Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "But you actually witnessed the murders of those women, didn't you?" West pressed.

  "That isn't an accurate way to put it," Cassandra said. "According to Beaker, I had a nightmare."

  "But Beaker said you claimed to see the murder happen in a dream." West pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket where he'd obviously made notes from his talk with Beaker. "You feel you're a part of the murder, as if you were with the killer and victim, right?"

  "That's correct," Cassandra answered with some reluctance.

  "Then you could identify the killer." Martin's voice grew sharper. "Can you?"

  "Not exactly." Cassandra shifted away from the man. He seemed to be leaning closer and closer to her. "I really don't want to talk about this anymore."

  "Well, you can or you can't. Which is it?"

  "Ease back," Adam suggested as he stepped to Cassandra's side. His voice was pleasant, but the tension in his body let Martin know he was prepared to make his request an order.

  "Hey, sorry. It's just exciting."

  "Not for me," Cassandra said softly.

  "Some people have no appreciation for a rare gift." Martin West put his hand on Cassandra's knee. "But I do, Cassandra. I've always believed in special talents. I mean, since I was old enough to remember, I've wanted to be in television. I think I made it happen for me, and I think that's a gift."

  "Clear and focused ambition can be a gift," Cassandra agreed. "Not many people know what they want. Those who do are way ahead of the game."

  "That's right." Martin West sat back, finally turning his attention to Adam. "Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. And here is the cereal magnate, Adam Raleigh, isn't it?" He held out his hand.

  Adam shook it slightly. For a big man with a large hand, Martin West's grip was annoyingly soft.

  "We can leave now, Cassandra," Adam said clearly. "It's been a hard morning. We were both sorry to hear about Ms. Welford." As he spoke, Adam assisted Cassandra to her feet.

  "Tell me one more thing," Martin said as he rose, also. "If you see the murders happening, and you can't identify the murderer, then he must be wearing a mask, right?"

  Cassandra stared at the television host. "No. He doesn't wear a mask."

  "How can you be so certain?" Martin followed through, walking with Cassandra and Adam toward the door.

  "He's a vain man," Cassandra said slowly. "He worries about his looks. He wants to be told he's handsome. That's how he attracts the women, with his looks and his— " She broke off. Her voice had taken on a dreamlike quality.

  "His what?" Martin pressed. He pulled his pen from his pocket.

  "I'm not certain," Cassandra looked at Adam for reassurance.

  Adam felt an urge to stop her, to get her away from West, but he knew he could do nothing. Cassandra was a grown woman. If she wanted to feed the frenzy of the TV host, she had every right. It was just that he didn't understand her motivation.

  "His what?" Martin asked again. "His clothes, his car, what?"

  "His personality," Cassandra finished. "He's good at that. He meets the public well, and he gives an aura of confidence. Like an official personage of some kind."

  Martin stopped writing. "This is heavy stuff. We should get this on tape. How about we put you behind a screen, no actual photos. We could protect your identity and yet let the public know that you're solving the murder case."

  It was more than Adam could take. "Cassandra isn't solving anything," he said sharply. "She's tried to help, but so far the authorities have been more interested in persecuting her than taking her help."

  "Remember what I told you." Martin gave his attention to Cassandra. "You might be able to draw the murderer out."

  "Enough!" Adam knew how seriously Cassandra took her responsibilities. He should have known Martin had dangled that particular ploy at her, making her feel guilty in order to get an interview. He took Cassandra's arm. "West, stay away from Ms. McBeth and her property. Don't call or we'll press harassment charges, is that clear?"

  "It's clear enough you don't want to let the lady decide for herself." West grinned. "Afraid of what she'll do?"

  "I make my own decisions," Cassandra said clearly. "Right now, I want to leave. I'll consider what you had to say, Mr. West. I'll give it serious thought, and I'll get back to you."

  "Not many people get a chance to stop a murderer," Martin said loudly as Adam and Cassandra walked away. "Think about it, Ms. McBeth. Think long and hard about the women who might die before this thing is stopped."

  Chapter Ten

  "It is not a good thing." Running Stream paced Cassandra's kitchen. Her dark eyes were angry. "You could be in terrible danger, Cassandra. You must not do this."

  "Innocent women are in danger," Cassandra replied. She didn't sound too forceful because her heart was troubled by the idea of appearing on Martin West's show. But her conscience demanded that she do everything in her power to stop the killer. If, via television, she could convince the killer that she was getting closer and closer to finding out his identity, then maybe he would come after her. "I have to try to stop him. Even if it means going on television."

  "Even if it means putting your own life at risk?" The unexpected question came from Running Stream. "I know how much you hate the idea of going on television, but that isn't the biggest problem. Cassandra, if that killer thinks you know him, he'll have to come after you."

  "It's a calculated risk," Cassandra admitted. Running Stream was bringing up the exact same points Adam had used to argue against the idea of her television appearance. She'd sent Adam into town on an errand so that she could have this discussion with her friend. Even though his absence was at her request, she still missed him.

  "Adam doesn't want you to do this, either, does he?"

  Looking up at the tall, statuesque Indian woman, Cassandra noticed for the first time that her friend's skin was sallow. Dark circles, like smudges, were beneath the unblinking brown eyes.

  "Where's Bounder?" Cassandra asked. She knew instinctively that the young man would be the source of Running Stream's moments of extreme joy and pain.

  "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 herself 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. She and Running Stream 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's name, 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."

  "Th
e 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 torn 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?"