"Given that she now believes this killer may have started his nasty little habits last year by murdering her father, do you really think she'd be willing to be pulled out?"
"No. Dammit."
"And she's already there and involved, connected to what's happening. If she's meant to be a part of it—"
"I'll make the situation immeasurably worse by pulling her out of there. By pulling any of them out of there. Yeah, I know. I know."
"Nell is aware of what this… thing… could be, right? Knows to be on her guard?"
"For all the good it'll do her, yes. But it's going to be difficult if not impossible for her to protect herself in any meaningful sense when she can't be sure why this bastard is paying this kind of attention to her."
Tony thought about it, then said, "Can anybody else shield her? Psychically?"
Bishop shook his head. "Remember what happens with Miranda when she shields her own mind? When I do? All the extra senses get muffled, even cut off, and we end up psychically blind. We can protect ourselves, or we can use our abilities to reach out and probe— but not both at the same time. Nell needs the advan-tage of her psychic abilities to get to the bottom of what's happening in Silence, so she can't afford to mute them in any way. She can try to focus and concentrate on specific places at specific times, but that's the only control she has."
"That isn't much protection," Tony noted.
"That isn't any protection."
After a moment, Tony said, "She chose to do this, boss. You didn't order her to. You never order any of us to."
"Do you think that matters, Tony?" Bishop's voice was very quiet.
He started to reply, but in the end Tony realized there was nothing he could say. Nothing that would help.
Nothing at all.
The house where Randal Patterson had lived was somewhat large for a single person, though certainly not a mansion. And given his apparent personal habits, Nell wasn't surprised to find it also rather isolated from the other houses around it. There was nothing so defined as a neighborhood in this rural area, merely houses scattered along country roads; the Patterson house sat squarely in the middle of at least eighty acres and back from the road so that it wasn't visible to passersby.
"I guess privacy was an issue," Max said wryly as they left their horses to the rear of the Mediterranean-style house and approached across a neatly manicured backyard.
"I guess. Nobody to hear the screams coming from the basement. Are you sure nobody lives here? The place is awfully spiffy."
"Randal contracted the yard work by the season, and he'd already paid for this year." Max shrugged when Nell looked at him inquiringly. "Same crew does the yard work at the ranch, and they told me. As for the house, it's still pretty much as it was when Randal died, since he owned it outright. The only relative is a cousin living out on the West Coast, and word has it he's interested only in whatever money is left when the estate is settled."
Nell paused on the very nice flagstone veranda to say wryly, "What's really amazing about all this is that someone actually found a few secrets to get angry about. For the most part, secrets don't seem to stay secret very long in Silence."
"What can I say? Wade Keever was Randal's lawyer."
"Of course he was." Nell produced her small tool case and got to work on the door.
Watching her, Max said, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Why not? If the breaking and entering bugs you, wait out here."
"That isn't what I mean. It didn't seem to bother you out at the bayou, but Randal died in this house, and only a couple of months ago. Plus, there are all the painful little games he apparently played in the basement. If you tap into that—"
"I'm not an empath, Max. I don't feel other people's pain—or the leftover impressions of it. For me, having a vision is like watching scenes from a movie. I'm just an observer."
"You said you sensed what your father was feeling when you saw him."
"Sensed, yes. But it's a knowledge—awareness and understanding without sharing the feelings."
That relieved Max, but not entirely. "Still, the visions take a lot out of you."
"It takes concentration and focus, just like any other physical or mental effort."
A slight edge to her voice made Max decide to change the subject. "When it comes to scene-of-the-crime access, this is as far as I can take you—at least via horseback and unobserved. Peter Lynch's wife still lives in the house where he died, and George Caldwell had an apartment in town; we couldn't get near either place without being observed or falling over a cop."
"Well, if the sheriff does ask for my help, I'll suggest we start with those two places."
Max waited until she unlocked the door and straightened, then said, "You say if but you mean when, don't you? You know he'll come to you for help."
"I didn't know it when I got here."
"Which is at least part of the reason why you asked me for help. Yeah, I figured that out. And now that you know Ethan will show up?"
Nell kept her gaze on him as she pushed open the door. "He can get me access to the other crime scenes. He may even share details of the investigation, details that could help me find the killer sooner."
Her measured words more or less took the teeth out of any argument he might have made against the idea, and Max was sure it had been deliberate. Just as deliberate as it was when she added a quiet statement.
"Whatever your differences with Ethan Cole, the fact remains that he is the sheriff here, and he can help me do the job I came to do."
"You mean if he isn't the killer."
"Changed your mind about that?"
Max hesitated. "I don't believe—can't believe—he's killed four men. Five if we're counting your father. But that doesn't mean he isn't a dangerous man, Nell."
"I'll try to remember that." She walked into Randal Patterson's house.
Max followed, all too aware that he had no right to question her or protest any action she intended to take, whether it be using her psychic abilities to hunt a murderer or walk down Main Street on the arm of Ethan Cole. Max had his own ideas as to why she was so determinedly aloof, convinced it was only partly due to a desire to keep him at a distance so that whatever was between them wouldn't interfere with her job here.
The problem was, she had made it very clear she was not yet ready to discuss the past, and until she was, there was little Max could do to close that distance, let alone hope to have any influence at all over any of her decisions. If he pushed too often or too hard, she was very capable of, at the very least, calling her boss or her invisible partner and having Max put on ice somewhere while she went on working.
The girl twelve years ago couldn't have done that, but this woman certainly could. And would.
When they stood in the foyer of what was obviously a professionally decorated house, Nell said, "I want to check the master bedroom and bath first, since that's where he died. Not that I really expect to get anything of value."
"Why not?" Max asked as they walked down the hallway of the bedroom wing of the house.
"Because he was electrocuted. Any unusual surge of electricity in an area tends to disrupt whatever other energy signatures there might have been."
"Makes sense, I guess." He stood just inside the door-way and watched her move around the very elegant but peculiarly impersonal bedroom. Despite her dismissal of the likelihood she'd tap into anything in this room, he was alert to the slightest change in her face and spoke up immediately when a faint frown came and went. "What?"
To herself more than to him, Nell said, "That weird feeling again. Like everything's at a distance."
"Again? It isn't because of the electricity?"
She looked at him and frowned once more as she headed for the doorway of the master bath. "Not unless there was some kind of electricity out at the bayou where Ferrier drowned. I felt it there too."
Max didn't have to completely understand her abilities to be wary of anything Nell considered out of the ordinary, and he came farther into the room so he could watch her while she went into the bathroom. "Then what could be causing it?"
"I don't know." Nell looked at the neat vanity, the designer towels hung just so, and candles and several decorative jars and bottles placed around the sunken tub. She picked up one jar, studying the sea-salt crystals within for a moment, then put it down and went to open the linen cabinet. "Patterson wasn't married, right?" she asked after a moment.
From the doorway, Max replied, "Right. He had been, once, years ago, but the divorce was final back when I was in college, and she moved out of town right after. Why?"
"Did he date? Openly, I mean."
"His public socializing was limited to church events," Max said. "One of the reasons why his little game room in the basement was such a shock to people."
Nell reached into the linen cabinet and withdrew a half-empty bottle of lavender bath salts. "I don't suppose you noticed if he ever smelled like lavender?"
Lifting one eyebrow, Max answered, "Sorry, no."
If she was amused by the response, Nell didn't let it show. Her voice was grave when she said, "It isn't what you'd call a traditional fragrance for a man."
"I wouldn't have thought so. But given what was found in the basement, it seems obvious he had women in the house from time to time."
Still frowning slightly, Nell returned the bath salts to the cabinet and shut it. "Yeah. It is obvious, isn't it?"
Max backed into the bedroom as she came out to join him, saying, "But nobody knows who they were, is that what's bothering you?"
"He was killed back in January, Max. And this is a small town. If Randal Patterson had a string of willing partners over the years, surely at least one of them would have been identified by now."
"I don't know, Nell. Even in these supposedly modern times, there are some things people would do their best to keep private, and I'd think sadomasochistic games would rank high on the list. Maybe the women are too embarrassed or too scared of the consequences to come forward."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Or maybe there was only one woman, Randal's regular Saturday night date for years. Relationships have lasted longer with less than a common sexual need binding two people together. And a single partner would sure as hell be less likely to be noticed and a lot harder to find."
Nell nodded. "It makes sense."
Max heard himself add, "I mean, Jesus, how many women in Silence could there be who're into that sort of thing?"
"You tell me."
He shook his head, wishing he could convince himself she was implying a purely personal interest. "I have no idea, not being into it myself. But I'd be very surprised if there were many."
"So would I. But we're making an assumption, you know."
"What assumption?"
"That his playmate was a woman."
After a moment Max said, "I guess it is an assumption."
"Yeah; which way is the basement?"
"Since I've never been here before, I don't have a clue." He knew he sounded disgruntled and made a mental note to try harder to rein in his emotions. Or at least stop making them so damned obvious.
Nell sent him a glance he couldn't interpret to save his life, then led the way from the bedroom, saying, "There's usually a stairway somewhere near the kitchen, I think."
She found it very easily, in a small hallway off the laundry room, and indicated with a silent gesture the keyed dead bolt that promised whatever lay beyond the door would remain private even within a private house.
"Is it locked?"
"Shouldn't be, since the police have been here." It wasn't, and Nell didn't hesitate to open the door, flip the light switch, and head down the stairs.
This was not something Max had looked forward to, for a variety of reasons but mostly because of the sexual nature of what he knew they'd find in the basement. He was not a man who was easily embarrassed, nor was he in any sense a prude, but he was far too conscious of Nell and what they had once had together to be able to stand beside her and view with impersonal detachment the carnal playroom of another man.
Especially when it reeked of sex.
That was the first thing he noticed, the strong yet faintly musty odors of sweat and other secretions mixed with the sharp smells of leather and rubber. Even before they reached the bottom of the stairs, he was trying to brace himself to face what they would find.
But bracing himself didn't help at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Jesus Christ." His own voice sounded strange to Max, and he wasn't surprised.
Harsh fluorescent lights made it as bright as day despite the absence of windows, and everything was clearly visible. The basement was unfinished, the floor concrete and the walls unpainted cinder blocks, with heating ducts and plumbing pipes and wiring exposed overhead.
The hot-water heater and furnace as well as what looked like a chest-type Deepfreeze were in the far corner, half hidden behind an incongruous Oriental screen. In the near corner, what looked like a very expensive Oriental rug provided a cushioned "room" in which sat a beautiful mahogany sleigh bed complete with luxurious bedding in rich, dark colors. There was even a nightstand with a lovely, shaded lamp atop it beside the bed.
Underneath the stairs and against one wall was an enclosed space that obviously contained a bathroom or half bath, Max couldn't tell which for sure from where they stood. In any case, it was a far less… interesting space than the remainder of the basement.
Another richly colored Oriental rug occupied the center of the huge room, its size providing plenty of space for the equipment and tools placed there.