by Kay Hooper
“Judge, is what I’ve been hearing true?”
“That depends on what you’ve been hearing.” Ben made sure his tone was easy rather than sardonic.
Aaron scowled. “What I’ve been hearing is that Sheriff Dunbar—and you—have been allowing some woman claiming to be a fortune teller to advise you.”
Ben was resigned; it was the fourth time he had heard some variation of the truth. “And where did you hear that, Mr. King?”
“From at least three different people since yesterday. Is it true, Judge?”
“Not precisely.”
“Then what, precisely, is the truth?”
Ben paused a beat, briefly considered how much damage one angry voter with influence could do when election time rolled around again, then consigned the risk to the limbo of things unimportant and unregretted.
“The truth, Mr. King, is that Sheriff Dunbar and I are investigating three particularly vicious murders. We are using all means at our disposal to gather information that might prove helpful in that investigation, as is our job. We are not gazing into crystal balls or reading tarot cards, nor are we talking to anyone who does.”
Aaron ignored the denial. “I heard it was Alexandra Melton’s niece.”
Ben felt a chill. If this man had heard so specific a piece of gossip, then others had as well. Which meant it was only a matter of time before Cassie’s identity was common knowledge throughout the town.
“Is it true?” Aaron demanded.
Ben wasn’t a politician for nothing. “Is it true she’s a fortune teller? Of course not.”
Aaron’s scowl deepened. “She doesn’t claim to be able to see the future?”
“No, she does not.”
“But you and the sheriff have been talking to her about these killings?”
“If we have, the interviews are part of an ongoing investigation and hardly subject to public discussion, Mr. King. As you, of course, know.”
Aaron also respected—to excess, in Ben’s opinion—the red tape of a bureaucracy, and so found himself caught between rampant curiosity and the unhappy knowledge that he was in no way part of the official loop of persons involved in the investigation. He drew himself up to his full height—which was a good five inches shorter than Ben’s—and said self-righteously, “I have no intention of interfering in the official investigation, Judge.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Aaron wasn’t finished. “But if it should come to light that you and the sheriff have allowed yourselves to be deceived by a charlatan into pursuing false leads, placing even more of our women in danger from the resulting delay in apprehending this killer—then, Judge, then I won’t hesitate to add my voice to those calling for your resignations.”
Ben wasn’t tempted to laugh, even though the speech had obviously been rehearsed and was delivered with condescending relish. Aaron King was a pompous windbag, but he had the knack of rallying others around him, and considering the tension of the townspeople, it was likely he could gather quite a mob to demand action if the investigation didn’t soon result in an arrest. Especially if there was another murder.
Calmly Ben responded, “And rightly so, Mr. King. If we don’t do our jobs, we should step down. But, I assure you, we are doing our jobs. Thank you for your opinion and your interest. I’ll pass on both to Sheriff Dunbar.”
Faced with courtesy, Aaron could only incline his head in stately acceptance, execute a turn with military precision, and march away—a grand departure somewhat spoiled by the fact that he slipped on a patch of ice in a shady spot on the walkway and nearly fell on his ass.
Ben still wasn’t tempted to laugh. In fact, he felt more than a little grim, and not because he feared losing his job.
Cassie was becoming all too visible, and despite the wild mix of rumor and speculation concerning the extent of her abilities, it would not require confirmation for at least one citizen of the town to view her as a dangerous threat.
And he had more than a job to lose.
Abby probably wouldn’t have felt brave enough to leave the house on Friday afternoon, not after Gary’s sudden and menacing appearance the night before, if it hadn’t been for Bryce. But luckily for her, the dog was not only companionable, he was also well trained.
It was also lucky for her that the snow had closed numerous businesses for the day, including the financial services office where she worked, because otherwise she might have upset her boss by bringing her dog along.
“I’ll be much less jumpy by Monday,” she told Bryce that afternoon as she backed her car out of the driveway. “We’ll have a nice, peaceful weekend, and on Monday the security company will install all the new lights. But right now we have to go out to the mall and get that padlock. And some chew toys so you won’t eat any more of my slippers.”
The Irish setter sat up like people in the passenger seat beside her and lolled his tongue out in a happy grin. He loved riding in the car.
He wouldn’t much like waiting in the car, Abby knew, but the mall didn’t allow pets. It would be for only half an hour though, just long enough for her to do her shopping.
The mall was safe enough, certainly.
It was two-thirty on the dot when Phillip McDaniel rang Cassie’s doorbell. Since she had expected him to be prompt—he didn’t seem to know how to be anything else—Cassie was opening the door while his finger was still on the button.
“Hello, Mr. McDaniel. Come in, please.”
“Thank you.” He stepped inside, eyed the growling dog at her side, and said, “You can let go of him, Miss Neill. Dogs never bite me. I have no idea why, but there it is.” He was a tall and painfully thin man of perhaps seventy, with a snowy goatee and a full head of white hair, and there was an air of dignified elegance about him.
Maybe it was that gentle composure that prevented dogs from attacking. Or maybe it was just because there was so little meat on his bones.
Reluctant to put either theory to the test, Cassie performed the usual introductions, and Max followed them quite happily into the living room.
“Let me take your coat,” she said to the lawyer. He was the sort of man who wore a trench coat on chilly days; today it was accompanied by a muffler and kid gloves.
But McDaniel shook his head and gave her a pained look out of grave eyes. “I can stay only a moment, Miss Neill. And, truthfully, you may order me to go when I have explained my errand.”
“Good heavens,” Cassie said mildly. “Why would I do that, Mr. McDaniel?”
“Because I am guilty of a terrible breach of trust, to say nothing of duty and responsibility.”
He said it as though he fully expected to be keelhauled or drawn and quartered for the crime, but since Cassie liked him and since she couldn’t imagine him deliberately harming anyone, she didn’t hesitate to say, “I’m sure whatever you did was quite unintentional, Mr. McDaniel.”
“That hardly absolves me.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what it is, and then we can put it behind us.”
He drew a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “This was given to me by your aunt some months before her death, Miss Neill.”
Cassie looked at her name scrawled across the envelope in what she recognized as her aunt’s hand, and then looked inquiringly at the lawyer. “And it was somehow forgotten during probate? That’s quite all right, Mr. McDaniel. I’m sure it’s just a personal letter I probably wouldn’t have read until now anyway, so no harm done.”
“Indeed, she assured me it was a personal message for you, but…” McDaniel shook his head. “I’m afraid there has been harm, Miss Neill, although I don’t know—” He drew a breath. “Your aunt gave me the envelope with very specific instructions, and I gave her my word I would obey those instructions.”
“Which were?”
“To place the envelope in your hands on the twelfth of February of this year.”
Cassie blinked. “I see. That would have been… about t
wo weeks ago.”
“Hence my failure. Miss Neill, I am so sorry. As you know, your aunt was one of my last clients, taken on at her insistence even though I was on the point of retiring when she came to me and asked that I handle her will and estate planning. In the last year I’ve been gradually closing out my offices, and I’m afraid your aunt’s envelope and the instructions simply got lost in the shuffle.” He sighed. “My memory isn’t what it once was, and I’m afraid I completely forgot about it.”
She knew he was deeply upset by his failure and quickly said, “It could have happened to anyone, Mr. McDaniel. Please don’t worry about it. I’m sure my aunt wouldn’t be at all upset—it’s only a two-week delay, after all. What could that matter?”
“I’m afraid it may matter very much, Miss Neill, although I can’t, of course, know how. Miss Melton assured me that there was nothing of legal significance in the envelope, only a personal message for you, but she was most insistent that it be delivered on the twelfth of February. Not before and not after. The date seemed highly significant to her. And, perhaps, to you.”
Cassie eyed him consideringly. “She told you that? That the date would mean something to me?”
“Not precisely.” He was uncomfortable. “But I was aware that Miss Melton occasionally—knew things. Her intensity convinced me that her message to you might be in the nature of advice or, even, a warning of some kind.”
“I wouldn’t have said you were the type of man who’d believe in things like that,” Cassie said.
“Normally I’m not. But she—really, Miss Neill, she seemed quite desperate. I’m afraid the message was terribly important to her.”
“Well, why don’t I—” As Cassie went to open the envelope, McDaniel’s outstretched hand stopped her.
“Your aunt wished you to read it when you were alone, Miss Neill. She was quite specific about that instruction.”
Cassie didn’t know whether to be amused or worried, but the latter emotion was beginning to take precedence. “I see. Well, then that’s what I’ll do. Did she leave any further instructions?”
“Not with me,” McDaniel replied. “I am so sorry, Miss Neill.” He began to back away. “I’ll let myself out.”
Cassie found herself staring at empty space and blinked when the closing of the front door was followed quickly by the sound of a car engine starting. For an older gentleman, he could move when he wanted to.
She sat down on the sofa and stared at the envelope.
“What do you think, Max? Is it a case of better late than never? Or should I throw this into the fire unread?”
Max whuffed softly and thumped his tail against the floor.
“The twelfth of February. Two weeks ago. What was I doing about two weeks—”
What she had been doing was coping with the sudden terrible knowledge that a killer was stalking his first victim in this sleepy little town.
With fingers that had turned numb, Cassie tore open the envelope and unfolded a single sheet of note-paper. The message sprawled across it was brief and to the point.
Cassie,
Whatever happens, stay away from Ben Ryan. He’ll destroy you.
Alex
THIRTEEN
It should have been simple. Cassie had not seen or spoken to her aunt for more than twenty-five years; in fact, she barely remembered her. There had been no birthday or Christmas cards, and not even the notification of her sister’s violent death had compelled Alex Melton to contact her niece.
Only after her own death, in the shape of her will and now this message, did Cassie hear from her aunt.
It should have been a simple decision to ignore this “warning.”
But it wasn’t.
As voices from the dead went, Alex Melton’s was as eerie and as terrifying as anything Cassie could have imagined, and as badly as she wanted to, she could not ignore it.
He’ll destroy you.
Alex Melton had been desperate that her niece receive this warning, her attorney said—and he was not a man to use such words lightly. She had been desperate enough to leave the warning with very specific instructions that it be delivered on a precise day. The very day that Ben Ryan’s name had occurred to Cassie as a possible ally in her attempt to convince Sheriff Dunbar that a killer was about to strike.
If Cassie had received the warning then… what? She thought she probably would have reconsidered her idea of going to see him. She had been so wary of getting involved once again in a murder investigation, so reluctant to put herself through it all once again. It would not have taken much to make her withdraw into her quiet, peaceful isolation. Guilty conscience partly absolved because she had, after all, tried to warn the sheriff.
But now?
Two weeks had changed so many things. The killer had struck three times, and she knew he was about to strike again. The sheriff was willing to listen now, maybe even to believe in what she could tell him, and that might make a difference. And she was committed now, determined to try her best to help catch the killer. And there was Ben.
Ben, who wanted her. Ben, who made her feel things she had never felt before and wanted so badly to feel again. Ben, who could touch her without threatening her walls.
He’ll destroy you.
Ben destroy her? How?
Someone unfamiliar with psychics and their abilities would have immediately thought of the killer terrorizing this town, and assumed that either Ben was the killer or that her involvement with him would somehow deliver her into the hands of the killer.
But Cassie knew Ben was not the killer. Even more, she knew that her aunt’s choice of words was important; if Alex had seen her niece’s death, she would have used that word. But she had not.
He’ll destroy you.
Not kill her, or cause her to be killed. Destroy her. And in that word lay a wealth of frightening possibilities. Because there were fates worse than death. Much worse.
“I didn’t see him,” she murmured to Max. “When I saw my fate, I didn’t see Ben. He won’t be part of that, won’t cause it to happen, surely.”
What she had seen had been a jumble of images and emotions, leaving her with only the certainty that the abilities she had lived with since childhood would be her doom. That she would, in stealing the shadows of yet another dangerously insane mind, become lost herself in the terrible, hungry darkness of that lunatic consciousness. Lost forever.
Death would be simple—and preferable—by comparison.
He’ll destroy you
…destroy you.
…destroy…
For a long time Cassie sat staring at the note, her eyes skimming the words again and again, her brain trying to take in all the implications. She felt colder than she had that morning. She felt more alone than she had since she had first run to this place looking for peace.
Her aunt had certainly not feared that she would get her heart broken. Rejection by a lover, while destructive, seldom destroyed. And yet, somehow, in some way, Alex had been convinced that unless she stayed away from him, Ben would destroy her.
“Dammit, Alex, why didn’t you explain?” she murmured. But even as the words left her lips, Cassie knew the answer. Predicting the future was a tricky business, and more often than not the worst thing a psychic could do was offer explicit details even if she was sure of them.
Precognitive visions tended to be shrouded in symbolism, with interpretation uncertain and conclusions risky. Alex could have known with absolute certainty that Ben Ryan had the ability or potential to destroy her niece without being at all sure how that could or would come about.
So the simplest and most direct warning was the safest. Stay away from him. He’ll destroy you.
“Too late,” Cassie said to her aunt and to herself. “Whatever is meant to happen… will happen.”
Running three thousand miles hadn’t changed that. This warning would not change that.
She turned her head and gazed at the box full of papers that had been sitting in a nearb
y chair for days now, waiting for her attention. She had avoided the task just as she had avoided reading her aunt’s journals. She had kept herself distant from her aunt’s personality whenever possible, preferring not to know about the woman who had quarreled so bitterly with her sister that they had never spoken again.
Alex Melton’s silence upon being notified of her sister’s murder had hurt Cassie deeply.
And yet despite her own unwillingness to remain ignorant of who Alexandra Melton had been, her aunt’s personality had refused to remain a mystery, because she had left clues behind and because other people had spoken of her. Evidence such as all the unopened craft kits Alex had bought from Jill, the purchases obviously used as excuses for visits, indicated a surprising shyness. Her warning to Abby, reluctant and troubled, was clear evidence to Cassie both of her aunt’s sense of responsibility and her reluctance to meddle in other lives.
There had been other indications of personality during the months Cassie had spent in her aunt’s home. From the way she had decorated and the books she had read to her extensive collection of movies on videotape— a passion Cassie shared—Alex Melton’s taste and preferences had gradually seeped into Cassie’s awareness.
Yet she still had no idea why her mother and aunt had quarreled. She had no idea if Alex had left her this house and property only because she was the sole survivor of the family or if some other reason had prompted the bequest.
And she had no idea how to interpret a specific and yet enigmatic warning delivered from beyond the grave.
Gazing at the box filled with papers that might hold some vital clue in understanding her aunt’s warning, Cassie wondered if her own reluctance to know Alex Melton might prove more costly than she could ever have imagined.
She got up from the sofa, went to the fireplace, and looked down at the note and envelope in her hand. Her hesitation was a brief one. She tossed them into the fire and watched them burn.