"All right, all right. But the point is, I'm very different now and I don't want you at a distance. In any way, but especially emotionally and telepathically."
"You do recall there's a price to pay for that sort of closeness? If I should have another vision—"
"I'll have it too. Yeah, I know. They hurt, as I recall."
"That's still the same, I'm afraid, Like a blinding migraine, though thankfully lasting only a minute or so."
"Now that you're no longer working so hard to shut me out, is another vision likely? You told Tony right after we arrived that you'd more or less burned out on the precognition."
"Lied."
Bishop winced. "And even years ago, once we were linked, you said the visions were more . . . intense."
"Uh-huh. And you're much stronger now than you were then as a telepath. So with your energy added to mine, we'll probably blow the top off that scale you guys developed at Quantico to measure these things."
He knew that was quite likely true. There had been so much going on the summer they had first become lovers, both around them and between them, that exploring the limits of what was psychically possible with their connection had not been uppermost in their minds. But what they had discovered in due course was that they shared each other's abilities even when apart, and that when they were in physical contact, the energy of each enhanced the energy and abilities of the other.
They had found out quite by accident that if they were holding hands or otherwise in physical contact and either of them touched someone whom neither had been able to read alone, they were sometimes able to read that person. Not always — but often enough to, as Miranda had put it, shift their combined range well over into the FM scale.
It made them, quite simply, more than twice as powerful together than either was alone.
Following his thoughts easily, Miranda said, "We're an odd pair, there's no question about that."
"I choose to think of us as unique, not odd." He drew her a bit closer, smiling. "And you never said you'd stop calling me Bishop."
"I didn't, did I?"
"Miranda."
She chuckled. "Well, it'll take some getting used to. You've always been Bishop." Even in my mind. Her mouth brushed his, then lingered. "But I'll work on it... Noah."
For a while, Bishop forgot everything except the aching pleasure of being physically close to her. Holding her and touching her, their mouths hungry, bodies straining to be closer despite the clothing and the necessity keeping them apart.
"Wow," Miranda murmured at last, her eyes darkened, heavy lidded, and sensual.
Bishop's arms tightened for just a moment, then he eased her away from him. In a hoarse voice he said, "Much more of this and I won't have any wits left to focus on trying to catch our killer. Jesus, Miranda."
"They say self-denial is good for the soul."
"Yeah, and I'll bet the ones saying it didn't have anything they hated giving up."
Miranda smiled, but said, "Maybe we'd better concentrate on work for a while. Storm or no storm."
"Maybe we'd better," he agreed. "We can try one more time to put the pieces of the puzzle together."
Monday, January 17
Amy Fowler opened her eyes and gazed blearily at the ceiling. Same ceiling. Same stupid, dull ceiling, industrial gray squares pockmarked with tiny black specks. She was really, really tired of looking at that ceiling.
At least the wind had stopped howling like something trapped alive, and sleet no longer pelted the window panes in that unceasing, unsettling rattle. The storm was finally over.
The sedatives had blurred time somewhat for Amy, but she thought it was probably Monday morning; the light coming from the single window in the room was very bright, sunshine reflecting off lots and lots of snow.
Two days. They'd found Steve's body just two days ago.
Under the covers, her hands crept down to cover her lower abdomen, and tears welled up in her eyes. Steve was gone. Steve was gone, and a baby was coming, and Amy was so scared. She wanted to just go back to sleep, not to think about it anymore, but Dr. Daniels had told her gravely last night that there wouldn't be any more drugs, that she had to face things.
Face things. Face her mom and dad. Face the pity of her friends at school, while her belly got big and she went every Sunday to put flowers on Steve's grave.
Oh, God.
"Amy?" Bonnie came into the room, her expression wavering between worry and hope. "Dr. Daniels says you should eat something. One of the nurses is going to bring you a tray in a few minutes."
"I don't care," Amy murmured, honestly indifferent. She found the bed's controls and pressed the button to raise the head several inches.
Bonnie sat in the chair beside the bed. "A snowplow went past a little while ago, so the roads are being cleared. I think . . . your mom wants to come take you home now that the storm is over."
"I guess there's no school," Amy said.
"No. Probably not tomorrow either."
Amy pleated the sheet between her fingers. "But sooner or later. And everybody'll know."
Reasonably but not without sympathy, Bonnie said, "It isn't something you can hide for long. But you have choices, options. And you aren't alone, don't forget that."
"My dad's going to kill me."
"You know he won't."
Amy looked at her best friend and felt a little resentful. "I don't know that. All I know is that Steve is dead and he left me with a baby."
Bonnie didn't argue or point out that Amy had also helped create that baby. She merely said, "I'm sure if he'd been given a choice, he'd be here with you now."
"So I should be happy he would have chosen fatherhood over death? Great, that's just great."
"Amy, that isn't what I meant. I'm just saying that you can't blame Steve for not being here."
"You want to bet?" Amy laughed, vaguely aware that there was a shrill edge to the sound. "He couldn't leave well enough alone, that's what the problem was. That's what got him killed. He was always pushing, always going just that inch farther than he should have."
"What are you talking about?" Bonnie was frowning.
"I'm talking about Steve and his stupid, stupid plots and plans. You think he wanted to work in the paper mill all his life? Oh, no, not Steve Penman. He wanted something bigger, something better. The problem was, he didn't want to earn it or work for it — he just wanted it. And he always had some kind of plan, some scheme for taking the best shortcut to get just what he wanted."
"Amy, are you talking about something specific? Do you have some idea who might have killed Steve?"
"I know he had some idea who it was that killed Adam Ramsay — and why."
"What? How long have you known that?"
Amy shrugged. "Just after they found Adam's bones, I guess. Steve hinted that he knew why somebody would have killed Adam. He wasn't going to tell me anything more at first. It makes . . . made him feel more important to know things other people didn't know. Me, anyway."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said Adam had a real talent for rinding out things he shouldn't have, that he was always sticking his nose into the wrong places. He said he'd bet that's what happened, that Adam got too close to something dangerous. And he said he thought he knew how he could find out what it was that Adam had stumbled onto."
Slowly, Bonnie said, "Amy, why didn't you tell us any of this before?"
Amy went back to pleating the sheet between her fingers. "I don't know. I was so upset when he disappeared . . . and I don't really know anything else. I warned Steve not to go looking for whatever had gotten Adam killed, but he just laughed at me. He said he'd be careful." Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. "He said he'd be ... but I guess he wasn't, was he? He wasn't careful enough."