Darkling I Listen (8 page)

Dillman's yellow-brown eyes narrowed as he removed the toothpick from his mouth. Dark color crawled up his cheeks. "Punk. It's just a matter of time 'fore your ass is mine. You're just this close." He held up two thick fingers pressed together. "You so much as jaywalk, and you'll be back writin' letters to your uncle on prison stationery. Now if I was you, I'd crawl back to that cozy little farm and stay out of my sight." He glanced toward Janet and Carolyn, touched the brim of his hat with one finger. "You ought to be more discriminatin' about who you serve, ladies. Have a good afternoon."

Janet waited until Dillman exited the café before she released her breath in a huff. "Can you believe that guy?"

Brandon
shifted his attention to Alyson, her arm still locked across his chest, her serious eyes fixed on his. Forcing an unsteady smile, she said, "Carlyle, he's bigger than you. In fact, he's bigger than two of you. If I'd let the two of you go at it, there wouldn't have been anything left of you except a greasy spot on the floor."

"I might surprise you," he said through his teeth.

"First you'll have to convince me that all the chop socky shenanigans you performed in your last movie weren't done by a stunt double." She backed away and rubbed her hands up and down the butt of her tight jeans. "You'll thank me later when you've had time to reminisce on your Shangrila days in Corcoran."

"Mitsy Dillman should've been locked up years ago," Janet declared as she picked up a chair and shoved it against the table, which was leaning precariously to one side. "That woman is crazy as a betsy bug."

Carolyn shook her head and stooped to collect the salt and pepper shakers from the floor. "I was sorry to see her come back to Ticky Creek. She'll have everybody's husband howling at the moon, including mine."

Brandon
forced himself to look away from Alyson, to Carolyn, who was sweeping spilled salt off the table with her hand. "Where's she been?"

Carolyn shrugged. "Who knows? She floats in and out of Ticky Creek whenever the whim hits her."

"Heard she lived in
New Mexico
awhile." Janet straightened the red-and-white-checked tablecloth,
then
bent to retrieve the TV remote she had dropped in order to help
Brandon
. "Then she strayed out to
California
. Said she wanted to become a movie star. I thought to myself,
And
pigs might fly.
Marla Shaffer got a postcard from her once that said she'd landed the starring role in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. We all had a good laugh—Cecil B.'s been dead over thirty years."

Carolyn and Janet giggled.

Brandon
didn't. Even if Mitsy hadn't just knocked him off his feet, the news that she had found her way out to
California
was enough to bother him.

"Obviously you and Mitsy share a history," said Alyson near his ear. As he looked into her amused, inquisitive eyes, she whispered, "Let me guess. The two of you were an item once. Young love. She thought when you whispered 'I love you,' you really meant it."

"Close, Miz James, but no cigar. I've never in my life told a woman that I love her."

"Never?" She grinned skeptically.

"Never." He looked at her mouth. "You have an attitude toward actors. Why is that?"

Her eyes narrowed and her voice took on an edge. "I haven't met one yet who didn't believe he was God's gift to women."

He dug a cigarette from his pocket and studied her eyes, which were shadowed with emotion. "You dated an actor, right? Or married one."

A thin smile curved her mouth.

Taking a deep drag on his cigarette,
Brandon
shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's those women who make us into gods, isn't it? Then they take pleasure in crucifying us just as soon as we show the slightest hint of being human."

"So what about the book? Do we have a deal?"

"No. I don't think so." He walked to their table and tossed several dollar bills next to the check. Alyson moved up beside him, leaned one hip against the table, and stared up at his profile.

"You'd risk my breaking the story of your whereabouts?"

"I'll give you a hundred thousand to keep your mouth shut."

"No."

He turned toward her, expecting her to back off. She didn't, just lifted her chin and met his eyes with a look of total willfulness. "One million, Miz James, to go away and forget you ever saw me."

That one rocked her. Disbelief widened her eyes; her lips parted. Sinking against the table, she blinked and blew out a quick breath. "Jeez, I wasn't expecting that. One million, huh? That would sure tide me over for a while."

She laughed and crossed her arms over her waist. "I never thought blackmail could turn out to be so lucrative. After all, I'm just a lil' ol' writer of no consequence. That kind of loot would allow me to spend the rest of my life writing articles with a five-minute life span. Just imagine how fulfilled I'll feel when I'm seventy, rocking away my golden years and reminiscing on that unforgettable article that won me a Pulitzer: 'I Am Joe's Kidney Stone.'"

"Writing about my life is hardly going to win you a Pulitzer, Miz James."

"No, but it's a better start in that direction than writing about the life journey of a kidney stone down a urinary tract."

Despite the ache in his chest where Mitsy had slammed him, not to mention the nervousness caused by the incident and the possibility that Mitsy might well be his stalker and she was obviously just short of insane, he felt a smile tug at his lips. At another time he might have considered a relationship with Alyson James. She was certainly desirable. And given other circumstances, he would've found her tenacity and sauciness humorous. But not now. She fully intended to turn his life upside down. Not just his, but his
family's
. And not just his family's, but the entire town of Ticky Creek.

She picked up the book and shoved it against his chest. "Once you've read what your closest acquaintances have to say about you, give my offer a bit more consideration. I'm staying at the Pine Tree Lodge. Room ten." She smiled. "You'll call."

"No." He shook his head even as his hands closed around the book. "I won't."

"You will." She thumped the book. "You will."

*

For thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents a night, the room at
Pine Tree Lodge on Highway
59
just outside the Ticky Creek city limits wasn't so bad. Certainly Alyson had stayed in worse—lived in worse, if one wanted to bow to reality. Aside from the hint of stale cigarette smoke permeating the avocado green carpet and drapes, she could almost feel snug. The air conditioner worked, even if it did sound a little like a bulldozer in fourth gear. The room had a fairly comfortable queen-size bed, a kitchenette with a small fridge, a coffeepot with a half-dozen plastic-wrapped Styrofoam cups, and a microwave oven. There was television with HBO and pay-per-view raunchy movies, which she intended to check out later.

Propped against her plumped bed pillows, Alyson thumbed through her copy of the
Galaxy Gazette,
and with cell phone pressed to one ear, listened as an answering machine clicked on:
"This is Dr. Alan Rodgers. Leave a message and I'll call you back."

"Alan, pick up if you're there." She turned the page and frowned at a picture of Goldie Hawn picking her nose. "Alan, it's me. I have to talk to you. It's urgent."

There came a click as Alan Rodgers shut off the machine and picked up the receiver. "A.J., your timing sucks. I just saw the man of my dreams inline skating down the sidewalk. This better be good."

She grinned. "I take it you and Chip haven't kissed and made up yet."

"He can kiss my butt. That's the only thing of mine he's going to kiss from now on." He laughed. "So tell me all about it. I assume you made contact today, or you wouldn't be sounding so stressed."

"I don't sound stressed."

"Babe, you're tight as a piano wire. I'm a shrink. And I know wired when I hear it. Besides, I'm your best friend, remember?"

"Alan, he's not at all what I expected."

"Okay." There came a squeak and a click as Alan changed over to the speakerphone. Alyson pictured her best friend getting comfortable in his chair, feet propped up on his disorganized desk, no doubt expecting another marathon conversation where Alyson droned on about how another one of her life fantasies just got crushed like a bug.

"Shoot," he told her.

"First of all, let me say that this town is
weird.
They have one of the world's most famous men living here among them, and it's as if he were simply another Joe Blow bubba. It's like they've all joined forces to protect him, with the exception of the sheriff and his crazy sister. He's lived here for
months,
and not a soul—aside from my cousin Sally, who was just passing through—has breathed a word of his being here to the outside world." She sighed. "God, Alan. I thought he was going to cry. Can you imagine how I felt when I realized he was totally unaware of the biography? The man looked as if I just castrated him with a dull knife."

"I take it you didn't exactly hit it off."

"He thinks I'm a stalker who calls herself Anticipating."

Silence. Then in a voice shaded with caution: "Explain, please?"

"Some woman is writing him letters."

"I thought you said no one knows where he is."

"She
obviously does. She somehow found him out and followed him from
California
. I saw the letter. Something about
I've been watching you. When the time is right, we'll be together. I didn't follow you from
California
to let you slip through my fingers."

"Not good. Definitely not good. Is he nervous?"

"Yes, especially after he walked out of the men's rest room and was flattened by an old girlfriend whose elevator stops shy of the top floor. According to the waitresses, the woman spent some time in
California
. Carlyle thinks she might be Anticipating. Then again, he thought
I
was Anticipating."

"If this cat followed him from
California
, then she's obviously tiptoeing on the high wire of erotomanic delusional disorder, and if that's the case, he could be in for a time of it. These patients, even when faced with substantial evidence to the contrary, remain convinced that their fixated object passionately loves them in return. It's quite common with celebrities. Has he discussed this with the police?"

Thinking of Dillman, Alyson grinned and shook her head. "They go way back. The sheriff here would arrest Carlyle for sneezing if he could. He's made it pretty clear he isn't the least interested in
Anticipating
… which would make sense if his loony sister is involved."

"Most of the time these people don't get violent. They're just a pain in the butt, but there have been occasions when they go over the top. If she's getting nasty, then he's got a big problem on his hands."

"Just what he needs … more
trouble.
The man buried himself in Ticky Creek in the hopes of healing and forgetting, and what happens? Some nut named Anticipating followed him here, and now I show up. I feel like a worm."

"You're not a worm, but what you're doing isn't nice either. Why don't you just tell him the truth?"

"That I'm a tabloid writer—
the
tabloid writer who eight years ago first broke the story of his alcoholism—and gee whiz, I'm sorry about that, but I need another big story that will make some respected magazine sit up and take notice so I can tell the
Galaxy Gazette
adios
—
and
you're it? I think he'll go for it, don't you? I just wish he wasn't so vulnerable. And sad. And scared. I can deal with arrogant. And angry. And even mean. But I can't deal with looking into his incredible eyes and seeing pain. He was so hurt by what he read in that book."

"Stop looking into his 'incredible' eyes and remind yourself that Brandon Carlyle was a bad, bad boy with an obvious need to self-destruct. God, what I'd give for the opportunity to have a peek inside his head. It's so obvious he hates his mother, but the mother-child bond he feels as her son won't allow him to strike out at her the way he'd obviously like to. Instead, he turns it in on himself. She screwed him up big time."

"Thanks a lot. That really helps to ease my guilt."

"You're welcome. What are you going to do tonight in bright lights, big city
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
?"

"Cruise the Wal-Mart and dine at the Dairy Queen."

"Charming. Hurry home. I miss you."

«
^
»

B
randon
gently lifted his aunt's frail body out of the wheelchair,
taking care not to displace the nasal cannula, two short prongs inserted in her nostrils to feed her oxygen continually. It was attached by a long plastic tube to a portable oxygen tank beside her bed. He placed her in the hospital bed situated near a window overlooking the cluster of red rose-bushes she had nurtured for thirty of the forty years she had been married to Henry Carlyle. Her blue eyes stared up at him, bright but distant, as if she were focused on something, or someone in another dimension.

Bernice had been a vibrant, beautiful woman until she had suffered a brain stem stroke, known as "locked-in syndrome." When word of Bernie's stroke reached
Brandon
in prison, he'd lost it. He'd blamed himself—her heartbreak over his trouble had brought on her illness.

Brandon
could still recall the only time Henry and Bernie had visited him in prison. Through a glass barrier he had watched his aunt and uncle weep, though they had tried hard to be strong for his benefit. Speaking to Bernie through a phone, his hand pressed to the glass barrier, he'd pleaded, "I'm so damn sorry.
Please
don't stop loving me."

She hadn't, of course. Until her stroke, not a day passed that he didn't receive a letter—always cheery, the day-to-day ritual of her and Henry's life together in Ticky Creek, and how they looked forward to his coming home upon his release. They strongly believed, as they always had, that life in Ticky Creek would offer him a spiritual rebirth; they were fully convinced that Satan and psychosis never could, and never would, stick so much as a toe over the town's city limits.
Brandon
's thought on that was
They
wouldn't dare. Not with Jack Dillman as sheriff.

He tucked the quilt around her and brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead. There had been much speculation among Henry, himself, and the doctors over whether she could comprehend anything of the world around her. The doctors said she would remain a vegetable, incapable of understanding or communicating. He and Henry refused to believe it. Perhaps it was just mule-headed stubbornness and the inability to let her go, but as long as she drew a breath on her own, they chose to hold on to the faith that somewhere inside her head she understood them.

Brandon
bent and lightly kissed her cheek, smiled into her eyes. "I've got a date tonight. Charlotte Minger from Wal-Mart. She's young. In fact, if Betty's right, I'm probably old enough to be her father. That's pretty depressing to think about … that I'm getting to be such an old fart. I know I should be focusing on someone closer to my own age. Yes, yes, I want to settle down and get married. Absolutely, I want kids while I'm still young enough to play ball with them. But we have to ask ourselves just what sort of role model I'm going to make. I'm really
trying
to be good, Bernie. Ask Henry and Betty. I haven't had a drink in years, and I haven't hit anyone recently. Close calls don't count, right? Because I have to admit, I came close today. A woman photographer fell out of a tree on top of me. Thought she was a guy at first."

He gazed out the window at the deep red roses, and thought of the satin thong panties in his pocket. He'd forgotten them until now. "Definitely not a guy," be repeated, vaguely aware that his voice sounded a bit rough and the air felt a touch warmer on his skin. "She wants to help me write a book. An autobiography." Looking down at his aunt again, he shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
At least not as long as you and Henry are still alive,
he thought, as he closed his fingers around Bernice's frail hand. Because the reality of it was just too horrifying for a couple of old people who had spent their entire lives cocooned in the innocence of
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
.

Once upon a time, Bernie would have drawn him near and held him tightly. He'd close his eyes and allow his starving senses to swim in her closeness. She'd always smelled of bleach and lemon furniture oil with the faintest underlying scent of Estée Lauder's Youth Dew cologne. Her hands had been strong but achingly gentle. With words that were whisper soft and trembling with compassion, she would have encouraged him to talk about the fears buzzing around inside of his head.

Eventually, she would have drawn the truth out of him: how he was afraid that Mildred Feldman was right; he was getting old, and maybe the success he had known as an actor had everything to do with his looks and nothing to do with actual talent. Or maybe he would confess that the paranoia he felt over some nut named Anticipating was beginning to make him feel shakier than he wanted to admit even to himself. Hell, he might even admit that the idea of going out on a date for the first time in four years made him feel sick with nervousness. He hadn't been alone in a room with a woman since Emerald Marcella stuffed white powder up her nose and became such a sex-crazed maniac he'd felt like an unwilling gang bang victim. He could almost hear Bernice, her unplucked eyebrows lifted, eyes twinkling with amusement, sternness, and understanding:
You're a good boy, Brandon, and intelligent. Think with the head on your shoulders, and not with the one in your pants, and you'll do just fine.

Smiling down into her staring eyes,
Brandon
whispered, "Ah, Bernie, you always had a way with words."

Henry entered the room, mopping his washed face with a paper towel. "Betty says to tell you that if you want to have dinner here, there's plenty of food. It's about ready. I think she's still in a fluster about you going out with Miss Yamboree." He walked to the bed and smiled down at his wife. "How's my girl? Her color looks good today, don't you think,
Brandon
?"

Brandon
turned away. He would never grow accustomed to witnessing the pain on Henry's face every time he looked at his wife. It filled
Brandon
with fresh anger. Such tragedy should be heaped on sinners like
himself—
hell, he deserved the very worst of God's wrath—but Henry and Bernice were, or had been, the most spiritual, kindhearted human beings on the face of the earth.

Betty stood over the stove, prodding cutlets of breaded steak around in a skillet. Her eyes brightened as
Brandon
entered the kitchen. He moved beside her and slung one arm around her shoulders, lifted the lid on a saucepan of peas, and inhaled deeply.

"If
Charlotte
hadn't looked so damn good in that short skirt, I'd be real tempted to stay home tonight. Of course, we could always invite her to dinner here. You could sit between us and make certain she doesn't get fresh." He grinned, and hugged Betty more tightly.

"Go on and make fun, Mr. Brandon. But that girl is trouble. No decent young woman would go out with a man your age."

"What is this? Let's All Gang Up on
Brandon
and Convince Him He's Old as Methuselah Day? Jeez, thanks to you, Mildred, and Alyson James, I'm ready to check myself into the Shady Pines Retirement Home."

She stopped poking and turned her eyes up to his. "You pressed charges, right?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asked.

He shrugged. He'd asked himself the same question at least a dozen times. "Maybe I liked the way she looked in her jeans or something. Don't worry. I offered her a million bucks to take a hike. I suspect once she's slept on the offer, she'll grab it."

Betty blinked and stared at him. "A million…
?"

"What else am I
gonna
do with
my money?"

"There are charities—"

"The last year I've financially supported the American Heart Association, cancer and AIDS research, and fed half of starving
Mongolia
, not to mention too many politicians to name … and I can't even vote anymore. Sometimes it's
okay
to do something extravagant with money."

"Fine," she said. "Then I could use a new car."

He grinned and winked, and turned for the door. "You got it. What's it going to be, a Rolls-Royce or an Aston Martin?"

"You're being very congenial tonight," she called after him. "And I'd settle for a Ford Taurus with leather seats and a CD stereo with Bose speakers."

"You're too cheap, Betty. When a gift horse presents itself, you gotta go for the gusto. A Ford Taurus just ain't gonna cut it."

"Fine," she shouted. "I'll take a fire engine red Dodge Viper. Make it a convertible while you're at it."

"Ooh, hot mama! Next you'll be slipping into black leather and changing your name to Bambi. I'm not sure I want to contribute to the delinquency of a babe. Maybe we should stick with a Taurus."

He heard her giggle, and he imagined her complexion turning red as apples.

Congenial wasn't exactly how he was feeling. More like wound up. Uptight. On the edge. It had been a long, eventful day, not to mention upsetting. His chest where Mitsy had battered him hurt like hell.

He checked his watch.
Charlotte
was due to pick him up in half an hour. He still needed to shower and shave. If he wasn't so pressed for time and Betty wasn't busy with cooking, he'd ask her to give him a massage. She had the best hands he'd ever lain down for, as good as or even better than the masseur he'd employed in
California
.

Reaching his bedroom,
Brandon
tugged the T-shirt off over his head and threw it on the bed, then removed his shoes and socks, unsnapped his jeans and began to unzip when he looked around. Betty stood in the doorway, a collection of plastic-covered starched shirts on hangers in her hand.

"I picked up your laundry at the cleaners." She extended the shirts toward him and smiled. "Thought you might need a clean shirt for tonight."

He crossed the room and took them from her. "Thanks." He turned toward the closet.

"You sound tired, Mr. Brandon."

"I am, a little. It's been a long day."

"Perhaps you should stay home tonight. I'm sure Miss Minger would understand."

Shaking his head, he pulled out the top drawer of his dresser and searched through his socks and briefs, all folded neatly and placed precisely, thanks to Betty's meticulousness.

Betty stepped hesitantly over the threshold, her hands gripped together under her breasts. "You seem stressed. Would you like a treatment? A short one, just enough to relax you?"

Brandon
checked his watch again, and grinned. "You must have read my mind."

Her face brightened, and she motioned toward the bed. "Where is the oil?"

"Top shelf in the bathroom closet."

As Betty disappeared into the bathroom,
Brandon
peeled out of his jeans, at the last minute remembered the panties and condom in his pocket, and dug them out. He frowned a little as the thought occurred to him that stealing a woman's panties was maybe a little too kinky even for him. He couldn't imagine why he'd done it, except for spite. As Betty reentered the room, he tossed the condom on the bedside table and curled his hand around the minuscule panties, hiding them within his fist.

Dressed only in his Y fronts,
Brandon
stretched out, facedown across his bed. Betty kicked off her shoes and mounted him, straddling his hips. Her weight rested on her knees as she poured a thin stream of oil over his back. Normally she would have heated it slightly. The coolness of it made him catch his breath.

Her broad hands slid over his skin, pressing. Like a slow heat wave, the beautiful torment rippled through him. His fingers curled more firmly around the satin panties, and as he squeezed his eyes closed more tightly, the image of Alyson James wearing those panties and nothing else suddenly winged at him, her body stretched out over a bed with black sheets, her skin very white in contrast, her long, pale legs spread wide as her mouth smiled and taunted him. He imagined himself burying his face in the red satin and drinking in the scent of her.

*

Charlotte Minger drove a 1991 Pontiac Firebird with a
crunched right rear fender. The front bucket seats were covered with fuzzy leopard-print fake fur that made
Brandon
sweat—there was no air-conditioning and the temperature outside hovered close to ninety degrees. There were sticks of Big Red chewing gum scattered over the dashboard, along with several tubes of lipstick, and a five-inch cardboard tree swung from the rearview mirror, turning the car's interior into a cedar forest. 'N Sync blasted from the tape player, adding to the oppression that pressed against his temples.

It hadn't taken
Brandon
long to surmise that Charlotte Minger's idea of a Beltbuster for dinner had nothing to do with a hamburger from the Dairy Queen. Her skirt barely covered her crotch. Braless, she wore a skintight tank top that left little to the imagination. She had bathed in Red Door perfume, curled her silver hair into sexy ringlets around her face, and accentuated her full mouth by lining it with black, then applying dark brown lipstick. Henry's face had turned white at the sight of her. Fortunately, Betty had left by the time of
Charlotte
's arrival. Otherwise,
Brandon
suspected she would have locked him in his room and thrown away the key. Perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad idea. He was trying very hard to focus on anything other than the skirt inching up
Charlotte
's thighs with every bounce of the car. Not so very many years ago he would have suggested they pull over to the side of the road, then hauled her onto his lap and got on with the business of cooling their lust. But that was then and this was now. He was infinitely wiser … not to mention older … and feeling older by the minute.