Out of the Shadows (4 page)

It took less than two hours to find the well.
It took two more to bring up the hideously battered body of Lynet Grainger.
They had rigged several battery-powered lights to illuminate the clearing around the well, and that made it possible for Dr. Edwards to perform a preliminary exam at the scene. While she was doing that, the area was cordoned off and meticulously searched.
"Not that we'll find anything useful," Alex said to Miranda. "It rained again last night, and I'm betting she was dropped in there either before or during the rain. Nice way to wash away all the evidence. Doesn't miss a trick, our guy."
"You think it's the same killer?"
"I think you noticed the same thing I did."
"Yeah."
"Well then?"
She nodded slowly. "I think we have only one killer here. But... there's something different about this victim."
"What?"
"I don't know."
Alex waited a beat. "She's fully clothed, is that it? The other two were naked, or near enough."
"No ... not that. Something else." She met his gaze and grimaced slightly. "Nothing I can explain, obviously. A hunch, I suppose."
"Your hunches are generally pretty sound."
"They haven't helped us much on this case." Miranda rubbed the back of her neck in a characteristic gesture of weariness.
Alex checked his watch. "Nearly ten. You've been out here more than eight hours, Randy. No supper, no lunch—and I'll bet you hardly slept last night."
Her gaze shifted to the other side of the cordoned-off area where Bishop stood talking to Agent Harte, but all she said was, "I'll sleep tonight. Too tired not to."
"Is Mrs. Task staying with Bonnie?"
"Till I get home, yeah. As usual. I don't know what I'd do without her."
"It goes both ways," Alex said. "She would have been in bad shape if you and Bonnie hadn't come here eight years ago. Widowed and left up to her ears in debt by that louse she was married to, no other family, no skills, no friends. Taking care of the two of you gave her a new lease on life."
"If that's the case, she's more than repaid me. I just hate keeping her up all hours waiting for me."
"She doesn't mind. It's not like you make a habit of it—I mean, before the last couple of months."
That was true enough, Miranda admitted silently. Being the sheriff of a small and generally peaceful town was a nine-to-five job for the most part. There were occasional town council meetings and other evening commitments, but she was usually able to spend her nights home with Bonnie.
Even when she'd been a deputy serving under the last sheriff, the hours had been reasonable and the work mostly pleasant and undemanding.
But that was before a killer began stalking Gladstone.
Before the visions had returned.
Before Bishop came back into her life.
She looked at the doctor to avoid the temptation of watching Bishop, and saw Edwards make a subtle gesture toward him. By the time the doctor reached her and Alex, Bishop and Agent Harte had also joined them.
"I have a preliminary report, Sheriff," Edwards said briskly. "I'll know more later, of course, but..."
"Go ahead, Doctor."
"Death occurred approximately twelve to twenty-four hours ago. She's in complete rigor, and judging by the position in which we found the body, she was probably dropped into the well no more than two or three hours after death but certainly well before rigor commenced. In these colder temperatures, of course, rigor would have been retarded for some time."
"Yes," Miranda said. "Go on."
"There are no external signs of rape or other sexual abuse. No signs she was tied up or otherwise bound or physically restrained. No defensive injuries. Nothing under the fingernails. She's been severely beaten by a blunt object, something wooden, possibly a baseball bat. The cause of death, I believe, will prove to be internal injuries caused by the beating. The body's been completely exsanguinated, and by someone who knew what they were doing."
Alex said, "There are people who specialize in draining blood? If anybody mentions vampires, I'll—"
Edwards shook her head, but showed no mockery. "Morticians, doctors, even a vet would know. But it's not just a matter of knowledge. This wasn't done out in a field somewhere. He had to have the right place and the right equipment."
"Running water," Miranda said. "Tubing, drains. Containers for the blood, if he kept it."
"Exactly." Edwards nodded. "He might have read up on the procedures, at least enough to have done a professional job, but we can be sure he had to have enough uninterrupted time and privacy to get the job done."
Miranda gazed steadily at the forensic expert. "Okay. And you're sure she didn't fight him? No defensive injuries, she wasn't restrained, nothing under her fingernails—she just let somebody beat her to death without a struggle?"
"I doubt she knew what was happening. A tox screen will tell us for certain, but I believe she was drugged, possibly to the point of coma, before she was killed."
"Bingo," Alex said quietly, looking at Miranda. "That's what's different."
"We haven't seen the detailed reports of the two other cases yet," Bishop reminded them.
Miranda answered the implicit question. "We don't know about Adam Ramsay, but the tox screen on Kerry Ingram came back negative, and all indications are that she was awake and aware through most of her ordeal. In fact, our medical examiner believes she was repeatedly strangled to the point of unconsciousness and then allowed to revive. A blow to the head finally killed her."
Agent Harte muttered, "I'll interpret that data to mean this guy is a real sicko."
"Amen," Alex agreed.
Edwards said, "I'll be able to test the remains of the Ramsay boy. We should know fairly quickly if he was drugged. And I'll know more about this one after the post."
Miranda said, "You didn't mention her eyes, Doctor."
"Removed, as you obviously noticed. And, again, by someone who knew what they were doing."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that the eyes weren't hacked out or gouged out. They were very neatly removed from the sockets. Whoever did it was careful not to damage the surrounding tissue. In fact, that was the only injury above her neck."
"I'm no profiler," Alex said, looking at Bishop, "but that sounds significant to me."
"Could be," Bishop said dispassionately, as if he hadn't noticed the direct challenge. "By blinding his victim and yet leaving her face essentially undamaged, he could be telling us she knew him and he felt something for her, possibly even some kind of affection. He took her eyes because she'd seen him, and probably covered her face with something while he was beating her so he could think of her as a nameless, faceless object. On the other hand, though it's comparatively rare for a killer to take a body part as a trophy, that could also be a valid guess."
"I'm sorry I asked," Alex muttered.
"Why did he take her blood?" Miranda asked. "And Kerry Ingram's blood—possibly the blood of all three of them? What does that signify?"
"A ritualistic or cannibalistic obsession, most likely," Bishop answered promptly. "Assuming he kept it and didn't just drain it from the body, he needs the blood or believes he does. Either to drink it or use it some other way in a ritual that's important to him."
"Then maybe," Miranda suggested, "he needed Lynet's eyes as well."
"It is possible," Bishop agreed. "At this point, I barely have enough information to offer a threshold diagnosis, much less a complete profile."
Edwards said, "And I've learned all I can from this body, at least for the moment. Also, in case the rest of you haven't noticed, it's getting damned cold out here. I suggest we bag the body and take it to your autopsy facility, and I'll get started on the post."
"Our autopsy facility," Alex said, "is the morgue of the county hospital. I think they threw out the leeches a year or so ago."
Edwards smiled faintly. "Fieldwork demands accommodations, Deputy. I always bring my own equipment along."
"Wise of you."
Miranda said, "The hearse we've been using to transport the bodies is back with the other vehicles, Doctor. Take as many of my people as you need to help."
"Thank you, Sheriff."
After Edwards and Harte moved away, Alex said, "Randy, why don't you head on back? It's been a hell of a long day, and tomorrow won't be any better."
Very conscious of Bishop's silent attention, Miranda shook her head. "I still have to go tell Teresa Grainger about her daughter, before she hears it from someone else. Besides, we'll be finished up here in another hour."
"A word, Sheriff?" Bishop's tone was impersonal.
Miranda followed him a few feet away, keeping a careful and deliberate distance between them. She didn't have to wait long to hear what he had to say.
"Miranda, if my team's to be of any real use to you, they have to be able to do their jobs."
She stiffened. "I wasn't aware anyone was interfering with them."
"You are."
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he didn't give her a chance.
"You closed down like a steel trap the moment we got here. And whatever else may have changed in eight years, that hasn't. You're blocking them, Miranda. They can't pick up a damned thing, from the body or from the area, as long as you're here."
"You didn't seem to have any trouble." She refused to look away from those pale sentry eyes of his, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still get under her skin—even if not inside her head.
"And we both know why," he said flatly. "But my team doesn't have the same ... advantage."
It took every ounce of her willpower not to hit him. She couldn't say a word, didn't trust herself to speak at all.
Obviously not suffering from the same paralysis, he said, "Let us do what we came here to do, Miranda. And you do what you have to do. Go tell that kid's mother she won't be coming home. And then get some rest. We'll start fresh in the morning."
She still couldn't say a word, because she knew if she did it would become a torrent of words. Words about betrayal. Words about dishonesty and deception, about hurt and loss and bitterness and rage.
So she didn't say a word. She just turned and headed around the lake to her Jeep. She left Bishop to explain to Alex and the others why she had left so abruptly.
She knew he'd think of something to tell them.

*  *  *

"My God, we do have a serial killer," the mayor said, horrified.
John MacBride was seated across the desk from Miranda, who wished for the third time that she had gone straight home from Teresa Grainger's place. Instead, she had stopped at the office for what she'd thought would be no more than ten minutes. But MacBride showed up and the ten minutes stretched into twenty.
"We don't know that for sure," she told him patiently.
"With three dead teenagers? What else could it be?"
"They used to call serial killers 'stranger killers,' because they seldom had any connection to or prior knowledge of their victims. I don't believe that's the case here. And given the way we found the bodies, I think the task force will eventually classify these as bizarre murders—killings committed to satisfy the needs of some kind of ritual."
MacBride looked more appalled. He was normally a handsome man, but signs of strain had appeared in recent weeks, and his expression of dismay made the dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face much more evident.
"Ritual killings?" he exclaimed. "Do you mean we're dealing with Satanism or some other kind of occult shit?"
"I don't know, John. But if you're imagining black-robed figures dancing around a fire out in the woods under a full moon, forget it. We have one killer here, and whatever his reasons for killing, whatever his sick rituals are, I believe we'll find he's acting alone."
"That doesn't make me feel any better, dammit! The bastard's done a hell of a lot of damage alone." He brooded for a moment. "It has to be a stranger. Someone who doesn't actually live in Gladstone but just—"
"Just hunts here?" Miranda shrugged. "It's possible. And now, with three killings to reference, at least we should be able to note enough commonalities to ask law enforcement in surrounding counties to check their own unsolved cases for similar killings."
"The publicity," MacBride moaned.
Miranda decided she wasn't up to reassuring a worried mayor tonight; no matter what she said, it would only upset him more. With a sigh, she rose to her feet.
"Look, John, let's not borrow more trouble, all right? We'll do our best to limit publicity. Besides, if this FBI task force is as good as their reputation, chances are we'll have this case solved and the killer in custody very soon."
"And if they're not as good?" He got up too, moving stiffly and frowning. "I've already had a dozen calls tonight, Randy. Panic is spreading quickly."
"Then we'll do what we can to calm everybody down, John. We'll recommend reasonable precautions, and we'll make certain the town knows that every resource we can muster is focused on finding this killer."
"And we should make sure those FBI people are visible. Very visible."
Miranda knew that MacBride was prepared to publicly cast the entire responsibility of capturing the killer onto the broader shoulders of the FBI. That didn't bother Miranda so much for her own sake, but she'd be damned if her own people didn't get the credit they deserved. They had already put in long hours of painstaking work.
But all she said was, "I imagine they'll be visible enough, John. Aside from everything else, we only have one motel in town, and since it's on Main Street and seldom has more than a couple of overnight guests in any given week ..."
He grunted. "Yeah, you're right about that. But look, Randy, I'd appreciate daily reports."
"I'll be sure to keep you informed," she said non-committally.
He sighed, but didn't insist. Instead, he said, "Why don't you let me give you a ride home? You must be exhausted, and I'm parked out front—"
"So am I," she told him. "Besides, I want to get an early start in the morning, so I'd rather drive home tonight. But thanks, John."
He sighed again. "One of these days, you're going to say yes, Randy."
"Good night, John."

*  *  *

The Bluebird Lodge sucked.
That was Bishop's considered opinion, and not even the "major renovations" in the works, according to the owner/manager, could make the place any better. It boasted two floors but no interior hallways, cramped rooms furnished in decent quality but questionable taste, and unless one chose to visit a restaurant down the street (which closed promptly at 9:00 p.m.), the only options for dining were a couple of vending machines.
Still, at least the place was clean.
It was nearly midnight. Bishop and his team planned to make an early start the following day, and he knew he should sleep. But he was too keyed up.
He unpacked and set his laptop up on the ridiculously small desk near the window. After connecting with Quantico, he downloaded a few potentially useful data files. It was something he usually did long before he was actually on the scene, but in this case ...
He sat back in the none-too-comfortable chair and stared at an uninspired print on the wall. But he was seeing something else.
She had changed in eight years. Still strikingly lovely, of course, but he'd expected that, had braced himself for it. Or thought he had. But the girl he remembered, dazzling though she had been then, had grown in the years since into a woman of uncommon beauty and rare strength.
Her vivid blue eyes didn't gleam with laughter as readily as before, and they had a depth that hid thoughts and secrets. Her beautiful face revealed only what she chose to reveal, and her splendid body moved with fluid grace. Her voice was measured, controlled, a voice one could hardly imagine spitting out shaking curses in grief and rage and pain.
"You ruthless, coldhearted bastard! You'll use anything and anyone you have to, won't you? As long as you get what you want, as long as you win, you don't give a shit what happens to anyone else!"
He wondered if now, under the same circumstances, Miranda would simply shoot him. Not that the circumstances would ever be the same. He never made the same mistake twice.
No, this Miranda, this woman he had faced today across a gulf of eight years and too much pain and loss, was not the girl he remembered. She had perfected her previously erratic control and learned not only to shield herself but to extend that bubble of protection outside herself to enclose others.
He knew why, of course. Because of Bonnie.
The human mind was a remarkable instrument, the human will even more so. Miranda had needed to protect Bonnie, and that intense, desperate need had driven her to hone her extraordinary ability.
He wondered if she had any idea just how extraordinary.
It was ... an unanticipated complication. He was confident of getting through her shields by touch; after all, his spider-sense had, as she had noted, functioned normally despite them. And he did have an advantage over most other people when it came to her. But her strength had surprised him. It told him Miranda would give up nothing against her will.
If he forced his way past her shields, he doubted either of them would emerge from the battle without untold damage.
Bishop allowed himself a moment of grimly amused self-mockery. For eight years, he had focused on the simple need to find her, deluding himself that the wounds he had inflicted could be healed quickly once he was able to face her again, to talk to her. He had imagined that her pain and bitterness had faded with time, making it even easier for him.
But it was not going to be easy to earn Miranda's forgiveness. If it would even be possible.
"Hurting me was the least of it."
She was wrong about that, as far as he was concerned. What he had done could not be undone; the dead could not be brought back to life. For that, he expected no forgiveness, because he would never forgive himself. But he meant to make things right between him and Miranda.
Whatever it cost him.