But he noticed immediately that no woman walked alone, and that the few children about were kept close to their parents. And that it was quieter than it should have been, with conversations kept low and no audible laughter. Not too many smiling faces, which he knew was unusual in this part of the country. And more than one passerby gave him a distinctly suspicious glance.

He wouldn't have much time, he knew, before somebody official asked him what he was doing in town.

Bishop began strolling down the street, visiting several stores, making small purchases at each, and speaking politely if not affably to the clerks who waited on him. Aware that he had a face designed by fate to make others nervous at the best of times, he made no attempt to ask questions but, rather, listened in on various conversations going on around him. Or at least to those that didn't stop abruptly whenever someone caught sight of him, as they invariably did.

He heard the phrase "serial killer" spoken at least half a dozen times. He also heard several men declare that they were armed and ready should the bastard come after their women.

It was a promise that did not appear to reassure those of their women present to hear it.

Bishop ended up in the drugstore, with coffee and a talkative young counterman who offered speculation about the three recent murders with ghoulish fascination. Neither encouraging nor discouraging, Bishop listened, saying only that it seemed like too nice a town to have such goings-on.

Apparently feeling that this placid reaction implied criticism, Mike the counterman was quick to add the information that they also had a witch.

Bishop sipped his coffee. "Really?"

"Yeah. Everybody's talking about her." Mike industriously polished the counter in front of his customer, just in case his boss was watching. "Some say it's her fault, these killings, but I got it from one of the sheriff's deputies straight that she couldn't have done it. With her own hands, I mean. Too little. Besides, I think she had an alibi when Miss Kirkwood was killed."

"If that's so, why would anyone blame her?" Bishop asked mildly.

"Well, because she's a witch." Mike lowered his voice. "Way I heard it, she knew there was going to be a killing and warned the sheriff about it. Judge Ryan too."

"Then why didn't they stop it?"

"Didn't believe her, is what I hear. Well, I mean – would you? But then Becky was killed, so I guess she knew what she was talking about, at least that time. What I want to know is, how's she doing it?"

"You mean – how does ESP work?"

Mike shook his head impatiently. "Naw. I mean, does she have a crystal ball? Some of them tarot cards? Or does she need the blood of a chicken or something like that? Keith Hollifield, over by the plant, he's missing a few chickens just since last week, and he's been putting it around that maybe the witch needs them to see the future."

"Has anyone asked her?" Bishop's ironic tone was lost on the young counterman.

"Not that I know of," Mike replied earnestly. "But I think the sheriff should, don't you?"

"Absolutely." Bishop paid his check for the coffee and left Mike a reasonable tip, then strolled from the drugstore.

A sheriff's deputy lounging against a light post outside straightened, eyed him speculatively, then politely asked if he was a stranger in town.

Out of time.

Smiling faintly, Bishop produced his identification.

The deputy's eyes widened. "Um. You'll be wanting to talk to the sheriff, I expect."

"Eventually," Bishop said. "But not just yet."

Though the temperature hovered just far enough above freezing to begin melting the snow, the picture outside Cassie's kitchen windows was still a winter wonderland when she sat down to a late breakfast. Ben and the sheriff had been gone nearly two hours, but it had taken her some time to rouse herself enough to get up from the sofa. And when she did finally get up, she discovered that she was more tired than she had realized, and still a bit cold.

A hot bath helped warm her, and by the time she apologetically fixed Max's breakfast and something for herself, she was feeling better. Physically at least.

She wasn't sure about emotionally.

Years of experience had taught her not to dwell on the horrific images and thoughts that came to her tele-pathically, so it was easy enough for her to think about the killer with a hard-won degree of detachment. But knowing he had chosen his next target and that he planned new torments for her was not so easy to dismiss from her mind.

Not easy, but entirely necessary in order for her to find some sort of peace. But this time it required more than concentration; it required distracting herself with thoughts that were, in their own way, nearly as emotionally upsetting.

Thoughts about Ben, and about what seemed to be growing between them.

Cassie was still astonished to recall her response to him, and even more surprised by his desire. She didn't know how to explain it, any of it. With what she'd learned of men and the things too many were capable of, she had thought it virtually impossible to contemplate a relationship with this… this absurdly dreamy longing. With curiosity and eagerness.

A sexual relationship, she assumed. Ben had made it clear he wanted her, though she was uncertain as to why that would be so. She was no fool – and she had read too many male minds not to know that they simply did not look at her and feel desire. She was too thin, not at all pretty, weighed down with the baggage of nightmarish abilities, and laughably lacking in experience when it came to romantic relationships.

In short, she was no bargain.

And Ben… No question that he could get virtually any woman he wanted, and probably always had, despite the walls that kept him distant emotionally. He was handsome, intelligent, sexy, both compassionate and kind. He was an important man in town, a man people looked up to. And he was an elected official, which meant his life was open to public scrutiny.

Something she doubted he had considered.

No, it just didn't make sense. There were myriad reasons that she would be attracted to him, but not a single one to explain his interest in her.

Except maybe as a novelty.

Cassie considered that with all the detachment she could muster. A novelty? Something entirely different from what he was accustomed to and, therefore, of interest? A woman who found his walls a relief when they might well have presented a problem for him in other relationships? She supposed it was possible, but if his attraction sprang from something so insignificant, he surely would have decided to wait until the threat to his town was past.

He must have known she wasn't going to be running off with somebody else in the interim.

Cassie stood at her kitchen window with her coffee and stared out at the pretty, peaceful scene, all too aware that once again her sense of expectancy had vanished.

To Max, who was sticking close, she said, "I can talk myself out of a good mood faster than anyone else I know."

Max thumped his tail against the floor and gazed up at her intently.

"He just feels sorry for me, that's what it is. Or maybe he's just one of those men who gets a charge out of thin, pale women always falling unconscious practically at their feet. Makes them feel extra macho or something. Although I wouldn't have said he needed that."

Max whined, and Cassie reached down to scratch him between the ears.

"I've got to stop being unconscious around him. That's the second time he's carried me, and I missed it again. A woman dreams all her life of being swept up into a man's arms, and when it happens – twice – she's unconscious."

Max licked her hand.

"Thank you," she said dryly. "I appreciate the sympathy. But the truth is… I don't know what the truth is. All I know is that I'm about a breath away from making a fool of myself over him. And that scares me to death."