Stealing Shadows (3 page)

"Word around here was that she broke with her family."

"She was my mother's elder sister. They quarreled years ago, when I was just a child. No one ever told me what it was about. I never saw Aunt Alex again. Being notified last year that she'd left me a house and some acreage in North Carolina was quite a shock."

"So you decided to move three thousand miles."

She hesitated. "I don't know if it's permanent. I was tired of the city and wanted to spend some time in a place with an actual winter season."

"The Melton place is pretty isolated."

"Yes, but I don't mind that. It's been very peaceful."

"Until now."

"Until now."

After a moment Ben said, "Give me the name and number of somebody I can talk to in L.A. Somebody you've worked with."

She gave him the name of Detective Robert Logan, and his number, and Ben wrote down the information.

"Does that mean you're willing to believe me?" she asked.

"It means… I'm interested. It means I'll do my best to keep an open mind." He shook his head. "I'm not going to lie to you, Cassie. Your claim to be able to get inside the heads of killers is something I'm having a hard time with."

"I understand that. It's alien to most people."

Ben circled the name and number he'd written on the legal pad before him. "In the meantime, is there anything else you can tell me about this would-be murderer?"

She gave him another of those direct looks that was a warm touch. "I can tell you he's never killed before – at least, not a human being."

"He might have killed something else?"

"Maybe. Have there been any unexplained animal deaths or disappearances around here?"

"You mean recently? Not that I know of."

"It could have been recent. It's more likely, though, that he did that sort of thing as a child."

"If he did, he got away with it."

"Probably. It's the kind of thing that often gets dismissed when young boys do it. Unless it's extremely frequent or especially vicious. Not many people realize it's one of the earliest signs of homicidal tendencies."

"Particularly among serial killers. Along with, if I remember correctly, unnaturally prolonged bed-wetting and starting fires."

Cassie nodded. "Did you take one of the FBI courses for law enforcement officials?"

"Yes, shortly after I got this job. How about you?"

She smiled slightly. "No. I've just… picked up information along the way. I think it helped me, at least a little, to understand the clinical terms and explanations."

"For monsters?"

She nodded again.

"I'm sorry," Ben said.

Her eyes widened slightly, and then her gaze fell. "Never mind. I've taken up enough of your time today. Thanks again for seeing me. And for keeping an open mind."

They both rose, but a faint gesture from Cassie kept Ben on his side of the desk. Still, he wasn't quite ready to let her go. "Wait." He looked at her intently. "Your name. Is it short for Cassandra?"

"Yes."

Softly he said, "She tried to warn them – and nobody believed her."

"My mother was psychic. She'd knew I'd be. Sometimes I think she gave me that name just to make certain I'd go through life prepared for doubt and scorn. A reminder I'd always carry with me."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Don't be. We all have our crosses." She shrugged and began to turn away, then paused when he spoke again.

"That other Cassandra knew she couldn't change what would happen. She knew she wouldn't be believed. It destroyed her. Don't let it destroy you, Cassie."

Without looking at him she said, "Something else that other Cassandra knew. She knew her own fate. And she couldn't escape it."

"Do you?"

"Know my own fate? Yes."

"I thought you couldn't predict the future."

"Just mine. Just my fate."

He felt a little chill. "It's something you want to escape?"

Cassie went to the door and paused once again, this time with her hand on the doorknob. She glanced back at him. "Yes. But I can't. I ran almost three thousand miles, and it wasn't far enough."

"Cassie – "

But she was gone, slipping through the door and closing it quietly behind her.

Alone again, Ben sat down in his chair and for a moment gazed down absently at the name and number he'd written on his legal pad. Then he buzzed his secretary. "Janice, there's some research I need you to do ASAP. But first, there's a cop in L.A. I need to talk to."

She walks like a whore.

Those short skirts make it worse, the way she twitches her ass when she walks.

Disgusting.

And just look at her–flirting with him. Tossing her hair and batting her eyes.

Whore.

You whore, I thought you were different!

Just another twenty-dollar whore. And not even worth that.

Not even that.

Matt Dunbar came from a long line of lawmen that stretched all the way back to a Texas Ranger7who'd roamed the West in 1840, and it was a heritage he was proud of. He was also proud of the way he looked in his crisp sheriff's uniform. He worked out religiously in his basement exercise room six days a week to make damned sure no excess flab hung out over his belt.

No way was he going to become the familiar caricature of a fat, indolent Southern sheriff. He'd even gone to some effort to lose his accent, though the results were, he had to admit, less than what he'd been aiming for.

A lover had once told him he had a drawl that stretched out lazy like a cat in the sun.

It was a simile he liked.

So maybe he drawled a bit when he told Becky Smith that next time she ought not to park right smack in front of the fire hydrant even if shedid plan to just run in and out of the drugstore.

As a stern official warning, it lacked something.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sheriff." She smiled widely at him and pushed glossy brown hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that was a little flirtatious. "But I was only gone a couple of minutes, I promise. I'll move it right now."

He started to tell her she didn't have to move all that fast, but then he saw Ben Ryan's Jeep pull in behind his cruiser, so he touched his hat courteously to Becky and walked back to meet his boyhood friend, occasional poker buddy, and sometimes pain in the ass.

Today Ben looked like the last.

"Matt, when did you talk to Cassie Neill?" Ben asked as he got out of the Jeep.

The sheriff leaned back against the Jeep's front fender and crossed his arms over his chest. "She came into the office the end of last week. Thursday, I think. You mean she went running to you with that wild story?"

"Are you so sure it's wild?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Ben – "

"Look, I was doubtful too. But did you bother to check her out? Because I did."

"And?"

"And the LAPD detective I talked to says there are half a dozen multiple killers behind bars today because of Cassie Neill. And that's just in his jurisdiction."

Matt narrowed his eyes. "Then how come I never heard of her?"

Ben shook his head. "There's been very little press, and nothing national. The way she wanted it, apparently – which I count as a point in her favor. The cop told me his superiors were delighted that she insisted the department take the credit and keep her out of it. Naturally they weren't too eager to admit that they'd used the human version of a crystal ball to track down bad guys."

Matt grunted, and gazed absently at the peaceful scene of downtown Ryan's Bluff on a mild Tuesday afternoon. "I just don't buy that psychic bullshit, Ben. Last time I checked, neither did you."

"I'm still not sure. But I think we'd better pay attention to what the lady says."

"Just in case?"

"Just in case."

After a moment Matt shrugged. "Okay. You tell me what I'm supposed to do about the lady's so-called warning. She says somebody's going to die. That somebody is a woman – only she doesn't know who. All she knows is that the woman is possibly dark-haired, possibly between twenty and thirty-five, medium height and build – possibly. Which narrows down thepossible victim to, oh, a quarter of the area's female population, give or take a few hundred. And our helpful psychic knows even less about the aspiring murderer. Don't even have a possible on him except that he's male. Eliminating you and me, and every man over sixty just on logical grounds, that leaves me with – what? – a few hundred conceivable suspects inside the town limits? What the hell do I do with that, Ben?"

"I don't know. But there must be something we can do."

"What? Panic a town by announcing one of our ladies is being stalked and doesn't know it?"

"No, of course not."

Matt sighed. "My gut says to have somebody watch Cassie Neill, and watch her close. Maybe there's a good reason she's so sure there's going to be a murder."

Ben stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I'd be surprised."

"What, killers have to have muscles? You know better, Ben."

"I just meant she's too… fragile to have that in her."

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow. "Fragile?"

"Don't even start with me." Ben could feel heat rise in his face, as aware of his uncharacteristic credulity as his friend was but unwilling to examine it at the moment.

Matt hid a grin. "Okay, okay. It's just I've never heard you use that word before."

"Never mind my words. What are we going to do about this, Matt?"

"Wait. Nothing else we can do. If yourfragile psychic comes up with something useful, great. If not – I guess we twiddle our thumbs and wait for a body to turn up."

 

TWO

FEBRUARY 18, 1999

"He's done it."

Ben pushed himself up onto an elbow and turned on the lamp beside his bed. The clock told him it was five-thirty. In the morning.

Christ, it was still dark.

He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder. "Who's done what? And do you know what time it is?"

"He's killed her," Cassie Neill said softly. Starkly.

Ben woke up.

He shoved the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She drew a breath. "It happened hours ago. There was nothing anyone could do, so – so I waited to call you. As long as I could."

Ben wondered what it was like to be awake and alone through the long, dark hours of the night – and aware of horrors. The professional part of him pushed that aside to say, "You should have called me right away. Evidence – "

"Won't be changed by the passing of a few hours. Not what little he left behind." Cassie sounded impossibly weary. "But you're right, I should have called immediately. I'm sorry."

Ben drew a breath. "Do you know where?"

"Yes, I think so. There's an old abandoned barn on the north end of town, about five miles out."

"I know it. Used to be a stockyard there."

"She's… he left her in the woods behind that barn. He didn't kill her there, but it's where he left her. I think… I think she'll be easy to find. He didn't bury the body or try to hide it in any way. In fact… he posed her somehow."

"Posed her?"

"Sat her up with her back against a tree. He was very careful to get the look just right. It must mean something." Cassie's voice faded on the last words, and she sighed. "I don't know what. I'm sorry. I'm tired."

Ben hesitated, then said, "I'll go take a look."

"Before you call the sheriff?" There was wry understanding in her tone.

Ben was unwilling to admit that he didn't want to look like an even more gullible fool if this turned out to be a false alarm. So he merely said, "I'll probably want to talk to you later."

"I'll be here." Cassie hung up quietly.

Dawn was just lightening the sky when Ben parked his Jeep at the old Pittman stockyard. He turned on the flashlight he'd brought along in order to pick his way around the barn and through a ragged gap in what was left of the fence to the woods in back of the place.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn't go very far into the woods before halting and directing the flashlight in a slow arc ahead. These were hardwood trees, bare of leaves in February, the undergrowth scant, so he could see quite well.

He hadn't really believed she would be there.

When the light fell on her, Ben heard his own sharply indrawn breath.

Just as Cassie had described, the victim sat with her back against a tree, facing the barn, easily visible. Her eyes were open, her head tilted a bit to one side and her lips slightly parted as though she had paused in saying something to listen politely to a companion. Her hands lay folded in her lap, palms up. She was fully dressed.

Ben knew her. Becky Smith, a girl barely twenty who worked – had worked – at the drugstore in town while she attended the local community college. She had wanted to be a teacher.

Her throat was cut from ear to ear.

"Goddammit, Ben, you know belter!" The sheriff was furious, and it showed.

"Like you wouldn't have done the exact same thing?" Ben shook his head. "As convincing as she sounded, Matt, I didn't really believe I was going to find anything. So, yes, I walked within twelve feet of the body. I didn't realize it was a crime scene until it was too late. But I didn't touch her or disturb anything."

"Why the hell didn't you call me before coming out here?"

Ben glanced past the sheriff, toward the rear of the barn, where most of the dozen or so deputies Matt had brought were carefully combing the ground. The sun was well up now, and Becky's body had been taken away.

Her body being zipped into the black bag was a sight he would not soon forget.