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The Cassidy McCabe Mysteries

  #1 Secret's Shadow
  #2 Satan's Silence
#3 Vendetta's Victim
#4 Wanton's Web
#5 Cat's Claw
#6 Death's Domain
#7 Wedding's Widow
#8 Blood's Burden
#9 Murder's Madness
#10 Healer's Heresy


Blood's Burden hardcover imageDeath's Domain
Chapter One:
Deathless in Oak Park

A paw bapped her nose.  Gripped by her dream, Cassidy McCabe burrowed deeper into the covers.  Starshine, not easily discouraged, dug her way under the blankets, touched her damp nose to Cassidy's forehead, and purred louder.

Swimming upward from the depths of an unnerving nocturnal vision, Cassidy dragged herself into a sitting position and blinked groggily at the calico cat.  Starshine moved to the end of the bed to stare pointedly into the hall.  The clock on the bureau said eight A.M., and the pillow to Cassidy's right was empty.

"If Zach's up, I know you're not starving, no matter how much you insist that you are."

She felt edgy and disoriented, a residue from her dream.  Staring into space, she tried to recapture it.  A multitude of chalky-faced high school girls in flouncy white dresses standing on a rolling green meadow, all gazing east.  Although it seemed as if she were observing from a distance, she knew that she was really somewhere among them, indistinguishable on the outside but emotionally set apart, the other girls hating her.

You've had this dream before.

When?  What brings it up?

Anniversaries you don't want to remember.  Days that hearken back to bad things from the past.

She looked through her north window at gnarly bare branches against a pale blue sky.  November.  The only unpleasant anniversaries she could think of were the wedding and divorce dates from her first marriage, and neither of those had taken place in the eleventh month of the year.

Thoughts of the bad old times caused her to shift her gaze to the photo montage on the wall opposite the bed, her eyes fastening on a picture taken at the backyard reception for her second marriage.  The print showed Cassidy in the middle, Zach and his teenaged son on either side.  A talisman.  A reminder that the past is the past and the present -- this week at least -- is golden.  She decided everything was fine, she had nothing to worry about, the dream was irrelevant.

"Oh well," she said to the cat, now pouncing on her blanket-covered toes.  "Just goes to show that the unconscious really isn't infallible, much as I like to delude myself to the contrary."

The phone rang but she let the answering machine on her desk take it, the sound turned down so she couldn't hear the caller.

Starshine succeeded in penetrating the blanket and digging her fangs into Cassidy's big toe.  "Ouch!"  She jerked her foot away.  "Okay, you win.  You can have a second breakfast."

Dressing in jeans and a purple sweatshirt, she went into the bathroom to brush her cinnamon-colored hair, thick curls straggling around her neck and shoulders.  Why didn't you get your hair cut two weeks ago, when you first thought of it?  And why don't you own a single barrette or clip or scrunchie so you could get this mess off your neck?  You're so inept with hair, you wouldn't know how to use those things if you had them.  Your girl training was obviously deficient.

Perhaps she should get rid of all her hair, go bald like Michael Jordon.  Trying to picture the results, all she could envision was a light bulb.

Besides, you'd have to shave it every day, and daily is definitely not your strong point.  Sometimes getting herself into the shower on a once- every-twenty-four-hour basis was almost more than she could manage.

Heading down the stairs, she caught a whiff of toast and coffee in the living room, evidence that Zach had eaten earlier.  On her way past the dining room table, she picked up a note and carried it into the kitchen, its scuffed cabinets, worn-out countertops, and curling-seam linoleum in dire need of rehabbing.  She leaned against the sink to read the brief message.

CASS,
LEFT EARLY TO WRITE UP LAST NIGHT'S SHOOTING. SHOULD BE DONE BY AFTERNOON. LET'S GO TO THE DESERT CAFÉ FOR DINNER. LOVE, ZACH.

He didn't usually work on Saturdays, but he'd received a call late the previous night with news of an alderman's murder and had decided to go into the Post this morning to write the story.

Starshine nipped her knee, a reminder that food should always come first.  As Cassidy spooned wet smelly glop into the cat bowl on the counter, the calico jumped up to bury her face in it.

Starting fresh coffee, Cassidy stared through the window at sunlight washing over her neighbor's backyard, then glanced into the kitchen window directly opposite hers where Dorothy Stein presided over a gang of adopted teenagers, no two with quite the same racial background.

While the coffeemaker gurgled, she mentally reviewed her day.  Two clients, starting at noon:  Joanne, whom she'd been seeing six months to discuss her affair with a married man, and Troy, who'd been coming a little longer to work on his lack of success with women.

She looked out the window again.  The unseasonably mild weather beckoned to her, made her want to work outdoors so she could look up into the clear blue sky, feel the warmth of the sun on her face.  You could wash your office windows inside and out.  Give Zach a major shock.  Make your clients think they'd walked into the wrong place when they saw all that sparkling glass.

The odds of you carrying soapy water up a ladder are about as great as Dr. Laura acquiring empathy.

Cassidy marveled at how bright the light seemed even so early in the day.  Bet it's warm enough you could drink coffee on the porch one last time.  Porch-sitting in November was a rarity.

She filled her mug, then spoke to the cat, who sat on the counter washing her face, a dainty triangle with one black ear, one orange ear, and a small pink nose.  "You want to go outside?  There might even be a fly left for you to eat."  Flies appeared to be as much of a treat for Starshine as peanut butter cups were for Cassidy.

Running ahead of Cassidy through the house and out onto the enclosed porch -- its row of dirty windows facing west -- the calico disappeared through the one they routinely left open for her.  The air felt brisk.  The wind chimes jangled from the eaves.  Cassidy picked up the Register from the top step, then glanced at the yard next door, where Dorothy's husband and three dark-skinned kids were raking crinkly brown leaves from their lawn out to a huge mound at the curb.

She smiled to herself.  You are such a slug.  Here they are doing physical labor, and your plan for the morning is to bask in this great air and read the Oak Park paper.

Even though Zach worked for the Post, she disapproved of the media on principle and refused to look at any part of the paper other than the cartoons, which she collected, and the stories written by her husband.  But she enjoyed keeping abreast of village controversies through the local weekly.  So what's the issue of the week?  Racial balance in the schools?  The gay festival?  Library staff changes?  Oak Parkers could get up in arms about almost anything.

As she settled on the wicker couch's old floral cushion, the date at the top of the paper caught her eye.  November fourth.  The words seemed to jiggle something loose from deep down in her unconscious, bringing back that edgy feeling from her dream.

Did something bad happen on November four?   Or is it just your imagination going berserk, trying to concoct something out of nothing, dredging up a wisp of bad memory because the past few months have been so trouble-free you've exceeded your tolerance for peaceful, orderly existence.

She flipped through the front section, sipped coffee, breathed in the earthy smells of damp ground and decaying leaves.  Gazing out at the street, she noticed that even though the parkway elms were bare, the smaller maples still held a thatch of bright yellow.  Village always looks so serene.  Easy to forget your back door window was broken just two months ago.  Yeah, but that could happen anywhere and it seemed like the guy didn't even come inside.

Returning to the porch, Starshine jumped onto her window ledge and said mrup.  Cassidy moved on to sports, then obituaries.  These were sections she seldom opened, but her mug wasn't empty yet and she didn't want to give up the outside air. 

She turned another page and stopped abruptly, eyes glued to a grainy photo of a face identical to hers.  A narrow face with deep set eyes, high cheekbones, and pointed chin, curly shoulder-length hair nestling around it.  She felt a tingling in her scalp.  Her chest tightened.

There was her name, CASSIDY MCCABE, in big bold letters centered above the brief obituary.  How could the paper make a mistake like that?  Mixing me up with somebody else.  And why a picture?  No photos with any of the others.

November fourth.  What happened on November fourth?  Oh no, oh no!  This is not something you ever want to remember.

She skimmed the two short paragraphs. 

CASSIDY MCCABE, 24, DIED NOV. 4 IN AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. SHE WAS A GRADUATE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT CHAMPAIGN.

SHE IS SURVIVED BY HER MOTHER AND FATHER, MR. AND MRS. DONALD SEGEL, HER SISTER ELAINE AND BROTHER PETER. FUNERAL SERVICES TOOK PLACE NOV. 9 AT FOSTER-HARRIS FUNERAL HOME.

It doesn't say she had a .12 blood alcohol level.  Or that she could have gone home safely in a taxi if her friend hadn't forced her to leave.  Or that what happened turned out in the long run to be irrelevant, nothing to have hysterics over, no reason at all for a vibrant young woman to die.

The voice in her head faded out.  Her surroundings became less real, as if she were floating overhead watching her zombie-self stare out at the street.  She saw Starshine leap down from the window ledge, prance over to the wicker couch, jump up on the seat, and bump her head against the figure sitting there.  The zombie person let the newspaper slide to the floor, reached out to scratch behind the cat's ear.  But Cassidy, observing from above, could feel neither the movement of the hands nor the sensation of skin against fur. 

The cat climbed into her lap, kneaded her chest, seemed to be trying to pull her back, but she stubbornly remained outside, not wanting to remember.  When the zombie person didn't respond, Starshine left through her window again.

Some time later a gray Nissan pulled up in front of the house.  Oh shit!  Don't want him here.  He won't let you stay a zombie.  Zach, dark-haired, wide-shouldered, moved rapidly toward the porch, coming inside to stand over her.

"You've seen it."

If you go back, you'll have to remember.  You'll have to tell him.

Her zombie-self continued staring at the street.

Sitting next to her, Zach took both her hands in his.  "Cass, look at me."

You might as well give up.  He's not going away.

The overhead observer slid back inside Cassidy's skin.  A deep shudder ran through her.  She sighed heavily, blinked, then gazed into Zach's troubled blue-gray eyes. 

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I saw the picture, read the obituary, then just sort of went off somewhere.  And wherever it was I went, I really wanted to stay there."  She grimaced.  "For an instant, I didn't even want to see you."  She laid her hand on his arm.  "But now that I've regained my senses, I'm really glad you're here."  She felt a rush of affection for her husband, who had come running to the rescue the minute he learned something was wrong.

He folded the paper so the fake obituary faced outward.  "You have any idea what this is about?"

You have to tell him.

Not yet.

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