Stealing Shadows (7 page)

"All right," Cassie said.

Since there was no graceful way out of it, Ben just said, "See you later," and went back to his Jeep.

He wished he could have believed that Cassie watched him leave, but he was reasonably sure she had not.

Putting the Jeep into gear, he muttered, "Jackass."

 

FEBRUARY 19, 1999

Matt Dunbar wanted to throw something across his office but contented himself with glaring at Cain Munro, who had the misfortune of being Salem County's medical examiner.

"So, in other words," the sheriff said, "you can't tell me a fucking thing I didn't already know."

Dr. Munro wasn't about to take that attitude from somebody he'd delivered with his own hands. "Watch your language, Matthew. I did you the courtesy of coming down here to report instead of calling you to the hospital, and I'd appreciate a little respect in return."

Matt sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Right. Sorry, Doc. I'm just a little tense about this."

Somewhat mollified, the doctor said, "I can understand that. Murder is never pretty, but this one was especially bad. Especially cruel. He nicked the artery first, let her bleed for a while before he finished the job."

"Do you know what kind of knife he used?"

"A sharp one." Dr. Munro grimaced. "Fairly short blade. Could have been a pocket knife."

"Great. That's just great. I figure most of the male population over the age of twelve has at least one pocket knife."

"I figure you're right. Sorry, Matt, I wish I could be more help. If you want to get a forensics expert in from Charlotte, you won't put my nose out of joint. But the girl's family has already called twice asking when they can bury her."

The sheriff hesitated. "No ego here, Doc, I need the truth. Do you think a forensics expert could find something you might have missed?"

Munro pursed his lips for a moment in thought but finally shook his head. "I'd have to say no. We went over her body with a magnifying glass, Matt. Sent samples of her blood off for a toxicology report, but I'll be surprised if it comes back positive for anything. No alcohol, no drugs. Still, I'd say she never got a chance to struggle, or was too scared to. Sure as hell never fought him. No skin or tissue under her nails, no defensive wounds. She sat there with her hands bound behind her, probably with a belt, as I told you, and he cut her throat – and she died."

"But not in the woods."

"No, there wasn't enough blood there."

"Any idea where?"

"Nope. Have you checked her house?"

"Of course. Her parents never heard a sound, and the family dog, being old and deaf, never barked. We didn't find a sign of forced entry, but her folks say she usually slept with the window open even in winter."

"So you're thinking he just climbed in the window and persuaded her to get dressed and go with him?"

Matt scowled. "Maybe. But I don't really like that possibility. You say time of death was around two o'clock Thursday morning?"

"About that."

"Then, there's a chance he was waiting for her at her house when she came in late Wednesday night, and got her before she could unlock the front door. Her bed wasn't made, but her mother said she often didn't make it, so we have no way of knowing if she actually came in and went to bed."

"Who was she out with?"

"A group of friends. They all left that club out on the highway just after midnight and headed home in their individual cars. Becky was alone when she drove off in hers."

"I've kept her clothes as evidence, of course, in case you want her friends to take a look and say if it was what she was wearing when she was with them."

Matt grimaced. "Yeah, okay. But it wouldn't be conclusive, since she could have gotten up out of bed and put on the clothes she'd worn earlier."

Doc Munro got to his feet. "So what do I tell her folks?"

Matt pushed the warning of a psychic out of his mind. "Let them schedule the funeral."

"Okay. I'll send my report along tomorrow. Get one of your boys to come over and collect her clothes and the bits of grass and leaves we found on her."

Matt considered reminding the doctor that his deputy force was made up of roughly forty percent "girls," but in the end he just let it slide. "I'll send somebody over this afternoon."

"Good enough."

Matt was left alone in his office with his thoughts, and none of them were pleasant.

She shouldn't have done that. Bitch.

Why did she have to do that? My head hurts.

I'm still tired, and my head hurts. But I can't let her get away with it. She has to pay. They all have to pay. They'll never laugh at me again.

The knocking at her front door on Friday afternoon didn't surprise Cassie. She'd been expecting him. Sooner or later.

She went to the door and opened it. "Hi," she said to Ben.

He was carrying a manila folder, and his face was set in grim lines. "May I come in?"

"Sure." She idly wondered whom he'd gotten to research for him. Janice, probably. She'd looked quite efficient.

Three days. Not bad.

Most of the furniture was back in the living room, since she'd finished the painting and refinishing, so she led the way there. She left the entire sofa for him, sitting down in a wing chair at right angles to it. "Have a seat."

He didn't. Instead, he opened the folder, took out a sheet of paper, and handed it to her. "Care to explain this?"

It was a copy of a newspaper story taken from microfilm. There was a not very good photo of her much younger self, looking frightened. And headlines. Big headlines.

 

SERIAL KILLER TARGETS PSYCHIC

 

FOUR

"Did Janice find this for you?" Cassie asked.

"Yes."

"You don't pay her enough. That article was buried. The wire services never picked it up." Cassie put the sheet of paper on the coffee table and pushed it toward him, then made herself comfortable in the chair, sitting sideways with knees drawn up. He finally sat down on the sofa so that they were on eye level again.

He reached for the paper and held it. "According to this," he said, "a little more than ten years ago your mother was the one helping the police look for a killer. But before she could help them find him, he found her. And killed her."

Cassie drew a breath and said tonelessly, "He didn't just kill her. He butchered her. She was home alone, since I was away on a school trip. There was no one to… hear. He took his time killing her. They never let me go back into the house, but I understand there was blood everywhere." She held on to her detachment simply because there was no other way to remember or speak of such horrors.

Ben seemed to understand that. "You had to deal with that alone? Didn't you have any other family out there? The article says your father had been killed in a car wreck a couple of years before."

"My only other family was Aunt Alex, and she never replied to the telegram about Mother's death." Cassie shrugged. "I was eighteen, a legal adult. I handled what I had to. And I went on. There was insurance, enough to invest and provide a fair income while it put me through college. It took two more years, but the house eventually sold."

"And all your roots were gone."

"My roots were gone the night Mother was killed."

Ben drew a breath. "This article doesn't say anything about you also being psychic."

"No, the police were kind enough – and smart enough – to keep that to themselves. They wanted my help."

"You mean they asked you to help them find the man who had murdered your mother?"

"Yes."

"My God. Did you?"

"Yes."

"It must have been unimaginably painful for you."

Cassie hesitated. "Remember when I told you and the sheriff about what happened when I touched the clothing of a murder victim to try to connect to the killer?"

"It put you in a coma. Damn near killed you."

"It was Mother's clothing I touched."

"Jesus," Ben muttered. "Cassie – "

"They had guards around me at the hospital, and for months after I got out. Their fear was that the killer would be able to target me as he had my mother – through the psychic connection I had made very briefly when I touched Mother's clothes. But either it hadn't been a very strong connection, or he just wasn't interested, because he never came after me in all those months. By the time I finally got my abilities back, he'd killed half a dozen more people, so I had to try again, had to risk… drawing his attention to me."

"What happened?"

"They got him." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "He was executed about three years ago."

"But before they got him, did you draw his attention?"

"I was much younger then," Cassie said. "Inexperienced. I didn't know how to keep the connection shallow, to get into another mind without revealing my own presence."

"Did you draw his attention?"

She grimaced slightly. "Yes."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened, Ben. He came after me, and the police were waiting for him."

"They used you as bait."

Cassie shook her head. "It wasn't that calculated. I touched his mind too deeply, I realized it, and I told the police he'd probably come after me. They protected me – and caught him. End of story."

Ben leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at her. "End of story, my ass. Why the hell didn't you tell Matt and me that in touching this maniac's mind you could be drawing his attention, making yourself a target? Don't you think that's something we needed to know?"

"Sheriff Dunbar doesn't believe I can touch the maniac's mind," she reminded him dryly. "Assuming there even is a maniac, and not just a garden-variety onetime impulse killer, which is what the sheriff believes. What he wants to believe. And you have your doubts, both about my abilities and whether there'll be another murder." Her shoulders rose and fell briefly. "Besides, I've learned a lot in ten years. It's been a long, long time since I was at risk in that way. I know what I'm doing now."

"But catching his attention is still a possibility."

"A very slight one."

"And you're living way the hell out here, alone, without even a dead bolt on the front door. Jesus, Cassie. If you'd told us, at least we could have taken steps to keep you safe. A security system, a dog. A gun."

"I don't know how to use a gun. I don't want to know. And you may have noticed that I'm fine."

"Now. But what happens if you tap into this guy again?"

"I'll make sure he doesn't know I'm there."

"And if you make a mistake? If he realizes you can watch everything he does when he's committing a murder?"

"He won't."

"But if he does?"

Cassie drew a breath. "Ben, I came to terms with that threat a long time ago. I had to. It's a risk I have to take. All I can do is be careful, and I've learned how to be."

"I don't like it, Cassie."

"You don't have to like it. It's my risk to take." She made sure her voice was calm and sure.

"I know that, dammit."

Fooled them again.Cassie wondered how much longer she could do that, could fool those around her into believing that taking the risk of inviting a psychopath into her mind – into her soul – didn't scare her half to death.

A little longer, maybe.

Trying to distract him, she glanced at the manila folder he'd laid on the coffee table. "What else is in there?"

"Not much. Sketchy background information, school records, that sort of thing. As far as the official record is concerned, you've led a quiet, unexceptional life."

It was amazing, Cassie thought, how little of someone's life could be revealed by official record. And how much lay hidden.

"I guess Sheriff Dunbar has checked out my references by now?"

"Yeah."

"And still doesn't believe I can do what I claim."

"He's hardheaded. It's his biggest fault."

"Most cops consider that a necessary character trait." She smiled, and saw that Ben was watching her steadily. It was unnerving. He shouldlook like a judge, dammit, silver-haired and forbidding. Instead, if he had celebrated his fortieth birthday, Cassie would have been surprised; there wasn't a single silver thread among the dark ones, and there was youthful energy and strength in the way he moved and carried himself. Along with that, he possessed a warmth and empathy so strong, she felt it reaching out to her.

Rare. That was so rare, especially among men, that ability and willingness to feel the pain of another human being. But Ben could do it, even though she doubted it was a skill he enjoyed.

That was why this was going to tear him to pieces.

"Cassie?"

She blinked, then conjured another smile. "I was just thinking that I hope Sheriff Dunbar is right. I hope that poor girl's death was an isolated incident and that he finds her killer quickly."

"But you don't believe he will."

"No. I'm afraid not."

"Neither do I." Ben picked up the folder, returned the copy of the newspaper article to it, and got to his feet. "I have an appointment in an hour, so I'd better go."

Cassie walked with him to the front door. "I guess you'll tell the sheriff what you found out. About my mother."

"Not if you don't want me to. But I think he should know, Cassie."

She opened the front door. "Okay. Tell him what you like."

Ben hesitated. "You know, there's something I don't think you've considered."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You're not in L.A. now, protected by the sheer number of strangers all around you. This is a small town, Cassie. Not so small that absolutely everyone knows everyone else, but small enough. And people talk. Your trips to Matt's office, and to mine, have been and will be noted. Eventually word will get out about your abilities. So even if you do manage not to alert the killer when you're in his mind, chances are that sooner or later he's still going to know who you are. And you won't be a disembodied voice in his mind. You'll be a flesh and blood person with an address in the phone book – and no dead bolt on your front door."