The smell of blood grew stronger.
Miranda was the first to reach a window that allowed a view of the inside, and Bishop knew instantly that the sight sickened her. She stood there for a moment, her face still and pale, then moved past the window and joined him beside the closed door.
She whispered, “What I saw couldn't try to escape.”
Bishop reached out to try the rusted doorknob, and it turned easily, as if recently oiled. Cautiously, making sure they were standing well to the side, he pushed open the door.
The heavy, coppery stench seemed to roll out at them, cloying and sickly sweet.
He already knew nothing alive was in there, but they went in by the numbers anyway, guns ready, alert for threats and protecting each other as partners did.
Whatever machinery had once been contained in the single huge room was long since gone. Half the space was cluttered by rotting beams and broken tiles; the other half, sheltered by the partial roof, was dim and musty, with weeds sprouting here and there between the few remaining floorboards.
Under the crossbeam, a shallow trench had been dug in the ground. It was about three feet long and a foot wide, and no more than ten inches deep. The soft earth had soaked up much of the blood.
Above the trench, suspended from the crossbeam by a rope knotted around both ankles, hung the naked body of Steve Penman.
Blood still dripped from his slashed throat.
ELEVEN
Deputy Sandy Lynch didn't get sick this time, but she was none too happy that the call had come in while she was on duty. Even if all she had to do was fetch and carry for Dr. Edwards, who had returned just in time to examine Steve Penman's butchered body, it meant Sandy was stuck inside the millhouse with that body and all the blood, and she hated the smell of blood, she just hated it—
“Deputy?” Agent Edwards said kindly. “If you could hold the light a little higher, please?”
“Yes, ma'am.” She did and tried not to look at what it showed. She also tried to breathe through her mouth only, and tried not to look too desperate when Alex looked in long enough to catch her eye.
Alex retreated from the doorway to where Miranda stood next to Tony Harte, who was making a plaster cast of tire tracks.
“Sandy's about to lose her lunch,” Alex said.
Miranda nodded. “Have her switch places with Carl.
We need somebody at the end of the road just in case anyone passes by and gets too curious.”
“Right.” Alex went off to obey orders.
“I know how she feels,” Tony commented, sitting back on his heels as he waited for the plaster to harden. “She's—what?—twenty?”
“About that.” Miranda shifted her gaze to Bishop, standing near the crumbling waterwheel several yards away. “And she didn't bargain for all this.”
Tony noted the direction of her stare, but all he said was, “I guess not. Sometimes fate just loves to knock you back on your ass.”
Miranda looked at him, one brow rising slightly.
Innocently, he said, “By the way, thanks for not blocking us anymore. It was giving me a hell of a headache.”
“So what can you pick up from the area?” she asked, neatly bypassing any discussion as to why she had retracted her shield to enclose only her own mind.
Tony sighed. “All I got inside was the boy's terror— which gives me a whole new insight into the human mind, since he was unconscious the entire time and shouldn't by any science we've always believed in and relied upon have known or been able to feel what was being done to him.”
“But he knew? He felt it?”
“He knew,” Tony said soberly. “Knew he was going to die and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. And he felt it. The pain.”
Miranda tried not to think too much about that. “Did he know who—”
“If he did, he was too terrified of dying to care who was killing him. I just got the emotions, not the thoughts.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“About what you'd expect. There was a kind of … free-floating rage, I assume the killer's. He wasn't finished here, and I don't think he intended us to find the body here, so if we do find any evidence, it might be worth a lot. That's it for me. Sharon might get more, since this is definitely the scene of the crime and not just a dumping place.”
“Yes, this time we got… lucky.”
“Gotta love those anonymous tips,” Tony said.
It was Miranda's turn to sigh. “It would be nice to have some solid evidence from here on out. Too many more anonymous tips I can't explain and we'll all be in trouble.”
Bishop joined them. “This was a onetime deal,” he said. “The other victims weren't killed here.”
“Which begs the question, why did he bring this victim to a different place?” Miranda absently rubbed the nape of her neck. “To throw us off track? He can't be killing them all in different places, surely?”
“Given what he did to each of the other victims, I wouldn't think so,” Bishop said. “He had to be someplace where he could feel safe and secure, and he had to have both time and privacy. How many of us have more than one place where we feel really safe? No, I think your guess is right. I think he killed this boy here because he was afraid we were getting too close to wherever he killed the others.”
Tony said, “But does that mean he planned to bring future victims here as well? It's obvious we weren't expected to find this place, or at least not so quickly. If it hadn't been for that … anonymous tip … would we have found this boy's body buried out in the woods somewhere—if we found it at all?”
Miranda was about to say something irritable to Tony about harping on that “anonymous tip” that he knew very well had come from her sister when she saw Alex out of the corner of her eye, and realized how close he was. Close enough to hear. Tony had only been continuing to protect their little secret, she realized.
She also realized something else, and it made her feel more than a little grim. Because she had retracted her shield, energy and effort that had been designed to protect both herself and her sister were now focused on a much narrower point—her mind alone. It was a very solid shield that now separated her from those around her. She was beginning to lose even the heightened awareness of her surroundings that was normal for her, her version of Bishop's spider-sense. She always seemed to know where he was, feeling him near long before she actually saw or heard him, but that was something different.
She hoped he'd never discover just how it was different.
Feeling his eyes on her, she forced herself to concentrate on what Alex was saying, and it worried her that his voice actually sounded peculiarly hollow to her.
“… and from what I understand about your profile of the killer, Bishop, wouldn't it be important to him that we did find this victim? I mean, if he was out to prove—to himself and maybe to us—that he was all-powerful and in control, wouldn't he have wanted us to see his handiwork sooner rather than later?”
Bishop nodded slowly. “That's a good point. He would have expected us to know that he had abducted a very masculine, physically powerful kid, but until we found the body we couldn't be sure what he had done to that kid. Without evidence to the contrary, we might speculate that his needs and desires were sexual, something he certainly doesn't want.”
Miranda resisted the urge to rub her temples in a vain attempt to soothe the throbbing there. “But why is he so determined not to display—or feel, apparently— sexual desire for his victims? Aren't most murders of this … bizarre nature sexual at the core?”
“Virtually always,” Bishop answered. “And few murderers bother to try to hide or disguise it. Tony, you said you thought this killer was highly conflicted. I think you were right. I believe this killer has very neatly divided his life. Light and dark. In the light side, he has a normal existence, with friends, maybe family—and a woman or women he's attracted to sexually. He may even have at least one successful ongoing relationship, apparently norma
l in every way. In the dark side, he has these violent urges and needs he's driven to satisfy.”
“Okay,” Miranda said. “But my question stands. Why, as far as he's concerned, may his killings not be sexual or viewed as sexual even by himself? Why is that so important to him?”
“My guess is that he's trying to protect the light side of his life—and the woman or women there. To keep that separate and apart. If what he's doing becomes overtly sexual, then he'll begin to want to do these things to women he's attracted to in the light, sane side of his life. The darkness will spill over, out of his control.”
“If this is him in control,” Tony said, “I really don't want to be around to see him out of control.”
They were all silent for a few moments, then Alex stirred and said, “Speaking of dark, it's getting there. Either we start wrapping this up for the day or else break out the big lights.”
Bishop looked at Miranda. “I'll check with Sharon and find out how much more time she needs.”
She nodded slightly and watched him walk back to the millhouse.
“Supposed to snow tonight.”
Miranda was startled to find Alex looking at her intently. She hadn't felt it. She hadn't felt it.“I haven't seen a weather report,” she said.
“Well, the weather people are being fairly cagey, but last I heard, the best we could hope for was two or three inches. Worst is a blizzard.”
“Great. That's just dandy.” She thought it might at least give the townspeople something else to worry about. But bad weather would also threaten potential problems with electricity, and would demand that most of her deputies be out and about helping people rather than in the office chasing down information that might prove helpful to the investigation.
They weren't moving very fast anyway, but a storm could stop them in their tracks.
“Is that cast going to be helpful?” Alex asked, as Tony tested the plaster.
“After all this work, I certainly hope so. But we'll see. It'll take time to run down the right brand of tire, and more time to match up sales of that brand with cars registered in the area, and then … Well, it'll take time. But maybe it'll give us something in the end.”
Miranda noticed the heavy clouds rolling in and hoped they'd have time.
“Here, wait a second and I'll give you a hand.” Alex bent to help lift the plaster cast.
“Thanks.”
Miranda watched them carry the cast toward the vehicles parked several yards away. She felt the tingle on the nape of her neck, and didn't have to look to know Bishop was approaching her.
“Is she about done in there?” It gave her a certain amount of satisfaction to know that it bugged Bishop when she did that, especially since it had become patently obvious that she could sneak up on him without his awareness—spider-sense notwithstanding. She was glad to know she could shake his composure at least a bit. Even more, she preferred to have him annoyed rather than thinking too much about how she was able to do it.
“Another half hour,” Bishop replied, sounding faintly distracted. “She said not to bother rigging the big lights, and that she'd have a preliminary report for us in a few minutes.”
“In the meantime,” Miranda said, “we'd better take a last look around. Alex says snow's in the forecast. Whatever clue or evidence we leave out here is likely to be buried, at least for a while.”
She felt a light touch on her arm, and was confident enough of her shield that she was able to look at Bishop calmly without jerking from his grasp.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. I'm getting used to finding dead kids.” She was able to keep her voice dry and unemotional, but it required more of an effort than she had expected. And it shook her to realize that what she really wanted to do was confide that she was unutterably weary, and that it tore at her soul to have to discuss with professional detachment the unspeakable evil being committed in her town. To confide that she had nightmares when she could sleep at all, that she was desperately worried about her sister, worried about what was still to come. Worried that she had misread what she'd seen or misunderstood what she was meant to do. Worried that she wouldn't have the strength when the time came.
She wanted to confide all that. In him.
He was frowning slightly. He did not release her arm.
“I'm fine, Bishop.” It was, of course, the only thing she could say, the only answer she could give him. She still didn't try to pull away. Even with her shield firmly in place—or perhaps because of that—she knew that he was being true to his word and not trying to read her.
“You're not fine,” he argued, keeping his voice low. “You're too pale and your pupils are dilated. And don't you think I can tell you've shut off your defenses? Christ, Miranda, I'm the only one who couldn't sneak up and blindside you.”
For just an instant, she was tempted to snap that since only he posed a threat to her, her defenses were still in good working order. Instead, she said calmly, “Since nobody's after me, it hardly matters, does it?”
“That's naive and we both know it. You're the sheriff investigating a series of brutal murders, and that sure as hell makes you a threat to the killer.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I'm beginning to wonder about that.”
“You can stop wondering.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “Your pulse is racing.”
Miranda only just stopped herself from jerking her arm away. “You're imagining things. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do one last walk-through of the scene before it gets too dark to see anything.”
Bishop had the grim face of a man who wasn't finished arguing, but he finally released her. “I want another look around the waterwheel. Something about it is bothering me.”
She didn't move immediately but watched him walk away, and it wasn't until she turned herself that she realized Alex was standing several yards away looking at her. That he was there at all startled her, but his expression made her feel decidedly wary, and not only because of her failing defenses. Since he fell into the sixty percent of people she couldn't read, she had never sensed any more of his thoughts than those he was willing to share, but she knew him well enough to be certain something was disturbing him.
“Alex?”
He closed the space between them, speaking before she could ask the half-formed question in her mind. “Greg just called from the office. Word's out, Randy.”
“How the hell did that happen? I was at least hoping I could break the news to his parents before somebody else told them.”
Alex sighed. “I don't know how, but it might not be the worst of it. Apparently, when her parents came to get her, Amy Fowler was pretty hysterical, and before Dr. Daniels could sedate her again, she was babbling on about Ouija boards and contacting spirits who told her where Steve's body could be found—and claiming Bonnie is a medium. A couple of nurses overheard. You can guess the rest.”
“Oh, shit,” Miranda said.
Panic was not an emotion he was accustomed to. His life had always been completely under his control; that was what he worked for and planned for. He hated surprises.
Finding cops crawling all over the old millhouse was a distinct and unpleasant shock.
He racked his brains to remember if he'd left anything incriminating behind. He couldn't think of anything; he was always careful. Always.
But they'd found poor Steve before he was ready for them to, and that wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.
The question was … how had they found him?
“Death wasn't quite as recent as it appears,” Sharon Edwards said briskly. “I may have a closer estimate for you later, but for now you can say time of death was last night between midnight and six A.M.”
“Twelve or more hours ago? The blood's still dripping,” Miranda said.
“My guess is that he gave the boy—either orally or by injection—an anticoagulant to prevent the blood from clotting.”
Miranda frowned as she watched two of her deputies gingerly carrying the black-bagged body toward the hearse. “He didn't do that to the others, right?”
“No.”
“Why this time? Because he was … away from home and didn't have his equipment handy? Because using a drug was the fastest and simplest way to drain the body of blood?”
“Maybe.”
Alex asked, “Where would he have gotten the drug?”
Sharon sighed. “With what's available on the Internet now? If he knew what to ask for—and practically any physician's or pharmacology reference book would have told him—he could have ordered the stuff from any one of a thousand places. If we find him, we may be able to backtrack from his own computer, but otherwise …”
Tony said, “That does argue a certain amount of forethought and planning. It isn't something you'd have on hand unless you needed it yourself. But my guess is this guy's too smart to use anything that could be traced back to him.”
“So he had to know or at least believe he'd need it,” Miranda mused. “For the others? Did he think he might need help in draining the bodies, only to find he was able to do it without drugs? And then used the drugs on Steve because he had no other choice?”
“Well,” Sharon said, “here's something else to throw into the pot. He took at least some of the blood with him. There's a depression in the trench where a bucket or pail was placed underneath the body. It's difficult to tell how much is missing, though I'd guess not more than a pint or two.”
“What else is missing from the body?” Miranda asked. She was aware that Bishop gave her a sharp look, but kept her eyes on the doctor.
Sharon's brows rose. “I'm surprised you caught that, Sheriff. I didn't see it until I examined the body. His tongue is missing, neatly removed with a sharp knife or razor.”