Fear Familiar Bundle (33 page)

"Feeling better?"

She nodded. Talking would only ignite the headache she knew was waiting. She took the cup of tea he offered. "Honey's in the cabinet," she said.

He got honey, lemon and milk, and put them on the table. As they drank their tea, he talked of his impressions of the mountains and of his admiration for her work. He kept the conversation light, quick, and without any requirement for her participation. As he talked he watched the tremors pass through her body, and he saw the pain and fear in her eyes when she raised them to his. Not for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that Cassandra McBeth was not a stable woman. She might be a brilliant writer, but she also might not be completely sane.

Looking at her, he felt a strong compulsion to make sure that she was okay. No matter what happened with the cereal, he wanted to be sure that nothing hurt Cassandra. Not even herself.

"We'd better go," she said shakily.

"It could wait until tomorrow," he suggested, seeing the way her body shook again.

"No." There was iron determination in that one word. "That girl is probably already dead, but if she isn't, then I have to do something. I have to try and stop her murder."

Her blue eyes were crystal clear, and completely tormented, as she stared at him.

The FBI Wanted posters fluttered against the bulletin board in the sporadic gusts of an oscillating fan. Cassandra watched the papers move up and down, avoiding the penetrating stare of Sheriff Beaker. He was looking at her as if she'd escaped from a mental institution.

"You say you saw Janey Ables's murder, and now you've seen Carla Winchester strangled, too."

Cassandra nodded. Against all of her adamant insistence, Adam had accompanied her to the sheriff's office. In fact, he'd driven her when he saw the condition of her car. The right fender had been damaged when she ran off the road.

Adam's car had miraculously cured itself. The motor turned over on the first try, and Adam did have the decency to blush— a little. Cassandra had graciously let his fib pass. She was simply glad he'd come with her. He'd heard her story for the first time, along with Sheriff Beaker. While Beaker thought she was mad, Adam was watching her with calm deliberation. He probably didn't believe her, but he was willing to listen.

"Ma'am, we appreciate your help and all, but so far, we have no evidence that Ms. Winchester is in any danger. Lots of young women come up here for a vacation and sow a few wild oats. We're thinking Ms. Winchester might have met some friends and gone off with them."

"She had a job," Cassandra said softly. "She was a college student who needed summer employment. A good student from what you say. Not the kind to go running off without some consideration for her responsibilities."

"Young folks make mistakes. It's their prerogative, Ms. McBeth." The sheriff's voice was tired. "Now thank you again for your help. It's late and my wife has been holding supper for me for two hours."

Cassandra stood. "And if I have another vision, should I contact you?" The sarcasm was sharp in her tone.

"Yes, ma'am." Beaker stood, too. He was tall and thin. His sharp eyes watched Cassandra with a new speculation. "If you have any revelations about where the body might be, I'd be interested in hearing that, too."

"Of course."

Adam opened the door to the sheriff's personal office, and he and Cassandra stepped into the main room. A dispatcher watched them with open curiosity.

As Adam opened the outer door for Cassandra, he heard the woman question the sheriff. "Wasn't that Sylvia McBeth's daughter, that hermit who writes?" Adam shut the door as fast as possible, but he could tell that Cassandra had heard the question.

"It's okay," she said, and shrugged. "It's part of the price of having a fortune-teller for a mother."

"How about something to eat?" Adam could see the tension in Cassandra.

"I'd better go home."

"Is there anyone who can stay with you?"

Adam's obvious concern was the final straw. She had no desire to appear like some pitiful half-wit scorned by her own community. Cassandra stiffened her spine. "I'm not a child, and I'm not a lunatic. I don't need a baby-sitter. I want to go home, alone."

"This way," Adam said as he steered her toward the car. Ms. McBeth was headstrong, and a bit surly, but he wasn't ready to give up. Not by a long shot.

Night had fallen, giving the mountain a solid blackness that made Adam think of the people who had carved a trail through the wilderness and settled the area. There was a savage beauty to the countryside around Sevierville. They'd had to drive to the county seat to talk with Beaker. As they drove back to Gatlinburg, silence filled the car.

At times the road twisted and the shoulder fell away to empty space. Two or three lights winked far down the side of the drop-off, someone's homestead in a meadow. It made him feel small, and very alone.

They were turning up Cassandra's drive before Adam spoke again. "Unless you can get someone else to stay with you, I am." He wasn't leaving her alone. The area was too isolated.

"You'll do no such thing."

"Of course I will."

"Not in my home."

"In my car. I'm not leaving you alone on the side of this mountain. You believe a killer's loose. You need some protection." Adam felt his jaw muscles clench. She was a damn stubborn woman. He felt as if he'd fallen into a briar patch.

"You believe me?"

He swung his head to look at her. Her voice had such a plaintive note, he couldn't help but stare. The truth of the matter was, he hadn't thought about what he believed or didn't believe. The story she'd told Sheriff Beaker sounded like something out of a supermarket tabloid. Precognitive dreams, visions, murders. If the tale had come from anyone except the small, worried woman sitting beside him, he would have said that person had a rich fantasy life. But Cassandra— and he'd seen her in the throes of her nightmare, or seizure as she called it— wasn't the kind to exaggerate or lie for effect.

"I believe you believe it," he said at last.

"But you don't believe it's real."

He hesitated. "I don't know. I haven't given a lot of thought to this kind of thing before. Off the cuff, I'd have to say I was a skeptic. That was before I saw you, though."

"Maybe I'm just a damn good actress." Her temper flared and she couldn't help it. Why was she concerned whether this man believed her or not? He was a businessman out to make a deal. Her sanity wasn't up for him to judge.

"Maybe," Adam agreed. He cast her a devilish look. "If that's the case, all the more reason you should do a commercial endorsing my cereal. If acting is your career goal, a commercial might help."

She felt like telling him to take a flying leap off the side of the mountain, but she held herself in check. It was only another mile to her door. Another few minutes and she'd send him packing. The only trouble was, she didn't really want to stay alone. Maybe Running Stream would send Bounder over after all. The Indian woman was smart, and sensitive. She often did the exact opposite of what Cassandra requested— she knew Cassandra's heart and ignored her mouth.

"Mr. Raleigh, you've been very kind." She thought about the way he'd held her. "Much more than kind. I appreciate everything you've done, and if there was any way I could help you without betraying my own beliefs, I would. But I can't. It would be best if you went back to Michigan."

"Best for you, or best for me?"

In the glow of the headlights, Cassandra could see the last turn in the road to her cabin. "For both of us." She was bone tired.

"If you'll call a friend, I'll be glad to go."

She heard the finality in his voice and knew that further argument was useless. It was, after all, a smart request. She wasn't certain if she could wake up again if she had another seizure. As much as she disliked the idea, she could call Running Stream.

"Okay," she agreed as Adam drove into her yard and cut the engine.

Inside, Cassandra didn't waste any time. She stopped only long enough to give the big black cat a friendly stroke before she picked up the telephone and dialed. A few seconds later, she was pressing the switch hook up and down. There was no dial tone.

"Service is unreliable," she admitted. "Lots of miles of line and lots of storms." Uneasiness tingled the small of her back. Local teenagers sometimes sneaked up on her property, hoping for a glimpse of the "mountain witch." Sometimes they committed small acts of vandalism. The idea of being alone, without a phone or a reliable car, was scary.

"The local kids like to play pranks on me sometimes," she said aloud.

"If you need me, I'll be parked outside," Adam said. "I know you don't want me to stay, but I'm going to, anyway. For my own peace of mind. Have a good sleep."

His hand was on the knob when he yelped and jumped back. "Wait a minute!" The cat's claws dug sharply into his calf. "That blasted cat!"

"Familiar!" Cassandra was shocked. "Stop that."

Familiar unhooked his claws one by one. He held his paw in midair, contemplated it a few seconds, and then began to clean it.

"That animal has it in for me," Adam said. "He attacked me on the sofa earlier."

Cassandra looked from the cat to Adam. "I think he's trying to tell you to stay. It would seem that Familiar has more sense than either of us." Her smile was self-deprecating. "I am a bit uncomfortable staying alone, Adam. It's silly for you to sleep in the car when I have a guest room. Please stay."

Adam hid his victory grin. The cat was a pain in the neck, but he had perfect timing. The strange idea that he and Familiar were working together to protect Cassandra flitted through his mind. "I'll get my things." He looked at the cat. Familiar held his gaze, then slowly closed one eye.

A
DAM HEARD THE RATTLE
of the car engine and the slamming door before he was fully awake. He opened his eyes to the blast of morning sun that came in the window of his room. It was a room that perfectly reflected his hostess— quilts and handwoven rugs, polished antiques and the smell of fresh flowers. He closed his eyes and thought of Cassandra. She was a beautiful woman, in an odd sort of way. Her eyes. That's what drew him to her. They were unusual in the depth of their honesty. She looked and didn't flinch. Nor did she hide her own troubles. All of her emotions were there to see, reflected in the sky blueness.

The sound of breaking glass had him out of bed and scrambling down the steep stairs from the guest room in the loft. "Cassandra?"

There was no answer, and he hurried into the kitchen, heedless of his state of near undress. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms. The house seemed empty, and he almost ran to the front porch. He was out the screen door before he saw the sheriff's car.

Cassandra was holding on to the porch railing as she talked with the lawman. Pieces of a broken water glass were around her bare feet, and she ignored them. Both she and the sheriff turned as he came out the door.

"Mr. Raleigh," Sheriff Beaker nodded. He glanced knowingly at Adam's bare chest.

"Sheriff," he said, but his concern was for Cassandra. She was pale and obviously holding on to the railing for support.

"They found Carla Winchester's body. In a ravine. She was strangled," Cassandra said slowly. "The sheriff wants to know where I was night before last."

"And I'd like to know your whereabouts, too," Beaker said as he stared at Adam. "I didn't realize you and Ms. McBeth were such good friends." He said the last word with a twist. "I got the impression you'd only met yesterday."

Adam went to Cassandra and bent to pick up the broken glass before she stepped on it. "I was in Knoxville at the Marriott. I checked out about eleven a.m. and started driving this way."

"I'm sure the hotel can verify that."

"I'm sure they can." Adam had the big pieces of glass gathered in his hand. He stood up and went to the edge of the porch. "Ms. McBeth went to your office trying to help. Why do I get the impression that you're accusing her of something?"

Beaker didn't move. "Maybe not her. Maybe you."

Cassandra's hand on Adam's arm was light, almost fluttery. "It's okay," she said softly. "He's only doing what he has to do. I know too much about the murder. I described it perfectly, didn't I? Carla Winchester was strangled from behind. The fingers pressed into her throat, just to the side and below the larynx. She struggled, going down on one knee in the gravel as she tried to get away. One hand clawed his face. There was tissue beneath the nails of her right hand, wasn't there? That would mean the scratches are on the right side of his face."

Both men were staring at her in fascination.

"Where did you find the body?" Cassandra asked.

"A hiker found it on a trail in a shallow ravine. It had been covered with brush."

"She wasn't killed there," Cassandra said. "It was somewhere with a view. High up."

"Ms. McBeth, if you're withholding anything, you could be charged as an accessory to murder." Beaker's hand had moved to his gun belt, where it hung loosely beside the grip of his gun.

"In case you've forgotten, Ms. McBeth went to your office voluntarily," Adam interjected.

"Where did you get those claw marks on your face?" the sheriff countered.

Adam touched the traces of the scratches Cassandra had given him. Since he hadn't shaved yet, he'd forgotten about them.

"When I was dreaming yesterday I accidentally scratched Mr. Raleigh," Cassandra said. "Those marks were made from the front, with my left hand." She held out her hand to show the short, well-cared-for nails.

"And where were you night before last?" Beaker asked her.

"Here. Alone."

"No alibi?"

She shook her head. "None."

"I thought Mr. Raleigh might say you were in Knoxville with him." Beaker let the accusation hang in the air.

"We weren't acquainted until yesterday," Cassandra said with complete dignity.

"Don't leave the area," Beaker said as he turned back to his car. "Either of you."

Adam and Cassandra watched the sheriff walk away. He got into his car, pulled around and left in a cloud of dust.