Stealing Shadows

by Kay Hooper

ONE

  RYAN’S BLUFF, NORTH CAROLINA

  FEBRUARY 16, 1999

  As towns went, it didn’t have much to boast of. It was about as broad as it was long, with more acreage than buildings. There was a scattering of churches and car lots and small stores that didn’t call themselves boutiques but charged enough for their plain little dresses to be considered just that. There was a Main Street with a grassy town square, enough banks to make a body wonder where all the riches were, and a drugstore so old, it still had a soda fountain.

  Of course, there was also a computer store on Main Street, as well as two video stores and a satellite dish dealership, and just two miles away from the center of town was the very latest thing in movie multiplexes.

  So Ryan’s Bluff was staring the coming millennium right in the eye.

  It was also, on most levels, a small Southern town, so the politics were largely conservative, church on Sunday was the norm, you couldn’t buy liquor by the drink, and until the previous year the same sheriff had been voted in at every election since 1970.

  In 1998 his son got the job.

  It was, therefore, a predictable town by and large. Change came as reluctantly as heaven admitted sinners.

  There were few surprises, and even fewer shocks.

  That’s what Ben Ryan would have said. What he believed, after a lifetime of knowing this place and with generations of family history at his back. This town and its inhabitants could never surprise him.

  That’s what he believed.

  “Judge? Someone to see you.”

  Ben frowned at the intercom. “Who is it, Janice?”

  “Says her name is Cassie Neill. She doesn’t have an appointment, but asks if you can spare a few minutes. She says it’s important.”

  Ben’s very efficient secretary was not easily persuaded by people without appointments, so he was surprised to hear a note almost of appeal in Janice’s voice. Curious, he said, “Send her in.”

  He was still jotting down notes and didn’t look up immediately when the door opened. But even before Janice announced “Miss Neill, Judge,” he felt the change in the room. It was as if an electrical current had been set loose, making his skin tingle and the fine hair on his body stir. He looked up and rose to his feet in the same instant, noting Janice’s disconcerted expression as she gazed warily at the visitor.

  They were all three disconcerted.

  The visitor was functioning under an enormous level of stress. That was his first realization. He was accustomed to weighing people, and this young woman weighed in as someone carrying a burden too heavy for her.

  She was of average height but too thin by a good twenty pounds, a fact obvious even under the bulky sweater she wore. She might have been pretty if her face hadn’t been so thin. Her head was bowed a bit, as if her attention were focused entirely on the floor, and her shoulder-length, straight black hair swept forward as if to shelter her face, the long bangs all but hiding her eyes.

  Then she looked at him through those bangs, a quick, surprised glance darting warily upward, and he caught his breath. Her eyes were amazing—large, dark-lashed, and a shade of gray so pale and clear, they were hypnotic. And haunted.

  Ben had seen suffering before, but what he saw in this woman’s eyes was something new in his experience.

  He found himself coming around his desk toward her. “Miss Neill. I’m Ben Ryan.” His normal speaking voice had softened, so much so that the uncharacteristic gentleness startled him.

  Something else startled him. Ben was a Southern lawyer, a one-time judge, and had been for years involved in politics at the local and state levels; shaking hands with strangers was as natural to him as breathing, and sticking out his hand during an introduction was automatic. Yet somehow this woman not only managed to elude shaking hands with him, she did it so smoothly and with such perfect, practiced timing that there was nothing obvious in the avoidance of physical contact, and nothing at all awkward. He was not left with his hand hanging in the air, and was conscious of no slight.

  She simply circumvented the gesture by moving promptly toward his visitor’s chair and glancing casually around at his office. “Judge Ryan.” Her voice was low and beautifully modulated, the accent not Carolina. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  When she looked at him doubtfully with another of those guarded, darting glances, he realized that she had probably expected him to be older. More… judgelike.

  “My pleasure.” He gestured to the chair, inviting her to sit, then looked toward the doorway with a lifted brow. “Thank you, Janice.”

  Janice took her gaze off the visitor finally and, still frowning slightly, backed out of the office and closed the door.

  Ben returned to his chair and sat down. “We’re pretty informal around here,” he told her. “I’m Ben.” His voice, he noted in some surprise, was still gentle.

  A faint smile touched her lips. “I’m Cassie.” Another quick glance at his face, and then she stared down at the hands clasped in her lap. Whatever she had come there to say, it was obviously not easy for her.

  “What can I do for you, Cassie?”

  She drew a breath and kept her gaze fixed on her hands. “As I told your secretary, I’m new in Ryan’s Bluff. I’ve lived here a little less than six months. Even so, that’s long enough to get a sense of who’s respected in this town. Who is apt to be… listened to, even if what he says is unbelievable.”

  “I’m flattered,” he said, very curious but willing to let her get to it in her own time.

  She shook her head. “I’ve done my homework. You’re descended from the Ryans who founded this town. You left only to go to college and law school, returning here to practice. You became a much admired and highly respected district court judge—obviously at a young age—but chose to retire after only a few years because you felt your true vocation was as a prosecutor. You were elected district attorney for Salem County, and you are very involved in community affairs as well as local and state politics. Your… support would count for a lot.”

  “My support in what?”

  She answered his question with a matter-of-fact one of her own. “Do you believe in the paranormal?”

  That was unexpected, and threw him for a moment. “The paranormal? You mean ghosts? UFOs? ESP?”

  “Specifically extrasensory perception. Telepathy. Precognition.” Her voice remained calm, but she was sitting just a bit too stiffly and her clasped fingers moved nervously. She darted another glance at him, so fleeting that all he caught was a flash of those pale eyes.

  Ben shrugged. “In theory I always thought it was garbage. In fact, I’ve never encountered anything to make me change my mind.” It was the fairly cynical mind common to many law enforcement officials, but he didn’t add that.

  She didn’t look discouraged. “Are you willing to admit the possibility? To keep your mind open?”

  “I hope I’m always willing to do that.” Ben could have told her that he himself was given to hunches, to intuitions he found difficult to explain rationally, but he said nothing since it was a characteristic he hardly trusted. By training and inclination he was a man of reason.

  Still utterly matter-of-fact, Cassie said, “There’s going to be a murder.”

  She had surprised him again, unpleasantly this time. “I see. And you know that because you’re psychic?”

  She grimaced, registering the disbelief—and the suspicion of a prosecutor—in his voice. “Yes.”

  “You can see the future?”

  “No. But I… tapped into the mind of the man who intends to commit a murder.”

  “Even assuming I believe that, intentions don’t always translate into actions.”

  “This time they will. He will kill.”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at her. Maybe she was a kook. Or maybe not. “Okay. Who’s going to be murdered?”

  “I don’t know. I saw her face when he watched her, but I don’t know who she is.”

  Ben frowned. “
When he watched her?”

  She hesitated, her thin face tightening. Then she said, “I was… in his mind for only a few seconds. Seeing with his eyes, listening to his thoughts. He’s been watching her, and he’s decided to kill her. Soon.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wait a minute. You claim you were inside the guy’s head, but you don’t know who he is?”

  “No.” She answered patiently, as though to an oft-repeated question. “Identity isn’t a conscious thought most of the time. He knows who he is, so it wasn’t something he was thinking about. And I didn’t see any part of him, not his hands, or his clothing—or his reflection in a mirror. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “But you know he’s going to kill someone. A woman.”

  “Yes.”

  Ben drew a breath. “Why didn’t you go to the sheriff?”

  “I did, last week. He didn’t believe me.”

  “Which is why you came to me.”

  “Yes.”

  Ben picked up a pen and turned it in his fingers. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Believe me,” she answered simply. For the first time, she looked squarely at him.

  Ben felt as if she had reached across the desk and placed her hand on him. It was a warm hand.

  He drew a breath, holding her gaze with his own.

  “And assuming I can bring myself to do that? Is there anything you can tell me that might stop this murder from taking place?”

  “No. Not… yet.” She shook her head, unblinking. “I may see more. I may not. The fact that I connected to him without holding something he had touched, without knowing him, is unusual. It must have been the… intensity of his thoughts and plans, his eagerness, that reached out to me. Maybe I did touch something he had touched without knowing it. Or maybe he was physically nearby, and that’s why I was able to steal the shadows—” She broke off abruptly and looked down once more.

  He missed that warm hand. It was another surprise.

  “Steal the shadows?”

  Reluctantly Cassie said, “It’s what I call it when I’m able to slip into a killer’s mind and pick up bits and pieces of what he’s thinking, planning. Their minds tend to be dark… filled with shadows.” Her fingers were really working now, their nervous energy in stark contrast to her calm face and voice.

  “You’ve done this before?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you worked with the police?”

  “In Los Angeles. Some of the police out there are quite open-minded about seeking the help of psychics—especially when those psychics never seek publicity.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair and studied her. Weighed her. “Los Angeles. So what brought you all the way across the country to our little town?”

  Her upward glance, he thought, was just a little wary once more. It put him on guard.

  “An inheritance,” she answered readily enough. “My aunt died last year and left me a house in Ryan’s Bluff.”

  Ben frowned. “Who was your aunt?”

  “Alexandra Melton.”

  He was startled, and knew it showed. “Miss Melton was a fairly well-known… character in Ryan’s Bluff.”

  “She was quite a character in our family as well.”

  “Word around here was that she broke with her family.”

  “She was my mother’s elder sister. They quarreled years ago, when I was just a child. No one ever told me what it was about. I never saw Aunt Alex again. Being notified last year that she’d left me a house and some acreage in North Carolina was quite a shock.”

  “So you decided to move three thousand miles.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know if it’s permanent. I was tired of the city and wanted to spend some time in a place with an actual winter season.”

  “The Melton place is pretty isolated.”

  “Yes, but I don’t mind that. It’s been very peaceful.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now.”

  After a moment Ben said, “Give me the name and number of somebody I can talk to in L.A. Somebody you’ve worked with.”

  She gave him the name of Detective Robert Logan, and his number, and Ben wrote down the information.

  “Does that mean you’re willing to believe me?” she asked.

  “It means… I’m interested. It means I’ll do my best to keep an open mind.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to lie to you, Cassie. Your claim to be able to get inside the heads of killers is something I’m having a hard time with.”

  “I understand that. It’s alien to most people.”

  Ben circled the name and number he’d written on the legal pad before him. “In the meantime, is there anything else you can tell me about this would-be murderer?”

  She gave him another of those direct looks that was a warm touch. “I can tell you he’s never killed before—at least, not a human being.”

  “He might have killed something else?”

  “Maybe. Have there been any unexplained animal deaths or disappearances around here?”

  “You mean recently? Not that I know of.”

  “It could have been recent. It’s more likely, though, that he did that sort of thing as a child.”

  “If he did, he got away with it.”

  “Probably. It’s the kind of thing that often gets dismissed when young boys do it. Unless it’s extremely frequent or especially vicious. Not many people realize it’s one of the earliest signs of homicidal tendencies.”

  “Particularly among serial killers. Along with, if I remember correctly, unnaturally prolonged bed-wetting and starting fires.”

  Cassie nodded. “Did you take one of the FBI courses for law enforcement officials?”

  “Yes, shortly after I got this job. How about you?”

  She smiled slightly. “No. I’ve just… picked up information along the way. I think it helped me, at least a little, to understand the clinical terms and explanations.”

  “For monsters?”

  She nodded again.

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said.

  Her eyes widened slightly, and then her gaze fell. “Never mind. I’ve taken up enough of your time today. Thanks again for seeing me. And for keeping an open mind.”

  They both rose, but a faint gesture from Cassie kept Ben on his side of the desk. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. “Wait.” He looked at her intently. “Your name. Is it short for Cassandra?”

  “Yes.”

  Softly he said, “She tried to warn them—and nobody believed her.”

  “My mother was psychic. She’d knew I’d be. Sometimes I think she gave me that name just to make certain I’d go through life prepared for doubt and scorn. A reminder I’d always carry with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Don’t be. We all have our crosses.” She shrugged and began to turn away, then paused when he spoke again.

  “That other Cassandra knew she couldn’t change what would happen. She knew she wouldn’t be believed. It destroyed her. Don’t let it destroy you, Cassie.”

  Without looking at him she said, “Something else that other Cassandra knew. She knew her own fate. And she couldn’t escape it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Know my own fate? Yes.”

  “I thought you couldn’t predict the future.”

  “Just mine. Just my fate.”

  He felt a little chill. “It’s something you want to escape?”

  Cassie went to the door and paused once again, this time with her hand on the doorknob. She glanced back at him. “Yes. But I can’t. I ran almost three thousand miles, and it wasn’t far enough.”

  “Cassie—”

  But she was gone, slipping through the door and closing it quietly behind her.

  Alone again, Ben sat down in his chair and for a moment gazed down absently at the name and number he’d written on his legal pad. Then he buzzed hi
s secretary. “Janice, there’s some research I need you to do ASAP. But first, there’s a cop in L.A. I need to talk to.”

  • • •

  She walks like a whore.

  Those short skirts make it worse, the way she twitches her ass when she walks.

  Disgusting.

  And just look at her—flirting with him. Tossing her hair and batting her eyes.

  Whore.

  You whore, I thought you were different!

  Just another twenty-dollar whore. And not even worth that.

  Not even that.

  Matt Dunbar came from a long line of lawmen that stretched all the way back to a Texas Ranger who’d roamed the West in 1840, and it was a heritage he was proud of. He was also proud of the way he looked in his crisp sheriff’s uniform. He worked out religiously in his basement exercise room six days a week to make damned sure no excess flab hung out over his belt.

  No way was he going to become the familiar caricature of a fat, indolent Southern sheriff. He’d even gone to some effort to lose his accent, though the results were, he had to admit, less than what he’d been aiming for.

  A lover had once told him he had a drawl that stretched out lazy like a cat in the sun.

  It was a simile he liked.

  So maybe he drawled a bit when he told Becky Smith that next time she ought not to park right smack in front of the fire hydrant even if she did plan to just run in and out of the drugstore.

  As a stern official warning, it lacked something.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff.” She smiled widely at him and pushed glossy brown hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that was a little flirtatious. “But I was only gone a couple of minutes, I promise. I’ll move it right now.”

  He started to tell her she didn’t have to move all that fast, but then he saw Ben Ryan’s Jeep pull in behind his cruiser, so he touched his hat courteously to Becky and walked back to meet his boyhood friend, occasional poker buddy, and sometimes pain in the ass.

  Today Ben looked like the last.

  “Matt, when did you talk to Cassie Neill?” Ben asked as he got out of the Jeep.

  The sheriff leaned back against the Jeep’s front fender and crossed his arms over his chest. “She came into the office the end of last week. Thursday, I think. You mean she went running to you with that wild story?”