by Kay Hooper
Politely, Miranda said, “Alex, are you telling me that you knew this would happen?”
He grimaced. “I'd forgotten all about it, but Liz— had a vision. She said even before he got here that Bishop would give his life for somebody here in Gladstone. Not that he looks all that dead to me.”
“Next time,” Miranda said to her deputy, “you might want to share information like that.”
“I didn't really believe it at first,” he said apologetically. “And then, when I did … things were happening and I sort of forgot about it.” He looked at Bishop again with a slight frown. “That's definitely a bullet hole. And a lot of blood. So, if you'll forgive me for asking—why aren't you dead?”
“Let's just say I had a guardian angel,” Bishop replied.
Tony knelt down and studied Bonnie for a moment. He lifted one of her hands, saw the bloodstains, then looked at Miranda intently. “Wow. Her other ability.”
“Yes,” Miranda said, meeting his gaze just as seriously. “But that stays between us. She hasn't the strength to heal the world, so she just helps some of those who cross her path. Which is as it should be.”
After a moment, he nodded. “Definitely as it should be.” With surprising strength, he gathered Bonnie in his arms and rose to his feet. “We have a cruiser coming right behind us. I say we leave the deputies to stand guard over this place for the moment while you three have a chance to get cleaned up and maybe rest an hour or so. I'd say you've earned it.”
Bishop helped Miranda to her feet. “I don't think you'll get an argument,” he said. He didn't let go of Miranda's hand.
A little less than two hours later, with Bonnie still sleeping under the care of Dr. Daniels at his clinic—and a stubborn Seth standing guard over her—all three FBI agents and most of the Cox County Sheriff's Department were in Mayor John MacBride's secluded house.
The place was lit top to bottom. The first quick search had shown them that most of what they were interested in was in the basement. Part of the large room was perfectly ordinary and held the usual clutter of unused and broken furniture, shelves weighted down with old tools and other items that could mostly be classified as junk.
But a padlocked wooden door gave them access to an equally large and far less cluttered space with neat cabinets along one wall, open shelves along the other, two actual cells complete with iron bars, and numerous pieces of gleaming stainless-steel equipment that Sharon Edwards confirmed were usually found in hospitals, morgues, and funeral homes.
“Talk about a lab experiment,” Alex muttered.
The scope of the “experiment” became clearer as they studied what was stored on the open shelves. Bottles of chemicals, neatly labeled. Tools and instruments. Supplies. And records.
Nearly twenty years of records.
Miranda pulled one file off the shelf at random and looked inside. The neat handwriting didn't surprise her, given what she knew of John MacBride, but little of what she read made sense to her.
“Sharon, this looks more like your bailiwick than mine.”
The doctor looked at the file and frowned. “We'll have to go over all these, of course, but here it looks like he was experimenting with various kinds of preservatives.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that.”
Alex opened one of the cabinets and took a step back. “Oh, shit. Look what the crazy bastard was preserving.”
They all saw clearly, because when the cabinet was opened an interior light came on to reveal what was stored there.
More canning jars. Lots more. Some contained clear and semiclear liquids, others more viscous fluids, but all had grisly contents made up of various human body parts.
Miranda didn't waste much time. Turning to the others, she said, “This is too much for a small-town sheriff's department, and I'm guessing you guys didn't come prepared for anything like it.”
“You can say that again,” Tony said.
Bishop said, “Calling in Quantico would probably be the best option. They're the only ones well-enough equipped to send a team down here capable of dealing with this.”
“That suits me fine,” Miranda told him. “I'll have a big enough headache dealing with the town when the news breaks tomorrow. This part of the mess can be somebody else's nightmare.”
Bishop nodded. “Then we lock up, post a couple of guards, and clear out. The less we touch, the better.”
Nobody argued.
The deputies chosen to stand guard weren't happy about it, but given both the grimness of the chore and the threatening weather, Miranda promised a four-hour duty rotation, and they accepted that.
The rest departed, and as they drove back to town with Alex and Tony, Miranda said, “Why is it that I don't feel much of a sense of closure? It's over. The monster's dead.”
“That won't sink in for a while yet,” Bishop told her from experience. “As brutal as it'll be, finding out a bit more about how his mind worked will help. It's human nature to always try to understand the monsters, to neatly label them before we lock them away in a drawer. Luckily for us, this monster left a record of his horrors.”
“It won't be pleasant reading,” Alex said.
“No, but the answers we need are there. And none of us will be able to put this behind us until we have those answers.”
“But for tonight,” Miranda said, “it's time to stop thinking about it, if only for a few hours.”
They returned to the Sheriff's Department for nearly two of those hours, out of necessity. Bishop had to call Quantico, and given the magnitude of John MacBride's crimes that call was a lengthy one. Miranda had to talk to her deputies about the situation and set up the temporary duty rotation, then she had to get in touch with members of the town council.
It wasn't a responsibility she enjoyed. No one had suspected MacBride, no one had felt even a tinge of doubt, and the shock and grief of the councilmen as they were informed was deep and honest. It wasn't just a political matter or even a betrayal of trust; John MacBride had destroyed the faith of those who had believed in him—and in the basic goodness of their fellow citizens.
Finally, the necessary calls had been made and duties finished, at least for the moment. Exhaustion had caught up with Alex at last, and he was sleeping deeply on one of the lounge couches, but Carl Tierney assured Miranda he could keep an eye on things until Alex awakened or she returned. And Tony volunteered to remain there overnight as well, saying wryly that the cots weren't too bad.
“Go home, Sheriff,” he said. “And take my boss with you. After all, he's been dead. That's very tiring.”
So it was after eight o'clock that night when Bishop parked Miranda's Jeep in the driveway of her house and they climbed wearily out.
“Sometime soon,” she said, “I want to take a week or so and just sleep.”
“I couldn't agree more.” He took her hand as they went up the walk together, adding, “It looks like your housekeeper was here as promised.”
“I told her to leave the lights on for us. And, knowing Mrs. Task, there'll be a full meal in the oven or fridge.”
“Good. My appetite may just be coming back.”
They went into the house, and Miranda was a little amused to realize that both of them reached immediately to unfasten their weapon holsters as soon as they stepped into the living room. She was going to comment but was distracted by an unexpected sight on the coffee table.
“Look. Mrs. Task left the Ouija board out,” she said. “I should have remembered to ask her to take it—”
The planchette began to circle the board wildly.
Miranda looked at Bishop as he came to stand beside her and frown at the board. “I'm not doing that,” she said.
“Neither am I. That spirit, maybe? The one trapped here?”
“But communicating without a medium? That would take so much focus and determination—” She shook her head and looked back at the board. “No use arguing with reality. Who are you?”
L … Y … N … E … T.
“I don't know. But whoever it is, we'd better pay attention,” Miranda said. “What is it you want, Lynet?”
Bishop picked up a pad and pencil from a nearby table and jotted down the letters as Miranda spelled the response aloud.
WARN YOU.
“Warn us about what?”
BONNIE.
Miranda felt a chill. “What about Bonnie?”
IN DANGER.
Miranda looked at Bishop, then returned her attention to the board. Holding her voice steady, she said, “You mean Bonnie's still in danger, Lynet?”
YES. FROM THE OTHER.
“What other?”
ANOTHER CAME IN WHEN THEY OPENED DOOR FOR ME.
“Lynet—”
BAD MAN. VERY BAD MAN. WANTS BONNIE.
Miranda had a sudden, frantic realization that in the relief of all of them surviving the confrontation with MacBride, she had forgotten something vitally important. The danger to Bonnie that wasn't flesh and blood. The danger of a spirit so desperate to live again it had nearly killed her. She looked at Bishop. “I thought Bonnie was only at risk here in this house, at least for a while, but—”
“Look,” he said.
The planchette circled madly, stopping several times on NO, and then began spelling slowly.
DANGER NOW. HE's BEEN WITH HER ALL ALONG. WATCHING HER. WAITING. HE KNOWS SHE's TIRED NOW, WEAKENED. HE MEANS TO GET HER TONIGHT.
“Jesus,” Miranda whispered. “But… how? Who would have a connection to her strong enough that he could find her so quickly?”
“Who is it, Lynet?” Bishop demanded. “Who is this bad man?”
The planchette was motionless for several seconds, then spelled slowly: LEWIS HARRISON.
Miranda and Bishop didn't waste another moment asking questions, they just ran for the door.
Halfway to the clinic, Miranda broke the tense silence to say, “Six and a half years? Dead all that time and he's still a threat to us?”
“Bonnie was the one who got away, literally,” Bishop said. “The only one of his victims to actually survive. He was psychic—he must have known or realized at some point that she was a medium. Maybe he even touched her mind there at the last moment, established a connection she wasn't even aware of. So all these years he's bided his time, waited for her to open a door for him. If you hadn't protected her in every sense of the word, he would have gotten to her years ago.”
“And when she opened the door to let in poor little Lynet, he came in too. Bonnie told me she had a bad feeling about it. That's one of the reasons she got Seth and Amy out of the house so quickly. But he got to her anyway. The house couldn't hold him.”
“We'll stop him, Miranda.”
“Stop him how?” Her voice was shaky. “Noah, I've been in contact with people trying to fight off an invading spirit, remember? I know what hell they're trapped in. What I don't know is how to free them from that torment.”
“We'll find a way. You saw this, Miranda, remember?”
“I didn't see this,” she protested.
“Of course you did. It wasn't a visual image but an absolute certainty. You've known for weeks that I'd save Bonnie's life.”
“You've already saved her.”
He reached over and took her hand. “Think about it. You're the one who saved Bonnie, Miranda. You took down MacBride before he could hurt Bonnie. I saved your life. His gun was pointed at you.”
Miranda wasn't sure he was right, but she stopped arguing. Of course they would save Bonnie, somehow. Anything else was just unthinkable.
Abstractedly, she said, “Have I thanked you for that, by the way?”
“You will,” he said cryptically.
There was no time to question him now, since they had reached the clinic. They hurried straight to Bonnie's room and found a distraught Seth watching his father examine Bonnie. She was lying in the bed, still and silent—but her eyes were wide open.
“I was about to call you,” Seth told Miranda, his voice cracking. “She was okay, she was sleeping, you'd told us she'd probably sleep all night without waking. But all of a sudden she made this little sound, like something hurt her or scared her—and her eyes opened. She's been like that ever since.”
Colin Daniels straightened and frowned as he gazed down at Bonnie. “I don't understand this. Her pulse and blood pressure are normal, pupils normal, reflexes.” He looked straight at Miranda. “I know what she's capable of, what she did today, and I know how much it drains her, but this is something different.”
“Something very different. Her body is fine, Colin,” Miranda said, stepping to the side of the bed. She started to reach for her sister's hand, but Bishop spoke before she could.
“Let me.”
Miranda knew he was the stronger telepath, and since their connection had been severed so brutally hours before, she couldn't borrow that strength, so she merely nodded.
Bishop took Bonnie's hand, and almost immediately his face tightened. Half under his breath, he muttered, “Goddammit, it is him. I touched his mind once before. Cold and slimy, so black with evil it's like a bottomless pit.” He concentrated, then said, “He hasn't won yet. Bonnie's protecting herself, at least partially. But she's weakening.”
Bewildered, Seth said, “He? You mean someone's— inside Bonnie's mind?”
“An old enemy,” Miranda said. “We think he's been waiting, watching her. Now that she's vulnerable …”
Seth caught his breath and let out an anguished groan. “I knew there was something here, something not right. I could hear it sometimes, almost see it. And the way that damned Ouija board kept turning up like it had a mind of its own and wanted Bonnie to use it—”
“Don't blame yourself,” Miranda said. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent this, Seth.”
“I could have warned her,” he said miserably. “She didn't seem to feel anything, any threat, not like I did.”
“No, she wouldn't have. Her mental shields were up in order to protect her. That … makes us sort of blind to a threat like this one.”
“Dammit,” Seth muttered. “Dad, can't you—”
Colin Daniels shook his head. “Some things are beyond today's medical science, son. This is one of them. I can't help her. It's up to them.”
Seth gave his father a faintly surprised look, though whether that was due to the admission of the limitations of science or to the clear acceptance of the paranormal, he didn't say. He just returned his anxious attention to the bed where Bonnie lay and muttered another helpless curse under his breath.
Miranda waited until Bishop gently released Bonnie's hand, then said as steadily as she could, “I still don't know how to save her.”
“I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I've fought him before, Miranda. I crawled inside his head until I could predict what he'd do before he thought of it himself. Tracked him, hunted him. And killed him. I killed him once, I can do it again.”
“After what happened today, you can't possibly have the strength to—”
“With your help. Your strength and abilities added to mine will be enough to fight him and win. He can't withstand both of us.”
“The connection was destroyed,” she reminded him. “It can only be rebuilt in a physical joining.”
“No, there's another way. Something else can forge a bond, and even stronger than the one we had before. If we let it.”
She stared up at him for a long moment, and even in her desperate need to save her sister, vital seconds ticking away, the last lingering tinge of fear made her hesitate.
Bishop looked at her steadily, and waited.
In the end, Miranda realized her hesitation was only a reflex, an instinctive urge to protect herself. But that wasn't necessary anymore. She had known the truth long before now. She held out her hand, and when his fingers closed over hers, she smiled at him. “Let's get the bastard.”
He smiled in return.
“Reach for me, Miranda. Reach out with your mind.”
Miranda obeyed, closing her eyes to concentrate better, opening her mind to him.
It was astonishingly simple. Her mind and spirit knew his so well that reaching out to him was virtually involuntary, and when he met her halfway, his mind wide open and welcoming, she had a curiously fateful sense of having come home. She could feel the gossamer threads of energy and awareness forming between them, touching and twining, stronger and more solidly anchored than ever before so that their connection was deep and sure.
Ready, love?
Ready,she affirmed.
Let me fight him. Lend me your strength and will, but don't take an active part in that; force him to concentrate on me while you help Bonnie.
Miranda wasn't at all surprised to realize that she knew, now, how to help Bonnie. And her trust and confidence in Bishop were absolute. I know what to do. Get him.
Eyes still closed, they reached out their free hands and touched Bonnie.
“What—” Seth began, but his father grasped his arm and sent him a warning glance.
“Wait,” he murmured. “Just wait.”
Miranda wasn't even conscious of them. She was entirely caught up in what she and Bishop were trying to do. The only direct mind-to-mind connection she had ever known was the one with Bishop, so she was surprised at the very different sensations when she slipped with him into Bonnie's mind.
It was dark, but that dimness was shot through with flashes and pulses of energy like red lightning. They didn't brighten the darkness so much as slice through it. Angry. Hungry. And it wasn't silent. Almost below the level of awareness was a rustling sound, a kind of rhythmic whispering that rose and fell, sometimes intense and sometimes fading.
It's him,Miranda realized. He's everywhere.
No, it only seems that way. His energy is scattered, diffused. He thought she'd be an easy target, but he was wrong. Here—look. There's Bonnie.
Miranda looked where he indicated, and saw in a far corner of the darkness what appeared to be a small, crystal cocoon. It was opaque, hiding what lay within, but it gleamed, the red tendrils of Harrison's frustrated anger glancing off it harmlessly.
