"Surely he'd heed a threat to you?"

"He'd think Miss Melton was just trying to scare me – for some undoubtedly mercenary reason. He never knew your aunt, and he'd never believe how upset she was when she told me, how reluctant."

Cassie shook her head. "That's the part I don't understand."

"You mean, why she'd tell me I was doomed?"

"Exactly. As a rule, prophecies tend to herald some kind of tragedy, but no responsible psychic would offer such a warning to someone if there was nothing they could do to change a terrible fate." Cassie kept her voice matter-of-fact.

Abby frowned. "I hardly knew her, of course, but I got the distinct feeling it was something she didn't want to tell me. She seemed to force herself to get the words out. And she kept repeating that the future was never static, that human will could influence fate."

"Then she thought you could change what she saw."

"Or else just wanted to soften the blow."

Cassie shook her head. "If that were the case, why tell you at all? I can't believe she was cruel, and to offer you a bleak and unalterable vision of the future would definitely be cruel. No, my guess is that she told you because she thought if you knew, you could do something to avoid the fate she saw for you."

"Such as?"

"I wish I knew. Sometimes avoiding an event is as simple as turning left instead of right at the next traffic light you encounter." She sighed. "I'm sorry, I wish there was something more helpful I could tell you, but even if I had my aunt's gift, I'd still have to interpret what I saw. There are so many possible outcomes for any situation."

"That's what your aunt said."

"I don't know what I'd do in your shoes," Cassie said. "But telling the sheriff would be a good start. He told me he'd known a few people who were deceived by psychics, but surely he'd pay attention to a warning concerning you, especially when it was given by a woman with nothing to gain."

"He's more likely to get mad at me for taking the warning seriously. To him, it's always some kind of con." Abby paused, then added, "He's convinced you're conning them."

"I know."

"He's a good man. But he can be stubborn as hell."

Cassie smiled. "His mistrust doesn't bother me much. Or hasn't so far. So far, it hasn't been costly."

"You think it will be?"

"If I manage to pick up some useful information and he ignores it because he doesn't trust me… you bet it could be costly." She shook her head. "But right now I'm more concerned about you. Reading the good sheriff told me more than you'd probably like about your personal life. I know you have a husband you're separated from, and I know he's capable of violence. Add to that one maniac who's killed three women so far, and I'd say it might be a good time for you to take a vacation and go lie on a beach somewhere."

Abby's unsteady smile returned. "And what if my leaving here and going somewhere else is just another step toward my fate?"

"That's a possibility. But I'd have to say the odds are more in your favor on that beach."

"Maybe. But I can't leave."

"Then at least tell the sheriff. If you can't make him believe that my aunt could see into the future, at least convince him her warning frightened you. Maybe he can take steps to make your life safer."

"And maybe it would just be one more thing for him to worry about. I'm being careful. And that's all I can do."

Cassie admired her calm. Since she had lived often with the knowledge that some madman could possibly zero in on her, that her odds of becoming a victim were better than most, she knew only too well how debilitating that constant threat was.

Even more, she knew how it felt to live with a prophecy of doom. She almost told Abby, almost confided that her only experience with precognition had been a vision of her own fate that promised violence and destruction. But in the end she kept that knowledge to herself.

She had run three thousand miles only to find herself once again entangled in an investigation of crimes of violence; for her, running had not been an escape. There was nothing to be gained by telling Abby that.

"Do you have a dog?" she asked instead.

"No."

"Maybe you should get one. Or borrow one."

"Do you have one?"

Cassie smiled. "No. But Ben said I should get one – and he was right. Look, do you want to take a trip with me out to the animal shelter?"

"The coins," Matt said.

"What about them?" Ben sat down in one of the visitors' chairs in front of the sheriff's desk.

"We may have caught a break with them. The silver dollar found in Becky's hand turns out to be a pretty rare specimen. I don't understand the technical details, something about a flaw in the mold. They were never circulated, and only a few thousand were minted before the mistake was caught."

"A few thousand?"

"I know it sounds like a lot, but they all went to collectors, Ben, and they're very valuable."

"Does that mean they're traceable?"

"It means they might be. I've got somebody working on that now."

"How about the other coins?"

Matt shook his head. "We're still checking on those, but they look damn close to mint quality to me. If so, if he's using only uncirculated coins, then they've pretty well got to be from somebody's collection."

"We have any coin collectors in town?"

"Yeah, several that we know of. It isn't exactly an uncommon hobby. We're quietly pulling together a list."

"And then?"

"Start asking questions, as discreetly as possible. I don't want everybody in town knowing that coins are part of the murder investigation, so we've cooked up a story about a stolen coin collection. It won't fool anyone for long, but with luck it'll give us a head start."

"Maybe not much of one," Ben said. "From what I've been hearing today, rumors are already circulating that the victims were holding something when they were found."

"Shit."

"We both knew it was just a matter of time."

"Yeah, but I was hoping for days rather than hours. Dammit, how did that get out? My people have been threatened with fines and/or jail time if I find out anybody discussed this investigation outside the office."

Ben shrugged. "Osmosis. If there's a secret in this town, it will get out. Guaranteed."

Matt scowled at him. "That psychic of yours hasn't been talking, has she?"

"I doubt it. When are you going to get off her case, Matt? She's done nothing except try to help."

"Like that business a few hours ago? The killer's right-handed and probably tried to kill himself at some point by slashing his wrists?"

"You didn't believe her?"

"No."

"Tell me you at least added 'right-handed' and 'possible attempted suicide scar' to your list of identifying characteristics."

"I did. But I'm not expecting either to help. Right-handed I'd already gotten from Doc Munro anyway, a fact he gleaned logically from the wounds. As for that supposed scar – this is a town where more than half the men work in mills and plants, and injuries to the hands and lower arms are common. I think she realized that. I think she guessed right-handed because it's likely, and added the scar in for color."

"What is she going to have to do to convince you she's genuine?"

"A lot more than she has done."

Ben rose to his feet, shaking his head. "You're so damned stubborn. It'll cost you one day, Matt."

"Maybe. But not today. I'll call you if we find out anything else."

"Do that. I'll be out at Mary's this evening, but I don't plan to stay more than a couple of hours."

"She nervous?"

"Of course. I promised to check out her security system."

"Tell her I'm stepping up the regular patrols out there as of tonight."

"I will. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Matt smiled faintly.

Ben lifted a hand in farewell and left the sheriff's office. Not one to put off unpleasant duties, he drove out of town to the house where he'd grown up. His father had insisted on calling the big, bastard-Tudor house and its hundred acres of rolling pastureland an estate, but Ben refused to.