by Kay Hooper
Abby’s unsteady smile returned. “And what if my leaving here and going somewhere else is just another step toward my fate?”
“That’s a possibility. But I’d have to say the odds are more in your favor on that beach.”
“Maybe. But I can’t leave.”
“Then at least tell the sheriff. If you can’t make him believe that my aunt could see into the future, at least convince him her warning frightened you. Maybe he can take steps to make your life safer.”
“And maybe it would just be one more thing for him to worry about. I’m being careful. And that’s all I can do.”
Cassie admired her calm. Since she had lived often with the knowledge that some madman could possibly zero in on her, that her odds of becoming a victim were better than most, she knew only too well how debilitating that constant threat was.
Even more, she knew how it felt to live with a prophecy of doom. She almost told Abby, almost confided that her only experience with precognition had been a vision of her own fate that promised violence and destruction. But in the end she kept that knowledge to herself.
She had run three thousand miles only to find herself once again entangled in an investigation of crimes of violence; for her, running had not been an escape. There was nothing to be gained by telling Abby that.
“Do you have a dog?” she asked instead.
“No.”
“Maybe you should get one. Or borrow one.”
“Do you have one?”
Cassie smiled. “No. But Ben said I should get one—and he was right. Look, do you want to take a trip with me out to the animal shelter?”
“The coins,” Matt said.
“What about them?” Ben sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs in front of the sheriff’s desk.
“We may have caught a break with them. The silver dollar found in Becky’s hand turns out to be a pretty rare specimen. I don’t understand the technical details, something about a flaw in the mold. They were never circulated, and only a few thousand were minted before the mistake was caught.”
“A few thousand?”
“I know it sounds like a lot, but they all went to collectors, Ben, and they’re very valuable.”
“Does that mean they’re traceable?”
“It means they might be. I’ve got somebody working on that now.”
“How about the other coins?”
Matt shook his head. “We’re still checking on those, but they look damn close to mint quality to me. If so, if he’s using only uncirculated coins, then they’ve pretty well got to be from somebody’s collection.”
“We have any coin collectors in town?”
“Yeah, several that we know of. It isn’t exactly an uncommon hobby. We’re quietly pulling together a list.”
“And then?”
“Start asking questions, as discreetly as possible. I don’t want everybody in town knowing that coins are part of the murder investigation, so we’ve cooked up a story about a stolen coin collection. It won’t fool anyone for long, but with luck it’ll give us a head start.”
“Maybe not much of one,” Ben said. “From what I’ve been hearing today, rumors are already circulating that the victims were holding something when they were found.”
“Shit.”
“We both knew it was just a matter of time.”
“Yeah, but I was hoping for days rather than hours. Dammit, how did that get out? My people have been threatened with fines and/or jail time if I find out anybody discussed this investigation outside the office.”
Ben shrugged. “Osmosis. If there’s a secret in this town, it will get out. Guaranteed.”
Matt scowled at him. “That psychic of yours hasn’t been talking, has she?”
“I doubt it. When are you going to get off her case, Matt? She’s done nothing except try to help.”
“Like that business a few hours ago? The killer’s right-handed and probably tried to kill himself at some point by slashing his wrists?”
“You didn’t believe her?”
“No.”
“Tell me you at least added ‘right-handed’ and ‘possible attempted suicide scar’ to your list of identifying characteristics.”
“I did. But I’m not expecting either to help. Right-handed I’d already gotten from Doc Munro anyway, a fact he gleaned logically from the wounds. As for that supposed scar—this is a town where more than half the men work in mills and plants, and injuries to the hands and lower arms are common. I think she realized that. I think she guessed right-handed because it’s likely, and added the scar in for color.”
“What is she going to have to do to convince you she’s genuine?”
“A lot more than she has done.”
Ben rose to his feet, shaking his head. “You’re so damned stubborn. It’ll cost you one day, Matt.”
“Maybe. But not today. I’ll call you if we find out anything else.”
“Do that. I’ll be out at Mary’s this evening, but I don’t plan to stay more than a couple of hours.”
“She nervous?”
“Of course. I promised to check out her security system.”
“Tell her I’m stepping up the regular patrols out there as of tonight.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Matt smiled faintly.
Ben lifted a hand in farewell and left the sheriff’s office. Not one to put off unpleasant duties, he drove out of town to the house where he’d grown up. His father had insisted on calling the big, bastard-Tudor house and its hundred acres of rolling pastureland an estate, but Ben refused to.
He also refused to call it home.
He pressed the button on the intercom rather than ringing the doorbell and wasn’t surprised when his mother’s cheerful voice bade him enter. The door wasn’t locked. However, since he was greeted in the foyer by two enormous mastiffs, it could hardly be said the house was unprotected.
“Hey, guys.” He patted the broad, heavy heads of the two dogs who were clearly delighted to see him. His mother had named them Butch and Sundance, and either would instantly die to protect her, but otherwise they were placid and friendly dogs who enjoyed familiar visitors.
They walked on either side of Ben as he went through the house to the kitchen, where he found his mother.
“The breeder has a new litter of puppies,” Mary Ryan said as soon as they came in. “You should get one, Ben. You love dogs and they love you.”
“I don’t need a mastiff in my apartment,” he told her, patient with an old argument.
“You could pick a smaller breed.”
“I don’t need a dog in my apartment. With my hours, it wouldn’t be fair to keep any kind of pet.”
She sent him a glance from her position at the center work island, where she was chopping ingredients for a salad. She was a tall, slender woman who had passed on to her son her own gleaming dark hair and hazel eyes. Her little-girl voice was incongruous; a husky, smoky voice would have been more in keeping with her looks. She was not yet sixty, and looked twenty years younger.
“You need a companion, Ben,” she said. “You spend too much time alone.”
“You haven’t seen my workload lately,” he retorted. She was, of course, discussing his wifeless state, though she invariably approached the subject indirectly. Knowing she would go on and on discussing it unless he distracted her, he set the bottle of wine he’d brought on the counter, took off his suit jacket and draped it over a barstool at the island, and said, “I’ll go ahead and check all the windows and doors, all right?”
“Supper will be ready in twenty minutes.”
He hoped the subject was going to be dropped, but when they were sitting at the informal breakfast table half an hour later, she brought it up again.
“A kitten, then. Maybe two of them. Cats are quite happy being left on their own for hours, and at least there’d be someone for you when you came home.”
Ben sipped his wine to give himself a moment, then said
calmly, “Mary, I promise you I don’t lack for company. I’ve just been very busy lately and haven’t had much time for dating.”
She grimaced slightly when he bluntly replaced cats with women, but followed his lead to ask a direct question of her own. “What about Alexandra Melton’s niece?”
He was startled. “How the hell did you hear about her?”
“Louise told me. You know we always do the flowers for the church on Saturday. She said she’d seen you at least twice with Alexandra Melton’s niece, that there was no mistaking the girl. Is she as interesting as her aunt was, Ben?”
“I hardly knew Miss Melton.”
“And her niece?”
“I barely know her.”
“But what’s she like?”
Ben gave up; Mary, for all her childish voice and moods, could be as relentless as water dripping on stone when she wanted something. “She looks a lot like Miss Melton, yes. Black hair, gray eyes. Smaller, though, and more fragile.”
“Alexandra was a bit fey. Is her niece? And what is her name anyway?”
“Her name is Cassie Neill.” Ben frowned. “I wasn’t aware you knew Miss Melton except by name.”
“We talked a few times over the years. For heaven’s sake, Ben, you can’t live in a town this size and not know most of the people, not if you’ve been here nearly forty years.”
He nodded but said, “What do you mean by ‘fey’?”
“Well, just that. She knew things. Once, she told me to hurry home because Gretchen—Butch and Sunny’s mother, you remember her—was having her puppies and there was trouble. There was too. I lost her and had to hand-rear the boys.”
One of the boys thumped his tail against the tile floor, and the other yawned hugely as Ben glanced at them. Looking back at his mother, he said, “I’d heard a few stories about her seeming to know things and didn’t really believe them. But Cassie says her aunt was supposed to be able to predict the future.”
“Then maybe she could. Can Cassie?”
Ben shook his head. “No.”
“Because you don’t believe it’s possible, or because she told you she couldn’t?” Mary asked, intent.
“Because she told me she couldn’t.” Ben didn’t see any reason to tell his mother that Cassie’s psychic skills lay in quite another direction.
Mary was disappointed. “Oh. I was hoping maybe she could.”
“So she could tell your fortune?” Ben asked dryly.
Mary lifted her chin. “As a matter of fact, Alexandra did that. After the thing with the puppies, I asked her if she could tell me anything about my future. She sort of laughed, and then she said that because of my son, I’d meet a tall, dark, and handsome man I’d fall madly in love with and soon marry.”
It sounded so much like the sort of stock prediction common in sideshow fortune tellers’ tents that Ben could say only, “Oh, for God’s sake, Mary.”
“It might come true, you don’t know.”
Ben sighed. “Sure it might.”
She stared at him. “You know, son, you are far too cynical even for a lawyer.”
Since she called him “son” only when she was seriously annoyed with him, and since Mary annoyed with him could lead to uncomfortable interludes in his life, Ben said contritely, “I know. Sorry, Mary. I’m just not sure I believe in precognition, that’s all.” And it was the truth, even if not all of it.
Somewhat mollified, she said, “You should open up your mind, Ben. Your imagination.”
“I’ll work on that.”
She eyed him. “You’re just humoring me.”
“For your sake, I hope Miss Melton’s prediction comes true. If I notice a tall, dark stranger lurking around, I’ll definitely invite him here for supper.”
“Now I know you’re just humoring me.” But she seemed more amused than annoyed.
Accustomed to her swift changes of mood, Ben merely said, “Not at all. Fix this chicken dish for him, and I can guarantee he’ll be impressed. You’re a great cook and you know it.”
“Umm.” She sipped her wine, her eyes bright as she watched him across the table. “Can Cassie cook?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Yes, I like her.” He kept his voice patient and matter-of-fact. “No more and no less.” Liar. “Stop matchmaking, Mary. The last time—” He bit off the rest, but it was too late.
Mary’s face changed, and her eyes filled with quick tears. “I was so hoping you and Jill would stay together. She was such a sweet girl, Ben. Even after you broke up she came to visit me and talk about you….”
He hadn’t known that. It seemed that Cassie had been right yet again when she had told him that Jill was an ex-lover not yet ready to let go. “Mary—”
“Who could have done that to such a sweet girl, Ben? And Ivy and that poor girl Becky? What’s happening to this town? Who will that monster kill next?”
“Everything will be all right, Mary.”
“But—”
“Listen to me. Everything will be all right.” Recognizing the signs of rising hysteria in his mother, he set himself to the task of reassuring her. He kept his voice level and calm, his words encouraging, and refused to allow her to work herself into a state of panic that would demand sedatives and his presence in the house overnight; it was a condition he knew her quite capable of achieving.
And not for the first time he felt a flash of reluctant sympathy for his dead father.
NINE
FEBRUARY 24, 1999
“You’re in my way, you know.” Cassie gently nudged the German shepherd-collie mix to one side so she could open the bottom drawer of the storage chest.
Max whined softly and sat down, watching her with bright, attentive eyes. After a couple of nights and days together, they were growing accustomed to each other, but the young dog was clearly worried by the fact that Cassie was spending so much time digging through drawers and closets. Not that he could be blamed for that, since his original owners had abandoned him when they moved away.
Cassie spared a moment to stroke his head and murmur reassuringly. She had tried explaining that she would not leave him as his former people had, but discovered not only that canine minds were unreadable—at least by her—but also that it was difficult to explain verbally to a dog that she was only sorting through her aunt’s things, boxing up what was to be thrown away, given away, or stored.
She wondered if Abby was having an easier time with the full-blooded Irish setter she had fallen in love with.
“Well, maybe I’ve done enough today anyway,” she decided. “There are those boxes full of papers downstairs—I can go through them tonight and it probably won’t upset you too much. In the meantime, why don’t we go for a walk?”
The magic words lifted Max’s head eagerly, and he preceded her out of this spare bedroom and downstairs. Cassie didn’t put the dog on a leash; she had already discovered that he’d had basic obedience training and, besides, he tended to stick quite close to her when they were out.
She got her quilted jacket off the stand by the front door. It was only three in the afternoon, but the forecast was for snow and both the icy air and low, thick gray clouds said that the weather bureau might have gotten it right this time.
It was the kind of weather Cassie loved. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and struck out across the fields near the house, walking slowly as she divided her attention between Max’s happy exploration of every rock and hole in the ground and the spare, naked beauty of her surroundings.
It was easy to forget about… other things.
The killer had remained quiet these last days. As far as they knew, he had not killed again—and Cassie had not gotten so much as a whisper from his mind.
That was a silence she could only be happy about.
If the investigation was making progress, she didn’t know any of the details. The sheriff had not been in touch. Ben had called the previous afternoon, t
o check on her he said, and he was relieved to hear she had adopted a dog. He hadn’t been able to tell her anything about the investigation; another tricky case was keeping him in court more than he had expected, and he’d gotten little opportunity to talk to Matt. He had sounded tired and a little restless.
The newspaper hadn’t had much to say either beyond a few stark facts. Becky Smith had been buried, but funerals for the other two victims were postponed indefinitely while the search for evidence continued.
Probably smart of the sheriff, but the lack of closure was not helping the mood of the townspeople. With two bodies lying in refrigerated storage at one of the local undertaker’s and a visibly increased police presence throughout the county, no one was going to forget the potential threat. No curfew had been declared, but the newspaper reported unusually quiet streets after dark and women traveling in pairs, groups, or with male escorts virtually at all times.
If Cassie had been an optimist, she might have brought herself to hope that the killer had left and moved on to other hunting grounds. She was not an optimist. And she was more than half convinced the sheriff was right, that this killer was local, someone born and bred in the area. And still there.
Somewhere.
Realizing what she was doing, acknowledging silently that it was not, after all, so easy to forget, Cassie pushed thoughts of the killer firmly from her mind.
“Enough,” she said out loud.
Max dashed up to her with a stick, and she spent the next fifteen minutes or so throwing it for him. She tired of the game before he did; he was still carrying the stick in his mouth when Cassie started back toward the house.
He dropped it the instant he saw the Jeep parked in the driveway, and his full-throated barks rang out across the field, oddly hollow in the cold, still air. Cassie saw Ben come down the steps from the porch and look in their direction, and caught Max by the collar to keep him by her side.