Too Familiar (Fear Familiar Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

Very gently, he gathered her into his arms. He knew she wasn’t fully aware of him, of the fact that a stranger was in her house. So he waited until the sobs began to subside. When he thought she could understand him, he told her he was president of Good Stuff Cereals and why he was in her home. He reminded her of all the letters he’d sent. He talked on and on until she drew several ragged breaths, and he knew she was over the worst of it.

  When he quit talking, she indicated her desire to get up. She didn’t look at Adam and she didn’t ask any questions. She walked to the kitchen window and looked out, but her eyes didn’t register any of the familiar sights.

  “I was with him,” she said softly. “I was with him.” The tears started without warning. They drifted down her cheeks unnoticed as she continued to stare into the unseen meadow.

  Adam closed the distance between them and put his arms around her. Very gently, he turned her away from the window and into his chest. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Whatever happened, it’s okay.”

  The emotions he felt were strange and overwhelming. That he was holding a woman whose mental balance was precarious, at best, didn’t matter. He felt only a strong desire to give comfort to someone who seemed so much in need of a friend.

  “My hands,” Cassandra said softly. “My hands were on her throat.”

  He felt her fists curl against his chest and he pulled her tighter. “You’re safe. Whatever happened, you’re safe now.” He led her back to the sofa and sat down with her.

  “Why?” she asked again and again. “Why now? Why me? Why?”

  Adam had no answers for her. He didn’t even know what the questions meant. He only knew that somehow he was involved. Good Stuff Cereals was still very much on his mind, but it had taken a back seat to whatever problem faced Cassandra McBeth.

  The black cat jumped up on the sofa as if he were used to such privileges. He went to Cassandra and rubbed his face against her hand.

  At last, she drew a shuddering breath and reached out to stroke the cat. “It was only a dream, Familiar,” she said softly. “Just a bad dream.”

  “Cassandra, you have to try and sleep,” Adam said. She looked as if she was on the verge of collapse.

  “I’m afraid. The dreams.”

  “I’ll stay here with you. If you begin to move around, like you’re dreaming, I’ll wake you.” Adam took her hand and held it. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but you can.”

  She turned exhausted blue eyes to Adam. “I haven’t slept in three days,” she said. Her lids were so heavy, she couldn’t help herself. She knew she shouldn’t put herself in such a vulnerable position, but his voice was so soothing, his touch so reassuring. And she was incredibly tired.

  “Sleep, Cassandra,” Adam said softly. “Sleep.”

  Her lids closed, then opened as if she were fighting. When they closed the second time, she was asleep.

  Adam held her for a long while. She slept soundly and peacefully. As he held her, he studied the delicate features of her face. The high cheekbones accented the pointed chin.

  She had an elfin, magical look with her big eyes. But there was a stubborn tenacity in her jaw that promised that despite her current disability, Cassandra McBeth was her own woman.

  In contrast to what he’d told his employees, convincing Cassandra McBeth was not going to be a piece of cake. He looked at the face of the sleeping woman he held and knew instinctively that nothing about her was easy.

  Well, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was a man who liked a challenge. Cassandra McBeth would be a big one.

  * * *

  Well, good grief, I practically had to knock Lancelot off the sofa to get any assistance from him, and now he’s back on the sofa, sitting like a stuffed toad. Left to his own devices, he would have let Miss Locks go into a convulsion before our very eyes! And I thought Dr. Doolittle was not as bright as the average cat. This guy makes the doc look like a brain surgeon! Oh, well, we cats learn to work with what we’re given in the way of human helpers. If Lancelot is going to assist us, and the look on his face tells me I couldn’t drive him away with a black bear attack, then I’d better figure up a way to make him useful.

  I don’t know what’s happening with Miss Locks, but she’s deep into something bad. She needs my help, and I’m here to give it.

  If Lancelot will just push over a bit, I can click on the television. It’s time for the news, and there’s a chance I can learn something about Eleanor.

  Let’s see, the remote was around here somewhere. Under the sofa pillow. Well, a flick of my paw, and it’s on the floor. Now a little stand on the button and voila! News!

  * * *

  Adam jumped when the television sprang into life. Tired from the long drive and hike, and lulled by the feel of Cassandra sleeping in his arms, he’d drifted into a light doze. He was unprepared for any noise except the chirping of the birds outside the window and Cassandra’s light and peaceful breathing.

  He saw the cat standing on the remote control and almost reached for the device. Such a move would disturb Cassandra, though, so he resisted. In a state of uncharacteristic passivity, he sat still and watched the five o’clock national news.

  Turmoil in Russia; destruction in Bangladesh; educational system in crisis; tax revolt. He watched that segment with more interest. Protesters in Washington were holding their 1040 tax forms and burning them. They were refusing to pay their taxes.

  “Boston Tea Party,” he said softly with a grin. The American people were an amazing lot. They had a strict standard of fairness, and once it was breached, then revolution was a distinct possibility. “Congress beware,” he added under his breath.

  He tuned out the news as Cassandra stirred groggily.

  “No new evidence in the bombing of several Washington, D.C. activists. Although the home of Dr. and Mrs. Peter Curry was destroyed, there has been no trace of their bodies, or of the man who was allegedly staying with them, Kirk Ranager, a well-known activist who has engineered numerous raids to release political prisoners in foreign countries.”

  Adam was vaguely listening to the news when his attention was drawn to the cat. The arrogant feline stood at attention, every hair on his body raised. A low growl came from the cat’s throat as he stared intently at the television. It was one of the more amazing things Adam had ever seen.

  The television newscast shifted from national to local focus, and Adam gave it a closer listen. He knew little about Gatlinburg, except that it was a summer town for tourists and that it was in the Smoky Mountains. Someone in his office had mentioned that there was a Cherokee Indian reservation nearby in North Carolina.

  The scene on the tube showed men with dogs traversing a rocky segment of mountainside. Adam watched with mild interest. The camera swung up to a young female reporter who stood, hair whipping in the wind, at the top of the cliff.

  “Authorities have increased the search for Carla Winchester, a twenty-two-year-old, Clemson University graduate student who came to Gatlinburg last week to take a job as a waitress at Whitley Resort. Ms. Winchester has been missing for two days and her family has offered a reward for any information regarding her whereabouts.”

  The camera shifted from the reporter to pick up a shot of a blue compact car parked in a scenic overlook.

  “Ms. Winchester’s car was found today near this overlook. Authorities have begun a ground search of the immediate area.”

  The scene changed again to reveal a head shot of a young woman.

  “She is a brunette with blue eyes, five foot five, a hundred and twenty pounds, and was last seen at the Kettle Inn. If you see this woman, contact the local authorities. That’s all the details here, Ted, back to you.”

  Adam felt Cassandra stiffen and he loosened his hold.

  “That’s her. The woman from my dream. She’s dead. Or she will be soon.”

  Cassandra’s voice was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that Adam continued stroking her hair.

  “The police found her car up near
the lookout point on a road called High Ridge, I think.” He forced his voice to be as calm as hers.

  Shifting her legs to the floor, Cassandra sat up. As she felt the full blast of the headache, she put her hands to her temples.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, but there’s nothing either of us can do about it now,” she said. “I know you’re Adam Raleigh, and I know your cereal company. What are you doing in my home?”

  “I came to speak with you and sort of stumbled in on the middle of....”

  “My most recent seizure, dream, nightmare, take your pick of words. I should have gone to the sheriff earlier. This—” she waved one hand at the television but didn’t look up “—is all my fault.”

  “The pending revolt in Russia or the local missing person?” Adam had a smile ready for her when she cast him a sour look.

  “I suspect I know what you want. The answer is no, so think about getting out of my home.” She started to stand, but the throb in her head sent her back to a sitting position.

  “Your cat can turn the television on.”

  “He isn’t my cat.”

  “Who does he belong to, then? You aren’t exactly overwhelmed with neighbors.”

  “He doesn’t belong to anyone. See if you can get this straight. I’m a witch and he’s a familiar. See, he’s a free agent. He hangs out here when there’s something on the tube he wants to watch. Now get out of here before I entertain him by turning you into a toad.”

  “I thought that only worked on princes.”

  As miserable as she felt, Cassandra had to fight to keep the smile from her face. Adam Raleigh was an audacious man. He wasn’t freaked out by her, and he’d seen her at one of her very worst moments. “I’m sure there’s something else sinister I can do to you, but before I give it some thought tell me what you saw here today.” It occurred to Cassandra that she might glean some valuable information from the stranger. Maybe she’d said or done something that would help her understand what was happening. “Start from the very beginning.”

  “Okay, I was outside and heard you scream. When I ran in, I found you thrashing about on the sofa, having a nightmare.”

  “What did I say?”

  “‘No,’ and you struggled, as if you were fighting someone.”

  “That’s it?” She felt deflated. That much she could remember herself.

  “Sorry. You were deep in the dream. So deep, I almost couldn’t wake you. If it hadn’t been for that cat attacking me—” He broke off and gave Familiar a curious look. The black cat was sitting at the end of the sofa cleaning his back leg.

  “Yes, he is rather unusual,” Cassandra said. “And so are you. Since you’ve come all this way, I’ll listen to what you have to say. By the way, I received all of the material you sent, and I did read it. But I’m not going to have anything to do with your product. Now tell me why you’re here and then leave.”

  “I’m president and owner of Good Stuff Cereals; I want you to be our spokesperson.”

  “No, and I don’t want to. I don’t believe in processed foods. Cereals are ruining the health of children. Sugar. Preservatives. Salt. Nasty, sticky candy that floats in tepid milk and rots children’s teeth. Ick!”

  “Good Stuff isn’t like that. In fact, it’s marketed for adults, not children. It’s totally nutritious and completely healthy and all natural.”

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Raleigh, but I’m not interested.”

  “I came all the way here from Michigan to ask you to represent my company.”

  Cassandra stood at last. The movement made her a little dizzy, but it soon passed. “Have you read any of my books?”

  “Every single one—the natural way to eat and live.”

  “Your product is the antithesis of what I believe in.”

  “I knew you’d say that, but it isn’t true. If you’ll give me ten minutes of your time, I can prove that my cereal is as healthy as anything you could pick from the woods around us.”

  “If I could help you, Mr. Raleigh, I would. I’m in your debt for helping me. But what you’re asking is impossible. I’m sorry you came all this distance for no better result.”

  “I’m not going to leave unless you agree to at least try my cereal.”

  “No thanks.”

  Adam settled back into the sofa. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. My car broke down on the way up your drive.”

  “It’s a long walk to the highway, but it won’t kill you.”

  “What do you know about the woman who disappeared?”

  Adam’s last question was a showstopper. Cassandra turned away from him and went to the stove. She put the kettle on for a cup of hawthorn tea. She felt nervous, itchy, as if her skin were suddenly too tight.

  When she had the kettle on, she turned back to face him across the open room. “It’s getting late, Mr. Raleigh. I’ll drive you down the mountain to town. I need to go and see the sheriff anyway.”

  Adam nodded. He hadn’t meant to make her blanch so. He’d only wanted to throw her off stride for a moment. His words had upset her far more than he’d intended. Maybe it would be wiser for him to take a room in town and try a softer approach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was brutal of me to press you that way.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. There was a sincere concern in the man’s face, and she suddenly remembered his hands stroking her hair, the way he’d held her with such compassion and strength. “Let’s have a cup of tea before we go,” she said. “I’m sorry, too. I can’t endorse your product, but there’s no sense in being rude about it.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice the blackberry leaves you’ve dried. I’d be delighted to have a cup of that tea. I’ve read about it in your books, but never tried it.”

  Cassandra’s lips tilted in the slightest suggestion of a smile. “My pleasure,” she said.

  “I really have read all your books. I’m a fan of yours,” Adam said as he stood up and joined her in the kitchen.

  “Give it up, Mr. Raleigh,” she said.

  “Okay,” he agreed easily, “if you’ll tell me about your nightmare. I know enough to figure out that you were dreaming about the missing woman, Carla Winchester. Whatever you dreamed has deeply upset you.”

  “Carla Winchester,” Cassandra said the words and felt her hands begin to tremble. It was always this way after a dream. There would be a few moments of calm, then the shakes and a headache. The dreams were becoming more and more frequent.

  “Hey,” Adam caught the cup before it slipped from her limp hand. “Sit down and I’ll make the tea.” He guided her toward a kitchen chair.

  Cassandra allowed him to seat her. As he set up two cups and prepared the tea, she watched him. He was a tall man, well muscled but not heavy. He moved with a grace and agility that she enjoyed. His chestnut hair was neatly cut, his brown eyes intelligent with a hint of concern for her. Well controlled concern. He probably thought she was an escapee from a mental institution and he was trying hard not to provoke her. She smiled at the thought.

  “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.

  “I
t 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.

  3

  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 tell me. 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.”