Haunting Refrain

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

This book is reprinted from the original, published in 2002 by Silver Dagger Mysteries

Electronic Book ASIN: B00336F3QE

Copyright © 2011 by Ellis
Vidler

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by Anne Cain

http://www.annecain-art.com/

To Helen Duke Johnston

—I love you, Mother

If
she had known what it held, she would never have touched it the first time. Now it was too late. The simple sweatband, deceptively harmless, lay like a white asp on the desk top in front of her. Kate McGuire regarded it with loathing. When she touched it, its secret sprang forth like some evil genie, overwhelming her with its force.

Coward.
Do it. Pick it up again
. The band was such a small thing, she told herself, nothing.

She took a breath, stretched out her shaking hand, and grasped it. The vision slammed into her, instantly.

Hands, cold and hard, tightened around her throat, choking her. Long fingers encircled her neck, and fingernails cut into her flesh. Strong thumbs pressed into her
windpipe,
forced her head back. She clawed at them, tried to free
herself
. Blinded by the rain and the curtain of hair that covered her eyes, she couldn’t see the face above her. She fought, desperate for air. Those powerful fingers squeezed harder.
The world around her dimmed.
She was dying.

“Bitch, bitch!”
The voice rang through her head,
then
faded.

Kate drifted out of the terror and into a deep sadness. Only silence and the scent of rain-washed hemlocks remained. Then, from a distance, she heard new voices, calling her name. She became aware of hands, warm this time, tugging at her arm. She gasped, choking, struggling for air.

Professor Martin Carver, abandoning his role as an observer, pried the headband out of her locked hands and tossed it onto a chair. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Kate, Kate!”

From a long way off she saw him, felt his hands. Her friend, Venice Ashburton, knelt on the other side of the desk, clasping Kate’s arm and fanning her with a lacy handkerchief. “It’s all right, dear. Let it go. It’s over.”

Through a white mist Kate struggled slowly back to the present. She drew air in ragged gulps, fought to quell the queasy waves in her stomach. She blinked at the two figures hovering over her. “I’m okay.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. She shuddered and touched her throat, still feeling the need for air. What had happened to her?

Martin patted Kate’s shoulder. “
Venice
, would you get her a Coke?”

Venice
started for the door, only to be brought up short by her purse. Martin automatically leaned over and unhooked the shoulder strap from the desk where she’d been sitting.

Kate sank into Martin’s big chair. Her hat tumbled to the floor, loosing a mass of red hair. “You have to tell me who owns that headband.”
 

“First you need to tell me what happened. I don't want anything to influence you before you describe what you saw. I'll tell you after that, I promise,” Martin said, pushing the hair back from her pallid face. “Wait for
Venice
.”

While Kate collected herself, he moved away and took a white index card from his pocket. Exhausted, she slumped in the chair, silently acknowledging the wisdom of his statement. She could tell from his hunched posture that what he had to say wasn’t good.

Martin stared at the card. She knew it contained the data about the sweatband, the owner's name and physical description and any other pertinent information. As she watched, heaviness fell like a mantle over the professor, and he looked every one of his sixty-nine years. A knot formed in her stomach. What was on that card? Who did that damned thing belong to? Deep inside her, fear grew.

She drew inward, reaching for her inner calm, and focused on putting this—this nightmare in perspective. The experiments had begun innocently enough.
Venice
had urged her to join Professor Martin Carver’s parapsychology group, encouraging her to get out and mix with other people. Kate thought it would be something interesting to do, a harmless break from the fledgling photography business that consumed her for the last year. She’d always had little flashes of knowledge—nothing significant, just brief glimpses that passed through her mind. Intuition, she claimed, when she found her friends’ car keys, her mother’s earring. Or
Venice
’s purse, though she’d had a lot of practice at that.

Until an hour ago, Kate had considered herself a relatively normal woman—not much money, no love life, but her own person, pursuing her own goals.
Generally pretty happy.
But normal people did not have visions of murder. Neither did
she
, she insisted, at least not until tonight, when she’d picked up the headband.

Venice
returned with a paper cup.

Martin took the Coke and held it to Kate's lips. “Come on. Drink this.”

She took the sweet drink with shaking hands and forced herself to sip. “Thank you,
Venice
.”

When she felt able, Kate recounted what she’d experienced, making an effort to remove herself from the vision and be objective. “It was the same as before, only worse. Someone tried to strangle me. I felt these hands closing around my throat.
Just squeezing tighter and tighter.
He killed me—her.”

“I'm sorry.” Martin patted her hand. “I hoped it would be different this time. Can you describe it? What did you see?”

“Just—just hands around my throat.
Choking me.
Something covered my eyes, maybe hair.” What else had she seen? What clouded her vision?
Water?
Tears?
All she could think of was the terrible need for air.

“You didn't see anything at all?
No one else?”
Martin asked.

“It was the same as before. I
was
that girl. It was happening to me. A face, dark and blurred, loomed over me. I was only aware of the hands—I couldn't breathe. I have a terrible feeling of finality.” She shivered, whispering, “I know she's dead, whoever she is.”

Martin looked sick. “Do you have any feeling about the person strangling her? Was it someone she knows?”

“A man, I think. I couldn't see, but I have an impression of size and strength that suggests a man. That's all.” She looked up at him. “Please tell me what this is about.”

“Only one more question. Could you tell what time of day it was?”

“What does that matter?” she asked. “It was dark.
Night.
Now whose is it?”

He took a deep breath and held out the card. “The sweatband belongs to Kelly Landrum.”

Kate reached for the card, wondering where she’d heard the name. “Kelly Landrum? Who's—”

“She's the girl who's missing!”
Venice
cried
,
catching the cup as it slipped from Kate's hands. She took a quick sip and choked.

Kate snatched the card, needing to see it for herself. She read the name.
Kelly Landrum.
A spot like a teardrop blurred the blue ink.
An omen?
Please, don’t let it be true.

“Yes, she's the student who's been missing for four days.” Martin kept his gaze on Kate's drawn face. “Her picture is on every newspaper and television screen in
South Carolina
. Someone found her car here on the campus. The police have been all over the place since then. We should call them, Kate.”

“No! I haven't seen anything that could help them, and I'm not touching that thing again.” Kate retreated into the chair, pulled her knees up under her chin, and wrapped her skirt around her legs, holding herself tightly. If she didn’t, she might fall apart—the image was so strong, so
immediate
. She touched her throat.
And if it was true . . .

Venice
leaned forward and reached over, patting Kate's arm. “It's all right. Remember, whatever you see, it isn't happening to you.” She turned to Martin. “You'll have to let me try.”
Venice
's face was almost as white as Kate's, but her voice was calm. She looked at the crumpled band.

“All right,
Venice
, if you're sure.” Martin looked back at Kate.

Torn, Kate watched her friend. Did she want
Venice
to go through it? Although
Venice
's theatrics often clouded the picture, Kate considered her truly clairvoyant.
Venice
might see something herself, or she might pick up Kate’s vision, but either way, Kate would consider it a confirmation. She felt the hands tighten on her neck again, sucked in air.

“No,
Venice
. Don't do it.” Kate blinked back tears. “It's terrible.”

“I'm all right. I may not see anything at all.”
Venice
sat down in a student desk and held out her hand. Martin handed her the band.

Venice
closed her eyes and pressed the band to her forehead, rocking slightly in the chair. “The night is dark and quiet. I see patterns of light, perhaps reflections in a pool.
Trees.”
She shivered. “I feel fear, a woman terribly afraid. The air is filled with menace—a presence, dark, angry, raging!”