It happened now as it had that summer so long ago, and Miranda was surprised and shaken all over again by the enormity of it. With the passionate physical joining came a mental union so deep and absolute it was as if their two souls merged and became a single entity.
In a flashing instant, Miranda saw his life in the years they had been apart, saw the pleasures and hurts of it, the triumphs and tragedies, the cases that had ended well and those that hadn't. She saw the faces of his friends and co-workers and enemies, saw the places he'd been and the things he'd done, and felt what he had felt. She knew that at the same time he was also reliving her life, her experiences.
It was a wildly exhilarating roller coaster of emotions, and coupled with the potent physical sensations of lovemaking, it pushed them toward an incredible peak so far beyond the reach of most humans that there were no words with which to describe the journey.
Except sheer joy.
Deputy Greg Wilkie was concentrating almost entirely on the tricky job of keeping his cruiser on the road, and probably wouldn't even have glanced into the alley if he hadn't been trying to keep a wary eye out for flying debris. He'd already nearly lost a side mirror to a flying branch. His only thought, when he saw someone moving around the car, was that Liz was leaving a bit late and that it was a good thing she had a front-wheel-drive vehicle.
He didn't worry much, but he was a serious young man and a dedicated, industrious cop, and on his next pass through town he was careful to check the alley again. He even altered his route so he could pass by Liz's house a few minutes later. Her car was parked in the driveway, and lights were on in the house. Satisfied, he drove on.
One of the local pizza parlors had generously sent the last of the day's hot pies to the Sheriff's Department before the storm closed them down. And since the deputies expected to be awake most if not all night, none of them hesitated to scarf down pepperoni and onions even at ten-thirty.
"Sometimes I love my job," Tony confided. Sitting back with his feet on the conference table, he shared a pizza with Alex and watched a small TV the deputy had brought in and plugged into the building's satellite system. "Who knew cheerleading competitions could be so ... enthusiastic?"
"I think that's the point," Alex observed.
"Ah. I've gotta get out more often."
A faint stab of guilt made Alex say, "We should probably be watching the Weather Channel instead of this stuff."
"Why? We know it's storming. We know that sooner or later the storm will pass. The patrols outside are reporting in regularly to alert us in case of real trouble. And — Wow. Will you look at how high they can throw each other?"
Alex checked his watch. "How long's Bishop been gone?"
"An hour, give or take. He said he'd call if there was a problem."
"Maybe the storm — "
"These cell phones of ours work in anything short of atomic destruction." He looked over to find Alex staring at him, and added, "Joke. But they're pretty dependable. It wasn't a government contract."
"You have a strange sense of humor for a government agent," Alex observed, momentarily distracted.
"I think of myself as a cop, not a government agent."
"A psychic cop?"
Tony grinned. "I wondered when you were going to bring it up. Miranda told you, huh?"
"When I finally got around to asking, yes. But she didn't go into specifics about you guys. I mean, other than Bishop."
"Ah. So you want to know if I'm sitting here reading your mind?"
"Something like that."
"Nope. Not my thing. I just. . . pick up emotions from the immediate area."
"Which explains your hunch about our conflicted killer?"
"More or less. I'm also very good at interpreting data in the usual way."
Alex grunted and for several minutes stared at the TV. Then suddenly he said, "Randy told me she couldn't read me, but..."
"You feel exposed?"
"Yeah."
Tony shrugged. "You shouldn't. If she says she can't read you, then she can't. I might be able to guess what you're feeling at any given moment, but most people give that away with facial expressions anyway. Sharon might know the keys she found on the floor belonged to you, but that's about it."
"And Bishop?"
"I thought Miranda told you about him."
"I don't have to be psychic to know she wasn't telling me everything."
"Interesting." Tony nodded. "Okay. Bishop's a touch telepath, and a strong one. Stronger than Miranda. But he came to it later in life than she did. Some adepts don't really get a grip on their abilities until their twenties or so, whether because of denial or lack of practice, whatever. So even though he's stronger, she has more control. She was able to block all of us, even Bishop. A very rare ability, believe me." Tony paused, then smiled. "And if you're worried about it, Bishop can't read you either."
"Randy said she could read less than half the people she met, usually. I always thought this sort of stuff sounded like magic. But it has its limitations just like everything else, doesn't it?"
"Oh, yeah. Just another sense. For instance, you can't see things that are out of sight in the distance or hidden behind other things, and if your vision happens to be genetically bad, what you do see is out of focus. You can't hear sounds except those within a certain really limited range, and even then what you hear can be distorted. Your sense of touch is affected by temperature, whether you're male or female, and a dozen other things; and your sense of smell is not only severely limited compared to most other animal species, but is so subjective that your own brain can trick you into believing you do or don't smell something. Every single psychic ability has limitations in the same way."
"Not magic at all."
"Nope."
After brooding about that for some time, Alex checked his watch again. "I'm going to give it another half hour, then I'll call Randy's house."
"Suit yourself." Tony was silent for ten of those minutes, then said musingly, "You know, there's been a lot of research done on psychic abilities in recent years. In putting our unit together, all sorts of tests and measurements were developed. We have files full of graphs and charts. Pages and pages of reports from doctors and psychologists and scientists. And case after case where psychic ability made the difference between success and failure. But for every fact there's a myth or a legend or just something we flat-out don't understand. Like telepaths, for instance. I've heard it whispered for years that when two telepaths make love, it's something pretty amazing. That it's like the difference between walking and flying — you get where you want to go either way, but once you've flown nothing else can ever compare."
Alex stared at him. "Is there a reason why you suddenly brought that up?"
Tony reached for the last slice of pizza and tested it with a finger to see if it needed to be nuked in the microwave. "Oh, no. No reason at all."
Miranda wasn't really asleep when the phone rang, just drifting pleasantly in a cocoon of warmth and contentment as she listened to the storm. Since she was on her side facing the nightstand she was able to reach for the receiver without even opening her eyes.
"Hello?"
"Randy, it's Alex. Are you — Is everything okay? When Bishop didn't check in, we got a little worried."
She opened her eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand, only mildly surprised to find it was nearly midnight. "Everything's fine, Alex." She felt Bishop's arm tighten around her, and had to smile to herself at words that didn't begin to describe truth. "We'll wait out the worst of the storm here, though, and not try to get back until sometime tomorrow morning."