“He has much appetite,” Cassandra said, laughing at her friend. “He can hang around until he gets well. He looks as if he were flung through a glass wall.”
Running Stream said nothing, but her expressive eyes narrowed. “And you? You look as if you’ve been in trouble.”
Cassandra’s protests were cut short with a wave of the other woman’s hand.
“It’s the visions again, isn’t it? You saw that woman killed.”
Cassandra went to the stove and turned on the big kettle. “I was going to the sheriff. I had another attack, and I’m nearly wrecked.” She could hear the emotion in her voice growing beyond her control. “It’s another young woman. I can almost see her. She has this beautiful neck, and short, dark, curly hair. She’s wearing these very unusual earrings.”
“Does she die?” Running Stream asked.
Cassandra nodded. “She struggles. She reaches behind her and claws him a little, but it doesn’t do any good.”
The tall Indian woman ignored her hysterics. “So the killer is a man. You’re certain?”
Cassandra was shaken by the other woman’s calm intensity. “Yes, I guess he is. He’s strong. Too strong for a woman.”
“For a rational woman,” Running Stream emphasized, “the irrational have great strength.”
“It’s a man. I can feel the texture of the hair on his arm.” Cassandra felt her body tremble. “It’s almost as if I were him!” she blurted out. “I feel the struggle of the victim, and I feel the killer’s power, his desire to kill. Victim and killer. It’s terrifying!”
“You can control your own person,” Running Stream said calmly. “That is what you must remember. You cannot control your visions, but you can control your actions. If you don’t remember this, then you’ll suffer more than is necessary.”
“What I want to know is why? Why am I having these visions now? I don’t know these women. I don’t want to know them. I don’t know anything about any of them. When my father died, he was part of my life. Why am I involved in these other people’s lives, these strangers? And why, after all these years, am I dreaming like this again?”
Running Stream walked to the center of the room. She knelt down and held out her hand to the cat. Without any hesitation, the cat walked toward her and brushed against her fingers. “You shouldn’t question the source of a gift.”
“Gift!” Cassandra’s fiery temper jumped. “You and my mother! Some gift! I get to experience my own father’s death, and now I’m involved in the horrible deaths of women I don’t know. You can’t imagine what it’s like to feel those fingers close on her throat! This isn’t a gift, it’s a curse.” She sat down on the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she apologized in her next breath. “Just don’t call whatever this is a gift.”
Running Stream smiled. She was busy stroking the cat. “He’s very fine. He’ll make an excellent housemate.”
“Meow!” the cat said.
“Black isn’t the color I would have selected for you,” she added when Cassandra didn’t comment.
“Why not?” Cassandra was surprised. She hadn’t given the cat’s coloring a single thought. In fact, she hadn’t considered the possibility that he would stay with her. Her friend’s observation intrigued her.
“The people in town already view you with some...trepidation. They think you are a witch. A black cat....”
“A familiar.”
Before Cassandra could add more, the cat flipped onto his back and mewed loudly.
“Familiar,” Running Stream said. The cat got up and went to her, rubbing against her hand. “I think we’ve named him, Cass.”
“He seems to respond to it,” Cassandra said a little doubtfully. “I was thinking of Lucky or Blackie.”
Running Stream shook her head. “The Cherokee people believe that each animal knows his own name. Watch.” She drew away from the cat. “Familiar, come here.”
Tail straight in the air, the cat hobbled toward her. He rubbed his face on her hand. “I think he’s telling us that he already has a name.”
“Okay, his name’s Familiar, and I’m stuck with prophetic visions. I hate to go into town and talk with Beaker, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“It’s a shame the police in Gatlinburg can’t intervene. It’s out of their jurisdiction. I’ve had dealings with Beaker before. He won’t believe you.” The first hint of anger was in the Indian woman’s voice. “The people in town aren’t capable of understanding. They shut out all ideas that make them uneasy. Go to the sheriff and tell him, Cassandra, because there’s nothing else you can do. Remember, though, he won’t believe you and there’s the possibility he will only bring trouble to you.”
“And what about the women? I see a murder. I have to try and stop it.” All of Cassandra’s anger was gone. Only a thin edge of desperation made her words sound harsh.
“Can you stop it?”
“I can try.”
Running Stream shrugged. “You have a strong will, Cassandra. It isn’t my intention to step between you and your fate. As a friend, I warn you to deal with Beaker very carefully. The townspeople can never understand. They’ll blame you.”
“A case of shoot the messenger.” Cassandra knew her friend was right. The officials of Gatlinburg didn’t want trouble, and when they got it, they were always looking for a convenient scapegoat. Sheriff Beaker was a reasonable man, about fifty percent of the time. But he didn’t hold with dreams and visions, and during his long tenure in office, he’d driven out on Highway 441 plenty of times to warn her mother about complaints. He didn’t personally care what Sylvia McBeth did, or whose money she “conned.” He just didn’t want trouble.
“Get some sleep, Cassandra.”
“Yeah, great idea.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm. She’d love to sleep—if she could forego her little trip through dreamland.
“I’ll send Bounder over tonight to sit with you.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Cassandra sighed. “I don’t need your son to take up baby-sitting.”
“Bounder loves to visit you.” Running Stream smiled, and the severity of her face was radically changed. “He views you as his oldest sister, a wise woman with much grace and beauty.”
“You can’t flatter me into letting your twenty-two-year-old son spend his free time taking care of me.”
“Then do it for me, Cass. I’m worried. You asked why the dreams have come back to you now, at this time. The answer to that question concerns me.”
A chill touched Cassandra’s skin. “What are you saying?”
“Like it or not, you’re involved in those murders. Until we find out why, I’ve got a right to be worried.”
2
The green of budding leaves gave the rolling foothills a crisp newness that belied the age of the stony, gray peaks that hovered above them. Adam Raleigh was taken by the sight of spring in the mountains as he drove his rental car along the narrow paved road that wound to Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
He enjoyed the countryside. The clapboard houses with lanky dogs sleeping in the front yard and the land tilled for the first planting were more interesting than the homogenized highway eateries and service stations. He liked the way the road snaked and curled, slow and easy, symbolic of the kind of life he intended to enjoy—when he got old enough and rich enough to retire.
He smiled at that thought. If Cassandra McBeth would cooperate, then he might be a lot closer to his goal than he’d ever been before. All he had to do was convince a woman, whose reputation for reclusiveness made Carmelite nuns seem downright outgoing, to go on a national promotional tour for a breakfast cereal. For a man such as himself, gifted with persuasive abilities, it was going to be a piece of cake.
Let his employees laugh. And they had when he’d told them he was going to Tennessee to bring Cassandra McBeth back as spokesperson for Good Stuff Cereals. They’d laughed and laughed. Well, he was nearly at Gatlinburg, and they wouldn’t be laughing long.
He saw the sign pointing t
he way to the heart of the resort town, and he took Highway 441 north, away from town. He’d scoped out Ms. McBeth’s habits, her habitat, and her well-known desire for privacy. When Adam Raleigh wanted something, he went after it in a big way. He didn’t do anything by half measures.
In the back seat of the car were a video camera, tapes, ten boxes of Good Stuff all natural, high in fiber, no salt, no sugar cereal, and two suitcases of clothes. He was staying as long as it took. Ever since the day, two years ago, when he’d made a special trip to Nashville to attend one of Cassandra’s book signings—the only signing that she’d ever given—he’d known she was perfect.
His attention was focused on the road as he looked for the narrow path that served as Cassandra’s driveway. The local resident he’d talked with in the Black Bear Diner had given him very clear directions. The man had been a trifle odd after Cassandra’s name was mentioned, but Andrew Jackson had finally prized the information loose.
Adam could feel his determination harden as he drew closer and closer to Cassandra.
So far, she’d thwarted all his efforts. He’d sent letters, contracts, video packets—featuring his own sincere beliefs—more letters, checks, even his personal credentials, and long, detailed news clippings praising his cereal as a genuinely healthy product. He’d reminded her of their brief meeting. All had been ignored. But he wasn’t even close to giving up. Cassandra McBeth was going to get a rare treat, a personal presentation of Good Stuff.
Part of his determination to see her was personal. The writer, whose books on herbs and remedies were revered by more than a million readers, was a woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes that captured his imagination. Sure, he had his business reasons, but he’d also been captivated by something in those blue, blue eyes.
He was almost past the driveway when he noticed the bright orange vine that grew on the mailbox. That’s what the man at the diner had told him to look for. Some sort of orange flower. Adam slowed the car and turned right. He was immediately under a canopy of dense trees. He felt as if he’d gone from bright daylight into early dusk in a matter of a few seconds.
The road, which was little more than a narrow path cut through the forest, wound up and away. He eased the car forward and began to prepare his opening strategy. He’d park away from the house and arrive on foot. That way she’d be less inclined to run him off. If he could just talk with her for a few minutes, he knew he could win her over. It was the first ten minutes that would be crucial to his success.
Alert for any signs of a house, he drove on and up. He felt as if he were tunneling deeper and deeper into the forest. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps the man at the diner was having a laugh on him now. Adam felt as if he’d gone several miles, and yet there was no house. He was about to give up when he saw the split-rail fence almost overgrown by honeysuckle. He pulled into a narrow break in the woods and got out of the car. Cassandra’s house had to be nearby. He started walking.
Forty minutes later, through the trees, he saw the slate roof of the log cabin. His shins were aching and his cotton shirt clung to him. All physical pain disappeared as Adam stopped and took in the scene. He could immediately visualize the first commercial—Cassandra walking out of the cabin, the camera at wide angle taking in all the verdant foliage, the wildflowers that surrounded the house, the wholesomeness of the entire scene! Then the camera would close in on her, and she’d take one of the old cowhide rockers on the front porch as she prepared to breakfast on a blue bowlful of Good Stuff.
It had all of the downright goodness of Little House on the Prairie combined with Cassandra’s own unique sensuality. He could see her in a white cotton dress with all of that hair tumbling about her shoulders.
The pleasant image was shattered by a low, anguished cry. Adam stepped toward the house, then checked himself. He had no business invading Cassandra McBeth’s solitude. He was a trespasser. He realized with an unpleasant shock that he’d assumed Cassandra was single. What if she was involved with someone, and what if the two of them were having a spat?
On the other hand, what if she was injured? Or someone was possibly hurting her?
Adam needed no further encouragement. He was running across the meadow with every ounce of energy in his lean frame.
The cry came again, broken by sobs, and Adam paused long enough at the front door to verify that it wasn’t locked. Then he was inside and confronting the sight of a struggling, quilt-covered woman on a sofa.
At first, it didn’t register on Adam that Cassandra McBeth struggled alone. There was no one holding her or assaulting her. The only other creature in the room was a strange black cat that had jumped onto the back of the sofa and was mewing loudly.
Adam froze for a moment, but Cassandra’s terrified struggles and moans made him step forward. He forgot that he was in a woman’s house uninvited, that he could be arrested for criminal trespassing. His only thought was to capture the anguished Cassandra McBeth and hold her close until she woke up from whatever nightmare was frightening her.
He went to the sofa and eased down beside her. “Cassandra,” he said softly as he gripped her shoulders.
Her head tossed back and forth, her blonde hair frothing about her face. “Please! No!” she whispered. “Oh, God, please don’t!”
The terror in her voice prodded him to act more forcefully. He shook her lightly. “Cassandra,” he said loudly. “Wake up!”
She arched against him, thrusting with her arms in a blind, desperate fashion.
“Cassandra!” He felt his own panic begin to rise. He couldn’t seem to wake her. Instead of calming her, his touch seemed to make her struggle more.
“Let me go!” she hissed. Her hands came up like claws and she drew one across his cheek.
Adam ignored the blood that trickled down his jaw. He concentrated on capturing both of her hands and holding them tight.
“Meow!” the cat interjected along with an angry hiss.
“Get out of here,” Adam said quickly. “I’m not going to hurt her.” Before he could do anything else, the cat leaped across the sofa, landing on his chest with full force. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Adam lost his balance and fell. Instead of losing Cassandra’s hands, he pulled her with him. She was light as a feather and she landed in his arms with some force. Cat, man, and woman tumbled to the floor in a heap.
“What?” Cassandra’s voice registered shock. For a moment, she lay atop Adam without making any effort to move. She was half in the dream, half out. Looking around her, she saw the features of her own home. She could hear someone breathing beneath her. Strong, controlled breaths. Tentacles of the dream reached out to tug at her.
“Ms. McBeth!”
She could hear someone calling her from far away.
“Cassandra, I’m Adam Raleigh.”
She felt the man move, and she tried to connect with what was happening. She could see him, and his features were vaguely familiar. He was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying.
Adam knew the woman was in a stupor. Had she had an epileptic seizure, or possibly an insulin reaction? He looked around the room for medication.
“Are you sick?” he asked.
She could understand that question. She shook her head no, but it seemed too heavy to move. She tried to react, but she couldn’t.
Adam scooped her into his arms and put her on the sofa. With quick efficiency, he picked up the comforter and tucked it around her. “You’re going to be fine, Ms. McBeth. Shall I call a doctor?”
“No.” This time she managed to speak, but it was barely a croak. “I had a nightmare.”
Adam sat on the edge of the sofa. “You’re looking better now. The color is coming back.” He placed his hand on her forehead. “No fever. You really gave me a scare.”
As he talked, Cassandra tried to shake off the final fringes of the nightmare. “Adam Raleigh?”
“Yes, I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“The book signing.”
She remembered. Occasionally, when she was daydreaming, he’d slip back into her thoughts. What was he doing in her home? Was he really there, or was he part of the dream? She was completely disoriented.
“Are you ill?” He repeated his question. She was pale, and appeared to be in shock. Her eyes went from rational comprehension to fear in split seconds.
Cassandra tried to focus on the man before her, but she felt her panic return with all the force of the dream. She remembered now. She remembered the girl, her earrings dangling in her hair. She remembered the way the world swung around her, dark green and filled with the sounds of life.
Adam watched those incredible blue eyes widen to proportions of complete fear. Very carefully, he reached down and pinned her arms beneath the comforter. If she went into some kind of fit, he didn’t want her to hurt herself.
Cassandra tumbled back into the dream. The attack had come from behind. The young woman had been standing…where? There was the sensation of great height. There had been a view, she was certain, but she couldn’t pull it back into focus. The girl had been standing, looking at the view.
“Cassandra.” Adam tried to coax her back.
The killer had come up behind the woman. He was watching the way her hair moved in the breeze. The woman’s earrings had jangled. Then the woman had begun to struggle as hands closed around her neck. Strong hands. Big hands.
“No!” Cassandra bolted into a sitting position. “No!” She held out her hands as far as her arms would reach. “No,” she whispered. “Not these hands!”
Adam knew he’d lost Cassandra completely. She was no longer in the same room with him. Her body was there, but her consciousness was somewhere else. Someplace terrifying, if her expression was any clue. She was looking at her hands as if they were the foulest, most contemptible things on the face of the earth. Such small, incredibly delicate hands.
“Cassandra,” he said softly.
She gave a shuddering sigh and held her hands to her face. Sobs broke from her body as she moaned.
Too Familiar (Fear Familiar Book 2) Page 2