"Stealing Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hooper Kay)

SEVEN

The blood in Ivy Jameson's kitchen had dried, and the smell of it was musty and faint. But it remained a scene of violence, and Cassie was overwhelmingly conscious of that the moment she stepped through the doorway.

"We have the murder weapon," Sheriff Dunbar said from his position inside the room to the right of the door. "If it would help to touch it?"

"No." Cassie slowly looked around. "Not if it has her blood on it." She wasn't aware of anything unusual at first. But then she felt a slight but increasing pressure, against her chest or inside it, and breathing seemed more difficult than it had a moment before.

"Cassie?" Ben was standing just behind her, in the doorway. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know. Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She continued to gaze around slowly, unwilling to tell him it was getting harder and harder for her to breathe. Her gaze focused on a pool of dried blood near the work island that was dark and slick looking, and when she blinked it suddenly turned scarlet.

The image was fleeting, a jolt of color gone before she could fully take it in. But when she looked at the blood spattered across the white refrigerator, it, too, turned briefly scarlet. And then a movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to watch scarlet blood drip from the edge of the work island and onto the tile floor.

"Jesus," she whispered.

"Cassie? What is it?"

"Shh. Don't say anything. This is… this has never happened to me before. When I look at it, I see the blood dripping, as if it's fresh. Splashes and smears of color all over the room, bright and wet." She closed her eyes and opened them, but the blood remained red, so red it hurt to look at it, and when she tried to turn her head away, it was as if she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye.

Every time she turned her head back and forth, that flash of movement was there, just out of her range of vision, teasing her by vanishing when she tried to focus on it.

Then a scream ripped through her head so loudly and violently it was like a blow, and for a single eternal instant she saw Ivy Jameson sitting on the bloody floor of her kitchen, her back up against the leg of the work island, her once-white dress horribly stained – and her open eyes staring across the room at Cassie with reproach.

Cassie wanted to run from that awful condemnation, to escape the dreadful knowledge in Ivy's gaze. But suddenly the pressure on her chest became crushing, there was no air, no air at all, and the scarlet and white kitchen was engulfed by a wave of total darkness.

The silence was absolute, and it was so peaceful, Cassie was tempted to remain there. There were horrors waiting for her outside the tranquil darkness, waking nightmares she was not ready to face. But then someone began calling her name, the sound intruding on peace, and she knew she had to respond.

"Cassie?"

She opened her eyes and was instantly alert, not at all drained or exhausted by what had happened. She found herself lying on a sofa in a very formal living room. Ben was sitting on the edge near her hips and held one of her hands in his.

Cassie tensed automatically to draw her hand away, but then she realized she was still unable to read him. His hand felt very warm.

"Told you she'd be all right," the sheriff said laconically from a nearby chair.

"Are you?" Ben asked her, gaze intent on her face.

Cassie nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

He helped her to sit up but didn't release her hand or move away until it became obvious she was indeed all right. He stayed beside her on the couch, half turned so he could watch her more closely. "You want to tell us what happened?"

"I don't know what happened. Just that it's never happened before."

"What never happened before?" the sheriff demanded. "All you said was that you saw the blood turn wet and red, and then you fainted gracefully into Ben's arms."

Cassie ignored his mockery and looked at him rather than at Ben when she said, "I saw the bloodstains turn wet and red – some even dripped from the island onto the floor. And then, for just a moment, I saw Ivy Jameson. Sitting on the floor, her back against the leg of the island, her dress red with blood. She was looking across the room at me almost… accusingly."

"So whose head were you in?"

"I don't know. It was as if I were standing in that room just moments after the killer left."

"How do you explain it?" Ben asked.

"I can't explain it. Unless…"

"Unless?" the sheriff prompted.

Cassie gazed into the distance, thinking, then said, "Unless someone else did that. Stood in the doorway only minutes after the murder. Someone I've connected to without realizing. Maybe I was… reliving someone's memory."

The sheriff shook his head. "You seem to have connected to an awful lot of people, if you ask me."

Ignoring him, Ben asked, "Was it Matt? You were able to read him earlier. Could you have picked up these images from his experience when he first arrived here in the house and saw her?"

"I don't know." She looked at the sheriff. "Except for her body being gone, is the room just the way you found it?"

"Almost." He didn't elaborate.

Cassie got up. "I need to see it again."

"Are you sure?" Ben asked. "The first time hit you pretty hard."

"I'm sure." She led the way back to the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway as she had before. This time both men remained behind her.

Cassie concentrated on remembering what she had seen, comparing the details with the room as she saw it now. "Her body was there, at the corner of the island nearest the stove. A foot or so away… there was a knife. A butcher knife, covered in blood." Her gaze roamed slowly around the room. "There were footprints in the blood near the back door, but… the footprints on this side of the room weren't there. That's the only other difference I see."

"Then you weren't seeing Matt's first look into the room," Ben said.

She turned to the two men. "No?"

Ben was staring at the sheriff. "No. The footprints on this side of the room were made by Ivy's relatives when they found her. Before they called Matt."

"So I saw the room before they entered it."

"I'd say so, yes."

"Then someone else must have been here."

The sheriff scowled at her. "Why couldn't it have been the killer standing there? Assuming any of this bullshit is true, that is."

"I don't think it was him. I didn't get a sense of him, the way I have before. As a matter of fact… I didn't get a sense of anyone. No personality, I mean."

"Then what makes you so sure somebody else was here?"

Cassie thought about it but finally had to shake her head in defeat. "I don't know. Just… by process of elimination. I've never been able to tap into a place, not like that. To see, so vividly, something that had already happened, I had to be seeing through somebody's eyes, through their memories. Somebody standing right here, just inside the doorway. After Mrs. Jameson was killed, but before her relatives got here."

Slowly Ben said, "In plenty of near-death experiences, people report being out of their bodies, hovering nearby and looking at themselves. Is it at all possible that you saw this room through Ivy's eyes after her murder?"

"That," the sheriff said, "is the creepiest thing I've heard yet."

Ben was gazing at Cassie. "But is it possible?"

"I don't know." She agreed with the sheriff. It was a creepy possibility. "If so, it would be a first for me."

Sheriff Dunbar shook his head. "Either way, I don't see that this is getting us anywhere. There's no evidence there was anybody other than the killer and Ivy in this house until her relatives arrived. In the meantime, I have three bodies and a town full of people beginning to panic. Unless you can tell me something helpful, I think I'll go back to my good old-fashioned police methods and try to find this bastard before he kills anybody else."

Cassie nodded. "Two things. Before he… before he killed Jill Kirkwood, he said something to her. He said, 'You'll never laugh at me again.' "

"Laughing at people wasn't Jill's style," Ben said immediately.

"In his mind she had laughed at him, belittled him. Maybe they all had, at least as far as he was concerned," Cassie said. "For what it's worth."

"And the other thing?" the sheriff asked.

"That may be more helpful. He held the knife in his right hand, and on the inside of that wrist was a scar. I think he's tried to kill himself, at least once."

"Just when did you remember seeing that?"

"Last night." Cassie shrugged. "I would have called you, but I knew I'd see you today." And she knew he was disinclined to believe her anyway. It was obvious.

Still, the sheriff was grudgingly pleased by something concrete. "Okay, I'll add those details to what little we've got so far."

"Are you going to call the FBI?" Ben asked.

"Not yet."

"Matt – "

"Don't tell me my job, Ben."

"Look, at least get in touch with that violent-crimes task force operating out of Charlotte. They have more resources, Matt. They can help."

"Their resources don't mean jackshit." The sheriff's jaw was set stubbornly. "You know and I know that this killer is not going to be found in anybody's computer database, Ben. He's home grown."

Cassie divided her attention between them. "Then you're sure he's not a stranger, a newcomer in town?"

"Positive."

"Matt, there's no way we can be positive."

"I'm positive. Ivy's relatives swear she would never have opened a door to a stranger, much less invite one into her kitchen."

"She could have let him in the front door."

"And then put the chain back on the way her nephew and brother-in-law found it later? No. She knew him, Ben. She let the bastard into the house through her back door, and she felt so unthreatened by him that he was able to cross the room and pick up one of her own butcher knives."

Ben frowned but shook his head. "What about Becky? Cassie thinks she didn't know her killer."

Cassie said, "She didn't say his name at a point when she should have. So she probably didn't know it. But that's just an assumption on my part."

The sheriff said, "That doesn't mean he's a stranger to the area. Small town or not, none of us knows every one of our fellow citizens."

Ben granted the point with a nod but said, "Still, we can't be sure, Matt. And even if you're right about it, the task force has other resources we could use. They have experts – in forensics and behavioral science to name just two."

"I can and will handle this investigation," the sheriff said flatly. "I'm not handing it off to the FBI, a task force, or to anyone else. Remember when they came cruising in here a few years ago, Ben? The FBI and DEA, tracking drug runners up from Florida and convinced the operation was based around here? I've never seen such a mess in my life. The rights of decent citizens trampled without so much as a by-your-leave, property destroyed, people up in arms. My father had a heart attack before it was all over and done with."

Sheriff Dunbar shook his head. "Unh-unh, no way am I going to let anything like that happen again, not in my town." With barely a pause he added, "Now, if you two don't mind, I say we get out of here. I need to lock up the place and get back to the office. And I'm sure both of you have better things to do with the rest of your afternoon."

Cassie didn't protest, and Ben didn't say anything else until they got into his Jeep.

Then, watching the sheriff's cruiser drive away, he shook his head. "I'm afraid it was a mess. And it left a bad taste in the mouth for most of the people around here. As nervous as this town is getting, Matt won't be criticized for not turning to outsiders for help."

"Can he handle this on his own?"

Ben started the engine and put the Jeep in gear. "I don't know. He's no fool, and he's got plenty of smart people working for him, but this is something outside his experience. He never worked homicide during his training as a cop, and he sure as hell never dealt with a serial killer."

"He made a good argument for Mrs. Jameson's killer not being a stranger to her. Logical and reasonable. You still don't agree?"

"I just don't agree that it's definitive. There's a chance, however unlikely, that Ivy let a stranger in, or at least opened the door to one. And you say the man who killed Jill wore a mask. She sure as hell wouldn't have opened the door to a masked man, so I have to wonder if her door was even locked. Maybe she was careless and didn't lock it behind her when she went in. Maybe Ivy was careless for once. It happens."

"To both of them on the same day?"

Ben grimaced. "Unlikely, yes. But possible."

After a moment's thought Cassie said, "I have to say he convinced me. And a man who was a stranger to Becky could still be someone Mrs. Jameson knew. If he is local, sooner or later there's bound to be some connection between the killer and at least one of his victims. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if Sheriff Dunbar's investigation turns up anything."

"Such as more bodies?" Ben's voice was grim.

"Maybe he'll find the connection, if there is one. Or evidence that points to a particular man. If he's right about this killer being from the area, then he probably has a much better understanding of the people here – and any potential suspect – than outside law enforcement officials could ever get."

"He understands the people here, but I doubt he has any special insight into the mind of this killer." Ben sent her a quick glance. "Your help could prove invaluable, Cassie. That hasn't changed."

Without responding to that, she said, "If you could just take me as far as the garage, I'd appreciate it. They called this morning to say my car was ready, so I said I'd pick it up."

Ben turned the Jeep in the direction of the garage but said, "Should you be driving? You were out cold for nearly five minutes."

Cassie was a little startled. "So long? I hadn't realized. But it's all right, I feel fine. Whatever happened back there didn't take nearly as much out of me as the usual… connections do."

"Could have fooled me. You went white as a sheet before you passed out."

There was a note in his voice that made her feel suddenly self-conscious, but Cassie managed to keep her own voice casual. "Shock, I imagine. Seeing her sitting there, the way she seemed to be looking at me, was so unexpected." She paused. "What if someone else was there? Why wouldn't they have come forward?"

"Probably afraid of being a suspect. And I really don't like the idea of a witness to a crime scene who's out there possibly telling friends and family what that crime scene looked like. So far we've been able to keep certain details quiet. If word gets out about the way the victims were found posed, the coins in their hands, the weapons used, it could make it more difficult to prosecute the case if and when it comes to court."

"I don't suppose you're worried about a copycat killer," Cassie said absently.

"Not really. Assuming Matt's right, I find it just barely credible that this sleepy little town could produce one vicious killer. Two operating at the same time would surprise me very much."

"Well, maybe whoever it was who might have witnessed the murder scene will be too frightened to talk about it."

"Maybe. But secrets tend not to stay secret for very long in this town."

Cassie thought about that after he dropped her off at the garage. She paid her bill and waited for her car to be driven around front, and it didn't take a psychic to sense the unease of the mechanics. All they could talk about were the murders, and speculation was running rife.

"It's gotta be a stranger. I mean, who around here would do such a thing?" one mechanic standing a few feet from Cassie demanded of his companion.

"I know plenty who could have murdered Ivy," the second man said with a snort. Then he sobered and added, "But not the other two, not Miss Kirkwood or Becky."

"You think it was the same guy?"

"Well, it musta been. I heard that the sheriff found 'em all holding flowers. Is that sick, or what?"

"Flowers? I heard it was candles."

"Candles? Now, what kind of sense does that make? Honestly, Tom, you'd believe anything anybody told you--"

The discussion faded away as they walked toward the back, and since Cassie's car was delivered to her then, she left the garage and drove toward her next stop, the supermarket. She had decided to run a few errands since she was in town anyway. And, in all honesty, she also wanted to get a sense of the mood of the townspeople.

The cashier at the supermarket, unlike the mechanics, was not disposed to be fascinated by the subject. When the customer in front of Cassie asked what she thought of the murders, the teenager looked as if she would burst into tears.

"Oh, Mrs. Holland, it's so awful! Becky was in school with my sister, and Miss Kirkwood was just the nicest lady. And I heard… I heard they had awful things done to them, just awful! I'm so scared, all the girls are so scared!"

The customer murmured a few reassuring words, but it was clear she was none too confident in her own optimism; Cassie noticed that she glanced around her warily as she pushed her shopping cart from the store.

Cassie had bought a few perishables, but it was a chilly day, and she didn't worry when she parked her car downtown, locked it up, and went for a stroll. She window-shopped, and she listened to the people around her talk, winding up in a booth in the drugstore.

The young counterman, whose name according to the pin on his shirt pocket was Mike, was obviously excited by the fact that he had actually been questioned by deputies. He eagerly shared the experience with her as he poured the coffee she had ordered.

"On account of Becky working here and all," he explained. "And they wanted to know if we'd noticed anybody following or watching her, or if she'd told us somebody had."

"And had she?" Cassie asked, more because he so clearly wanted to talk about it than because she did.

"Not a word to any of us." Mike polished the counter in front of Cassie industriously. "Not that I talked to her much since her job was back in the office, but Mrs. Selby says Becky never told her either. And none of us ever noticed her being watched or followed, nothing like that." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And now there's Mrs. Jameson and Miss Kirkwood too. It's just horrible, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cassie said. "Horrible." Before he could prolong the conversation, she retreated to a booth with the day's newspaper and her coffee.

The newspaper articles were fairly restrained given the unusual violence of the crimes. The latest murders had made the front page, and the story was the headline, but the tone of the piece was low-key and just reported the facts as they were known. Two women murdered, presumably within hours of each other and less than a mile apart. Assailant unknown. The Sheriff's Department was investigating, and if anyone had anything to report, they could call the department, number provided.

Inside the newspaper, on the editorial page, a far more worried voice wondered if there should be a curfew, more deputies patrolling, and more "openness" from the sheriff. The intimation was that he was keeping to himself details of the crimes, and that those details, if known, might enable the good citizens of Ryan's Bluff to better protect themselves. Perhaps they should not have elected someone with a bare dozen years of police experience, no matter who his father had been…

"Ouch," Cassie murmured, wondering if Sheriff Dun-bar's methodical police work was going to prove a political liability to him in the near future.

She knew from her own research that Dunbar had gained his police experience in Atlanta, rising to detective shortly before he had returned home to Ryan's Bluff when his father had announced his retirement as sheriff.

An unkind soul might indeed have said that Matt Dunbar had won the election on his name alone, but that would have been untrue. He was qualified for his job, that was certain. And he had fairly good political instincts, though word had it he had run afoul of the town council at least once since taking office.

In any case, there was probably no one better qualified for the job of sheriff in the county, certainly not better qualified to investigate a series of murders, so the stinging editorial held a note of spite rather than reason.

Or a note of panic.

A few pages later there were articles about both Ivy Jameson and Jill Kirkwood, human-interest pieces about the lives of the two women. Ivy's history and good works were stiffly presented with an air of pious resolution, while Jill's life story was told with warmth and genuine regret.

Two women, one widely despised and the other highly regarded. And one young girl who had, by all accounts, never harmed a soul. All horribly murdered in the same small town within days of one another.

Cassie thought the newspaper had done a fine job in getting so much information in print in a Monday edition when the two latest murders had taken place the day before, but she didn't doubt that upcoming editions would sound much less detached. The days ahead promised to be rough.

She laid the paper aside and sipped her coffee thoughtfully, vaguely aware of the people moving about in the drugstore – she didn't dare call it a pharmacy, since no one else did – shopping or just visiting with each other. This was a central gathering spot for downtown, a fact Cassie had discovered early on.

But there were few people in the soda fountain side of the store, so Cassie instantly sensed when someone paused beside her booth. She looked up to see a stunning redhead, too model-gorgeous to belong in this small town.

In a rather roundabout way Cassie recognized her.

"Miss Neill? My name is Abby. Abby Montgomery. I knew your aunt. May I talk to you?"

Green panties. Cassie pushed the knowledge away, reflecting, not for the first time, that psychic abilities could provide certain facts that were nothing but embarrassing.

She gestured toward the other side of the booth. "Please, have a seat. And I'm Cassie."

"Thanks." Abby sat down with her own coffee. She was smiling, but though her gaze was direct, her green eyes were enigmatic.

Without even trying, Cassie knew that here was another mind she would find it impossible to tap into, and that certainty made her feel much more sociable than was usual for her.

It was nice not to have to worry overmuch about keeping her own guard up.

"So you knew Aunt Alex."

"Yes. We met by chance a few months before she died. At least – I thought it was by chance."

"It wasn't?"

Abby hesitated, then let out a little laugh. "Looking back, I think she wanted to meet me. She had something she wanted to tell me."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My destiny."

"I see." Cassie didn't ask what the prediction had been. Instead, she said, "I was told Aunt Alex had the gift of prophecy."

"You were told?"

Cassie had little doubt that Matt Dunbar had discussed her abilities with his lover; he was a very open man in virtually every way, and his nature would be to confide in the woman he loved. So she was certain that Abby knew she was – or claimed to be – psychic. She suspected that this meeting was in the nature of a test. Or a confirmation.

Cassie said, "I was only a little girl when my mother and Aunt Alex quarreled, and I never saw or heard from her again. Until I got word of her death and learned I'd inherited her property here. So all I really know about her are the few things I overheard as a child."

"Then you don't know if she was always right?"

Abby's voice was as calm as Cassie's had been, but there was something in the tension of her posture and the white-knuckled grip on her coffee cup that betrayed strong emotion.

Careful now, Cassie said, "No psychic is always a hundred percent right. The things we see are often subjective, sometimes symbolic images that we filter through our own knowledge and experiences. If anything, we're translators, attempting to decipher a language we only partly understand."

Abby smiled wryly. "So the answer is no."

"No, I don't know if Aunt Alex was always right – but I doubt very much if she was."

"She said… she told me there was a difference between a prediction and a prophecy. Is that right?"

"Precognition isn't really my bailiwick, but my mother always said they were different. That a prediction is a fluid thing, a vision of an event that might sometimes be influenced by people and their choices, so that the outcome couldn't be clearly seen. A prophecy, she said, is far more concrete. It's a true vision of the future, impossible to alter unless someone with certain knowledge interfered."

"Certain knowledge?"

Cassie nodded. "Suppose a psychic had a prophetic vision of a newspaper headline that stated a hundred people died in a hotel fire. She knows she won't be believed if she tries to warn them, so she does the only thing she can. Goes to the hotel and sets off a fire alarm before the actual fire is discovered. The people get out. But the hotel burns just the same. The headline she saw will never exist. But the event that generated it will happen."

Abby was listening so intently that she was actually leaning forward over the table. "Then a prophecy can be changed, but only partly."

"That's what I've been told. The problem for the psychic is knowing whether her interference will alter the prophecy – or bring it about just as she saw it."

"How can she know that?"

"According to some, she can't. I'd lean that way myself. Interpreting what you see is difficult enough. Trying to figure out if your own warning or interference is the catalyst that will bring about the very outcome you're trying to avoid… I just don't see how it's possible to do anything but guess. And if the stakes are high enough, a wrong guess could have a very costly price tag."

"Yes." Abby dropped her gaze to her coffee. "Yes, I see that."

Cassie hesitated, then said, "If you don't mind my asking, what did Aunt Alex tell you? A prediction of your destiny? Or a prophecy?"

Abby drew a breath and met Cassie's gaze, a little smile wavering on her lips. "A prophecy. She said – she told me I would die at the hands of a madman."