Out of the Shadows (24 page)

*  *  *

When he saw the Ouija box atop the stack of games on the coffee table, Seth thought that Bonnie must have changed her mind about using it. But then he remembered her voice and the expression on her face when she'd talked about how dangerous it was to be even unconsciously tempted to use it, and about promising Miranda she wouldn't try it again. And he knew it wasn't Bonnie who had brought the game back into the ward. He stood there just inside the room, holding the juice he'd fetched for the two young patients. Across the room, Bonnie was reading them a story. No one had yet noticed his return. He'd been gone barely ten minutes.
What bothered Seth was a very simple question. If Bonnie hadn't brought the game, if he hadn't, and if neither of the little girls—confined to their beds—had done so ... then who had? Who would have?
He looked at the stack of games again, and this time a feathery chill brushed up his spine.
The Ouija board was now out of its box, the planchette centered on the board and ready.
Christ, it even tempted him. To put his fingers on the planchette and see if it moved, see if the dead really could speak by spelling things out on a board ...
With an effort, Seth snapped himself out of it.
He wanted to tell himself again that this was just a dream, a figment of his strained and anxious imagination. But he was standing there, wide awake, and a game that hadn't even been in the room ten minutes before had in the space of a few seconds arranged itself so as to be ready to be ... played.
And if he listened intently, concentrated really hard and closed out the sound of Bonnie's musical voice reading the story, he was almost positive he could hear that unearthly whispering.
"Seth?"
He jumped slightly and looked toward the girls to find Bonnie gazing at him questioningly. "I didn't want to interrupt," he said, surprised his voice sounded so calm. He carried the juice to the girls.
"It's a good story," Jordan confided.
"Bonnie reads it real good," Christy said.
"We're about halfway through," Bonnie told him.
He nodded, glanced at his watch, and summoned a smile. "Dad's just down the hall. I'll go check with him, see how things are going."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "We'll be here."
As he turned toward the door, Seth realized that from where she was sitting Bonnie couldn't see the coffee table. He made a slight detour and replaced the board and planchette in the box, not surprised that his hands shook a bit.
He half expected the damned thing to bite him or something.
But the game appeared perfectly innocent now, and didn't do anything supernatural like jump out of his hands as he carried it back to the storage room and placed it on the high shelf.
"I'm not going to scare Bonnie," he muttered, stacking three other games and a bucket of wooden blocks on top of the Ouija board. "She has enough to worry about without some damned stupid game haunting her."
It was enough that it was haunting him.
He gave the box a final shove and left the storage room, closing the door very firmly. And pretended to himself he didn't hear a thing as he walked away.

*  *  *

Sandy Lynch poured a cup of coffee and used it to warm her cold hands. "How come I get all the crappy duties?" she demanded of the room at large.
Carl Tierney, lounging at his desk as he waited for the sheriff to buzz him, said lazily, "Because you're the baby deputy."
"That sucks," she said roundly.
"We've all been there, kid." He smiled at her. "Besides, it wasn't such a crappy duty. I was there too."
"You got to drive. I got to sit in the back and listen to Justin Marsh go on and on and on."
At his desk nearby, Alex said absently, "He does tend to do that."
Sandy, not quite certain how to treat the recently bereaved and cautious about trying, adopted what she hoped was a perfectly brisk and professional tone. "No kidding he tends to do that. And the man has radar when it comes to gossip, I'll swear he does. I heard things about people I really didn't want to know."
"For instance?" Carl probed curiously.
"Shame on you."
"Hey, it's better than being bored. Give."
"No." But Sandy couldn't resist adding, "Just tell me how he heard, from way out where he lives, that it was the sheriff's sister told us where we could find Steve Penman's body. I mean, gossip's probably spreading like wildfire by now, but way out there? And of all the screwed-up stories he might have heard, that's the one he believed?"
"That story's as good as any other," Carl said with a shrug. "I heard it from a guy who's married to one of the nurses at the clinic, so why not?"
"Why not? I'll tell you why not. Just how would that sweet girl know anything about a murder?"
"Tarot cards, I heard. Or maybe it was an Ouija board."
Alex looked up from the files spread out on his desk, frowning slightly. There was something he needed to remember, something he needed to say. But whatever it was drifted away before he could quite grasp it.
He was so tired he could barely think, his eyes were scratchy from staring at spiky handwriting, and his throat had nearly closed up from the dust.
Of course from the dust.
He'd barely slept in the last forty-eight hours, had downed enough coffee to put an entire platoon on a caffeine jag, and judging by the way his stomach was gnawing at itself and grumbling loudly he probably should have eaten something along the way.
Liz would have said he was just asking for trouble, letting himself get run-down like this—
No. He wasn't going to think about Liz. He wasn't ready to think about Liz. Close that door, just close it.
He forced himself to tune back in to the conversation between the veteran and the baby deputy.
"And what's the point of learning how to shoot if I'm never going to draw my gun?" Sandy was saying aggrievedly. "I push papers, I answer phones, I hold lights for FBI doctors, I listen to religious fanatics gossip about their neighbors, I even make the damned coffee. What kind of cop am I?"
"One just learning about things," Carl replied soothingly but with amusement. "Give it time. Even the sheriff had to do the same sort of stuff when she first signed on."
"She did?"
"Sure, she did. All of us did. Of course, I don't recall her puking her guts out the first time she saw a body."
"Bones," Sandy reminded him coldly. "Horrible bones with bits of—of skin and hair still sticking to them. That's what I saw, Carl Tierney. Not a body. Bones. And you're one to talk; everybody knows you got sick too."
"That's slander."
"Not if it's true."
"It isn't. Vile gossip."
Alex tuned out the conversation again, wondering vaguely what had interested him the first time. He turned his attention back to the old file before him, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He was dimly aware of people talking, moving through the room, phones ringing, but none of it touched him.
Could he survive this?
Would he?

*  *  *

"This is disgraceful!" Justin Marsh announced.
"It's just an interview, Justin," Miranda told him mildly. "A routine interview."
"Routine? Just an interview? You sent a 
patrol car
 to get me, Sheriff! You had armed ruffians drag me from my own home before my stricken family!"
Miranda thought that both Sandy Lynch and Carl Tierney would have been appalled by that description of themselves, and that Selena probably had been more bewildered than stricken, but all she said was, "They didn't drag you, Justin. They asked you politely to come back here with them so we could discuss a few things. That's all. Just discuss."
"I'll have something to say about this to my attorney!"
"Go ahead and call him," Miranda invited, knowing very well that Bill Dennison would tell Justin to stop being such a fool and answer the questions.
Justin knew it too, judging by the glare he fixed on Miranda. "I'll sue you and the Sheriff's Department," he said, sounding more sulky than anything else. "Questioning me like a common criminal! And with an FBI agent standing over me in a threatening manner!"
Since Bishop was across the room leaning rather negligently against the filing cabinet, that was such an obvious exaggeration that Miranda could only admire it for a moment in silence. She propped an elbow on her desk and rubbed the back of her neck wearily.
Maybe if I drew my gun and pointed it at him?
 Bishop suggested telepathically.
Don't tempt me
, she returned without looking at him. "Justin, the past couple of weeks have been a real bear, and this week isn't shaping up to be a whole lot better. I've got at least four teenagers dead, along with a lady I happened to like an awful lot, and I intend to get to the bottom of things."
"There's evil here, I've warned you—"
"So what I'd like you to explain to me is how your Bible ended up on Liz Hallowell's nightstand."
Justin paled, then flushed a vivid red. "Beside her bed? Sheriff, are you implying that my relationship with Elizabeth was in some way illicit?"
Miranda resisted an impulse to sigh. "I just want to know how she ended up with your Bible, Justin."
"I have no idea," he said stiffly.
"Well, when did you miss it?"
"I didn't."
Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him.
Flushing again, Justin said, "I've been preoccupied with the storm, Sheriff, like everyone else. We lost power in the first few hours, and I was kept busy tending to the fire, bringing in firewood and such. I didn't think about the Bible until you showed it to me."
"When do you last remember having it?"
He frowned at her, still indignant but reluctantly interested. "I suppose ... it was at Elizabeth's coffeeshop. Just before the storm began. I must have left it there."
"Saturday night?"
"Yes."
"How long were you there?"
"Not long. Half an hour, maybe a little longer. It must have been about quarter after nine or so when I left."
"And after that?"
"I went home, of course. The snow had started."
"What time was it when you got home?"
"Nine-thirty, or a little after. I didn't dawdle. I knew Selena would be anxious."
It went without saying that Selena would back up what Justin said, and it was about what they had expected to hear. Miranda pushed a legal pad and a pencil across her desk to him. "If you wouldn't mind, Justin, try to remember everyone you saw or spoke to at the coffeeshop that night."
He picked up the pencil, but the frown remained. "You don't suspect me of killing Elizabeth?"
"Did you?" Miranda asked politely.
"Of course not!"
"Then why would we suspect you?"
"You brought me here to—"
"I brought you here to ask you about the Bible, Justin, that's all. We have to check out all the details, you know. Like the Bible. That was an anomaly, something out of place, and we have to try to explain how it ended up where it did. A list of everyone who had access to it and might have picked it up will undoubtedly be helpful to the investigation." Gravely, she added, "Thank you."
He stared at her for a moment, then muttered, "Of course, of course. Glad to help." He bent over the legal pad.
You ought to go into politics.
I'm in politics. 
She shot Bishop a rueful glance.
Oh, yeah—you are, aren't you?
 He stirred and said aloud, "Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Marsh?"
"I don't see how I can stop you," Justin said, far from graciously.
Miranda thought he probably remembered how easily Bishop had bested him in the contest of Biblical quotations, and his wounded vanity amused her.
If Bishop was also amused, he didn't let it show; he was expressionless and kept his voice matter-of-fact. "You've been warning us about the evil in Gladstone for some time now. Is this just a general feeling of yours, or can you point to something specific?"
"How specific do I have to be?" Justin snapped. "People are dying."
"We know that, Justin." Miranda was patient. "And unless you have something useful to add as to who might be killing these people or why, reminding us continually that it's evil isn't entirely helpful. We know it's evil. We'd like to stop it. If you have any suggestions as to how we can do that, we'd appreciate hearing them."
His eyes on the pad as he quickly and neatly printed a list of names, Justin said calmly, "Then you might want to find out who ended up with Adam Ramsay's car."

To get an answer from Justin unaccompanied by any religious or bombastic trimmings was so unexpected it took Miranda several seconds to respond. "There was no car registered to Adam Ramsay."
"That doesn't mean he didn't have one." Justin sent her a wry look "Seventeen-year-old boys might not be able to legally own cars, but surely you don't expect that to stop them. I imagine his father probably registered the car in his name."
"Adam's mother specifically said he didn't have a car. That's why we never looked for one."
"Julie Ramsay doesn't have the sense to raise a pup, much less a boy. There was a lot she didn't know about him."
"How do you know about the car?"
"Cars were my business, remember? I notice them. I remember them. His was a green '89 Mustang."
Miranda looked at Bishop, who said, "Why do you believe the car is important?"
"Because it's never turned up, I suppose. And because whenever I saw the boy around that car, I always thought there was something sly about him, something sneaky. I raised two of my own, and I can tell you that boy was up to something."
"Anything else? Anything definitive, I mean?"
Justin pushed the pad across the desk to Miranda. "If there was anything definitive, I expect you would have spotted it by now."
Miranda honestly didn't know if that was a dig at her, the investigation, Bishop, the FBI—or merely Justin's way of slamming all of them.
Justin got to his feet. "I assume I can go now?"
Miranda pressed the buzzer on her intercom and stood up. "There are a few things we need to check out. I'm going to ask you to wait in one of our interview rooms, Justin."
He scowled. "You mean a cell."
"No, I mean one of our interview rooms." She nodded to Carl, who'd opened her office door and stood waiting. "Carl will get you some coffee and whatever else you need to make yourself comfortable, and I'll talk to you again later."
Justin protested bitterly but had little choice except to accompany the burly deputy.
When they were gone, Bishop said, "What surprises me most is that he raised two sons."
"Neither of whom chose to stay and make a home in Gladstone," Miranda commented dryly.
"Now, that doesn't surprise me." Bishop smiled faintly. "You may have to move him to a cell eventually."
"And I can only hold him for twenty-four hours without charging him. After that, he's out of here. And our killer will know for certain we haven't taken the bait."
"Before that happens, we'll make sure Bonnie is protected. This is hardly the most interesting place for a teenage girl, but—"
"But," Miranda finished, "she's better safe and bored. I won't take the chance of leaving her out in the open much longer. Gossip's probably even more garbled, and Liz's murder will make her involvement look more likely than not, but..."
She'll be all right.
Yes. Yes, of course she will.
But on some level far deeper than thought, Miranda was afraid for Bonnie. Because of this flesh-and-blood killer walking among them and because of a spirit so desperate to live that it had nearly destroyed the first vulnerable psychic to cross its path.
Their killer was, as Bishop had said, the more immediate and direct threat, and Miranda was second-guessing herself every moment for not immediately having thrown a cordon of protection around her sister even if it 
did
 draw too much attention. She knew she wouldn't breathe easier until Bonnie was here under her eye, as safe as she could make her.
Except... Had Bishop realized, Miranda wondered, how it was tearing at her not to reach out with her shields and wrap Bonnie in psychic protection? It wouldn't protect her from a living killer, but it would protect her from a determined spirit intent on finding itself a living vessel in which to exist again.
It was a choice Miranda had made alone without talking to Bishop, but she knew he would have agreed, however reluctantly. She could not shore up her shields and extend them to protect Bonnie without psychically blinding herself—and now Bishop. And that was a possible edge they simply could not abandon if they were to prevent more murders.
Bonnie's own shields would have to be good enough to protect her, at least for the time being.
As they walked together to the conference room, Bishop said thoughtfully, "Interesting about the car, if it's true. It shouldn't take long to find out if Adam Ramsay's father did register one for him."
"I would say it's odd that nobody else mentioned a car, but we certainly didn't bring it up. Half the town could have noticed it at one time or another, and nobody said anything simply because we didn't ask the right question." Miranda shook her head. "His mother said there was no car, there wasn't one registered to him—so we never gave it another thought. Never asked anyone if they'd seen him driving or even knew that he owned a car."
"No reason you should have."
"Maybe, but—" Miranda broke off as the mayor appeared suddenly from the hallway leading to the front of the building. "John, what are you doing here?"
MacBride sighed heavily. "What do you think? Justin called me the minute your people showed up at his house."
Miranda looked at Bishop. "No wonder he wasn't eager to call his lawyer. He'd already brought in the big guns."
"You have to admire his consistency," Bishop said.
"Has he been arrested?" MacBride demanded. "Justin?"
"He's being held here while we check out a few things, that's all," Miranda replied calmly. "Certain evidence at the most recent murder scene points to him."
"Evidence? What evidence?"
"John, you know I can't discuss that with you. Look, if you want to talk to Justin, go ahead."
"Of course I don't want to talk to him," MacBride said hastily. "I wouldn't even have come if I hadn't needed to go to the office anyway. But... Liz gone ... Jesus, I couldn't believe it. Surely you don't think Justin could have—"
"I think I have to investigate every possibility, John. That's what they pay me for." Her tone was perfectly polite, but she had made no effort to invite him to her office or to join them in the conference room. "And I'm glad you're here, it'll save me a phone call." She looked at the legal pad containing Justin's list. "You were at Liz's coffee shop Saturday night, weren't you?"
"For a few minutes, yeah."
"Did you happen to see Justin's Bible?"
Startled, MacBride said, "His Bible? Well, since it's always with him, I imagine I did. But if you're asking me if I remember actually seeing it... then I can't say that I do."
Bishop sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that'll be everybody's response?"
"Because nothing's been easy so far," Miranda told him.
"I wouldn't mind a little easy about now."
"Neither would I, but we aren't likely to get it."
"No, I suppose not."
MacBride glanced from one of them to the other, his mouth twisting, but his voice was easy when he said, "Can we talk for a minute, Randy? In private, if Agent Bishop doesn't mind."
"I'll be in the conference room," Bishop said agreeably. He took the legal pad out of Miranda's hands and went on without waiting for a response.
"What is it, John?"
"I just wanted to know how you were," he said with a touch of awkwardness. "We've barely talked in the last week, and—"
"I'm fine. Tired, but otherwise okay, all things considered." She smiled faintly. "Thanks for asking."
"You know I care about you, Randy."
Miranda was aware that Bishop was unabashedly eavesdropping, but it didn't disturb her because her response would have been the same even if the conversation had been a complete mystery to him. Quietly, she said, "I've always appreciated your friendship, John."
"Friendship."
"There was never anything more, you know that."
"There might have been, if not for—"
She shook her head. "It has nothing to do with anyone else, not really. We've known each other for years, John. Don't you think something would have happened long ago if it had been meant to?"
Unhappily, he said, "You're very sure, aren't you, Randy?"
"Very sure. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Yeah, so am I." He settled his shoulders and tried a laugh that didn't quite come off. "I'd better get on to the office and let you get back to work."
"See you later, John."
Miranda stood there for a moment after he'd gone, then went into the conference room. Tony was on the phone, Bishop at his accustomed place on one end of the table as he studied the bulletin board.
It could have been an entirely silent conversation, but instead Miranda went to Bishop and murmured, "That was not exactly fair to John."
"Fair, hell." He smiled. "I told you I wouldn't let you out of my sight, and I meant it."
She eyed him. "Oh, that was why you eavesdropped?"
"Certainly."
"You'd better try it again in a more convincing tone."
Bishop chuckled. "Okay, so I had other reasons."
"Jealousy. I never would have expected it of you."
"Oh, I don't imagine it'll be a problem," he said calmly. "Once you fully commit yourself to me, that is, and tell me I don't have to worry about it anymore."
Miranda was trying to decide how to reply when Tony hung up the phone and said briskly, "Found it. There's a green '89 Mustang registered to Sam Ramsay—Adam Ramsay's uncle. Lives here in the state but not close by, and probably means to come in for the funeral when there is one."
"And pick up his car then," Bishop said. "Yeah, or arrange to sell it, something like that." 
"The question is," Miranda said, "where the hell is that car now?"