Darkling I Listen (41 page)

"How is she taking Henry's death?"

"Better than the rest of us, I'd say." Her voice trembled. "I'm trying to handle this, Alan. I don't think I hurt this badly even with my grandmother's death. Don't get me wrong, I loved her devotedly. How could I not? She raised me, for God's sake. But when her time came, I was prepared. She'd been sick for so long—her passing was a relief. But this
…
I spoke to Henry just last night. He was
fine."

She looked around, through the window where a single lamp burned.
Brandon
sat by it in a rocker, his head back and eyes closed. Standing, Alyson carefully moved down the icy steps, putting more distance between
herself
and the house. "Whoever made that phone call to Henry knew how it would affect him. Henry always carried a bottle of his medicine in his pocket, another in the glove compartment of the truck for a backup—
Brandon
insisted on it. Alan, the deputies went through that truck with a fine-tooth comb. His medicine wasn't there. Not on him. Not in the truck. Betty said when he got the
call,
he was so frantic to get to the hospital that he didn't take his medicine with him. She didn't realize until he'd left. Why would Anticipating strike out at Henry, Alan? What could she gain from his death?"

"Perhaps she saw him as an obstacle in her way. Or perhaps it was another punishment. Or a control issue. Could have been any of those reasons, or all of them." Alan sighed. "Look, it isn't the best time to discuss this, but this needs to be said, A.J. I think it's obvious that we're dealing with a very twisted individual. I've had time to read and reread these letters, and I've come to the conclusion that Anticipating is probably someone who,
at
one time, was very close to Carlyle. Personally. Not just some freak fan—unrequited love from afar sort of thing."

"A former lover?" she said, glancing again toward the window.
Brandon
stared out at her, his face blank of expression.

"I don't think so. More like a business associate. More likely an employee. Someone who came in direct contact with him enough to know his day-to-day activities, which is probably how she knew about Ticky Creek. It's quite common. An employee attempts to establish a personal relationship with a coworker, an employer, and is rejected or ignored. Eventually their adoration becomes frustrated, angry, worsening their already sorry self-esteem. These people are socially maladjusted and probably have never been involved in any sort of meaningful relationship.

"But aside from all that, there's more going on here than the unrealistic emotional investment that Anticipating is manifesting by her rants of love and extreme adoration for Carlyle. It's as if she's elevated him to a god and sees his human foibles as outrageous iniquities. Apparently, she believes her sole objective is to deliver him from evil, so to speak. Which would explain why she'd take out anyone she thinks is leading him down a path of damnation."

"But why Henry?"

Alan remained silent for a long moment, then, "Just a hunch, A.J. But wasn't Henry encouraging your relationship with
Brandon
?"

"Oh, God," she whispered into the phone. "Our last conversation, he insisted that I move into the farmhouse. More than that, Alan, he was highly supportive of our getting married as soon as possible."

"Then Anticipating has ingratiated herself into Carlyle's life more closely than we thought
,
if she was aware of your plans to marry. Listen to
me,
you've got to get into Carlyle's employee records. Get us names and addresses, phone numbers. The letters began around a year before his accident with Marcella. We'll focus on those who were working for him at that time. Are you hearing me, A.J.? There's something else. The last few notes included quotes from Keats's 'Ode to a Nightingale'
I have been half in love with easeful Death
…
the individual has a death wish, A.J. I'm afraid she's tortured by more than her unrequited adoration for Carlyle. We've got to get to the bottom of this
now."

Her gaze fixed on Betty, who stood framed in the window, staring down at her, limned by the lamplight behind her. Alyson couldn't see her face—the dusk was too thick—but she sensed the coldness of Betty's stare. As always, when she looked at Alyson, her eyes were like green marbles. "I'll see what I can do," she replied
,
then hit the Off button on the cell phone.

As Alyson entered the house, she heard Doc Simpson talking on the kitchen phone, voice a low monotone. From the corner, of her right eye, she saw Betty moving toward her, so she turned to her left and entered the living room, where
Brandon
sat in the rocker, lighting another cigarette. Alyson dropped to one knee beside him and put her hand on his arm. "Talk to me, Brandon. Please. You can't continue this way."

"Leave him alone,"
came
Betty's voice. "He's suffering. Can't you see that?"

Brandon
looked at Alyson.

She tried to smile. "Don't hold it inside this way. Talk to me. We have to talk about what happened
…
and why."

"Why should he?" Betty demanded. "You're a liar and a fraud, Miss James. You broke his
heart,
and Henry's as well. I wouldn't be at all surprised if your behavior didn't provoke Henry's attack."

Alyson turned her head and stared into Betty's narrowed eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I know how devastated he was. I spent the entire day comforting him. He adored you, and you repaid his kindness with deception."

Her hand closing more tightly on
Brandon
's arm, Alyson focused again on his eyes, which looked at her with an intensity that stabbed at her heart. She suddenly felt cold, as if the marrow in her bones had turned to ice. "I spoke with Henry about it,
Brandon
. He wasn't upset. Don't listen to her. We know what provoked that attack. The phone call—"

"Mr. Henry trusted you. He allowed you into his home, encouraged your relationship with Mr. Brandon, and all the while you were using them. Blood money, that's what you'll gain from your sleazy tabloid story, Miss James."

Jumping to her feet, Alyson turned on Betty, and slapped her. The sound snapped like a child's pop gun in the silence. Her eyes wide, Betty stumbled back; her hand flew to her cheek.

Brandon
grabbed her, hauled her around so brutally she almost stumbled. His fingers closed like vises around her arms as he lifted her to her toes and shook her. His face looked feral. "Enough," he said through his teeth. "I want you out of my house, Alyson. Get the hell out of Ticky Creek, because if you don't—"

"Don't do this," she implored. "You have to listen to me, Brandon. I understand you're upset—"

He moved toward the door, dragging her with him. "Betty's going to take you back to the motel now. If you call me or come back here, I'll file charges against you."

"Surely you're not blaming me for—"

"Shut up."

"But—"

"I said 'Shut up.'" He shoved her out the door and down the icy porch steps.

She attempted to wrench away. He held her tighter until a hot numbness flashed down her arm. "I spoke with Alan," she announced, trying to keep her voice steady and rational. "He believes Anticipating is an acquaintance, very probably a former employee. She wanted to get rid of Henry because Henry encouraged our relationship, the way she got rid of Marcella because she saw Marcella as a threat. We need your employee records: names, addresses, phone numbers—"

"Do I look like a goddamn accountant to you?"

Opening the door of Betty's car, he pushed her down into the seat.

"Why won't you listen to me?" she cried, at last twisting her arm free.

Looking into her eyes, he said, "If you ever really gave a damn about me, Aly, just walk away. Walk away and don't look back. It's enough to deal with Henry's death. If something happened to you…
"

She touched his cheek, managed a watery smile. "You still care, don't you? You're doing this—pushing me away to protect me."

Some emotion flickered in his eyes, and suddenly he looked bone weary, and heartbreakingly sad. "I have to do this alone, Aly. Understand, please. It's
…
private, the pain. I can't explain it. I have to deal with it alone."
Brandon
shut the car door as Betty opened hers and threw Alyson's purse into her lap. The contents spilled around her feet. She hardly
noticed,
her focus still on
Brandon
as he backed away, his eyes full of turmoil and his face pale as chalk.

He stood in the cold long after Betty's car had disappeared beyond the security gate. The cold bit at his exposed skin. The lead weight in his chest had grown immeasurably heavier the moment the car, with Alyson in it, disappeared into the dark.

He didn't want to go back in the house. Not back to the emptiness. And the silence. And the memories. Then he'd be forced to acknowledge the hole of anger and grief that, minute by minute, expanded inside him, as if the seam of his reality were slowly dissolving stitch by stitch, swallowing him from the inside out.

Henry gone. It wasn't possible.
Brandon
expected him to appear in the distant barn door, wearing his cap and overalls. At any moment Henry would appear on the porch, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, and point out that
Brandon
would catch his death if he didn't get out of the cold. Henry would suggest hot chocolate, and when he thought
Brandon
wasn't looking, he'd sneak some brandy into his mug. They'd settle next to Bernie and stare at the television—grump over the idiotic questions on
Who
Wants to Be a Millionaire—
and
Henry would fall asleep with his glasses on.

Henry gone. It wasn't possible.

Sluggishly, he mounted the porch steps, glanced over his shoulder one last time, half expecting to see Betty returning with Alyson—no, not expecting it, exactly. Needing it. Wanting Aly back even before Betty's car lights had dimmed into the dark. Better this way. He simply couldn't deal with her getting hurt—not because of him.

He moved down the hallway to the kitchen. Doc Simpson sat at the table, looked up at
Brandon
with sad, weary eyes. Doc was slightly older than Henry, thinner, with a fluff of white hair that resembled cotton. "The phone hasn't stopped
ringing
.
Folks
passing on
their condolences.
I
suspect they'll be trailing through here tomorrow like army ants."

"Why are you still here?"
Brandon
asked.

"Henry was a friend. A close friend. I know how he worried about you." He looked away, then back. "The funeral home called. Just like we thought. Heart attack. Massive. They'll have his body ready for viewing by
noon
tomorrow. They'll need clothes to bury him in, of course. Would you like me to do that for you? Drop off his clothes? It's on my way home."

Brandon
stared down at the horn-rimmed glasses on the table. Their lenses were cracked, having hit the ground when Henry slumped out of the truck into
Brandon
's arms. He shrugged and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if the effort would block out the sight of those glasses.

Doc Simpson scraped back his chair and walked to
Brandon
, laid one hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. I know what he meant to you."

"No. You don't."
Brandon
shook his head. "You can't possibly know what he meant to me."

"If there's anything I can do—"

"There is."
Brandon
gave a quavering grin. "Bring him back."

Doc turned away, trudged up the stairs to Henry and Bernie's old room, where he'd poke through the closet and find Henry's only suit. Henry had bought it shortly after
Brandon
's return home, during one of Bernie's bad spells. "Best to be prepared," Henry had declared with an air of nonchalance that had not been reflected in his sorrowful eyes.

Brandon
touched the glasses, but didn't pick them up.

He turned slowly toward Bernie's room.

She sat in her wheelchair facing the muted television, hands in her lap, blue eyes fixed on the television screen as if she were really watching it. He crossed the room and touched the
Off
button, moved to Bernie, stared down at her for a full minute before easing down onto his knees and reaching for her cold hand.

He searched her face, her eyes, the pressure and heat in his throat becoming unbearable. Simply drawing in a breath felt impossibly difficult, as if his lungs had filled with water. "Bernie
…
he always held on to the hope that you were still with us. God, I'd like to believe that right now. I'd like to think there was something left…
"

A spasm flashed through him. His eyes burned. Emotion scraped up his throat like burning fragments of sharp glass. "He's gone, Bernie." The sound was ragged. "Henry's gone. I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry."