Out of the Shadows tbscus-3

by Кей Хупер

  "So what happened?" Alex asked.

  "Well, there was no scientifically valid way to test his theory, but he really wanted to know if he was right. And I admit, I was curious myself. So he got me in there one night, secretly. I was just supposed to touch the patients — who were under restraints — and tell him what I got from them."

  "What did you get?"

  Miranda rubbed the nape of her neck. "I don't ever want to go through that again. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I touched these poor people — two women and a man — and I actually felt the other beings inside them."

  "Maybe it was split personalities or—"

  "No. I can't explain it in any way you'd really understand, but I knew, I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that each of those people carried within them a distinct and separate other soul." She shook her head. "The sheer energy of two spirits fighting to occupy the same body was . . . incredible. No wonder their poor brains were literally misfiring."

  Alex was wide-eyed. "You realize how farfetched all this sounds, don't you?"

  "Of course I do. It's one of the reasons I've been keeping it to myself all these years."

  "But since I asked?"

  She smiled. "Yeah. Since you asked."

  He brooded for a moment, trying to decide how much of this he really believed. "What about the agents? If all of you are psychic, can you read each other?"

  She chose the simplest answer. "I don't know. I've sort of had my shields up since they got here."

  "Because of Bishop?"

  "More or less."

  "Now that I know what happened eight years ago, I can't say that I blame you," Alex said.

  Miranda hesitated, then heard herself say, "I don't want you to have the wrong impression about that, Alex. However . . . personally betrayed I might have felt, the truth is that Bishop was doing everything in his power to stop one of the most vicious killers in recent history."

  "And that included sacrificing your family?"

  "He thought he could protect them. He was wrong. No one could have protected them."

  "Are you saying you forgive him?"

  Again, Miranda chose her words with care, not quite sure if it was for Bishop's sake — or her own. "I'm saying that I can understand a little better now what he was up against, and why he made the choices he made. I don't agree with those choices, obviously. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. If I had been in his position back then . . . maybe I would have made the same choices."

  "And betrayed a lover?" Alex shook his head. "I don't think so."

  Miranda didn't know what to say to that, so it was fortunate that her phone buzzed just then. She answered it, listened for a minute, then said thank you and hung up.

  "Snow's started?" Alex guessed.

  "Yeah. Listen, before it gets much worse I'm going to go home for a little while. I want to make sure Mrs. Task got out okay, then maybe take a shower and change before I come back."

  "You don't have to come back tonight; your Jeep can make it easily even if the roads are lousy tomorrow."

  "I know, but I'd rather be here. Besides, Bonnie is staying at the clinic with Seth and his parents, so there's no good reason for me to stay home."

  "A little rest?" Alex suggested.

  "I'm fine. Don't fuss, Alex."

  He didn't push it. He walked with her as far as the bullpen, then went to his desk while she gave the deputy on duty at the reception desk a few instructions.

  Alex had plenty to do. He'd had the librarian make copies of dozens of pages of classified ads, per his conversation with Tony Harte; now he needed to read every ad in search of those a teenage runaway might have responded to.

  "Hold down the fort, Alex," Miranda called as she headed out.

  "I will. And you be careful."

  "Yeah, yeah." She sent him a casual salute and left the building.

  It was normally a ten-minute drive home, but that night it took Miranda almost twenty, more because she was observing her surroundings than because of the scant dusting of snow on the roads. She was glad to see that very few people were out; Liz's coffeeshop was still serving, from the looks of it, but there were only three cars parked out front and Miranda doubted anyone would linger much longer.

  Other downtown merchants had closed shop, with the exception of the video store and a twenty-four-hour service station, both fairly busy as customers stocked up on gas and tapes.

  Four Sheriff's Department cruisers were out patrolling, and she listened to her deputies' radio chatter without interrupting. Judging from their tones as much as the words, they were keyed-up but not dangerously so.

  It reminded her of just how long and eventful the day had been, and as she pulled into her driveway, she felt a wave of sheer exhaustion sweep over her. She was running on reserves and didn't know how long those reserves would last.

  Long enough. It had to be long enough.

  She didn't think it would be much longer. There had to be one more victim, she knew that. Five in all killed on her watch, and the last one unexpected in some way.

  That death would mark the beginning of the end.

  She unlocked the front door and went into the house. A cheerful message on the answering machine in the front hall told Miranda that Mrs. Task had made it home safely and that there was a big bowl of pasta salad and chicken in the fridge, and freshly baked bread in the bin.

  It sounded great, Miranda decided as she walked into the living room and shrugged out of her jacket. As far as she remembered, lunch had been her last meal today. She removed her shoulder harness and hung it over the back of a chair. There were a couple of lamps burning, but it wasn't until she turned on another one that she saw the Ouija board on the coffee table.

  Hadn't Bonnie said that they been up in her room when they had used the damned thing? She was almost sure that was right, and could only suppose that Mrs. Task had brought it down here for some reason. It didn't sound like the housekeeper, who probably wouldn't have a clue how one was supposed to play such a "game," but Miranda couldn't think of another reason for the board to be down here.

  Actually, she admitted silently, she was having trouble thinking at all. She bent down to absently move the planchette off the NO and to the center of the board, then went upstairs to see if a shower would clear her head.

  Behind her, the planchette moved slowly back across the board and centered itself over the NO once again.

  "Boss?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you realize you're pacing?"

  Bishop stopped in mid-pace and frowned at his subordinate. "In case I haven't told you, you're a very irritating companion, Tony."

  "Hey, I'm not the one wearing a path in the floor," Tony objected. He watched Bishop sit down decisively at his laptop, and added, "Something bothering you?"

  "I hate storms."

  "It isn't storming yet. I checked when I went to refill the coffeepot, and it's just snowing gently out there. Ground isn't even covered yet. Hell, the phones aren't even ringing with the sounds of worried citizens pestering their constabulary. Just nice and quiet, with deputies working industriously at their desks or playing poker in the lounge."

  Bishop waited, but when it became obvious Tony was finished, he gave in and asked, "Where's Miranda?"

  "Alex said she went home about half an hour ago. Supposed to be coming back, though. I gather she intends to spend the night here."

  Forgetting that he wasn't going to pace anymore, Bishop got up and moved to the window. It looked out onto the lighted parking lot, which showed him a couple of cruisers and numerous other cars all dusted with snow. The snowflakes were getting larger and no longer falling straight down as the wind began to kick up.

  "The storm is definitely coming," he said.

  "And that's bothering you?"

  "I told you. I hate storms." He was silent for a moment. "I don't know why the hell she doesn't just stay home."

  "Feels her place is here, I guess."
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  "You said yourself nothing was happening."

  "Yet."

  "Even so."

  Another silence fell, this one not interrupted until Bishop returned to the desk and picked up the phone.

  "I guess you know her number," Tony said.

  "Yes, Tony, I know her number."

  Undeterred by the sharp tone, Tony watched him with interest. What he sensed in his boss wasn't dislike of the coming storm or mere restlessness but something a whole lot stronger and much less easy to define. And apparently contagious, Tony noted as he stopped his own fingers from drumming on the table.

  Jeez, talk about tension.

  Bishop hung up the phone. "The machine picked up."

  "Maybe she's in the shower."

  "Maybe." Bishop returned to the window.

  "But you don't think so," Tony ventured.

  For a minute it seemed he wouldn't answer, but finally Bishop said, "Something feels wrong."

  "Feels wrong how?"

  "I don't know."

  "Feels wrong with Miranda?"

  Bishop hesitated again, then nodded. "I used to— There was a time when I could feel what was going on with her. If she was happy or upset, I knew it."

  "That's what you're feeling now?"

  "No, this is different. It's like I saw or heard something I wasn't consciously aware of, something that's nagging at me now. Something I know that's just out of my reach."

  "Something about Miranda?"

  Bishop looked at the phone, his restlessness as clear as his reluctance to make a fool of himself. "I'll wait ten minutes and call again. In case she's in the shower."

  Tony caught himself drumming his fingers again, and stopped. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds like a good idea."

  The hot water made Miranda feel better, and by the time she'd dried her hair and dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, even her appetite had returned. She looped an elastic band around her wrist to use later in tying back her hair. In the living room she turned the television on for background noise and weather reports. It was only then that she noticed the Ouija board lying on the floor.

  She grabbed her gun instantly, wondering why the game was the only thing disturbed in the room. An intruder would have taken her gun, surely; it had been clearly visible. Why knock a game board to the floor?

  With her shields up and defenses cut off, Miranda could sense nothing unusual in the house. Which meant she would have to move carefully, room by room, turning on the lights, checking windows and all the outer doors, looking into closets and corners.

  There was a quicker and easier way, she told herself. It wouldn't matter if she dropped her shields for just a moment or two. Just long enough to get a sense of the house, to make sure she was alone.

  Miranda didn't fully realize the great strain of keeping those shields up constantly for so long until she allowed them to fall. For just an instant, the ache in her head intensified — and then vanished like a soap bubble. Her ears actually popped as though she were coming down from a high altitude, and her vision blurred before becoming so sharp that she blinked in surprise.

  The moment of well-being was wonderful.

  What came next was agony.

  She dropped the gun, both hands going to her head, the red-hot jolt of pain making her sway. Even stunned, she instinctively recognized an attack, knew that something, some energy, was trying to force its way into her mind. Just as instinctively she defended herself.

  Her shields slammed back up, reinforced by sheer desperation, and in the same instant she made a violent mental effort to deflect that probing blade of energy.

  She almost saw it, white and shimmering and so rapacious it would cut its way into her. She almost saw it.

  And then everything went black as pitch and as silent as the grave.

  She never heard the phone begin to ring.

  The last of Liz's customers left around nine-thirty, which gave her plenty of time to finish cleaning up before the snow got too bad. She left the front door unlocked, in case anybody needed to come in to use the phone, and kept the television above the counter tuned to local weather reports.

  They weren't very encouraging, unless you liked a lot of snow.

  Liz wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just letting her mind drift, when she suddenly understood what the white shirt meant.

  Of course. Of course, it made perfect sense.

  Her first impulse was to call Alex, but a moment's thought made her decide on a trip to the Sheriff's Department. So she worked hurriedly, locked the front door and turned out the lights, then let herself out the rear door and locked it.

  She always parked in back, in an alley just a few steps from the door, even though Alex had told her to park in front whenever she worked nights. Liz never worried about it. Just a few steps, after all, and she'd never been afraid no matter how late it was.

  It was cold, much colder than it had been just a few hours ago. And the snow was beginning to thicken and blow about as the wind whined restlessly.

  Liz started her car, then got out to brush the snow off the windshield while it warmed up. Her wipers weren't the best, and the defroster wasn't very enthusiastic, so she thought a little manual help was in order.

  "You're going home late."

  She turned with a gasp, then managed a shaky laugh. "And I have to go by the Sheriff's Department first. But what're you doing out — " Then she saw the gleaming knife.

  "I'm sorry, Liz. I'm so sorry."

  She barely had time to realize that she'd been wrong about the shirt after all when she felt the cold steel of the knife slip into her body with horrifying ease.

  FOURTEEN

  At first, Miranda ignored the voice. It was distant and hardly discernible, and besides, she was too tired to care what it was trying to tell her. She didn't know where she was, but it was quiet and peaceful. She had no reason to worry anymore and just wanted to be left alone there.

  Miranda.

  At the extreme edge of her awareness, she understood that something was touching her. She didn't feel it yet somehow knew the touch existed. And without thinking about it, she realized that without the contact she wouldn't be able to hear .. . him ... at all. Not that she was hearing him, not really. She understood what he was saying, but not because her ears told her.

  That was strange. She considered it idly, still not caring but mildly interested in the puzzle of the thing. AH her senses, she realized eventually, had shut down. Shut down completely, turned themselves off. And because of that, her body was turning itself off as well. She had the vague impression of a heartbeat slowing down, of lungs no longer drawing in air, and other organs ceasing to function.

  Miranda, listen to me. Hear me.

  She didn't want to listen to him. He would hurt her again. She knew he would. He would hurt her and she never wanted to be hurt like that again.

  You have to let me in, Miranda.

  Oh, no. She couldn't let him in. It was dangerous to let him in. Because he'd hurt her again and because . . . because it wasn't time. Why wasn't it time? Because . . . something else had to happen first. That was it. Somebody else had to die. There had to be five, that was it, that was why she had to wait.

  There had to be five.

  Please, Miranda. Please let me in. Something's wrong, you have to let me in.

  No. She couldn't. She turned away from him and drifted back toward the peaceful darkness. But there was a tugging deep inside her that she hadn't expected, and it was painful. She wanted so badly to let him in, to feel what she had never felt with anyone but him. But that frightened her too, her own need, the hunger that shattered control.

  She shied away from it, tried to escape the demands of emotions she didn't want to feel. Tried to break the gossamer thread that seemed to connect her to something . . . outside . . . something . . . someone . . .

  Miranda . . . you're dying. Can't you feel it?

  She didn't want to listen to that, because of course she wasn't d
ying. She couldn't die, not yet. There was something she had to do, something . .. important.

  Except nothing seemed to matter very much to her. Not now. The darkness was warm and peaceful, and she knew that outside held only anguish and worry and grief. And him. Him, making her life painful and prickly with complications she didn't need. Him making demands. She was so tired.

  Let me in . . . God damn you, let me in . . .

  She almost got away, got free, that faint connection so wispy and frayed it couldn't possibly hold her any longer. But then defenses she was barely aware of gave way, and something grabbed her, captured her. Other gossamer threads swirled around her, and where each one touched her she felt a jolt that was pain and pleasure and certainty that seemed to her inevitable. Struggle though she did, she was drawn slowly but inexorably out of the peaceful darkness.

  She felt the cold first, a cold that was bone deep, and she knew it had been the beginning of death. Then the slow, heavy beat of her heart, uneven at first, gradually steadying, becoming stronger. Her lungs drew in air in a sudden gasp.

  And she was back.

  Miranda thought her head was going to explode, and every nerve in her body throbbed. She was cold and she ached, but she could hear again, hear the wind outside whining around the eaves and sleet rattling against the windowpanes. A familiar softness beneath her told her she was in her bed, though she had no memory of being brought upstairs. She knew if she opened her eyes she would see her bedroom around her. And see him.

  "Damn you," she heard herself murmur.

  "Damn me all you want, as long as you let me in."

  She felt his hands framing her face, felt his mouth moving on hers, and no matter how much she wanted to resist she knew she was responding to him. Her body was warming, the cold ache seeping away, and she could feel herself opening up to him, accepting him now willingly where before she had simply given way to his urgent insistence.