by Кей Хупер
"In what way?"
He thought about it. "Almost. . . glazed somehow. There's an odd, flat shine to them, like you're looking through something else first. It's weird."
"Have you asked her about it?"
"I've asked her if she's okay. She says it's just a bad headache and for me not to worry about it."
"Maybe that's all it is."
"Yeah. Maybe."
Hesitantly, Liz asked, "How are she and Bishop together? I mean, how do they act around each other?"
"That's another weird thing. At first, they seem fine. Professional, polite, even moments of friendliness as far as I can see. But the longer the two of them are in the same room, the more the tension builds. It's actually a tangible thing, I swear to God it is. You feel jittery yourself, catch yourself drumming your fingers against a desk or tapping your foot."
Still tentative, Liz asked, "Has anyone else noticed it?"
Alex knew what she was thinking. "I'm not jealous, if that's what you mean. I've told you I don't think about Randy that way."
"I didn't—"
He waved a dismissive hand, ignoring her flush, and went on. "Yeah, everybody else has noticed it. I've heard some of the other deputies talking about it, in fact. You can't help but notice. If you look around, you see everybody in the room watching them the way you'd watch a crystal vase on a shelf you know is about to give way. And then their voices get this edge to them, and one or the other of them finds some reason to leave the room. And it starts all over again the next time they're together."
"Who usually leaves?" Liz asked, a touch of embarrassment lingering in her voice.
"Randy," he answered promptly. "She shuts herself in her office for a while, that closed door daring any of us to bother her. And every time it happens I get the feeling Bishop wants to kick something."
"You do realize . . . they were involved once."
Alex gazed at her curiously. "Randy more or less admitted it. But how did you know?"
"Yesterday I saw Bishop looking at her."
"And that was enough?" he asked wryly.
"Well... for me."
He didn't push her. "I don't know their story, but I do know it isn't over yet. Problem is, they either can't or won't settle things between them. So there's this tension building, like steam inside a pot. And sooner or later the lid's going to blow sky high."
"Is it interfering with work?"
"So far, no." He paused. "Not that there's all that much work going on, to be honest. I mean, constructive work. All we can do is keep going over and over the same ground, trying to pick up something we missed before. Even Bishop and Tony Harte are reduced to rearranging the pictures on the bulletin board to make the puzzle look different."
"I thought the other agent — that doctor — was supposed to be running some kind of tests that might help."
"Yeah, well, it turned out she needed a better lab than what she brought with her, and way more than anything we could offer. She flew back to Quantico last night. And unless they're not telling me everything, she still hasn't told Randy or Bishop what it is she suspects about those bones."
Liz was called away by another customer, and when she came back Alex made getting-ready-to-go motions like leaving money on the counter despite her protests and picking up his hat.
"Carolyn's going to work tonight, so I'm going home in an hour," she said, "and I made a big pot of stew this morning before I came in. If you don't have anything else planned, why not help me eat it?" The invitation was light, but a slight flush rose in her cheeks.
Alex knew he had no business accepting, but the prospect of spending an endless evening alone in his own house held absolutely no appeal. So he closed his mind to the little voice warning him that he'd be sorry. "That sounds great, Liz. Thanks."
"I should have everything ready by seven," she said. "But come earlier if you feel like it."
She was always so careful, he reflected with a pang. So careful to make her invitations casual, companionable, and nothing more. Maybe it was because she and Janet had been friends. Or maybe it was just because the tea leaves had told her he was still in love with his dead wife.
"I'll bring a bottle of wine," he said, matching her nonchalance.
Bonnie moved her fingertips in a gentle circular motion on Miranda's temples. "Better?"
"Yes, much better. Thanks, sweetie."
Standing behind her sister's chair, Bonnie continued the soothing massage. "It's just a temporary fix, you know that. The headaches aren't going away until—"
"I know, I know."
"Are you sure this is the right way, Randy?"
"It's the only way."
"Maybe if you told Bishop—"
"No. Not this time."
"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't even his fault. How many times have you told me that some things have to happen just the way they happen?"
"Some things. Not everything."
Bonnie came around and sat on the couch. "Even so, how can you be sure he'd react the same way this time?"
Miranda kept her head leaning against the back of her chair, her eyes closed, and her voice was matter-of-fact. "Because he's a coldhearted bastard with only one moral certainty — that the end justifies the means."
"Is he? Is that the man he is today, Randy, or only the man he used to be?"
"Bonnie—"
"What happened changed you. How can you be so sure it didn't change him too?"
"Men don't change. Get that out of your head right now."
"I know they don't just because someone — some woman — wants them to," Bonnie agreed, thinking of Steve Penman and poor Amy, "but life can alter them just like it can us. Experience can change them, especially something so awful."
Miranda was silent.
"All I'm saying is that as long as you're closed up, you can't be sure of anything where Bishop is concerned. You don't know his mind, Randy. Not anymore. And it isn't like you to — to judge without a fair hearing."
Miranda lifted her head, opened her eyes, and frowned at her sister.
Bonnie went on quickly. "You said you hadn't even used the access he gave you to find out about Lewis Harrison." Her voice quivered very slightly on the name.
"There's no need. He wouldn't have given it to me if he hadn't been telling the truth." Miranda shrugged.
"So we know that threat is gone. What else is there to find out?"
"I don't know. And neither do you." Bonnie rose. "I think I'll turn in. Do you mind if Amy spends the day here tomorrow? With no news on Steve, she's pretty much pacing the floor and driving her parents crazy. At least here with me she has somebody to talk to, and maybe I can get her busy, keep her mind off things."
"It's fine with me. But don't go anywhere unless Seth or Mrs. Task is with you, okay?"
"Sure. Good night, Randy."
"Night, sweetie."
Alone in the silence of the living room, Miranda tried to relax but found it impossible. The dull pounding in her head wasn't exactly restful, and she couldn't seem to let go of the conversation with her sister.
Bonnie was softhearted, of course. Way too sensitive for her own good, Miranda often thought. She fed stray cats and dogs, cried when even the villain died in the movies, and invariably felt sorry for anyone she felt wasn't being treated fairly.
Even, apparently, Bishop.
"What else is there to find out?"
"I don't know. And neither do you."
Miranda realized she was on her feet only when the sudden movement caused a surge of nausea. She gritted her teeth and waited it out, then went into the little side room off the downstairs hallway she had set up as a home office. The desktop computer was actually a couple years newer than those at the Sheriff's Department, and the modem was top of the line.
She swore, then turned on the machine. While it was booting up, she went to get the paper Bishop had given her from the pocket of her jacket.
He had provided all the information necessary for her
to access the file on Lewis Harrison, A.K.A. the Rosemont Butcher, but that didn't mean the process was either quick or easy; the Federal Bureau of Investigation clearly disliked opening any of its files to outsiders, however well authorized, and made her work for the information.
But Miranda's experience with bureaucratic red tape since taking on the job of sheriff stood her in good stead, and she patiently wended her way through the security maze that led her, finally, to the files.
Six and a half years ago, Bishop had been a junior agent, so the bulk of the reports Miranda read had been written by two senior agents and their supervisor in the L.A. field office, as well as by several of the L.A. cops involved. Miranda doubted Bishop had even seen them.
The only report actually written by Bishop was his account of the final confrontation with Lewis Harrison that had resulted in the death of the Rosemont Butcher. One cop and another agent had witnessed what happened, and both agreed without apparent reservation that it had been a justifiable shooting, that Bishop had acted in self-defense and had no other alternative available to him, a judgment the FBI's own review board had concurred with.
But long before Miranda read about that, she had absorbed account after account of one man's relentless, obsessive hunt for a killer. Both the senior agents and their supervisor were generous in their praise of Bishop, and all three, Miranda noted wryly, used very careful phrasing to note his "hunches" and his "instincts" in tracking down Harrison.
It really did look more like magic.
For nearly eighteen months Bishop had so completely crawled inside Harrison's head that the killer had found himself unable to continue with the meticulously planned murders he had prided himself on. Again and again, no sooner did he choose his victim than Bishop would be there somehow, waiting, protecting the victim even as he set trap after trap, his patience endless.
And Bishop had not moved in secret or even quietly, but boldly and openly, making himself a target Harrison could hardly help but see, a shadow always at his heels, a brilliant mind always second-guessing him, even outthinking him. Until finally the killer had been unable to do anything except turn like a cornered animal and make one desperate, vicious attempt to get the man on his trail.
He had failed.
Miranda slowly closed the file and turned off her computer, then just sat there staring at the monitor's dark screen. She thought about those eighteen months, that dogged pursuit, and wondered what kind of life Bishop could have had then. Not much of one.
For a man of "normal" senses and imagination to so thoroughly immerse himself in the mind of a brutal killer for that length of time would have been traumatic; for a psychic gifted or cursed with a far deeper and more intimate understanding, it must have been devastating.
And to willingly subject himself to that argued a degree of determination and commitment that was incredible.
"He had his own ax to grind," Miranda murmured into the silent room. "His own score to settle. That's why he did it. That's why."
But for the first time, she wondered.
Liz had told herself she wasn't going to push. She'd told herself repeatedly while she was getting supper ready and waiting for Alex. She would be casual and friendly, and that was all. Offer him good food and good company, and hope . . . And hope.
"I am so pathetic," she told her Ragdoll cat Tetley, who was crouched companionably at the end of the breakfast bar watching her move about the kitchen.
"He still loves Janet. And who can blame him? She was a wonderful woman, wasn't she?"
Tetley blinked agreeably at her.
Liz sighed. She finished her cup of tea, then sat beside her cat at the bar and studied the leaves. Within seconds, she got a flashing image of a scene she had seen once before plainly and a second time more ambiguously. A dark man with a mark on his face — Bishop — throwing himself in front of someone Liz couldn't see clearly. The bullet hit him squarely in the center of his chest. Scarlet bloomed across his white shirt as he fell heavily to the ground and lay still. Liz knew without any doubt at all that he was dead.
The cup clattered to the bar and Liz pushed it away from her, shaken. "That's three times. But I shouldn't keep seeing that," she told her cat. "It's my cup of tea, not his, why am I seeing his fate?"
But was it Bishop's fate? Or did Liz keep seeing it because she was somehow involved, somehow in a position to change what she saw?
Was she the one he would give his life to save?
"Symbolic," she muttered, staring at the cup but not daring to look at the leaves again. "What I see is almost always symbolic. Signs and portents. So what does it mean? What does it portend? Help me, Gran, help me figure it out."
The peal of the doorbell nearly made her jump out of her skin, but she felt relieved as she went to let Alex in. There was such a thing as being alone too long, she thought, and one sign of that was probably talking to one's dead grandmother.
"Is something wrong?" Alex asked immediately, his smile fading.
"No, I was just starting to talk to — myself. Come on in."
He followed her back to the kitchen and uncorked the wine while she set the meal on the table. They were, as usual, quite comfortable together. Casual. They talked about the nervous, frightened mood of the town, and about how unbelievable it was that a killer walked among them, and they soberly pondered the fate of Steve Penman.
"Could he be alive?" Liz asked.
"Sure he could. But if this sick bastard follows what looks like his pattern, the poor kid would probably prefer to be dead. I know I would."
Repeating what she had told Bishop, Liz said, "I think he's doing something different to Steve. Not because he wants to — more because he has to. Maybe because he made a mistake before and now he has to correct it. Or because you cops have figured out more than he bargained for and now he wants to throw you off his scent." Suddenly self-conscious, she added, "It's just a hunch."
"A hunch." Alex grimaced. "You know, I seem to be the only one around here who isn't having hunches about this investigation, and it's beginning to bother me."
"Randy's always had hunches," Liz noted. "It never bothered you before."
"Yeah, but this is different. From the minute the feds got here, it was like there was something going on that everybody but me knew about. It's in the way they all look at each other, the careful way they talk sometimes, the way they suddenly change the subject if I walk into the room."
"You sound a little paranoid, Alex."
"Don't you think I know that? But just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not also right."
Liz considered it. "Maybe it's just this history between Bishop and Randy. His people could know about it, and—"
"That's part of it, I think, but there's more to it. And it's not just between the two of them, it's all four of them — the three agents and Randy. I noticed it from the very first. It's like they share a secret."
Quite suddenly, Liz recalled how Bishop had seemingly read her mind, and with that memory came a host of others. "Alex ... do you remember last summer when Ed and Jean Gordon's little girl wandered away and got lost?"
"Sure. Randy found her."
"Yeah. Even though the dogs lost the trail at the river. Even though that little girl had gotten herself into an old rowboat and floated two miles down the river, and then managed to get out without drowning before hiding in that old shed you couldn't even see unless you knew it was there. But Randy found her there, didn't she?"
"Yeah," Alex said slowly. "She said it was a ... hunch."
"And what about last April when she insisted the school board get a fire inspector to check the temporary classrooms even though it wasn't time to have them inspected again? He said another month and they'd have had a fire for sure with that faulty wiring."
"I remember." Alex was frowning.
Carefully, Liz said, "And there've been other things, other . . . hunches. Yesterday, Bishop said something to me that made me think he — he might have The Sight. What if
he does? And what if Randy has it too?"
She more than half expected Alex to scoff, but he only continued to frown. He drained his wineglass, refilled it, then looked at her finally. "After they got here, I went back and reread that Bureau bulletin about the task force. It's cagey as hell, but if you read it carefully, what it says is that the reason this new group of agents is so successful is that they use unconventional and intuitive investigative methods and tools to solve crimes."
Liz felt her eyes widen. "You mean . . . they all have The Sight? The FBI gathered together a group of agents because they have The Sight, and that's what makes them effective?"
"Maybe. I would have said it was damned farfetched for the Bureau, but more people seem open to the idea of the paranormal these days."
"New millennium," Liz said promptly. "Historically, mysticism and spirituality become more accepted and popular around the turn of a century — and a new millennium just multiplies the effects."
"I'll take your word for it." Alex paused. "If that is what's going on, I can understand their caution. No police department I've ever heard of wants to willingly admit they use psychics in investigations. If it got out publicly that the FBI has an entire unit of them on the government payroll ..."
"But Randy would know about them if she has The Sight herself, especially if it's really strong in her. She's probably lived all her life with it, and understands the doubt and mistrust they'd face. So they can all talk freely with her — even though they'd still have to be careful around other people."
"Like me." He shook his head. "Hunches. Damn. Things are starting to make more sense. When Bishop said there was a well out near the lake even though he'd never been there before, I asked how he could possibly know that. And all Randy said was — 'he knows.' In spite of the obvious antagonism between them, she didn't hesitate to start looking for that well."
Liz watched him brood for a moment. "Will you confront Randy? Ask her if it's true?"
"I don't know."
"Not telling you was probably more habit than anything to do with trust, you do realize that?"
He half nodded. "Still, if she doesn't want me to know, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut."
