by Kay Hooper
Cassie watched Max dash around happily, then lifted her gaze to the mountains. Ryan’s Bluff was nestled in a valley high up against a shoulder of the Appalachians; normally the view of the mountains was pleasant and often a bit hazy, but today the dull green and brown was dusted with snow and the cold, clear air made the hulking shapes seem to loom nearer than they actually were.
As she stared up at them, Cassie’s smile of pleasure faded. For the first time, they felt threatening, brooding down on the valley and the town with an almost malevolent stare.
Watching her.
Just as she had in Ivy Jameson’s kitchen, she felt a pressure in or on her chest, at first barely noticeable but intensifying slowly. The chill of the ground seemed to sweep upward from her boots in a wave that left behind it cold flesh and quivering muscles.
The crisp white landscape surrounding her took on a dingy gray hue, as though a fog had moved in, and a dull, roaring sound grew louder in her ears. She had the sense of something beating up against her like fluttering wings, trying to get in, and the touch of it was as icy as the grave.
The sensations were so unsettling and unfamiliar that Cassie didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to lower her guard, to open herself up and let whatever it was touch her mind. But as wary and fearful as she was, experience had taught her that struggling against any attempt to contact her would only prolong the situation—and possibly make it impossible for her to control what happened.
If she could control it.
Cassie drew a breath and let it out slowly, watching it turn to mist before her face. Then she closed her eyes and opened herself to whatever it was that demanded her attention.
• • •
Ben tossed the plastic evidence bag onto Sheriff Dunbar’s desk and said, “Cassie may not mind, but I really don’t appreciate your sense of humor, Matt.”
“Excuse me?” Matt was wonderfully polite.
“Don’t play innocent, it’s not your best face. That scrap of cloth is from your old Boy Scout uniform.”
“So she got that, huh?” Matt said as Ben sat down in his visitor’s chair.
“She got it. Said the cloth was only evidence of your sense of humor—which she had doubted until then.”
Matt smiled, but then quickly frowned.
“She said it wouldn’t convince you.” Ben was watching him. “But that it might at least give you pause. For Christ’s sake, Matt, what’s it going to take?”
Matt ignored the question. “Following up on the coins hasn’t given us squat. For one thing, all the collectors we’ve talked to so far have been middle-aged or older. All apparently happily married with kids. And not so much as a traffic ticket among them.”
“And so nowhere near the profile.”
“If I accept the profile, yes.”
“Do you? And will you finally admit we have a serial killer?”
Matt hesitated. “I may be stubborn, but I’m no fool, Ben. The only real connection between the three victims is their sex and race—and the fact that we can’t find, in any of their pasts, an enemy angry enough or with any other kind of motive to kill any of them. Which means it’s looking more and more likely all three were killed by a stranger, or at least by someone they hardly knew.”
“Which points to a serial killer.”
“I don’t see any other option, goddammit.” Matt sighed explosively. “They used to call them stranger killings, did you know that? Before somebody coined the term ‘serial killer.’ The most difficult kind of murder to solve because the killer has no tangible connection with his victim.”
Ben nodded. “I’ve been doing some reading on the subject, especially since Ivy and Jill were killed. Sounds like you have as well.”
“For all the good it’s done me. All I end up with is that pathetically thin profile your damned psychic offered after Becky was killed. White male between twenty-four and thirty-two, probably single and unlikely to be involved with a woman, probably from an abusive background with at least one domineering parent, probably with sexual problems. Hell, I probably speak to the guy when I pass him on the streets!”
Ben could understand the sheriff’s frustration, because he shared it.
“Worst of all,” Matt said gloomily, “yesterday I heard at least three people mention the phrase ‘serial killer,’ and once that spreads, things are going to get crazy around here very fast. Say we’ve got a murderer running around and people get upset. Say it’s a serial killer and they go nuts. It’s like yelling Shark! at the beach.”
“Most of the women seem to be taking care, at least we’ve got that,” Ben offered. “I don’t think I’ve seen one walking alone all week.”
Matt grunted. “It’s not much to brag about, Ben. The bald truth is that we’re no closer to finding this guy than we were last week when Becky was killed. And you know as well as I do that the longer we go on without a break in the case, the less likely it is that we’ll ever get this bastard. We catch killers because they leave evidence we can interpret or they do something stupid. This one has done neither. Maybe he’ll kill again and get cocky enough to leave us some helpful evidence. Or maybe three was his limit and now he’s just sitting back, watching us stumble around in the dark.”
“Cassie thinks he isn’t finished yet.”
“Oh, shit.” The sheriff didn’t sound so much disgusted as despairing.
Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, Ben said, “If we’re going to take advantage of her abilities, we’d better do it soon. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is that this bastard could catch Cassie in his mind and recognize her as a threat.”
Matt stared at him. “You’ve been reading up on psychics as well as serial killers, haven’t you?”
Ben didn’t deny it. “The consensus seems to be that some people are abnormally sensitive to the electromagnetic energies of the brain. Through one conduit or another they’re able to tap into the energies of other people’s minds and read them, interpret them as thoughts and images, and even emotions.”
“What do you mean by ‘conduit’?” This sounded more like science and a lot less like magic, so Matt was at least inclined to listen.
“What Cassie called ‘connections.’ Physical touch, either of a person or some object he or she has touched, is most common. It’s rare for a psychic to be able to tap into another mind without being in some kind of contact. But for a very few psychics—and I think Cassie’s among them—once that contact has occurred and lasted long enough, it seems to leave a sort of map or trail behind, like a faint stream of energy connecting the two minds. After that, it’s possible for the psychic to follow the trail virtually at will.”
Ben paused. “Unfortunately it’s also possible for the target mind to identify that connection—maybe even follow it back to the psychic.”
“Even if he isn’t psychic?” Matt asked intently.
“There’s some speculation that the mind of a serial killer is so abnormal that their thoughts literally ‘misfire’ so that the electromagnetic energy spills into the brain and causes changes at the molecular level. Just the way a head injury can trigger latent psychic abilities by jolting the brain, so can these misfires. Over a period of time the serial killer can actually become psychic. If that’s so, and if this killer is as young as Cassie believes, it may be only a matter of time before he can follow the trail back to her.”
“Assuming he doesn’t read her name in the paper first,” Matt commented dryly.
“That’s the other risk, and probably a more likely one. Sooner or later word will get around that Cassie is psychic and that we’ve been talking to her.”
“Won’t that look just dandy at the next election.”
“If we put this killer behind bars,” Ben reminded him, “I doubt very much the voters will care how we did it.”
“Maybe. But in the meantime, we’ll take a lot of flak. And your psychic will take center stage.”
“Stop calling her my psychic. You know her name.”
Matt eyed him. “Touchy, aren’t you?”
“This is not about me. Are you going to ask Cassie for help or aren’t you?”
Rather mildly Matt said, “Yes, I am.”
Ben blinked. “And just when did you make up your mind about that?”
Matt fingered the evidence bag still lying on the blotter in front of him. “When you told me she knew this came from my old Boy Scout uniform. Like you said—like she said—I’m not convinced. But I can’t think of a single trick or deception to explain how she could identify this correctly. Except that she knew. Taken with the rest, it’s enough to make me want to find out what else she knows.”
“It’s about time.”
“Well, don’t just sit there staring at me. Call her.”
• • •
At first Cassie was aware of nothing except the cold. Far beyond the chill of snow and wind, this cold was absolute. It felt, she imagined, the way the biting touch of deep space would feel against cringing human flesh. She had the hazy idea that even the blood in her veins was slowing, turning to slush as the cold reached it.
The fluttering sensation returned, intensified for a moment, then faded, and she felt something else.
Someone else.
Cassie opened her eyes slowly. Around her the air remained gray and foggy. She was distantly aware of the dog barking frantically but didn’t see him. She turned her head slowly, toward the woods, where more pines than hardwood trees made the area dark and gloomy with the canopy of their heavy branches.
The people were standing just inside the woods.
There must have been a dozen of them, mostly women but a few men as well, and at least one young boy. They watched her with eyes as profoundly reproachful as those Ivy Jameson had aimed across her kitchen at Cassie days before.
When they started moving slowly toward her, Cassie saw the wounds. One woman’s throat gaped open. Another’s head was misshapen, a horrible depression of the skull crying mutely of a heavy object and terrible force. One man carried his own bloody arm, while another held his hands protectively over the inches-wide gash that opened him from chest to crotch.
They walked toward her steadily, emerging from the shadows of the woods and into the field with its gray snow and foggy air, and that appalling coldness came off them in waves that were almost visible.
They left no footprints in the snow.
Cassie heard a faint whimpering sound and realized it was coming from her own throat. It was a pathetic substitute for the scream crawling around deeper inside her. She was frozen, immobile. She couldn’t run away or back away or even throw up an arm to try to protect herself.
All she could do was stand there and wait for them to reach her.
To touch her.
ELEVEN
When Cassie opened her eyes, she wasn’t immediately sure either where she was or how she had gotten there. The tiled ceiling above her looked vaguely familiar, and she eventually identified it as that of the living room of Aunt Alex’s house.
Her house.
Odd. The last thing she remembered was… getting up that morning. Putting the coffee on—she could smell it—and taking Max out for his run. And then…
Nothing.
“So you’re back.”
She turned her head toward the voice and realized several things simultaneously. She was wrapped from head to foot in a thick blanket, she was lying on the sofa with her head and shoulders propped up with pillows, and she was so incredibly cold that shivers racked her body in waves.
The sheriff stood at the fireplace, in which a fire blazed. He had one shoulder propped against the mantel, his hands in the pockets of his black jacket, and one eye on the big dog that sat only a couple of feet away, staring at him with a distinctly hostile attitude.
“Ben didn’t have time to introduce us,” Matt told her somewhat dryly as her gaze shifted to the dog. “Good thing this mutt already knew him, though. Otherwise neither of us would have been able to get near you.”
“Near me? Where was I?” Her voice sounded a bit shaky, she thought, but considering the chills, that was hardly surprising.
He took her bafflement in stride. “Out in the field north of here, about a hundred yards from the house. Lying unconscious in the snow, with the dog standing guard over you and barking his head off.”
“Unconscious?” She thought about that, then shook her head. “Where’s Ben?”
“In the kitchen. Either hot chocolate or hot soup, whichever he could fix the quickest.” Conversationally Matt went on. “When you didn’t answer your phone, Ben was convinced something had happened. So we came out here. Heard the dog as soon as we got out of the car, and spotted you a couple of minutes later. When we got to you and managed to get past the dog, it was obvious you weren’t in good shape. You were about two shades paler than the snow, your pulse was faint and about twenty beats a minute, and you were barely breathing. If I hadn’t been able to convince Ben you just needed to get warm, you’d be on your way to the hospital right now.”
“How did you know that’s all I needed?”
Matt frowned slightly. “That’s hard to explain. I just looked at you, and I could swear I heard a voice in my head saying the word ‘cold’ over and over. Your voice.”
That didn’t surprise Cassie very much. Even though she still didn’t remember what had happened, if she had reached out unconsciously for help, it would have been the sheriff, with his unshuttered mind, who would have been able to hear her.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. And the name’s Matt.”
She decided not to question his apparent change of sentiments. Instead, she said to the softly growling dog, “Max, he’s a friend. Be a good boy and lie down.”
The dog turned his alert attention to her but obediently lay down where he was, his tail thumping the floor.
“Thank you,” Matt said. “He was making me nervous.”
Before Cassie could respond, Ben came into the room carrying a mug. He wasn’t dressed for court; the casual jeans and sweatshirt he wore took years off his age and made him seem unnervingly approachable.
He had obviously heard their voices and wasn’t surprised to find her awake, but his face was grim. The gaze he fixed on her was so intense, she had to look away.
He sat down on the sofa alongside her legs and held the mug to her lips. “Drink this, Cassie. It’ll help warm you.”
It was hot chocolate, and it was either very good or she was very cold and thirsty. She took a couple of swallows, then managed to get her hands out from under the blanket and took the mug from him. It was no accident that she didn’t touch him at all in the process.
“Thanks, I can manage.”
Ben didn’t protest or even comment. He just sat there, one hand on the back of the sofa and the other on his knee, and stared at her without speaking. She knew he was staring, because she could feel it.
Matt said, “So far, she doesn’t remember what happened out there.”
“What do you remember?” Ben asked her.
Cassie frowned at the mug. The hot liquid was warming both her chilled hands and her shivering body, but she knew it would be a long time before she felt warm again. “I remember going out to take Max for his morning run. I remember walking away from the house, looking up at the mountains….”
“Cassie?”
She caught her breath, her eyes closing as sensations and images stepped out of hiding in her mind. “Oh, God. I remember,” she whispered.
“Tell us.” Ben’s voice was quiet.
It took a moment for Cassie to get her voice under control, and when she finally began speaking, she reported her experience without emotion. It wasn’t until she reached the end of the story that her voice broke slightly.
“They were coming toward me and… and I couldn’t run away. I couldn’t even scream. I just kept getting colder and more terrified the closer they got. Then… just before they reached me… ever
ything went black. I don’t remember anything else.”
She didn’t have to look at Matt to know that he was torn between bafflement and disbelief. She sneaked a glance at Ben and found him still watching her, his expression no less grim than it had been, his eyes unreadable. She had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.
Matt said, “So these people were ghosts?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Cassie turned her gaze to the sheriff, finding it easier to meet his incredulous eyes than Ben’s unfathomable ones. “Yes, I guess. I don’t know for sure, because this has never happened to me before.” She drew a breath. “Look, my abilities have never allowed me to—to cross beyond death. I’m not a medium. I pick up thoughts from living beings, images from events that are happening or have recently happened. I don’t know anything about ghosts.”
“What about what you saw at Ivy’s house? You said it was possible you could have been seeing what her—what her spirit saw moments after her death.”
She hesitated. “I said it was possible, but I didn’t believe it. Even though it felt so strange, I was sure what I saw that day came from the memories of a living person who stood there and looked at the murder scene. But…”
“But?”
“But… some of the things I felt today were similar to what I felt that day, and I don’t think they were memories.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”
“If what you saw were ghosts,” Ben said, “who were they?”
“I didn’t recognize any of them. But they’d all been murdered, I think.”
Matt swore under his breath. “I thought you said this killer of ours was new at the job. If he’s killed a dozen people—”
Cassie hesitated again, then shook her head. “I don’t think they were his victims. I mean… when I stood in Mrs. Jameson’s kitchen, it was as if I tapped into somebody studying the scene. Almost as if I saw it the way he had, from his perspective. The dripping blood so vividly scarlet, the body with its eyes turned toward me in reproach. It was very dramatic, those images, almost as if the whole thing had been… staged to elicit a strong emotional response.