Bishop helped Miranda to her feet. "I don't think you'll get an argument," he said. He didn't let go of Miranda's hand.
A little less than two hours later, with Bonnie still sleeping under the care of Dr. Daniels at his clinic — and a stubborn Seth standing guard over her — all three FBI agents and most of the Cox County Sheriff's Department were in Mayor John MacBride's secluded house.
The place was lit top to bottom. The first quick search had shown them that most of what they were interested in was in the basement. Part of the large room was perfectly ordinary and held the usual clutter of unused and broken furniture, shelves weighted down with old tools and other items that could mostly be classified as junk.
But a padlocked wooden door gave them access to an equally large and far less cluttered space with neat cabinets along one wall, open shelves along the other, two actual cells complete with iron bars, and numerous pieces of gleaming stainless-steel equipment that Sharon Edwards confirmed were usually found in hospitals, morgues, and funeral homes.
"Talk about a lab experiment," Alex muttered.
The scope of the "experiment" became clearer as they studied what was stored on the open shelves. Bottles of chemicals, neatly labeled. Tools and instruments. Supplies. And records.
Nearly twenty years of records.
Miranda pulled one file off the shelf at random and looked inside. The neat handwriting didn't surprise her, given what she knew of John MacBride, but little of what she read made sense to her.
"Sharon, this looks more like your bailiwick than mine."
The doctor looked at the file and frowned. "We'll have to go over all these, of course, but here it looks like he was experimenting with various kinds of preservatives."
"Yeah, he mentioned that."
Alex opened one of the cabinets and took a step back. "Oh, shit. Look what the crazy bastard was preserving."
They all saw clearly, because when the cabinet was opened an interior light came on to reveal what was stored there.
More canning jars. Lots more. Some contained clear and semiclear liquids, others more viscous fluids, but all had grisly contents made up of various human body parts.
Miranda didn't waste much time. Turning to the others, she said, "This is too much for a small-town sheriff's department, and I'm guessing you guys didn't come prepared for anything like it."
"You can say that again," Tony said.
Bishop said, "Calling in Quantico would probably be the best option. They're the only ones well-enough equipped to send a team down here capable of dealing with this."
"That suits me fine," Miranda told him. "I'll have a big enough headache dealing with the town when the news breaks tomorrow. This part of the mess can be somebody else's nightmare."
Bishop nodded. "Then we lock up, post a couple of guards, and clear out. The less we touch, the better."
Nobody argued.
The deputies chosen to stand guard weren't happy about it, but given both the grimness of the chore and the threatening weather, Miranda promised a four-hour duty rotation, and they accepted that.
The rest departed, and as they drove back to town with Alex and Tony, Miranda said, "Why is it that I don't feel much of a sense of closure? It's over. The monster's dead."
"That won't sink in for a while yet," Bishop told her from experience. "As brutal as it'll be, finding out a bit more about how his mind worked will help. It's human nature to always try to understand the monsters, to neatly label them before we lock them away in a drawer. Luckily for us, this monster left a record of his horrors."
"It won't be pleasant reading," Alex said.
"No, but the answers we need are there. And none of us will be able to put this behind us until we have those answers."
"But for tonight," Miranda said, "it's time to stop thinking about it, if only for a few hours."
They returned to the Sheriff's Department for nearly two of those hours, out of necessity. Bishop had to call Quantico, and given the magnitude of John MacBride's crimes that call was a lengthy one. Miranda had to talk to her deputies about the situation and set up the temporary duty rotation, then she had to get in touch with members of the town council.
It wasn't a responsibility she enjoyed. No one had suspected MacBride, no one had felt even a tinge of doubt, and the shock and grief of the councilmen as they were informed was deep and honest. It wasn't just a political matter or even a betrayal of trust; John MacBride had destroyed the faith of those who had believed in him — and in the basic goodness of their fellow citizens.
Finally, the necessary calls had been made and duties finished, at least for the moment. Exhaustion had caught up with Alex at last, and he was sleeping deeply on one of the lounge couches, but Carl Tierney assured Miranda he could keep an eye on things until Alex awakened or she returned. And Tony volunteered to remain there overnight as well, saying wryly that the cots weren't too bad.
"Go home, Sheriff," he said. "And take my boss with you. After all, he's been dead. That's very tiring."
So it was after eight o'clock that night when Bishop parked Miranda's Jeep in the driveway of her house and they climbed wearily out.
"Sometime soon," she said, "I want to take a week or so and just sleep."
"I couldn't agree more." He took her hand as they went up the walk together, adding, "It looks like your housekeeper was here as promised."
"I told her to leave the lights on for us. And, knowing Mrs. Task, there'll be a full meal in the oven or fridge."
"Good. My appetite may just be coming back."
They went into the house, and Miranda was a little amused to realize that both of them reached immediately to unfasten their weapon holsters as soon as they stepped into the living room. She was going to comment but was distracted by an unexpected sight on the coffee table.
"Look. Mrs. Task left the Ouija board out," she said. "I should have remembered to ask her to take it — "
The planchette began to circle the board wildly.
Miranda looked at Bishop as he came to stand beside her and frown at the board. "I'm not doing that," she said.
"Neither am I. That spirit, maybe? The one trapped here?"
"But communicating without a medium? That would take so much focus and determination — " She shook her head and looked back at the board. "No use arguing with reality. Who are you?"
L . . . Y . . . N . . . E . . . T.
"Is it her?" Bishop wondered.
"I don't know. But whoever it is, we'd better pay attention," Miranda said. "What is it you want, Lynet?"
Bishop picked up a pad and pencil from a nearby table and jotted down the letters as Miranda spelled the response aloud.
WARN YOU.
"Warn us about what?"
BONNIE.
Miranda felt a chill. "What about Bonnie?"
IN DANGER.
Miranda looked at Bishop, then returned her attention to the board. Holding her voice steady, she said, "You mean Bonnie's still in danger, Lynet?"
YES. FROM THE OTHER.
"What other?"
ANOTHER CAME IN WHEN THEY OPENED DOOR FOR ME.
"Lynet—"
BAD MAN. VERY BAD MAN. WANTS BONNIE.
Miranda had a sudden, frantic realization that in the relief of all of them surviving the confrontation with MacBride, she had forgotten something vitally important. The danger to Bonnie that wasn't flesh and blood. The danger of a spirit so desperate to live again it had nearly killed her. She looked at Bishop. "I thought Bonnie was only at risk here in this house, at least for a while, but—"
"Look," he said.
The planchette circled madly, stopping several times on NO, and then began spelling slowly.
DANGER NOW. HE'S BEEN WITH HER ALL ALONG. WATCHING HER. WAITING. HE KNOWS SHE'S TIRED NOW, WEAKENED. HE MEANS TO GET HER TONIGHT.