Stealing Shadows

TWELVE

The Plantation Inn was not bad as motels went, though Bishop could have done without the plastic palms that seemed to sprout from every corner. Still, his room was clean and comfortable, limited room service was available – when the restaurant next door closed, you were on your own – and the desk clerk had been reassuringly knowledgeable when he had asked her about fax lines and data ports.

Accustomed to living out of a suitcase, he didn't bother to unpack his clothing, but he did get his laptop out and set it up on the fair-sized desk by the window, where the promised data port was available. By the time room service delivered his lunch, he had logged on and downloaded his mail and faxes from the office, as well as tapped into a North Carolina database that gave him access to past and current issues of virtually all publications from the area.

He ate a club sandwich while reading relevant articles and editorials from the previous week's editions of the local paper, then checked several larger newspapers throughout the state. He found that recent news from Ryan's Bluff was not mentioned anywhere else.

So. The sheriff had his town buttoned up tightly. At least for now.

Instead of speculating on that interesting fact, Bishop reread the information he had gathered earlier concerning Alexandra Melton. There was little enough of it, just deed and title information on her property, and the major points of her will. It did not appear that she had involved herself in any meaningful sense in town affairs, since her name made the local newspaper only when she died.

But Bishop's information went back further than Alexandra Melton's life in Ryan's Bluff. In fact, it went back more than thirty years. In his file were a number of detailed reports, including several from various West Coast hospitals and at least half a dozen from law enforcement organizations. He just glanced over those, since the information was familiar to him, but spent some minutes looking at a detailed family tree going back nearly two hundred years.

Except for husbands, the tree was almost entirely female. There had been few sons born to this line of women for generations, and seldom more than one daughter.

Cassie NeilPs name occupied one of only two boxes representing the current and only surviving generation.

After studying the tree for a time, Bishop closed the file and shut down his computer. He called room service to come get his tray, changed into the very casual clothing that was suitable for exploration, and left the motel.

He drove to the downtown area, since the Plantation Inn was some miles away. Snowplows had been at work to scrape aside the scant few inches of snow, even though the temperature had risen enough to begin melting it anyway; he avoided the slush in the gutters when he parked his car near the drugstore and got out.

For a few moments Bishop stood near his car and just looked around. There was a fair amount of activity on this Friday afternoon. Shoppers moved in and out of the stores, the car lot on one end of town seemed to be having some sort of loud and colorful promotion involving the giveaway of a television set, and the two restaurants he could see appeared to be doing brisk business.

But he noticed immediately that no woman walked alone, and that the few children about were kept close to their parents. And that it was quieter than it should have been, with conversations kept low and no audible laughter. Not too many smiling faces, which he knew was unusual in this part of the country. And more than one passerby gave him a distinctly suspicious glance.

He wouldn't have much time, he knew, before somebody official asked him what he was doing in town.

Bishop began strolling down the street, visiting several stores, making small purchases at each, and speaking politely if not affably to the clerks who waited on him. Aware that he had a face designed by fate to make others nervous at the best of times, he made no attempt to ask questions but, rather, listened in on various conversations going on around him. Or at least to those that didn't stop abruptly whenever someone caught sight of him, as they invariably did.

He heard the phrase "serial killer" spoken at least half a dozen times. He also heard several men declare that they were armed and ready should the bastard come after their women.

It was a promise that did not appear to reassure those of their women present to hear it.

Bishop ended up in the drugstore, with coffee and a talkative young counterman who offered speculation about the three recent murders with ghoulish fascination. Neither encouraging nor discouraging, Bishop listened, saying only that it seemed like too nice a town to have such goings-on.

Apparently feeling that this placid reaction implied criticism, Mike the counterman was quick to add the information that they also had a witch.

Bishop sipped his coffee. "Really?"

"Yeah. Everybody's talking about her." Mike industriously polished the counter in front of his customer, just in case his boss was watching. "Some say it's her fault, these killings, but I got it from one of the sheriff's deputies straight that she couldn't have done it. With her own hands, I mean. Too little. Besides, I think she had an alibi when Miss Kirkwood was killed."

"If that's so, why would anyone blame her?" Bishop asked mildly.

"Well, because she's a witch." Mike lowered his voice. "Way I heard it, she knew there was going to be a killing and warned the sheriff about it. Judge Ryan too."

"Then why didn't they stop it?"

"Didn't believe her, is what I hear. Well, I mean – would you? But then Becky was killed, so I guess she knew what she was talking about, at least that time. What I want to know is, how's she doing it?"

"You mean – how does ESP work?"

Mike shook his head impatiently. "Naw. I mean, does she have a crystal ball? Some of them tarot cards? Or does she need the blood of a chicken or something like that? Keith Hollifield, over by the plant, he's missing a few chickens just since last week, and he's been putting it around that maybe the witch needs them to see the future."

"Has anyone asked her?" Bishop's ironic tone was lost on the young counterman.

"Not that I know of," Mike replied earnestly. "But I think the sheriff should, don't you?"

"Absolutely." Bishop paid his check for the coffee and left Mike a reasonable tip, then strolled from the drugstore.

A sheriff's deputy lounging against a light post outside straightened, eyed him speculatively, then politely asked if he was a stranger in town.

Out of time.

Smiling faintly, Bishop produced his identification.

The deputy's eyes widened. "Um. You'll be wanting to talk to the sheriff, I expect."

"Eventually," Bishop said. "But not just yet."

Though the temperature hovered just far enough above freezing to begin melting the snow, the picture outside Cassie's kitchen windows was still a winter wonderland when she sat down to a late breakfast. Ben and the sheriff had been gone nearly two hours, but it had taken her some time to rouse herself enough to get up from the sofa. And when she did finally get up, she discovered that she was more tired than she had realized, and still a bit cold.

A hot bath helped warm her, and by the time she apologetically fixed Max's breakfast and something for herself, she was feeling better. Physically at least.

She wasn't sure about emotionally.

Years of experience had taught her not to dwell on the horrific images and thoughts that came to her tele-pathically, so it was easy enough for her to think about the killer with a hard-won degree of detachment. But knowing he had chosen his next target and that he planned new torments for her was not so easy to dismiss from her mind.

Not easy, but entirely necessary in order for her to find some sort of peace. But this time it required more than concentration; it required distracting herself with thoughts that were, in their own way, nearly as emotionally upsetting.

Thoughts about Ben, and about what seemed to be growing between them.

Cassie was still astonished to recall her response to him, and even more surprised by his desire. She didn't know how to explain it, any of it. With what she'd learned of men and the things too many were capable of, she had thought it virtually impossible to contemplate a relationship with this… this absurdly dreamy longing. With curiosity and eagerness.

A sexual relationship, she assumed. Ben had made it clear he wanted her, though she was uncertain as to why that would be so. She was no fool – and she had read too many male minds not to know that they simply did not look at her and feel desire. She was too thin, not at all pretty, weighed down with the baggage of nightmarish abilities, and laughably lacking in experience when it came to romantic relationships.

In short, she was no bargain.

And Ben… No question that he could get virtually any woman he wanted, and probably always had, despite the walls that kept him distant emotionally. He was handsome, intelligent, sexy, both compassionate and kind. He was an important man in town, a man people looked up to. And he was an elected official, which meant his life was open to public scrutiny.

Something she doubted he had considered.

No, it just didn't make sense. There were myriad reasons that she would be attracted to him, but not a single one to explain his interest in her.

Except maybe as a novelty.

Cassie considered that with all the detachment she could muster. A novelty? Something entirely different from what he was accustomed to and, therefore, of interest? A woman who found his walls a relief when they might well have presented a problem for him in other relationships? She supposed it was possible, but if his attraction sprang from something so insignificant, he surely would have decided to wait until the threat to his town was past.

He must have known she wasn't going to be running off with somebody else in the interim.

Cassie stood at her kitchen window with her coffee and stared out at the pretty, peaceful scene, all too aware that once again her sense of expectancy had vanished.

To Max, who was sticking close, she said, "I can talk myself out of a good mood faster than anyone else I know."

Max thumped his tail against the floor and gazed up at her intently.

"He just feels sorry for me, that's what it is. Or maybe he's just one of those men who gets a charge out of thin, pale women always falling unconscious practically at their feet. Makes them feel extra macho or something. Although I wouldn't have said he needed that."

Max whined, and Cassie reached down to scratch him between the ears.

"I've got to stop being unconscious around him. That's the second time he's carried me, and I missed it again. A woman dreams all her life of being swept up into a man's arms, and when it happens – twice – she's unconscious."

Max licked her hand.

"Thank you," she said dryly. "I appreciate the sympathy. But the truth is… I don't know what the truth is. All I know is that I'm about a breath away from making a fool of myself over him. And that scares me to death."

Max nudged her hand firmly, obviously asking for more of the pleasant scratching between his ears. Cassie obliged.

"But you want to know what the really sad thing is? The sad thing is that I don't think being scared is going to stop me. I don't think anything is going to stop me. I think I'm going to make a fool of myself over him."

Whatever Max might have responded, the ringing phone startled them both and cut off Cassie's confidences. She picked up the extension in the kitchen, said hello, and heard the unmistakable gruff voice of her aunt's elderly lawyer.

"Miss Neill?"

"Hello, Mr. McDaniel. More papers to sign?"

"Er – no, Miss Neill. No, probate was wound up quite satisfactorily." Phillip McDaniel cleared his throat. "Miss Neill, would it be convenient for me to come and see you after lunch? It won't take long, but if you could spare me a few minutes, I would greatly appreciate it."

Cassie frowned slightly, although she couldn't have said why. "I could come into town to your office, Mr. McDaniel, if it's important. For you to come all the way out here – "

"I assure you, Miss Neill, I would prefer to come to you. If it's convenient, that is."

" Of course. But what is this about?"

He made several vague noises, then said, "Merely a small matter which – well, I would prefer to discuss it in person, Miss Neill. Shall we say around two-thirty?"

"All right, fine. I'll see you then."

Cassie hung up the phone and looked at Max. "Well, what do you think about that?"

Max moved closer and nudged her hand, asking for more scratching.

Deanna Ramsay hated living in a small town. She hated living so near the mountains. She hated living in the South. In fact, she pretty much hated her life. Especially now that some maniac was out there stalking women and scaring everybody so much that they'd gone paranoid. Her parents wouldn't let her leave the house without an escort; the principal wouldn't let any of the girls leave school grounds without an escort; deputies were everywhere in town and pounced the instant a body ventured a step or two away from the escort…

"I hate my life," she announced in disgust.

Her best friend, Sue Adams, giggled. "Just because Deputy Sanford scolded you and ordered us to wait in the drugstore for Larry!"

Deanna heaved an impatient sigh. "No, not because of him. He's a dork. I hate my life because my life is entirely hateful. T.ook, if we have to wait in here for my brother to get back, let's at least have a Coke."

They ordered two Cokes from Mike and retired with them to the booth at the back, which was their spot.

"I don't know why you're so upset," Sue said. "At least you have a brother to take you places – and at least he will. Both my sisters are still children, I won't have my license for more than another year, and Mama gets hysterical if I even mention the possibility of going on a date."

"So does my mom. You'd think we were prisoners!"

"Well," Sue said reasonably, "we are prisoners. More or less. Neither one of us is sixteen yet, we don't have cars, or jobs or boyfriends – "

Deanna glared at her and said in a lofty tone, "Speak for yourself."

"On which point?" Sue demanded.

"Never you mind. Let's just say that if you were half the friend you claim to be, you'd talk my brother into taking us to the mall when he gets here, and then keep him occupied while I… run a little errand."

"But we're supposed to go straight back home!"

"And back into prison for the entire weekend, because Larry has to work and you know nobody else will take us anywhere."

"Well, but – "

"Well, but nothing. I'm sick and tired of the whole thing. This has been the most boring week on record. I want to do something. What's the use of a day off from school if we have to sit at home all morning and then spend half the afternoon waiting for Larry in the drugstore?"

Sue stared at her. "What are you up to, Dee?"

Deanna shook her head but smiled portentously. "Like I said, I just want to stretch my legs at the mall. But Lar-ry'll never take us if I ask, so you do it."

Sue began to feel apprehensive. " Dee, there's a real killer out there. And nobody knows who he'll go after next."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sue, I'm not going to wander down any dark alleys, or even leave the mall. I'll be right there, practically in your sight, safely inside and surrounded by other people. I just don't want my big brother looking over my shoulder, that's all."

"Who're you meeting?" Sue demanded.

Deanna conjured an innocent face. She'd practiced the expression for a good hour that morning while putting on her makeup. "I'm not meeting anybody."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, pardon me if I don't care." Seeing that she was about to seriously offend her henchwoman, Deanna relented. "Spend the night with me tonight and I'll tell you everything, okay? Just ask Larry to take us to the mall before we go home. Please?"

"Why won't you tell me now?"

"Because. Come on, Sue, you owe me a favor. Didn't I do your history homework last week?"

Sue had an uneasy feeling the two "favors" hardly balanced out but found herself giving in the way she always did with Deanna. "You'll tell me the truth tonight? Swear?"

"I swear."

After a moment Sue gave in. "All right. I just know I'm going to be sorry – but all right."

Deanna smiled blindingly. "You won't be sorry!"

"Judge Ryan?"

Ben was accustomed to being stopped from time to time whenever he was out in public, but today it had taken him double the usual time just to walk from his parking place to the courthouse.

He had made it as far as the third step this time.

Wishing he had taken the back way in, he turned to find one of the more vocal citizens of the town approaching determinedly.

"What can I do for you, Mr. King?" He and Aaron had known each other for twenty years, but Aaron liked titles, insisting they denoted respect. He would have continued calling himself Major after his army service but had discovered to his chagrin that others only found it amusing.

"Judge, is what I've been hearing true?"

"That depends on what you've been hearing." Ben made sure his tone was easy rather than sardonic.

Aaron scowled. "What I've been hearing is that Sheriff Dunbar – and you – have been allowing some woman claiming to be a fortune teller to advise you."

Ben was resigned; it was the fourth time he had heard some variation of the truth. "And where did you hear that, Mr. King?"

"From at least three different people since yesterday. Is it true, Judge?"

"Not precisely."

"Then what, precisely, is the truth?"

Ben paused a beat, briefly considered how much damage one angry voter with influence could do when election time rolled around again, then consigned the risk to the limbo of things unimportant and unregretted.

"The truth, Mr. King, is that Sheriff Dunbar and I are investigating three particularly vicious murders. We are using all means at our disposal to gather information that might prove helpful in that investigation, as is our job. We are not gazing into crystal balls or reading tarot cards, nor are we talking to anyone who does."

Aaron ignored the denial. "I heard it was Alexandra Melton's niece."

Ben felt a chill. If this man had heard so specific a piece of gossip, then others had as well. Which meant it was only a matter of time before Cassie's identity was common knowledge throughout the town.

"Is it true?" Aaron demanded.

Ben wasn't a politician for nothing. "Is it true she's a fortune teller? Of course not."

Aaron's scowl deepened. "She doesn't claim to be able to see the future?"

"No, she does not."

"But you and the sheriff have been talking to her about these killings?"

"If-we have, the interviews are part of an ongoing investigation and hardly subject to public discussion, Mr. King. As you, of course, know."

Aaron also respected – to excess, in Ben's opinion – the red tape of a bureaucracy, and so found himself caught between rampant curiosity and the unhappy knowledge that he was in no way part of the official loop of persons involved in the investigation. He drew himself up to his full height – which was a good five inches shorter than Ben's – and said self-righteousiy, "I have no intention of interfering in the official investigation, Judge."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Aaron wasn't finished. "But if it should come to light that you and the sheriff have allowed yourselves to be deceived by a charlatan into pursuing false leads, placing even more of our women in danger from the resulting delay in apprehending this killer – then, Judge, then I won't hesitate to add my voice to those calling for your resignations."

Ben wasn't tempted to laugh, even though the speech had obviously been rehearsed and was delivered with condescending relish. Aaron King was a pompous windbag, but he had the knack of rallying others around him, and considering the tension of the townspeople, it was likely he could gather quite a mob to demand action if the investigation didn't soon result in an arrest. Especially if there was another murder.

Calmly Ben responded, "And rightly so, Mr. King. If we don't do our jobs, we should step down. But, I assure you, we are doing our jobs. Thank you for your opinion and your interest. I'll pass on both to Sheriff Dunbar."

Faced with courtesy, Aaron could only incline his head in stately acceptance, execute a turn with military precision, and march away – a grand departure somewhat spoiled by the fact that he slipped on a patch of ice in a shady spot on the walkway and nearly fell on his ass.

Ben still wasn't tempted to laugh. In fact, he felt more than a little grim, and not because he feared losing his job.

Cassie was becoming all too visible, and despite the wild mix of rumor and speculation concerning the extent of her abilities, it would not require confirmation for at least one citizen of the town to view her as a dangerous threat.

And he had more than a job to lose.

Abby probably wouldn't have felt brave enough to leave the house on Friday afternoon, not after Gary 's sudden and menacing appearance the night before, if it hadn't been for Bryce. But luckily for her, the dog was not only companionable, he was also well trained.

It was also lucky for her that the snow had closed numerous businesses for the day, including the financial services office where she worked, because otherwise she might have upset her boss by bringing her dog along.

"I'll be much less jumpy by Monday," she told Bryce that afternoon as she backed her car out of the driveway. "We'll have a nice, peaceful weekend, and on Monday the security company will install all the new lights. But right now we have to go out to the mall and get that padlock. And some chew toys so you won't eat any more of my slippers."

The Irish setter sat up like people in the passenger seat beside her and lolled his tongue out in a happy grin. He loved riding in the car.

He wouldn't much like waiting in the car, Abby knew, but the mall didn't allow pets. It would be for only half an hour though, just long enough for her to do her shopping.

The mall was safe enough, certainly.

It was two-thirty on the dot when Phillip McDaniel rang Cassie's doorbell. Since she had expected him to be prompt – he didn't seem to know how to be anything else – Cassie was opening the door while his finger was still on the button.

"Hello, Mr. McDaniel. Come in, please."

"Thank you." He stepped inside, eyed the growling dog at her side, and said, "You can let go of him, Miss Neill. Dogs never bite me. I have no idea why, but there it is." He was a tall and painfully thin man of perhaps seventy, with a snowy goatee and a full head of white hair, and there was an air of dignified elegance about him.

Maybe it was that gentle composure that prevented dogs from attacking. Or maybe it was just because there was so little meat on his bones.

Reluctant to put either theory to the test, Cassie performed the usual introductions, and Max followed them quite happily into the living room.

"Let me take your coat," she said to the lawyer. He was the sort of man who wore a trench coat on chilly days; today it was accompanied by a muffler and kid gloves.

But McDaniel shook his head and gave her a pained look out of grave eyes. "I can stay only a moment, Miss Neill. And, truthfully, you may order me to go when I have explained my errand."

"Good heavens," Cassie said mildly. "Why would I do that, Mr. McDaniel?"

"Because I am guilty of a terrible breach of trust, to say nothing of duty and responsibility."

He said it as though he fully expected to be keelhauled or drawn and quartered for the crime, but since Cassie liked him and since she couldn't imagine him deliberately harming anyone, she didn't hesitate to say, "I'm sure whatever you did was quite unintentional, Mr. McDaniel."

"That hardly absolves me."

"Well, why don't you tell me what it is, and then we can put it behind us."

He drew a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. "This was given to me by your aunt some months before her death, Miss Neill."

Cassie looked at her name scrawled across the envelope in what she recognized as her aunt's hand, and then looked inquiringly at the lawyer. "And it was somehow forgotten during probate? That's quite all right, Mr. McDaniel. I'm sure it's just a personal letter I probably wouldn't have read until now anyway, so no harm done."

"Indeed, she assured me it was a personal message for you, but…" McDaniel shook his head. "I'm afraid there has been harm, Miss Neill, although I don't know – " He drew a breath. "Your aunt gave me the envelope with very specific instructions, and I gave her my word I would obey those instructions."

"Which were?"

"To place the envelope in your hands on the twelfth of February of this year."

Cassie blinked. "I see. That would have been… about two weeks ago."

"Hence my failure. Miss Neill, I am so sorry. As you know, your aunt was one of my last clients, taken on at her insistence even though I was on the point of retiring when she came to me and asked that I handle her will and estate planning. In the last year I've been gradually closing out my offices, and I'm afraid your aunt's envelope and the instructions simply got lost in the shuffle." He sighed. "My memory isn't what it once was, and I'm afraid I completely forgot about it."

She knew he was deeply upset by his failure and quickly said, "It could have happened to anyone, Mr. McDaniel. Please don't worry about it. I'm sure my aunt wouldn't be at all upset – it's only a two-week delay, after all. What could that matter?"

"I'm afraid it may matter very much, Miss Neill, although I can't, of course, know how. Miss Melton assured me that there was nothing of legal significance in the envelope, only a personal message for you, but she was most insistent that it be delivered on the twelfth of February. Not before and not after. The date seemed highly significant to her. And, perhaps, to you."

Cassie eyed him consideringly. "She told you that? That the date would mean something to me?"

"Not precisely." He was uncomfortable. "But I was aware that Miss Melton occasionally – knew things. Her intensity convinced me that her message to you might be in the nature of advice or, even, a warning of some kind."

"I wouldn't have said you were the type of man who'd believe in things like that," Cassie said.

"Normally I'm not. But she – really, Miss Neill, she seemed quite desperate. I'm afraid the message was terribly important to her."

"Well, why don't I – " As Cassie went to open the envelope, McDaniel's outstretched hand stopped her.

"Your aunt wished you to read it when you were alone, Miss Neill. She was quite specific about that instruction."

Cassie didn't know whether to be amused or worried, but the latter emotion was beginning to take precedence. "I see. Well, then that's what I'll do. Did she leave any further instructions?"

"Not with me," McDaniel replied. "I am so sorry, Miss Neill." He began to back away. "I'll let myself out."

Cassie found herself staring at empty space and blinked when the closing of the front door was followed quickly by the sound of a car engine starting. For an older gentleman, he could move when he wanted to.

She sat down on the sofa and stared at the envelope.

"What do you think, Max? Is it a case of better late than never? Or should I throw this into the fire unread?"

Max whuffed softly and thumped his tail against the floor.

"The twelfth of February. Two weeks ago. What was I doing about two weeks – "

What she had been doing was coping with the sudden terrible knowledge that a killer was stalking his first victim in this sleepy little town.

With fingers that had turned numb, Cassie tore open the envelope and unfolded a single sheet of note-paper. The message sprawled across it was brief and to the point.

Cassie,

Whatever happens, stay away from Ben Ryan. He'll destroy you.

Alex