by Kay Hooper
“Okay. I’ll be here.”
He took a step away but then hesitated. “Remember your promise. Don’t try to reach this guy without a lifeline.”
“No, I won’t.”
He didn’t say good-bye. She watched him until he was out of sight and listened to the front door open and close. Then she just lay there on the couch, no longer cold or even tired, but uneasily aware that she had just turned an unexpected corner.
And had no idea what was waiting for her.
Matt folded up his newspaper when Ben got into the cruiser and lost no time turning the vehicle around and pointing it back toward town. Neither spoke until Cassie’s snowy driveway lay behind them, and then the conversation was brief.
“If you want my advice—” Matt began.
“I don’t.”
The sheriff glanced at his friend, then murmured, “Okay. Then I’ll just drive.”
TWELVE
The Plantation Inn was not bad as motels went, though Bishop could have done without the plastic palms that seemed to sprout from every corner. Still, his room was clean and comfortable, limited room service was available—when the restaurant next door closed, you were on your own—and the desk clerk had been reassuringly knowledgeable when he had asked her about fax lines and data ports.
Accustomed to living out of a suitcase, he didn’t bother to unpack his clothing, but he did get his laptop out and set it up on the fair-sized desk by the window, where the promised data port was available. By the time room service delivered his lunch, he had logged on and downloaded his mail and faxes from the office, as well as tapped into a North Carolina database that gave him access to past and current issues of virtually all publications from the area.
He ate a club sandwich while reading relevant articles and editorials from the previous week’s editions of the local paper, then checked several larger newspapers throughout the state. He found that recent news from Ryan’s Bluff was not mentioned anywhere else.
So. The sheriff had his town buttoned up tightly. At least for now.
Instead of speculating on that interesting fact, Bishop reread the information he had gathered earlier concerning Alexandra Melton. There was little enough of it, just deed and title information on her property, and the major points of her will. It did not appear that she had involved herself in any meaningful sense in town affairs, since her name made the local newspaper only when she died.
But Bishop’s information went back further than Alexandra Melton’s life in Ryan’s Bluff. In fact, it went back more than thirty years. In his file were a number of detailed reports, including several from various West Coast hospitals and at least half a dozen from law enforcement organizations. He just glanced over those, since the information was familiar to him, but spent some minutes looking at a detailed family tree going back nearly two hundred years.
Except for husbands, the tree was almost entirely female. There had been few sons born to this line of women for generations, and seldom more than one daughter.
Cassie Neill’s name occupied one of only two boxes representing the current and only surviving generation.
After studying the tree for a time, Bishop closed the file and shut down his computer. He called room service to come get his tray, changed into the very casual clothing that was suitable for exploration, and left the motel.
He drove to the downtown area, since the Plantation Inn was some miles away. Snowplows had been at work to scrape aside the scant few inches of snow, even though the temperature had risen enough to begin melting it anyway; he avoided the slush in the gutters when he parked his car near the drugstore and got out.
For a few moments Bishop stood near his car and just looked around. There was a fair amount of activity on this Friday afternoon. Shoppers moved in and out of the stores, the car lot on one end of town seemed to be having some sort of loud and colorful promotion involving the giveaway of a television set, and the two restaurants he could see appeared to be doing brisk business.
But he noticed immediately that no woman walked alone, and that the few children about were kept close to their parents. And that it was quieter than it should have been, with conversations kept low and no audible laughter. Not too many smiling faces, which he knew was unusual in this part of the country. And more than one passerby gave him a distinctly suspicious glance.
He wouldn’t have much time, he knew, before somebody official asked him what he was doing in town.
Bishop began strolling down the street, visiting several stores, making small purchases at each, and speaking politely if not affably to the clerks who waited on him. Aware that he had a face designed by fate to make others nervous at the best of times, he made no attempt to ask questions but, rather, listened in on various conversations going on around him. Or at least to those that didn’t stop abruptly whenever someone caught sight of him, as they invariably did.
He heard the phrase “serial killer” spoken at least half a dozen times. He also heard several men declare that they were armed and ready should the bastard come after their women.
It was a promise that did not appear to reassure those of their women present to hear it.
Bishop ended up in the drugstore, with coffee and a talkative young counterman who offered speculation about the three recent murders with ghoulish fascination. Neither encouraging nor discouraging, Bishop listened, saying only that it seemed like too nice a town to have such goings-on.
Apparently feeling that this placid reaction implied criticism, Mike the counterman was quick to add the information that they also had a witch.
Bishop sipped his coffee. “Really?”
“Yeah. Everybody’s talking about her.” Mike industriously polished the counter in front of his customer, just in case his boss was watching. “Some say it’s her fault, these killings, but I got it from one of the sheriff’s deputies straight that she couldn’t have done it. With her own hands, I mean. Too little. Besides, I think she had an alibi when Miss Kirkwood was killed.”
“If that’s so, why would anyone blame her?” Bishop asked mildly.
“Well, because she’s a witch.” Mike lowered his voice.
“Way I heard it, she knew there was going to be a killing and warned the sheriff about it. Judge Ryan too.”
“Then why didn’t they stop it?”
“Didn’t believe her, is what I hear. Well, I mean—would you? But then Becky was killed, so I guess she knew what she was talking about, at least that time. What I want to know is, how’s she doing it?”
“You mean—how does ESP work?”
Mike shook his head impatiently. “Naw. I mean, does she have a crystal ball? Some of them tarot cards? Or does she need the blood of a chicken or something like that? Keith Hollifield, over by the plant, he’s missing a few chickens just since last week, and he’s been putting it around that maybe the witch needs them to see the future.”
“Has anyone asked her?” Bishop’s ironic tone was lost on the young counterman.
“Not that I know of,” Mike replied earnestly. “But I think the sheriff should, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Bishop paid his check for the coffee and left Mike a reasonable tip, then strolled from the drugstore.
A sheriff’s deputy lounging against a light post outside straightened, eyed him speculatively, then politely asked if he was a stranger in town.
Out of time.
Smiling faintly, Bishop produced his identification.
The deputy’s eyes widened. “Um. You’ll be wanting to talk to the sheriff, I expect.”
“Eventually,” Bishop said. “But not just yet.”
Though the temperature hovered just far enough above freezing to begin melting the snow, the picture outside Cassie’s kitchen windows was still a winter wonderland when she sat down to a late breakfast. Ben and the sheriff had been gone nearly two hours, but it had taken her some time to rouse herself enough to get up from the sofa. And when she did finally get up, she discovered that she was m
ore tired than she had realized, and still a bit cold.
A hot bath helped warm her, and by the time she apologetically fixed Max’s breakfast and something for herself, she was feeling better. Physically at least.
She wasn’t sure about emotionally.
Years of experience had taught her not to dwell on the horrific images and thoughts that came to her telepathically, so it was easy enough for her to think about the killer with a hard-won degree of detachment. But knowing he had chosen his next target and that he planned new torments for her was not so easy to dismiss from her mind.
Not easy, but entirely necessary in order for her to find some sort of peace. But this time it required more than concentration; it required distracting herself with thoughts that were, in their own way, nearly as emotionally upsetting.
Thoughts about Ben, and about what seemed to be growing between them.
Cassie was still astonished to recall her response to him, and even more surprised by his desire. She didn’t know how to explain it, any of it. With what she’d learned of men and the things too many were capable of, she had thought it virtually impossible to contemplate a relationship with this… this absurdly dreamy longing. With curiosity and eagerness.
A sexual relationship, she assumed. Ben had made it clear he wanted her, though she was uncertain as to why that would be so. She was no fool—and she had read too many male minds not to know that they simply did not look at her and feel desire. She was too thin, not at all pretty, weighed down with the baggage of nightmarish abilities, and laughably lacking in experience when it came to romantic relationships.
In short, she was no bargain.
And Ben… No question that he could get virtually any woman he wanted, and probably always had, despite the walls that kept him distant emotionally. He was handsome, intelligent, sexy, both compassionate and kind. He was an important man in town, a man people looked up to. And he was an elected official, which meant his life was open to public scrutiny.
Something she doubted he had considered.
No, it just didn’t make sense. There were myriad reasons that she would be attracted to him, but not a single one to explain his interest in her.
Except maybe as a novelty.
Cassie considered that with all the detachment she could muster. A novelty? Something entirely different from what he was accustomed to and, therefore, of interest? A woman who found his walls a relief when they might well have presented a problem for him in other relationships? She supposed it was possible, but if his attraction sprang from something so insignificant, he surely would have decided to wait until the threat to his town was past.
He must have known she wasn’t going to be running off with somebody else in the interim.
Cassie stood at her kitchen window with her coffee and stared out at the pretty, peaceful scene, all too aware that once again her sense of expectancy had vanished.
To Max, who was sticking close, she said, “I can talk myself out of a good mood faster than anyone else I know.”
Max thumped his tail against the floor and gazed up at her intently.
“He just feels sorry for me, that’s what it is. Or maybe he’s just one of those men who gets a charge out of thin, pale women always falling unconscious practically at their feet. Makes them feel extra macho or something. Although I wouldn’t have said he needed that.”
Max whined, and Cassie reached down to scratch him between the ears.
“I’ve got to stop being unconscious around him. That’s the second time he’s carried me, and I missed it again. A woman dreams all her life of being swept up into a man’s arms, and when it happens—twice—she’s unconscious.”
Max licked her hand.
“Thank you,” she said dryly. “I appreciate the sympathy. But the truth is… I don’t know what the truth is. All I know is that I’m about a breath away from making a fool of myself over him. And that scares me to death.”
Max nudged her hand firmly, obviously asking for more of the pleasant scratching between his ears. Cassie obliged.
“But you want to know what the really sad thing is? The sad thing is that I don’t think being scared is going to stop me. I don’t think anything is going to stop me. I think I’m going to make a fool of myself over him.”
Whatever Max might have responded, the ringing phone startled them both and cut off Cassie’s confidences. She picked up the extension in the kitchen, said hello, and heard the unmistakable gruff voice of her aunt’s elderly lawyer.
“Miss Neill?”
“Hello, Mr. McDaniel. More papers to sign?”
“Er—no, Miss Neill. No, probate was wound up quite satisfactorily.” Phillip McDaniel cleared his throat. “Miss Neill, would it be convenient for me to come and see you after lunch? It won’t take long, but if you could spare me a few minutes, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Cassie frowned slightly, although she couldn’t have said why. “I could come into town to your office, Mr. McDaniel, if it’s important. For you to come all the way out here—”
“I assure you, Miss Neill, I would prefer to come to you. If it’s convenient, that is.”
“Of course. But what is this about?”
He made several vague noises, then said, “Merely a small matter which—well, I would prefer to discuss it in person, Miss Neill. Shall we say around two-thirty?”
“All right, fine. I’ll see you then.”
Cassie hung up the phone and looked at Max. “Well, what do you think about that?”
Max moved closer and nudged her hand, asking for more scratching.
Deanna Ramsay hated living in a small town. She hated living so near the mountains. She hated living in the South. In fact, she pretty much hated her life. Especially now that some maniac was out there stalking women and scaring everybody so much that they’d gone paranoid. Her parents wouldn’t let her leave the house without an escort; the principal wouldn’t let any of the girls leave school grounds without an escort; deputies were everywhere in town and pounced the instant a body ventured a step or two away from the escort….
“I hate my life,” she announced in disgust.
Her best friend, Sue Adams, giggled. “Just because Deputy Sanford scolded you and ordered us to wait in the drugstore for Larry!”
Deanna heaved an impatient sigh. “No, not because of him. He’s a dork. I hate my life because my life is entirely hateful. Look, if we have to wait in here for my brother to get back, let’s at least have a Coke.”
They ordered two Cokes from Mike and retired with them to the booth at the back, which was their spot.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Sue said. “At least you have a brother to take you places—and at least he will. Both my sisters are still children, I won’t have my license for more than another year, and Mama gets hysterical if I even mention the possibility of going on a date.”
“So does my mom. You’d think we were prisoners!”
“Well,” Sue said reasonably, “we are prisoners. More or less. Neither one of us is sixteen yet, we don’t have cars, or jobs or boyfriends—”
Deanna glared at her and said in a lofty tone, “Speak for yourself.”
“On which point?” Sue demanded.
“Never you mind. Let’s just say that if you were half the friend you claim to be, you’d talk my brother into taking us to the mall when he gets here, and then keep him occupied while I… run a little errand.”
“But we’re supposed to go straight back home!”
“And back into prison for the entire weekend, because Larry has to work and you know nobody else will take us anywhere.”
“Well, but—”
“Well, but nothing. I’m sick and tired of the whole thing. This has been the most boring week on record. I want to do something. What’s the use of a day off from school if we have to sit at home all morning and then spend half the afternoon waiting for Larry in the drugstore?”
Sue stared at her. “What are you up to, Dee?
”
Deanna shook her head but smiled portentously. “Like I said, I just want to stretch my legs at the mall. But Larry’ll never take us if I ask, so you do it.”
Sue began to feel apprehensive. “Dee, there’s a real killer out there. And nobody knows who he’ll go after next.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sue, I’m not going to wander down any dark alleys, or even leave the mall. I’ll be right there, practically in your sight, safely inside and surrounded by other people. I just don’t want my big brother looking over my shoulder, that’s all.”
“Who’re you meeting?” Sue demanded.
Deanna conjured an innocent face. She’d practiced the expression for a good hour that morning while putting on her makeup. “I’m not meeting anybody.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, pardon me if I don’t care.” Seeing that she was about to seriously offend her henchwoman, Deanna relented. “Spend the night with me tonight and I’ll tell you everything, okay? Just ask Larry to take us to the mall before we go home. Please?”
“Why won’t you tell me now?”
“Because. Come on, Sue, you owe me a favor. Didn’t I do your history homework last week?”
Sue had an uneasy feeling the two “favors” hardly balanced out but found herself giving in the way she always did with Deanna. “You’ll tell me the truth tonight? Swear?”
“I swear.”
After a moment Sue gave in. “All right. I just know I’m going to be sorry—but all right.”
Deanna smiled blindingly. “You won’t be sorry!”
“Judge Ryan?”
Ben was accustomed to being stopped from time to time whenever he was out in public, but today it had taken him double the usual time just to walk from his parking place to the courthouse.
He had made it as far as the third step this time.
Wishing he had taken the back way in, he turned to find one of the more vocal citizens of the town approaching determinedly.
“What can I do for you, Mr. King?” He and Aaron had known each other for twenty years, but Aaron liked titles, insisting they denoted respect. He would have continued calling himself Major after his army service but had discovered to his chagrin that others only found it amusing.