by Кей Хупер
The question was . . . how could he atone for a mistake that had cost them both so much?
In a rare unguarded gesture of vulnerability, he reached up and fingered the scar marking his left cheek. Then he swore beneath his breath and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. And stared at nothing.
It was quite a while before he became aware that drivers were slowing down to get a better look at him and that the very few pedestrians were eyeing him warily.
"When the churchgoers start heading for the cafe and bookstore, you'll be drawing quite a crowd," Miranda said dryly.
He had been right. She had silently joined him on the sidewalk and he hadn't realized she was near.
Bishop half turned to look at her, angered by that — and angry at her because of it. "I'm surprised you didn't go to church," he said, the words biting. "I thought all small-town sheriffs had their own pew."
"Not the atheists." Her brows rose. "Or had you forgotten that?"
He had. Ignoring her question, he asked one of his own. "How did you manage to get elected in this conservative town with that on your resume?"
Miranda shrugged. "Oddly enough, nobody asked. Are you here for a reason, Bishop, or just window shopping?"
"We need to talk."
"About the investigation?"
"No."
"Then," she said, "we don't need to talk."
"Miranda—"
Her voice still pleasant, she said, "I'm on my way back to the office. See you there."
For an instant, Bishop was tempted to grab her arm, to force her to talk to him here and now. He wanted to find out if he could still read her while he was touching her, but thought better of the idea. For one thing, Miranda was a black belt.
And she had a gun.
So he stood there and watched her walk a few yards down the sidewalk to where her Jeep was parked, and he didn't say another word.
But, for the first time in his life, Bishop faced the cold and certain realization that not everything carelessly broken could be repaired. Ever.
"If my mother finds out about this," Amy Fowler said with a giggle, "she'll skin me alive."
Steve Penman grinned at her. "Then let's make sure she doesn't find out. And make sure your dad doesn't find out either. He'd do more than skin me." He toyed with the top button of her pretty Sunday blouse while his other hand pulled the tail of his shirt from his pants. "We don't have much time, honey. Seth says his boss comes in sometimes after church and Sunday dinner."
Amy looked around at the dirty, greasy-smelling back room of Cobb's garage and stifled a sigh. It had seemed exciting at first, meeting her eighteen-year-old boyfriend in whatever odd place he or his friends could recommend for an hour or two of privacy, but after two months both the secrecy and the inevitably tacky surroundings were beginning to depress her.
"Steve, don't you think—"
He kissed her, cutting off the beginnings of a problem he didn't want to hear, much less deal with. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, but for now she was still fun and eager and willing to try things he'd only read about in the magazines hidden under his mattress.
She let him push her back on the cot and unbutton her blouse, and didn't object when he unfastened the front clasp of her otherwise prim white bra and pushed the cups aside. He lay half on top of her, his body hard from the rough season of football behind him and heating with a fever she recognized.
Amy closed her eyes and stroked the back of his neck, enjoying the sensations of his mouth on her, but it didn't last long enough for her to get anywhere near his level of arousal. It never did. Too quickly, he was pushing up her skirt and working her panties down her legs.
She tried to slow things, reaching for his fly but taking her time about it, sliding the zipper down and unfastening the snap, reaching inside. He was hard and hot, and she held him in her hand, using a gentle touch rather than the rougher one he preferred, because it excited her more. He was still new and strange to her, still a fascinating alien creature to be explored and savored — but he never seemed to understand that.
He groaned and wrapped his hand around hers, forcing her to hold him harder, rub him more roughly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and shoved his pants down over his thighs.
Slow down! she wanted to plead, but already he was kneeing her legs wide apart and preparing to mount her, muttering a few hoarse words that might have been encouragement or endearments or just raw want.
She thought he might forget, but at the last minute fumbled in his pocket for the rubber and managed to get it on before he plunged inside her. Amy gripped him hard with her legs and tried to slow him that way, knowing from experience that the friction would be pleasant even if not as wildly exciting for her as Steve seemed to find it. But she could tell from the look of blind striving on his red face that this would be one of those times when he just wanted or needed to come quickly. She had resigned herself to that when his jerk and shuddering groan told her he'd already finished.
She lay there underneath him, blouse and bra open, skirt hiked up and panties God only knew where, feeling little except his weight on her and his moist panting against her neck, smelling grease and oil, and watching dust motes float in the shaft of light from the one dirty window in this dirty little back room.
When he raised his head at last, he said, "You all right, honey?" It was his usual question, uttered with the usual self-satisfied smile that anticipated her answer. Amy didn't disappoint him.
"I'm fine, Steve." She slid her fingers into his hair. "Just fine."
He was already checking his watch. "Guess we'd better get a move on. Didn't you tell your mom you'd spend the afternoon with Bonnie?"
"She wouldn't have let me go otherwise," Amy said. "She's spooked by what happened to Kerry Ingram and Lynet."
Steve grunted as he rose to his knees and pulled up his pants. He dealt with the used condom by dropping it to the stained concrete floor between the cot and the wall.
Amy wondered how many other used condoms lay under the cot, shriveled, their guilty contents petrified by time, a forlorn reminder of other girls who had lain on that scratchy wool blanket with their skirts hiked up and panties discarded.
She felt horribly exposed for the first time — and he wasn't even looking at her. She sat up and scooted backward in the same motion so her skirt would at least partially cover her, and hastily reached to fasten her bra and button her blouse.
Nervously, she said, "Bonnie says the sheriff might declare a curfew to keep kids in after dark." Where were her panties?
"Maybe." Steve got off the cot and tucked his shirt into his pants. "Probably wouldn't be a bad idea, at least for you girls."
His absent tone irritated her, and she heard her voice take on a shrill note she despised. "What makes you so sure we're the only ones in danger? What about Adam Ramsay?"
"From what I've heard, nobody can be sure he was killed by the same bastard who got the girls."
Amy didn't want to think about what she'd heard. "I haven't seen the FBI agents yet. Have you?"
"Nah, not yet. Get a move on, honey, we need to get out of here."
Amy slid off the bunk and finished buttoning her blouse. Where were her panties? She didn't want to ask Steve; there was something painfully tawdry about asking a man what he'd done with your panties . . .
Steve barely waited for her to finish buttoning her blouse. He pushed aside the box of spare engine parts that had kept the flimsy plywood door closed, then grabbed her hand and pulled her along through the silent garage.
"I'll drop you off at Bonnie's," he said briskly, "and pick up Seth. We're supposed to go look at a car he wants."
Amy wasn't surprised that neither she nor Bonnie was invited on the errand, but she was annoyed. Not that going to look at a stupid old car would have been much fun, but he might have asked.
Steve put her into the passenger seat of his Mustang and closed her door, the automatic courtesy one of the things that had first attr
acted her to him. Amy waited until he was behind the wheel and they were on their way before she spoke again.
"Steve, aren't you worried about what's going on?"
"What, with these killings?" He shrugged. "I just don't see any reason to panic, is all. Probably just some nut passing through got the girls, and as for Adam Ramsay, I know half a dozen guys wanted to burn his ass."
"Why?"
"Never you mind," Steve said.
"But—"
"You and Bonnie just need to be careful, that's all you need to worry about, honey. Stay at the sheriff's house today until your mom comes to pick you up. Don't go anywhere by yourself, especially after dark. And I'll see you tomorrow at school." He shrugged again. "Bet on it, whoever did those killings is long gone by now."
She looked at him searchingly. "Do you really think so, Steve?"
"Bet on it."
It was nearly four o'clock when Miranda heard her office door open without warning. Since she had been trying to cope with a blinding headache and had both hands pressed against her face, she felt at a distinct disadvantage. Even more so when she removed her hands and saw that her visitor was Bishop. "House rules. If that door is closed, you knock first and wait to be invited in," she told him, trying not to sound as tense as she felt.
"Is that what you told your deputies?"
"Like I said, house rules. Applies to everybody."
He stood in the doorway, frowning at her. "Headache, Miranda?"
She knew better than to lie. "Yeah, a real corker. Is there something you wanted?"
Bishop didn't answer for a moment, but finally said, "Sharon's here with her report on the Grainger girl. I thought we should all discuss it."
"All right. I'll be there in a minute." Miranda opened the file on her blotter and stared at the top sheet until the door closed quietly behind him.
Alone again, she took slightly more than the promised minute to work on her control. There wasn't much she could do about the pallor or the fact that the light bothered her so much she wished she could put on sunglasses. But she was able to bury the pain deep enough that she doubted Bishop or his psychics would sense anything unusual.
Maybe the price is too high to pay. Maybe . . .
But she knew it wasn't. Some things had to happen, events had to unfold in their proper order, or the results could be catastrophic. Instead of merely tragic.
Miranda got to her feet and grimly rode out the wave of dizziness. Then she squared her shoulders, pulled on the mask of professional detachment, and went to join the task force in the conference room.
Alex was there, in defiance of orders, though he did grimace apologetically when Miranda came in.
"I ought to fire you," she said.
"I'm not on the clock."
"You're here, you're on the clock." She sat down at the table beside him, across from the three agents, and focused on Sharon Edwards. "Doctor. Please tell me you found something to point to our killer."
"I wish I could." Edwards pushed a manila folder toward the sheriff.
Miranda didn't open it. "So what did you find? Did the post verify your preliminary conclusions?"
"More or less. She died approximately sixteen to eighteen hours before the body was discovered, which would put time of death at between two and four A.M. on Friday. And — it took her a long time to die, probably hours. I believe his weapon of choice was a baseball bat — I found a few slivers of wood embedded in her skin. Judging by the bruising, I believe he went at her on at least three occasions with pauses in between, perhaps to rest."
Alex muttered something under his breath, but Miranda kept her gaze on the doctor and her sickened reaction off her face. "Go on."
"She wasn't raped, and there are no signs she was ever bound or physically restrained. She had been drugged — I found a more than toxic level of chloral hydrate, most probably given to her in a cup of sweet tea. I believe she was comatose before he began beating her, and that she never woke up. She died of internal injuries caused by the beating, though the dose of chloral hydrate would most probably have killed her eventually.
"Her eyes were removed postmortem, and her body exsanguinated, both the carotid and femoral arteries opened."
"I didn't see any blood on her clothes," Miranda said.
"No, there wasn't so much as a drop I could find. That added to the wood slivers embedded in her skin tells me that he stripped her naked before beating her, and dressed her after it was all over. Not only that, but he washed the body. I found traces of a mild liquid soap, the kind you can buy in any pharmacy, grocery, or department store. Peter — Dr. Shepherd — checked with her mother, and the soap they use at home is something entirely different."
Miranda didn't bother to comment on Shepherd's overstepping his authority. "I see."
"There's one last thing, Sheriff. The killer had inserted a tampon into the girl's vagina."
A moment of silence followed, then Alex said uncomfortably, "How do you know she didn't—"
"She wasn't menstruating, Deputy. And I think we can be fairly certain she didn't insert it herself." She looked at Miranda. "It was still sealed in its plastic wrapper."
SIX
The silence this time lasted much longer. Then Miranda ventured a reluctant question. "Are we talking about an act of rape, even if symbolic?"
Dr. Edwards frowned. "I don't believe so. I mean, I don't believe it was about power or domination, as we all know rape generally is. There was nothing to indicate that any violence or force was used. No bruising, no tearing — in fact, no signs of irritation whatsoever. He was careful. He was even, one could argue, gentle. The wrapped tampon was lubricated with K-Y before it was inserted."
"I don't get it," Alex said blankly.
Miranda looked at Agent Harte. "Any idea how to interpret that data?"
He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together over his middle, frowning. "Maybe he was . . . closing her, blocking her off. Making it impossible for anyone — including him — to have sex with her."
"Because he wanted to?" Miranda mused.
"Maybe. If he drugged her and covered her face while he was beating her because he knew her, even cared about her in some twisted way, then he might have been fighting the temptation to have sex with her — maybe for a long time."
"You mean before he abducted her?"
Harte nodded. "She was just barely fifteen, but pretty well developed for her age, physically more woman than child. It's possible he watched her, thought about her, a long time before he finally grabbed her."
Plaintively, Alex said, "But what does it mean? Will knowing any of this help us catch the bastard?"
Miranda said, "Eventually, it has to." She didn't wait for a response to that determined optimism, but went on broodingly, "There was no sign of sexual activity or even that sort of interest in Kerry Ingram. And if we add Adam Ramsay's murder, assume it's the same killer—"
"I say we do," the doctor broke in. "I have a hunch about the appearance of those bones, though I'd rather wait until my tests are complete to comment. But one thing I am sure of is that the Ramsay boy was also exsanguinated. I doubt you'd have two killers operating at the same time in the same small town, both draining the blood of their victims."
Miranda agreed to that with a grimace. "And as long as we manage to keep that detail quiet, it virtually rules out a copycat killer. I know you didn't have much to work with in examining the Ramsay boy's remains, but did you find any evidence of sexual activity?"
"No, none. But I'm sure you know such evidence would be difficult if not impossible to find with almost no soft tissue left, especially when the remains had been out in the elements for such a long time."
Miranda realized she was rubbing her temple only when she felt Bishop's eyes on her, and at once stopped the betraying gesture. "Okay, so our killer grabbed a seventeen-year-old boy and apparently tortured him to death over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fourteen-year-old girl whom he also tortured by repe
atedly strangling her, also over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fifteen-year-old girl and drugged her senseless, and beat her to death with a baseball bat — within a matter of hours. No sign of sexual interest in the first two — though we can't be sure about the boy — and possible signs of some kind of reluctant or abortive sexual interest in the third. He killed the first two with blows to the head, but killed the third by beating her to death. Slowly."
"That sounds about right," Harte said. "If you want my . . . hunch ... I'd say we have an incredibly conflicted killer here. He feels he has to do this, and he won't let anything stop him, but at the same time regrets the necessity. Now, whether he feels remorse in any genuine sense is open to debate; my take is that he's sorry as hell he has to kill these kids, but not because they die — only because he has to disarrange his life and dirty his hands in order to kill them."
Alex stared at him. "You get all that from the little bit we know so far?"
Harte smiled. "It's just a hunch."
"Tony's hunches," Bishop said neutrally, "are generally pretty reliable."
Alex looked from one to the other, then shook his head. "What I don't get is that there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to how he's picking them. The victims have nothing in common."
"Except that all three were teenagers," Miranda said.
Bishop rose and went to the bulletin board, where he studied the reports and photos.
Miranda watched him for a moment, then turned back to Edwards. "You went over the postmortem on Kerry Ingram?"
Edwards nodded. "Peter was quite thorough, and I agree with his conclusions. She was repeatedly strangled to the point of unconsciousness and then allowed or made to revive, and she was beaten — though with a fist, I believe, and certainly not with the force used on the Grainger girl. A blow to the head finally killed her — a single very powerful blow."
