"Hey, easy now." Adam increased his grip and held her until he could see that the panic had passed. "You're awake, Cassandra," he said calmly. "You're safe. You're safe." He eased her back against her pillow and leaned down to kiss her forehead. It was cool against his lips. All of his concerns for her came back in a tidal wave of anxiety. What was happening to this bright and sensitive woman?
"I'm okay." Cassandra drew in several deep breaths. She was in her own room. She was safe, with Adam— and the concerned cat that had hopped up on her bed to inspect her.
"Tell me the dream," Adam said. The past evening there had been nothing to upset Cassandra. They'd played some of her favorite classical tapes and had a lighthearted conversation.
Cassandra grew suddenly still. "That's it," she said. A calmness stole over her expression. "I have to remember, just like Running Stream told me. This dream was long, intense. It was as if I were there. Right there behind the wheel of the car."
Adam stared at her.
"As if I were the killer," she said, remembering the way his hands had gripped the steering wheel, touched the young woman's hair. She looked down at her own hand, expecting to find a few brunette hairs there. "I was with the killer, very clearly this time. I woke up just before he murdered the girl."
"Do you know who she was?"
"Ellen." She thought hard, pulling her memory of the dream together. She described the young woman, and as she spoke, Adam went to the bedside table and took the notepad and pen she kept there. He began jotting notes.
"She was from Georgia. A farm south of Atlanta," Cassandra finished triumphantly.
Adam put the pen aside for a moment as he picked up Cassandra's hand. "I hate to ask this, but if this dream is real, has it happened yet?"
"I don't know." Cassandra swung her legs off the bed and sat up. "With the other girls, I dreamed the murder before it happened, if we can believe the information Sheriff Beaker gave us."
"Then she might be alive." Adam felt a surge of hope.
"Maybe. And she had to be at work in the evening, so she's working the night shift." She glanced at her watch. It was midnight. "Maybe a bar or lounge."
"Her clothes?" Adam asked.
While Cassandra described the rather severe outfit, she mentally flipped through places that might hire a waitress with conservative dress.
"Wait a minute." Adam hurried out of the bedroom and returned a moment later with a telephone book. In the Yellow Pages he turned to restaurants.
"It wouldn't be a family place, not if she were going to work at nine," Cassandra said. "Most of those close at eleven, so she wouldn't be working a two-hour shift."
"It has to be a…what about her skirt?"
"I don't know." Cassandra focused on the dream. She saw the blouse, the necklace, the stud earrings. But her gaze didn't go below the waist. "He didn't notice what she wore, and neither did I."
The thought was a revelation to both of them. It told them something about the killer that was chilling. Once his victim was selected, he failed to actually see her as a total person.
"It was her hair he noticed. Her hair and skin and neck," Cassandra said slowly. She felt as if some tremendous sickness had brushed against her. "I want to take a shower."
"I'll start making some calls," Adam volunteered. "When you're dressed, maybe we should take a ride into town."
Cassandra nodded. She wanted to feel the spray of hot water against her skin. Shampoo. She wanted to scrub and scrub and scrub until she couldn't remember the feel of Ellen's hair ever again.
* * *
"I CALLED TWELVE PLACES, but there wasn't an Ellen working there," Adam said as he put the phone down. Cassandra was dressed and ready to go.
"Try Crockett's," she said. "It's a strange place. Lots of locals, real down-home, but supposedly the best food in town."
"Let's go there," Adam suggested. "Neither of us can sleep, and maybe we'll poke around and find something."
Cassandra wanted to run, to fight, to scream. The horrors of the dream had given her tremendous energy. Driving down the mountain to Crockett's was the best substitute she could find. It was probably a wild-goose chase, but it was better than doing nothing.
In a small town where the population grew by thousands on a daily basis during the summer, it was going to be hard to find a young woman named Ellen. Hell, it was next to impossible. But once they were down in the town, Cassandra had plans to go on over to Sheriff Beaker's. He might laugh at her and ridicule her, but she was going to tell him about this latest dream. She was also going to warn him not to talk about her or her dreams to anyone, especially not pushy television talk show hosts.
"Have you thought of something else?" Adam asked as he held the door for her.
"No." She stopped. Familiar was standing at the door as if he couldn't decide whether to go in or stay out. "Your choice, fella," she said. The cat walked past her onto the porch. "Just remember to stay close to the house. There are owls and panthers and bears out in those woods."
* * *
SO NICKNAME ME Toto and let's get on the road to Oz. It isn't the wildlife I'm concerned about. I thought I heard someone in the woods earlier. Hard to tell, since whoever it was was walking very carefully. I just thought I'd check out the territory while the humans gallivant around town.
I'm getting antsy hanging out here in the wilderness. Goldilocks has her own set of nightmares, but I had a dream about Eleanor. She was all in white. There were white bandages wrapped around her head, and her beautiful hair was gone. But she was smiling, and she had new glasses. Battered but undefeated. I just wish I knew where she was.
I've racked my brain to think where she might be. Nothing. The answering machine was on at Dr. Doolittle's office, so I left a vocal imprint. If Dr. D. gets there in the morning, he'll know it's me. I know he will. How can I be certain Lucille won't erase the tape?
I've made a firm decision to drive her to a nervous breakdown when I get back to Washington. Just punishment for hanging up on me. I've never liked her since the day I met her. She probably teaches her dog to chase cats.
Well, the big folks are gone and there's no time like the present to scout the perimeter. If it weren't so vulgar I'd get one of those coonskin caps— fake coonskin of course. Since I'm a creature with what is commonly known as a luxurious pelt, it makes me sick to think that humans actually derive pleasure from skinning small animals and wearing their furs. My, my, there's such a lot of room for civilization in this savage race of bipeds.
There's that slight movement in the woods again. I'm going to stroll that way. Few people realize that the cat and the owl have the best night vision of any creatures. We are nocturnal hunters.
Yes, I see that slight movement behind that clump of underbrush. About a hundred yards from the house, I'd say. Very discreet. Whoever it is is watching the house. They're relaxed, probably waiting for Adam and Cassandra to return. I wonder if I should frighten them away or merely observe. Best to check it out before I render a decision.
Well, well, it's that Indian. He's tucked up in the brush as if he intended to spend the night. He sees me. No point in slithering along in the dark anymore.
Strange, the way he's assessing me. It's almost as if he were aware of my thoughts, my intelligence. A perceptive young man with a troubled spirit. He's angry. I could sense it the other day when he was visiting. Angry and afraid.
Oops. He dropped something in the dark. What? Let me give him the old friendly cat trick and see what it is. A little brush across the shins with my body, and I'm in close enough for a look. Yep, there it is.
The earring! The one he and Lancelot found. I thought they took that to the sheriff's department. There, he's got it again, and he's putting it in his pocket. Patting his shirt to make sure it's at the bottom. And now he's settling back to give me a few pets. Nice touch, very strong fingers, but gentle hands. He likes the feel of my fur. It's a pleasure to meet a man who can appreciate the finer things in life. But what's he doin
g lurking out behind Cassandra's house? This bears closer scrutiny.
* * *
"I DON'T KNOW," Cassandra came back to her table and sat down. "There must be a hundred people in here. The waitresses move back and forth like flies."
"Not a very appetizing comparison," Adam commented dryly, "but the dress is casual, jeans and all."
"That's true." Cassandra was scanning the crowd. She knew she'd recognize the brunette named Ellen if she ever saw her. If she was there.
"Hi, my name's Sarah, and I'll be your waitress tonight," a good-looking blond woman said as she put two napkins on the table. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Two white wines," Adam said as Cassandra nodded.
"Is Ellen here tonight?" Cassandra asked casually.
"There's no one here by that name." Sarah's face grew a fraction less friendly. "I'll get that wine." She turned abruptly away.
Cassandra started to rise, but Adam grabbed her arm. "Hold on, there, Cassandra."
"She knows her!" Cassandra could feel the blood surging through her heart. "She knows her! I remember more of the dream. Ellen was talking about her friend Sarah who was going to cover for her."
All of the color had drained from Cassandra's face, and Adam could see the tension spark in her crystal eyes. He also knew that such behavior would scare Sarah away from telling them anything they wanted to know.
"Calm down," he ordered, tightening his hold on her hand for emphasis. Sarah was coming back through the crowd with their drinks. "Don't blow it," he whispered.
"Here you are, and would you like a menu?" Sarah asked. There was a practiced smile on her face, but she didn't look directly at either of them.
"Not tonight," Adam said easily. He put the money on the tray, and an extra twenty on top. "We're looking for a young woman with shoulder-length hair, a brunette. The name she gave was Ellen, but it may not be her real name. It's very important."
Sarah glanced around the room. "I don't know any Ellen." She picked up the twenty and put it back on the table.
Adam touched her wrist beneath her tray. "We're trying to help her. We think she might be in danger."
Sarah's face betrayed no expression. "I swear. No one named Ellen works here."
"She's seeing a man," Cassandra broke in. "He might try and hurt her."
Sarah looked from Cassandra to Adam. Her eyes were shuttered. "I don't know what game you two are playing. Angry ex-wife, angry ex-lover, I don't know. If there was an Ellen here, I'd send her over and let her settle this with you herself. Since she doesn't exist, I can't help you." She tapped the twenty on the table and turned away.
Cassandra watched her leave with an expression of frustration. "She knows something."
"Maybe, maybe not," Adam said. He watched Sarah's retreating back. "She seemed afraid, at first, but there was something about her…I believed her."
"She spoke with conviction," Cassandra agreed. "But why was she so edgy, then?"
Adam sipped his wine. "We could follow her."
"That's a great idea!"
"What if we're wasting the night? What if this is a dead end?"
"If she knows Ellen, we've given her enough information to warn her friend." Cassandra tried to think it through. They could follow Sarah, a potential lead, or they could continue to look for Ellen. Neither option seemed very promising.
"Ladies' room," Cassandra said as she stood. "I'll be back."
When she was around the corner that led to the rest rooms, she paused. Adam was scanning the crowd, and there was no sign of Sarah. The door to the kitchen was just beyond, and she went quickly toward it and pushed through. In the bustle of chefs and waitresses moving back and forth, no one took notice of her as she walked to the back of the room.
The noise was overwhelming and the heat intense. Rich smells assaulted her senses. There was too much confusion. Hugging a wall, she made her way around the room, searching for Ellen's face. Sarah's familiar voice, strained in worry, caught her ear.
"They were asking for Ellen."
Cassandra paused. In a corner, tucked out of sight, were two pay phones for the employees. Pans clattered and dishwashers roared so that Sarah, who held the receiver to her ear, was almost shouting.
"No, I've never seen either of them. Look, they upset me. They said you were in danger. I'm not going to be part of this anymore. You'd better get in here to work, 'cause I'm not going to cover for you." There was a pause. "Well, break the date. Tell Romeo to get up a little earlier and meet you for lunch instead."
The receiver was slammed back on the silver prong, and before Cassandra could make an escape, Sarah stepped away from the phone and rammed into her.
"What are you doing in the kitchen?" Sarah asked. She glared at Cassandra. "Guests aren't allowed in the kitchen."
"I don't care who your friend is. I don't care what she does, except that if she sees the man she's been dating again, he is going to kill her."
Cassandra knew her words sounded like the ravings of a crazy woman.
"Listen, lady, I've had enough of you." Sarah waved her hand. "Hey, Freddie! Come here!"
A burly cook with arms the size of small hams hurried to her side. "What's the problem, Sarah?" He gave Cassandra a belligerent look that meant trouble.
"This woman and her friend have been bothering me. She followed me back here and eavesdropped on my phone conversation."
"There's only one way to fix this," the big man said. He wiped his hands on his apron. "I'm calling the sheriff."
"Wait," Cassandra said quickly. "I'm only trying to help. I promise."
"You're trying to intimidate me and my friend," Sarah said. "I don't play these kinds of games." She looked at the cook. "Call the sheriff."
Chapter Eight
"Harassment is a serious charge." Sheriff Beaker rubbed the bridge of his nose as he pushed up his glasses. "Ms. McBeth, I don't know why you've decided to make a public nuisance of yourself, but this is the worst time you could have chosen. My men are worn out from working two murders. I'm up all night, and when I do get a few minutes to sleep, the telephone rings off the hook with mothers who're worried about their daughters. We've been getting calls from all over the United States."
"I explained the dream to you. If Ellen isn't dead now, she will be soon." Cassandra clasped her hands in her lap.
"There is no Ellen," Beaker said impatiently. "Ms. Welford— Sarah— insists that she doesn't know anyone by that name. She gave a sworn statement."
"She was talking to her on the telephone," Cassandra insisted. She leaned forward in her chair. "I'm not crazy, and I'm trying to stop a murder, not make trouble for you."
"The manager and the other waitresses all said there was no Ellen working there." Beaker's patience was growing thin.
"Maybe the woman's using a fake name." Cassandra stood up. "I can describe her perfectly, if you and your men would help me hunt for her."
"Stay out of this." Beaker stood up, too. "Now I'm going to let you go home, but I want your promise that you'll stay out of Gatlinburg for a few days."
"I can't promise," Cassandra said stubbornly. "I…"
"Ms. McBeth will remain at her home," Adam said. He stood and went to Cassandra's side. "Whatever you need in town, I'll take care of for you."
"I didn't hire you to baby-sit me," she snapped.
"Well, you might be thankful that someone is willing to assume responsibility for you," Beaker said. "I've had about all of this witchy stuff I can stand." He turned to Adam as if Cassandra had suddenly vanished from the room. "I try to be a tolerant man. As long as I've known Ms. McBeth she's been a local oddity, but never any serious trouble. There's been talk about her— " he looked at her slowly "— instability, but she's always minded her own business and let the town mind its own. That's the way it has to stay. For her own safety."
Adam didn't like the implied threat in the sheriff's tone, but he knew that argument was futile. Cassandra had put her whole heart into trying to explain her dreams t
o Beaker. He didn't buy into it at all. There was really nothing else to be said.
"Cassandra?" Adam held out his hand to her. "It's time to go home."
She put her hand in his and allowed him to help her up. Without another word she followed him from the sheriff's office, almost like a child.
When they were clear of the courthouse and on the sidewalk, she snatched her hand free. "Don't you ever speak to me in that condescending tone again," she whispered hoarsely. "I've never been so humiliated in all my life."
"You would have been more humiliated if he'd put you in a cell in that courthouse."
"He wouldn't have done that. He couldn't have. I haven't done anything wrong."
"Except harassment."
"Oh, please!" she said, totally exasperated. "I did not harass that woman, and you know it."
"But he could have charged you, just to teach you a lesson." Adam put his arm around her shoulders and directed her toward his car. "Let's forget this whole incident and think of a new plan. We missed following Sarah since we had to come to the courthouse. Maybe someone else at Crockett's will know where she lives."
"I can't go back in there," Cassandra said bleakly. "They won't let me back in." The tiniest glint of humor touched her unhappy eyes. "I shouldn't have swung that frying pan at that big oaf, but he shouldn't have put his hands on me."
"I'm glad I didn't see it," Adam said with sincere relief. "Very glad. But the fact remains that I can go back in the restaurant."
"And I can wait in the car?" It was torture, pure and simple, to be forced to sit and do nothing.
Adam eased the car back into Crockett's parking lot. With a sympathetic smile, he left the motor running and the radio playing softly. Before Cassandra could object, he leaned over and kissed her pouting lips. "Keep a sharp eye on the parking lot while you're sitting around. You might see something worth knowing."
He walked across the asphalt and disappeared inside the restaurant.
Dutifully, Cassandra began an exploration of the cars in the lot. She remained in Adam's car, but she scouted the area. She was about to say her task was futile when she noticed a small convertible in a far corner. The dark car was parked under a tree, almost obscured by the dense shadows. Something about the car triggered Cassandra's memory.
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