Stealing Shadows

'Maybe. Have there been any unexplained animal deaths or disappearances around here?'

'You mean recently? Not that I know of.'

'It could have been recent. It's more likely, though, that he did that sort of thing as a child.'

'If he did, he got away with it.'

'Probably. It's the kind of thing that often gets dismissed when young boys do it. Unless it's extremely frequent or especially vicious. Not many people realize it's one of the earliest signs of homicidal tendencies.'

'Particularly among serial killers. Along with, if I remember correctly, unnaturally prolonged bed-wetting and starting fires.'

Cassie nodded. 'Did you take one of the FBI courses for law enforcement officials?'

'Yes, shortly after I got this job. How about you?'

She smiled slightly. 'No. I've just… picked up information along the way. I think it helped me, at least a little, to understand the clinical terms and explanations.'

'For monsters?'

She nodded again.

'I'm sorry,' Ben said.

Her eyes widened slightly, and then her gaze fell. 'Never mind. I've taken up enough of your time today. Thanks again for seeing me. And for keeping an open mind.'

They both rose, but a faint gesture from Cassie kept Ben on his side of the desk. Still, he wasn't quite ready to let her go. 'Wait.' He looked at her intently. 'Your name. Is it short for Cassandra?'

'Yes.'

Softly he said, 'She tried to warn them – and nobody believed her.'

'My mother was psychic. She'd knew I'd be. Sometimes I think she gave me that name just to make certain I'd go through life prepared for doubt and scorn. A reminder I'd always carry with me.'

'I'm sorry,' he said again.

'Don't be. We all have our crosses.' She shrugged and began to turn away, then paused when he spoke again.

'That other Cassandra knew she couldn't change what would happen. She knew she wouldn't be believed. It destroyed her. Don't let it destroy you, Cassie.'

Without looking at him she said, 'Something else that other Cassandra knew. She knew her own fate. And she couldn't escape it.'

'Do you?'

'Know my own fate? Yes.'

'I thought you couldn't predict the future.'

'Just mine. Just my fate.'

He felt a little chill. 'It's something you want to escape?'

Cassie went to the door and paused once again, this time with her hand on the doorknob. She glanced back at him. 'Yes. But I can't. I ran almost three thousand miles, and it wasn't far enough.'

'Cassie – '

But she was gone, slipping through the door and closing it quietly behind her.

Alone again, Ben sat down in his chair and for a moment gazed down absently at the name and number he'd written on his legal pad. Then he buzzed his secretary. 'Janice, there's some research I need you to do ASAP. But first, there's a cop in L.A. I need to talk to.'

She walks like a whore.

Those short skirts make it worse, the way she twitches her ass when she walks.

Disgusting.

And just look at her – flirting with him. Tossing her hair and batting her eyes.

Whore.

You whore, I thought you were different!

Just another twenty-dollar whore. And not even worth that.

Not even that.

Matt Dunbar came from a long line of lawmen that stretched all the way back to a Texas Ranger⁷ who'd roamed the West in 1840, and it was a heritage he was proud of. He was also proud of the way he looked in his crisp sheriff's uniform. He worked out religiously in his basement exercise room six days a week to make damned sure no excess flab hung out over his belt.

No way was he going to become the familiar caricature of a fat, indolent Southern sheriff. He'd even gone to some effort to lose his accent, though the results were, he had to admit, less than what he'd been aiming for.

A lover had once told him he had a drawl that stretched out lazy like a cat in the sun.

It was a simile he liked.

So maybe he drawled a bit when he told Becky Smith that next time she ought not to park right smack in front of the fire hydrant even if she did plan to just run in and out of the drugstore.

As a stern official warning, it lacked something.

'Oh, I'm sorry, Sheriff.' She smiled widely at him and pushed glossy brown hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that was a little flirtatious. 'But I was only gone a couple of minutes, I promise. I'll move it right now.'

He started to tell her she didn't have to move all that fast, but then he saw Ben Ryan's Jeep pull in behind his cruiser, so he touched his hat courteously to Becky and walked back to meet his boyhood friend, occasional poker buddy, and sometimes pain in the ass.

Today Ben looked like the last.

'Matt, when did you talk to Cassie Neill?' Ben asked as he got out of the Jeep.

The sheriff leaned back against the Jeep's front fender and crossed his arms over his chest. 'She came into the office the end of last week. Thursday, I think. You mean she went running to you with that wild story?'

'Are you so sure it's wild?'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Ben – '

'Look, I was doubtful too. But did you bother to check her out? Because I did.'

'And?'

'And the LAPD detective I talked to says there are half a dozen multiple killers behind bars today because of Cassie Neill. And that's just in his jurisdiction.'

Matt narrowed his eyes. 'Then how come I never heard of her?'

Ben shook his head. 'There's been very little press, and nothing national. The way she wanted it, apparently – which I count as a point in her favor. The cop told me his superiors were delighted that she insisted the department take the credit and keep her out of it. Naturally they weren't too eager to admit that they'd used the human version of a crystal ball to track down bad guys.'

Matt grunted, and gazed absently at the peaceful scene of downtown Ryan's Bluff on a mild Tuesday afternoon. 'I just don't buy that psychic bullshit, Ben. Last time I checked, neither did you.'

'I'm still not sure. But I think we'd better pay attention to what the lady says.'

'Just in case?'

'Just in case.'

After a moment Matt shrugged. 'Okay. You tell me what I'm supposed to do about the lady's so-called warning. She says somebody's going to die. That somebody is a woman – only she doesn't know who. All she knows is that the woman is possibly dark-haired, possibly between twenty and thirty-five, medium height and build – possibly. Which narrows down the possible victim to, oh, a quarter of the area's female population, give or take a few hundred. And our helpful psychic knows even less about the aspiring murderer. Don't even have a possible on him except that he's male. Eliminating you and me, and every man over sixty just on logical grounds, that leaves me with – what? – a few hundred conceivable suspects inside the town limits? What the hell do I do with that, Ben?'

'I don't know. But there must be something we can do.'

'What? Panic a town by announcing one of our ladies is being stalked and doesn't know it?'

'No, of course not.'