Too Familiar (Fear Familiar Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

  “He didn’t come home last night,” Running Stream answered. “I had hoped he might be here, watching you.”

  “I haven’t seen him.” Cassandra felt a swift flurry of concern. Bounder had lately taken up with some rough companions. She censored that disturbing thought and found one more acceptable. “Maybe he’s camping. Spring is coming and he loves the woods.”

  Running Stream shook her head. “He wouldn’t take the clothes that are missing on a camping trip. Dress clothes.”

  “A date?” Cassandra wanted to think of all the best possibilities.

  “Probably not. He would have left a note, even if he thought I would disapprove.” Running Stream’s smile held a sad twist. “He’s a man, and I’ve accepted that fact. His ways are different from the way I was raised. Staying out all night with young women, traveling together for weekends—these are things we don’t agree on, but we talk about them. If it was a woman, he would’ve told me.”

  Cassandra went to her friend. Together they stood by the kitchen window, looking out at the greening meadow and trees. They were both worried, both thinking the same thing.

  “Are Billy and Stalker at the reservation?” It was the one question she didn’t want to ask, but it was the most important. The two young Indian men had become Bounder’s constant companions. They were slightly older and a lot more unsettled. In fact, they burned with a dangerous anger and frustration.

  “I can’t find them.” Running Stream took a deep breath. “I’m worried that they’ll do something ill considered. They talk so foolishly.”

  Cassandra knew what black thoughts Running Stream spoke about. She’d heard some of the talk Bounder’s new friends had been spouting—talk of running the white people from the mountains, of frightening the tourists so that the resort town of Gatlinburg would dry up and blow away. They wanted to reclaim the old hunting grounds of the Cherokee. It was the desperate talk of young men tired of a system that offered them no opportunities. Cassandra sympathized with their emotions, but she’d never encouraged their wild talk of destruction. Now she was frightened for the young man she’d grown to love like a brother.

  Bounder was not a violent man. Not in the least. But he was under the influence of Billy Buckeye Tanner and Stalker McKinney, two hotheaded men who were determined to change their world, even to the extent of destroying it.

  “Where would they go?” Cassandra asked, careful to keep the worry from her voice.

  “I’ve checked all the places I know,” Running Stream said. She turned to Cassandra. Her eyes were hard and bright, a mark of her strength. “There’s something I must show you.”

  “What?” By the tone of her friend’s voice, Cassandra knew Running Stream was deeply troubled. She watched as the Indian woman drew an object from the pocket of her skirt.

  Metal shimmered as dangling crystals caught the light.

  “Carla’s earring,” Cassandra said with an intake of breath.

  “I suspected as much,” Running Stream said. Her eyes brightened with tears as she continued. “I found it in Bounder’s pocket.”

  Cassandra grasped the top of a cane-bottomed chair for support. “You couldn’t have. I gave the earring we found to Sheriff Beaker. Bounder and Adam found one earring in the yard and I gave it to Beaker.” She repeated herself, denying what the appearance of the earring might mean.

  “Then this is the second earring,” Running Stream said. She was never one to walk away from the truth, even when it meant grave danger for her or those she loved. “We need an explanation.”

  “My God,” Cassandra whispered. “Do you think Bounder found out something about the murderer?”

  Running Stream had composed herself. “I have thought that, yes.”

  “Then he could be in grave danger.”

  “One way or the other,” Running Stream said. “If his companions have broken the law, then he is an accomplice. If he has discovered their actions, illegal actions, then he might be in danger of harm from them.”

  “Billy and Stalker....” Cassandra left the thought unfinished. The two were angry enough to do almost anything. Almost. But surely not to come up with a plan that involved killing innocent young women.

  Surely not that.

  Cassandra thought back to the most recent conversation she’d had with the three young men. Bounder had remained quiet, watching Billy and Stalker argue with her. An attempt to get support for research into the history of the Cherokee people had gained only a small following outside the younger members of the tribe.

  Billy and Stalker were resentful, and angrier than usual, and they blamed the local merchants and tourists. She could clearly hear Billy’s words. “They like the reservation nearby. Indians with their feathers and dances are colorful, great tourist attractions. But no one wants to know the truth, to learn about what the Cherokee nation once was. We should scalp a few of the tourists. Give them a real lesson in history,” he’d said.

  “Yeah,” Stalker had agreed. “The only way for an Indian to earn any respect around here is to make people afraid.”

  Cassandra understood the deep source of their anger and had done what she could to try to ease some of the bitter pain. The economic and social problems facing the young Indian men were tough, and she didn’t have any panacea. Not even a comforting answer. Running Stream and she had encouraged Bounder to leave Cherokee, North Carolina, and go to college—a solution he’d steadfastly refused. He wasn’t leaving his heritage. He wasn’t leaving his friends. Not even if Cassandra helped him. Not even if his mother begged him.

  Cassandra sighed. The day-to-day reality of Bounder’s future was hard enough, now it was doubly complicated by the beautiful earring she held in her hand. What had the young man gotten himself into?

  “What do you think we should do?” she asked Running Stream.

  “I don’t know.” She stared out the window. “I’m afraid whatever I do will be wrong.”

  “And if we do nothing, more young women will die.”

  “In your dreams, this man that you hear, how does he talk?”

  “He’s charming. Very quick. I think he’s very good- looking. The women all look at him as if he were. You know, they’re attracted to him.”

  Billy was a handsome man. Almost as handsome as Bounder. Cassandra felt herself begin to tremble.

  “Could he be Indian?” Running Stream asked. Cassandra swallowed, but her throat was dry. She’d never given it a thought, actually. She’d assumed...like everyone else. She’d never considered that an Indian man might be involved. She thought back over the sequences of her dreams.

  “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “The killer has strong hands. They’re tan. I remember them on the steering wheel, but it was more the feel of them than the look.”

  “Billy is a very handsome man. He’s well educated, very successful with the ladies, so I’ve been told. And his father was a white man. Like Bounder’s.”

  “Yes. Billy is a very handsome man.” Cassandra nodded. She’d never discussed Bounder’s father with Running Stream. She knew only that he was the reason Running Stream moved off the reservation and closer to Gatlinburg. Recently Bounder had defiantly returned to the reservation. Bounder’s white heritage could be found in his face, even though he, like Billy, hated his father’s culture. In her heart, Cassandra had suspected it was a large contributing factor to the discontent she saw in the young men. It only added to their feelings of being cast away and cheated.

  “My son is very handsome, too.” Running Stream spoke slowly. “Women find him irresistible.”

  “Bounder wouldn’t hurt anything.” Cassandra didn’t raise her voice. She knew she could have more impact on her friend by remaining completely calm. “We both know that.” The look on Running Stream’s face tore at her heart. She saw a mother’s love warring with a need for truth. Running Stream had more courage than anyone she’d ever known.

  “I can’t believe that he would,” Running Stream answered. “But—” she
held out the earring “—this tells me otherwise. I believe your dream, Cassandra. I believe this is the earring of a dead woman. And I want to know what my son was doing with it in his possession.”

  “That’s something we both need to find out,” Cassandra agreed.

  * * *

  Adam leaned against the white oak tree. To a casual observer, he looked as if he were taking a break on a beautiful early spring afternoon. The beauty of the small town shimmered in the afternoon light. Only a careful observer would have seen the surreptitious glances he threw at the back door of city hall.

  Sheriff Beaker, Police Chief Charles Haggin, and another man Adam didn’t know had all disappeared into the office. Adam wanted a word alone with Beaker. He was ready to punch out the lawman’s lights for the harebrained scheme of putting Cassandra on television. If he couldn’t stop Cassandra from doing it, then he wanted to make sure that Beaker was good for his promise of protection.

  His wait was rewarded when Beaker and the unknown man came out of the door. As soon as they crossed the street, Adam followed. He couldn’t help but notice that the second man was well built. He was in his mid to late thirties, Adam guessed, but he could easily be taken for ten years younger at first glance.

  He walked with a spring in his step that embodied fitness. Beaker was fit, also, but he lacked the buoyancy of his companion.

  Adam had hoped for a private moment with the sheriff, but as he followed, he could see the two men were headed for a local coffee shop. He closed the distance between them, intending to stop Beaker. It might work to his advantage to have a witness to what he intended to say.

  “What about that muscle man the mountain witch mentioned?” the stranger asked.

  Adam instinctively dropped back, waiting to hear more. The mention of Cassandra, especially in such a derogatory reference, made him want to hear as much as possible.

  “No leads yet. We don’t even have enough information to make a case for deliberate homicide. My personal belief is that some drunk hit her on the side of the road. Anyway, we’re going to stake out Ms. Welford’s funeral this afternoon.” Beaker checked his watch. “In an hour or two.”

  “The boyfriend didn’t even come by to ask if you’d found any leads?” The other man shook his head. “Some boyfriend.”

  “No, Ken, he didn’t. If he was her boyfriend, he wasn’t the kind who stays around in times of trouble.”

  Beaker’s humor produced a short laugh from his companion. “That’s too bad. I liked Sarah. I’d known her for a couple of years from Crockett’s. Her family was from north of here, pretty far out in the woods. Getting to Gatlinburg was an accomplishment for her, and she had plans to go farther. Did her family show?”

  “Yeah. They’re tom up, as you might imagine. They’re also riding me pretty hard to find the driver who killed her. Since it was probably an accident, it could take a while. Crimes without a motive are always the hardest to solve.” Beaker rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Like this maniac killer we have.”

  “You’ve got plenty on your plate. At least it’s been quiet for a few days. Tell me the truth, has Cassandra McBeth been able to spook up any idea who the killer might be? Any good dreams or visions?” he laughed.

  “Don’t even say it,” Beaker said. “You’ll bring the creep out of the woodwork again, and I’m hoping he’s moved on. Cassandra’s dreams are interesting, especially in their accuracy, but she hasn’t named any names. Do me a favor and don’t go around spouting off about Ms. McBeth. Her male friend chewed on me about unprofessionalism.”

  Adam sauntered behind the men, his ears straining. Beaker was terribly free with details about his investigation. It seemed a bad habit with the man.

  “Haggin says the crimes are out of his jurisdiction, but if you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m sure that with my influence, the city could declare some type of emergency and loan you some policemen and cars.”

  “Thanks.” Beaker rubbed his chin again. “We’re exploring every lead we find. My men and I believe the crimes are committed somewhere else, then the bodies are brought to different ravines and dumped. Hell, it’s over now. I’m hoping the guy’s moved on, and we’re left with two unsolved murders.”

  “That’s not the best solution,” the other man agreed, “but I like that better than a continuation of the murders. You aren’t holding out on some evidence, are you?” Beaker slowed his pace. “Not at all, Mayor. We’re considering the possibility of putting Ms. McBeth on Martin West’s show. There’s a chance, if the murderer’s still around, we can draw him out.”

  “Using Cassandra McBeth as bait?” The mayor considered the possibility as he spoke. “This could end up looking bad for the city. I mean murderers and psychics. We don’t want to look ridiculous.”

  “But we do want to catch the killer.”

  “Just don’t go overboard. You know West likes to exaggerate everything. He could make us all look like a bunch of hillbillies.”

  “Ken, if we don’t catch this guy, then the next murder will bring the national media in here. Serial killers are big television.”

  “How much does Ms. McBeth actually know?” The mayor stopped and shifted his weight from foot to foot. A sheen of perspiration touched his upper lip.

  Beaker shrugged. “Who knows for sure?”

  “Do you really believe she knows anything?” The mayor wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. The afternoon was not hot, but he was uncomfortable.

  “I don’t buy into this mumbo jumbo crap. She’s an eccentric. But she doesn’t have to convince me, only the killer.”

  “Well, let me know if the city can be of any assistance.” The mayor looked up and down the street with some anxiety. “I’d better be getting back to the office.”

  Adam ducked behind a trashcan. So that was Mayor Ken Simpson. Adam didn’t particularly care for the way Simpson had referred to Cassandra as the mountain witch. Neither man had much concern for her welfare either. They were both too caught up in protecting their own little niches.

  The mayor and sheriff parted ways. Beaker headed for the small cafe where coffee and fresh hot doughnuts were a specialty. Adam followed close behind. He waited for the exact moment to speak.

  “Sheriff, if Cassandra does this Martin West show, how many deputies will you put on her for protection?” Adam’s question stopped the lawman in the door of the cafe.

  Beaker turned, one hand still on the doorknob. “Enough to take care of the job. We have no intention of setting Ms. McBeth up as a sitting duck.”

  “No? How about a cooked goose?” Adam felt his temper begin a slow bum. Beaker was so damned superior. “I think this is a serious mistake. If anything happens—”

  “Can the melodrama,” Beaker interrupted. “Ms. McBeth knows the dangers. She agreed to do this because she wants to help. My suggestion to you is that you either stay out of the way or, in general, make yourself scarce.”

  “I’m not some local you can intimidate,” Adam said. Beaker’s attitude was infuriating. It was almost as if the man wanted to put Cassandra in the worst position possible.

  “That’s right, Mr. Raleigh. You aren’t a local. As far as I’m concerned, you’re becoming a troublemaker. If it becomes necessary, I can have you locked up tight.” He took a step closer. “I want this case solved. It isn’t my intention to endanger anyone, especially not Cassandra McBeth. But you forget, she came to me and volunteered information. Now I’m just going to use it in the way I deem most beneficial to my investigation.”

  Adam held his ground. “You’d better make certain the protection you give her is adequate.”

  “I don’t take too kindly to threats.”

  “I don’t give them lightly. And while you’re at it, it might be nice if you asked the mayor not to refer to Cassandra as the mountain witch.”

  Beaker smiled. “Ken Simpson and Cassandra went to school together. He knows her family history as well as I do. We both remember when her father fell in
the apple orchard. Some folks said it wasn’t an accident.” Beaker let the implication hang.

  “I guess the law enforcement was about as good then as it is now.” Adam smiled as he saw Beaker’s face grow red. “If foul play was suspected, someone should have done something then. Besides, Cassandra isn’t responsible for the past.”

  “You’d better stay clear of me and my work,” Beaker said carefully. He opened the door of the cafe and stepped inside, slamming it behind him.

  Adam checked his watch. He had one last idea. Sarah Welford’s funeral. He would have liked to go back for Cassandra, but there wasn’t time. Besides, she was too well- known. He hurried to a drugstore where he could find a telephone directory and a list of funeral homes. He had only half an hour to find what he needed before the funeral was set to begin.

  * * *

  Sitting on the back pew, Adam scanned the crowd. He saw no one who even remotely came up to the physical description of the man called Ray. There were weeping relatives, and some of the waitresses from Crockett’s that he remembered. No bodybuilders though. He was about to give up the hunt when a slender woman entered. She wore a black veil and took a seat on the pew opposite him. Adam could hear her sniffling as she sat down.

  His heart rate increased as he scrutinized the woman. He’d come looking for Ray, but he might have found the mysterious Ellen. He couldn’t be certain about her hair. It was done up in a bun and covered with the hat and veil. It was dark, though. And there was something about her, a sadness that went beyond loss of a casual friendship.

  Throughout the service, Adam kept his attention on the young woman. As soon as it was over, she stood up and stepped toward the door. He made it a point to be right behind her.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  She turned, her eyes hidden by the veil. She couldn’t disguise the intake of breath.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  “Ellen?” he asked.