Out of the Shadows tbscus-3

by Кей Хупер

  Liz hesitated before saying, "Just before you got here, I saw it again. I saw Bishop die. That's three times, Alex."

  With more gravity than he'd ever shown before, Alex said, "Exactly what did you see?"

  Liz closed her eyes and tried to bring the details into focus. "It was outside, in the woods, I think, but I didn't recognize the place. There were patches of snow here and there. I saw a gun, a pistol, held out in a black-gloved hand, but I couldn't see who was holding it. Then the scene tilted, almost like a camera falling, and I saw Bishop lunge in front of somebody else, put himself between the gun and whoever it was he was trying to protect. I couldn't see who it was. But I saw the bullet hit him in the center of his chest, saw the blood, saw him fall." She opened her eyes. "He was dead."

  "You're certain of that?"

  "Yes. What I don't understand is why I keep seeing it when I read my own tea leaves. That isn't the way it's supposed to work, Alex, not unless — unless I'm either the one holding the gun or the one Bishop dies to protect."

  "It isn't you holding the gun," Alex said flatly.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  He smiled, but said, "Maybe you're not actively involved in what happens. Maybe you're seeing it because you can change it."

  "Maybe." She frowned. "There have been a few times in the past when I saw something that didn't quite happen the way I thought it would. I thought I'd misinterpreted the signs, but maybe what I saw was more like ... a warning. What could and would happen if I didn't change something."

  Alex said, "But the tea leaves gave you no idea what that might be, right?"

  "Not that I could see."

  He got up to help clear the table, and said somewhat ruefully, "What good is psychic ability if everything is shrouded in symbolism and all the important bits are left out?"

  "Gran told me it worked that way because it's an ancient ability we've forgotten how to use properly. She said our modern brains try to process the information and present it to us as best they can, using signs and symbols only our primal instincts can truly interpret."

  Alex thought about that while they scraped plates and loaded the dishwasher. "So if you are being ... invited to change what you see, then there must be a clue buried there somewhere. A sign, a symbol. Right?"

  "I assume so." Liz was delighted to find him willing to discuss the subject so calmly, since he'd always scoffed — however gently — in the past.

  They carried their wine into her living room, where a crackling fire in the old stone fireplace made it warm and cozy, and sat on the couch. Liz tried to take heart from the fact that there was nothing separating them but the space of half a cushion, but since Alex was clearly preoccupied by signs and portents she didn't count it as much of a victory.

  "Signs," he muttered. "Signs are visible, they stand out. What stood out to you in what you saw? Was there anything that seemed . . . out of place?"

  "His shirt," Liz said immediately.

  "His shirt?"

  "Yeah. There was snow on the ground, it was cold — and Bishop wasn't wearing a jacket. Not even a long-sleeved shirt. It was a T-shirt, so white it almost hurt my eyes."

  "A T-shirt. A very white T-shirt." Alex drained half his wine. "Symbolic of what — that he does his laundry?"

  Liz didn't blame him for feeling frustrated. Gently, she said, "It takes a lot of practice to read signs, Alex, and even then it's often guesswork."

  "So what do you guess that white T-shirt means?"

  She sipped her wine as she considered it. "If the color is important, white means purity."

  "I don't think," Alex said, "that Bishop is all that pure."

  She hid a smile. "It might not have anything to do with him personally. The sign is for me to see, remember? So white can mean purity or innocence. It also used to be a color of mourning. On the other hand, it might not be the color at all, but the vivid cleanness of the shirt, or the fact that it's short-sleeved. It might not be the shirt at all, but the lack of a jacket that's important."

  "This just keeps getting better," Alex muttered.

  "I'm afraid it may take some time to interpret, assuming we can. Alex ... do you think I should tell Randy about this?"

  "Could she do anything to change it?"

  "Probably not."

  After a moment, he said, "I think Randy's got about all she can handle right now. No matter how she feels about him, telling her Bishop might be slated to get himself shot is just going to pile on the stress."

  "I didn't warn Bishop," Liz confessed. "But when we shook hands yesterday, I was thinking he should be careful — and he knew that. He said he would."

  "Then let's hope he will. For what it's worth, I can't see anything we know so far in the investigation leading to a snooting like that."

  "If it has anything to do with the investigation," Liz reminded him. "It might not."

  "Great. Then we really don't have a clue." He drained his glass and set it on the coffee table. "I should get out of here and let you get some rest. Thanks for Supper, Liz."

  "You're welcome." The part of her Liz couldn't seem to control went on in a casual tone that didn't fool either one of them. "And you're welcome to stay, you know that."

  His face changed, and she didn't need The Sight to read reluctance, regret — and a touch of discomfort.

  "Liz—"

  "It's all right." She was desperate to head him off before he said what she didn't want to hear. "I thought you might want to talk or something, but—"

  "Liz, what happened at Christmas was a mistake, you know that. I was lonely, and I'd had too much to drink." His voice was gentle. "Hell, I'm still lonely — and I hate sleeping alone. But you deserve more than gratitude."

  She forced herself to say, "Stop apologizing, Alex. I was there too, remember? And I'm a big girl, all grown up and everything. Go on home. I'll see you tomorrow."

  He lifted one hand as though he would touch her, then swore under his breath and left.

  By the time the fire died down, Liz had emptied the bottle of wine. But it didn't help her sleep.

  It didn't help anything at all..

  TEN

  Saturday, January 15

  When Miranda came into the conference room late in the morning, she found Tony Harte writing a list of names on the blackboard, and Bishop sitting at his accustomed place on the end of the table while he studied a file.

  "Missing kids?" Miranda asked.

  Bishop looked up and frowned slightly, but nodded. "Your deputies are backtracking through the files, and following up on missing persons reports to rule out kids who later turned up somewhere either alive or dead. So far, we have three missing teenagers from '98, five from '97, and two from '96."

  Hardly aware of doing it, Miranda sat down in a chair near Bishop. "Ten kids? Ten kids in three years?"

  "All either last seen or last known to be within a fifty-mile radius of Gladstone," Bishop confirmed. "The youngest was fourteen when she ran away from home in '96 — in the company of her nineteen-year-old boyfriend, who wanted to go to Nashville to become a singer. Nobody reported him missing, but so far we've been unable to trace either of them beyond this area, so we're including him on the list."

  Tony turned from the blackboard. "Of course, we have no evidence that any of these kids only got as far as Gladstone. Falling between the cracks of the system is all too easy, especially for kids on the streets. They could have made it to Nashville — or wherever else they were headed. They could have been picked up on the road somewhere along the way and wound up six states from here."

  "All we do know," Bishop finished, "is that none of these kids reappears anywhere in the system under these names. We've cross-checked FBI files, NCIC, every database available. No sign of them."

  Slowly, Miranda said, "Before the new highway, a lot of strangers passed through Gladstone from week to week. Aside from the Lodge on Main Street, we had two more motels just outside town that were usually at least half full."


  Tony came to the conference table and consulted a legal pad. "Let's see . . . The Starlite Motor Lodge and the Red Oak Inn, right?"

  Miranda nodded. "The Starlite burned to the ground about six months ago, long after it had been abandoned. The Red Oak closed its doors the day the new highway opened. The town bought the property, and the fire department's been using the building for practice drills."

  "Some of these kids may have had a few bucks for a room," Tony noted. "Any way to get our hands on the guest registers?"

  "Oh, hell, I don't even know if they still exist." Miranda thought about it. "No problem getting the registers from the Lodge, since they're still doing business, but the owners of the other two places cleared out when they closed. I assume they took their records and other paperwork with them."

  Tony made notes on the legal pad. "Well, we can check the Lodge at least. If we can actually place any of these kids here in Gladstone, at least we can ask a few more questions. Maybe somebody will remember something."

  Bishop said to Miranda, "I looked through that special edition of The Sentinel this morning. Some of the letters to the editor were a bit..."

  "Bloodthirsty?" She grimaced. "Yeah. We've had to disarm a few citizens, especially since the Penman boy disappeared. I've doubled the usual patrols just to try and keep an eye on things, but if and when suspicion falls on any one person I'm going to have a lynch mob on my hands."

  "Justin Marsh isn't helping matters," Bishop said.

  "With his street-corner harangues? I know. I've warned him twice, told him he's crossing the line between free speech and yelling fire in a crowded theater. If I catch him one more time urging people to purge the evil in Gladstone with their own hands, I'll see if a night in jail helps him see reason."

  "His kind doesn't see reason," Tony said. "Ever."

  "Talked to him, have you?" she murmured.

  Tony grinned at her. "Oh, yes. I was treated to a ten-minute lecture on the corruption within government agencies."

  Miranda sighed. "On a normal day, very few people really listen to him, and he's mostly harmless. But with all this going on ... I'm afraid he might actually inspire a few of the hotheads to do something stupid."

  Bishop said, "We probably don't have too much to worry about as long as they don't have a definite focus for their rage. We certainly haven't a suspect to offer them. And as far as I can tell, not even the gossips have suggested anyone for the role of possible killer."

  "That's true enough — today, at least," Miranda agreed. She looked across the table to see Tony drumming his fingers on the legal pad, and said, "Is something bothering you, Tony?"

  He looked down at his hand, frowned, "and stopped drumming. Bright eyes moved from Bishop's calm face to Miranda. "I'm feeling tense," he said dryly. "I can't imagine why."

  Miranda glanced at Bishop, and decided not to venture down that road. To Tony, she said only, "It's a tense time."

  "Oh, yeah."

  Bishop also ignored Tony's words. "Sharon called. She's flying back down this afternoon. Says she has something interesting for us. Maybe we'll finally get a break."

  "That'd be a nice change," Miranda said. "In the meantime, the town council has called an emergency meeting, and I need to be there."

  "Does Justin Marsh know about it?" Bishop asked.

  "Not if we're lucky," Miranda replied as she walked to the door. "And since I threatened to arrest anybody who told him, I'm feeling lucky today."

  Tony chuckled as the door closed behind her. "I had a feeling she could play hardball if she had to."

  "I never doubted it," Bishop said.

  Tony eyed him. "You know, even being sensitive to emotions around me, I never understood how tension could be so real you could actually cut it with a knife — until now."

  "Learn something new every day."

  "Boss, I'm not the only one who's noticed. Take another look out in the bullpen next time you walk through — especially if Miranda is in the room. Every deputy in the place watches you two the way they would a ticking bomb."

  Bishop went to refill his coffee cup. "Yeah, I know."

  "So?"

  "So what?"

  "So, what're you going to do about it?"

  "There's nothing I can do, Tony. She wouldn't even be talking to me if it wasn't a professional duty."

  Tony watched him for a moment longer, then said, "Guess you're right. There's nothing you can do about it. I'm sure neither of you could stand raking up old hurts, not at this late stage. Better to just get through this and get out of her life for good. Much better for everyone concerned."

  Bishop shot him a look, but Tony was frowning down at the legal pad and seemed oblivious when Bishop said with more force than he'd intended, "Exactly."

  "Say yes, Bonnie." Amy's voice shook and her eyes pleaded. "It's almost four days now, and nobody's seen him. I have to do something, I just have to!"

  Bonnie kept her own voice calm. "Not this, Amy. This won't help anything."

  "I know he's still alive, I know that, but we reached Lynet before and maybe she knows—"

  "You two tried this before?" Seth asked.

  "I've tried a dozen times on my own," Amy told him. "All week I've tried, but it never worked for me. But Bonnie made it work, she—"

  "I didn't make anything work, Amy."

  "Then it worked through you or something. All I know is that Lynet reached out to us before you made us stop. She knows who killed her, Bonnie, and maybe she knows where Steve is."

  "Listen to yourself," Seth said uneasily.

  "I'm telling you, it worked for Bonnie." Amy tapped the Ouija board she had set up on the table beside the bed. "Some people are more sensitive than others. I read that last night while I was researching this on the Internet. The really sensitive ones can talk to spirits. They're called mediums. I think Bonnie's a medium."

  Bonnie sat beside her on the bed. "Stop talking about me as if I weren't here. I'm not a medium, Amy."

  "Does Miranda know about this?" Seth demanded.

  Amy's laugh was brittle. "Do you think she'd care if we could tell her where to find Steve? Do you think anybody will care?"

  "Amy, it isn't that simple and you know it," Bonnie said. "Randy wouldn't like it, and I don't like it either. It's dangerous to play around with this stuff."

  Seth frowned. "This is just a game, right? You don't believe the dead speak through this game, do you, Bonnie?"

  She returned his gaze steadily. "I believe the dead speak when they realize someone's listening. And I'm telling both of you — it isn't always smart to be the one listening."

  Seth would have scoffed, but something in her grave blue eyes stopped him. Not entirely sure he wanted to know any more than he already did, he said to Amy, "Look, I know you want to find Steve. I do, too. But this isn't the way."

  "Why? Because you know it won't work? Or because Bonnie believes it will?" Her ferocity challenged them both. "Bonnie, you're my best friend. And you know — you know why I have to find Steve, don't you?"

  Seth looked from one to the other and got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Amy, are you—"

  "I have to find Steve. I have to." Her trembling fingers rested on the planchette. "Help me, please."

  Bonnie surrendered with a sigh. "All right. All right, but remember what I said before. Keep your mind focused on what you want to know. Seth?"

  "I think I'll just watch, if you don't mind." He sat down on the stool by the dressing table and folded his arms across his chest, both literally and symbolically removing himself from the attempt.

  Bonnie wished she knew whether he'd be able to accept this. The possibility that he wouldn't scared her even more than the very real probability that this entire thing was a terrible mistake. But Amy was her best friend, and for Amy's sake she had to try to help.

  Drawing a deep breath, she reached out and placed her fingertips next to Amy's on the planchette.

  Instantly, it swung across the board and centered
over NO.

  Before Bonnie could ask if it was a warning for them to stop, Amy spoke quickly.

  "Where is Steve?"

  M ... I ... L ... L.

  Leaning toward the board unconsciously as Amy spelled out loud, Seth said, "Mill? The paper mill?"

  NO.

  "Wow," he muttered at the instant response, then watched in fascination as the planchette moved briskly.

  M...I...L...L...H...O...U...S...E.

  For a moment the teenagers looked blankly at one another, then Seth announced, "I know. That broken-down place out on the river where they used to grind grain. I thought it was barely standing, but I suppose ..."

  Eagerly, Amy asked, "Is that it? Is Steve at the old mill house at the river?"

  YES.

  "We can save him." Amy almost stuttered in her excitement. "We can tell Randy, and—"

  The planchette moved frantically.

  T...O...O...L...A...T...E.

  Amy gasped, her face draining of color.

  Bonnie wanted to move her fingers off the planchette, but couldn't somehow. She watched, mesmerized, as the flying indicator repeated the words with almost manic intensity.

  TOO LATE . . . TOO LATE . . . TOO LATE.

  Seth reached over and knocked the planchette to the floor.

  Amy sobbed, as Seth and Bonnie stared at each other, both white-faced. Then a motion caught their attention, and both turned their heads to see the gauzy curtains at her closed window billow inward as though a gust of wind had entered the room.

  Or something.

  "Oh, shit," Bonnie murmured.

  Instead of eating lunch, Bishop went running. He hoped the exercise would work off the tension knotting his shoulders, but even after a forty-five-minute run and a hot shower, the tension remained. And since he was about to walk back into the Sheriff's Department, he didn't expect things to get any better.

  He was just outside the front door when it opened. He caught a glimpse of a tall, blond boy with an intelligent face and steady gray eyes who was holding the door for his companion. And then she stepped through.

  Bishop hadn't expected it to hit him so hard, but for a moment he couldn't breathe.