be an awful lot of electrical activity in her brain. Especially since she's using an incredible amount of energy to shield herself—and block us."
"Yes," Bishop said.
Edwards put down her fork. Reluctantly, she said, "In such a case, the early symptoms would most likely be intense headaches, sensitivity to light and noise, dilated pupils. Like a migraine, but growing worse and causing more damage with each event."
"Until?" Harte asked warily.
Edwards avoided his gaze and picked up her fork again. "There hasn't been enough research to offer any definitive answers to something so theoretical. Even if we had the technical knowledge to understand it, the instruments to measure and evaluate ..."
Harte looked at Bishop and didn't like what he saw. Or what he felt. "Until?" he repeated.
"Until she's a vegetable." Bishop's voice was stony. He turned his head to stare out the window at the dark, chilly winter night. "Of course ... it's only a theory."
SEVEN
Tuesday, January 11
Seth Daniels eased into second gear, babying the car, aiming for a smooth transition, and scowled at the betraying jerk. He knew Bonnie was watching him in amused understanding but refused to meet her eyes. It was hard enough on a guy that his girlfriend was the sheriff's sister; it was downright embarrassing to have that same girlfriend teaching him how to drive a stick shift.
"It just takes practice," she said, her carefully neutral voice doing nothing except underline the fact that she was trying not to further damage his fragile male ego.
"I know that," he said.
"And coordination."
"I know that too, Bonnie."
"All I'm saying is that you'll get the hang of it. It can't be harder than playing football, and you do that."
Seth winced as the shift into third was accomplished with another jerk and a grinding noise. "Oh, yeah— how hard can it be?" he muttered. A sideways glance showed him Bonnie was biting her lip, and he struggled with himself for a moment before finally laughing.
"Okay, okay. I'll get the hang of it. Just tell me Miranda didn't teach you how to hunt bears or fly a jet."
"You want to learn how to hunt bears?" she asked innocently. "Because if so—"
"Bonnie."
She laughed. "No, she didn't teach me either of those things. Just the more usual stuff. Cooking, sewing, driving a stick ... sharpshooting."
"Jesus."
Bonnie smiled at him. "Well, she was trying to be mother and father, you know."
"Well, yeah, I understand that—but sometimes I wonder if she wasn't also trying to be a commando. Sharpshooting?"
"With a gun in the house, she just thought I should know how to handle it."
"But sharpshooting? Knowing how not to shoot yourself in the foot is one thing, but how often in life will you need to blow the wings off a fly at a hundred yards?"
"The light's yellow, Seth—use the clutch and downshift."
He obeyed, eventually bringing the car to a halt at the traffic light in a maneuver smooth enough to partially soothe his ruffled feathers. "You changed the subject," he told her.
"There was nothing more to say. Randy taught me what she thought might be useful someday. So I can bake biscuits and sew on a button, and I can also change a tire and handle a gun."
Seth looked at her for a moment, then eased the car forward when the light changed. "I'm surprised she let you come out with me today."
"We have to be back home by curfew, Seth."
"Yeah, I know that." He was seventeen, which put him in the age group required to be off the streets and under parental or employer supervision by 5:00 P.M.
"But she's always been so protective of you, and with a killer running loose—"
"I promised her I wouldn't go anywhere alone even before curfew, that I'd either be with you or home with Mrs. Task. She likes you, and she trusts you."
"She does?"
"Why are you so surprised by that? You could be the poster child for good teenagers."
"Thanks a lot."
"It's true and you know it. Your grades are good enough that you tutor other students,
"Yes," Bishop said.
Edwards put down her fork. Reluctantly, she said, "In such a case, the early symptoms would most likely be intense headaches, sensitivity to light and noise, dilated pupils. Like a migraine, but growing worse and causing more damage with each event."
"Until?" Harte asked warily.
Edwards avoided his gaze and picked up her fork again. "There hasn't been enough research to offer any definitive answers to something so theoretical. Even if we had the technical knowledge to understand it, the instruments to measure and evaluate ..."
Harte looked at Bishop and didn't like what he saw. Or what he felt. "Until?" he repeated.
"Until she's a vegetable." Bishop's voice was stony. He turned his head to stare out the window at the dark, chilly winter night. "Of course ... it's only a theory."
SEVEN
Tuesday, January 11
Seth Daniels eased into second gear, babying the car, aiming for a smooth transition, and scowled at the betraying jerk. He knew Bonnie was watching him in amused understanding but refused to meet her eyes. It was hard enough on a guy that his girlfriend was the sheriff's sister; it was downright embarrassing to have that same girlfriend teaching him how to drive a stick shift.
"It just takes practice," she said, her carefully neutral voice doing nothing except underline the fact that she was trying not to further damage his fragile male ego.
"I know that," he said.
"And coordination."
"I know that too, Bonnie."
"All I'm saying is that you'll get the hang of it. It can't be harder than playing football, and you do that."
Seth winced as the shift into third was accomplished with another jerk and a grinding noise. "Oh, yeah— how hard can it be?" he muttered. A sideways glance showed him Bonnie was biting her lip, and he struggled with himself for a moment before finally laughing.
"Okay, okay. I'll get the hang of it. Just tell me Miranda didn't teach you how to hunt bears or fly a jet."
"You want to learn how to hunt bears?" she asked innocently. "Because if so—"
"Bonnie."
She laughed. "No, she didn't teach me either of those things. Just the more usual stuff. Cooking, sewing, driving a stick ... sharpshooting."
"Jesus."
Bonnie smiled at him. "Well, she was trying to be mother and father, you know."
"Well, yeah, I understand that—but sometimes I wonder if she wasn't also trying to be a commando. Sharpshooting?"
"With a gun in the house, she just thought I should know how to handle it."
"But sharpshooting? Knowing how not to shoot yourself in the foot is one thing, but how often in life will you need to blow the wings off a fly at a hundred yards?"
"The light's yellow, Seth—use the clutch and downshift."
He obeyed, eventually bringing the car to a halt at the traffic light in a maneuver smooth enough to partially soothe his ruffled feathers. "You changed the subject," he told her.
"There was nothing more to say. Randy taught me what she thought might be useful someday. So I can bake biscuits and sew on a button, and I can also change a tire and handle a gun."
Seth looked at her for a moment, then eased the car forward when the light changed. "I'm surprised she let you come out with me today."
"We have to be back home by curfew, Seth."
"Yeah, I know that." He was seventeen, which put him in the age group required to be off the streets and under parental or employer supervision by 5:00 P.M.
"But she's always been so protective of you, and with a killer running loose—"
"I promised her I wouldn't go anywhere alone even before curfew, that I'd either be with you or home with Mrs. Task. She likes you, and she trusts you."
"She does?"
"Why are you so surprised by that? You could be the poster child for good teenagers."
"Thanks a lot."
"It's true and you know it. Your grades are good enough that you tutor other students,
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