Hard to say from my vantage point on this bluff. My body feels like a punching bag, but I guess I'd better mosey on over to her car and take a peek. Snazzy little red convertible, a sign that she's got a bit of class. She hit the bank pretty hard, and for no apparent reason. Not another car in sight. She just swerved and slammed on the brakes. Almost as if she fainted or something.
Pretty little thing, for a blonde. Doesn't look a bit like my Eleanor. My Eleanor who might be injured. Or worse. And Dr. Doolittle, too. I'm even worried about him. Worry about those two has tormented me for the past three days— ever since I woke up in that moving van somewhere south of Washington with a hideful of glass and bruises. My hearing is still messed up from the blast.
It had to be a bomb. That's a hard thing to accept, that my family has been devastated by some explosion. But I've thought and thought about it, and that's the only possibility that makes any sense. The last thing I remember, I was walking to the refrigerator. Eleanor, the doc, and that funny-talking houseguest they were so excited to see had all gone to bed. There was the sound of a window breaking, the thunk of something on the living-room floor and a concussion that felt as if all the air were being sucked out of the house. The kitchen window shattered when I went through it, and that's it. I musta crawled into the Hendersons' moving van and passed out. Since I woke up, Eleanor's been the only thing on my mind. She couldn't have been killed! She couldn't! Not her or Dr. Doolittle. Even as we speak, I'm on my way back to Washington to find out what happened.
Right now, though, it looks as if I'm going to have to take a little detour. No self-respecting guy can just walk away from a damsel in distress. If the dame buckled tight in her car seat is still alive, she might need some assistance. I can't do the fireman's carry, but I might be able to wake her up.
Hey, she's moaning! Now she's crying. Good grief! She's turning on the faucets over a little car wreck. I need to tell this kiddo to buck up! Tears won't help. Best thing to do is get up and get moving. Never set yourself up as a sitting duck, babe. This calls for action.
Hey! I nudged her hand and she didn't do a thing. That's not exactly the most response I've ever gotten from a good-looking woman. This calls for more dramatic pressure. A little sandpaper tongue on the old bend of the elbow. Yep! That's the ticket! She's lifting her head and beginning to look around.
Dig those blue eyes! It's Goldilocks, I do believe. Those eyes look like a summer sky that stretches forever. Big and deep and intense. And filled with pain! Great, now that makes two of us. She's hurt; I'm hurt. This looks like the beginning of a mutual need relationship. Uh-oh, she's going to speak. Let's hope and pray it's English.
* * *
"CAT." Cassandra McBeth let the word fall from her mouth. She was surprised that she still had the ability for speech. Struggling to release the seat belt that had saved her life, she popped the button and felt her body sag. This seizure had been the worst of all. It had caught her unexpectedly. Before she could pull her car onto the side of the road, she'd been in the throes of…
"The murder." She finished her thought out loud. There was no other way to describe what she'd witnessed. A graphic, horrifying murder. Alfred Hitchcock couldn't have done a better job of capturing the young woman's terror. Cassandra felt the shakes take over her body as she reacted to what she'd envisioned. The girl had been looking out at a mountain view. The killer had come from behind. His fingers had circled her neck, caressing, before they began to press. It was as if Cassandra had been standing at the killer's shoulder.
"I'm losing my mind," she whispered. The tears threatened again and she fought them back.
The strange black cat sat beside her on the car seat and gave her a knowing look. It was only then that she noticed the blood matted in the cat's fur. It looked as if the injury had occurred several days before.
"You poor old tom," she said. Without any fear, she reached across the seat and stroked the cat's back. Her sensitive fingers found the matted gash along his left flank. When he didn't flinch, she explored further. The wound was deep, but it hadn't gone to the bone. The cat was remarkably calm. As she examined him, he held her with his steady, amber gaze, as if he knew she was trying to help him. Animals had a way of knowing things— just as she did.
"You're going home with me. I have a poultice that will clean this wound. Too late for stitches now, so we might have a scar, but it won't hinder your movements." The cat listened, as if he understood. She shook her head. Her nightmares were having a telling effect— she actually believed she was communicating with a cat.
Gripping the wheel firmly, she cautiously started the engine and put the car in reverse. When the seizure struck— and that was the only way to describe the thing that happened to her— the car had shunted off the road, crossed a small ditch and stopped against a soft embankment. She didn't care about the damage, she only wanted to get home, doctor the cat, and prepare a steaming mug of soothing herbal tea. The trip into Sevierville could wait.
But what if another girl dies?
That question came from her worst fears, and she quickly pushed it out of her mind. Even if she went to see Sheriff Harvey Beaker, he'd never believe a word she said. After all, she was Cassandra McBeth, daughter of the "famous" fortune-teller Sister Sylvia, reader of the stars, tarot, cards, Celtic runes, palms or auras. The prophet of Highway 441!
Cassandra felt the familiar anger begin to rise and she shut it off. At present, she had to concentrate on driving home. That in itself was chore enough after nearly wrecking her car. The little Mazda Miata, her one true extravagance, was pulling horribly to the right.
* * *
THERE'S SOMETHING definitely weird about Goldilocks, here. I'd feel a lot better if the first words out of her mouth hadn't involved an act of violence and death. But she has the kindest, most sensitive hands of anyone I've ever met. And those eyes— almost haunted. Yep, she's piqued my curiosity. You all know the old saying about that, but I'm still figuring that I've got at least five lives left.
I guess I've cast my lot in with Goldilocks, at least for the moment. She looks as if the hounds of hell have been chasing her all over this mountain. Before I head down that long highway home, I want to make sure things are okay with her. I also need a little medical attention and some rest. A Washington Post or a television station with political news would also be appreciated. I don't mind helping Miss Locks, but I need to check on the home front. I've been completely out of touch since I jumped the moving van at that truck stop.
I might as well make myself at home here on the front seat of this little sports car. It's nice to feel the wind in my ears after walking for three days. Limping, I should say.
Goldilocks has me worried. The skin between her brows is puckered tight enough to please a lemon. Something's on her mind, and it ain't visions of a Hawaiian vacation. At first glance, I thought she was a girl, but she's older. There's something about her that makes her seem young, and so vulnerable. It's not just her long, curly hair, or her size. It's something I can't put my finger on just yet. I'm a sucker for a helpless broad. I guess I'm just walking proof that chivalry isn't dead. Whatever is bothering Miss Locks, I'll help her out with it before I get on the road home.
All this excitement has tuckered me out. I'll curl up and take a little nap until we hit the house. I sure hope Miss Locks is prepared for a feline visitor. Travel gives a cat such an appetite.
* * *
"THERE YOU GO." Cassandra smoothed the last piece of tape into place. The large black cat looked as if he were half mummy, but his multiple wounds were cleaned, medicated and dressed.
"I wish you could tell me what happened to you," she said as she poured a saucer of fresh milk and put it on the floor for him. "Looks like you went through a window somewhere. I'd guess car accident, but if there had been any wrecks near Gatlinburg, I'd have heard about it, especially this time of year. Bad news has a way of finding even the most remote places."
Like the murder of a twenty-five-year
-old waitress.
With that thought, Cassandra felt the beginning of a dull headache. The body had been found two days ago, thrown down a ravine. The young woman had been in Gatlinburg for a week, one of the first of the summer help that flocked to the Smoky Mountain resort town. Janey Ables had been her name. Cassandra knew about the murder. She knew more than she'd ever wanted to know.
She looked out her large kitchen window. The small meadow was touched with the first green of spring, but the mountain only a few yards distant still wore its bleak winter attire. "We have another week of peace, and then the tourists will hit town in droves," she said. Her eyes welled up with tears. More young women would arrive, and more would die. She had to do something to try to stop it.
She could delay her trip to Sheriff Beaker's for another day, but then she had to go. The visions were getting more and more intense. Deny it as much as she wanted, she knew what they meant. Even if no one believed her, she had to try to tell the sheriff.
This wasn't the first time she'd experienced such an occurrence. Once was twenty years ago, and even now the memory made her heart constrict. Fear and guilt.
She'd been thirteen years old, a gangly, blond teenager who was more forest creature than child. She'd run wild in the woods while her mother pulled in customers off Highway 441 for a glimpse into the future and her daddy ran the enormous apple orchard that was now her overgrown upper meadow.
She'd been in the woods, tracking down the source of a small stream, when she'd been nearly blinded by a pain in her head. The leafy branches of an apple tree had suddenly surrounded her. She'd heard and felt the sickening crack of the limb. Clutching desperately, her fingers found only leaves that slipped through her grasp. She'd felt herself falling, before impact with the earth. Impact and darkness.
Her father had died that afternoon in a freak fall from one of the apple trees that grew near the edge of the mountain. Somehow she'd shared with him the final moments of his life. Across a distance of more than a mile, she'd connected with his thoughts and the horror of his death.
Cassandra had been stricken mute by the incident for three days. She'd thought she was going insane and had been afraid to speak to anyone. When she finally talked, her family's reaction had not been what she'd expected.
Her mother had called it a gift. Cassandra felt differently, though. The second sight was a curse, and one she never wanted to experience again. Never!
But it was happening now. Only this time it was worse than ever.
Four nights before, she'd found herself sharing death with a woman she'd never met. A girl whose long, dark hair had trembled in the wind as someone's fingers squeezed the life from her. A girl named Janey Ables.
Cassandra felt the familiar panic. The dream had come to her, as real as any moment in her life. The first news of the murder came on the television. Janey's strangled body had been found by a passing motorist. Cassandra couldn't be certain, but she was willing to bet the murder had taken place just as she'd witnessed it in her dream. She had to go to the sheriff, just in case there was something she'd seen that might help them find the killer.
What she couldn't see was the killer's face, or the victim's. Twice in the past week she'd suffered the same death vision. That was why she was going to Sheriff Beaker.
She was determined to tell him of the visions, even if he laughed at her and called her crazy— as most of the town had since she was a little girl. She was Crazy Sylvia's crazy daughter. Mountain girl, or, behind her back, goat girl. That was what they called her when they were being kind. Goat girl, because she lived far up the mountain among the rocks and trees.
Her childhood had been full of taunts and names. Now it was even worse. In local gossip, Cassandra knew that she was thought of as a witch. Young children were warned to steer clear of her. Teenagers were often dared into making a visit to her house late at night to obtain some herb or flower from her extensive gardens. The fact that she was a famous writer, gardener and herbal healer cut no slack with the locals. Her international reputation didn't make a dent in the way the local people viewed her. They'd known her for too long. And they were afraid of her. That was the one thing that no one in town could forgive— she made them afraid.
Cassandra sighed as she stroked the cat's back. At least he wasn't afraid of her. He was making himself right at home, digging into the milk and the can of tuna she'd opened for him. With an appetite like that, he'd be back on his four feet in a matter of days.
The cat had almost devoured the entire bowl of milk when Cassandra heard a soft noise at her door. A smile touched the corners of her mouth. She didn't move; she waited.
"Come in, Running Stream," she said softly. She noticed that the cat had also turned his attention toward the front door. He showed no surprise or anxiety when the screen opened and a tall, statuesque woman stepped into the room.
The woman's brown eyes saw the cat immediately, and there was an imperceptible nod of her head. "So, at long last you have heeded my advice and taken a pet," she said softly. Her voice was as gentle as falling rain. Dark braids hung down her back, and her lightly browned skin revealed no age. Only her eyes were ancient. It suited her that she had adopted a traditional Indian name, as some of her people did.
"I found him." Cassandra saw the look the cat gave her. "Or he found me." She smiled when he went back to eating. "He's rather extraordinary."
"He is a cat," Running Stream answered. "His species has much magic, much power."
"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.
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