Out of the Shadows

TO CATCH A KILLER, SHE MUST BREAK EVERY RULE AND CROSS EVERY LINE. 
A picture-perfect Tennessee town has just become a monster's hunting ground. Two bodies are found tortured to death. A third person goes missing. What little evidence is left behind defies all explanation. Is the terror just beginning? Or have the good citizens of Gladstone harbored a dark secret for a long time? 
Sheriff Miranda Knight is determined to make her small town safe once more. And she does what she swore she would never do: involve FBI profiler Noah Bishop. He's the one man who knows about her unique abilities, and that knowledge almost destroyed her and her sister years ago. Now, as Bishop arrives with his team of agents, Miranda must learn to trust him and use her abilities once more. For they're about to go on the hunt for a killer whose madness has no bounds, a killer who knows exactly how to destroy Miranda: by preying on her sister.

PROLOGUE
Wednesday, January 5, 2000

Lynet Grainger had no real reason to feel afraid. Gladstone was a safe town, had always been a safe town. The rest of the world might be going nuts, with students shooting up their schools and disgruntled employees shooting up their workplaces, with cars being jacked and children being stolen, but in Gladstone none of that stuff ever happened.
Ever.
Of course, nothing much else happened either, at least not until recently.
Even before they'd built the new highway bypass last year—which had quite effectively bypassed Gladstone—the little town had been no more than a place where people stopped for gas and an occasional weary night at the Bluebird Lodge out on Main Street, pausing as briefly as possible in their journey through to Nashville. Otherwise, it was just a wide place in the road, not high enough in the mountains to offer skiing as a tourist attraction—though the Bluebird Lodge defiantly had as its logo a pair of crossed skis—and not far enough out of the mountains to boast much decent farming or pastureland.
It was just a little valley. The bedrock core of the local economy was a smelly paper mill out on the river where a healthy majority of the town's blue-collar workers toiled. And in town, there were a few small businesses, the sort of car dealerships and real estate offices and stores that dotted all small towns.
Thankfully, Gladstone wasn't so small that absolutely everybody knew the business of their neighbors—but nearly so. Gossip was second only to the video store downtown as a source of entertainment.
So when Kerry Ingram, barely fourteen, seemingly ran away from home a couple of months ago, it was big news. Lots of people were heard to say they'd expected as much, since Kerry's older brother had done the same thing several years before to try his luck as a singer in Nashville (and ended up trying to support a wife and two little kids on a mechanic's pay). It was that sort of family, the gossips said, not the kind to raise up kids loyal to the town.
But there had been uneasiness beneath the confidence even then, even before they found out what had really happened to Kerry, because at about the same time she disappeared there had been something creepy going on hardly more than a hundred miles away, in Concord. Lynet wasn't entirely sure of the details, but it was whispered that a horrible man had been stalking and raping women, and it had only been when a special FBI task force had been called in that he was caught.
Lynet would like to have seen a special FBI task force in action. She was interested in law enforcement, and since the sheriff had patiently answered her questions on Career Day back last spring, that interest had only grown. At least until Kerry Ingram's body had been found, and some of the details had gotten around.
Lynet had felt more than a little sick upon hearing those details. She'd told herself it was only because she had actually 
known
 Kerry that the whole thing had upset her, not because she had a weak stomach unsuited for the work of a police officer or, better yet, an FBI agent just like Scully.
No, it was only because she'd known Kerry, been just a year ahead of her in school and ridden on the same school bus. Because she remembered so vividly how Kerry had worn a bright ribbon in her hair every day, and smiled shyly whenever one of the boys tried to talk to her, and had been so proud of making the honor roll because math was difficult for her and she had to try really, really hard in that class.. ..
Lynet shook off the memories and glanced around warily as she walked briskly along the sidewalk. Just about all the stores downtown had closed early as usual on this Wednesday, and now at nine o'clock at night there was almost no traffic and virtually no one about.
Still, Lynet had no real reason to be afraid. The sheriff had said it was likely poor Kerry had slipped and fallen into that nasty ravine where people used to dump their trash and where her bruised body had been found. But Lynet had heard a few whispers about what might have been done to Kerry before she'd died, and even if it was just speculation, it was the kind to make a girl worried about being alone on the streets after dark.
She paused on the corner of Main and Trade streets and briefly considered taking the usual shortcut through the park. Very briefly. Much better, she thought, to stay on the sidewalk under the streetlights, even if it would take an extra fifteen minutes to get home.
So she walked on, wishing she hadn't lingered at the library so late, wishing her sixteenth birthday would come so she could drive her mom's battered Honda instead of having to hoof it everywhere.
"Lynet, what on earth are you doing out so late?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin, and actually put a hand to her breast in an unconsciously dramatic gesture of near heart failure. "Oh, it's you! God, don't scare me like that!"
"I'm sorry—but you shouldn't be out here so late. Why aren't you at home?"
"I had to use the computer at the library—you know I don't have one of my own yet."
"Well, next time have somebody drive you."
"I will." Lynet smiled winningly. "We can walk together as far as the next corner. You're going that way, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Great. Nobody would bother the two of us."
"No, nobody would bother the two of us."
"I'm surprised you're out here," Lynet said chattily. "Are you just walking? I know some people do, around town to get exercise, but I thought that was just in the summer."
"It's not cold tonight."
"You aren't cold? Oh, I am. Walking fast helps, though. If we hurry—" Lynet took another step, then stopped as she recognized what was being held out toward her. "Oh," she said numbly. "Oh, no. You—"
"You know what this is. And what it can do."
"Yes," Lynet whispered.
"Then you'll come along with me and not make trouble, won't you, Lynet?"
"Don't hurt me. Please, don't—"
"I'm sorry, Lynet. I really am."

Thursday, January 6
The body had been exposed to the elements for at least two or three days. And before last night's heavy rain had washed them away, the tracks of dozens of paws and claws must have crisscrossed the clearing.
It was shaping up to be a long, cold winter, and the animals were hungry.
Deputy Alex Mayse shivered as he picked his way gingerly past the town's single forensics "expert," a young doctor who'd been elected coroner because nobody else had wanted the job. The doctor was crawling around the clearing on his hands and knees, his nose inches from the wet ground as he found and flagged the scattered bones and other bits the animals had left.
"You don't have to hum to yourself, Doc," Alex muttered sourly. "We all know how happy you are."
Remaining in his crouched position, Dr. Peter Shepherd said cheerfully, "If a murdered teenager made me happy, Alex, I'd be worse than a ghoul. I'm just fascinated by the puzzle, that's all."
Waiting patiently just a few steps behind the doctor, camera in hand as he waited to take pictures of each flagged spot, Deputy Brady Shaw rolled his eyes at Alex.
Alex grimaced in sympathy, but all he said to Shepherd was, "Yeah, yeah. Just find something helpful this time, will you?"
"Do my best," the doctor replied, studying what appeared to be a bleached twig.
Alex walked to the area where most of the body had been found, noticing with a certain amount of sympathy that Sandy Lynch was over behind a tree puking her guts out. She was having a lousy introduction to the job, poor kid. Not that the old hands were handling it any better, really. Carl Tierney had had the misfortune to find Adam Ramsay's mortal remains, and the ten-year veteran of the Sheriff's Department had promptly lost his morning Egg McMuffin.
Alex himself had suffered through a few teeth-grittingly queasy moments during the last couple of hours.
In fact, the only member of the Cox County Sheriff's Department who had shown no signs of being sickened by the gory sight was the sheriff.
There was an irony there somewhere, Alex thought as he joined the sheriff, who was hunkered down several feet from what was left of Adam Ramsay, elbows on knees and fingers steepled. In its entire history, the small town of Gladstone had seldom been troubled by murder. A long line of sheriffs had grown old in their jobs, dealing with petty crime and little else of consequence, needing no more police training than how to load a gun, which would in all likelihood never be fired except at targets or the occasional unlucky rabbit. It was a local saying that all the Cox County sheriff had to be good at was filling out the Santa suit for the annual Christmas parade down Main Street.
Until last year, anyway. The town finally elected a sheriff with an actual law degree and a minor in criminology—and what happened? Damned if they didn't start having real crimes.
But they were blessed in that this particular sheriff had very quickly displayed an almost uncanny ability to get to the bottom of things with a minimum of time wasted.
At least until recently.
"This makes two," Alex said, judging that the silence had gone on long enough.
"Yeah."
"Same killer, d'you think?"
Startling blue eyes slanted him a look. "Hard to tell from the bones."
Alex started to reply that there was a bit of rotting flesh here and there, but kept his mouth shut. There was little remaining on the skeleton of Adam Ramsay, that was true enough, and what was there didn't immediately offer up any evidence as to who had killed him and how. Impossible to tell if the boy's body had borne the same bruises and cuts as they had found on Kerry Ingram. Still, it was a fair guess that two bodies turning up in less than a month had to be connected in some way.
With a sigh, Alex said, "We won't be able to quiet the gossip by suggesting this death was an accident. We might not know how he died yet, but it's a cinch a victim of an accident wouldn't have buried his own body. And you can bet that little fact won't stay out of circulation for long."
"I know."
"So we have a problem. A big problem."
"Shit," the sheriff said quietly after a moment.
Alex wondered if that was guilt he heard. "Announcing that Kerry Ingram had been murdered wouldn't have saved this one," he reminded. "I may not be an expert, but my guess is that Adam died more than a couple of weeks ago."
"Yeah, probably."
"And his own mother didn't report him missing until just before Halloween, even though he'd already been gone for weeks by then."
"Because they'd had a big fight and he'd run off to live with his father in Florida just like he'd done at least twice before—or so she thought."
"My point," Alex said, "is that there's nothing we could have done to save Adam Ramsay."
"Maybe," the sheriff said, still quiet. "But maybe we could have saved Kerry Ingram."
Breaking the ensuing silence, Alex said, "Good thing he was wearing his class ring. And that he had that gold tooth. Otherwise we'd never have been able to identify him. But what kid his age has a gold tooth? I meant to ask before now, but—"
"Not a tooth, just a cap. He had a ring of his father's melted down, and a dentist in the city did the work."
"Why, for God's sake?"
"His mother didn't know or wouldn't say. And we can't ask him now." Still hunkered down, the sheriff added, "I doubt it's important, at least to the question of who killed him and why."
"Yeah, I guess. You have any ideas about that, by the way?"
"No."
Alex sighed. "Me either. The mayor isn't going to like this, Randy."
"Nobody's going to like it, Alex. Especially not Adam Ramsay's mother."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I know." Sheriff Miranda Knight sighed and rose from the crouched position, absently stretching cramped muscles. "Shit," she said again, softly.
Deputy Sandy Lynch, still very pale, ventured a step toward them but kept her gaze studiously away from the remains. "I'm sorry, Sheriff," she said nervously, new enough at the job that she feared losing it.
Miranda looked at her. "Don't worry about it, Sandy. There's nothing you can do here anyway. Go on back to the office and help Grace deal with all the phone calls."
"Okay, Sheriff." She paused. "What should we tell people?"
"Tell them we have no information at this time."
"Yes, ma'am."
As the young deputy retreated to her car in visible relief, Alex said, "That won't hold 'em for long."
"Long enough, with a little luck. I'd like a few more answers before I have to face John with a recommendation."
"Since that flap over in Concord spooked him, you know he'll overreact and declare we have a serial killer on our hands."
"Two murders don't make a serial killer."
"You know that and I know that. His Honor will prefer to err on the side of caution. He likes his job and he wants to keep it. Concord's mayor was practically run out of town for not insisting that task force be called in sooner. John MacBride is not going to make the same mistake."
Miranda nodded, frowning. "I know, I know."
"So get the jump on him. Tell him your recommendation is to call in the task force now."
Her frown deepened. "You read the bulletin, same as I did. The task force was set up to handle unusual crimes with inexplicable elements, crimes ordinary police work can't solve. For all we know, what we have here are two teenage victims of grudges or impulsive violence. Both of them were probably killed by someone they knew, and for depressingly mundane reasons. We don't know there's anything unusual."
"Randy, nobody'd blame you for calling in the feds whether these murders are unusual or not. We're a small-town sheriff's department with little manpower and almost no high-tech toys. Before we found the Ingram girl, the last murder any Cox County sheriff had to investigate was twenty years ago—when a cuckolded husband shot his wife's lover while the man was trying to escape out the bedroom window. Hardly a tricky investigation. The cases you've handled so far were demanding, and God knows you dealt with them well, but what they required was skill, intelligence, and instinct, all of which you certainly have. What you don't have are state-of-the-art crime scene investigation tools, a computer system that isn't five years out of date, enough deputies to effectively cover the county you're responsible for, and a medical examiner whose specialty—not his hobby—is forensics."
"I heard that," Doc Shepherd called out.
Unrepentant, Alex called back, "I meant you to hear it." He returned his attention to Miranda and went on in a lower voice. "Call in the feds, Randy. Nobody'll think less of you. And, goddammit, we need the help."
"They don't help, they take over."
"Then I say let 'em have it."
She shook her head. "I can't say that, Alex. I can't just hand this problem over to somebody else because I'm afraid it might be too difficult for me."
"MacBride can pull rank—and you know he will. Randy, there were just enough doubts about electing a woman sheriff to make him very, very nervous of any criticism from the voters. First sign this department can't handle the investigation, and he'll be yelling for help as loud as he can."
"No," she said. "He won't do that, not publicly."
"Then he'll pressure you to do it."
"Maybe."
"Randy—"
"We don't 
know
 there's anything unusual here," Miranda repeated stubbornly. "And just because we've gotten nowhere investigating Kerry Ingram's murder doesn't mean we won't have better luck with this case. One thing I'm sure of is that I'm damned well planning to give it my best shot. I'm not calling in outsiders unless we have no other choice." She lifted one hand and rubbed the nape of her neck, where tension had undoubtedly gathered, and scowled at the remains of Adam Ramsay.
Alex watched her, not bothering to be subtle about it because he had long ago realized that Miranda was never conscious of masculine scrutiny. Not on the job, at any rate. She tended to wear sweaters and jeans, kept her black hair pulled back severely from her face, her nails short and unpolished, and her makeup to a minimum. And none of it mattered one little bit.
Miranda Knight was one of those rare women who would have been beautiful even if you wrapped her in a burlap feed sack and dipped her in mud.
She wasn't in uniform even on duty, a perk she had more or less demanded before taking on the job, and the snug jeans and bulky sweater she wore today did little to hide either the gun on her hip or measurements of true centerfold proportions.
Alex had never been sure which attracted Gladstone's mayor more, the gun or the body, but it was an open secret that John MacBride had had his eye on Miranda long before they'd both been voted into office over a year before.
What Miranda thought of the mayor, on the other hand, was a secret known only to her. She might refer to him casually when speaking to Alex, but in public she was invariably formal, polite, and respectful to His Honor, and if she had so much as allowed him to buy her a cup of coffee she'd managed to drink it where nobody in this very curious town had been able to observe.
Still, Alex couldn't help but wonder if MacBride's determined pursuit of the last few months would change if Miranda refused to ensure the mayor's political safety by handing the investigation over to the feds with all speed.
"We don't know there's anything unusual here," she said again, the emphasis making Alex look at her in sudden awareness.
"Have you noticed something?" he asked.
Obviously conscious of his stare, Miranda nonetheless didn't meet his eyes. "I just said—"
"I know what you said. I also heard how you said it. And I know that sometimes you see things everybody else misses. What do you see that I don't, Randy?"
"Nothing. I see nothing."
Alex thought she was lying to him. But before he could press her, Doc Shepherd came up to them.
"I have a preliminary report," he told Miranda. "I'll write it up as soon as I get back to the office, of course, but if you want to hear what'll be on it while Brady's getting shots of everything—"
"Let's hear it."
"No way to tell if the boy was strangled like the Ingram girl, but there is evidence that a few bones were broken prior to death."
"Could they have been broken in an accidental fall?" Miranda asked.
"Not likely. I'd say his arms were twisted hard enough to snap, which would require considerable, deliberate force. And two bones in his left hand were crushed, probably by a hammer or similar tool."
Alex offered a reluctant question. "Are you saying he was tortured?"
"I wouldn't rule it out, but there isn't enough evidence for me to be absolutely sure."
"What are you sure of?" Miranda asked.
"I'm sure he's been dead at least three or four weeks, possibly longer. I'm sure he was killed somewhere else, then brought here and buried in a shallow grave that didn't protect the body very long from scavenging animals. " Peter Shepherd paused briefly. "Now let me ask you something: Are you sure these are the remains of Adam Ramsay?"
Alex was surprised by the question, but when he looked at Miranda he realized she wasn't.
"We found his class ring here," she said neutrally. "And the gold crown on that front tooth matches our information. Height and estimated weight in the right range. And the patch of scalp still attached to the skull has red hair like Adam Ramsay. We have every reason to believe the I.D. is accurate." It was her turn to pause, and when she went on, she asked what sounded like an unwilling question. "You think it isn't him?"
Clearly enjoying his role, Shepherd said, "I think if it is him, his mother must be a hell of a lot older than she looks. I'll know more after I conduct a few tests, but I'll be surprised if I find out those bones belonged to any man less than forty years old."
Again, Miranda didn't seem surprised, but all she said, in the same dispassionate tone of before, was, "We have complete dental records, so verifying identity—if it is Adam—shouldn't take long."
Bewildered, Alex said, "Adam was seventeen."
"Those bones are older," Shepherd answered with a shrug.
"There's barely enough of him left to put in a shoe-box," Alex objected. "How can you possibly know—"
Miranda lifted a hand to stop Alex. "Why don't we wait until we have a few more facts before we start arguing? Doc, if you'll take the remains back to the morgue, I'll have the dental records sent over."
"I don't know who his family doctor was, but if you could get those records as well..."
"I'll send them along."
Alex followed as Miranda retreated several yards to give the doctor room to work, and said accusingly, "You knew what he was going to say, didn't you?"