"Our autopsy facility," Alex said, "is the morgue of the county hospital. I think they threw out the leeches a year or so ago."
Edwards smiled faintly. "Fieldwork demands accommodations, Deputy. I always bring my own equipment along."
"Wise of you."
Miranda said, "The hearse we've been using to transport the bodies is back with the other vehicles, Doctor. Take as many of my people as you need to help."
"Thank you, Sheriff."
After Edwards and Harte moved away, Alex said, "Randy, why don't you head on back? It's been a hell of a long day, and tomorrow won't be any better."
Very conscious of Bishop's silent attention, Miranda shook her head. "I still have to go tell Teresa Grainger about her daughter, before she hears it from someone else. Besides, we'll be finished up here in another hour."
"A word, Sheriff?" Bishop's tone was impersonal.
Miranda followed him a few feet away, keeping a careful and deliberate distance between them. She didn't have to wait long to hear what he had to say.
"Miranda, if my team's to be of any real use to you, they have to be able to do their jobs."
She stiffened. "I wasn't aware anyone was interfering with them."
"You are."
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he didn't give her a chance.
"You closed down like a steel trap the moment we got here. And whatever else may have changed in eight years, that hasn't. You're blocking them, Miranda. They can't pick up a damned thing, from the body or from the area, as long as you're here."
"You didn't seem to have any trouble." She refused to look away from those pale sentry eyes of his, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still get under her skin — even if not inside her head.
"And we both know why," he said flatly. "But my team doesn't have the same . . . advantage."
It took every ounce of her willpower not to hit him. She couldn't say a word, didn't trust herself to speak at all.
Obviously not suffering from the same paralysis, he said, "Let us do what we came here to do, Miranda. And you do what you have to do. Go tell that kid's mother she won't be coming home. And then get some rest. We'll start fresh in the morning."
She still couldn't say a word, because she knew if she did it would become a torrent of words. Words about betrayal. Words about dishonesty and deception, about hurt and loss and bitterness and rage.
So she didn't say a word. She just turned and headed around the lake to her Jeep. She left Bishop to explain to Alex and the others why she had left so abruptly.
She knew he'd think of something to tell them.
"My God, we do have a serial killer," the mayor said, horrified.
John MacBride was seated across the desk from Miranda, who wished for the third time that she had gone straight home from Teresa Grainger's place. Instead, she had stopped at the office for what she'd thought would be no more than ten minutes. But MacBride showed up and the ten minutes stretched into twenty.
"We don't know that for sure," she told him patiently.
"With three dead teenagers? What else could it be?"
"They used to call serial killers 'stranger killers,' because they seldom had any connection to or prior knowledge of their victims. I don't believe that's the case here. And given the way we found the bodies, I think the task force will eventually classify these as bizarre murders — killings committed to satisfy the needs of some kind of ritual."
MacBride looked more appalled. He was normally a handsome man, but signs of strain had appeared in recent weeks, and his expression of dismay made the dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face much more evident.
"Ritual killings?" he exclaimed. "Do you mean we're dealing with satanism or some other kind of occult shit?"
"I don't know, John. But if you're imagining black-robed figures dancing around a fire out in the woods under a full moon, forget it. We have one killer here, and whatever his reasons for killing, whatever his sick rituals are, I believe we'll find he's acting alone."
"That doesn't make me feel any better, dammit! The bastard's done a hell of a lot of damage alone." He brooded for a moment. "It has to be a stranger. Someone who doesn't actually live in Gladstone but just—"
"Just hunts here?" Miranda shrugged. "It's possible. And now, with three killings to reference, at least we should be able to note enough commonalities to ask law enforcement in surrounding counties to check their own unsolved cases for similar killings."
"The publicity," MacBride moaned.
Miranda decided she wasn't up to reassuring a worried mayor tonight; no matter what she said, it would only upset him more. With a sigh, she rose to her feet.
"Look, John, let's not borrow more trouble, all right? We'll do our best to limit publicity. Besides, if this FBI task force is as good as their reputation, chances are we'll have this case solved and the killer in custody very soon."
"And if they're not as good?" He got up too, moving stiffly and frowning. "I've already had a dozen calls tonight, Randy. Panic is spreading quickly."
"Then we'll do what we can to calm everybody down, John. We'll recommend reasonable precautions, and we'll make certain the town knows that every resource we can muster is focused on finding this killer."
"And we should make sure those FBI people are visible. Very visible."
Miranda knew that MacBride was prepared to publicly cast the entire responsibility of capturing the killer onto the broader shoulders of the FBI. That didn't bother Miranda so much for her own sake, but she'd be damned if her own people didn't get the credit they deserved. They had already put in long hours of painstaking work.
But all she said was, "I imagine they'll be visible enough, John. Aside from everything else, we only have one motel in town, and since it's on Main Street and seldom has more than a couple of overnight guests in any given week ..."
He grunted. "Yeah, you're right about that. But look, Randy, I'd appreciate daily reports."
"I'll be sure to keep you informed," she said non-committally.
He sighed, but didn't insist. Instead, he said, "Why don't you let me give you a ride home? You must be exhausted, and I'm parked out front—"
"So am I," she told him. "Besides, I want to get an early start in the morning, so I'd rather drive home tonight. But thanks, John."
He sighed again. "One of these days, you're going to say yes, Randy."
"Good night, John."
The Bluebird Lodge sucked.
That was Bishop's considered opinion, and not even the "major renovations" in the works, according to the owner/manager, could make the place any better. It boasted two floors but no interior hallways, cramped rooms furnished in decent quality but questionable taste, and unless one chose to visit a restaurant down the street (which closed promptly at 9:00 p.m.), the only options for dining were a couple of vending machines.
Still, at least the place was clean.
It was nearly midnight. Bishop and his team planned to make an early start the following day, and he knew he should sleep. But he was too keyed up.
He unpacked and set his laptop up on the ridiculously small desk near the window. After connecting with Quantico, he downloaded a few potentially useful data files. It was something he usually did long before he was actually on the scene, but in this case . . .
He sat back in the none-too-comfortable chair and stared at an uninspired print on the wall. But he was seeing something else.
She had changed in eight years. Still strikingly lovely, of course, but he'd expected that, had braced himself for it. Or thought he had. But the girl he remembered, dazzling though she had been then, had grown in the years since into a woman of uncommon beauty and rare strength.
Her vivid blue eyes didn't gleam with laughter as readily as before, and they had a depth that hid thoughts and secrets. Her beautiful face revealed only what she chose to reveal, and her splendid body moved with fluid grace. Her voice was measured, controlled, a voice one could hardly imagine spitting out shaking curses in grief and rage and pain.