Stealing Shadows

NINETEEN

"See, you really shouldn't have been mean to me, Abby," Mike said gently.

"Mean to you? Mike, when was I ever mean to you?" The only clear thought Abby had was to keep him talking, to stall, delay the inevitable. She had no idea what time it was, how long before Matt came to pick her up and found her missing from church. How would he find her in this place – wherever it was? A basement, she thought, but where was it? There was nothing familiar that she could see, no sight or sound to tell her what building loomed above this dim and musty-smelling room.

"That loan." He picked up the butcher knife and held it point up to study the shiny blade. "The loan I needed to get that cool 'ninety-five Mustang back before Christmas. You really should have given me the money, Abby."

She didn't bother to explain income versus debt to him. Instead, she said strongly, "I'm sorry, Mike."

"Yeah, sure you are. Now."

She swallowed hard, almost hypnotized by the way he kept turning the blade of the butcher knife. Keep talking.

Just keep talking. "What about Jill Kirkwood? How was she mean to you, Mike?"

"She laughed at me. Her and Becky, they both laughed at me. I saw them." He put the knife down for a moment to once more wind the music box, then picked up the knife and frowned at it.

"How do you know they were talking about you, Mike?"

His head snapped around with the speed of a striking cobra, and his young, pleasant face was twisted into an ugly mask of bitter hate. "Can't you hear good? I saw them. Heads together, giggling. Of course they were talking about me. Laughing at me. But they're not laughing now, are they, Abby? And I bet you wish you'd loaned me that money now, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Mike, I do."

Matt's fear was a palpable force in the room, and it was almost impossible for Cassie to close out his emotions, but she tried.

"Music," she murmured, her eyes closed. "I keep getting flashes of a music box. I think he's playing it, but – Damn. Damn. I can't get through."

"Oh, Christ," Matt said hollowly.

"Can you reach Abby?" Ben asked quietly.

"Not with her walls."

"Even now?"

"Especially now. They've been built up over years, over a lifetime, designed to protect the mind and spirit, so the habit is to withdraw even more thoroughly inside them when there's trouble. Damn. If I can just find a way past the music…"

It was Bishop who said, "Don't try to get past it. Let it carry you in. Concentrate on the music box."

She opened her eyes and stared at him a moment, then shut them and concentrated fiercely. "The music… the music… the box… I can see it. There are two dancers twirling around each other, bobbing…"

Abby looked at the music box because it terrified her so much to look at the knife he held. It was one of those cheap little music boxes that tended to be gifts early in a little girl's life, cardboard covered with ribbed pink paper that was stained and faded. The lid was mirrored on the inside, and the mirror was cracked in at least three places. In the box between two removable velvet-covered trays two tiny dancer figurines bobbed and twirled around each other in jerky accompaniment to the tinkling music.

Swan Lake, she thought. Swan song. Was Mike clever enough for that? She didn't think so. The box was probably just something from his childhood, the significance of which she would never know…

Matt, where are you?

"I think we've talked enough," Mike said, turning to smile at her. He was holding the butcher knife.

Abby swallowed. "The music box, Mike. It's slowing down again."

He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to pick up the box. "Mustn't let that happen," he murmured. "Mustn't let the music stop."

Cassie frowned. "Can't let the music stop. He can't let the music stop. He wants her to hear the music, to listen to it, because… because then she… he… won't let me in. That's it. He's playing the music to shut me out. But I can feel him now. I can feel his heart beating…"

Ben said, "Cassie? Can you see what he sees? Can you see where he is?"

She tilted her head a bit, as though listening, then said, "He's still in the church. The old boiler room in the sub-basement. It's soundproof, and he knows nobody will ever think to search for them there, especially since he's shut me out…"

"The church is five minutes away." Matt was out of his chair and bolting for the door even as Cassie's voice trailed off, with Bishop right behind him. It was the agent who snapped softly, "Start bringing her out, now."

Ben nodded but kept his eyes on Cassie's pale face. "Cassie? I want you to come back to me, love."

"I don't want to… Abby is so alone…"

"Cassie, you can't help her now. Come back."

"But… he's getting ready. He didn't have time to get the cot ready when he brought it here early this morning. So now he is. Tying the ropes to the frame for her wrists and ankles. He wants to play with her for a long, longtime."

Ben knew time was running out, for Abby and for Cassie, but he had to ask, "Has he hurt her yet? Has he hurt Abby?"

"He knocked her out so no one would know he grabbed her. But she's awake now. She's trying to talk to him, to reason with him. He doesn't mind, because he thinks he has all the time in the world. But he's… getting more excited. He likes watching her try to save herself. He wonders if – if she'll scream the way the last bitch did. He liked that…" Her voice trailed away, and she caught her breath.

"What is it, Cassie? What do you see?"

"Not see. Feel. His boots are too tight. They're still too tight." Cassie looked puzzled. "Why doesn't he take them off?" She fell silent, brows drawn together.

"Cassie? That's enough, Cassie. You have to get out of his mind now. You have to come back to me."

For a moment it seemed Cassie would continue to resist his command, but then she let herself relax taut muscles. A moment later she opened her eyes slowly, and even more slowly turned her head to look at him. "Matt better hurry," she whispered.

Ben pulled her into his arms, feeling her shiver against him. "He'll get there in time," he said, wishing he could be as sure of that as he sounded.

The cruiser took the corner on two wheels. Bishop hung on until all four wheels were on the street again, and then returned to checking out his weapon.

"How many doors?" he asked.

"Just one."

The sheriff's voice was level with the sort of calm more dangerous than nitroglycerin in a paper cup, and Bishop shot him a quick, accessing look. "Windows?"

"No. It's a sub-basement. The only way in is through one heavy wooden door at the base of a flight of wooden steps we access from the primary basement."

"Can the door be locked?"

"Not from the inside. With the old furnace in that room, it's a safety issue. Unless the bastard has added his own hardware, of course."

"I hate to assume he hasn't," Bishop said.

"Then we won't. We assume he's got the door locked or barred from the inside. Which means we have one shot – and only one – to surprise him. If we don't get through the first time, he knows we're out there and he has time to hold a knife to Abby's throat."

If he hasn't already. But Bishop didn't say that, of course.

He used the butcher knife to cut lengths of rope from a heavy coil, then left the knife on the table beside the music box. It had taken him several minutes, but he had the cot ready now, with the lengths of rope tied to the iron frame to bind her wrists and ankles. He had wound the music box several more times while working, not once losing patience with the interruptions.

That single-mindedness terrified Abby more than anything else.

Matt, where are you?

She had tried her best to loosen the belt wrapped around her wrists, but once again had done nothing except hurt herself. The pipe behind her was solidly in the wall and in the cement floor, and God knew how deep in the earth beneath it. There was no way she could free herself.

Mike went to wind the music box again. He picked up the butcher knife for a moment and stared at it, then put it down beside the box and came toward her. "Don't – "

Ignoring her strangled plea, he hunkered beside her and reached around to her wrists. For an instant the belt tightened almost unbearably, then loosened abruptly. Abby knew at once that she was still helpless; as the blood rushed into her numbed fingers, they tingled and throbbed and were virtually useless. And when Mike grabbed her arms and hauled her up with dreadful strength, her knees buckled and she sagged against him.

"Mike, please don't hurt me." Her voice shook with terror, and the sound of her own paralyzing fear brought back vivid memories of her cowering beneath Gary's punishing fists, pleading with him to stop, not to hurt her anymore.

Nobody had come to save her then.

Nobody would come to save her now.

As Mike began to drag her toward the cot, Abby found the strength to dig in her heels, to struggle against him. "No! God damn you, it's not going to be that easy!"

She caught him off guard and got one wild swing at his jaw that actually connected and rocked his head back. For a second his grip loosened, and Abby wrenched herself away.

She got two stumbling steps away before she felt his hands close around her throat from behind, felt herself jerked back against the solid wall of muscle that was his chest.

"Bitch," he snarled, fingers tightening. "Fucking bitch! I'll teach you. I'll teach you – "

Her fingers plucked desperately at his in a vain attempt to loosen them. Blackness swam across her vision, and she sagged once more against him as the newly found strength drained out of her legs in a rush.

"/ saw him kill you, Abby. I couldn't see his face, and I don't know who he is, but he was enraged, cursing, and his hands were on your throat."

Oh, God. Alexandra had been right after all. Fate couldn't be changed…

It was very quiet when they reached the heavy oak door, and the light from the basement above barely illuminated the wooden steps behind them. Matt was acutely conscious of every soft creak beneath the feet of the deputy a few steps behind him and Bishop. His fears fixed on what lay beyond, Matt curled his fingers over the knob and turned it slowly. But when he leaned against the unlocked door, it refused to budge. Still moving slowly despite every instinct screaming inside him, he eased back.

Bishop bent down and used a tiny penlight to study the door. "Looks like a new bolt might have been installed on the inside," he whispered.

Matt looked at the shotgun the agent carried, and tried to swallow the dryness of terror. "Then we'll have to blast our way in."

"If we're quick enough, the surprise should give us a few seconds before he can act."

A few seconds.

Dear God.

Matt looked at the pistol in his hand. He thumbed off the safety and held it ready. "You blast the door, I go in first."

They shifted position, and Bishop aimed his shotgun. "Ready?"

"Go."

The sudden roar of the shotgun was deafening. Bishop followed it with a powerful kick to the door, and it crashed open.

Matt was moving even as he registered the scene inside, even as he saw that most of his worst fears had come true.

Near the center of the room, Abby slumped back against Mike Shaw, her throat surrounded by his powerful hands. Her own hands fell limply at her sides and her knees buckled as the life was squeezed out of her.

An animal-like bellow escaping from somewhere deep inside him, Matt charged across the few feet separating him and Abby. His wild gaze was on her, but he saw Mike start to turn, his young face twisted into a horrible mask of rage.

Matt didn't hesitate. He swung his gun and slammed the butt against the bridge of Mike's nose. His fingers instantly released Abby to claw at his own face. Then, before he could do more than draw a lungful of breath to howl in pain, Matt kicked the back of his knee, and he went sprawling.

Matt left him for Bishop and the deputies. He dropped to the floor beside Abby's limp body and gathered her into his arms, feeling himself begin to shake.

"Abby? Honey, please – "

At first Abby thought it was all over. But then she heard an ungodly noise, was dimly aware of Mike jerking behind her, of his fingers tightening almost convulsively. There was no more air, and the blackness filled everything, and she was falling.

"Abby… Abbyl Honey, open your eyes. Look at me, Abby! Look at me – " Matt's voice.

She tried to swallow and found that her throat hurt terribly. Tried to open her eyes and had to fight against the weight holding them shut. He was cradling her in his arms, his expression so fierce that it would have frightened her if any other man had worn it. But it was easy for Abby to smile at Matt.

"Hello," she whispered through her very sore throat. He groaned and gathered her even closer, and over his shoulder Abby saw Mike sprawled out on the floor, cursing steadily while his hands were being cuffed behind his back by one of Matt's deputies. His nose was bleeding.

Bishop stood near the table, looking down at the music box that no longer played, at the butcher knife Mike had been too many steps away from. The agent was holding a shotgun, which explained the explosion of sound Abby vaguely recalled hearing. They must have used that to blast through the door – and distract Mike long enough to let them get inside the room.

Talk about an eleventh-hour rescue.

Abby managed to get her arms up around Matt's neck and whispered, "What do you know. This time somebody came."

MARCH 1, 1999

"The really unexpected thing," Ben said after hanging up the phone the next afternoon, "is that Hannah Payne probably saved her own life as well as Abby's. Matt says they found Polaroids at Mike Shaw's house – all the victims before and after he grabbed them. And he had one each of Abby and Hannah. So she was intended to be next. She told Matt she got a creepy phone call the other day, the same as Abby did. Abby thought hers came from Gary, but he swore not."

"Before or after Matt hit him?"

Ben chuckled. "After, I think. Gary Montgomery is a very subdued man, I'd say. Matt made it perfectly plain to him that if Abby gets so much as a hangnail in the next thirty or forty years, Gary is dead meat. And given the fact that Matt was just this side of sane after nearly losing her to a serial killer, I have no doubts that Gary believed every word."

"Neither do I."

Ben sat down beside her on the sofa and shook his head. "I still can't get over it. Mike Shaw, a serial killer. Christ, he worked on my campaign."

"Is he saying anything?"

"Not much, no. And since the county public defender has already announced she'll resign before taking him on as a client, and his father refuses to hire any other attorney – not that one has come forward to offer – questioning him is a bit of a problem."

"How will it be solved?"

"We're going outside the county to somebody who won't have to live here after the trial. Judge Hayes already has calls in to a couple of good lawyers, and one of them's bound to take the case – for the notoriety, if nothing else. Then again, when the news breaks in the major newspapers, there'll probably be at least a few hotshots outside the state who'll sell their souls for the case." "But you'll prosecute?"

"Damned right. His lawyer will argue for a change of venue, but no matter where the case is tried, I will prosecute."

"Good. Did I hear you say something about Bishop?" "Matt says he's sticking around for a while. Lending his expertise in gathering and cataloging all the evidence they're turning up at Mike's house." Ben paused, then went on carefully. "Which, of course, wouldn't have anything to do with you. Him staying, I mean."

Cassie looked at him, smiling faintly. "Not a thing." He eyed her. "Uh-huh."

"Don't you have to be in court today? I mean, I know the county prosecutor has a certain amount of leeway, but most of them work Mondays, I thought."

"I'm taking some well-deserved time off before getting to work on the biggest case this county has ever seen. The legal system won't grind to a halt without me for a few days."

Cassie was thoughtful. "I see. Which, of course, wouldn't have anything to do with me." "It's Max. I can't bear to abandon him." She glanced toward the dog, who was snoring softly on his rug near the fireplace. "Yes, he's obviously the clinging sort."

Ben grinned at her. "Okay, okay. We both know you're not. And I know you're not in danger any longer, not even from crank calls, given that the mayor is ready to hand you the key to the town after Matt made it clear you saved Abby's life and helped him catch the killer."

"I hope you'll tell His Honor I don't want the key to the town." Cassie was uncomfortable both with that idea and with the growing certainty that Ben had something on his mind. "I'm glad I was able to help there at the end, but nothing's really changed, Ben."

"Hasn't it?" He was grave now, watchful.

"No. I'm not part of the town. I moved out here for peace and quiet, just like my aunt did." Cassie shrugged. "She managed to live here for twenty years without getting involved, and I imagine I will too."

"You're already involved, Cassie. You did something Alexandra never did – put yourself at risk for the people here."

"I didn't have much choice. You know that."

"You had a choice. You could have run away, avoided the whole problem and left it up to us to catch Mike. But you stayed, and you helped."

She drew a breath. "You also know it was an – an extraordinary event, probably once in a lifetime for this town. It won't happen again."

"So you mean to bury yourself out here? Go into town only when you have to? Take Alexandra's place as the town eccentric?"

"There are worse fates," she murmured.

"What about us, Cassie?"

She turned her head to look at the fire they had going because it was a cold day with occasional snow flurries, and thought again of her aunt's prediction about Abby's ultimate fate. Alex had been wrong, or knowing about it had somehow enabled Abby to change what might otherwise have happened.

She might have been wrong about Ben too. And Cassie might have been wrong when she had seen her own fate. There was, at least, a chance of that.

Wasn't there?

"Cassie?"

She was afraid to look at him. "I don't know. I guess I just assumed it would – would go on for a while. Until you got tired of me."

"Tired of you?" He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Cassie, are you under the impression this is just an affair?"

She stared at him. "What else could it be?"

"Something a lot more permanent." He touched her face with gentle fingers, brushed back a strand of silky black hair. "I hope."

Of all the possibilities she might have considered, that one had never even occurred to her – and Cassie was more than a little surprised it had occurred to him. Slowly she said, "I think it's a little early to be talking about anything permanent, don't you? I mean, neither one of us was looking for any kind of commitment."

"Maybe not, but – "

"Ben, you know there's no maybe about it. I've been… shying away from people most of my life, and it's obvious you aren't ready for any kind of long-term commitment."

"How is it obvious?" Then he realized. "Oh. My walls."

It didn't take a psychic to see that the reminder disturbed him, and Cassie conjured a rueful smile. "We're still getting to know each other, still learning to trust. Let's give us time, Ben, okay? Time without… outside pressures like serial killers pushing us toward something we're not ready for yet. There's no hurry, is there?"

"I suppose not." He pulled her into his arms, smiling but with something of a frown lingering in his eyes. "As long as you don't intend to kick me out of your bed anytime soon."

"That," Cassie said, sliding her arms up around his neck, "was never part of my plan."

It was after dark when Ben woke in the lamplit bedroom to find himself alone. He got dressed and went downstairs, discovering Cassie in the living room. The smell of something good cooking wafted from the kitchen, and she was busy packing away the stacks of papers and journals that had lain on the coffee table for the past few days.

He paused for a moment in the doorway to watch her, conscious of a constriction in his chest and a cold knot of unease in the pit of his stomach. Had he made a mistake? His common sense had told him to wait, to be careful not to make demands, but other instincts had insisted that Cassie know how he felt.

Ben thought she cared for him. He thought that given her past and almost pathological reluctance to allow anyone even the most casual of physical contact, she would have been unable to accept him as her lover if she had not cared. If she had not trusted him at least partly. But he also knew that Cassie's past experiences with the dark violence of too many male minds made it almost impossible for her to completely trust a man, especially when she could not read him.

His damned walls.

She would not commit herself to him until she was sure of him, and his walls made that impossible. Even if he managed to pull the walls down, Ben wasn't sure it would bring Cassie to his side and his life for good. She had been alone for a long time, had convinced herself that being alone was the best way for her. Would she – could she – change her life so drastically by accepting him and all the people and responsibilities he would bring with him?

He didn't know.

Ben arranged his features to express pleasant companionship and went into the living room. "You abandoned me," he accused Cassie lightly.

She smiled. "I got hungry, sorry. Spaghetti. I hope you like it."

"Love it." He wanted to touch her but forced himself not to make his need for her so damned obvious. "What are you doing in here?"

"Packing away this stuff."

"I thought you were going to read the journals."

Cassie sent him a glance he couldn't interpret to save his life, and murmured, "Sometimes it's best not to know how things turn out."

"Are we talking about Alexandra?"

She looked at the journal in her hand, then added it to the other stuff in the box. "Of course."

He didn't think so but accepted what she said, wary of pushing her when she seemed so elusive. "Well, you can always read them later."

"Yes. Later." Cassie closed the box, then looked at him, smiling. "The sauce should be ready if you are."

"I'm ready."

He moved very carefully, wary of the dog's keen ears even with the noise of sleet and wind. Caution told him to stay back, but he wanted to get closer, close enough to see inside.

So cozy in there. A nice fire in the fireplace. Lights and the appetizing aroma of good food making the kitchen warm and snug. Quiet voices that were comfortable with each other and yet aware, the edges of their words blurred with longing, with hope and uncertainty and fear.

They were completely wrapped up in each other.

They were oblivious of his watching eyes.

He stood outside, his collar turned up and hat pulled low to protect his face from the stinging sleet. It was cold. The ground was frozen, and his feet were cold inside the thin shoes. But he remained where he was for a long time, watching.

She hadn't understood. All his work, and she hadn't understood.

Hadn't understood he had done it all for her.

But she would.

Soon.

MARCH 2, 1999

"So much for time off," Ben said, knotting his tie as Cassie lay in bed, watching him. "Trust Judge Hayes to make me come back to work."

"Well, he's right," she said. "Now that Mike Shaw has a lawyer, and most of the evidence has been collected from his house, it's time for you to go to work."

"Do you have to be so reasonable?" Ben came to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling down at her. "I'm being driven out of a very warm bed on a very cold morning, and I intend to bitch about it."

She reached up to touch his face in one of those hesitant little gestures that always stopped his heart. "The warm bed will be here waiting for you when you get back. That is – "

"Oh, I'm definitely coming back," he assured her.

"For lunch if I can manage it. By five if I can't. Either way, I'll bring takeout. Any preferences?"

"No. I'm easy to please."

"Yes," he said, bending to kiss her, "you are. Try to go back to sleep, love. I'll take Max out and feed him before I leave. See you later."

Cassie listened to the faint sounds of his leaving, then curled up with her arms wrapped around his pillow and breathed in the faint scent of him that clung to the linen. Already he was marking his presence in her life. Her bed smelled of him, and the scent of his aftershave lingered in the room. His toiletries were on the bathroom counter beside hers. One of his shirts lay across the chair in the corner.

Something permanent?

She shied away from thinking about that because it was so astonishing and potentially wonderful – and she didn't trust the possibility of it. Her life had taught her that wonderful things simply did not happen to her, and she had learned to eye happy surprises with suspicion.

There was always a catch.

But until she discovered what that was, Cassie just wanted to enjoy the moment, to luxuriate in contentment. She was in a warm bed where a warm man had lain beside her all night, and every muscle in her body was blissfully weary.

He was a very… passionate man.

Smiling to herself as she remembered that passion, Cassie drifted off to sleep.

When the ringing woke her, she thought it was her alarm, and peered at the nightstand resentfully. But then the phone rang again, and she pulled herself across the bed to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Cassie, will you please tell Ben to get his ass over here?" Matt requested in a harassed voice. "That damned defense lawyer made some phone calls on his way here, and now I'm hip-deep in the media. The national media. I don't want to talk to them, that's Ben's job, dammit."

She reached to turn the clock toward her, and a cold hand closed around her heart. "Matt… he left here more than two hours ago."