Кей Хупер - Out of the Shadows

"I don't either. But I'm afraid we will."

Tony pursed his lips. "Think he might find out how you got the tip?"

"If he listens to gossip, he'll certainly have a possibility."

"But is it something he'll believe?"

Slowly, Miranda said, "If Bishop's profile is accurate, it might be the only possibility the killer can believe. He thinks he's all-powerful and in control, that he seldom if ever makes a mistake. The fact that we found his latest victim before he was ready for us to will shake him. He might eagerly accept the idea that we had to use some . . . paranormal means to do it."

"It tracks," Tony admitted. "But if he believes Bonnie sent us out there ..."

"Then she's a danger to him." Miranda's voice was grim. "Which is why she won't be alone at any time until this is over and done with."

"I know you're accustomed to taking precautions, but this has to be worrying you."

"You could say that." Miranda wondered almost idly what it would feel like not to be worried. After so many years, it was familiar, a normal state of mind.

"We'll get him, Miranda."

"Yes, I know we will." But would it be in time?

"You're doing everything you can," Tony reminded her.

"Am I?"

"The police work's all on target. Step by step and by the numbers. As for other things . . . we're using all the tools we've got. And so are you, right? Any insights?"

"Insights?"

"Vibes, let's say."

"I don't pick up vibes, remember?" she reminded him.

"Yeah, but you're precognitive. And even if you have burned out on that ability, chances are good there're still some residual flashes there."

Miranda hesitated, then shrugged. "None to speak of."

Tony was watching her steadily. "Because you're shut off?"

"Maybe."

"If so, this might be the time to turn it back on," he suggested lightly. "We can use any help we can get."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, equally light.

Obviously realizing that pursuing that subject would gain him nothing, Tony tried another tack. "It's probably none of my business," he began.

Miranda half laughed. "Whenever somebody says that, you just know it isn't."

He grinned. "Touche. But I'm incurably nosy, so I've gotta ask."

"About?"

"Bishop."

Miranda told herself it was poetic justice for her to discuss him with his subordinates since they had obviously discussed her, but she was honest enough to admit to herself that wasn't why she readily answered. "What about him?"

"Well, he's becoming something of a legend — quietly — within the Bureau because of his success record, especially in the last few years. And he's far and away the most powerful and accurate telepath in the unit. So what most of us can't understand is how he could have . . . screwed up so badly eight years ago."

Miranda got off the conference table and went to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"I said it was probably none of my business," Tony murmured.

She was surprised to hear herself say, "So that's the general assumption, that he screwed up?"

"We all know the operation went south in a very bad way. That people — that most of your family died. And some of us know that Bishop blames himself for that. To be honest, it really doesn't sound like him to screw up that way. I mean, sure, he makes mistakes — but not like that. He's fanatical about making sure that anybody at risk is fully protected."

Miranda went back to the table and sat down again. "Mistakes are easier to make when you believe you have all the answers. When you've seen a vision of the future you absolutely believe will come true."

Tony thought about that. "He saw a positive outcome, and that's why he took the chances he did? But how? He's a touch telepath, not precognitive — "

"He was then," she said. "Just for a while ... he was."

"He was temporarily precognitive?"

"Yes."

Tony blinked. "I don't understand. He's been tested, he isn't precognitive, not in the slightest degree. Abilities like that are born in us, not created. I mean, a head injury might trigger a latent ability — A head injury. That scar of his?"

Miranda shook her head. "No, the scar came later."

"Then there was no head injury? No unusual trauma to trigger a new ability temporarily?"

"Trauma." Miranda laughed under her breath. "I guess you could say that was it. An unusual trauma."

"What?"

"Me." Miranda lifted her cup in a mocking little salute. "I triggered it."

"How?" Tony asked.

Miranda wavered briefly, but finally laughed again, and took her coffee with her when she headed for the door. "I'm afraid that really is none of your business," she said. "Sorry, Tony."

"That," Tony said indignantly, "is really cruel."

"Life is unfair," she agreed. "Are you planning to be here awhile?"

He sighed. "Yeah, at least until the snow gets good and started. Nothing to do at the Lodge but watch TV, so I'd just as soon work while I might be able to get something done. Both our rentals are SUVs and we know how to drive in bad weather, so we should be able to get around okay unless it turns into a real blizzard."

"Then I'll probably see you later."

She went to her office, absently leaving her door open, and sat down behind the big desk.

What on earth had possessed her? To talk about it at all, even to think about it, wasn't something she had allowed herself for so long. It was stupid, just plain stupid, to let herself get dragged back into the past.

Miranda sat there staring at the coffee cup on the center of her blotter, remembering so much more than she wanted to. She remembered his face transformed, hunger and tenderness naked in his eyes, in the bittersweet curve of his lips. She remembered how he had touched her hair, how he had held her against him all night, even in sleep.

Most of all, she remembered the unexpected force of his passion, the intense need that had half-frightened her. It had never been casual for him, not even in the beginning.

She hadn't even imagined what would happen. Half-consciously pressing her cool palms to her burning cheeks, Miranda closed her eyes. Even Bishop, she thought, hadn't realized what passion would ignite between them.

Please, God, he hadn't known or even suspected, hadn't been that cold-blooded. . . .

"Randy?"

She jerked in surprise, hands falling, eyes opening to see Alex standing in the doorway.

"Sorry," he said. "But the door was open. I can come back later."

Miranda got hold of herself. Or tried to. The hand she used to pick up her cup was, she saw, shaking. "No, now is fine," she said, lying grimly. "What's up?"

Alex came in, closed the door, and sat in a visitor's chair. "Couple of things. The snow still hasn't started, but we're ready for it. The off-duty deputies went home to get a few hours' sleep in case they're needed later, but all are on call from here on out. We've set up a few cots in that empty office, and we have supplies enough to get us through a couple of days, just in case."

"Good."

"Tomorrow being Sunday, there won't be the usual traffic to worry about, especially since the churches will all cancel services if the weather's bad. We've raised the age for curfew to twenty-one, and asked that none of the kids go anywhere alone even before dusk. Safety in numbers, or at least we can hope there is."

Miranda nodded. "Then we've done all we can for the time being."

"Yeah."

She waited.

"I don't quite know how to put this, Randy, so I'll just say it straight out. The rumors are getting pretty wild, but I saw your face when I told you what Amy Fowler was claiming. I know you didn't get a phone call before you and Bishop went out to the old mill house, and I know the only visitors you had were Bonnie and Seth Daniels." He paused. "I can guess the so-called anonymous tip came from them, and I have to assume there was at least some truth in what Amy claimed — as wild as it sounds. But I need to understand. About. . . uncanny hunches. About FBI agents who seem to know things they shouldn't. I need to know what's going on, Randy. And I'm asking you to tell me the truth about it."