It was darker here under the shelter of the big old pines, and the house loomed above them. No light shone from any of the windows, though clear tire marks leading to the detached garage indicated that MacBride had left and then returned at least once today.
Miranda reached the back of the house before Bishop, and waited there, watching a greenhouse she hadn't even known was behind the place. It was a large structure, and the glass was either frosted or dewed with condensation, because it was opaque, but there was definitely a light on in there.
Bishop joined her in uncanny silence, only their connection warning her before he appeared.
"Where's your jacket?" she demanded, keeping her voice barely above a whisper.
With the hand not holding his gun he gestured toward the front of the house. "Left it back there."
"Why? You'll freeze."
"It was too dark and too noisy. I never realized how noisy leather is," he told her. "Remind me to oil that thing or something. Later. In the meantime, I won't freeze unless we crouch here much longer. The greenhouse?"
"He's practically shining a beacon," Miranda said uneasily.
"Then he's either expecting us — or has absolutely no idea that we could be on to him so soon. Either way, what choice do we have except to go on in?"
"None that I can think of."
"Then we go in."
"He's talking, I think," she said, tilting her head slightly to try to focus all their extra senses on the building.
"As long as he's talking, his attention is occupied. It's the best we can hope for. I see two doors, one at either end. And the light's somewhere in the middle. Let's go."
There was no time to discuss a plan, but neither of them worried about that. Their connection was wide open once again, which made communication instant and silent and provided all the edge they needed to coordinate their approach and movements.
Opening the doors and easing inside was no problem, but then they discovered themselves in a virtual jungle, an overgrown forest of plants and trees draped with vines and nearly strangled by thickets of weeds.
Oh, great.
No choice but to go on.
It was impossible to see more than a foot or two ahead, and the place smelled horribly of rotting vegetable matter and damp earth. Trailing vines dangled slimy tendrils across them and thorns hooked at their clothing as they crept through the profuse growth, trying to follow paths that long ago had narrowed to mere memory.
It was their extra senses that told them they were nearly at the middle of the greenhouse, but even with that help it was impossible for them to know for certain what lay ahead. They paused, both trying to reach through the wall of greenery. The droning of MacBride's voice continued, a low muttering that sounded to them wordless, so they literally jumped when he suddenly spoke in a perfectly calm and even casual voice that seemed to come from no more than a few feet away.
"If you two would care to walk a few more paces, I'm sure it would be easier for all of us."
Goddammit.
Still no choice.
They moved forward as ordered, and emerged within the promised few paces into what looked like a clearing in the center of the greenhouse.
It must once have been a work area; there was still a rickety table at one side of the space holding a few rusting tools and empty clay pots. Hanging crookedly high above the table was a long fluorescent light, and though it flickered from time to time, it threw an almost painfully bright light over the scene below.
Bishop and Miranda standing frozen.
Mayor John MacBride smiling at them as though greeting welcome guests, his expression pleasant, his stance relaxed.
Except for the gun he held, cocked and ready, at Bonnie's temple.
Bonnie was clearly frightened but amazingly calm, pale but not crying. She even attempted a smile at her sister, obviously wanting to reassure her that she was okay.
Miranda had a sudden, overwhelming sense that this was the place she had seen in her vision, and she had a helpless awareness of fate rushing, of events carrying her toward whatever destiny was intended for her. She didn't look toward Bishop, but she was very conscious of their connection, and of his absolute certainty that she would not die here.
Still, she knew that if what she had seen was right, the abrupt severing of their link could be as devastating for the living as the dead; gently and without warning, she closed the door on her side.
"You might want to drop the guns," MacBride suggested.
Neither of them hesitated. They dropped their guns. Not only because of the gun he was holding to Bonnie's temple but also because of what he held in his other hand. It was obviously an explosive device — some kind of small but undoubtedly deadly grenade, with the pin out.
A dead man's switch.
"Kick them toward me," he instructed.
They did so, and when MacBride gestured commandingly with the gun, Bishop moved closer to Miranda until he was hardly more than a couple of yards away from her. MacBride could cover them both easily now. They were facing him across fifteen feet or so of rotting mulch and little else, with the tangled jungle all around them seeming to hover, to press inward. That and the sour smell of rotting vegetation made the place feel so claustrophobic it was difficult to breathe.
Or maybe, Miranda thought, that was just her terror. It clogged her throat, cold and sour. And her heart thudded against her ribs with heavy urgency.
She had promised to protect her sister. She had sworn.
Bonnie's hands were tied behind her back, her ankles tied together. She was completely helpless. And she looked very small to her sister, very fragile. She still wasn't crying, but there was something resigned about her calm, something fatalistic.
Miranda hadn't told her all that she'd seen, but she had always suspected Bonnie had guessed the rest.
Conversationally, MacBride said to them, "I keep asking her if she can really talk to the dead. But she won't tell me. I thought it was Liz, you know, when I heard the story that night at her coffeeshop. I thought she had helped you, had told you where to find Steve's body. But it wasn't Liz. Poor Liz."
"You made a mistake." Miranda was surprised her voice sounded so calm. "Don't make another one, John."
"I didn't want to hurt Liz. I liked her. You know I liked her, Randy. But what choice did I have? I was careful with her. And I didn't take anything." His tone was reasonable but held a hint almost of pleading, as though for her approval.
Miranda tried not to gag. "You mean no body parts or blood? That was big of you, John."
"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head.
"Then make me. Make me understand." She had no idea if it was even wise to keep him talking, but a glance had shown her that Bishop's expression was unreadable, so she was following her instincts.
"You're a cop, you know all about the need to deal with threats," MacBride said. "Liz was a threat."
"No, you only thought she was. And you were wrong." She saw a faint quiver disturb his complacency, and concentrated on that chink in his armor. "You were wrong, John."
He smiled suddenly. "I know what you're trying to do, Randy. But it won't work. I'm sorry about Liz, but that's past now. Done. This" — he gave Bonnie a little pat, almost friendly — "is hardly a mistake.I can learn so much from Bonnie."
"No. You — "
"Because if she can talk to the dead, that opens up a whole new avenue to explore. I've been thinking about it for some time, you know, about what to do next. I'd already realized I couldn't go on finding my subjects around here."