Abby could imagine the calls Matt must be getting, from panicky citizens to furious merchants; no matter what he did, somebody would be unhappy with him, and if he couldn't quickly make the streets safe for everyone…

She was worried about him. He hadn't bargained for this kind of situation, and nothing in his experience had prepared him for it. He was an intelligent man and a shrewd cop, and he would not make many mistakes – but those he made would be out of the conviction that he knew what was best for the town.

The problem was, in this situation there was no "best," no right answer for the town – except to catch a particularly brutal, undoubtedly insane killer.

Abby went cold just thinking of Matt in that confrontation. Because he would be there, of course. If they were able to locate the killer, Matt would be first through the door – not because it was his job, but because it was his nature.

The phone rang, and Abby went eagerly to answer it, hoping Matt had found a moment to call. She really needed to hear his voice.

"Hello?"

No one responded, but the line was not silent. Instead, there were sounds of breathing, faint but unmistakable.

"Hello?" Abby repeated, unease growing. "Is anybody there?"

"Abby."

Just that, just her name whispered. Then a click, and the dial tone.

Ben felt as well as saw Cassie stiffen the moment she preceded him into Matt's office. But that was her only visible reaction as she looked at the man lounging against the filing cabinet beside the sheriff's desk.

"Hello, Bishop," she said, calm.

"Cassie." The well-dressed man with the sharp gray eyes smiled, an expression that did not lend the slightest bit of charm to his scarred face.

As Cassie settled into the visitor's chair farthest away from Bishop, Matt introduced Ben to the agent, his own feelings clear in the flatness of his voice.

Ben wasn't dismayed to find an FBI agent in his town, but he was wary – though not for the same reason Matt was. "Agent Bishop," he said as they shook hands.

"Judge Ryan."

When Matt nodded toward the other visitor's chair, Ben took it. There was a leather sofa along the wall beside Bishop, and Ben wondered if the agent remained on his feet because he felt it gave him a tactical advantage.

Matt said, "Agent Bishop found out about our situation here thanks to newspaper archives and a North Carolina database."

"And came to offer his expertise?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Bishop said, "This isn't an official visit, Judge. As a matter of fact, I'm currently on a sabbatical."

"I wasn't aware the Bureau offered its agents sabbaticals."

"It's an uncommon practice. It might be more accurate to say that I had accrued a substantial amount of vacation and leave time over the years."

Ben glanced at a silent and distant Matt, then looked at Cassie, who was gazing at Matt's desk. The tension in her slight body was visible, even though her face remained expressionless.

Ben had the feeling he was the only one in the room who didn't know what was going on.

"Okay," he said, returning his gaze to the agent. "So how does that explain your presence here? Just happened to be in the area, or is chasing after serial killers a hobby of yours?"

"You might say that chasing after alleged psychics is a hobby of mine."

"Alleged?"

"That's right. There are so many charlatans, you know. So many so-called telepaths whose claims can't be scientifically documented."

"He means me." Cassie looked up for the first time, her gaze fixing on Bishop. "I don't perform well in a laboratory setting." Her voice was cool.

"That's one way of putting it," Bishop murmured.

"The tests were poorly designed and you know it. But it was my fault for even agreeing to be tested." Her shoulders lifted and fell. "I've stopped trying to prove myself to you, Bishop."

"Have you?"

Two pairs of gray eyes locked together, and Ben could almost feel the struggle of wills. Then Cassie looked at Matt and said, "I don't know what he's told you, but I can guess he had nothing good to say about me. Want to hear my side of the story?"

Matt nodded.

"Okay. A couple of years ago Agent Bishop was called into a missing persons case in San Francisco. The missing woman's husband was quite wealthy and politically powerful, which was why the FBI was called in even though there was no evidence of a kidnapping. Days went by, then weeks, but neither the police nor Bishop and his people could find a trace of the lady.

"Her sister, in the meantime, contacted me. She had heard of me through mutual acquaintances, and believed I might be able to help find her sister. So I flew to San Francisco and went to the house where the missing woman had lived."

"And?" Matt prompted.

"And I knew she was dead." In a wry tone she added, "The police were, naturally, suspicious when I made that claim. But when they started looking for a body, they found one. Just where the husband had dumped it."

"He hasn't gone to trial yet," Bishop said.

"You know and I know he killed her."

"Maybe."

Cassie glanced at the agent, then returned her gaze to Matt. "At any rate, Agent Bishop asked me to allow myself to be tested. I refused, and went back to L.A."

"Why did you refuse?" Matt asked.

"Advice from my mother. It was her belief that until medical science learned a lot more about the brain, psychic ability would never be understood. What science cannot understand it tends to try its best to disprove. The whole process leads to a great deal of tension and pressure, both of which interfere with psychic ability."

Bishop made a skeptical sound.

Cassie didn't rise to the bait. "Anyway, as I said, I went home. A couple of months later I was asked to advise in a murder case. And Agent Bishop turned up – like a bad penny."

"I resent that," he murmured.

Cassie ignored him. "It was a difficult case complicated even more by the fact that I had the flu and should have refused to get involved. That's no excuse, but it is part of the reason I failed."

"How did you fail?" Matt asked.

"Misinterpreted something I saw. What I told them led the police to concentrate on the wrong suspect, and the real killer had time to kill again. Which he did." She looked steadily at the sheriff. "It wasn't the first time something like that happened, and it won't be the last, No psychic is a hundred percent right a hundred percent of the time."

Again Cassie gave a little shrug. "There were a few more cases after that, some I was able to help solve and some I wasn't. Bishop kept turning up, kept asking me to allow myself to be tested. So I finally did. And I flunked all the tests. As I said, I don't perform well in a laboratory setting. I always did choke at exams."

"You graduated college," Bishop pointed out. "Eventually you had to pass those exams."

"Putting myself through that earned me a degree. Putting myself through your tests again would earn me absolutely nothing."

"Except scientific validity and recognition."

"And then what? Go on the talk shows? Find myself getting tons of mail from poor lost souls who think I might be able to help them? Sit in more laboratories while more scientists devise more tests to measure and weigh and define my abilities? Why? Despite what you think, Bishop, I don't want to be recognized. I don't want to be validated. And I sure as hell don't want to be famous."

"Then," he said softly, gesturing around them, "why do this? Why involve yourself in police investigations?"

"Because I can help. Not all the time, but sometimes. Because I was raised to believe it's my responsibility. And because I can't not involve myself." She drew a breath and added quietly, "And I really couldn't care less whether or not my reasons satisfy you."