"You opened it once before," Seth said, slowly enough to make his own doubts about the reality of that obvious.
"Yes. But Randy reminded me of just how dangerous it is to do that, and I promised her I wouldn't try again."
Seth opened his mouth, then closed it, hesitated, and shrugged. "Sure, I'll put it back."
"Thanks."
"Don't go anywhere while I'm gone."
Bonnie smiled. "No, I won't. I'll set up one of the other games so we can play."
"Good enough." Seth didn't exactly hurry as he left the room, but he didn't dawdle either. He strode down the hall to the storage room, and was careful to put the Ouija board on the highest shelf and shove it far back, so that no part of it hung out over the edge.
He came out and shut the door, absently jiggling the knob to be sure it was firmly closed. It was only when he took a step away that he heard it again.
The whispering.
Seth eased back to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening. He could hear it clearly, a muffled rustling sound that was like a voice or voices whispering rapidly, almost rhythmically.
It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Seth hesitated, then reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The whispering continued. He jerked the door open.
Silence.
And a perfectly ordinary storage room, the Ouija board high on its shelf just as Seth had left it.
He waited a moment, heard nothing but the muted sounds of the storm, and closed the door. Still nothing. Whatever had made the whispering noise was silent now.
"Daniels, you're really losing it," he told himself out loud. But when he went back to Bonnie, he hurried..
EIGHTEEN
"No," Bishop said.
But he saw it now, the vision she had seen months ago, a rushing kaleidoscope of images and emotions and certainties. He saw the bodies discovered one by one, unable to see who they were but knowing what was missing from each: the blood, the organs. He knew as she had known that there would be five victims, the fifth one different from the others — and that after the fifth murder but not before, he and Miranda would become lovers and would restore the intense psychic connection they had once shared.
And after that, soon after that, the end would come with little warning. The images showed him what Miranda had seen from her perspective, a hazy background but Bonnie in clear danger, a hand pointing a gun at Miranda. And as she reached for her own gun, a shot echoing hollowly, the brutal shock of pain — and the utter certainty of death. Then, nothing.
Permeating all the rest, infusing every event throughout the vision, was another absolute certainty, a conviction so powerful there was simply no room for doubt. Bishop would save Bonnie. Without him, she would die as well. Miranda knew that, had known it all along. It was why she had contacted the FBI for help, knowing he would come.
"No," Bishop said again. He realized his eyes were closed, and opened them to find her watching him gravely. For the first time, he wished violently that their connection didn't allow him to see everything she had seen.
"You said once you'd take care of Bonnie if anything happened to me. I'm depending on you for that."
He didn't remember putting his arms around her, but now they held her tighter. "Nothing is going to happen to you. You are not going to die, Miranda. Not here, not now. Not for a long, long time."
As if she hadn't heard him, she said, "Bonnie's too young to go on by herself. She'll need someone. You'll be there for her, won't you, Bishop?"
He was unable to ignore that appeal. "You don't have to worry about Bonnie. I swear to you, I'll take care of her. But this bastard is not going to kill you, Miranda."
She didn't reply to that but kissed him instead, and despite every other emotion crowded inside him, Bishop felt desire escalate so sharply that it threatened to push aside everything else. It had always been that way between them. The hunger was instant and total, and very little short of his fear for her could have kept him from responding wholeheartedly.
You're trying to distract me.
Would I do that?
He groaned and pulled back just far enough to make her look at him. "I'm not going to lose you again. Do you hear me? If I have to lock you in your own jail to keep you safe, then that's what I'll do."
Miranda smiled faintly. "No, you won't. Because you believe what I believe. The best way to deal with a vision is to make the logical decisions and choices as they come up, to stay where you are and go on with your life, and keep an eye out for warning signs. Do something drastic to change fate, and you always end up with a worse outcome than the one you originally saw."
"Worse than you being dead? I'll take that chance."
"But I won't." She stroked his cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch.
"Listen to me, and stop being such a goddamned fatalist. You told me years ago that your visions didn't always come true, didn't always happen the way you saw them."
"Yes. But so far this one has. There's no reason to expect the end to be different."
"There's a very good reason. Me. Where the hell was I in that scene? Because if you think I'll let you out of my sight until this is over, think again."
With a little chuckle, she said, "I wouldn't expect anything else. But you do realize, I hope, that we can't sleep together again in the meantime?"
Belatedly, he did realize that. "We can't take the chance of being without our abilities just when they're needed."
"It probably wouldn't be wise. We had an excuse last night, but not now. It may well be that the only edge we have is the psychic one."
Bishop eyed the white hurricane still going strong outside the window and wasn't all that surprised that he'd been completely unconscious of it for the last little while. "Nothing's likely to happen while it's storming," he pointed out, not really arguing.
"Not likely. Not impossible." She linked her fingers together behind his neck. "Better to be safe than sorry, especially with a killer on the loose."
As badly as he wanted her, Bishop wasn't about to do anything that might put Miranda at greater risk; whether or not she had seen the actual future in that chilling scene, it was a foregone conclusion that both she and Bonnie were at risk, and he wanted all his senses at full strength. No matter what it cost him.
He kissed her, forcing himself to keep it brief. "This is going to be something we'll have to deal with in the future, you know. Maybe we'd better talk about it now and decide how we want to handle it. I mean, I have no intention of putting our love life on hold indefinitely just because we're both likely to be chasing after killers and other criminals most of the time. There is such a thing as sacrificing a little too much for king and country, so to speak."
Her smile wavered for just an instant, but her voice was calm when she said, "Why don't we talk about that later?"
"There will be a later, Miranda."
She nodded. "I'll try to stop being such a fatalist and think positively, okay?"
"That's all I ask. Well — that and one more thing. Stop calling me Bishop."
"I've always called you Bishop."
"I know."
"When we first met, you told me that everybody did. Except for your best friend from college, not a soul alive called you Noah. At least, not more than once."
He grimaced. "That was real subtle of me, wasn't it?"
"Let's just say I got the point. Would you like me to profile you now? Explain how being known only by your surname was one of the ways you used to keep people at a distance? Even lovers?"