Darkling I Listen (50 page)

"There
has
to be a consciousness between the two," she argued.

"They share a mutual goal, which isn't unusual. That goal is Brandon Carlyle. Betty sees him as a romantic idol, an object of worship. Billy sees him as the twenty-first-century Jesus Christ—an object of worship. We mustn't forget that in times of stress and strife and weakness, Billy takes over. That's his job. Even if Betty
is
aware of Billy, and even if she
doesn't
applaud his behavior, she's still dependent on him for her survival."

He cupped Alyson's cheek with his hand and smiled wearily. "Your returning to Ticky Creek now would be a big, not to mention a dangerous, mistake. Those Ticky Creek residents are going to be out for blood. They know now about your association with the
Gazette
. They know you misrepresented yourself to
Brandon
. You're going to be a suspect in their eyes. Then, of course, there's Betty. If you return to Ticky Creek, you may put your life in jeopardy. Please take these sleeping pills and get some rest. We'll wake you if there's any news."

Reluctantly, Alyson slid the pills into her mouth
…
and tucked them under her tongue. She drank the water and handed Alan the glass. He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Alyson spat the pills into her hand. Reclining against her pillows, she listened to the drone of the television. She glanced at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty. Ron had mentioned his appointment would keep him out late. She hadn't heard from Mildred in two days.

Finally, she slid from the bed, grabbing the bottle of capsules as she did so and pouring another couple into her hand. Inching the door open, she looked out to see Alan sitting on the sofa with a selection of books open before him. Occasionally he glanced toward the television,
then
went back to scribbling notes on paper. An open soda can sat to one side.

She waited, her attention now and again shifting to the clock at her bedside. Plenty of time yet. Delta flight 1124 wouldn't leave LAX for
Dallas
until one-thirty.

After what felt like an eternity, Alan stood up and arched his back, tossed his pen onto his notes, and reached for the soda can, which apparently was empty. Alyson swore under her breath, then sighed in relief as he walked to the kitchen and retrieved another drink from the fridge, popped the lid, took a deep drink, then set it on the table by his books. He wandered into the bathroom and closed the door.

Alyson crossed the room, keeping one eye on the closed bathroom door as her fingers fumbled with the capsules, which had grown slightly gummy from her sweating hands that began to tremble before she dropped to one knee and emptied the white powder from each capsule into Alan's drink. She jumped as the toilet flushed; quickly, she blew away the powder residue she'd scattered over the can top and coffee table, then dashed back to the bedroom as the bathroom door opened. She dived for the bed, burying her face in the pillow. Her eyes squeezed closed as the bedroom door opened, allowing threads of television conversation to filter in.

"Hope of Brandon Carlyle's safe recovery fades tonight as…
"

The door closed softly.

Minutes dragged by. A half-hour. An hour. At
ten o'clock
she rolled from the bed and crept to the door.

Alan sprawled on the sofa, glasses shoved to the top of his head, pen still gripped between his fingers as he slept. Alyson tiptoed over to him, bent, and whispered, "Alan?" Nothing. She nudged him. "Alan, wake up." Nothing.

She retraced her steps to the bedroom, pulled her purse and packed bag from under the bed, returned to the living room, and grabbed the car keys from the end table. For a drawn-out moment, she stared down into Alan's sleeping face, a well of sadness opening up inside her as she acknowledged that she might never see him again. Because he was right. The monster that was Billy Boyd was still lurking somewhere around Ticky Creek. And he wasn't going to be pleased when she made her entrance back into
Brandon
's life. Because regardless of what Alan and Ron believed, what the investigators believed, Alyson was convinced that
Brandon
was still alive. Equally convinced that time was running out.

Alyson pressed a kiss to Alan's cheek. "Please understand," she whispered, then slipped out the door and into the night.

*

Midnight
. The rains had finally eased, at least for the time
being. Jim Benton cautiously steered his boat up Ticky Creek. With swollen waters came massive debris. Once he'd nearly been capsized by the rusted-out chassis of a 1968 Volkswagon Beetle.

With his high-powered light focused on the swirling, churning brown water ahead, he maneuvered his craft around a bobbing tree trunk, drank his warm Coors, and tried not to think about the last few days. The Carlyle thing was
creeping
him out. The whole gosh-dang family gone just like that. It was one thing for the old ones to go. Folks expected that. Henry and Bernie were both ill, and had been for a while. But
Brandon
…

Jim belched and hunkered deeper into his jacket. No doubt about it, folks were upset. The hordes of rubberneckers and fans overrunning the town didn't help.

At last, he located the orange flags marking his trotline. Each time he sidled the boat in place, the current drove him back. A floating stump came bobbing up from nowhere and rammed the hull of his boat so hard he almost flipped. By the time he rectified the situation, he was sweating and on the verge of puking from nerves. He was getting mighty tired of fighting and fretting over this goddamn creek. If he didn't make so much money selling catfish to the local restaurants, he'd pack it in and get a hobby.

Shivering, he frowned. Normally he wasn't a superstitious kind of guy, but considering everything that had happened lately
…
dragging the creek for Carlyle's body; Bernie found dead in her bed—and man, oh man, wasn't
that
weird, her being completely paralyzed, yet when they found her, her mouth was wide open, as if she'd been trying to scream; and all that blood in the house.

A rustle in the bushes brought his head around with a snap. He stared through the dark at the dense copse, feeling as if his eyeballs were about to pop out of his head. Grabbing a lamp, he directed the beam into the tangle of trees and briars. Again the racket, closer this time. He saw the vegetation shiver and sway.

"Gosh dang," he whispered through suddenly dry lips. "Gosh dang, gosh dang—"

The deer lifted its head and stared straight into Jim's light. In the blink of an eye, it whirled and sprang off into the dark. The air rushed from his lungs, and with a grunt of chagrin Jim put down his light and returned to the task of retrieving the trotline, which, judging by the weight of
it,
was going to make his trip out here more than a little profitable.

The first four hooks produced winners—three-pounders at least. Storms always churned up the big ones. Fifth hook had been cleaned of bait. The sixth had snagged on moss that made his fingers slimy as he removed it and rebaited. The line grew heavier near the middle of the creek. Gritting his teeth, he strained to lift it, cursing under his breath because it was pretty obvious that whatever was holding the line down was bigger than any catfish. There went his profits, for sure. Probably snared a tree limb.

"What the hell is that?" he said aloud, bending nearer the water, where the lamp beams formed disks of light on the moving surface. He heaved again, dragging the object closer. "What the heck…
"

His mouth fell open and he jerked back, nearly rising to his feet, causing the boat to tip dangerously. Then he began screaming…

*

Delta flight 1124 arrived at
DFW
Airport
at six-thirty. By
noon
Alyson idled in a mire of traffic that stretched for miles along Highway 59 outside Ticky Creek. Cars were bumper-to-bumper along the shoulder of the road as people crowded the grassy verges of the Carlyle property. Mounds of flowers were piling up outside the security gate. Women sat on the wet grass with tears streaming from their eyes. News crews swarmed like vultures.

An hour and a half later, Alyson pulled her rental car into the
River Road
parking lot. Here, too, the congestion of cars flowed down the highway. She parked the Ford a quarter-mile down the shoulder and walked back to the restaurant, floppy hat pulled low over her brow, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses despite the escalating threat of rain.

God, she was tired. She tried to remember when she had last eaten. The smell of grease and barbecue wafting from the building made her light-headed.

Stepping inside the building, she was startled by the odd quietness. Although the place was packed with customers, the soft murmur of conversation felt disquieting, more like the people had gathered here for a wake instead of food. The idea made her stomach clench even tighter.

She saw Ruth, and waved.

Carrying a tray of drinks, Ruth looked at her strangely, obviously not recognizing her right away. The smile on her face dropped like a rock, and a sudden spear of fear jabbed at Alyson. She took a step back, only to stop short as Ruth nodded and mouthed,
In
a minute.

Turning her back to the room, Alyson stared out through the glass front doors. Rain had begun to fall again in a thick gray sheet. Her eyes drifted closed.

"Hon, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Alyson looked over her shoulder and gave Ruth a weak smile. "Still talking
to
me?"

"I'm still thinkin' about it. In the meantime, follow me. You look like you need to sit before you fall down."

Alyson followed Ruth down the corridor past the rest rooms, to a stairway. Ruth's short, belled skirt swung from side to side as she ascended. "I ain't takin' you to
Clyde
's office today," she explained over her shoulder. "I suspect
Clyde
ain't gonna be too happy to see you. Not that anybody else in this town will be either. But I can't help but like you. Call it a character flaw. I always have a soft spot for the underdog."

They walked to the end of a hallway and Ruth shoved open a door. "I hide in here when I've had enough pinches on my ass to drive me to the point of punchin' someone in the nose. Ain't fancy, but it's clean and comfortable." Catching Alyson's shoulders from behind, Ruth ushered her to the cot. "Sit. Wanna beer or somethin'? Coke? Wine cooler?" Bending at the waist and peering into a small refrigerator, Ruth said, "I'm gonna need a beer for this, I think. I suggest the same for you."

"A beer would be great, thanks," Alyson managed as she removed her hat and glasses.

"You got it, Sugar." Ruth unscrewed the bottle top and flung it in the trash. She handed the beer to Alyson, her mouth turned down and her chin quivering. "I wondered if you'd come back. I'm glad you did."

Alyson drank deeply. The beer was cold enough to make her esophagus ache. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain to pass. "I won't let them give up, Ruth. I won't believe he's gone until I see him with my own eyes."

Ruth stared down at her. "Holy heck! You ain't heard, have ya?"

Alyson fixed her gaze on Ruth. A rush of heat followed by freezing cold swept through her. Hysteria coiled in her stomach, and though she took a shaky breath in an attempt to restrain it, she felt it crawl up her chest, destroying her control. Tears boiled up and spilled.

Ruth put her beer aside and reached for Alyson's hands.

"Oh, please," Alyson whimpered, "please, no."

"Jim Benton was collectin' his trotline last night. There was a
…
body. Caught up in them hooks and all—"

"Oh." She sank into Ruth's arm. "Oh, no."

Ruth held her tight, stroked her hair,
rocked
her. Her voice broke and trembled. "It was pretty bad. The decomposition and all—couldn't be identified, and was taken into
Tyler
—"

Alyson lifted her head, searched Ruth's face. "They don't know—you're saying they don't know if it's
Brandon
—"

"They're gonna check dental records. All they can definitely say is it was a male, slightly over six feet, dark brown hair. They're thinkin' it could be that White Sands football player who went missin' here a couple or more weeks ago. They never found him, ya know."

"It has to be," Alyson declared, sitting up straight, her hands gripping the beer bottle hard. "If the decomposition was that far along—"

"You
can't never
tell, Alyson. Not in these waters. What with the animals and fish and all—"

"It's not him!" she declared with such passion that Ruth backed away and nodded.

"Okay. Okay, it ain't him. We'll just keep our fingers crossed and keep prayin', okay? Meantime, why don't you lay yourself down on this cot and rest awhile?" She took the beer from Alyson's hands, caught her feet, and swung them up on the cot. "I'm gonna lock this door so nobody comes stumblin' in here by accident. The last thing we need right now is for Jack to come rollin' in here and haul your skinny carcass off to jail, which he would probably do just cuz he's pretty pissed right now in general, and would like nothin' better than to take a shot at somebody."