Darkling I Listen (21 page)

"Listen to me very carefully, A.J. This is all conjecture. There isn't one shred of evidence pointing to anyone other than Carlyle causing the death of Emerald Marcella."

"But
…
?
I hear the
but
there."

"I couldn't help but think about one of our previous conversations. As a psychiatrist, I must first examine,
then
offer the possibility with extreme caution, if not outright reluctance—"

"Get over it, Alan!"

"I feel that I should raise the disconcerting possibility that Emerald Marcella might—I repeat might—have been a victim of someone who was going to make damn sure she wouldn't be putting any more moves on Carlyle."

She stared at the stall door in front of her, the bold black graffiti letters blurring,
the
air in the cramped space becoming so hot her skin began to sweat.

"A.J., in the most extreme cases, stalkers look at anyone who comes between them and the object of their obsession as an obstacle who must be eliminated."

"Anticipating." She said it more to herself than to Alan. A cold chill shimmied up her spine.

"I'm concerned that Anticipating might be more dangerous than we first believed. And if that's the case, if she suspects that you're bonding to Carlyle in any way—"

The phone went dead.

Alyson stared at it. Shook it. Punched the Power button repeatedly, only to have the battery alarm burp in response.

It was all too far-fetched, of course—some obsessed fan removing Carlyle from the car, then in a fit of jealous rage murdering Marcella.

Perhaps someone happened on the accident and removed Carlyle from the car, simply didn't want to become involved, so drove off into the rainy night—
Alyson sank back against the plumbing again. The earlier buzz of inebriation had vaporized. She felt like Jell-O. Dear God, could Anticipating have killed the woman she considered an obstacle between her and Carlyle by sending the car over a cliff?

If so, then Carlyle was in a lot more danger then he imagined.

And so was she.

The bathroom door opened, allowing music and laughter to boil into the room, then eased closed with a thump. Silence hummed in the air. She listened for footsteps, the opening of a stall door,
the
jangle of a purse. Nothing.

The lights went out.

Alyson stood slowly, unbalanced and confused by the unexpected blackness.

From her right came the squeak of a stall door slowly
opening,
and the reality slammed her that she wasn't alone.

Another squeak, closer, as if someone was working their way down the line of stalls. In the dark. Looking for someone. Looking for
…
her?

Of course not. What idiotic paranoia—

She reached out blindly, found the latch, fingertips ascertaining that, yes, she had locked it.

Another door opened. Then another. Then silence again. Seconds stretched out like an eternity.

As she stared hard through the dark, her senses expanded to the shattering point. She wasn't a screamer—there wasn't a reason to scream, because it was all a joke or a misunderstanding. Besides, she had always been one of those very weird birds who didn't panic easily; rationalization was as much second nature to her as breathing.

Alyson backed against the toilet bowl, tottered and threw her arms out to the stall walls to balance herself—

"Come out, come out, wherever you are,"
came
the singsong whisper.

Okay, so this was no joke. And if it was, it was a damn sick one. She climbed onto the toilet seat, one hand gripping the dead telephone so tightly it felt like her knuckles would pop through the skin. What was she supposed to do now?

Laughter, soft and throaty, sounded near the stall door. A sudden burst of conversation erupted in the corridor outside the rest room.

The door blew open, and someone said, "Who turned out the lights?"

Alyson closed her eyes, relief draining the strength from her legs as the overhead fluorescent lights flickered on again and a swarm of women scurried for the stalls. She jumped to the floor and grabbed up her purse, popped the latch on the stall door, and stepped out. Her gaze leaped from the cluster of women crowding the sinks to the line of closed stall doors. A half-dozen faces turned her way—again with eyes that were as curious as they were envious.

She left the powder room at a semi run, hurried down the corridor while the blast of music and the roar of conversation ricocheted off the walls around her. She came face to face with Ruth, who grabbed her by the shoulders and laughed.

"Whoa, darlin'. You been shot out of a cannon or what?"

Sinking against the wall, Alyson struggled to take a breath. Air rushed into her lungs so explosively that she wondered just how long she'd gone without breathing.

The smile sliding from her mouth, Ruth frowned and patted Alyson's cheek. "Hon, you ain't lookin' so good."

"Too much Budweiser," she managed, forcing a smile. "I think I need some air."

"The deck is fairly quiet right now. I'll bring you some coffee. Here, Sugar, borrow my jacket. I was gonna take my break, but that can wait another five." Ruth slung the neon yellow parka over Alyson's shoulders and nudged her toward the glass doors that led to a broad wood deck lit by hundreds of red and green jalapeno-shaped Christmas lights twinkling in the trees. "You want me to get
Brandon
? I think I seen him go into the gents' room a few minutes ago."

Alyson nodded and smiled her thanks as Ruth opened the door to the deck, allowing her to step out into the cool, fairy-like atmosphere. The rush of sharp air momentarily took her breath away. Pausing, clutching the parka around her, Alyson briefly closed her eyes while the serenity of the lights and muted music calmed the frantic pounding of her heart. Only then did she realize that she still held the phone in her hand. When she tried to open her fingers, it was as if they were frozen in a death grip.

What in God's name had just happened?

Surely she'd allowed Alan's phone call to rattle her reasoning. There was absolutely no cause to believe that what just took place was anything other than a mean-spirited prank by one of a hundred catty, jealous females who were pissed over her perceived relationship with Carlyle.

Perceived relationship my tush,
she thought. Before Alan's phone call she had been on the verge of giving in to Carlyle's seduction. They had practically made love on the dance floor.

Light laughter drew her focus to a couple standing together at the far end of the deck. They touched and snuggled and kissed. Ordinary people doing ordinary things. Suddenly Alyson's once ordinary existence felt as conspicuous as King Kong in a china shop. She suspected that if she looked over her shoulder, she'd find people with their noses smashed against the windows as they watched and waited for her next move.

Alyson walked to the deck railing and looked down on the creek, dimly lit by the overhead twinklers. The murky water shifted and coiled around the mossy pilings, carrying debris into the dark like silent sailing vessels. A shiver ran through her, and she took a cautious step back from the railing. She'd nearly drowned when she was a child. Since then she'd had an unreasonable fear of wading into water that was more than knee deep.

There was a sound behind her. She turned, pulling herself back hard against the deck rail as Marilyn Monroe came flying at her, teeth bared and fists raised.

She hissed, "Stinkin' home wrecker! I'm gonna kick your ass!"

«
^
»

B
randon
slammed his fist against the condom machine, then
jabbed the unresponsive button below a photograph of a buxom redhead in a black garter belt and lacy bra. Nothing. He slammed it again as the bathroom door opened and several men walked in. They crossed the room to stand beside
Brandon
, their attention focused on the machine that ate another two of
Brandon
's quarters and responded with nothing more than a whir and click.

"Damn," Jim Benton said as he thumbed back the brim of his cowboy hat. "This ain't good. Move over, Carlyle, and let me try." Jim blasted the machine with his fist. Nothing.

Gordon Franks, wearing a Mesquite Rodeo cap and a Horseshoe Casino T-shirt, swore under his breath before saying, "Somebody
call
nine-one-one. I just spent half my week's salary on freakin' strawberry daiquiris to get some sweet thang in the mood, and now I can't get
no
damn rubber? Move over, boys, and let me at her." Franks pounded the row of buttons, swearing louder with each punch until he grabbed the machine with both hands and tried to pry it off the wall.

Raymond Melroy had come to the
River Road
straight from work. Still wearing his greasy Econo Lube 'N Tune uniform, he shoved through the group of men and waved a screwdriver that he'd extracted from his hip pocket. "Let me at that som'bitch, but if there's anythang in there, I got first dibs on it."

"No way," Carlyle argued. "I've fed
that
damn machine three dollars—"

"I got fifteen dollars invested in daiquiris," Franks argued.

"I haven't been with a woman in four years,"
Brandon
shouted back. "Cut me some slack here."

The men stared at him, mouths open, eyes wide with shock. His face warming,
Brandon
gave them a weak grin and a shrug.

"Hell," Raymond said, slapping
Brandon
on the shoulder, "I'm sensin' some desperation here. You got it, Carlyle. In fact, if this som'bitch is empty, I'll drive down to the Texaco myself and buy you a box of rubbers. Any man who's gone that long without gittin' any probably can't think straight enough to drive."

"What the bejesus is goin' on in here?"
Clyde
yelled as he stormed into the room. Six-foot-five and weighing in at nearly three hundred pounds, he lumbered toward the men with a dark expression on his face. "What the hell are you boys doin' to my damn rubber machine?"

"It ain't workin," Raymond declared, pointing at the machine with his screwdriver. "We got an emergency here. Carlyle's about to git him some for the first time in four years, and this baby ain't cooperatin'."

Clyde
dug in his pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. He opened the machine and stood back. With a collective groan, they all stared at the empty compartments. Scratching his head,
Clyde
offered, "Sorry, boys. Guess we had a busier weekend than usual."

The door opened again and Ruth Threadgill ran in, waving her arms. "Carlyle, you better get out here quick. Somebody's done jumped your girlfriend."

At first, Ruth's meaning didn't sink in.
Brandon
stared at her. "What?"

"Hon, get your brain outta your pants and get out here. Some loony's tryin' to claw Alyson's pretty eyes out."

He ran out of the gents' room and into a wall of bodies, all moving toward the deck doors.
Brandon
attempted to shoulder his way through the crowd as his panic mounted.
Clyde
came up behind him and began grabbing people, flinging them away so
Brandon
could get through.

With a final surge, he broke through the mob, stumbled onto the deck as, in the
distance,
a man tackled a blond woman and sent her careening to the deck. Looking around at
Brandon
, he shouted, "She's in the water! She's gone under, and she ain't come up!"

Fear surged through him, seizing up his body for an eternal instant so that he couldn't move. He stared at the shattered deck rail that gaped like a hole to perdition. Then, as if from some inner source, a momentum pushed him forward, carried him across the deck toward the splintered rail.

Atop the dark water floated a bright colored parka. He dived toward it.

The black water sucked him deep, cold enough to drive the air from his lungs. He kicked out with his feet and struck at the water wall with his fists. Above him, floodlights cut through the dense water, and he clawed his way toward them until his head broke the surface and he gasped for air. People shouted and pointed. To his right, Alyson thrashed at the water before going under again.

She clawed at his face and grabbed his shirt. They sank again, drawn under by the weight of their clothes and her flailing. He beat her hands away and managed to grab her hair, pulled her to the surface as
Clyde
flung a life preserver to them. A group of men slid down the muddy banks of the creek, and as
Brandon
managed to heave Alyson onto the life preserver, they were hauled into the shallows.

Wrapping his arms around Alyson, he dragged her onto the bank, sinking to his shins in mud. They sprawled, she clutching at his shirt and retching water out her mouth and nose.

"I—I can't swim," she choked, her face buried in his shoulder.

"I noticed." He stroked her hair and gasped for breath. His pulse hammered. He hadn't felt such terror since his Ferrari had careened out of control and into a guardrail.

Catching Alyson's bruised and lacerated face in his hands, he tilted her head back and forced himself to smile—a task, since the last thing he felt like being was cordial. "I was going to take you fishing with me and Henry in the morning, but now I don't think so. You've come as up close and personal to a catfish as I'm willing to allow in a twenty-four-hour period." Her right eye was swollen, and her lip bleeding. When she attempted a weak smile, she flinched in pain. "Aly, the next time you find yourself in over your head, try to relax and roll to your back. Whatever you do, don't fight the water, because the water will win every time. Got it?"

She nodded.

Like a yowling cat, Mitsy Dillman attempted to escape the men who fought to control her. With her blond wig on the deck and her lipstick-stained teeth bared, she flung herself wildly from side to side and screamed, "You sons of bitches, let me go! You got no right to keep me from my husband! Filthy, two-timin' son of a whore, cheatin' on me with that hussy while our kids are home cryin' for their daddy, and me with another young'un under the belt. I'll kill the bitch—and him, too. Git your hands off me! You can't treat me like this. Do you know who the hell I am? I'm a frickin' movie star, you sad sack of pig dung. I'll club you over the head with my damn Oscar if you ain't careful."

Brandon
helped Alyson to her feet. Someone else flung a jacket around her shoulders. From the distance came the shrill call of a siren.

*

Deputy Greene shook his head as his partner wrestled a handcuffed Mitsy into the cruiser. "She's nutty as a fruitcake.
I don't care if she
is
Jack's sister." He turned to Alyson and Brandon. "Ma'am, I'm awful sorry about this. If I was you, I'd go to the clinic and have that cut looked at. Might need a few stitches.
Don't
much like the look of that knot on your head, either. Could have a concussion."

Alyson, wet and shivering, shook her head and continued to hold a bag of ice against her lip.
Brandon
held her against him, his arms offering her strength and his body warming her. A spasm ran through her, and she buried her face against his shoulder until it passed. His clothes clung to his body, and there was mud in his boots. He did his best to ignore Mitsy's ranting, but that was no easier than containing his mounting anger.

Deputy Greene said, "She'll be transported to Tyler General for assessment, to see if she's mentally competent enough to go to jail. I'll give you a call tomorrow and let you know. I'll do my best to keep her away from you, sir, but there's no guarantee. You might try having a restraining order put on her, but as crazy as she is, I don't know that it'll do you a lot of good. Ma'am." He touched the brim of his hat and turned away.

Ruth and
Clyde
had done a respectable job of dispersing the crowd. Now Ruth put a foam cup of hot coffee in Alyson's hand, and smiled encouragingly. "You'll have a real shiner in the mornin', and I suspect you'll feel a few muscles that you didn't realize you had. That dimwit must have hit you like a bull to knock you through that deck rail. 'Course, it don't help that the rail needed replacin' anyway. I told
Clyde
not two weeks ago that it was rotten, and if he didn't do somethin' about it soon, somebody was gonna take a dive and wind up suin' him. Drink your coffee, hon. Might chase away the shivers."

Alyson smiled her thanks. "Sorry about your coat, Ruth."

"Aw, hell, I've had that old thing for years. We're just grateful the creek was relatively calm. It can get pretty nasty after we've had a lot of rain.
Clyde
's cousin drowned in it last year. Fell out of his boat, and that was that. Currents sucked him under and didn't spit him out for two weeks. Found him down near
Nacogdoches
, or what was left of him that the catfish and gar hadn't eaten." She smiled up at
Brandon
. "Hon, you handled that like a character right out of one of your movies. Now when somebody says,
Aw
, he's just playin' a role and he's probably a wussy in real life,
I can say
Not even.
You went into that water like a freakin' Navy SEAL. Kinda romantic, ain't it?" She nudged Alyson and winked.

Paying little attention to Ruth,
Brandon
watched the cruiser pull onto the highway and drive off into the dark. Mitsy's white face stared back at him as she continued to rant.

"I think she intended to confront me in the ladies' room," Alyson said as she sipped her hot coffee. "Someone came in and turned off the light—"

"Wasn't her," Ruth said, shaking her head. "I kept my eye on Mitsy soon as she
come
in. She's always makin' trouble for somebody. We got to throw her out of the place at least once a week when she's in town. Few days ago she came in announcin' she was gonna have Joe DiMaggio's baby. Few nights ago Jim Benton was upcreek checkin' his trotlines at
midnight
, and who comes by him but her in her brother's bass boat, lookin like Marilyn Monroe in a poodle skirt and high heels, and swiggin' vodka straight out of a bottle. She pulled her sweater up and flashed her boobs at him. Said he almost tossed his dinner."

Ruth patted Alyson on the shoulder. "Get you some rest. Have Mr. Hollywood bring you back in a couple days and dinner'll be on me. And if you need a friend to hang out with while you're in town, just give me a call. I'm in the book."

Alyson rested her head against the car seat and closed her eyes as
Brandon
drove back to town. The temperature had plummeted the last hour, so he turned the heater on, as well as the overhead lamp, so he could better see Alyson's face. He glanced at her frequently, fresh anger, as well as frustration, surging through him. The aftershock of what had happened left him physically numb, not unlike the morning he had awakened in a hospital and learned that Emerald Marcella was dead.

The dim overhead light did nothing to alleviate the extent of the injuries to her face. There was a swelling over her right eye that gave her the appearance of a prizefighter after a particularly punishing round. Her lower lip looked swollen, and there were smears of blood on her chin. Yet, since he'd pulled her out of Ticky Creek, she hadn't made so much as a whimper. Her composure had extinguished his own barely contained fury—if she'd shown the slightest emotional or physical distress, he'd have been hard-pressed to keep his hands off Mitsy. An emotion washed over him, unfamiliar and as shocking to his senses as his dive into Ticky Creek's cold waters. Alyson James had become important to him.

"Do you think she's Anticipating?" she asked, looking at him with concerned eyes.

A couple of times he'd reached for Anticipating's letter in his pocket, only to recall that it was now nothing more than a soggy mess. "Maybe. If it's Mitsy, at least Anticipating has an identity and I can deal with it—I can't deal with an unknown who's nothing more than a name and threat on a piece of paper." He reached for her hand and curled his fingers around it. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this, Aly. I'll do whatever I have to, to make certain she won't hurt you again."

"I want to talk about Emerald Marcella."

Frowning, he withdrew his hand. The statement had come out of left field, unbalancing him. It wasn't a topic he allowed himself to visit often. The guilt, not to mention the unsettling memories of that night, rushed through him in a black wave. "No." He shook his head as his hands gripped the wheel almost convulsively. "I don't want to go there. Not tonight."

She studied him silently. "It's important that you do, I think. A woman is dead—"