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
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
