He was just outside the front door when it opened. He caught a glimpse of a tall, blond boy with an intelligent face and steady gray eyes who was holding the door for his companion. And then she stepped through.
Bishop hadn't expected it to hit him so hard, but for a moment he couldn't breathe.
She was so like Miranda — or like Miranda had been once. Blue eyes vividly alive in a sweet, lovely face, not quite innocent but not yet cynical and definitely not veiled. A sensitive mouth, which was still vulnerable.
She recognized him instantly, going still in surprise.
He reached out without thought, his fingers closing around her right wrist. "Bonnie."
"Hey," the boy behind her said, bewildered rather than belligerent.
Bonnie stared up at Bishop and half-consciously shook her head. "It's all right, Seth. Hello, Bishop."
All the things he'd wanted to say to the shattered little girl she'd been eight years before crowded into his mind, but the only thing that emerged was a jerky, "I'm sorry, Bonnie—"
Then the words in his head were pushed out by violent images, and his breath caught in shock. His gaze dropped to her arm, and he knew the sleeve of her sweater hid a peculiar scar, knew how she'd gotten it, what she had done to herself and why, and the wave of pain that washed over him was so intense his knees nearly buckled. "Jesus—"
Bonnie pulled her arm gently from his grasp. She was a little pale but calm, even smiling. "It wasn't your fault," she said quietly. "Even Randy knows it wasn't your fault. Let it go, Bishop."
He couldn't say a word, but she didn't seem to expect any response. She walked past him, followed closely by the boy, who gave Bishop a wary, puzzled look.
Bishop watched them get into a car parked at the curb. He noted the boy's protective body language, the way he looked at her and touched her, the way he carefully put her in the passenger seat and closed her door.
He wondered if Miranda knew.
Pushing that speculation out of his mind, he looked after the car as long as he could see it, then tried to pull himself together enough to go inside. He thought he'd done a fair job, but judging by the stares he got as he walked through the bullpen, maybe not.
He barely remembered to knock first at Miranda's closed office door, to wait for the muffled response before going in.
She was on her feet behind the desk, leaning over a map spread out on the blotter. And she was wearing a shoulder harness that held her .45 automatic.
She glanced up at him and said briskly, "At least this time you remembered to knock." Then her eyes narrowed and she straightened slowly. In an entirely different tone, she said, "You saw Bonnie."
He closed the door and sat down in a visitor's chair. "I saw Bonnie."
Her mouth tightened, but all she said was, "And read her like a book, I see."
"No. Not like a book. But I saw her nightmare." He paused. "It wasn't in the police report, Miranda. I didn't know."
"That was my decision. She'd been through enough. And it wouldn't have changed anything, wouldn't have helped you get him."
He heard himself say, "She told me it wasn't my fault."
"Yeah, that sounds like her."
"She said you didn't believe it either."
Miranda looked at him for a steady moment, her expression unreadable, then began to fold the map. "I have to go check out a tip."
He was willing to let her change the subject, but only because he felt too raw to push it. "A tip — or a vision?"
She hesitated, then sighed. "Bonnie's best friend Amy was desperate to try to find Steve Penman. So they tried. They used a Ouija board."
Bishop stood up. "And?"
"And if they got the truth, we're already too late. But they were told where to find him. It's an old mill house out on the river. Abandoned, isolated." She shrugged. "No possible reason or evidence leads me to look there, and I'm not going to claim another anonymous tip unless it pans out first."
"Then I'm going with you," Bishop said. To his surprise, Miranda didn't argue.
"Let's go."
It was nearly two o'clock when Alex carried the most recently discovered files of missing teenagers into the conference room. Tony Harte was at his laptop and spoke wryly before Alex could.
"Your county librarian tells me that the reason so few records are on computer yet is because the city fathers chose to put their upgrade money into making sure existing systems were Y2K compliant."
"That was their excuse," Alex admitted. "Personally, I think they hoarded money to buy doomsday supplies they probably stashed in the basement of the courthouse, but that's just my opinion."
Tony grinned. "If so, they wouldn't be the only ones who did. But it's making it damned difficult to find information with any speed. Even your newspaper is still storing back issues on microfilm."
"What're you looking for?"
"I wanted to check the newspapers covering the two weeks or so before and after each of these kids was last seen in the area. Probably won't find anything, but it never hurts to look. Sometimes runaways respond to ads in the classifieds — you know, temporary jobs, that sort of thing."
"Good idea." Alex held up the files in his hands. "And here are two more for you, from '95."
"Two for the year?"
"We're not done with the year yet."
Tony grimaced. "Great. Okay, I'll add their names to the list."
Alex put the files on the table, then said, "Sheriff isn't in her office, and I don't see your boss around either."
"They went to check out a tip."
"They?"
"Surprised me too," Tony murmured. "Bishop stuck his head in just long enough to say they were going to some old mill house, and that they'd call in if they found anything. That was about ten minutes ago."
"An old mill house?" Alex frowned.
"Yeah. Out on the river, I think he said." Tony eyed the deputy. "You okay? You look sort of ragged, if you don't mind me saying."
"Bad night," Alex replied briefly.
"Ah. I've had my share of those."
"Then you know what my head feels like. I think I'd rather go look at microfilm in the library than go back down into the basement and paw through more files. If you'll give me the relevant dates, I'll see if The Sentinel has anything helpful."
"You don't have to offer twice," Tony said.
"You're not shielding Bonnie any longer," Bishop said. "That's how I was able to read her."
At the wheel of her Jeep, Miranda frowned but didn't look at him. "With Harrison no longer a threat, it wasn't necessary. Bonnie can protect herself as long as—"
"As long as she's not being hunted by a deranged psychic?"
"Yes."
He turned in the passenger seat to watch her. "There's no hint that Gladstone's killer has any psychic ability."
"No," she agreed.
"And yet you're shielding yourself. Even more now than you were a week ago."
"I have my reasons."
She had surprised him again by offering at least some kind of answer readily, and he probed carefully. "You said it wasn't... us. My team. Something to do with the investigation?"
"We're not going to play twenty questions, Bishop. I have my reasons. And that's all."
"Reasons important enough to risk your life?"
"Check the map, will you? I think we turn left at the next crossroads."
"Jesus, you're a stubborn woman," he said as he got the map off the dashboard. He confirmed that they did indeed turn left, and was silent for several miles before asking, "How did the council meeting go?"
"Badly."
"Are they calling for your job yet?"