She didn't want to admit even to herself that it also felt sort of nice to talk to people who understood and accepted.
But curiosity drove her to ask, "Eighth degree? What the hell kind of scale are we talking about?" Since Harte still appeared a bit stunned, she had no choice but to look, finally, at Bishop.
He gazed at her steadily, his pale eyes unreadable. "A scale we developed at Quantico while putting the program together the last few years."
"Being anal feds," she said dryly, "you just had to weigh, measure, and evaluate even the paranormal, huh?"
"Something like that."
She realized he wasn't going to tell her unless she asked, and it annoyed her. "Okay, I'll bite. So how high does this scale of yours go?"
"To twelve."
"Which, I suppose, is your degree?"
Bishop shook his head. "We have yet to encounter a psychic with any kind of twelfth-degree ability. I rank at a little above ten telepathically."
"How about the spider-sense? What does that rank?"
"Maybe six. On a good day."
"To put things into perspective," Harte murmured, "Sharon and I both come in around three on the scale as adepts. Most of the other members of the unit, in fact, don't go above five. And only one other agent besides Bishop has even an ancillary ability, far less a fullblown secondary ability. This is the first time I've ever met anybody with more than two. In fact, it's the first time I've even heard of it."
"Yeah, well. I come from a long line of overachievers." Miranda wasn't as impressed with herself as Harte was. Familiarity had not bred contempt, but it had bred acceptance; to Miranda, the paranormal was just a part of life.
"Why in hell are you stuck way out here in the boonies instead of playing on our team?" Harte exclaimed, then winced and sent an apologetic look to Bishop. "Yikes. Sorry, boss."
"Tony," Bishop said mildly, "I think the coffeepot is empty. Why don't you go fill it?"
"Hey, you don't have to drop a house on me to get me to go away. I'm psychic — I can take a more subtle hint than that." He grabbed the coffeepot and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door gently behind him.
Miranda didn't know which emotion was stronger, furious embarrassment that her past was not, apparently, as private as she had supposed, or furious pain that Bishop had evidently discussed her with at least one member of his team.
"I'm sorry, Miranda."
She forced herself not to look away, and called on all her self-control to present an indifferent front. "About what? Discussing me with your agents? Should I have expected anything else?"
"I hope so. It isn't what you obviously think."
"Isn't it?"
"Miranda, they're psychics. And even though my walls are fairly solid, I can't project an impenetrable shield the way you can — even around my own mind."
She was glad her shield was firmly in place just then, glad he had no idea of her thoughts and emotions. But all she said was, "So whose idea was this new unit of yours? It doesn't sound at all typical of the Bureau."
For a moment, she thought he would fight her, but finally he answered.
"It isn't. There was a great deal of resistance at first, until it was proved that unconventional methods and abilities could produce tangible results."
"And who proved that? You?"
"Eventually."
"Really? How?"
He drew a breath. "I tracked down the Rosemont Butcher."
Miranda rose to her feet slowly, staring at him. "What?" she whispered.
"Lewis Harrison. I got him, Miranda. Six and a half years ago."
Alex had been more or less ordered not to come into the office on Sunday. He'd been working nearly three weeks without a break, and Miranda claimed the town council would have her head on a platter if she didn't see to it that he took time off whether he wanted to or not. Overtime was one thing, she said, but he was carrying it to extremes — even if they did have a serial killer to find.
He hated days off. He wasn't a sporting man, so hunting and fishing held no appeal for him. Neither did golf. Watching sports on television was an enjoyable pastime only during baseball season. He ran and worked out to keep in shape, but a man could hardly do that all day.
And then there was the house. It was too big and too damned empty. He should get rid of it, he knew. But Janet had loved the house, had decorated it with painstaking care, and in the year since her death he hadn't been able to face the thought of someone else living in Janet's house.
But living in the house alone had its own kind of pain, and though sleeping there was, finally, possible, Alex could seldom spend much time in it when he was awake.
Unfortunately, Sundays in Gladstone didn't offer a lot in the way of entertainment once church let out. And even less if one wasn't particularly interested in church.
He finally drove to town, resisting the urge to stop by the office and find out what was going on. Instead, he parked near Liz's bookstore and coffeeshop, forced to wait nearly forty-five minutes for Liz to unlock the doors at two o'clock.
"I heard about Lynet," she said.
"Yeah, poor kid." Alex sat at the counter rather than his usual booth, since Liz worked alone on Sundays.
"And I heard the FBI is in town."
"Well, three agents anyway." He smiled. "Your dark man with a mark on his face is one of them. And Randy knows him." Then Alex recalled what Liz had said about the fate of that man, and his smile faded. "You don't still think—"
Liz chewed on her bottom lip. "When I read the leaves again, it was more fuzzy, less definite, but I'm sure it was the same thing, Alex. Does — does Randy like him?"
Alex considered the question. "To be honest, the only thing I'm sure of is that she feels a lot about him. Whether it's like or dislike, positive or negative, I can't tell."
"Maybe I should talk to her about what I saw," Liz suggested hesitantly. "She's never scoffed. Never let me read the leaves for her, but—"
Alex shook his head. "Not right now, Liz. Randy has enough on her plate, I think, without having to worry about something that might not happen."
"I knew it would be a strange year, new millennium and all, but I really don't like all these bad omens, Alex."
"More dogs howling at night?"
Before she could answer, Justin Marsh stormed into the coffeeshop, his thin little wife, Selena, on his heels like a mute shadow.
"Elizabeth, I'm asking you again not to conduct business on the Sabbath!" he thundered as though from a pulpit.
Alex sighed. "Justin, why're you picking on Liz? Half the retail businesses and all the restaurants and cafes open up after church. Afternoon, Selena."
"Hello." She smiled timidly, holding her Bible with both hands as though she feared it would escape any minute. She might have been pretty once, but Selena had been married to Justin Marsh for nearly thirty years and the ordeal had worn her down. She was seldom seen in public without him, and Alex couldn't recall hearing her say much more than hello and goodbye, with an occasional Praise the Lord or Amen thrown in at appropriate pauses in Justin's oratory.
"As a matter of fact," Alex went on, "didn't you use to open up your car lot on Sundays before you retired and sold out?"
"I saw the error of my ways," Justin declared piously, his face reddening. "And now I'm commanded by the Lord to guide the others of his flock toward the light of salvation!"
Alex almost gave that one an Amen himself. He always appreciated a good dramatic performance.
Gravely, Liz said, "Can I get you two some coffee, Justin? Purely on the house, you understand — not a business transaction."
He leaned across the counter, eyes intent on her face.
"Elizabeth, I will place your feet upon a godly path. You must not be allowed to follow the evil way. A good woman such as you should have an honored place in the house of our Lord."