"Fair to good, I'd say," Bishop responded as he opened the passenger's door. "Safer to leave it here until he decided what to do with it. Remember, the killer probably didn't have the chance to question the boy about what he might have known or found. It was undoubtedly a mistake when he hit his victim too hard initially, trying to subdue him."
"That," Tony said thoughtfully, "could explain the unfocused rage I felt out at the old mill house. If he knew Steve had something on him and he had missed his chance to get his hands on whatever it is, I'd guess he'd be furious."
"Probably." Bishop took a seat as he began looking through the glove compartment. "One way or another, I figure he's been angry since he killed Lynet."
Miranda was checking behind the visor and under the mat, and to Tony said, "No keys. You'll have to pop the trunk the hard way."
Slightly offended, Tony said, "What makes you think I know how to do that?"
"Because you work for him."
Tony eyed Bishop, then sighed and dug into the pocket of his jacket for a small leather tool case. "He told us the skill might come in handy."
Miranda said, "He was right, then, wasn't he?"
Sighing again, Tony went around to work on the locked trunk. He didn't consider himself very adept at picking locks, but got the trunk unlocked quickly.
"Bingo," he said. "I think."
The other two quickly joined him, and all three gazed into the trunk at various items, including a tire iron, a half-empty plastic jug of what looked like water, possibly for a temperamental radiator, a spare tire so worn there was hardly any tread at all — and two burlap sacks that were quite obviously not empty.
"Not hacked-off limbs, please," Tony said, taking a step back.
"No," Miranda and Bishop said in one breath, then she added, "But there's something. ..."
With two of the three flashlights directed into the trunk, Bishop leaned over and very carefully untied the twine holding the nearest sack closed. When he got it open, they could all see what looked like the top of a canning jar of the sort people had been using for generations to preserve food, except that this jar looked to be at least two quarts — unusually large for such a purpose.
A piece of masking tape was attached to the lid, and across it in faded ink was written the date June 16, 1985.
Carefully, Bishop pushed down the burlap and tilted the jar back so they could see what it held. It seemed to be filled with what might have been preserves or jelly, so dark it was almost black. But as the jar moved, the contents also moved, sluggishly, and half a dozen small, round objects bumped up against the glass, their pallor in stark contrast to the dark, viscous stuff surrounding them.
Then Bishop tilted the jar back a bit farther, and three of the round objects turned slowly to reveal their other sides. Two were blue. One was brown.
"Oh, Christ," Miranda said. "They're eyes. Human eyes."
Tony cleared his throat, but his voice was still a little hoarse when he said, "On the whole, I think I would have preferred to find hacked-off limbs. An arm, a leg. Jesus."
"Be careful what you wish for," Bishop warned as he set the jar upright and reached for the second sack.
They were all braced for further horrors, but what emerged from the second sack appeared quite ordinary, relatively speaking. There was an old cigar box with perhaps two or three ounces of some kind of ash inside, a slightly rusted pair of handcuffs, and a folded pocketknife.
Tony said, "We are sure, aren't we, that this isn't just some weird collection belonging to Adam Ramsay."
Miranda tapped on the lid of the canning jar. "In 1985," she reminded him, "Adam was three years old."
"Well, yeah — but the rest of this stuff?"
Bishop picked up the knife and studied it carefully. "Sharon might get something from touching this," he said, "but even if she doesn't, this is a collectible knife. They're often sold by hardware stores or pharmacies, especially in small towns."
Miranda didn't ask how he knew that; she merely said, "Steve Penman was near the drugstore when he vanished."
"Yes," Bishop said. "He was, wasn't he?".
TWENTY
The lounge of the Sheriff's Department didn't have a great deal to recommend it as far as Bonnie was concerned. One side of the long, narrow room held a kitchenette, while on the other were a couple of leather couches, two tables with chairs, and a bank of lockers. There was a dartboard on the wall, and several open shelves held a few board games as well as a caddy for poker chips and playing cards.
None of it appealed to Bonnie, even if there had been anyone around to join her in a game. Seth had crashed on one of the couches and was sleeping deeply; he'd gotten little sleep the last few nights, she knew, and she didn't begrudge him the rest. The deputies in the building were all working at their desks, busily coping with the aftermath of the storm and whatever duties might help identify the killer.
Randy would be returning to the office anytime now. And Bishop. Bonnie felt a bit wary of meeting Bishop again, talking to him — more so now than before. He and Randy were involved again, and even though Bonnie hadn't exactly discouraged the idea, she was anxious about it.
If it ended badly this time, Bonnie didn't know if Randy would be able to get past it.
Restless, Bonnie wandered out of the lounge. She looked into the big, open area at the front of the building they all called the bullpen, a small sea of desks turned this way and that, and the low dividing wall separating the office space from the reception area. There was a TV on a filing cabinet tuned to the Weather Channel, phones ringing at regular intervals, and the low hum of conversation.
The room smelled like coffee and pizza.
Everybody was busy, so Bonnie continued on. The conference-room door was locked, which didn't surprise her. Randy's office was open and empty. In another office just down the hall, a deputy sat with his back to the door, talking on the phone; judging by the cajoling tone, he was trying to mend fences with a sweetheart.
Bonnie smiled to herself and went on. One office was empty of office furniture but held half a dozen cots, though there was only one deputy, stripped to undershirt and pants, snoring softly. Another room was piled high with the boxes and other stuff that Bonnie remembered Randy had ordered removed from the conference room when the FBI had arrived.
Down some steps and along another hallway were several other rooms; since they were small and boasted small windows in the doors — and none in the rooms themselves — she gathered they were where suspects requiring privacy or more security were questioned.
She peeked into one and saw Justin Marsh sitting at the small table reading the newspaper, his frown and impatiently tapping foot mute evidence of frustration or irritation. Bonnie moved on hastily, not eager to attract his notice.
She looked into a couple more of the rooms, but all were empty. At the end of the hallway were three doors; two led to the cells, she knew, and the other led to the garage where impounded vehicles were kept.
Not interested in any of those areas, she turned and began to retrace her steps. She was just passing the little secondary hallway that led to an outer door to the side parking lot when she felt a rush of cold air.
Bonnie half turned her head but caught only a glimpse, a blur of movement. And then something struck her head, pain exploded, and everything went dark.
"I just don't believe it," Alex said hoarsely, shaking his head. "Right here? He took her from the fucking Sheriff's Department?"
"I should have stayed awake," Seth said, his younger voice thin with fear and worry and guilt.