The other two quickly joined him, and all three gazed into the trunk at various items, including a tire iron, a half-empty plastic jug of what looked like water, possibly for a temperamental radiator, a spare tire so worn there was hardly any tread at all—and two burlap sacks that were quite obviously not empty.
“Not hacked-off limbs, please,” Tony said, taking a step back.
“No,” Miranda and Bishop said in one breath, then she added, “But there's something….”
With two of the three flashlights directed into the trunk, Bishop leaned over and very carefully untied the twine holding the nearest sack closed. When he got it open, they could all see what looked like the top of a canning jar of the sort people had been using for generations to preserve food, except that this jar looked to be at least two quarts—unusually large for such a purpose.
A piece of masking tape was attached to the lid, and across it in faded ink was written the date June 16, 1985.
Carefully, Bishop pushed down the burlap and tilted the jar back so they could see what it held. It seemed to be filled with what might have been preserves or jelly, so dark it was almost black. But as the jar moved, the contents also moved, sluggishly, and half a dozen small, round objects bumped up against the glass, their pallor in stark contrast to the dark, viscous stuff surrounding them.
Then Bishop tilted the jar back a bit farther, and three of the round objects turned slowly to reveal their other sides. Two were blue. One was brown.
“Oh, Christ,” Miranda said. “They're eyes. Human eyes.”
Tony cleared his throat, but his voice was still a little hoarse when he said, “On the whole, I think I would have preferred to find hacked-off limbs. An arm, a leg. Jesus.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Bishop warned as he set the jar upright and reached for the second sack.
They were all braced for further horrors, but what emerged from the second sack appeared quite ordinary, relatively speaking. There was an old cigar box with perhaps two or three ounces of some kind of ash inside, a slightly rusted pair of handcuffs, and a folded pocketknife.
Tony said, “We are sure, aren't we, that this isn't just some weird collection belonging to Adam Ramsay.”
Miranda tapped on the lid of the canning jar. “In 1985,” she reminded him, “Adam was three years old.”
“Well, yeah—but the rest of this stuff?”
Bishop picked up the knife and studied it carefully. “Sharon might get something from touching this,” he said, “but even if she doesn't, this is a collectible knife. They're often sold by hardware stores or pharmacies, especially in small towns.”
Miranda didn't ask how he knew that; she merely said, “Steve Penman was near the drugstore when he vanished.”
“Yes,” Bishop said. “He was, wasn't he?”
TWENTY
The lounge of the Sheriff's Department didn't have a great deal to recommend it as far as Bonnie was concerned. One side of the long, narrow room held a kitchenette, while on the other were a couple of leather couches, two tables with chairs, and a bank of lockers. There was a dartboard on the wall, and several open shelves held a few board games as well as a caddy for poker chips and playing cards.
None of it appealed to Bonnie, even if there had been anyone around to join her in a game. Seth had crashed on one of the couches and was sleeping deeply; he'd gotten little sleep the last few nights, she knew, and she didn't begrudge him the rest. The deputies in the building were all working at their desks, busily coping with the aftermath of the storm and whatever duties might help identify the killer.
Randy would be returning to the office anytime now. And Bishop. Bonnie felt a bit wary of meeting Bishop again, talking to him—more so now than before. He and Randy were involved again, and even though Bonnie hadn't exactly discouraged the idea, she was anxious about it.
If it ended badly this time, Bonnie didn't know if Randy would be able to get past it.
Restless, Bonnie wandered out of the lounge. She looked into the big, open area at the front of the building they all called the bullpen, a small sea of desks turned this way and that, and the low dividing wall separating the office space from the reception area. There was a TV on a filing cabinet tuned to the Weather Channel, phones ringing at regular intervals, and the low hum of conversation.
The room smelled like coffee and pizza.
Everybody was busy, so Bonnie continued on. The conference-room door was locked, which didn't surprise her. Randy's office was open and empty. In another office just down the hall, a deputy sat with his back to the door, talking on the phone; judging by the cajoling tone, he was trying to mend fences with a sweetheart.
Bonnie smiled to herself and went on. One office was empty of office furniture but held half a dozen cots, though there was only one deputy, stripped to undershirt and pants, snoring softly. Another room was piled high with the boxes and other stuff that Bonnie remembered Randy had ordered removed from the conference room when the FBI had arrived.
Down some steps and along another hallway were several other rooms; since they were small and boasted small windows in the doors—and none in the rooms themselves—she gathered they were where suspects requiring privacy or more security were questioned.
She peeked into one and saw Justin Marsh sitting at the small table reading the newspaper, his frown and impatiently tapping foot mute evidence of frustration or irritation. Bonnie moved on hastily, not eager to attract his notice.
She looked into a couple more of the rooms, but all were empty. At the end of the hallway were three doors; two led to the cells, she knew, and the other led to the garage where impounded vehicles were kept.
Not interested in any of those areas, she turned and began to retrace her steps. She was just passing the little secondary hallway that led to an outer door to the side parking lot when she felt a rush of cold air.
Bonnie half turned her head but caught only a glimpse, a blur of movement. And then something struck her head, pain exploded, and everything went dark.
“I just don't believe it,” Alex said hoarsely, shaking his head. “Right here? He took her from the fucking Sheriff's Department?”
“I should have stayed awake,” Seth said, his younger voice thin with fear and worry and guilt.
“You? Jesus, kid, there were a dozen cops in this place—including me.”
Tony said, “Never mind who's to blame. The important thing is to find him before—before—”
“Before he kills her,” Miranda said. Her voice was very steady, but her eyes were blind.
Tony didn't know what to say to her; he thought it was quite possibly the first and last time he'd ever see Miranda Knight literally paralyzed, unable to do anything except sit there at the conference table and stare at the wall. And he was very relieved when Bishop came back into the room; he had been absent only a few minutes, checking the building for any sign that might help them because he didn't trust anyone else to do it.
Going directly to Miranda, Bishop knelt before her, his hands lifting to rest gently on her knees.
She looked at him, saw him. “I promised to protect her.” She was talking to him alone, oblivious to every-one else in the room. “I swore I'd always keep her safe.”
“Bonnie is going to be all right, Miranda. We'll find her, and we'll do it before that bastard can hurt her.”
“You can't promise,” she said almost wistfully.
“Yes, I can,” Bishop said. He leaned forward and kissed her, equally oblivious to the watching eyes, then got to his feet and faced the others, one hand remaining on her shoulder.
“We don't have much time, but I think we have a little,” he told them. “I don't believe he'll kill her immediately—he made that mistake with the Penman boy and lost the opportunity to question him. And he made a similar mistake with Liz Hallowell.”
“With Liz?” Alex frowned at him.
Bishop looked at him. “He thought she was the one who told us where to find Steve Penman, and he didn't take th
e time to be certain. That haunts him, I'm sure.”
“Haunts him?” Alex exploded. “He's a cold-blooded killer without an ounce of conscience, and you claim he can be haunted by a mistake? A fucking mistake?”
Remaining calm, Bishop said, “What I claim is that this killer is an intelligent, complex psychopath with a very definite set of rituals and rules governing his life and behavior. Carelessness caused him to make one bad mistake, and panic caused him to make another; he won't be quick to make a third. He'll need to assure himself that Bonnie is the threat he believes her to be.”
Miranda stirred. “How? How can he assure himself of that? You said it yourself—talking to the dead isn't an easy thing to prove.”
“Which is why we have a little time,” Bishop said, holding her gaze steadily. “But not much, Miranda.”
For just a moment she seemed to waver, but then her shoulders squared, her mouth firmed, and she stood up. “We have to find out if Steve asked anybody about that pocketknife at the drugstore the day he disappeared.
We have the list of tire dealerships in the area to contact. We have to figure out if there's something, some place or action, linking all the missing kids together.” She drew a breath. “And we have to find out how he could have discovered that it was Bonnie who was the threat—and how he knew she was here.”
Alex gave a disgusted snort. “Hell, half the deputies out in the bullpen were discussing all the gossip this morning, and the consensus was that Bonnie being the one was as likely as anything else.”
“A deputy didn't take her,” Bishop said. “You're all accounted for. And Marsh is still safely locked in the interview room.”
Alex said, “Granted, but anybody passing through could have heard all the talk, and we've had several visitors here at one time or another today.”
Miranda stiffened suddenly. “John was here,” she said slowly, looking at Bishop. “Remember? He said Justin had called him. And when we saw him, he was just coming from the direction of the bullpen. He could have heard them.”
“We need more than supposition,” Bishop reminded her. “We can't waste time chasing down blind alleys. Tony, track down somebody from the drugstore and find out about that knife, will you?”
“You bet.” Tony picked up the bagged knife from the conference table and retreated to his desk to use the phone.
Remembering something else, Miranda said, “He was at Liz's store Saturday night before the storm. The gossip was starting up even then, so he could have heard the garbled version about Liz telling us where to find Steve's body. He had the opportunity to take Justin's Bible, and more than enough time to—to kill her and take her to her house before the snow got too bad.”
“What about the profile?” Bishop asked her. “Does he live alone, or have a secure, isolated place where he'd feel safe?”
“He lives alone and has for years. Before that his father lived with him and was in very poor health virtually from the time John was a boy.” Miranda spoke rapidly, frowning as she dredged up the facts she could recall. “His family home is a big, old house miles outside town, very isolated. He's been building a new place closer in, but says he'll never be able to cut his ties to the farm.”
“He's the right age,” Bishop said. “Old enough to have been doing this for fifteen years or more. Personality type could fit. Unusual to have a killer such as this one in a political office, far less a relatively high one, but it is possible. And he comes and goes here so freely as to attract little if any notice.”
“He knew Lynet,” Miranda said. “Dated her mother at one time, and not too long ago.”
Seth, who had stepped away without comment to use one of the phones, hung up and said to Miranda, “I called the clinic. Dad said the mayor showed up there about an hour ago saying he just wanted to make sure everybody had weathered the storm. He went all through the place, said hello to the patients and nurses, even the kitchen staff.”
“Looking for Bonnie,” Miranda said.
“He asked about her. Very casual, said he thought she was there. Dad—Dad told him we were here.”
Alex frowned. “Now that I think about it, I remember one of the guys saying this morning that he'd heard the story about Bonnie from somebody married to one of the nurses at the clinic. If MacBride overheard that, he would have known to look for her there.”
Tony hung up his phone with a bang and turned to the others. “Got it. I haven't tracked down a clerk who waited on Steve Penman the day he disappeared, but the manager is in the store and was able to check his books. This knife is a collectible, and there were only three of them sold in Gladstone. The serial number on this one identifies it as the one sold last summer to Mayor MacBride.”
With all the snow on the ground, there was no way it could be dark at three in the afternoon even in January, but a heavily overcast sky made it at least not quite as bright as it could have been. Bishop said he supposed they should be grateful for small favors.
Miranda frowned at the landscape spread out before them and said “Shit.”
“We can't approach any way at all except on foot and even hope to get close without being seen,” Bishop said.
“Then we go on foot.” Miranda got out of the Jeep, wishing the snow didn't crunch so loudly underfoot, her gaze still fixed on the house barely visible through the thick forest of mostly pines all around it.
Bishop joined her. “How soon before you figure Alex tumbles to us being gone?”
“I'm counting on Tony to distract him as long as possible. There's no way I want him anywhere near here. He's just too wild to get his hands on Liz's killer. Much better for him and Seth to be concentrating on trying to find some connection to John in those files of missing kids.”
Mildly, Bishop said, “We could have brought along another deputy or two.”
“I don't trust anybody else to handle this,” she said flatly.
“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.” He drew his weapon just as she had and checked it, thumbing off the safety. “I suggest we circle the house once we get under those trees, see what we can see without getting too close.”
“Right.”
They moved toward the house cautiously, careful of their footing in the deep snow, keeping to the shelter of trees and overgrown bushes wherever possible, and when they were close enough, they split up to bracket the house.
It was darker here under the shelter of the big old pines, and the house loomed above them. No light shone from any of the windows, though clear tire marks leading to the detached garage indicated that MacBride had left and then returned at least once today.
Miranda reached the back of the house before Bishop, and waited there, watching a greenhouse she hadn't even known was behind the place. It was a large structure, and the glass was either frosted or dewed with condensation, because it was opaque, but there was definitely a light on in there.
Bishop joined her in uncanny silence, only their connection warning her before he appeared.
“Where's your jacket?” she demanded, keeping her voice barely above a whisper.
With the hand not holding his gun he gestured toward the front of the house. “Left it back there.”
“Why? You'll freeze.”
“It was too dark and too noisy. I never realized how noisy leather is,” he told her. “Remind me to oil that thing or something. Later. In the meantime, I won't freeze unless we crouch here much longer. The greenhouse?”
“He's practically shining a beacon,” Miranda said uneasily.
“Then he's either expecting us—or has absolutely no idea that we could be on to him so soon. Either way, what choice do we have except to go on in?”
“None that I can think of.”
“Then we go in.”
“He's talking, I think,” she said, tilting her head slightly to try to focus all their extra senses on the building.
“As long as he's talking, his attention is occupied. It's the best we can hope for. I see two doors, one
at either end. And the light's somewhere in the middle. Let's go.”
There was no time to discuss a plan, but neither of them worried about that. Their connection was wide open once again, which made communication instant and silent and provided all the edge they needed to coordinate their approach and movements.
Opening the doors and easing inside was no problem, but then they discovered themselves in a virtual jungle, an overgrown forest of plants and trees draped with vines and nearly strangled by thickets of weeds.
Oh, great.
No choice but to go on.
It was impossible to see more than a foot or two ahead, and the place smelled horribly of rotting vegetable matter and damp earth. Trailing vines dangled slimy tendrils across them and thorns hooked at their clothing as they crept through the profuse growth, trying to follow paths that long ago had narrowed to mere memory.
It was their extra senses that told them they were nearly at the middle of the greenhouse, but even with that help it was impossible for them to know for certain what lay ahead. They paused, both trying to reach through the wall of greenery. The droning of MacBride's voice continued, a low muttering that sounded to them wordless, so they literally jumped when he suddenly spoke in a perfectly calm and even casual voice that seemed to come from no more than a few feet away.
“If you two would care to walk a few more paces, I'm sure it would be easier for all of us.”
Goddammit.
Still no choice.
They moved forward as ordered, and emerged within the promised few paces into what looked like a clearing in the center of the greenhouse.
It must once have been a work area; there was still a rickety table at one side of the space holding a few rusting tools and empty clay pots. Hanging crookedly high above the table was a long fluorescent light, and though it flickered from time to time, it threw an almost painfully bright light over the scene below.
Bishop and Miranda standing frozen.
Mayor John MacBride smiling at them as though greeting welcome guests, his expression pleasant, his stance relaxed.