Bishop, his gaze on Miranda, seemed about to say something, but finally just followed his agents out of the conference room.
Mildly, Alex said, "I guess we could offer to feed them now and then, since they're here to help us."
"I had Grace send for takeout for their lunch and made it a standing order for the remainder of their time here," Miranda said. "Even had something sent over to the hospital for Edwards. I'm not being inhospitable, Alex. But I also don't intend to socialize with them. They're here to do a job, and I sincerely hope they're very good at what they do."
"We all hope that. And I'm not saying we have to make nice outside the office. You may not have noticed, but I don't especially care for Bishop."
"No, really?" Miranda murmured.
"Okay, so maybe it was a little more obvious than I thought." He paused. "Was it?"
"Let's just say I can't see the two of you going running together at dawn like best buds."
"Oh, he runs?" Alex's tone was innocent.
Miranda drew a breath and rubbed her temple again. "Now? I couldn't say. But he used to, and he looks to be in good shape, so I'd guess he still runs."
"Oh, yeah, I'd say he was in fair shape. Is he any good with that gun he wears?"
"Yes," Miranda replied without elaborating.
"Uh-huh. And I guess he earned that scar fighting bad guys?"
"In the best heroic tradition," she said, only half mockingly.
"What about his hunch about the killer? How close is that likely to be?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't bet against him. He was always . . . very good at his job."
There was a short silence, then Alex said casually, "So you two knew each other pretty well, huh?"
She laughed under her breath. "Are you asking me if we were lovers, Alex?"
"Just tell me if I'm being too nosy."
"It was a long time ago."
"And I guess ... it ended badly?"
"You could say that." She shrugged, very conscious of the tightness in her shoulders.
"Working with him now can't be a whole hell of a lot of fun."
"No," Miranda said. "I wouldn't call it fun." A sudden stab of pain made her breath catch.
Alex stared at her, his brows drawing together in a frown. "Are you all right? You look pale."
"Headache, that's all." Miranda pretended the momentary pause wasn't caused by a surge of nausea. "I'm going home. You too. And don't come back tonight."
"Randy? This killer. Do you suppose it's somebody we know? I mean, know well?"
"I don't think we know him, Alex. I don't think we know him at all."
Tony Harte leaned back to let the waitress set his plate before him, and waited until she had left before saying, "Granted, I only had the use of the usual five senses, but am I the only one who thought the sheriff was in pain? A lot of pain?"
"She said it was a headache," Bishop said.
"That," Sharon Edwards said, "was no ordinary headache. Her pupils were dilated. Is she subject to migraines?" That last brisk question was aimed directly at Bishop.
He hesitated. "Not as far as I know."
Edwards watched him intently. "But?"
"You know as well as I do. Better than I do." Bishop wished this weren't Sunday in a small town where he couldn't even buy a beer, much less the raw whiskey he craved at the moment. "One theory is that psychic ability is caused when some of the electrical impulses in the brain misfire and forge new pathways to previously unused areas."
Harte frowned. "Yeah, I remember reading about that. So?"
"So," Bishop said unemotionally, "if that theory is true, then it follows that especially frequent or especially powerful misfires could, instead of forging new pathways, begin to destroy old ones. Begin to destroy the brain itself."
"Miranda Knight," Harte said slowly, "is definitely what I'd call an especially powerful psychic. Since she has four separate abilities to call her own, there must be an awful lot of electrical activity in her brain. Especially since she's using an incredible amount of energy to shield herself — and block us."
"Yes," Bishop said.
Edwards put down her fork. Reluctantly, she said, "In such a case, the early symptoms would most likely be intense headaches, sensitivity to light and noise, dilated pupils. Like a migraine, but growing worse and causing more damage with each event."
"Until?" Harte asked warily.
Edwards avoided his gaze and picked up her fork again. "There hasn't been enough research to offer any definitive answers to something so theoretical. Even if we had the technical knowledge to understand it, the instruments to measure and evaluate ..."
Harte looked at Bishop and didn't like what he saw. Or what he felt. "Until?" he repeated.
"Until she's a vegetable." Bishop's voice was stony. He turned his head to stare out the window at the dark, chilly winter night. "Of course . . . it's only a theory.".
SEVEN
Tuesday, January 11
Seth Daniels eased into second gear, babying the car, aiming for a smooth transition, and scowled at the betraying jerk. He knew Bonnie was watching him in amused understanding but refused to meet her eyes. It was hard enough on a guy that his girlfriend was the sheriff's sister; it was downright embarrassing to have that same girlfriend teaching him how to drive a stick shift.
"It just takes practice," she said, her carefully neutral voice doing nothing except underline the fact that she was trying not to further damage his fragile male ego.
"I know that," he said.
"And coordination."
"I know that too, Bonnie."
"All I'm saying is that you'll get the hang of it. It can't be harder than playing football, and you do that."
Seth winced as the shift into third was accomplished with another jerk and a grinding noise. "Oh, yeah — how hard can it be?" he muttered. A sideways glance showed him Bonnie was biting her lip, and he struggled with himself for a moment before finally laughing.
"Okay, okay. I'll get the hang of it. Just tell me Miranda didn't teach you how to hunt bears or fly a jet."
"You want to learn how to hunt bears?" she asked innocently. "Because if so — "
"Bonnie."
She laughed. "No, she didn't teach me either of those things. Just the more usual stuff. Cooking, sewing, driving a stick . . . sharpshooting."
"Jesus."
Bonnie smiled at him. "Well, she was trying to be mother and father, you know."
"Well, yeah, I understand that — but sometimes I wonder if she wasn't also trying to be a commando. Sharpshooting?"
"With a gun in the house, she just thought I should know how to handle it."
"But sharpshooting? Knowing how not to shoot yourself in the foot is one thing, but how often in life will you need to blow the wings off a fly at a hundred yards?"
"The light's yellow, Seth — use the clutch and downshift."
He obeyed, eventually bringing the car to a halt at the traffic light in a maneuver smooth enough to partially soothe his ruffled feathers. "You changed the subject," he told her.
"There was nothing more to say. Randy taught me what she thought might be useful someday. So I can bake biscuits and sew on a button, and I can also change a tire and handle a gun."
Seth looked at her for a moment, then eased the car forward when the light changed. "I'm surprised she let you come out with me today."
"We have to be back home by curfew, Seth."
"Yeah, I know that." He was seventeen, which put him in the age group required to be off the streets and under parental or employer supervision by 5:00 P.M.
"But she's always been so protective of you, and with a killer running loose — "