Slowly, Harte said, "Proof or no, it'll take her some time to get used to the idea, I imagine. But once she gets past that, once she realizes she can open up ... then there's you."
"Then there's me. Keeping her closed." Bishop sighed and stared at his subordinate with grim eyes. "Sometimes I hate working with psychics."
"Ninety-eight-percent success rate," Harte reminded him.
"Yeah, yeah. Just stay the hell out of my head, will you, please?"
"Hey, boss, I can't get into your head. That's not my forte, remember? I just pick things up from the air. Not my fault if you're tossing 'em out there."
"I'll try to watch that," Bishop said dryly.
"Yeah, you might want to," Harte murmured, fixing his attention on a small and unnecessary adjustment to the coffeemaker.
A tinge of hot color stole into Bishop's cheeks. "Any idea where she went?"
"Nope. But it is lunchtime, more or less; maybe she has a usual haunt. Being the sheriff, I'd assume she has to always leave word where she'll be. Or wear a pager, I suppose, though I didn't notice one earlier. I saw her speak to the receptionist — what's her name, Grace? — before she went out."
Bishop didn't bother to invent an excuse for leaving the conference room; there really were precious few secrets among a team of psychics, and if it disturbed him to have his thoughts and emotions plucked out of hiding, at least it also made prevarication useless and explanation unnecessary.
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 cafe 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 resume?"
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."