Darkling I Listen (46 page)

The phone slid to the floor with a loud ping of the ringer.
Brandon
stared down at it, feeling stupidly
clumsy,
them lifted his gaze back
to
Betty, who glared at him from the door. She held the soap-dripping butcher knife in one hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded again, only it wasn't her voice. Too deep and raspy. Like a boy tumbling headlong into adolescence, a clash of testosterone that made vocal cords temporarily retarded.

He glanced down at the phone as the shrill beep-beep-beep signaled that the receiver was off the hook. His cigarette lay beside it, smoldering as a dark smudge spread beneath the ash, sending a tendril of scorch-stink into the air.

"What have you given me?" he heard himself ask.

"Just something to relax you. To help you rest. You needn't worry. It won't harm you. Surely you don't think I'd harm you. My God, I've done everything in my power to protect you."

Unsteadily, he stood, swayed, not so sedated that he couldn't experience a rush of white-hot fury. "You killed him, didn't you? Henry. You removed his medicine—"

"He invited that harlot into this house to tempt you. My presence meant nothing any longer. I explained what a mistake he was making to encourage your relationship with that tramp—"

"Bitch."

Her eyes widened as he lunged toward her. She stumbled back, cried out as he clutched her throat in his hand and propelled her backward, slamming her against a wall so hard that the panes in the nearby windows clattered. Her mouth flew open in a shriek like a terrorized animal and she slashed out with the knife, driving it deep into his shoulder. Blood flew from the wound in a startling spray, spattering across her uniform and face, drawing an agonized wail of shock from her.

Pain exploded through him, and he rolled away. The searing heat of the wound momentarily drove the lethargy from his sluggish mind and body, and he staggered down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Think, think. The gun, he'd loaded the .357 on Halloween night with the intent of confronting Mitsy Dillman, had put it away in the gun cabinet without unloading it.

Betty lumbered down the corridor behind him, her footsteps thundering like a bull's on the hardwood floor. In the kitchen she hit him, driving him over the harvest table, crashing the rooster to the floor and sending salt and pepper shakers flying toward the sink, where they splintered against the cupboard. He drove his elbow hard into her ribs—she grunted—he heaved backward and rolled, rammed his bloodied hand into her skull, twisting his fingers into her hair and—
Her hands closed around his neck and lifted him as if he were weightless, and in that surreal moment he knew he was dead—the certainty of it settled into his darkening consciousness with a calm acceptance that obliterated the pain in his shoulder and the fear that had rendered him momentarily mindless. He felt himself fly through the air and crash against the wall. He slid down the wall bonelessly as the dark drug of sedation and shock crushed down on him and through him. A bone-chilling cold replaced the fire in his shoulder. He stared down at his hands, the bloodied one gripping something that at first confused him—a scalp. Christ, he was holding her scalp; the orange-red of her hair clashed with the dark blood on his fingers. Slowly, he raised his gaze to her eyes, which were wide and bulging in rage—one green eye and one brown. The lost green contact gaped at him from her cheek.

«
^
»

"
I
don't like it." Alyson looked up as Alan walked into the
room,
glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read from a collection of dissertations on stalkers and their victims. "I've called
Brandon
three times. The first time Betty said he'd driven to the cemetery. I've called twice since then, and both times got a busy signal."

Alan dropped onto the sofa, tossed the notebook aside, and removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes, and sighed wearily. "Have you heard anything from Ron?"

"Nothing yet." She stood and paced, her attention briefly roaming Ron Peterson's apartment. "Alan, are you sure this guy knows what he's doing?"

"He was the District Attorney's chief investigating officer, A.J. He knows what he's doing. He's in Carlyle's corner, okay? He felt from the word
go
that
Brandon
got a raw deal during the Emerald Marcella fiasco. If it had been left up to him, Carlyle would never have spent a day in prison, much less three years. He's got good instincts. If anyone can ferret out Anticipating, he can."

"He just seems
…
cocky."

"He's a rogue." Alan chuckled. "If he didn't give a damn about the truth, he'd still be with the D.A.'s office."

Alyson shook her head. "I've got this sick feeling that I shouldn't have left Ticky Creek when I did. If Betty is Anticipating—"

"If Betty is Anticipating, A.J., your presence and intrusion into the Carlyle household would only worsen the situation. Not only that, but you'd risk turning Anticipating's attention and wrath against you. Third parties who attempt to insulate a stalker's target often become victims themselves. Take Henry, for instance. We have no way of knowing for certain, of course, but I suspect that Anticipating decided he had, in some way, begun to hamper her ability to get up close and personal with Brandon. Either
that,
or she sacrificed him as an example of the control that she perceives she has over Carlyle. Perhaps it was a warning to you of what would happen if you continued your relationship with
Brandon
."

"There has to be something we can do. That the police can do."

"Anticipating has kept her distance, which in itself is very unusual. Stalkers who've gone as far as this one normally present themselves to the victim in a more obvious manner by now. They're very brazen, overconfident in their quest and ability to achieve their goal. Remember, in their twisted rationalization, they believe the object of their desire actually loves them, so remaining anonymous isn't going to get them the satisfaction they crave."

"Perhaps she's already presented herself," Alyson pointed out. "If Betty is Anticipating, she's right where she wants to be, isn't she? She's ingratiated herself into his life and family. He's become dependent on her. Fond of her. Certainly, she wouldn't risk it all by presenting herself as Anticipating."

"I think you need to take a giant step back off Betty. I'm afraid you're allowing your focus to become skewed because she doesn't like you."

"She hates me, Alan."

He grinned and shrugged. "Okay, okay, she hates you." Replacing his glasses on his nose, he looked up at Alyson and winked. "I'm simply suggesting, sweetheart, that you step back a moment and look clearly at the big picture. Before Betty went to work for the Carlyles, she had no history, no ties with
Brandon
. We've come close to establishing that Anticipating had to be a close acquaintance or an employee."

"True." She nodded. "On the other hand…" She flopped onto the sofa beside Alan. "I wasn't in Ticky Creek forty-eight hours before the town was buzzing about me and my reasons for being there."

"Whoa, wait a minute. I know where you're going with this, A.J. If some strange woman started hanging around and asking about Carlyle, the Ticky Creek residents would have been on to her. Need I remind you that you fell out of a flipping tree on top of Carlyle and got yourself arrested? You were as blatant as a bull in a china shop."

"We're talking about a secluded little town of less than five thousand people. And when it comes to
Brandon
…
the people are obsessively protective of him. If someone moved in and showed excessive interest in
Brandon
, you better believe that town would rally. I shudder to imagine how they might have reacted if they'd learned I worked for the
Galaxy
Gazette."
She took a deep breath and laid her head on Alan's shoulder. "God, I'm tired."

"Why don't you get some rest?" Alan slid his arm around her. "I'll wake you when Ron gets back."

"I can't. I'm ringing
Brandon
again. If he doesn't answer this time, I'm calling Deputy Greene."

The door opened and Ron walked in, his sport coat slung across one broad shoulder. Alyson sprang from the sofa, stopping him in his tracks. He looked like Don Johnson from his
Miami
Vice
days.

"Give me good news, Peterson. If you don't, I'm liable to jump off this building and take you with me."

He flashed
her a
smile. "God, I love pushy women." He grinned. "Just spent the last two hours with Juanita Perez Darling, proprietor of Darling Domestics, which supplied Carlyle with housekeepers and cooks up to the time he sold his house and retired to Corcoram Prison. Aside from telling me numerous amusing anecdotes about your boyfriend, she established that the employees who worked for him can be accounted for. Most still work for her."

"And the ones who don't?"

"Are working for other agencies." He tossed his coat over the back of a chair, and grinned. "Quite a boy, our Brandon."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Poured booze instead of milk over his Bran Nubbins for breakfast."

"So he's a little eccentric." She laughed and glanced around at Alan, who shrugged and feigned a laugh back.

Ron removed his sunglasses and stepped around her, heading for the kitchen. "That was when he was in a good mood. Considering how highly you think of him, I won't annoy you with those times he wasn't in such a good mood. Let's just say that once he began spiraling down that bumpy road of self-destruction, the ride was rather hairy for anyone within shouting or striking distance."

"He was angry," she directed at Ron's back. "He has very good reasons for being angry." Turning on Alan so ferociously the grin froze on his face, she said, "You, of all people, should realize that behavior is a reflection of emotional health. Neither of you Neanderthals have a clue about what he was put through as a child."

Peterson popped open a beer can and leaned against the doorjamb.

Alyson took a deep breath,
then
wearily released it. "He was sexually molested for four years by the producer of
Those Foster Kids,
and Cara knew about it. In fact, she wrapped her son up in a big bright ribbon and delivered him to that creep's door—or should I say bed."

They stared at her, silent.

"Ralph Reilly, the producer of the show, gave
a nine
-year-old booze to relax him during his assaults. After four years of that, I'd say reaching for a bottle to kill emotional pain or fear would become second nature, wouldn't you?" She marched across the room and thrust her face into Ron's. "How dare you judge a man by what you read in the tabloid headlines? I'm sure Brandon would happily trade his money and fame if it meant turning back the clock and undoing the terror and humiliation he was forced to endure so Cara could have her fifteen minutes of glory."

"I'm sorry," Ron said softly, and averted his eyes. "Nothing personal, A.J. Actually, I like your boyfriend. During the Marcella investigation, I got the impression that he was extremely disturbed over the accident. In fact, he never came across like he felt he should get any kind of special consideration from the D.A.'s office because of
who
and what he was. I thought at the time that he rolled over too easily. Like he just
…
gave up the fight from the start."

Alyson turned away, paced to the phone. She did her best to will back the anger that brought hot tears to her eyes, and checked her watch. Six-thirty. Eight-thirty in Ticky Creek. Grabbing the phone, she dialed
Brandon
's number. Her heart squeezed in hope as the phone rang—no busy signal this time—and rang and rang—
She turned to Alan, the receiver still pressed to her ear. Panic closed off her throat. "Something's wrong," she wept. "I know it, Alan."

Alan left the sofa and walked to her. She buried her face in his shoulder as he held her, removing the receiver from her hand and placing it on the cradle. "Perhaps," he offered gently, "they've turned the phone off. If Betty is as protective of
Brandon
as you say, she'll want him to rest. Or she simply doesn't want you to talk to him. Come sit over here, and we'll go over this employee list again—"

"What's the point?" She shoved him away. "The domestics all check out—"

"There are gardeners, chauffeurs, pool services, secretaries—"

"This could take a month. We—don't—have—a—month, Alan. Betty is up to something."

"Betty Wilson has no ties to
Brandon
before—"

"Maybe someone connected to Betty does," Ron said and swigged his beer. "It's a long shot, of course, but certainly not out of the realm of possibility. Another thing, when you spoke to the Kansas Medical Board, did you think to have them cross-reference Betty for, say, a maiden name?"

"She told me she's never been married."

"Well." He smiled. "If she's as disreputable as you claim, why would you believe anything she says? First thing we do in the morning is call the Kansas Medical Board and do a cross-reference on her. See what we come up with. In the meantime, I'll spend the rest of the evening calling the names on the employee list—those who aren't associated with agencies and companies. There aren't many."

Alyson nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I'm calling Deputy Greene. I'll ask him to take a run out to the farm, just to be on the safe side."

*

Jack Dillman watched Dixie Bishop, dispatcher for the sheriff's
office, waddle toward him with the speed of a lumbering turtle. Her girth took up most of the narrow corridor. She chewed a Baby Ruth in one hand. The other carried a slip of pink paper.

"Just the man I'm lookin' for," she declared, spitting a peanut through her lips. It stuck to the polka-dotted blouse pulled taut over her massive bosom.

Jack curled his lip and tried to remain calm. "This better not be important,
Dixie
. I got me a speech to write. I'm talkin' to the damn Elks Club tomorrow night—"

"Some woman called about Mr. Carlyle. Says she's tried to call the farm a few times and nobody's answered."

"And that's a reason to call out the National Guard?"

She shrugged and chewed. "Told her I'd send a car out, but all the boys are tied up right now. Maybe you want to run by the farm on your way home."

"That farm ain't on my way home. Jeezus." He shook his head and snatched the paper from her. "I'd like to know who the hell died and made Brandon Carlyle a goddamn national treasure. You'd think he was the goddamn president of these goddamn
United States
. Next thing you know, he and that goddamn movie star Injun senator will be runnin' for president and vice president—"

"
Whitehorse
,"
Dixie
said, picking caramel from between her teeth with her fingernail. "John Whitehorse. I'd vote for that ticket, Jack. Sure as frogs go splat when they hop, you'd find a whole hell of a lot of women takin' a new interest in politics." She chuckled. "When you gonna get over this hump you got on for
Brandon
?"

"Son of a bitch knocked up my sister."

"You hated
Brandon
long before he knocked up your crazy sister. You hated him ever since he come out to the Homecomin' game your junior year and stole your touchdown thunder, not to mention Geena Beckett."

"Asshole done it on purpose."

Dixie
rolled her eyes. "As if he knew to make his entrance just as you threw the game-winnin' touchdown." Popping the last plug of Baby Ruth into her mouth, she mumbled, "As if he needed the adulation of a lot of squealin', goo-goo-eyed Ticky Creek cheerleaders." She turned and ambled down the hall toward her office, tossing back over her shoulder, "Like it or not, he
is
a national treasure. You can bet your sweet butt that if somethin' happens to him on your watch, there won't be enough left of you or your career to use as catfish bait on Jim Benton's trotline."

"Jeezus!" He wadded up the pink slip and slammed it in the trash on his way out the door. The temperature had warmed drastically over the last twenty-four hours, so he didn't bother with a jacket, just climbed into the patrol car and peeled rubber over the macadam road surface.

He pulled through the Dairy Queen and ordered himself a Beltbuster with onion rings, and a steak finger basket for Mitsy, double on the cream gravy with an extra side of jalapeno ketchup. Food would be cold by the time she got it, but so what? Thanks to the magistrate who declared she was to be kept under lock and key at home and under Doc Simpson's care, she was about as coherent as a goddamn yam. Wasn't enough that she was eating Xanax like it was Skittles, but the old quack had supplied her with a lot of mood enhancers that sounded like aliens from outer space: Prozoids and Zoloids or some such trash that would inevitably send her careening through a post office somewhere, shooting people with his Taurus Raging Bull. Hell, it was gonna to be tough enough getting voters to trust a man whose sister was nutty as a Christmas fruitcake. How the hell was he gonna
explain that in order to keep her in line, he had to stuff her full of mood pills? Jeezus. She was gonna be the death of him and his career.