by Кей Хупер
All the way out to Liz Hallowell's house, even as he concentrated on navigating in the deep snow, Bishop was trying to sort through the images crammed in his mind, all the emotions and events of Miranda's life during the past eight years. He felt frustrated, knowing that the answer was within his grasp if he could only identify it. But it was like searching for a single snapshot in a box filled with them when he wasn't sure what the picture was supposed to look like.
"Boss?"
Slowing cautiously to follow Miranda's Jeep around a corner, Bishop said, "Yeah?"
"If Liz Hallowell is dead ., . do we let the killer believe he succeeded in silencing our medium?"
"If it'll protect Bonnie, I say we damned well try. And you'll notice Miranda didn't send any of her deputies to the clinic; doing anything to draw attention to Bonnie before we know for sure what's happened could be a bad mistake."
"So could waiting," Tony offered soberly.
"I know. And so does Miranda."
Tony was silent for half a block; then, as he drew his weapon and checked it absently, he said, "Either the transmitter's beginning to recover, or you're worried as hell, because I can feel it."
Bishop tried experimentally to focus his spider-sense. "No, I'm still pretty much blind at the moment."
"And worried?"
"Let's just say I don't like the way things are shaping up."
"Can't say that I blame you about that."
Nothing more was said, and minutes later they reached Liz Hallowell's house. Bishop parked his vehicle behind Miranda's, and they joined her outside.
She was studying the smooth expanse of pristine snow covering the ground, Liz's parked car, and the small house. "Nobody's gone in or out of the house this way for hours at least," she said.
"I'll check the back." Tony headed off to make a wide circuit of the house. Minutes later, he returned. "Nope, no sign anyone's come or gone since the storm got serious last night."
"Feel anything?" Bishop asked.
"I don't feel anybody alive in there," Tony said reluctantly.
Miranda sighed, her breath misting the air. "Shit." The curse was too weary to hold any other emotion. "Anything else?"
Tony was silent for a minute, his attention and senses focused on the house, then frowned at the other two. "You know, for a murderous maniac, this guy has some peculiar emotions. What I feel most of all is intense regret. I mean, bordering on actual grief. He did not want to do ... whatever it is he did."
Grim, Miranda said, "Let's go find out what he did."
They trusted Tony's sense of the place, but nevertheless drew their weapons automatically as they cautiously approached the house. They found the front door unlocked and went inside swiftly and silently, protecting one another and alert to possible danger.
Bishop didn't need his spider-sense to know there was no longer anything dangerous here, but he moved carefully, like the others, as he began searching the house. The big and open kitchen/dining/family-room area was easy to look over, and all that met their eyes was a placid cream-colored cat with chocolate points sitting on the back of the sofa; the cat didn't seem the slightest bit disturbed by strangers and was busily engaged in washing one brown forepaw.
They split up to check the other rooms. Bishop and Tony found nothing, and were just coming back up the hallway when Miranda emerged from the master bedroom. She leaned against the doorjamb, slowly returning her pistol to the hip holster she was wearing today.
Bishop felt an odd ripple in their connection, a flutter of emotions that marked the beginning of the return of his abilities. It told him much more clearly than her utterly remote expression that Miranda was badly shaken. It also told him why.
"Tony," she said, her voice carefully matter-of-fact, "could you do me a favor?" She wasn't looking at them but toward the living room.
"Sure," he responded instantly, his fixed attention showing that Bishop wasn't the only one whose extra senses were on the alert.
"There must be a carrier or crate for the cat around here somewhere. Could you look for it, please? And put the cat in it when you find it?"
Tony looked at the cat still busily cleaning its forepaw, then sent one quick glance toward the master bedroom. His face paled. "Yeah," he said a bit jerkily. "Yeah, I'll do that."
When he had gone, Bishop stepped to the doorway beside Miranda. He reached out and grasped her arm, needing to touch her.
"I'd read about it," she said. "Even saw a couple of pictures in a training manual. But this is the first time..."
"The survival instinct," Bishop said. "You can't blame the cat for that."
"Yeah. Except that somehow I do." Softly, without looking at him, she added, "Alex is not going to see that."
Bishop didn't argue. He squeezed her arm gently, then went past her into the bedroom. Wary of disturbing any evidence, he stepped inside just far enough to be able to study the scene.
Steeled by Miranda's warning, he wasn't shocked by what he saw, but he was somewhat surprised by a couple of things.
Liz Hallowell lay in the center of her double bed, for all the world as if she'd simply gone to sleep as usual. Had such care been taken for Liz's sake or because her murderer was trying to tell them something?
Guilt? Reluctance? Maybe this time, whether consciously or unconsciously, he wanted them to know he regretted at least this murder, this death.
She looked so peaceful. The covers were drawn up to her chin, sheet and comforter folded neatly, the bed smooth and unblemished — except for the small circle of blood over her abdomen that marked the location of the wound that had killed her.
That must have been what first attracted the cat.
There were only a few flecks of blood on the pillow on one side of her head, the side where some of the skin had been peeled from her face. The cat had been neat.
And, apparently, not very hungry.
Bonnie came out of Amy's room and closed the door. Sedated again, her friend would sleep for a few more hours; it had so far proven unwise to allow her to be awake for long, since all she did was cry. Bonnie felt helpless, and it wasn't a feeling she enjoyed. She was also jumpy, and started when Seth put a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey — what's wrong?"
"You just startled me, that's all."
"I know the feeling," Seth said ruefully, taking her hand as they began walking down the quiet hall. "It must be the storm or something, but I've been jumping at shadows all morning."
"Shadows," Bonnie said.
"Yeah, you know what I mean. You get edgy and your mind starts playing tricks on you, starts telling you there's somebody behind you when there isn't. Like that." He didn't tell her about his imaginings of the night before.
Bonnie frowned briefly, but when she spoke, it was to say, "I promised your dad I'd read stories to Christy and Jordan, try to settle them down. They're jumpy too."
"The storm," Seth said. "According to the weather reports, this afternoon will be even worse than last night." He sent her a searching look. "You've been awfully quiet since Miranda came by here. Bonnie, if you'd rather be home—"
"No," she said, "I'd rather be here, with you."
"You're sure? Because I can take you to your house and stay there with you."
Bonnie hesitated, then said steadily, "Here is safer, Seth."
"Safer?"
"I know your dad thought Amy was just hysterical when she babbled all that stuff about me being a medium, but somebody must have taken her seriously; Randy says people are talking about how they were able to find Steve's body."
It took Seth only a moment to understand. He stopped walking and turned Bonnie to face him. "You mean the killer might think you're a threat to him?"
"It's possible. The storm is probably slowing the spread of gossip, but Randy wants me to stay here and not be alone just in case the killer hears something." She didn't add that Miranda had also warned her to keep her shields up in order to protect herself from another potential but more tenuous t
hreat.
"Why isn't there a deputy here?" Fear for her made his voice angry.
"It would only draw attention to me, Seth. You know how garbled gossip gets; chances are, even if the killer hears something, he won't be sure what the truth is." She smiled at him. "If somebody knocks on the clinic door with a flimsy excuse, we probably shouldn't let him in — but other than that there really isn't much to worry about."
"Maybe for now," he said grimly.
Bonnie hesitated again, then said, "Randy thinks it's nearly over. If they can find out who the killer is before he has a chance to ..."
"Come after you?"
"Before he has a chance to come after anybody else." She looked at him gravely. "We're all in danger, you know that. We have been all along. But Randy and Bishop will stop him."
"Will they?"
"Yes. I'm sure of that." But what Bonnie was less sure of was the cost. There was always a cost. Always.
"Okay, look," Seth said in a determined voice. "From now on, I stay within sight of you at all times. Promise me, Bonnie."
"I promise — as long as you allow me a little privacy in the bathroom."
He was young enough that some things still had the power to make him blush, but he said stolidly, "I'll wait outside the door."
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin. "Deal. Now, why don't we go see if we can calm down two sick little girls?"
Seth nodded and held her hand a bit tighter as they continued down the hall. As they passed a corner, he had another of those weird feelings, and almost told Bonnie that he could swear he'd caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, as if a shadow had fleetingly reached out for them.
But he decided once again not to let his imagination get the better of his good sense.
Bishop stepped out onto the porch and zipped his jacket. The gray sky looked heavier and more threatening by the minute. It was just after noon; if the storm held off another hour they'd be lucky.
He was aware of the activity behind him, of Shepherd and Edwards, the muted sounds of voices and Brady Shaw's cameras, but he had gained all he expected to from the scene. Which wasn't all that much.
He looked down at the plastic evidence bag in his hands and studied the Bible through it. Old, dog-eared, and quite distinctive, he had recognized it the moment he'd seen it on Liz Hallowell's nightstand.
Under his breath, he muttered, "Just how stupid do you think I am?" Then he shook his head and tucked the bag inside his jacket.
The door behind him was shoved open wider and Sandy Lynch rushed past him. Bishop didn't have to catch a fleeting glimpse of her pallor or panicked expression to know she was about to lose her breakfast. She stumbled through the snow to just beyond the closest parked vehicle, which happened to be the hearse that would take away Liz's body, and disappeared behind it.
Poor kid. If she still wanted to be any kind of cop when this was over, it would be a miracle.
She came back to the porch a few minutes later and flushed a little under Bishop's sympathetic gaze. Jerkily, she said, "They turned her and I saw her face. I didn't think — but then the doctors were talking about it and — and — God!"
Both to inform and to give her time to compose herself, Bishop said, "You know, when kittens reach adulthood, their mother sees them as just other cats. She's done her job, her babies are grown — and they aren't her babies anymore. Maternal ties last only as long as necessary. That's a very practical idea in nature."
Sandy frowned. "But — but it ate some of her! I heard Dr. Shepherd say she'd had that cat for years, how could it do that? Was it so ravenous that—"
Bishop shook his head. "It had nothing to do with being ravenous and everything to do with being a cat. Experienced pathologists and cops will tell you it's more common than you might think. Die alone in your home with the family dog, and he'll wait until he's absolutely starving to death before he considers you a meal. Die alone with a pet cat, and he won't even wait until you're cold. Once dead, you stop being you and become just. . . flesh. It's his nature to be opportunistic; if there's food, he'll try it. Even if the food is the hand that fed him for years."
Sandy's face worked for a moment, and she finally muttered, "Oh, yuck. And I have a cat."
With a faint smile, Bishop said, "I like them myself. In spite of understanding them."
"I think," Sandy said, "I'll start closing my bedroom door at night. Misty can sleep on the couch."
Bishop didn't bother to remind her that given her age she was unlikely to die peacefully in her bed, at least during the probable lifetime of her cat. Instead, he merely nodded. "Probably not a bad idea,if only for your own peace of mind. For what it's worth, you don't have to worry that your cat is watching you and thinking of you as supper, Deputy Lynch. As long as you're a living being, she would never see you as a meal."
"Just don't stop breathing?"
"Something like that."
Sandy gazed past him at the doorway and drew a deep breath. "Right. And, for now, do my job. You don't have to say it."
"I think you're doing fine in a very difficult situation. Don't be so hard on yourself."
Obviously surprised, she flushed again and then ducked her head in acknowledgment as she went back into the house.
Tony passed her in the doorway and joined Bishop on the porch. "They just called to say the tow truck made it back to the Sheriff's Department with no trouble," he reported. "Her car'll be secured in the garage there, so we can take our time and go over it bumper to bumper."
Bishop nodded. "It took the direct route, right down Main Street?"
"As ordered. Brutal way for some of her friends to find out about Miss Hallowell. Calls are already coming in."
"Yeah. But I want this bastard to know we've found his latest kill."
Tony looked at him curiously. "And do you want him to think he's fooled us, at least for the moment?"
"If it'll buy us a little time, why not? If he thinks there's even half a chance somebody else could be convicted of his crimes, I'm willing to bet he'll sit tight and wait to see what happens."
"Pretty blatant, leaving that Bible," Tony mused.
"He hasn't shown much talent for subtlety, that's for sure. I don't know, maybe he's just trying to confuse things as much as possible. Killing someone who doesn't fit the previous victim profile and leaving evidence pointing to Marsh could be his way of slowing us down, distracting us."
"Is that what you think?"
Slowly, Bishop said, "I think he made his first serious mistake. I think he killed Liz because he was afraid of her, because he heard a garbled version of what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse to remove what he perceived as a threat. And it was only when he'd killed her that he realized he had to disguise his intent."
"Why?"
"So we wouldn't know he was afraid. He had to know that the only reason for him to kill Liz was an obvious one. Fear. When he saw that, he had to try to frame somebody else for the murder. Even if we believed Marsh committed only this crime, at least we wouldn't think the real killer was afraid."
"He didn't want us to think he was sexually interested in his victims, and he doesn't want us to think he's afraid of anything." Tony shook his head. "I guess homicidal maniacs are screwed up by definition, but this guy takes the prize."
"No kidding." Half consciously, Bishop turned to look toward the road.
"Miranda's coming?" Tony guessed.
"Yeah."
"I thought the transmitter was up and running again," Tony murmured. "So you two are sort of... linked?"
"You could say that." Bishop glanced at him, noted the professional as well as personal curiosity, and sighed. "It's like a corridor with a door at either end. With the doors open, we can communicate telepathically almost as easily as you and I are talking now."
"And with the doors closed?"
"There's just... an awareness. A sensitivity to mood, other emotions. Nearness."
"Ah." Tony nodded. "Mind me asking if t
he doors are open or closed right now?"
Bishop hesitated, then shrugged. "My side is open. Hers is closed."
"Could you open her door?" Tony asked.
"Probably. But it would be ... a forceful act. An invasion of privacy. We all need our privacy sometimes."
"Jeez," Tony said seriously, "you just know communication between the sexes is a bitch when even telepaths with a direct line to each other have problems talking."
Bishop had to smile, even though he felt little amusement. "Like every other part of the human condition, Tony, it just makes things more complicated — not less."
"I guess so." Tony saw Miranda's Jeep turn into the ' driveway. "In any case, I certainly don't envy her the last hour or so, telling Alex about this."
"No. It wasn't pleasant."
As Miranda walked toward the porch, her face drawn and still, Tony murmured something about helping the doctors and retreated into the house.
"How's Alex?" Bishop asked her.
Miranda made no move to go inside. "Lousy," she said, not mincing words. "I left him at the office with Carl and a bottle of scotch. That song about not knowing what you've got till it's gone keeps running through my mind. Thinking he was still in love with his dead wife was such a habit, Alex never realized until today that he was falling in love with Liz." She sighed, then added immediately, "Do we have any preliminary reports?"
He told her what they had so far, along with his speculations on the killer's motives.
Thoughtful, Miranda said, "We've never publicly focused suspicion on anyone, so the killer might not have any idea that Justin Marsh has pretty solid alibis for the other murders. But I agree with you. I think he's less interested in offering us a suspect for all the murders and much more intent on making us believe he had nothing to do with this one."
"So we pick up Marsh. Pretend we've taken the bait."
Miranda rubbed the nape of her neck, frowning. "The only question is, either we do it now, before the storm hits, and suffer Justin's undoubtedly pissed-off company for God knows how many hours — or we take our time getting back to the office and let the storm logically and obviously delay things a bit."
