Stealing Shadows

EIGHTEEN

FEBRUARY 28, 1999

"I wish you'd come to the station with me," Matt said restlessly, watching Abby pour herself a second cup of coffee.

"Any other Sunday, I would. But Anne can't be there today, and I have to play the organ. Matt, surely you aren't worried about me being at the church? There'll be people all around, you know that."

"Ivy Jameson was killed before she could get to church last Sunday."

"Well, you've already said you're taking me, so I should get there safely." She smiled at him. "And since you're taking me, you can come pick me up afterward."

"You don't have to worry about that."

Abby reached across the table to touch his hand. "I'll be fine, Matt. And you need to be at the station, we both know that. If what you suspect is right, you need to check all the notes on the first three murders."

"I don't know if it'll get us anywhere," he confessed.

"Maybe a step or two closer to understanding the son of a bitch. But I have to check it out."

Reluctantly Abby said, "And you'll have the autopsy report on the Ramsay girl to go over as well."

He grimaced. "I'm not looking forward to that. And I don't expect it to help us much. Even though she was left in pieces, you could still see the ligature mark on her neck. I figure the report will tell me Cassie was right about that as well. He strangled the girl with a garrote." "What about Cassie?" Abby said. "Are you still planning to ask her and Ben to come to the station?"

"If I'm right about the missing articles. Don't know that it'll help, but I think we need to talk over a few things. And maybe Cassie will be able to contact the killer." "What about Bishop?"

Matt shrugged. "It was what he noticed at the murder scene yesterday that got me started thinking. His expertise may come in handy, and at this point I'm not too proud to ask for help – as long as he doesn't drag the Bureau in with him. So, sure, why not?"

In fact, Matt called Bishop's motel room from his cruiser as he drove Abby to church, and the agent arrived at the station just minutes after Matt settled at his desk.

"Postmortem?" Bishop asked, noting the papers the sheriff was studying.

"Yeah. She was strangled with a thin wire or something similar. Cassie was right about that. And something else. He killed the girl while he was raping her."

Bishop sat down on the leather sofa. "A first for him, right?"

"Right. No established sexual contact with the first three victims – although Cassie says this sort of murder is always sexual, and the reading I've done seems to agree with her. You've seen the reports. What do you think?"

"She's right. It's about power, and that usually translates into sexual domination." The agent thought a moment. "A bit surprising that he apparently didn't attempt sexual domination with the first three, but he may well have achieved satisfaction observing their terror before and during the murders."

It was Mart's turn to consider. "Cassie also claims that when Jill Kirkwood was killed – third victim – the killer wore some kind of Halloween mask. We have no idea if he also wore one when he killed the first two victims – or the fourth, for that matter."

"He may have tried the mask to elicit more terror from his victim. If that's so, if he wore it only that time, and not before or after, then he may be only beginning to shape and perfect his M.O."

"What a cheerful possibility," Matt said.

"A reasonable one, I'm afraid. He kills because he likes to kill, and each experience gives him more ideas for his next murder." Bishop's voice was remote. "We may never know what triggered his compulsion, what pushed him over the line from fantasizing to acting out his fantasies, but whatever's driving him is obviously growing stronger and more complex. The first victim was not physically tortured, though we can assume he did his best to terrify her emotionally before he cut her throat. The second victim either fought him – with a certain amount of success – or else he fully intended to allow himself a bloody rampage just to find out how it felt."

"Christ," Matt muttered.

"Interesting that he followed that indulgence with a much calmer and quieter murder, and that he may have worn a mask expressly designed to terrify his victim. He was undoubtedly exhausted after killing the Jameson woman, yet he was obviously unsatisfied."

Matt snorted. "Ivy probably never satisfied a man in her life – even with her death."

Bishop smiled faintly. "Yes, she's the victim who stands out among the rest, doesn't she?"

Matt leaned back in his chair. "Are you saying that might mean something?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. The other victims ranged in age from fifteen to thirty-two – Jameson was considerably older. The other victims were quite attractive by any yardstick – Jameson was not. She was the only one killed in her home, and she may have let the killer into the house. And while the Ramsay girl was dismembered in an apparently violent rage, it's important to note that he killed her first. Jameson died in the struggle that left the crime scene a bloody mess."

"So he may have had some reason to hate Ivy in particular, which is why he chose her – is that what you mean?"

"It's a possibility. The other three victims seem to have been chosen by some combination of appearance and vulnerability, but Jameson doesn't fit into that. Wouldn't hurt to try to figure out why."

Matt nodded." Okay. I'll send a few of my people out to question the neighbors and her acquaintances one more time. Ivy pissed off people on a regular basis though, so narrowing the field might take a while."

"In the meantime, have you found out whether there were missing items from the first three victims?"

"Yeah, it looks like there are – and I could kick myself for not asking sooner."

"It won't make any difference until you have a viable suspect. It probably won't tell us anything helpful about the killer, or offer any indication of where we might look for him. But it will provide a few nails in his coffin once we have him in custody."

"If we ever do." Matt paused, then went on briskly.

"We can't be absolutely positive, but last night and this morning I've had my people double-checking with the families and, in the case of Jill Kirkwood, searching her home. Becky Smith, according to her mother, almost always wore a thin gold chain. It wasn't found on the body and isn't in her jewelry box at home. Ivy's mother claims she always wore a peacock pin to church, and there's been no sign of one. Panties are missing from the Ramsay girl's effects, so we can assume that he took something from Jill Kirkwood as well, even though we have no clue as to what that is."

"Trophies," Bishop said. "He'll have the items in his possession, probably in a drawer or box."

"Like you said, it'll help. If we catch him." Matt sighed.

"You'll catch him. The one mistake he's consistently made is to operate in a small area within a close-knit community. Sooner or later he'll have an identifiable connection to one of his victims."

"Yeah," Matt said. "But how many victims will he get before we get him?"

There wasn't a lot of traffic on the roads because of a night of sleet and a cold, overcast morning, but that was all to the good. And he doubted they would be expecting anything so soon, so that was good as well.

But the best thing of all, he thought, was that they would never, in a million years, expect him to lure his target from such an unquestionably safe haven.

The church bells began to ring, and he smiled.

They spent most of Sunday morning in bed, getting up around ten only after Max insisted, in canine terms, that enough was enough. But it wasn't until they had finished their late breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen that Cassie reluctantly brought up a touchy subject. "I really should try again."

Ben's mouth tightened, but his voice was calm when he said, "You tried yesterday when Matt got back to his office, and you were still being blocked. Why would today be different?"

"Ben, he can't keep blocking me indefinitely. Sooner or later I'll be able to get through. Frankly I'd rather it was sooner. Don't you want this to be over?"

"Of course I do. It's just that it takes so much out of you, Cassie."

"Only when I actually make contact." She gazed at him steadily. "Testing the waters isn't hard at all. And we have to know. If he's stalking somebody else. If he's planning to kill again soon." "Cassie – "

"Once, just once, I'd like to be able to tell Matt something other than where to find the latest body."

Ben came to her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. "I know."

She rested her cheek against him, her own arms lifting in a gesture that was still tentative and sliding around his waist. She wondered if he had any idea at all that he was the first person since her mother's death to offer a comforting hug. "There can't be any peace as long as he's out there." "I know."

"And almost anything would be better than this damned music," she said somewhat ruefully. "That's still bugging you?"

"Umm." She drew away from him, not made uncomfortable by the physical contact, but so unaccustomed that she was hyper-aware of it. "The moment I'm not thinking about anything, it creeps back in."

"Identify the song and it'll go away."

"Probably." Cassie shook her head. "Never mind, I just need to concentrate on something."

Ben didn't protest again. They left Max in the kitchen working on a rawhide treat while they went into the living room so Cassie could get comfortable. When she did have something to concentrate on, focusing on the effort to touch the killer's mind, she once more encountered a block she was unable to get past.

"Damn."

"You said he couldn't block you indefinitely," Ben reminded her.

"I know. But the block feels awfully solid." She reached up to rub her forehead. "This damned music."

"Do you often get an unidentifiable tune in your head?"

"No, almost never." She stared at him, suddenly very uneasy. "Almost never. When you're tone deaf, music isn't something that sticks in your mind. And this sounds like it's coming from a music box. I haven't listened to a music box in a long, long time."

Before Ben could respond the phone rang. Cassie had to get up from the sofa to reach the receiver, since it was on a side table.

"Hello?"

Ben saw her face tighten as she listened for a moment. Then she cradled the receiver. He was on his feet and moving toward her without thought.

"Cassie?"

"Wrong number," she said softly.

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "I don't think so. What did they say?"

"Nothing important." She let out a small laugh that sounded more resigned than amused. "Remember you said I'd probably get a few calls from upset and suspicious citizens? That was one. But don't worry. I've been called worse things than a witch, believe me."

"Dammit." Ben pulled her into his arms and held her. "There had to be a few, I guess. But most of the people around here are pretty tolerant, Cassie. They're just afraid and panicked right now." "I know. I'm all right, really."

He drew back just far enough to be able to kiss her, the first reassuring touch rapidly becoming something else. His hands slid down her back to her hips, holding her tighter against him, and Cassie made a muted sound of pure pleasure.

She felt a little embarrassed when he raised his head to smile down at her, but the look in his eyes was familiar evidence of his own arousal.

"Have I mentioned that I have a very difficult time keeping my hands off you?" he asked, his hands moving caressingly.

Cassie cleared her throat, but her voice still emerged huskily. "You haven't, no. But I've sort of noticed since last night."

"I've said it before. For a man with thick walls, there's a lot I can't seem to hide."

She considered that. "To be honest, I'm glad. I'm not experienced in these matters, so I'm very grateful you haven't kept me guessing."

He chuckled. "No, I haven't done that." "Because of my lack of experience?" she asked curiously. "Because I can't keep my hands off you." He kissed her again, hunger unmistakable. Against her mouth he added hoarsely, "I am so glad you changed your mind about us. I don't know how much longer I could have stood it."

Cassie slid her arms up around his neck, rising on tiptoe because the fit was better. Much better. "It's probably a good thing I can't read you."

"Why?" He was exploring her throat.

"Nevermind."

Ben raised his head and looked at her. "Why?" he repeated.

She was embarrassed now. "Let's just say I'm having a hard time understanding why you want me."

"If you're talking about all that baggage again, I don't know why you thought it would keep me away. Everybody past the age of twenty-one has baggage of some kind. Or should." He shrugged. "God knows you haven't seemed too worried about mine."

Cassie was glad he was focused on the emotional aspects; she really didn't want to have to explain that it was his physical passion for her she found somewhat baffling. "How bad can yours be?" she asked, easing further away from the question of desire.

"Oh, mine's textbook." He returned to exploring her throat. "Domineering father, childlike mother who didn't have the faintest idea how to be a parent. Boring stuff." His voice was deliberately light, almost flippant.

"Looks to me like you grew up just fine despite that," she told him, allowing her fingers to venture into his hair and enjoying the sensations.

"Mmm. And yet… there are these walls."

"They seem to worry you a lot more than they do me," she commented absently, wondering if Max would be very upset if they went back to bed.

"I hope that's a good sign rather than a bad one."

Cassie was saved from having to reply when he kissed her, and her response was even more passionate, because this talk of baggage and walls had reminded her that fate would seldom be denied.

When the phone rang again, she could have sworn aloud, and Ben did. And he was the one who answered it – with considerable annoyance that was heightened by his suspicion that it was another crank call.

"Am I interrupting something?" Matt asked, and then went on immediately. "Never mind. Sorry to intrude on your love life, but we have this killer running around. You may remember."

"I do," Ben told him. "What's up?"

"A couple of maybe interesting developments. I think we should have a council of war. Can you and Cassie come to the office?"

Ben resisted the impulse to say no. With Cassie in his arms, her slender body pressed fully against his, it was more than a little difficult to think about anything else.

"Ben?"

Recalling that the killer knew who Cassie was and posed a huge threat to her safety made him answer, "We're on our way."

"Be careful on the roads. Slippery as hell out there."

"Right."

As he hung up the phone, Cassie said dryly, "I gather we're leaving?"

"Yes, dammit." Ben held her against him for a moment longer, then eased away. And it didn't take a psychic to see his reluctance. "Matt wants to talk to us. And he'd better have something important to say."

Cassie sighed. "I'll get my jacket."

"Abby?" Hannah Payne stood in the doorway of one of the classrooms and looked in to see Abby collecting the lesson books left behind by her Sunday school class. "Hi, Hannah. What's up?"

"Kate and Donna are handling the nursery during preaching, so I'm free. Do you need me to do anything?"

"There's nothing I can think of – unless you want to finish up in here while I go upstairs and make sure the music is in place."

"Sure, happy to."

"Okay, thanks. See you upstairs."

Alone in the basement room, Hannah gathered the lesson books and put them away in a cabinet, then straightened the chairs and picked up a pair of gloves somebody had dropped. Men's gloves, black leather, and very nice. She turned one in her hands, studying it, wondering if Joe would like a pair for his birthday the following month. He didn't usually wear gloves, but…

The wetness she felt on two of the fingers stained her own hand pink. Staring, Hannah felt a chill of unease. Just paint, probably, or… something like that.

A sound from the doorway spun her around with her heart in her throat.

"What have you got there?" he asked.

"No luck, huh?" Matt asked.

"No, sorry." This time Cassie and Ben were on the leather sofa while Bishop occupied one of the visitors' chairs in the sheriff's office. Cassie had just attempted once more to contact the killer's mind, without success.

Matt shrugged. "Worth a try."

"I'll try again later," Cassie said.

He nodded. "Well, like I told you two, we have a bit more on the killer – we think. He's collecting trophies. And maybe he killed Ivy Jameson out of spite. We've got a growing list of people Ivy pissed off in the weeks before she was killed, so it looks like the trick there is going to be narrowing the list to something manageable."

The music in Cassie's head was beginning to madden her, but she said, "Matt, remember what I told you yesterday, what Lucy Shaw said to me?"

"I remember. That somebody was the devil."

"What do you think about that?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Not much, I have to say. She's on the shady side of crazy, Cassie, and has been for more than ten years."

"What about her son?"

"What about him?"

"Is there – does he have any connection to any of the victims?" She rubbed her forehead irritably.

"Russell? Not that I know of."

Almost to herself she muttered, "He had a jacket on yesterday, so I didn't see his wrists… but the hands could have been right. I think."

Ben was watching her closely. "But you said you didn't see anything in Lucy's mind you could identify except kittens."

"No, I didn't. It's just a feeling." She returned his gaze, frowning. "I've missed something, I know I have. And there was something about meeting Lucy and her son that's really bothering me. Something I saw – or didn't see. Or just didn't understand."

Ben looked at the sheriff. "Who's their doctor, Matt, do you know?"

"Munro,Ithink.Why?"

"Will he be in church?"

Matt shook his head. "After doing that autopsy first thing this morning, I figure he'll be at his desk drinking straight scotch. What do you want me to ask him?"

"If Russell Shaw ever tried to commit suicide."

Matt pursed his lips, then reached for the phone.

Bishop, who had heard Lucy Shaw's story the previous day, said to Cassie, "Serial killers are rarely insane in any clinical sense, so it's highly unlikely he could have inherited a mental illness from his mother."

"That isn't what I'm thinking."

"What, then?"

"Ever since Ben told me about her, I've wondered what it was that triggered Lucy's illness. And after meeting her, I don't think she has Alzheimer's, or senility, or anything like that. I think something happened to her, some kind of shock that shattered her mind."

Ben said, "Such as discovering that she might have spawned a psychopath in the shape of her son?"

"Could be." Cassie rubbed her forehead again.

"The music again?"

"Yes, dammit."

"Music?" Bishop was still watching her. "You're hearing music in your mind?"

"Yes, but I haven't gone crazy, so don't get your hopes up."

Matt hung up the phone and said, "Doc's going to check his records. He made noises about confidentiality, but if he finds what we're looking for, he'll call back."

Bishop said to Cassie, "How long have you been hearing the music?"

"Off and on since yesterday morning."

"Since you woke up after the last contact with the killer's mind? After he caught you there?"

Cassie nodded slowly. "Yes. Since then."

Her head hurt. There was something over her head, her face, some dark material. For an instant the fear of smothering was uppermost in her mind, but then she realized that her wrists were bound behind her back. She was sitting on something cold and hard, and behind her was… She made her fingers explore hesitantly, and identified what felt like exposed pipe, cold and impossible to budge. Her wrists were bound together on the other side of the pipe, with a belt she thought. That wouldn't budge either, though she tried. And -

She heard the music first. Muffled by the bag over her head, the tinkling sound nevertheless identified it as coming from a music box. And it was playing… Swan Lake. Behind it, beyond it, was another sound, a muffled roaring sound that she knew she ought to be able to identify but couldn't.

That realization had barely registered in her mind, when she heard another sound, the faint scuffling of shoes against a rough floor, and she understood with a jolt of terror that she was not alone. He was there.

Instinctively, in total panic, she wrenched against the belt binding her wrists, succeeding in doing nothing except hurting herself. And drawing his attention.

"Oh, so you're awake, are you?"

"Please," she heard herself say shakily. "Please don't hurt me. Don't – "

The bag was jerked off her head, and she blinked in the sudden wash of light. At first all she saw were bare bulbs hanging down and, across the room, some hulking machinery with a small glass window that showed a fire inside.

Afire?

"I'm so glad you're awake." His voice was incongruously cheerful.

She looked up at him, focused on his face, and felt nothing but uncomprehending surprise. "You?"

"I just love the first moment of astonishment," he said, then bent down and slapped her across the face brutally with the flat of his big hand. "And the first moment of fear."

"Could the music be coming from him?" Bishop asked.

"He isn't psychic, not yet," Cassie objected, "so how could he be sending me anything?"

"Maybe he isn't sending it. Maybe he's put it in his mind – the way any person might recite a rhyme or count or calculate – in order to block out something. You. Maybe you've been touching his mind all along, and he's fighting to keep you out."

"Is that possible?" Ben asked her.

"I don't know. I suppose so. It might be a clever way to keep me out without expending much effort, distracting me with the music."

Matt said, "Does that mean you might be able to get through now?"

"I can try."

She did try, but knowledge that the killer could be using that endless tune to distract her was no help at all. "He has solid walls," she said, opening her eyes with a sigh. "And I don't understand that. There's no way he could have built them so quickly, not to protect himself from a recently perceived threat. And he didn't have them earlier, or I wouldn't have connected to him the way I did."

The phone rang then, and Matt answered it quickly. He said hello, then "yeah" a couple of times, his eyes narrowing. It was a short conversation, and when he hung up after a brief thanks, he was grim.

"What? "Ben demanded.

"Russell Shaw never tried to commit suicide as far as Doc Munro knows."

"But?" Ben asked, hearing the word in his friend's voice.

"But his son did. Mike Shaw apparently slit his wrists about twelve years ago, when he was only fourteen."

"His son?" Cassie echoed. "Lucy's grandson?"

"Yeah. The mother died in childbirth with Mike; Russell and Lucy raised him. He lived with them until about a year ago, then moved into one of those shacks out by the old mill about a mile from town."

"Is there any chance I could have met him?" Cassie asked Ben.

Grimly he said, "A good chance, though you probably wouldn't have paid much attention. Mike Shaw is the first-shift counterman at the drugstore."

"I've met him," Bishop said. "He struck me as having a ghoulish interest in the murders."

"He'd be off on Sundays," Cassie mused, recalling that the drugstore was closed then.

"And one other day." Ben looked at Matt. "Can we find out if he was off on Friday at the time the Ramsay girl was taken?"

"Yeah, easy enough once church lets out and his boss is back home, but…" Matt hunted through the file folders on his desk and opened one of them. "I seem to recall… oh, shit. Bingo."

"What?" Ben asked quickly.

"Mike Shaw is one of the people her mother mentioned had a disagreement with Ivy Jameson a few days before she was killed. Seems she ate at the drugstore and wasn't at all pleased with Mike's cooking. Ripped him to shreds – as only Ivy could – in front of his boss and half a dozen customers."

Bishop said, "I would say that probably upset him quite a bit."

"He's the right age," Ben noted. "And plenty strong enough physically."

Matt frowned. "Say we find out he was off on Friday. Does that give us enough to search his place? Will Judge Hayes sign a warrant, Ben?"

"In this case? Yes," Ben said. "He'll sign a warrant."

"Mike, why are you doing this?" She kept her voice as steady as possible, even though she had never been so terrified in her life.

He made a "tsk" sound and shook his head. "Because I can, of course. Because I want to." His attention was caught by the slowing of the music box, and he walked quickly across the concrete floor to a heavy old table where the box was sitting. He picked it up and wound it, then set it back on the table. "There," he murmured to himself.

There was an old iron cot a few feet away from her against one cinder-block wall, and she glanced toward it, fear spiraling. Surely he didn't mean to… "Mike – "

"I want you to shut up now." His tone was pleasant. "Just shut up and watch." He opened a battered leather duffel bag that was also on the table and began removing things from it.

A butcher knife.

A hatchet.

A power drill.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

"I wonder if there's a receptacle down here," he muttered, staring around with a scowl. "Dammit. Should have checked that."

"Mike – "

"Oh, look – there's a receptacle." He turned his head and smiled at her. "Right behind you."

His intercom buzzed, and Matt reached for the button impatiently. "Yeah?"

"Sheriff, a lady named Hannah Payne is on the line for you," Sharon Watkins said. "She says it's important and – I think you'd better talk to her."

Sharon had more experience in the department than he did, so Matt tended to respect her judgment. "All right."

"Line four."

"Thanks, Sharon." He punched the correct line and then turned on the speaker. "Sheriff Dunbar. You wanted to speak to me, Miss Payne?"

"Oh – yes, Sheriff, I did." Hers was a young voice, and uncertain, and also very frightened.

Matt consciously gentled his own voice. "What about, Miss Payne?"

"Well, it's… Joe came into the classroom when I found them, and he says I probably shouldn't bother you, and on a Sunday and all, but I'm just so worried, Sheriff! They were just there, in the classroom like he forgot them, and I think there's blood on them and – and now she's gone!"

Patient, Matt said, "Start at the beginning, Miss Payne. Where are you, and what did you find?"

"Oh, I'm at the church, Sheriff – Oak Creek Baptist. And I found a pair of black gloves in one of the Sunday school classrooms. A man's gloves, and I think they have blood on them, because they're all wet and it's coming off pink on my hands."

Tension crept into Matt's voice. "I see. Is there a label in the gloves, Miss Payne? Do you have any idea who they might belong to?"

"Well, that's why I'm worried. Because the initials inside say MS, all nicely embroidered the way Miss Lucy can do, and he's in her Sunday school class, so it must be Mike. But he isn't upstairs in preaching, because I checked. And she's gone too, when she was supposed to play the organ, and I know she wouldn't have left without getting somebody else to play, not when she told me she was going to check on the music – "

"Hannah." Matt's voice was insistent. "Who's gone? Who are you talking about?"

"Abby. Mrs. Montgomery."