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 on 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.