by Kay Hooper
Matt considered reminding the doctor that his deputy force was made up of roughly forty percent “girls,” but in the end he just let it slide. “I’ll send somebody over this afternoon.”
“Good enough.”
Matt was left alone in his office with his thoughts, and none of them were pleasant.
She shouldn’t have done that.
Bitch.
Why did she have to do that?
My head hurts.
I’m still tired, and my head hurts.
But I can’t let her get away with it.
She has to pay.
They all have to pay.
They’ll never laugh at me again.
The knocking at her front door on Friday afternoon didn’t surprise Cassie. She’d been expecting him. Sooner or later.
She went to the door and opened it. “Hi,” she said to Ben.
He was carrying a manila folder, and his face was set in grim lines. “May I come in?”
“Sure.” She idly wondered whom he’d gotten to research for him. Janice, probably. She’d looked quite efficient.
Three days. Not bad.
Most of the furniture was back in the living room, since she’d finished the painting and refinishing, so she led the way there. She left the entire sofa for him, sitting down in a wing chair at right angles to it. “Have a seat.”
He didn’t. Instead, he opened the folder, took out a sheet of paper, and handed it to her. “Care to explain this?”
It was a copy of a newspaper story taken from microfilm. There was a not very good photo of her much younger self, looking frightened. And headlines. Big headlines.
SERIAL KILLER TARGETS PSYCHIC
FOUR
“Did Janice find this for you?” Cassie asked.
“Yes.”
“You don’t pay her enough. That article was buried. The wire services never picked it up.” Cassie put the sheet of paper on the coffee table and pushed it toward him, then made herself comfortable in the chair, sitting sideways with knees drawn up. He finally sat down on the sofa so that they were on eye level again.
He reached for the paper and held it. “According to this,” he said, “a little more than ten years ago your mother was the one helping the police look for a killer. But before she could help them find him, he found her. And killed her.”
Cassie drew a breath and said tonelessly, “He didn’t just kill her. He butchered her. She was home alone, since I was away on a school trip. There was no one to… hear. He took his time killing her. They never let me go back into the house, but I understand there was blood everywhere.” She held on to her detachment simply because there was no other way to remember or speak of such horrors.
Ben seemed to understand that. “You had to deal with that alone? Didn’t you have any other family out there? The article says your father had been killed in a car wreck a couple of years before.”
“My only other family was Aunt Alex, and she never replied to the telegram about Mother’s death.” Cassie shrugged. “I was eighteen, a legal adult. I handled what I had to. And I went on. There was insurance, enough to invest and provide a fair income while it put me through college. It took two more years, but the house eventually sold.”
“And all your roots were gone.”
“My roots were gone the night Mother was killed.”
Ben drew a breath. “This article doesn’t say anything about you also being psychic.”
“No, the police were kind enough—and smart enough—to keep that to themselves. They wanted my help.”
“You mean they asked you to help them find the man who had murdered your mother?”
“Yes.”
“My God. Did you?”
“Yes.”
“It must have been unimaginably painful for you.”
Cassie hesitated. “Remember when I told you and the sheriff about what happened when I touched the clothing of a murder victim to try to connect to the killer?”
“It put you in a coma. Damn near killed you.”
“It was Mother’s clothing I touched.”
“Jesus,” Ben muttered. “Cassie—”
“They had guards around me at the hospital, and for months after I got out. Their fear was that the killer would be able to target me as he had my mother—through the psychic connection I had made very briefly when I touched Mother’s clothes. But either it hadn’t been a very strong connection, or he just wasn’t interested, because he never came after me in all those months. By the time I finally got my abilities back, he’d killed half a dozen more people, so I had to try again, had to risk… drawing his attention tome.”
“What happened?”
“They got him.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “He was executed about three years ago.”
“But before they got him, did you draw his attention?”
“I was much younger then,” Cassie said. “Inexperienced. I didn’t know how to keep the connection shallow, to get into another mind without revealing my own presence.”
“Did you draw his attention?”
She grimaced slightly. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened, Ben. He came after me, and the police were waiting for him.”
“They used you as bait.”
Cassie shook her head. “It wasn’t that calculated. I touched his mind too deeply, I realized it, and I told the police he’d probably come after me. They protected me—and caught him. End of story.”
Ben leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at her. “End of story, my ass. Why the hell didn’t you tell Matt and me that in touching this maniac’s mind you could be drawing his attention, making yourself a target? Don’t you think that’s something we needed to know?”
“Sheriff Dunbar doesn’t believe I can touch the maniac’s mind,” she reminded him dryly. “Assuming there even is a maniac, and not just a garden-variety one-time impulse killer, which is what the sheriff believes. What he wants to believe. And you have your doubts, both about my abilities and whether there’ll be another murder.” Her shoulders rose and fell briefly. “Besides, I’ve learned a lot in ten years. It’s been a long, long time since I was at risk in that way. I know what I’m doing now.”
“But catching his attention is still a possibility.”
“A very slight one.”
“And you’re living way the hell out here, alone, without even a dead bolt on the front door. Jesus, Cassie. If you’d told us, at least we could have taken steps to keep you safe. A security system, a dog. A gun.”
“I don’t know how to use a gun. I don’t want to know. And you may have noticed that I’m fine.”
“Now. But what happens if you tap into this guy again?”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t know I’m there.”
“And if you make a mistake? If he realizes you can watch everything he does when he’s committing a murder?”
“He won’t.”
“But if he does?”
Cassie drew a breath. “Ben, I came to terms with that threat a long time ago. I had to. It’s a risk I have to take. All I can do is be careful, and I’ve learned how to be.”
“I don’t like it, Cassie.”
“You don’t have to like it. It’s my risk to take.” She made sure her voice was calm and sure.
“I know that, dammit.”
Fooled them again. Cassie wondered how much longer she could do that, could fool those around her into believing that taking the risk of inviting a psychopath into her mind—into her soul—didn’t scare her half to death.
A little longer, maybe.
Trying to distract him, she glanced at the manila folder he’d laid on the coffee table. “What else is in there?”
“Not much. Sketchy background information, school records, that sort of thing. As far as the official record is concerned, you’ve led a quiet, unexceptional life.”
It was amazing, Cassie thought, how little of someone’s life could be rev
ealed by official record. And how much lay hidden.
“I guess Sheriff Dunbar has checked out my references by now?”
“Yeah.”
“And still doesn’t believe I can do what I claim.”
“He’s hardheaded. It’s his biggest fault.”
“Most cops consider that a necessary character trait.” She smiled, and saw that Ben was watching her steadily. It was unnerving. He should look like a judge, dammit, silver-haired and forbidding. Instead, if he had celebrated his fortieth birthday, Cassie would have been surprised; there wasn’t a single silver thread among the dark ones, and there was youthful energy and strength in the way he moved and carried himself. Along with that, he possessed a warmth and empathy so strong, she felt it reaching out to her.
Rare. That was so rare, especially among men, that ability and willingness to feel the pain of another human being. But Ben could do it, even though she doubted it was a skill he enjoyed.
That was why this was going to tear him to pieces.
“Cassie?”
She blinked, then conjured another smile. “I was just thinking that I hope Sheriff Dunbar is right. I hope that poor girl’s death was an isolated incident and that he finds her killer quickly.”
“But you don’t believe he will.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Neither do I.” Ben picked up the folder, returned the copy of the newspaper article to it, and got to his feet. “I have an appointment in an hour, so I’d better go.”
Cassie walked with him to the front door. “I guess you’ll tell the sheriff what you found out. About my mother.”
“Not if you don’t want me to. But I think he should know, Cassie.”
She opened the front door. “Okay. Tell him what you like.”
Ben hesitated. “You know, there’s something I don’t think you’ve considered.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“You’re not in L.A. now, protected by the sheer number of strangers all around you. This is a small town, Cassie. Not so small that absolutely everyone knows everyone else, but small enough. And people talk. Your trips to Matt’s office, and to mine, have been and will be noted. Eventually word will get out about your abilities. So even if you do manage not to alert the killer when you’re in his mind, chances are that sooner or later he’s still going to know who you are. And you won’t be a disembodied voice in his mind. You’ll be a flesh and blood person with an address in the phone book—and no dead bolt on your front door.”
After a moment Cassie said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And nothing’s changed.”
“No. Nothing’s changed.” I have to do this. I have to.
His hand lifted slightly, as though he would touch her, but then it fell when she tensed visibly.
“I’ll see you later, Cassie.”
“Bye, Ben.”
This time he had the sure knowledge that she stood in the open doorway and watched him drive away.
But it didn’t make him feel good.
It didn’t make him feel good at all.
“Maybe she really is psychic.” Abby Montgomery banked the pillows behind her and sat up in bed, absently drawing the sheet up over her naked breasts.
Matt Dunbar sat on the edge of the bed to put his socks and shoes on. “I don’t believe in that shit.”
“Then how did she know about us?”
“A lucky guess. Hell, maybe she saw you slipping in here the other day. But she did not read my mind.”
Abby was familiar with her lover’s stubbornness. Usually it amused her, just as his occasional macho posturing amused her; she had good reason to know that despite both, he had a generous nature and a heart, as the saying went, like a marshmallow. But today the reminder of how bullheaded he could be made her uneasy.
“Matt, if she can help find Becky’s killer—”
“I don’t know that she can. The cops out in L.A. gave her a glowing recommendation, but when I pushed, the detective I talked to finally admitted that she’d sent them down a few blind alleys, and that those detours were costly.”
“Most conventional investigations do the same thing, don’t they? I mean, you always explore at least a few possibilities that don’t pan out in the end.”
“Yeah. But it’s a hell of a lot easier to explain why you followed a lead if you’ve got something solid to point to. Anything a so-called psychic tells you is about as substantial as fog, and just as quick to vanish.” He shook his head. “No, I just don’t buy it, Abby. She must have seen us together, and that’s how she knew.”
“In public? We barely look at each other in public. And nobody saw me slipping in here to meet you, Matt. I’m always careful, and you know it.”
He looked at her quickly, hearing the slight tremor. “Honey, has Gary been bothering you again? Because I can sure as hell get a restraining order against him, you know that.”
She shook her head. “No, he hasn’t been around lately. Besides, I don’t want to do anything to annoy him, at least until the divorce is final.”
“That’s only a month away, Abby.” Matt smiled. “And once it’s final, it’d be nice to be able to take you out in public.”
Abby leaned toward him and wreathed her arms around his neck. “It would be very nice. Just… let’s wait and see, okay, Matt? I don’t know how Gary will react when it’s final.”
His mouth tightened, but his hands were gentle as they stroked her arms. “I’ve been as patient as I know how, Abby, but there’s no way I’m prepared to keep our lives on hold indefinitely just to keep Gary from blowing a fuse. I can handle him.”
“It isn’t indefinitely. I just want to avoid trouble if at all possible, Matt.”
“There won’t be any trouble. I’ll just kick his ass.”
Abby smiled. “Let’s wait and see. Another month. That isn’t so long, is it?”
“That depends on what you’re waiting for.” He kissed her, taking his time about it, then eased her back onto the pillows and leaned over her. “I’m waiting for something I’ve wanted for a long, long time. You.”
“You’ve got me. All the rest is just a formality.”
He brushed a strand of bright red hair back from her face. “I also want Gary out of your life, with no excuses to call you or knock on your door. I want to have the right to tell him to go to hell.”
“Given the chance, you’ll do that whether you have the right or not,” she said dryly.
“True.” Matt kissed her again.
“Just be patient a little while longer.”
“Okay, okay.” He sat up, then got to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“Matt…” She hesitated. “This psychic—”
“So-called.”
“Did you ever hear the rumors about her aunt? About Miss Melton?”
“What about her?”
“Well, that she knew things. Things she shouldn’t have been able to know.”
Matt stared down at her, brows raised. “I heard talk. So what? She was a loner, kept to herself, hardly came into town—and when she did, she barely spoke to anyone and was usually dressed oddly for a woman her age. People were bound to talk. It doesn’t mean anything, Abby.”
Abby smiled. “I guess not. But, Matt—if Cassie Neill can help you, let her. Don’t ignore what she has to say.”
“You don’t usually tell me how to do my job,” he noted dryly.
“I’m not now. But I know how stubborn you can be. You’ve made up your mind she’s a phony, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Admit it, Matt. You wouldn’t even have given her the time of day if Ben hadn’t insisted. You know he’s no gullible fool.”
“No, but he isn’t thinking with his head. Not where Cassie Neill is concerned. Beats me what he sees in her, but the lady has certainly grabbed his attention.”
Abby opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. After that brief pause she merely said, “Just do
n’t let a preconceived idea get in your way, Matt, that’s all I’m saying.”
“No, I won’t.” He bent and kissed her one last time, then laughed a little as he headed for the door. “I had no idea you believed in that stuff.”
When she was alone in the bedroom, Abby gazed toward the door and murmured, “Oh, I believe in it, Matt. I believe in it.”
Ivy Jameson was having a bad day. In fact, she’d had a bad week.
On Monday she’d had the unpleasant duty of taking her mother’s old cat to the vet to have him euthanized; Wednesday had come the notice from the North Carolina Department of Revenue claiming she owed back taxes; yesterday she’d had to tear the hide off a TV repairman who obviously didn’t know his ass from a three-foot hole in the ground; and today, on this pleasant, warm Friday afternoon in late February, she was being told that her ten-year-old car was on its last wheels, so to speak.
“A new transmission,” Dale Newton said, consulting his clipboard. “The brakes are shot. Universal joint. The left front tire is bald—”
“Enough.” She glared at him. “How much?”
The mechanic shifted uneasily. “I haven’t worked up an estimate yet, Mrs. Jameson. You just asked me to check it out and see if it needed any work. It does. There’s more—”
She waved him to a stop. “Just work up the estimate and then call me. But you’d better bear in mind, Dale Newton, that my late husband loaned you the money to get this garage going fifteen years ago. I expect that to make a difference. I expect some consideration for a poor widow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Newton smiled weakly. “I’ll have the estimate ready in a couple of hours.”
“You do that.”
“I can give you a loaner, Mrs. Jameson—”
“No. I hate driving a strange car. I’ll walk across the street to Shelby’s and call a taxi.”
“I have a phone, Mrs. Jameson.”
“I realize that. What you don’t have is coffee. Good day, Mr. Newton.”
“Ma’am.” Newton watched her walk away, her back ramrod straight, and he wondered, not for the first time, if old Kenneth Jameson had died because he’d been sick—or just plain tired.
Ivy left Newton’s Garage on the corner of Main Street and First, walked a block toward the center of town, and then crossed the street to Shelby’s Restaurant. A landmark in Ryan’s Bluff that had once been a wonderful example of the Art Deco style, and last modernized in the sixties, it had been several times redecorated through the years, and all the individual touches of various owners had left it somewhat garish. It still had a Formica counter and swivel stools at the front, and boasted clear plastic tablecloths over the linen ones.