Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "Can you stop it?"

  "I can try."

  Running Stream shrugged. "You have a strong will, Cassandra. It isn't my intention to step between you and your fate. As a friend, I warn you to deal with Beaker very carefully. The townspeople can never understand. They'll blame you."

  "A case of shoot the messenger." Cassandra knew her friend was right. The officials of Gatlinburg didn't want trouble, and when they got it, they were always looking for a convenient scapegoat. Sheriff Beaker was a reasonable man, about fifty percent of the time. But he didn't hold with dreams and visions, and during his long tenure in office he'd driven out on Highway 441 plenty of times to warn her mother about complaints. He didn't personally care what Sylvia McBeth did, or whose money she "conned." He just didn't want trouble.

  "Get some sleep, Cassandra."

  "Yeah, great idea." She couldn't help the sarcasm. She'd love to sleep— if she could forego her little trip through dreamland.

  "I'll send Bounder over tonight to sit with you."

  "That won't be necessary." Cassandra sighed. "I don't need your son to take up baby-sitting."

  "Bounder loves to visit you." Running Stream smiled, and the severity of her face was radically changed. "He views you as his oldest sister, a wise woman with much grace and beauty."

  "You can't flatter me into letting your twenty-two-year-old son spend his free time taking care of me."

  "Then do it for me, Cass. I'm worried. You asked why the dreams have come back to you now, at this time. The answer to that question concerns me."

  A chill touched Cassandra's skin. "What are you saying?"

  "Like it or not, you're involved in those murders. Until we find out why, I've got a right to be worried."

  Chapter Two

  The green of budding leaves gave the rolling foothills a crisp newness that belied the age of the stony, gray peaks that hovered above them. Adam Raleigh was taken by the sight of spring in the mountains as he drove his rental car along the narrow paved road that wound to Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

  He enjoyed the countryside. The clapboard houses with lanky dogs sleeping in the front yard and the land tilled for the first planting were more interesting than the homogenized highway eateries and service stations. He liked the way the road snaked and curled, slow and easy, symbolic of the kind of life he intended to enjoy— when he got old enough and rich enough to retire.

  He smiled at that thought. If Cassandra McBeth would cooperate, then he might be a lot closer to his goal than he'd ever been before. All he had to do was convince a woman, whose reputation for reclusiveness made Carmelite nuns seem downright outgoing, to go on a national promotional tour for a breakfast cereal. For a man such as himself, gifted with persuasive abilities, it was going to be a piece of cake.

  Let his employees laugh. And they had when he'd told them he was going to Tennessee to bring Cassandra McBeth back as spokesperson for Good Stuff Cereals. They'd laughed and laughed. Well, he was nearly at Gatlinburg, and they wouldn't be laughing long.

  He saw the sign pointing the way to the heart of the resort town, and he took Highway 441 north, away from town. He'd scoped out Ms. McBeth's habits, her habitat and her well-known desire for privacy. When Adam Raleigh wanted something, he went after it in a big way. He didn't do anything by half measures.

  In the back seat of the car was a video camera, tapes, ten boxes of Good Stuff all-natural, high-in-fiber, no-salt, no-sugar cereal, and two suitcases of clothes. He was staying as long as it took. Ever since the day, two years ago, when he'd made a special trip to Nashville to attend one of Cassandra's book signings— the only signing that she'd ever given— he'd known she was perfect.

  His attention was focused on the road as he looked for the narrow path that served as Cassandra's driveway. The local resident he'd talked with in the Black Bear Diner had given him very clear directions. The man had been a trifle odd after Cassandra's name was mentioned, but an Andrew Jackson had finally prized the information loose.

  Adam could feel his determination harden as he drew closer and closer to Cassandra.

  So far, she'd thwarted all his efforts. He'd sent letters, contracts, video packets— featuring his own sincere beliefs— more letters, checks, even his personal credentials and long, detailed news clippings praising his cereal as a genuinely healthy product. He'd reminded her of their brief meeting. All had been ignored. But he wasn't even close to giving up. Cassandra McBeth was going to get a rare treat, a personal presentation of Good Stuff.

  Part of his determination to see her was personal. The writer, whose books on herbs and remedies were revered by more than a million readers, was a woman with long blond hair and blue eyes that captured his imagination. Sure, he had his business reasons, but he'd also been captivated by something in those blue, blue eyes.

  He was almost past the driveway when he noticed the bright orange vine that grew on the mailbox. That's what the man at the diner had told him to look for. Some sort of orange flower. Adam slowed the car and turned right. He was immediately under a canopy of dense trees. He felt as if he'd gone from bright daylight into early dusk in a matter of a few seconds.

  The road, which was little more than a narrow path cut through the forest, wound up and away. He eased the car forward and began to prepare his opening strategy. He'd park away from the house and arrive on foot. That way she'd be less inclined to run him off. If he could just talk with her for a few minutes, he knew he could win her over. It was the first ten minutes that would be crucial to his success.

  Alert for any signs of a house, he drove on and up. He felt as if he were tunneling deeper and deeper into the forest. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps the man at the diner was having a laugh on him now. Adam felt as if he'd gone several miles, and yet there was no house. He was about to give up when he saw the split-rail fence almost overgrown by honeysuckle. He pulled into a narrow break in the woods and got out of the car. Cassandra's house had to be nearby. He started walking.

  Forty minutes later, through the trees, he saw the slate roof of the log cabin. His shins were aching and his cotton shirt clung to him. All physical pain disappeared as Adam stopped and took in the scene. He could immediately visualize the first commercial— Cassandra walking out of the cabin, the camera at wide angle taking in all the verdant foliage, the wildflowers that surrounded the house, the wholesomeness of the entire scene! Then the camera would close in on her, and she'd take one of the old cowhide rockers on the front porch as she prepared to breakfast on a blue bowlful of Good Stuff.

  It had all of the downright goodness of Little House on the Prairie combined with Cassandra's own unique sensuality. He could see her in a white cotton dress with all of that hair tumbling about her shoulders.

  The pleasant image was shattered by a low, anguished cry. Adam stepped toward the house, then checked himself. He had no business invading Cassandra McBeth's solitude. He was a trespasser. He realized with an unpleasant shock that he'd assumed Cassandra was single. What if she was involved with someone, and what if the two of them were having a spat?

  On the other hand, what if she were injured? Or someone was possibly hurting her?

  Adam needed no further encouragement. He was running across the meadow with every ounce of energy in his lean frame.

  The cry came again, broken by sobs, and Adam paused long enough at the front door to verify that it wasn't locked. Then he was inside and confronting the sight of a struggling, quilt-covered woman on a sofa.

  At first it didn't register on Adam that Cassandra McBeth struggled alone. There was no one holding her or assaulting her. The only other creature in the room was a strange black cat that had jumped onto the back of the sofa and was mewing loudly.

  Adam froze for a moment, but Cassandra's terrified struggles and moans made him step forward. He forgot that he was in a woman's house uninvited, that he could be arrested for criminal trespassing. His only thought was to capture the anguished Cassandra McBeth and hold her close until she
woke up from whatever nightmare was frightening her.

  He went to the sofa and eased down beside her. "Cassandra," he said softly as he gripped her shoulders.

  Her head tossed back and forth, her blond hair frothing about her face. "Please! No!" she whispered. "Oh, God, please don't!"

  The terror in her voice prodded him to act more forcefully. He shook her lightly. "Cassandra," he said loudly. "Wake up!"

  She arched against him, thrusting with her arms in a blind, desperate fashion.

  "Cassandra!" He felt his own panic begin to rise. He couldn't seem to wake her. Instead of calming her, his touch seemed to make her struggle more.

  "Let me go!" she hissed. Her hands came up like claws and she drew one across his cheek.

  Adam ignored the blood that trickled down his jaw. He concentrated on capturing both of her hands and holding them tight.

  "Meow!" the cat interjected along with an angry hiss.

  "Get out of here," Adam said quickly. "I'm not going to hurt her." Before he could do anything else, the cat leaped across the sofa, landing on his chest with full force. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Adam lost his balance and fell. Instead of losing Cassandra's hands, he pulled her with him. She was light as a feather and she landed in his arms with some force. Cat, man and woman tumbled to the floor in a heap.

  "What?" Cassandra's voice registered shock. For a moment she lay atop Adam without making any effort to move. She was half in the dream, half out. Looking around her, she saw the features of her own home. She could hear someone breathing beneath her. Strong, controlled breaths. Tentacles of the dream reached out to tug at her.

  "Ms. McBeth!"

  She could hear someone calling her from far away.

  "Cassandra, I'm Adam Raleigh."

  She felt the man move, and she tried to connect with what was happening. She could see him, and his features were vaguely familiar. He was talking to her, but she couldn't understand what he was saying.

  Adam knew the woman was in a stupor. Had she had an epileptic seizure, or possibly an insulin reaction? He looked around the room for medication.

  "Are you sick?" he asked.

  She could understand that question. She shook her head no, but it seemed too heavy to move. She tried to react, but she couldn't.

  Adam scooped her into his arms and put her on the sofa. With quick efficiency he picked up the comforter and tucked it around her. "You're going to be fine, Ms. McBeth. Shall I call a doctor?"

  "No." This time she managed to speak, but it was barely a croak. "I had a nightmare."

  Adam sat on the edge of the sofa. "You're looking better now. The color is coming back." He placed his hand on her forehead. "No fever. You really gave me a scare."

  As he talked, Cassandra tried to shake off the final fringes of the nightmare. "Adam Raleigh?"

  "Yes, I've been trying to reach you."

  "The book signing." She remembered. Occasionally, when she was daydreaming, he'd slip back into her thoughts. What was he doing in her home? Was he really there, or was he part of the dream? She was completely disoriented.

  "Are you ill?" He repeated his question. She was pale, and appeared to be in shock. Her eyes went from rational comprehension to fear in split seconds.

  Cassandra tried to focus on the man before her, but she felt her panic return with all the force of the dream. She remembered now. She remembered the girl, her earrings dangling in her hair. She remembered the way the world swung around her, dark green and filled with the sounds of life.

  Adam watched those incredible blue eyes widen to proportions of complete fear. Very carefully he reached down and pinned her arms beneath the comforter. If she went into some kind of fit, he didn't want her to hurt herself.

  Cassandra tumbled back into the dream. The attack had come from behind. The young woman had been standing…where? There was the sensation of great height. There had been a view, she was certain, but she couldn't pull it back into focus. The girl had been standing, looking at the view.

  "Cassandra." Adam tried to coax her back.

  The killer had come up behind the woman. He was watching the way her hair moved in the breeze. The woman's earrings had jangled. Then the woman had begun to struggle as hands closed around her neck. Strong hands. Big hands.

  "No!" Cassandra bolted into a sitting position. "No!" She held out her hands as far as her arms would reach. "No," she whispered. "Not these hands!"

  Adam knew he'd lost Cassandra completely. She was no longer in the same room with him. Her body was there, but her consciousness was somewhere else. Someplace terrifying, if her expression was any clue. She was looking at her hands as if they were the foulest, most contemptible things on the face of the earth. Such small, incredibly delicate hands.

  "Cassandra," he said softly.

  She gave a shuddering sigh and held her hands to her face. Sobs broke from her body as she moaned.

  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 again, 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.