"Symbolic," she muttered, staring at the cup but not daring to look at the leaves again. "What I see is almost always symbolic. Signs and portents. So what does it mean? What does it portend? Help me, Gran, help me figure it out."
The peal of the doorbell nearly made her jump out of her skin, but she felt relieved as she went to let Alex in. There was such a thing as being alone too long, she thought, and one sign of that was probably talking to one's dead grandmother.
"Is something wrong?" Alex asked immediately, his smile fading.
"No, I was just starting to talk to — myself. Come on in."
He followed her back to the kitchen and uncorked the wine while she set the meal on the table. They were, as usual, quite comfortable together. Casual. They talked about the nervous, frightened mood of the town, and about how unbelievable it was that a killer walked among them, and they soberly pondered the fate of Steve Penman.
"Could he be alive?" Liz asked.
"Sure he could. But if this sick bastard follows what looks like his pattern, the poor kid would probably prefer to be dead. I know I would."
Repeating what she had told Bishop, Liz said, "I think he's doing something different to Steve. Not because he wants to — more because he has to. Maybe because he made a mistake before and now he has to correct it. Or because you cops have figured out more than he bargained for and now he wants to throw you off his scent." Suddenly self-conscious, she added, "It's just a hunch."
"A hunch." Alex grimaced. "You know, I seem to be the only one around here who isn't having hunches about this investigation, and it's beginning to bother me."
"Randy's always had hunches," Liz noted. "It never bothered you before."
"Yeah, but this is different. From the minute the feds got here, it was like there was something going on that everybody but me knew about. It's in the way they all look at each other, the careful way they talk sometimes, the way they suddenly change the subject if I walk into the room."
"You sound a little paranoid, Alex."
"Don't you think I know that? But just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not also right."
Liz considered it. "Maybe it's just this history between Bishop and Randy. His people could know about it, and—"
"That's part of it, I think, but there's more to it. And it's not just between the two of them, it's all four of them — the three agents and Randy. I noticed it from the very first. It's like they share a secret."
Quite suddenly, Liz recalled how Bishop had seemingly read her mind, and with that memory came a host of others. "Alex ... do you remember last summer when Ed and Jean Gordon's little girl wandered away and got lost?"
"Sure. Randy found her."
"Yeah. Even though the dogs lost the trail at the river. Even though that little girl had gotten herself into an old rowboat and floated two miles down the river, and then managed to get out without drowning before hiding in that old shed you couldn't even see unless you knew it was there. But Randy found her there, didn't she?"
"Yeah," Alex said slowly. "She said it was a ... hunch."
"And what about last April when she insisted the school board get a fire inspector to check the temporary classrooms even though it wasn't time to have them inspected again? He said another month and they'd have had a fire for sure with that faulty wiring."
"I remember." Alex was frowning.
Carefully, Liz said, "And there've been other things, other . . . hunches. Yesterday, Bishop said something to me that made me think he — he might have The Sight. What if he does? And what if Randy has it too?"
She more than half expected Alex to scoff, but he only continued to frown. He drained his wineglass, refilled it, then looked at her finally. "After they got here, I went back and reread that Bureau bulletin about the task force. It's cagey as hell, but if you read it carefully, what it says is that the reason this new group of agents is so successful is that they use unconventional and intuitive investigative methods and tools to solve crimes."
Liz felt her eyes widen. "You mean . . . they all have The Sight? The FBI gathered together a group of agents because they have The Sight, and that's what makes them effective?"
"Maybe. I would have said it was damned farfetched for the Bureau, but more people seem open to the idea of the paranormal these days."
"New millennium," Liz said promptly. "Historically, mysticism and spirituality become more accepted and popular around the turn of a century — and a new millennium just multiplies the effects."
"I'll take your word for it." Alex paused. "If that is what's going on, I can understand their caution. No police department I've ever heard of wants to willingly admit they use psychics in investigations. If it got out publicly that the FBI has an entire unit of them on the government payroll ..."
"But Randy would know about them if she has The Sight herself, especially if it's really strong in her. She's probably lived all her life with it, and understands the doubt and mistrust they'd face. So they can all talk freely with her — even though they'd still have to be careful around other people."
"Like me." He shook his head. "Hunches. Damn. Things are starting to make more sense. When Bishop said there was a well out near the lake even though he'd never been there before, I asked how he could possibly know that. And all Randy said was — 'he knows.' In spite of the obvious antagonism between them, she didn't hesitate to start looking for that well."
Liz watched him brood for a moment. "Will you confront Randy? Ask her if it's true?"
"I don't know."
"Not telling you was probably more habit than anything to do with trust, you do realize that?"
He half nodded. "Still, if she doesn't want me to know, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut."
Liz hesitated before saying, "Just before you got here, I saw it again. I saw Bishop die. That's three times, Alex."
With more gravity than he'd ever shown before, Alex said, "Exactly what did you see?"
Liz closed her eyes and tried to bring the details into focus. "It was outside, in the woods, I think, but I didn't recognize the place. There were patches of snow here and there. I saw a gun, a pistol, held out in a black-gloved hand, but I couldn't see who was holding it. Then the scene tilted, almost like a camera falling, and I saw Bishop lunge in front of somebody else, put himself between the gun and whoever it was he was trying to protect. I couldn't see who it was. But I saw the bullet hit him in the center of his chest, saw the blood, saw him fall." She opened her eyes. "He was dead."
"You're certain of that?"
"Yes. What I don't understand is why I keep seeing it when I read my own tea leaves. That isn't the way it's supposed to work, Alex, not unless — unless I'm either the one holding the gun or the one Bishop dies to protect."
"It isn't you holding the gun," Alex said flatly.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He smiled, but said, "Maybe you're not actively involved in what happens. Maybe you're seeing it because you can change it."
"Maybe." She frowned. "There have been a few times in the past when I saw something that didn't quite happen the way I thought it would. I thought I'd misinterpreted the signs, but maybe what I saw was more like ... a warning. What could and would happen if I didn't change something."
Alex said, "But the tea leaves gave you no idea what that might be, right?"
"Not that I could see."
He got up to help clear the table, and said somewhat ruefully, "What good is psychic ability if everything is shrouded in symbolism and all the important bits are left out?"
"Gran told me it worked that way because it's an ancient ability we've forgotten how to use properly. She said our modern brains try to process the information and present it to us as best they can, using signs and symbols only our primal instincts can truly interpret."