with us?”

  “I have a term as sheriff to finish,” she said.

  As if she hadn't spoken, Bishop went on, “After all, we've solved our little telepathic problem, so we'll be able to work together without ever having to worry about…”

  “Self-denial?” Tony finished limpidly.

  Miranda eyed him. “You weren't supposed to figure that out.”

  “I'm very bright,” he apologized.

  Not quite under his breath, Alex muttered, “Hell, even I figured it out.”

  In a determined voice, Bishop said, “After helping Bonnie, we ended up with a much tougher and more durable link, that's all I meant. Nothing mutes our abilities these days, and there's no denying we're stronger together than either of us is alone. So there's nothing to stop us working together.”

  “Except my job. And Bonnie. I'd hate to take her out of school, and I doubt I could take her away from Seth.”

  “Seth is going to college in the fall,” Bishop reminded her. “Lots of great universities in Virginia. And I have a hunch Bonnie wouldn't mind the move too much.”

  Miranda, who knew, said, “Yes, but there's still my term as sheriff, and—”

  “I bet Alex would love to be sheriff,” Bishop said. “No slight intended—especially after recent events— but chasing down bad guys on a national scale is a much better use of your considerable talents. And I need you.”

  Miranda drew a breath, but whatever she intended to say was cut off when both she and Bishop suddenly paled, winced, and closed their eyes.

  “What?” Alex demanded, alarmed.

  “I think,” Tony said, watching them with interest, “they're having a vision.”

  “Nobody told me they hurt,” Alex said, looking from one to the other warily.

  “Ouch,” Bishop said distinctly after several moments.

  “I guess they hurt,” Tony said.

  Miranda opened her eyes and lifted her hands to rub her temples. “I warned you,” she said to Bishop. “They come out of nowhere.”

  Bishop smiled at her. “I don't think this one came out of nowhere, do you? I think fate just answered the question for you, love.”

  Unwilling to admit defeat, Miranda said, “Not necessarily. My visions aren't always accurate.”

  “This one will be.”

  She stared at him.

  He crossed the space between them and kissed her, then repeated, “This one will be. You can't escape destiny, Miranda. Not this destiny. I won't let you.” Without giving her a chance to answer—at least out loud—he turned and left the room.

  “What destiny?” Tony demanded.

  Miranda sat down at the table. “Never mind.”

  He grinned at her. “I can guess.”

  “Hell,” Alex said, “even I can.”

  “You're both full of it,” she told them.

  Tony started laughing. “Miranda, I hate to tell you this, but back at the office we started taking bets ages ago concerning the questions of one, would Bishop ever find you, and two, when he found you, would he ultimately persuade you to join our team professionally— and him personally.”

  She almost smiled. Almost. “And?”

  “And the odds always favored Bishop. By a wide margin.” He grinned and shrugged. “What can I say? The man knows how to win.”

  Slowly, Miranda smiled. It was the first time Tony had ever gotten a true look at the warmth and vitality she normally kept hidden beneath professionalism, and for a moment or two he tried to remember what they were talking about.

  All of a sudden, he totally understood why Bishop had asked how fast the jet could be warmed up the moment he learned of her whereabouts.

  “Oh, hell,” Miranda said, and there was sheer delight this time in giving in to destiny's plan for her. “Alex—you want to be sheriff?”

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  PROLOGUE

  The voices wouldn't leave him alone.

  Neither would the nightmares.

  He threw back the covers and stumbled from the bed. A full moon beamed enough light into the house for him to find his way to the sink in the bathroom.

  He carefully avoided looking into the mirror, but was highly conscious of his shadowy reflection as he fumbled for a drinking cup and turned on the tap. He drank three cups of water, vaguely surprised that he was so thirsty and yet … not.

  He was usually thirsty these days.

  It was part of the change.

  He splashed his face with the cold water again and again, not caring about the mess he was making. By the third splash, he realized he was crying.

  Wimp. Spineless coward.

  “I'm not,” he muttered, sending the next handful of water to wet his aching head.

  You're afraid. Pissing-in-your-pants afraid.

  Half-consciously, he pressed his thighs together. “I'm not. I can do it. I told you I could do it.”

  Then do it now.

  He froze, bent over the sink, water dribbling from his cupped hands. “Now?”

  Now.

  “But … it's not ready yet. If I do it now—”

  Coward. I should have known you couldn't go through with it. I should have known you'd fail me.

  He straightened slowly this time looking deliberately into the dim mirror. Even with the moonlight, all he could make out was the shadowy shape of his head, dark blurs of features, faint gleam of eyes. The murky outline of a stranger.

  What choice did he have?

  Just look at yourself. Wimp. Spineless coward. You'll never be a real man, will you?

  He could feel water dripping off his chin. Or maybe it was the last of the tears. He sucked in air, so deep his chest hurt, then let it out slowly.

  Maybe you can buy a backbone—

  “I'm ready,” he said. “I'm ready to do it.”

  I don't believe you.

  He turned off the taps and walked out of the bathroom. Went back to his bedroom, where the moonlight spilled through the big window to spotlight the old steamer trunk set against the wall beneath it. He knelt down and carefully opened it.

  The raised lid blocked off some of the moonlight, but he didn't need light for this. He reached inside, let his fingers search gingerly until they felt the cold steel. He lifted the knife and held it in the light, turning it this way and that, fascinated by the gleam of the razor-sharp serrated edge.

  “I'm ready,” he murmured. “I'm ready to kill her.”

  * * *

  The voices wouldn't leave her alone.

  Neither would the nightmares.

  She had drawn the drapes before going to bed in an effort to close out the moonlight, but even though the room was dark, she was very conscious of that huge moon painting everything on
the other side of her window with the stark, eerie light that made her feel so uneasy.

  She hated full moons.

  The clock on her nightstand told her it was nearly three in the morning. The hot, sandpapery feel of her eyelids told her she really needed to try to go back to sleep. But the whisper of the voices in her head told her that even trying would be useless, at least for a while.

  She pushed back the covers and slid from her bed. She didn't need light to show her the way to the kitchen, but once there turned on the light over the stove so she wouldn't burn herself. Hot chocolate, that was the ticket.

  And if that didn't work, there was an emergency bottle of whiskey in the back of the pantry for just such a night as this. It was probably two-thirds empty by now.

  There had been a few nights like this, especially in the last year or so.

  She got what she needed and heated the pan of milk slowly, stirring the liquid so it wouldn't stick. Adding in chocolate syrup while the milk heated, because that was the way she liked to make her hot chocolate. In the silence of the house, with no other sounds to distract her, it was difficult to keep her own mind quiet. She didn't want to listen to the whispering there, but it was like catching a word or two of an overheard conversation and knowing you needed to listen more closely because they were talking about you.

  But she was tired. It got harder and harder, as time went on, to bounce back. Harder for her body to recover. Harder for her mind to heal.

  Given her druthers, she would put off tuning in to the voices until tomorrow. Or the next day maybe.

  The hot chocolate was ready. She turned off the burner and poured the steaming milk into a mug. She put the pan in the sink, then picked up her mug and carried it toward the little round table in the breakfast nook.

  Almost there, she was stopped in her tracks by a wave of red-hot pain that washed over her body with the suddenness of a blow. Her mug crashed to the floor, landing unbroken but spattering her bare legs with hot chocolate.