Out of the Shadows (10 page)

Wednesday, January 12
Liz Hallowell had learned at her grandmother's knee how to read faces. The color and shape of eyes, the angle of jaw and arch of brow, the curve of the mouth. They were all signposts, her gran had said, the outer directions to the soul.
So when she stepped outside her store in the early afternoon for a quick break and one of the rare cigarettes she allowed herself, and saw standing on the sidewalk only a few yards away the FBI agent with the marked face, she studied him intently. They hadn't yet been introduced; the other two agents had been in her coffee shop, but not this one.
He was talking to Peter Green, who owned the old-fashioned barbershop behind them, and Liz didn't have to read the tea leaves to know what they were discussing. Half of Randy's deputies and two of the three federal agents had been moving methodically through town all day, talking to everyone who might have seen something yesterday when the Penman boy had vanished. Nobody had talked to Liz yet.
Taking advantage of the time granted to her, she smoked and watched the agent, not especially worried if he noticed her stare. Most of the people on the streets were staring at him anyway, so why should she be different?
It was an interesting face. Fascinating, even. Her gran would have loved it. It was both unquestionably hard and unquestionably handsome, and the scar marking his left cheek didn't detract a bit from either quality. It was a face that kept the secrets of the man who wore it, yet to Liz it also revealed much of his character.
Even at a distance, the intensity of his pale gray eyes was almost hypnotic, the outward sign of deep and powerful emotions, and laugh lines at the corners suggested he was at least capable of laughing at himself. His mouth was sensitive and mobile, yet held firm with absolute mastery. His sharp jaw was strong, determined, his forehead high and exotically framed by the perfect widow's peak of gleaming black hair. The flying arch of his eyebrows hinted at quick wit, and the faint kink in the bridge of his aristocratic nose pointed to equally quick fists.
It was, Liz decided, the face of a brilliant, proud, highly perceptive man of considerable courage and acute compassion. It was also the face of a man who could be caustic, arrogant, impatient, and apt to act ruthlessly if he honestly believed the occasion called for it—and the results were important enough to him.
His friends, Liz thought, would never question his absolute loyalty or his willingness to do anything within his power to help in times of trouble. And his enemies would never doubt that once on their trail he simply would not give up.
Liz shivered without really being aware of it and drew her jacket more closely around her. But when the agent left Peter and approached her, she was able to sound perfectly calm. "My turn now?"
His sentry eyes studied her with interest. "You're Liz Hallowell?"
"That's me."
In a virtually automatic gesture, he showed her his I.D. "Noah Bishop."
Liz felt her eyebrows climbing. "Now, that's unexpected."
"What is?"
"Your name. Not the Bishop part, that's definitely you, but the Noah part. Noah was a caretaker, someone who offered comfort. Is that you?"
He smiled faintly. "I'm just a cop, Miss Hallowell." He paused and then, almost as if he couldn't help himself, added, "Why is the Bishop part definitely me?"
"Bishop means overseer." She barely hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about Steve Penman disappearing yesterday. I mean, I know that he did, but I didn't see anything. Not surprising, since the drugstore is at the other end of town."
"Do you know him?"
"Sure, as well as I knew any of the teenagers. To speak to. I didn't like him much."
"Why not?"
"The way he treated his girlfriends," she answered promptly.
"How does he treat them? Is he abusive?"
Liz took a long draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly before she spoke. "Depends on your definition of abusive, I guess. I never heard he hit any of them, or was physically rough in any other way. But he was a good-looking, charming kid who knew it and took advantage of it to get what he wanted. I don't think many girls said no to him, even though he had a track record of getting bored and moving on fairly quickly. What I didn't like was the way he seemed to view the girls as just something useful he carried along with him—like his backpack."
Bishop nodded and then, softly, said, "You keep using the past tense, Miss Hallowell. Do you know something I don't know?"
"I know he's lost. But you know that too."
"I know he's missing."
She shook her head. "You know more than that, Agent Bishop."
"Do I?"
"Sure. It's your job to know more, isn't it? They call what you do profiling, I hear. Which basically means you try to climb inside the head of the monster, figure out who he is and what he's going to do next. Isn't that right?"
"More or less."
"I wouldn't call that a pleasant job."
"That part of it isn't."
"But you're good at it, aren't you? You understand how the monsters think."
He shrugged. "There's a kind of logic even in insanity. It looks like a jigsaw puzzle, but all the pieces are there and usually fit together. It isn't that difficult to do once you know how."
Liz drew on her cigarette and blew out the smoke in a quick burst. "Maybe, but I'd say it was dangerous. If you go too deep into that insane logic, you might never get out."
Bishop smiled suddenly. "Who's interviewing whom, Miss Hallowell?"
Liz had to laugh. "Sorry. I'm incurably nosy, but I don't mean any harm. What was it you wanted to know? Why I believe Steve Penman won't be coming back? Well, I don't know monsters as well as you do, but one thing I do know about them is that they seldom leave their ... prey ... unharmed. Right?"
"Right."
"And this monster didn't leave behind any puzzle pieces for you guys to put together, did he?"
"Not many."
"Then Steve's lost, isn't he?"
Bishop looked at her for a long, steady moment, then smiled again. "I hear you read tea leaves, Miss Hallowell. Have you seen anything in the bottom of a cup lately that could help us?"
Liz listened for scorn or disbelief in his voice, and heard nothing except mild interest. It encouraged her to say, "I don't know how helpful it'll be, but he's trying to distract you—not you personally, I mean the investigation—by taking Steve Penman. There's something about one of the others he doesn't want you to look at closely. I don't know what it is, maybe a mistake he made or just something you have the ability to see more clearly than he bargained for, but it's there. And he's afraid you'll find it."
"So he took Steve Penman?"
Liz hesitated. "That's partly it. He had other reasons for picking Steve. I don't think he liked him." Unconsciously, she cocked her head, trying to hear what her gypsy blood was trying to tell her. "He was a little afraid of Steve—no, he was afraid of something Steve knew."
"What was that?"
She groped mentally, but the elusive knowledge was gone. "I don't know." Surprised at herself, she shook her head. "That was weird. I usually don't get much of anything without tea leaves or cards in front of me." She was just about to add that his spiritual energy must be especially strong to spark hers like that, when she saw him glance past her. Without turning her head or even thinking about it, she knew he had spotted Miranda Knight—and in a sudden flash understood much that had been murky to her before.
Bishop's attention returned to her face. Politely, he said, "Thank you very much for your help, Miss Hallowell. If I have any more questions, I'll be in touch."
Liz dropped the stub of her cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out beneath her foot. "And I'll be here, Agent Bishop. Right here, usually."
Without actually planning to do it, Liz found herself shaking hands with the agent. She wanted to warn him to be careful, but the certainty that interference usually backfired kept her silent. What would be would be.
She was about to return to her store when Bishop said, "I will, Miss Hallowell."
"You will what?" she asked blankly.
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
Liz stared after him, murmured, "Wow," under her breath, and went very thoughtfully back to work.

*  *  *

"Grandstanding?" Miranda asked. She stood only a few yards away, close enough to hear, waiting on the sidewalk beside her Jeep.
Instead of denying it, Bishop merely said, "I wanted her to know I was someone who would be open to information no matter how it was come by. If something else occurs to her, she might be more willing to contact me."
Miranda put her hands in the pockets of her jacket and leaned back against the door of the Jeep. "Maybe she will. So you could read her?"
"Only partly. No deeper than surface consciousness. She was thinking I needed to be careful, that's all I got."
"An interesting place for a shield, isn't it? Just beneath the surface."
"You read her the same way?"
Miranda nodded. "I don't think she's any more conscious of her shield than she is of her innate abilities. Liz doesn't think of herself as being psychic, just the granddaughter of a gypsy. She has The Sight and her grandmother taught her how to read signs. Tell her she's telepathic and precognitive, and she probably wouldn't believe you. She's into crystals and talismans, omens and portents, crystal balls and tarot cards—and tea leaves. She only reads for friends, doesn't do it very often, and as far as I can tell, she's about seventy-five-percent accurate. So maybe you'd better be careful."
Her voice was perfectly cool and professional, without an ounce of personal concern, and since she'd been speaking to him with the same detachment all day, Bishop was hardly surprised. Which was why it did surprise him when Miranda added, "Sometimes I worry about Liz."
"Oh? Why?"
"Because she doesn't understand the power she has. I mean, she doesn't understand that knowing things about other people, sometimes secret things, can be dangerous."
Bishop chose not to take that personally. "She's spoken of very highly by everyone I've talked to, described as a kind, unfailingly helpful lady—with mildly interesting pagan beliefs nobody else really takes seriously but nobody is particularly offended by. From the sound of it, she has no enemies, no one likely to even listen closely to what she says, much less see her as a threat."
"So far," Miranda said soberly. "But what happens if she says the wrong thing to the wrong person? We're all agreed the killer is one of the supposedly good citizens of Gladstone, and I doubt he has horns or a tail to give away the evil in his soul."
"True."
Miranda glanced at Liz's shop. "I'd like to warn her, but what do I say? Stay away from the tea leaves for the duration?"
"I doubt she'd obey, not with all this going on. It's human nature to try and solve puzzles."
"Yeah, I guess. Anyway, did she tell you anything we didn't already know?"
Bishop had promised himself that he would match Miranda's aloof professionalism, and he intended to keep that promise. At least for the moment. "She said the killer took Steve Penman to distract us from something he didn't want us to notice about one of the other victims, and because he was afraid of something Steve knew."
"Do you think she could be right?"
"Maybe."
"If she is, do you think we've noticed whatever it is he doesn't want us to see?"
"If we have," Bishop said, "it isn't ringing any bells off their hooks, is it? It could be something about the Ramsay boy's bones, but Sharon hasn't been able to tell us anything definitive yet. It could be the fact that Lynet Grainger tempted him, or that she was a mistake all the way across the board—I just don't know. Not yet."
Miranda gazed at Liz's shop again, this time frowning. "Something Steve Penman knew. It's an avenue to explore, I guess. Though finding out what someone might have known about an unknown subject when he isn't here to even tell us the right questions to ask ..."
"Yeah, it isn't much of a lead. I saw the dogs out earlier—any luck there?"
"No, same as last night. They track him around the side of the drugstore and to the alley behind—then nothing. Perfect place to have a car waiting, and the angle would have made it all but impossible for anyone to have seen what happened once he was lured—we assume—back there."
"I guess Tony told you neither of us could pick up anything from the area."
Miranda nodded. "And Sharon went by there about an hour ago, but said she didn't get so much as a whisper of anything new."
"Did you try?" Bishop asked bluntly.
"No."
"Miranda—"
"In case you've forgotten, my abilities don't work that way, Bishop. I pick up knowledge if I touch someone I can read—which works out to no more than about forty percent of the people around me. I pick up knowledge if I just happen to catch a glimpse into the future—an occurrence that is extremely rare these days and over which I have absolutely no control. And I pick up knowledge in a very limited and defensive way through my version of your spider-sense—which means that sometimes my sight and hearing are a little better than the average and I can feel it if someone is trying to sneak up on me, if I'm being watched or potentially threatened." She paused, then added dryly, "For instance, I can tell you that most of the people in town today are watching us right now. But you already knew that, so it's fairly useless information."
Bishop did know and it was useless, but he was mildly curious about the reason for the attention. Because he was a stranger and an FBI agent? Or because he was talking to Miranda?
"So the bottom line," she said, "is that it wouldn't do any good if I tried to use my psychic abilities to pick up knowledge from the area where Steve Penman disappeared. I wish I could pick up something, believe me. I don't enjoy just waiting around to find another dead teenager."
Bishop wanted to say that they could still find Penman alive, but the words would ring hollow. They had no evidence pointing to who had abducted Penman or where he was being held. Unless their luck changed in a major way, that boy was, as Liz Hallowell had said, lost.
"Sheriff!"
Bishop saw Miranda wince, then brace herself before she turned and greeted the man striding toward them.
"Hello, Justin. Selena."
Bishop had almost missed the woman moving literally in her husband's shadow.
Miranda said, "Have you met Agent Bishop?"
"We were introduced this morning," Justin Marsh said impatiently. "Sheriff, I would like to address the town council."
"The next council meeting is in two weeks, I believe," Miranda said. "You know the protocol, Justin."
In a tone of simmering resentment, he said, "Knowing the protocol doesn't guarantee me an opportunity to speak, Sheriff, as you well know. The last council meeting was moved up a day without notice—to keep me silent."
Unmoved, she said, "I believe the date was changed due to an illness in a councilman's family, Justin. I wouldn't take it so personally if I were you."
"I was denied my constitutional right to speak my mind, Sheriff, and I do take that personally."
"Nobody's trying to silence you."
"I beg to differ. And I've tried three times since yesterday to reach the mayor, to no avail."
"It's a busy time," she said dryly.
"So busy that John MacBride won't even speak to someone who helped put him in office?"
"We have this murder investigation going on, Justin." There was nothing at all sarcastic in her voice.
"Which is just what I want to discuss with the mayor."
Miranda didn't seem to find anything peculiar about the conversation, which told Bishop a great deal about Justin Marsh. Curious to observe the man's reaction, Bishop butted in. "If you have any information that could aid the investigation, Mr. Marsh—"
"Information?" He drew himself up stiffly, eyes blazing. "What I know is what any decent citizen of this town knows, Agent Bishop. The wicked have been silenced!"
Bishop saw Miranda's face harden, and wasn't surprised when she spoke in a quiet tone that could have cut steel.
"Lynet Grainger was fifteen, Justin. Kerry Ingram was fourteen. Now just how much wickedness do you suppose they'd had time to learn?"
"Youth cannot excuse iniquity," he said fiercely, holding his Bible aloft in emphasis. Or possibly because he knew what a dramatic gesture it was. "And the sins of the parents will be visited upon them."
"Which is it?" Bishop asked with spurious interest. "Were they wicked themselves, or paying for the sins of their parents?"
Justin characteristically ignored the direct questions. "The righteous are duty bound to punish the world for their evil and the wicked for their iniquity."
"If you're paraphrasing Isaiah," Bishop said, "I believe it's supposed to be God doing the punishing."
Justin glared at him. "The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a tiger!"
"Bold as a lion," Bishop corrected politely. "Proverbs, chapter twenty-eight, verse one."
"They have sown the wind," Justin snapped, "and they shall reap the whirlwind!"
"Hosea," Bishop said. "Chapter eight, verse seven."
Whether because he was unwilling to match wits with one who might just possibly know the Bible better than he did or simply because he knew he was standing on shaky ground generally, Justin looked away from Bishop with splendid indifference and addressed Miranda in freezing tones.
"I trust the next council meeting will not be rescheduled without due notice, Sheriff."
"Since I don't schedule them," she returned politely, "I really couldn't say, Justin. Good afternoon. Bye, Selena."
Justin gritted his teeth and reddened under his tan, then turned on his heel and stalked away. Selena sidestepped to avoid being run over, offered Miranda and Bishop a timid smile and an unintelligible murmur, and followed her husband.
"I don't suppose we could pin it on him?" Bishop said.
Miranda smiled. "I'd love to. Unfortunately, he wasn't even in the state when Kerry disappeared, and he was in church all evening the night Lynet vanished."
"Besides which," Bishop said, "he's the type who'll always be urging others to take action while doing absolutely nothing himself."
"That too."
"Does his wife ever say anything? I mean, other than that wordless murmur?"
"Seldom in public, as far as I can tell." Miranda shrugged. "It wouldn't be the life I'd choose, but Selena seems content enough. Then again, I'm told she's been with Justin since they were fifteen years old, so maybe it's just that she doesn't know any other way to live."
Bishop thought that was depressing in and of itself, but it also made him think of something else. "Are there any other religious fanatics in town?"
"Who might have decided to punish the wicked themselves?"
"It's possible, Miranda."
She thought about it for a few moments. "I don't believe so, though I'm probably not the best person to ask. It's always been my impression that most of the people around here aside from Justin take their religion a lot more casually—at least to the extent of leaving it up to God to punish the evil in the world." There was no mockery in her tone, just matter-of-fact tolerance of other people's beliefs.
"We haven't seen any signs of religious mania connected with the crimes," Bishop mused. "Still, if Justin Marsh perceived those kids as wicked, someone else might have as well."
"I would say only a lunatic could have, but since it's obvious this bastard is mad as a hatter, I suppose it goes without saying." Miranda sighed. "One more possibility to throw into the hopper, I guess." The weak winter sun made a sudden appearance in the overcast sky, and she winced and pulled a pair of sunglasses from her jacket pocket.
Bishop hesitated and then, as neutrally as he could, said, "Before we got here, you had a vision of where Lynet Grainger would be found."
Miranda put the sunglasses on and straightened away from the side of the Jeep, obviously preparing to get in and leave. "If you're implying I could see something useful about Steve Penman, I told you I can't control it."
"I know that. But you aren't open to it either."
She laughed under her breath, but without amusement. "Some things have certainly changed in eight years. From jeering skeptic to dedicated believer is quite a journey for any man to make, even in a lifetime."
"I never jeered."
"About precognition you did. Nobody could see into the future, that's what you said. It was impossible to see what hadn't happened yet, simply impossible. You were absolutely convinced. Until—"
"Until I had a vision," he said steadily. "Your vision. "
"Wasn't quite what you expected, was it, Bishop?" Behind the sunglasses, her eyes were invisible, unreadable. "You thought it put you in control, made you master of your fate and the fate of others. You thought seeing the future had given you all the answers."
"And I was wrong. Is that what you want me to say one more time? I was wrong, Miranda." He was conscious of people moving past them and wondered what they made of the obviously intense, low-voiced conversation. If he was lucky, they thought their sheriff was at odds professionally with the FBI agent.
If he was lucky.
"And no matter what you think, I don't envy you that ability." The certainty in his voice sounded convincing because he was telling her the literal truth.
"Then don't ask me to open myself up to it. If I could help that boy, I would, but I can't. Not that way."
"How do you know? Goddammit, you're so closed, nothing can get in. Even your intuition is blocked, smothered—"
"We've been through this, Bishop. However I choose to shield is my business, not yours. I understand my abilities a hell of a lot better than you do, and I don't appreciate this attempt at emotional blackmail—"
"That is not what I'm trying to do. I know you honestly believe you can't control the visions, but I also know you can't think clearly about them, not now. Miranda—"
"You always know what's best, don't you? Always have to make everybody else's decisions for them. No one else is even capable of rational thought, are they?"
He drew a deep breath, trying to hold on to his patience even though he knew she was deliberately goading him, that it was another of her defense mechanisms, at least where he was concerned. "You're not listening to me. All I'm saying is that you're choosing to shut down your abilities at the worst possible time. You can shield yourself without shutting down, without closing yourself off like this."
"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"This is 
not
 about me."
"Isn't it?" She opened the Jeep door, then offered him a mocking smile. "Isn't it, Bishop?"
He stood there and watched her drive away, and didn't give a damn that at least two passersby quite definitely heard him angrily mutter, "Shit."