Too Familiar (Fear Familiar Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

  “That’s the way it should be,” he agreed. “See, I knew who you were long before this. I’d heard stories about you and your abilities. After you went to Beaker and said you could identify the killer, Ken Simpson told me your name. He said you lived up here alone. I was going to pay you a little visit the day I cut your phone lines, but Adam Raleigh showed up.”

  “It’s been you, all along. The earrings dropped in the yard, the scarecrow at Adam’s car, the barricade. Why?”

  “It dawned on me—I could get the networks interested in me again with the right show. A serial killer on the loose. A psychic who claims she can identify the killer. She appears on television. Everyone knows she’s after the killer, then she dies, just like the others. It’s perfect.”

  Cassandra felt the fear rise up in a huge wave, and she held firm against it. Now wasn’t the time to lose her grip. So far, she’d managed to distract and confuse him. JoAnn was edging away. If there was a chance, she might be able to make a break for it.

  As if he read her mind, Martin lunged to the right, grabbed JoAnn, and slammed her into the huge rock. She went down in a heap. “She was going to escape,” he said.

  He turned to Cassandra. “Now it’s like it should be. Just me and you.”

  Cassandra took a step backward. She was near the edge of the cliff, the same place where her father had fallen to his death. Her left foot felt solid ground behind her as she took another tentative step away from the advancing Martin. Even in the moonlight, she could see the insanity in his eyes. He was loving every minute. He drew power from her fear, and she had to stop it.

  A movement on the top of the rocks caught her eye. It was a small shadow moving toward her. Black on black shadow. Familiar! She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life. And the cat was hunkered down as if he were stalking Martin.

  “You’d better kill me if you’re going to,” Cassandra dared him. “Adam will be here—”

  “I told you he’s dead!” Martin gritted through his teeth. He took a lunge forward and grabbed Cassandra by the shoulders. His hands slid up her throat, and with a rough strength, he pushed her around so that she faced the night sky.

  “Isn’t it beautiful!” he insisted.

  Cassandra resisted the urge to struggle. He was six times stronger than she was. If she fought him, he’d kill her instantly. She had to bide her time. Would Familiar actually attack him? She could only pray the cat had really been watching Lassie on television.

  “You’re supposed to tell me how beautiful my skin and hair are,” Cassandra prompted him. “And don’t forget to cut a snip for a souvenir.”

  His hands tightened on her throat. “You’re always making fun of me. But not much longer, Ms. McBeth. You are lovely. Such beautiful skin. Such gorgeous hair.” He fingered a curl. “The finest of all my collection.”

  Cassandra felt the cold dread that she’d held at bay sink into her heart. She’d believed someone would come. Adam. Running Stream. Someone. She’d believed she would be able to outsmart Martin. But time was running out for her. His fingers tightened convulsively on her throat, and she felt her own pulse beat hard and strong. An image of Adam came to her, standing bare-chested on her porch. A wave of tears threatened, and she fought them back.

  “Adam....”

  “He’s dead!” Martin screamed, and his fingers dug into her throat.

  “No, I’m not dead.”

  The voice came from the darkness above Martin. At the same time, a small black shape hurled itself through the air and landed on Martin West’s head. Dangerous claws dug into the man face and eyes.

  With a cry of anguish, West released Cassandra and tried to beat the black cat from his head. Familiar dug in with all four paws, riding Martin West like a rodeo rider on a bronc.

  Out of the darkness, a larger shape rushed in. With the impact of a linebacker, Adam struck West in the midriff, pushing him back against the outcropping of rock.

  Familiar flung himself clear as West’s head flew back and connected with the rock. There was the sound of skull striking rock, and Martin slid bonelessly to the ground.

  “Cassandra!” Adam’s strong arms caught her as her legs started to give. She tottered on the edge of the mountain until he drew her back to safety.

  “I was about to give up on you,” she said, her heart pounding.

  “You were never in any real danger, not with Familiar out here protecting you,” he answered. Then he crushed her to him with enough strength to fuse them together. The emotions he felt were too intense for mere words.

  “Meow,” Familiar demanded.

  With a cry, Cassandra gathered him in her arms as Adam held her. “Don’t ever let us go,” Cassandra whispered. “Promise me! You won’t ever let us go.”

  “I promise, with all of my heart,” Adam answered, kissing her forehead and her hair and her cheek. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Far in the distance, there was the sound of a siren. “They’ll never get up here,” Cassandra said. She felt as if she were floating. Adam’s arms were the only thing that kept her from ascending far above the orchard and the tragedy of Martin West.

  “Running Stream will show them the way,” Adam reassured her. “But let’s leave things nice and neat.” He took the coil of rope from around his chest and began the work of tying Martin up. Cassandra knelt down beside JoAnn. The woman was unconscious, but she’d soon be waking up. There was a large goose egg on the back of her head, but she was very much alive.

  * * *

  “SO WHAT’S ALL THE WHISPERING about? Every time I come in a room, the talking stops. Even Bounder is whispering, and he knows better. Maybe I have something terminal, and no one wants to tell me. That’s humans for you. I save their butts, and now they whisper behind my back. And lately, the food has been less than satisfactory. Ever since Martin West has been rounded up, Miss Locks and Lancelot have been so busy petting each other’s wounds, I’ve been neglected. Except my feline instincts tell me that it’s more than simple neglect.

  Maybe I’m just too sensitive a guy. I mean, Adam has Cassandra. And she has him. Running Stream got Bounder. JoAnn got back with her family. Ray got a chance to turn state’s evidence. Ken Simpson got a new black and white jail suit, and even Martin West got a date with a hanging judge and jury. What have I got? Only the memory of one sassy little Clotilde.

  Uh-oh, they’re calling my name. And there’s this odd sound to Miss Lock’s voice. I mean, she sounds happy, but it also sounds as if she’s about to cry. Yep, she’s one phenomenal creature all right. I heard Adam say just an hour ago that he could run his business from the top of this mountain. He said something about how Running Stream taught him what it meant to be strong.

  Good grief. Here comes Billy and Stalker. Those are two lucky dudes. Beaker never knew anything about the grand bomb plot, and no one around here is talking. Maybe they’ll take Adam up on his offer to help them get into a good college.

  What is going on around here? There’s a car in the front yard. More company? They’re giving a party, and no one even bothered to tell me.

  * * *

  “Familiar? Is that you?”

  The cat sauntered through the door into the kitchen and froze. With a wild meow, he ran across the room and threw himself into the arms of the strangely dressed woman. Her head was wrapped in white bandages, and her arms were also bandaged, but she managed to catch the cat to her chest and hold him as she bent to kiss him.

  “Familiar! I can’t believe it.” Eleanor Curry turned to the tall man who stood beside her. “It’s really him, Peter. Can you believe it?”

  “Where that cat is concerned, I can believe anything,” Dr. Peter Curry answered. He went to his wife and kissed her neck as she petted and stroked the purring cat. “It looks like our search is over.”

  Standing in the doorway, Cassandra held Adam’s hand. It was the reunion she’d always hoped for, but it was also tearing a hole in her heart. She’d known from the very beginning that Famili
ar was somebody’s cat. In fact, she’d hoped to find his real owners. Now that she had, she didn’t want to give him up.

  Adam’s arms went around her and pulled her back against him. “There won’t ever be another Familiar, but we’ll get a cat,” he said. “I can’t imagine life without one now.”

  “Thank you both,” Eleanor said as she brushed the tears from her eyes. “When my friend Magdalena called and said she’d seen Familiar on television, I didn’t believe it could be true. Not in Tennessee.”

  “Well, I wondered about those Washington phone numbers on my bill. When I found out from directory assistance that they were a vet’s office, I suspected it was Familiar’s work.” Cassandra swallowed her own tears and forced a smile. “I’m so happy for you. He’s a wonderful cat.”

  “He saved my life,” Eleanor said.

  “He seems to make a habit out of that,” Adam added. “Strange how it’s only beautiful women that he rescues.”

  “I told Cassandra he was a very special creature,” Running Stream added. She had her hand on her son’s arm and beside her stood the other Indian men.

  Amid the laughter, Familiar accepted all the strokes and pets.

  * * *

  ain’t life grand? What cat could be luckier? From one beautiful dame to the next, and now home to my own little precious Clotilde. Arnold Evans is still on the loose, but not for long. The cops have a line on him, but even better than that, I’m on the alert. And Cassandra will help me. We’re psychically linked now. And if that ain’t enough, I have visiting rights whenever I want to come back here. Eleanor promised that I would never have to travel by moving van again either. I’m thinking private limo with remote-control TV. I’m afraid I’ve become a news junkie due to all of this. I’ve even developed a yen for those talk shows. Reminds me of the days...uh, day...when I was a star.

  Yeah, I’m going to miss my mountain home, but the truth is, I’m an urban kind of cat. The feel of pavement beneath my paws. Lovely little kitties in the windows of their homes, preening and sassing. And best of all, my Eleanor. Dr. Doolittle says she’ll get the turban off in two weeks, and when her hair grows back, she’ll be the same old gorgeous dame. No permanent injuries. Not even a broken heart, now that she has me back—and that’s a quote from Dr. D.!

  A little sandpaper tongue treatment for Goldilocks. Now, now, no tears. My fur tends to flake when exposed to too much salt water. Even a little purr for Lancelot. I hate to leave a damsel alone, but even though the announcement hasn’t been officially made, I think there’s going to be a mountaintop union going on here soon.

  Well, that’s it. Watch out, Clotilde; get that cute little French-accented motor running—I’m headed home.

  About the Author

  Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of over 70 books. She was the recipient of the Harper Lee Award for Distinguished Writing and the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence, as well as the "Best Amateur Sleuth" award by Romantic Times. Haines writes in a number of genres, from cozy mystery to horror and short fiction. She got her start in publishing in romantic mysteries with one savvy black cat detective called Familiar. She's delighted to bring back the first Familiar stories--and to introduce Trouble, son of Familiar, in a delightful new Familiar Legacy series which will feature a number of talented authors (and cat lovers!)

  Be sure to visit the Familiar Legacy Fan Page and the Familiar Legacy Blog to get the very latest black cat detective news.

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  Bonus Excerpt from Thrice Familiar

  I cannot believe that my life has come to this. Abandoned by my own Eleanor in the squalor of—dare I utter the word—a barn. Not your small, pleasant red variety of barn. This is an enormous rambling structure with forty stalls and a dozen workers moving about at all times.

  And I’m supposed to live here. Outdoors. Eating out of a bowl that hasn’t been washed in days. Drinking rainwater, if I’m lucky enough to find some.

  How is it possible that I’ve been subjected to such a demeaning situation?

  Barn cat. Think of the image this conjures up. Lean, scruffy cats always alert for the tell-tail movement of a rodent. Oh, that’s not a pun, that’s a gag. A real gag! They’re probably going to expect me to catch rats. And eat them.

  It doesn’t matter that I’ve been smuggled into Ireland. There’s not enough bracing air in all of Europe to rid my nostrils of the smell of hay and leather and horses. How could Eleanor do this to me? Dr. Doolittle, well, I don’t expect any more of him. He’s only a man. But Eleanor, she should know better than this.

  I have a multitude of complaints about the travel arrangements, too. First of all, I resent being sedated. Second, the cage is too cramped, with poor ventilation. Third, I could have stayed in Washington and minded my own affairs with perfect safety. Ever since the bombing, I’ve been on the lookout for my old nemesis, Arnold Evans. I know he’s out and about and still trying to get even with Eleanor and Peter. Believe me, I won’t make the mistake of forgetting about him or that bomb blast that nearly killed Eleanor. I won’t forget or forgive. The trouble is, Eleanor won’t either. She won’t give Arnold another chance to hurt me or Peter. That’s why I find myself in this degrading situation.

  The dame packed me in this case and imported me into Ireland in an effort to keep me safe. In the whole country of Ireland, though, it seems she could have found me better accommodations than in the loft of a horse barn on the west coast of the Emerald Isle. She says it’s just a temporary upset of our summer plans. The meeting on human rights scheduled in the peaceful coastal town of Galway has turned into an effort to stop a possible bombing in Northern Ireland. She’s in Dublin with a hot ticket for Belfast and danger. That amnesty group she and the good doctor are working with is doing everything they can to prevent another tragedy.

  And I’m left here, in a cage, in a barn, in the country, on an island, with no prayer of getting out for a little exercise and a snoop around for some vittles. I’m missing Wheel of Fortune on television and the new Nine Lives’ flavor that was due out this month.

  And my protector, if you can call the man such, is a solitary soul with an attitude. The dame can certainly pick the hard cases. Patrick Shaw. He lives up here in the barn above his beloved horses. I’ve been watching him, and the only time he seems alive is when he’s working with one of those large, temperamental equines. When he touches them, there’s some kind of instant communication. Especially that big gray devil, Limerick. Too bad he hasn’t developed the same bond with his human counterparts. He’s a little brusque, if you ask me. I keep trying to see why Eleanor thinks he’s such a wonderful man. Or at least wonderful enough to be trusted with me for two whole weeks while she’s away. I just don’t see it, but then again, I’m partial to tall, slinky legs, sexy eyes, and the female gender. Patrick definitely doesn’t qualify there. He’s lean and about as soft and cuddly as a field of rocks.

  He’s not even a cat person. Maybe if I could whinny I could attract his attention. I want out of this cage. I’m acclimated. If he’s so concerned that I won’t know where I am why doesn’t he put me up on one of those horses and give me a ride around the grounds? Anything to get out. I’ll try the whinny.

  * * *

  Startled by the strange noise coming from the cat, Patrick hurried to the cage. He wasn’t overly fond of felines, but he’d given Eleanor and Peter his word that he’d care for the black cat they seemed to regard with such affection. And he honored his word. Always. But especially to the couple who’d
helped so many of his friends. Eleanor and Peter Curry had done a lot of work to bring peace to Ireland. For Patrick, that peace was a personal and a political concern.

  As he unlatched the cage and lifted the big black cat into his arms, he sighed. In the past year, he’d lost his dreams of freedom and peace. The farm that had been in his family for generations now belonged to someone else. Instead of boss, he was a hireling, a “manager.” Horses that he had bred no longer belonged to him, and the only reason he remained in County Galway was the big gray stallion that had once been his future. His invitation to stay was based on the magic he worked in getting a horse to run from the heart. If it wasn’t for his record as a trainer, he would have been asked to leave as soon as the ink had dried on the deed.

  “Can I trust you on your own?” he whispered in the cat’s ear. His brogue was as soft as his touch. He held Familiar with one hand and stroked him with the other. There was nothing that could be done to save his horse farm, but maybe Eleanor and Peter could help his country. Two weeks’ care of the cat was little enough to ask in return.

  “Eleanor says you’re a smart lad. She said you’ll learn the barn and stay out of trouble. Now don’t disappoint her. She’s too fine a lady to be troubled by a prowling cat. And I’ve got the devil’s own spawn due here in five minutes to torment me to death.” He put Familiar on the ground and walked away.

  Tail twitching, the black cat hurried after the man as he disappeared down the center of the barn.

  “Miss Nelson will be here any minute,” Patrick said as he walked to a cluster of grooms. “Check the tack room once again. If there’s a speck of grain on the feed room floor, I’ll have someone’s head, and that’s a promise. Be sure Limerick’s blanket is spotless, and that his halter has been oiled.”