Кей Хупер - Out of the Shadows

Hadn't Bonnie said that they been up in her room when they had used the damned thing? She was almost sure that was right, and could only suppose that Mrs. Task had brought it down here for some reason. It didn't sound like the housekeeper, who probably wouldn't have a clue how one was supposed to play such a "game," but Miranda couldn't think of another reason for the board to be down here.

Actually, she admitted silently, she was having trouble thinking at all. She bent down to absently move the planchette off the NO and to the center of the board, then went upstairs to see if a shower would clear her head.

Behind her, the planchette moved slowly back across the board and centered itself over the NO once again.

"Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you realize you're pacing?"

Bishop stopped in mid-pace and frowned at his subordinate. "In case I haven't told you, you're a very irritating companion, Tony."

"Hey, I'm not the one wearing a path in the floor," Tony objected. He watched Bishop sit down decisively at his laptop, and added, "Something bothering you?"

"I hate storms."

"It isn't storming yet. I checked when I went to refill the coffeepot, and it's just snowing gently out there. Ground isn't even covered yet. Hell, the phones aren't even ringing with the sounds of worried citizens pestering their constabulary. Just nice and quiet, with deputies working industriously at their desks or playing poker in the lounge."

Bishop waited, but when it became obvious Tony was finished, he gave in and asked, "Where's Miranda?"

"Alex said she went home about half an hour ago. Supposed to be coming back, though. I gather she intends to spend the night here."

Forgetting that he wasn't going to pace anymore, Bishop got up and moved to the window. It looked out onto the lighted parking lot, which showed him a couple of cruisers and numerous other cars all dusted with snow. The snowflakes were getting larger and no longer falling straight down as the wind began to kick up.

"The storm is definitely coming," he said.

"And that's bothering you?"

"I told you. I hate storms." He was silent for a moment. "I don't know why the hell she doesn't just stay home."

"Feels her place is here, I guess."

"You said yourself nothing was happening."

"Yet."

"Even so."

Another silence fell, this one not interrupted until Bishop returned to the desk and picked up the phone.

"I guess you know her number," Tony said.

"Yes, Tony, I know her number."

Undeterred by the sharp tone, Tony watched him with interest. What he sensed in his boss wasn't dislike of the coming storm or mere restlessness but something a whole lot stronger and much less easy to define. And apparently contagious, Tony noted as he stopped his own fingers from drumming on the table.

Jeez, talk about tension.

Bishop hung up the phone. "The machine picked up."

"Maybe she's in the shower."

"Maybe." Bishop returned to the window.

"But you don't think so," Tony ventured.

For a minute it seemed he wouldn't answer, but finally Bishop said, "Something feels wrong."

"Feels wrong how?"

"I don't know."

"Feels wrong with Miranda?"

Bishop hesitated again, then nodded. "I used to— There was a time when I could feel what was going on with her. If she was happy or upset, I knew it."

"That's what you're feeling now?"

"No, this is different. It's like I saw or heard something I wasn't consciously aware of, something that's nagging at me now. Something I know that's just out of my reach."

"Something about Miranda?"

Bishop looked at the phone, his restlessness as clear as his reluctance to make a fool of himself. "I'll wait ten minutes and call again. In case she's in the shower."

Tony caught himself drumming his fingers again, and stopped. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds like a good idea."

The hot water made Miranda feel better, and by the time she'd dried her hair and dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, even her appetite had returned. She looped an elastic band around her wrist to use later in tying back her hair. In the living room she turned the television on for background noise and weather reports. It was only then that she noticed the Ouija board lying on the floor.

She grabbed her gun instantly, wondering why the game was the only thing disturbed in the room. An intruder would have taken her gun, surely; it had been clearly visible. Why knock a game board to the floor?

With her shields up and defenses cut off, Miranda could sense nothing unusual in the house. Which meant she would have to move carefully, room by room, turning on the lights, checking windows and all the outer doors, looking into closets and corners.

There was a quicker and easier way, she told herself. It wouldn't matter if she dropped her shields for just a moment or two. Just long enough to get a sense of the house, to make sure she was alone.

Miranda didn't fully realize the great strain of keeping those shields up constantly for so long until she allowed them to fall. For just an instant, the ache in her head intensified — and then vanished like a soap bubble. Her ears actually popped as though she were coming down from a high altitude, and her vision blurred before becoming so sharp that she blinked in surprise.

The moment of well-being was wonderful.

What came next was agony.

She dropped the gun, both hands going to her head, the red-hot jolt of pain making her sway. Even stunned, she instinctively recognized an attack, knew that something, some energy, was trying to force its way into her mind. Just as instinctively she defended herself.

Her shields slammed back up, reinforced by sheer desperation, and in the same instant she made a violent mental effort to deflect that probing blade of energy.

She almost saw it, white and shimmering and so rapacious it would cut its way into her. She almost saw it.

And then everything went black as pitch and as silent as the grave.

She never heard the phone begin to ring.

The last of Liz's customers left around nine-thirty, which gave her plenty of time to finish cleaning up before the snow got too bad. She left the front door unlocked, in case anybody needed to come in to use the phone, and kept the television above the counter tuned to local weather reports.

They weren't very encouraging, unless you liked a lot of snow.

Liz wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just letting her mind drift, when she suddenly understood what the white shirt meant.

Of course. Of course, it made perfect sense.

Her first impulse was to call Alex, but a moment's thought made her decide on a trip to the Sheriff's Department. So she worked hurriedly, locked the front door and turned out the lights, then let herself out the rear door and locked it.

She always parked in back, in an alley just a few steps from the door, even though Alex had told her to park in front whenever she worked nights. Liz never worried about it. Just a few steps, after all, and she'd never been afraid no matter how late it was.

It was cold, much colder than it had been just a few hours ago. And the snow was beginning to thicken and blow about as the wind whined restlessly.

Liz started her car, then got out to brush the snow off the windshield while it warmed up. Her wipers weren't the best, and the defroster wasn't very enthusiastic, so she thought a little manual help was in order.

"You're going home late."

She turned with a gasp, then managed a shaky laugh. "And I have to go by the Sheriff's Department first. But what're you doing out — " Then she saw the gleaming knife.

"I'm sorry, Liz. I'm so sorry."

She barely had time to realize that she'd been wrong about the shirt after all when she felt the cold steel of the knife slip into her body with horrifying ease.