"No, we don't know," Miranda murmured. "But there's at least an even chance that none of those kids got out of this town alive. My God . . . how could so many disappear without notice?"
"If you mean without official notice, consider that the disappearances averaged two or three a year over more than a dozen years. How many administrations in that time? How many strangers passing through Gladstone on their way to Nashville? And consider too that the old files weren't put on computer, where the pattern might have been seen before now."
"Still. We should have noticed. We should have seen something."
There was nothing particularly reassuring Bishop could say, so instead he said, "One thing these files make more likely is that our killer has had a lot of practice. The steady stream of young people through this town for so many years, kids who wouldn't be missed or at least whose disappearance wouldn't be noticed by or tied to anyone locally, gave him plenty of time and opportunity to get very good at killing."
"And to get very good at disposing of the bodies." Miranda frowned. "That's another thing I don't get. If he's been successfully killing all these years, why suddenly begin leaving the bodies where they'd be found relatively quickly and easily? Both Kerry Ingram and Lynet were left in such a way that it was clear they'd be found sooner rather than later. Why?"
Bishop turned his gaze to the bulletin board and, slowly, mused, "The only thing we can be pretty certain about is that the new highway forced him to kill local kids, even kids he knew. As long as they were strangers, he could enjoy himself. But once he knew them, once he could call them by name and see their eyes or their smiles afterward in the faces of their relatives . . . maybe that was too much. Even if only subconsciously, maybe he's hoping we'll stop him."
Musing herself, Miranda said, "Adam was the first local kid to be killed. But he buried Adam just as — presumably — he buried or disposed of earlier victims, in such a way that his body wasn't likely to be found. So . . . did he bury him that way just out of habit? Because he hadn't yet even subconsciously realized he wanted to be caught? Or was there a different reason?"
Bishop thought about it, then said, "I still believe something about Adam or his murder will point directly to the killer. That's why he was buried how and where he was — because the killer knew we could discover something about him by studying that victim or that murder. And whatever it is ... he doesn't want us to know it."
"We still aren't sure how he picks his victims," Miranda offered. "Maybe it has something to do with that? Maybe he grabbed Adam for all the wrong reasons, and knew or feared we'd discover that eventually?"
Nodding, Bishop said, "That's more than possible. It looks like he kept Adam alive the longest of the local victims, tortured him in the worst, most painful ways — like the chemicals to age his bones. Even if it was done for some other reason, that could also have been punishment, pure and simple, something inflicted to cause the most suffering. Didn't Sharon say that, that he probably did it just to see what would happen — for kicks?"
"Yeah, she did. And you said you thought the killer got Adam because he needed something from him."
"I still think that. Suppose . . . Adam knew something damaging or potentially damaging to the killer, and he either told the killer outright for some reason or else let his knowledge slip at just the wrong moment. And became a victim. He was punished for what he knew, and maybe tortured partly so he'd reveal everything to the killer."
"But did he reveal everything?"
"No. Although I can't at the moment tell you why I'm so sure of that."
"Instinct, maybe," she said.
"Maybe. Or sheer practice at understanding the methods and minds of monsters."
"Whichever it is, I think you're right. And it all sounds even more plausible when we add in what Bonnie called to tell us earlier — that Amy is sure Steve knew why Adam was killed, and that he went looking for answers himself. It can't be coincidence that Steve ended up a victim. That argues the possibility that there is — or at least was — some evidence or information for him to find. Maybe he found it. And maybe he died for it."
At that timely moment, Tony hung up the phone and turned to face them, saying briskly, "Mr. Penman is willing to swear on the Bible that Adam Ramsay never even parked his car at their house, much less kept it there."
Bishop eyed him. "I feel a 'but' coming on."
"You're so right. With a little prodding and skillful questioning from yours truly, he did allow as how the family owns quite a bit of property thereabouts — including an old barn a mile or so from their house. An old, supposedly unused barn not too far off the road that would provide fair shelter for a car."
"If it was there," Miranda said, "Steve must have known about it. Why say nothing all this time?"
Bishop said, "Maybe when Adam disappeared, Steve checked, saw the car was still there, and decided to bide his time and see if Adam turned up. When he turned up dead, Steve wondered about the car — and decided to check it out for himself."
"The arrogant stupidity of youth," Tony muttered.
"Maybe," Miranda said. "Or maybe Steve just made one mistake too many, like Adam." She got to her feet. "I say we go find out if that car is there."
Bonnie came out of Amy's room and closed the door.
Seth, who had been waiting nearby, asked, "Is she asleep?"
"Finally. I think she's dreading her mom's visit this afternoon. Your dad was right, though — with nothing much to do but think about things, she prefers sleep, sedatives or no sedatives."
"You must be pretty bored by now yourself."
Bonnie smiled at him. "No, I'm fine. Tired of being cooped up, I guess, but not really bored."
"Well, at least you can get some fresh air. Miranda just called. I don't know if anything new's happened — I mean, since Miss Hallowell was killed — but she wants you at the Sheriff's Department. She's sending a cruiser with two deputies, and we're not to open the door until we're positive it's them. I told her I was coming with you, and she said it was fine."
"Seth, you really don't have to --"
"Yes," he said, taking her hand, "I really have to. Don't argue, Bonnie."
She smiled at him again, and didn't argue.
The car was there.
Miranda, Bishop, and Tony found no marks in the deep snow surrounding the barn to indicate that anyone had been near since before the storm, but they were nonetheless careful in clearing snow away from the wood-barred but not padlocked door far enough to pull it open.
A dusty green 1989 Mustang met their eyes.
They studied the car from the doorway for a few minutes, every sense each could claim probing and alert.
"There is," Miranda said, "something off about this place or that car."
"I don't get anything," Tony said.
"It isn't an emotion," she told him. "Something else."
Bishop added, "Something almost. . . primal."
Tony looked from one to the other. "Primal? You mean instinct?"
"No. I mean . . . basic. It's almost... I can almost smell blood, but not quite."
"This is a barn," Tony pointed out. "Probably been blood in here over the years, from animals being born or being slaughtered. Maybe that's it?"
"Maybe."
"Let's check it out," Miranda said.
Again, they were careful in approaching the car, each carrying a flashlight and wearing latex gloves so as not to disturb any prints they might have the luck to find.
Opening the driver's door, Miranda said abruptly, "If Steve did find something here in the car, what are the chances it's still here?"