'You think it will be?'
'If I manage to pick up some useful information and he ignores it because he doesn't trust me… you bet it could be costly.' She shook her head. 'But right now I'm more concerned about you. Reading the good sheriff told me more than you'd probably like about your personal life. I know you have a husband you're separated from, and I know he's capable of violence. Add to that one maniac who's killed three women so far, and I'd say it might be a good time for you to take a vacation and go lie on a beach somewhere.'
Abby's unsteady smile returned. 'And what if my leaving here and going somewhere else is just another step toward my fate?'
'That's a possibility. But I'd have to say the odds are more in your favor on that beach.'
'Maybe. But I can't leave.'
'Then at least tell the sheriff. If you can't make him believe that my aunt could see into the future, at least convince him her warning frightened you. Maybe he can take steps to make your life safer.'
'And maybe it would just be one more thing for him to worry about. I'm being careful. And that's all I can do.'
Cassie admired her calm. Since she had lived often with the knowledge that some madman could possibly zero in on her, that her odds of becoming a victim were better than most, she knew only too well how debilitating that constant threat was.
Even more, she knew how it felt to live with a prophecy of doom. She almost told Abby, almost confided that her only experience with precognition had been a vision of her own fate that promised violence and destruction. But in the end she kept that knowledge to herself.
She had run three thousand miles only to find herself once again entangled in an investigation of crimes of violence; for her, running had not been an escape. There was nothing to be gained by telling Abby that.
'Do you have a dog?' she asked instead.
'No.'
'Maybe you should get one. Or borrow one.'
'Do you have one?'
Cassie smiled. 'No. But Ben said I should get one – and he was right. Look, do you want to take a trip with me out to the animal shelter?'
'The coins,' Matt said.
'What about them?' Ben sat down in one of the visitors' chairs in front of the sheriff's desk.
'We may have caught a break with them. The silver dollar found in Becky's hand turns out to be a pretty rare specimen. I don't understand the technical details, something about a flaw in the mold. They were never circulated, and only a few thousand were minted before the mistake was caught.'
'A few thousand?'
'I know it sounds like a lot, but they all went to collectors, Ben, and they're very valuable.'
'Does that mean they're traceable?'
'It means they might be. I've got somebody working on that now.'
'How about the other coins?'
Matt shook his head. 'We're still checking on those, but they look damn close to mint quality to me. If so, if he's using only uncirculated coins, then they've pretty well got to be from somebody's collection.'
'We have any coin collectors in town?'
'Yeah, several that we know of. It isn't exactly an uncommon hobby. We're quietly pulling together a list.'
'And then?'
'Start asking questions, as discreetly as possible. I don't want everybody in town knowing that coins are part of the murder investigation, so we've cooked up a story about a stolen coin collection. It won't fool anyone for long, but with luck it'll give us a head start.'
'Maybe not much of one,' Ben said. 'From what I've been hearing today, rumors are already circulating that the victims were holding something when they were found.'
'Shit.'
'We both knew it was just a matter of time.'
'Yeah, but I was hoping for days rather than hours. Dammit, how did that get out? My people have been threatened with fines and/or jail time if I find out anybody discussed this investigation outside the office.'
Ben shrugged. 'Osmosis. If there's a secret in this town, it will get out. Guaranteed.'
Matt scowled at him. 'That psychic of yours hasn't been talking, has she?'
'I doubt it. When are you going to get off her case, Matt? She's done nothing except try to help.'
'Like that business a few hours ago? The killer's right-handed and probably tried to kill himself at some point by slashing his wrists?'
'You didn't believe her?'
'No.'
'Tell me you at least added 'right-handed' and 'possible attempted suicide scar' to your list of identifying characteristics.'
'I did. But I'm not expecting either to help. Right-handed I'd already gotten from Doc Munro anyway, a fact he gleaned logically from the wounds. As for that supposed scar – this is a town where more than half the men work in mills and plants, and injuries to the hands and lower arms are common. I think she realized that. I think she guessed right-handed because it's likely, and added the scar in for color.'
'What is she going to have to do to convince you she's genuine?'
'A lot more than she has done.'
Ben rose to his feet, shaking his head. 'You're so damned stubborn. It'll cost you one day, Matt.'
'Maybe. But not today. I'll call you if we find out anything else.'
'Do that. I'll be out at Mary's this evening, but I don't plan to stay more than a couple of hours.'
'She nervous?'
'Of course. I promised to check out her security system.'
'Tell her I'm stepping up the regular patrols out there as of tonight.'
'I will. Thanks.'
'Don't mention it.' Matt smiled faintly.
Ben lifted a hand in farewell and left the sheriff's office. Not one to put off unpleasant duties, he drove out of town to the house where he'd grown up. His father had insisted on calling the big, bastard-Tudor house and its hundred acres of rolling pastureland an estate, but Ben refused to.
He also refused to call it home.
He pressed the button on the intercom rather than ringing the doorbell and wasn't surprised when his mother's cheerful voice bade him enter. The door wasn't locked. However, since he was greeted in the foyer by two enormous mastiffs, it could hardly be said the house was unprotected.
'Hey, guys.' He patted the broad, heavy heads of the two dogs who were clearly delighted to see him. His mother had named them Butch and Sundance, and either would instantly die to protect her, but otherwise they were placid and friendly dogs who enjoyed familiar visitors.
They walked on either side of Ben as he went through the house to the kitchen, where he found his mother.
'The breeder has a new litter of puppies,' Mary Ryan said as soon as they came in. 'You should get one, Ben. You love dogs and they love you.'
'I don't need a mastiff in my apartment,' he told her, patient with an old argument.
'You could pick a smaller breed.'
'I don't need a dog in my apartment. With my hours, it wouldn't be fair to keep any kind of pet.'
She sent him a glance from her position at the center work island, where she was chopping ingredients for a salad. She was a tall, slender woman who had passed on to her son her own gleaming dark hair and hazel eyes. Her little-girl voice was incongruous; a husky, smoky voice would have been more in keeping with her looks. She was not yet sixty, and looked twenty years younger.
'You need a companion, Ben,' she said. 'You spend too much time alone.'
'You haven't seen my workload lately,' he retorted. She was, of course, discussing his wifeless state, though she invariably approached the subject indirectly. Knowing she would go on and on discussing it unless he
