Grace hesitated when he stopped at her desk to ask, but the sheriff had, after all, instructed that the task force be given any assistance requested.
“She's at Tim's. Karate school. Main Street, downtown, you can't miss it.” Grace Russell had worked with cops for too many years to be easily intimidated, but this federal agent made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was his pale eyes, looking right through a body the way they did. Or maybe it was the wicked scar that twisted down the left side of his face and suggested an odd duality about the man—one side of him perfect, the other side marred, by mischance or failure. From a purely female perspective, she thought it was a real pity; without that scar, he would have been drop-dead gorgeous, and not many men could carry that off while still being uncompromisingly masculine.
At the same time, the scar lent him a dangerous air that was also immensely fascinating. Grace had seen the female deputies eyeing him unobtrusively, and the interest in their faces had little to do with professional wariness of a federal cop in their midst.
“A karate school? Open on Sunday?” Bishop's voice was perfectly courteous, his expression entirely unreadable, but Grace had the uncomfortable idea that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Not officially open, no, but a few of Tim's students work out there in the afternoons, even sometimes on Sunday. Sheriff Knight usually takes part of her lunch hour.” Not that he could help the scar, she supposed, though cosmetic surgery could do wonders these days, and why such a good-looking man would choose to wear his one physical flaw right on his face for all to see baffled her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Russell.” Perfectly aware of her thoughts even without touching her, Bishop left her to speculate as to when and how he had gotten the scar. The speculation didn't bother him any more than her wariness did; he had grown accustomed to both over the years.
She was right in saying that he couldn't miss the karate school; the line of trophies and ribbons in the front window would have made it obvious even without the sign proclaiming the Tim Skinner School of Karate. Bishop contemplated the name for a moment, then shrugged and went inside.
He found himself in a huge classroom where six students ranging in age from eight to sixteen worked out in pairs under the watchful eye of an instructor. No one noticed him as he walked to the half-open door and looked into the other, smaller classroom.
Only two people were there, each barefoot and wearing a white gi so associated with karate. One of them was a man of perhaps forty-five who moved with such expertise, it was hard to imagine that anyone could offer him a decent challenge.
Miranda clearly could.
Balance exceptional and concentration absolute, she compensated for less muscle with speed and agility that were mesmerizing to watch and kept her opponent on his toes.
Bishop wasn't surprised by her skill or the black belt she wore, though he knew she must have begun studying karate only in the past eight years. He watched her through the door, not calling attention to his presence— and saw the change in her the instant she sensed him there.
Her shoulders tensed and her head turned just a bit toward him. Then her workout partner moved in with a flying kick, and all her attention was taken up by the necessity of defending herself.
It bothered Bishop that Miranda could sense him even through her shields—and yet he could not sense her. Once, he had been able to. Once, he had known whenever she was anywhere near him. When she had been hurt or upset, he had felt it instantly.
Once.
Now she might as well be a stranger. He was aware of her only if he saw or heard her. If she walked silently into a room behind him, he would be completely oblivious of her arrival.
That was a cold realization.
It didn't help to remind himself that she was a far more experienced telepath and that her version of a spider-sense had always been more defensive than his own. On top of which, she had been hunted by a deadly predator. Living for years in fear for her life had, without doubt, sharpened her immediate awareness of any threat.
He was a threat.
Bishop turned around and walked back to the front door. He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, his back to the school, and his gaze fixed on nothing.
Miranda had been closed before his arrival, but her intuition and spider-sense had functioned; even her pre-cognitive abilities had allowed her to “see” Lynet Grainger being found in water near the lake. She had been closed just enough to protect herself and her sister.
But now Miranda was willfully making herself blind and deaf in a psychic sense, cutting off the extra abilities that made her who she was. It was a drastic, desperate act, and it told Bishop more clearly than words ever could that he had done much more than simply hurt her eight years before.
The question was … how could he atone for a mistake that had cost them both so much?
In a rare unguarded gesture of vulnerability, he reached up and fingered the scar marking his left cheek. Then he swore beneath his breath and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. And stared at nothing.
It was quite a while before he became aware that drivers were slowing down to get a better look at him and that the very few pedestrians were eyeing him warily.
“When the churchgoers start heading for the café and bookstore, you'll be drawing quite a crowd,” Miranda said dryly.
He had been right. She had silently joined him on the sidewalk and he hadn't realized she was near.
Bishop half turned to look at her, angered by that— and angry at her because of it. “I'm surprised you didn't go to church,” he said, the words biting. “I thought all small-town sheriffs had their own pew.”
“Not the atheists.” Her brows rose. “Or had you forgotten that?”
He had. Ignoring her question, he asked one of his own. “How did you manage to get elected in this conservative town with that on your résumé?”
Miranda shrugged. “Oddly enough, nobody asked. Are you here for a reason, Bishop, or just window shopping?”
“We need to talk.”
“About the investigation?”
“No.”
“Then,” she said, “we don't need to talk.”
“Miranda—”
Her voice still pleasant, she said, “I'm on my way back to the office. See you there.”
For an instant, Bishop was tempted to grab her arm, to force her to talk to him here and now. He wanted to find out if he could still read her while he was touching her, but thought better of the idea. For one thing, Miranda was a black belt.
And she had a gun.
So he stood there and watched her walk a few yards down the sidewalk to where her Jeep was parked, and he didn't say another word.
But, for the first time in his life, Bishop faced the cold and certain realization that not everything carelessly broken could be repaired. Ever.
“If my mother finds out about this,” Amy Fowler said with a giggle, “she'll skin me alive.”
Steve Penman grinned at her. “Then let's make sure she doesn't find out. And make sure your dad doesn't find out either. He'd do more than skin me.” He toyed with the top button of her pretty Sunday blouse while his other hand pulled the tail of his shirt from his pants. “We don't have much time, honey. Seth says his boss comes in sometimes after church and Sunday dinner.”
Amy looked around at the dirty, greasy-smelling back room of Cobb's garage and stifled a sigh. It had seemed exciting at first, meeting her eighteen-year-old boyfriend in whatever odd place he or his friends could recommend for an hour or two of privacy, but after two months both the secrecy and the inevitably tacky surroundings were beginning to depress her.
“Steve, don't you think—”
He kissed her, cutting off the beginnings of a problem he didn't want to hear, much less deal with. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, but for now she was still fun and eager and willing to try things he'd only read about in the magazines hidden under his mattress.
She let him push her back o
n the cot and unbutton her blouse, and didn't object when he unfastened the front clasp of her otherwise prim white bra and pushed the cups aside. He lay half on top of her, his body hard from the rough season of football behind him and heating with a fever she recognized.
Amy closed her eyes and stroked the back of his neck, enjoying the sensations of his mouth on her, but it didn't last long enough for her to get anywhere near his level of arousal. It never did. Too quickly, he was pushing up her skirt and working her panties down her legs.
She tried to slow things, reaching for his fly but taking her time about it, sliding the zipper down and unfastening the snap, reaching inside. He was hard and hot, and she held him in her hand, using a gentle touch rather than the rougher one he preferred, because it excited her more. He was still new and strange to her, still a fascinating alien creature to be explored and savored—but he never seemed to understand that.
He groaned and wrapped his hand around hers, forcing her to hold him harder, rub him more roughly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and shoved his pants down over his thighs.
Slow down! she wanted to plead, but already he was kneeing her legs wide apart and preparing to mount her, muttering a few hoarse words that might have been encouragement or endearments or just raw want.
She thought he might forget, but at the last minute fumbled in his pocket for the rubber and managed to get it on before he plunged inside her. Amy gripped him hard with her legs and tried to slow him that way, knowing from experience that the friction would be pleasant even if not as wildly exciting for her as Steve seemed to find it. But she could tell from the look of blind striving on his red face that this would be one of those times when he just wanted or needed to come quickly. She had resigned herself to that when his jerk and shuddering groan told her he'd already finished.
She lay there underneath him, blouse and bra open, skirt hiked up and panties God only knew where, feeling little except his weight on her and his moist panting against her neck, smelling grease and oil, and watching dust motes float in the shaft of light from the one dirty window in this dirty little back room.
When he raised his head at last, he said, “You all right, honey?” It was his usual question, uttered with the usual self-satisfied smile that anticipated her answer. Amy didn't disappoint him.
“I'm fine, Steve.” She slid her fingers into his hair. “Just fine.”
He was already checking his watch. “Guess we'd better get a move on. Didn't you tell your mom you'd spend the afternoon with Bonnie?”
“She wouldn't have let me go otherwise,” Amy said. “She's spooked by what happened to Kerry Ingram and Lynet.”
Steve grunted as he rose to his knees and pulled up his pants. He dealt with the used condom by dropping it to the stained concrete floor between the cot and the wall.
Amy wondered how many other used condoms lay under the cot, shriveled, their guilty contents petrified by time, a forlorn reminder of other girls who had lain on that scratchy wool blanket with their skirts hiked up and panties discarded.
She felt horribly exposed for the first time—and he wasn't even looking at her. She sat up and scooted backward in the same motion so her skirt would at least partially cover her, and hastily reached to fasten her bra and button her blouse.
Nervously, she said, “Bonnie says the sheriff might declare a curfew to keep kids in after dark.” Where were her panties?
“Maybe.” Steve got off the cot and tucked his shirt into his pants. “Probably wouldn't be a bad idea, at least for you girls.”
His absent tone irritated her, and she heard her voice take on a shrill note she despised. “What makes you so sure we're the only ones in danger? What about Adam Ramsay?”
“From what I've heard, nobody can be sure he was killed by the same bastard who got the girls.”
Amy didn't want to think about what she'd heard. “I haven't seen the FBI agents yet. Have you?”
“Nah, not yet. Get a move on, honey, we need to get out of here.”
Amy slid off the bunk and finished buttoning her blouse. Where were her panties? She didn't want to ask Steve; there was something painfully tawdry about asking a man what he'd done with your panties …
Steve barely waited for her to finish buttoning her blouse. He pushed aside the box of spare engine parts that had kept the flimsy plywood door closed, then grabbed her hand and pulled her along through the silent garage.
“I'll drop you off at Bonnie's,” he said briskly, “and pick up Seth. We're supposed to go look at a car he wants.”
Amy wasn't surprised that neither she nor Bonnie was invited on the errand, but she was annoyed. Not that going to look at a stupid old car would have been much fun, but he might have asked.
Steve put her into the passenger seat of his Mustang and closed her door, the automatic courtesy one of the things that had first attracted her to him. Amy waited until he was behind the wheel and they were on their way before she spoke again.
“Steve, aren't you worried about what's going on?”
“What, with these killings?” He shrugged. “I just don't see any reason to panic, is all. Probably just some nut passing through got the girls, and as for Adam Ramsay, I know half a dozen guys wanted to burn his ass.”
“Why?”
“Never you mind,” Steve said.
“But—”
“You and Bonnie just need to be careful, that's all you need to worry about, honey. Stay at the sheriff's house today until your mom comes to pick you up. Don't go anywhere by yourself, especially after dark. And I'll see you tomorrow at school.” He shrugged again. “Bet on it, whoever did those killings is long gone by now.”
She looked at him searchingly. “Do you really think so, Steve?”
“Bet on it.”
It was nearly four o'clock when Miranda heard her office door open without warning. Since she had been trying to cope with a blinding headache and had both hands pressed against her face, she felt at a distinct disadvantage. Even more so when she removed her hands and saw that her visitor was Bishop. “House rules. If that door is closed, you knock first and wait to be invited in,” she told him, trying not to sound as tense as she felt.
“Is that what you told your deputies?”
“Like I said, house rules. Applies to everybody.”
He stood in the doorway, frowning at her. “Headache, Miranda?”
She knew better than to lie. “Yeah, a real corker. Is there something you wanted?”
Bishop didn't answer for a moment, but finally said, “Sharon's here with her report on the Grainger girl. I thought we should all discuss it.”
“All right. I'll be there in a minute.” Miranda opened the file on her blotter and stared at the top sheet until the door closed quietly behind him.
Alone again, she took slightly more than the promised minute to work on her control. There wasn't much she could do about the pallor or the fact that the light bothered her so much she wished she could put on sunglasses. But she was able to bury the pain deep enough that she doubted Bishop or his psychics would sense anything unusual.
Maybe the price is too high to pay. Maybe …
But she knew it wasn't. Some things had to happen, events had to unfold in their proper order, or the results could be catastrophic. Instead of merely tragic.
Miranda got to her feet and grimly rode out the wave of dizziness. Then she squared her shoulders, pulled on the mask of professional detachment, and went to join the task force in the conference room.
Alex was there, in defiance of orders, though he did grimace apologetically when Miranda came in.
“I ought to fire you,” she said.
“I'm not on the clock.”
“You're here, you're on the clock.” She sat down at the table beside him, across from the three agents, and focused on Sharon Edwards. “Doctor. Please tell me you found something to point to our killer.”
“I wish I could.” Edwards pushed a manila folder toward the sheriff.
> Miranda didn't open it. “So what did you find? Did the post verify your preliminary conclusions?”
“More or less. She died approximately sixteen to eighteen hours before the body was discovered, which would put time of death at between two and four A.M. on Friday. And—it took her a long time to die, probably hours. I believe his weapon of choice was a baseball bat—I found a few slivers of wood embedded in her skin. Judging by the bruising, I believe he went at her on at least three occasions with pauses in between, perhaps to rest.”
Alex muttered something under his breath, but Miranda kept her gaze on the doctor and her sickened reaction off her face. “Go on.”
“She wasn't raped, and there are no signs she was ever bound or physically restrained. She had been drugged—I found a more than toxic level of chloral hydrate, most probably given to her in a cup of sweet tea. I believe she was comatose before he began beating her, and that she never woke up. She died of internal injuries caused by the beating, though the dose of chloral hydrate would most probably have killed her eventually.
“Her eyes were removed postmortem, and her body exsanguinated, both the carotid and femoral arteries opened.”
“I didn't see any blood on her clothes,” Miranda said.
“No, there wasn't so much as a drop I could find. That added to the wood slivers embedded in her skin tells me that he stripped her naked before beating her, and dressed her after it was all over. Not only that, but he washed the body. I found traces of a mild liquid soap, the kind you can buy in any pharmacy, grocery, or department store. Peter—Dr. Shepherd—checked with her mother, and the soap they use at home is something entirely different.”
Miranda didn't bother to comment on Shepherd's overstepping his authority. “I see.”
“There's one last thing, Sheriff. The killer had inserted a tampon into the girl's vagina.”
A moment of silence followed, then Alex said uncomfortably, “How do you know she didn't—”