Darkling I Listen (17 page)

"Is that what you really want? Do you want me to go away and leave you alone?"

He considered the question before looking into her eyes. "No," he replied, and shook his head.

"I can't float forever, waiting for you to make up your mind that you're going to cooperate on this project."

He swallowed and nodded in understanding. "It isn't easy. It's not like I had a normal childhood. When I think about it, I get…"

"Angry?"

"Angry is a gross understatement." He closed his eyes as the fury roused, as it always did if he so much as teased the recollections of his childhood. "I can't define what I feel when I visit those memories. I start unraveling, and get scared that I'm going to lose control and totally disintegrate."

"Maybe disintegrating would help. Get it out and over with."

"There wouldn't be enough left of me to put back together." He shrugged and tossed the butt of his cigarette into a puddle. "I have to think about Henry. His health isn't good. He beats himself up because he feels he could have done more to help me. That was impossible, of course. Cara wasn't about to let anything or anyone come between her and the lifestyle my success afforded her."

"She had her own career."

"What career? A lot of B movies, cheesy commercials, and on-again, off-again soap opera roles. Cara enjoyed
Hollywood
glitz and glitter, but the only way she was going to afford it was through me. Nothing was more important to Cara than power and money, and I was her source. She sold my soul to the devil more times than I care to remember."

"Maybe that's where we should start. The story, I mean. Discuss exactly how she used and abused you, and what price you paid to keep her pacified."

Brandon
stared at the unlit cigarette between his fingers,
then
crushed it in his hand.

*

Jack Dillman watched Deputy Greene splash through rain
puddles as he returned to his cruiser, then, as calmly as possible, considering his anger, closed the door and turned to find Mitsy plunked in his chair, skirt barely covering the tops of her thigh-high nylons. He'd been cleaning his gun before Tommy game beating on his door with news of Charlotte Minger's assault, followed by an interrogation regarding his motives for being out at the quarry last night.

Mitsy had Polaroid sunglasses on, a cigarette in one hand, a beer can in the other, and a shit-eating grin on her mouth. She was in her Marilyn Monroe mode, right down to her blond wig, push-up bra that made her tits look big enough to topple her over, and a mole near her mouth. Ten in the morning, and she looked like she'd just stepped out of
Some
Like It Hot.

"If I was you, I'd get the hell out of my sight, Mitsy. I ain't in the mood to look at you right now. It's too damn early to have to tolerate an idiot."

"You're just pissed 'cause you got caught doin' the dirty on Carlyle."

"I ain't done the dirty on nobody, and if I hear you say somethin'
like
that outside this house, I'm gonna make you regret it."

"No? Then what was you doin' out at the quarry last night?"

"You heard what I told Tommy."

"That you was on your way to the River Road Honky-Tonk after work and just decided to swing into the quarry to make sure there wasn't no nekkid teenagers doin' the hokey-pokey in the backseat of their daddies' cars. You're lyin', Jack. I can always tell when you lie. You know why? 'Cause your eyes go all squinty and your nose starts to sweat. It sweated big fat drops the whole time Tommy Greene was here."

"Well,
ain't
you a Miss Smarty Pants all of a sudden? Get out of my chair and sashay your butt into that kitchen and fry me some eggs, Smarty Pants."

"Fry your own damn eggs. Do I look like a wife to you?" She swigged her beer.

"You look like a nut." He grabbed her arm and hauled her out of the chair, nearly upsetting her crown of platinum curls. "This is my goddamn day off, and I intend to enjoy it without havin' to listen to you smart off. I said eggs. And biscuits, too. Not them shifty canned things. I want you to make 'em fresh. And while you're at it, fry me up some ham. I want red-eye gravy with them biscuits."

Mitsy rubbed her arm. "I ain't makin' you squat. If you want
a slave then get
married again—that is, if anybody'll have you."

He took a swing at her. She ducked and knocked over the table where the pieces of his Ragin' Bull were laid out, cleaned and well oiled. They hit the floor, sounding like a hod of tumbling bricks. "Goddammit!" he roared as Mitsy ran for the kitchen, wobbling on her high heels that were a size too large; she got them in a two-for-one deal at Shoe Saver, so it didn't matter. The silly bitch would buy used underwear from a whorehouse if she thought she could save a nickel.

"You want to tell me where you were at
midnight
last night?" he yelled over the sound of clattering pans. "The way you went at Carlyle at the Dime
A
Cup, I'm just liable to think you'd beat the shit out of
Charlotte
just on principle."

Mitsy appeared at the kitchen door, an iron skillet in one hand, her beer in the other. Her wig had slipped low on her forehead, so she was forced to stare at him through her coarse blond bangs and askew sunglasses. "I was fishin', if you want to know."

"Fishin'? Since when do you go fishin' at night?"

"I got a hankerin', okay? I took the boat up the creek and fished for crappie. You can ask Frank Fleming down at Wonder Worms Bait and Tackle. I bought three dozen minnows and a cooler of Budweiser. I loaded up with a couple pimento cheese sandwiches, some pork rinds, a kerosene lantern, and fished until the winds came up around one or so."

"Yeah? Then where's the
fish?"

"I didn't catch
none
."

She turned back to the kitchen, and Jack shook his head. Son of a bitch Carlyle'd been a thorn in his side since they were kids. Ever' time Carlyle came back to Ticky Creek, the town acted like Jesus Christ Himself had floated down from Heaven. It was Carlyle this and Carlyle that. Carlyle with his mug a gazillion times on
People
magazine. Carlyle winning a stupid Oscar. Let Carlyle come to town back in their high school days, and Jack might as well kiss his chances of getting laid after the football game goodbye, because all the decent-looking bitches were wagging their butts at Carlyle. Hell, Jack had thrown a Hail Mary pass for a touchdown during the Homecoming game, securing divisional first place, and nobody was paying attention 'cause Carlyle was in the stands, signing autographs and having his picture made with the pom-pom queen, Geena Beckett. Jack had stood a good chance of becoming her hero after that freaking touchdown—and, as usual, Carlyle had ruined it. Hell, Geena had been the only decent girl he'd ever stood a chance with—his heart still ached with the disappointment when he allowed himself to think about it
…
which was ever' time Mr. Hollywood came to town. After his football-ending injury, Geena wouldn't so much as give him the time of day.

Then there was the issue of Carlyle's knocking Mitsy up and the abortion that left her plumbing screwed. Jack considered the botched abortion had been a miracle, not a tragedy. Mitsy was crazy as a rabid coon, and had no business with kids. They'd have had the IQ of Silly Putty and the disposition of Cujo. It was the principle of the thing that made Jack's brain buzz like a hornet ever' time he heard Carlyle's name. If Jack hadn't ruptured his back in the final football game of his senior year, he'd have gone on to college ball, and from there maybe even had a chance at pro ball. He might have become another Joe Montana or Troy Aikman. Then the Ticky Creek bitches wouldn't be so quick to ignore Jack Dillman when Carlyle strutted into town.

Jack collected his gun pieces from the floor, dropped into his chair, and carefully reassembled the weapon. The Taurus Model 444 Ragin' Bull .44 magnum was a five-pound monster with an eight-and-three-eighths-inch barrel, a six-bullet cylinder, blued finish, and a
1.5-4X
Burris EER scope sight that could magnify the nose hair of a field mouse to the size of an elephant. Jack's penis got hard as he stroked the weapon, then he raised the Bull, aimed it at the framed painting of a matador on black velvet, looked through the scope, and imagined the face on the painting was Carlyle's.

Leave it to Charlotte Minger to screw up ever'thing. If the bitch regained consciousness and revealed he had coerced her into doing a number on Carlyle, his job was toast. Then again, if that James bitch hadn't butted in when she had, Carlyle'd be waking up in a jail cell this morning.

The happiest day of Jack's life had been the morning he'd flipped on
Good Morning America
to discover Carlyle's life and career had just gone up in smoke because some porn whore had died in a car crash. He'd jigged in glee when the District Attorney announced he'd pursue criminal charges against
America
's dream boat. He'd howled with laughter while Court TV broadcast Carlyle's image in a courtroom, his head bowed as he pled guilty to manslaughter charges in an emotion-choked voice. He'd wanted to shake his fist in the face of every Ticky Creek resident who'd ever put Mr. Hollywood on a pedestal. Surely folks would see that Brandon Carlyle was nothin' more than a too-big-for-his-britches fraud whose country boy charm and manners were just another Oscar-caliber act.

No such luck. After the initial shock wore off, the townspeople had actually rallied to form a support group. They'd sent him enough mail while he was in prison to pave the highways from
Texas
to
California
.

"You gonna shoot somethin' with that cannon or make love to it?"

Jack looked up at Mitsy, who stood by his chair, a soiled apron tied around her waist, her hands white with flour. He swung the barrel her way and, pointing it at her face, said, "Bang."

"Your nose is sweatin' again," she said. "I wonder why."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you
was
the one who beat the hell out of
Charlotte
. That's what I mean. Maybe you wanted to shut her up about somethin'. Or better yet, maybe you figured you'd implicate Carlyle and get his tush sent back to prison."

"Think again. The son of a bitch left the quarry with that
California
bimbo. He has an alibi."

"You gonna deny you wanna get rid of Carlyle?"

"Hell, no, I don't deny it."

"Why don't you just call up the
National Enquirer
and blab that he's here in Ticky Creek? Once word hits the press, this town'd be overrun with reporters and fans. He'd get out of town so
fast,
his leavin' would cause a sonic boom."

"I don't want
no
strangers in this town causin' havoc."

"You're afraid somebody'll find out that Ticky Creek's sheriff is about as worthless as spit. Or maybe you're afraid that if somebody got wind of your blowin' the whistle on Carlyle, you'd be workin' crossin' guard duty at
James
Bowie
Elementary School
for the rest of your redneck life."

"You're startin' to piss me off, sister." He put aside the gun, stood, and thrust a finger at her. "Let this be a warnin' to you. If you got some cockamamie idea of callin' up the tabloids about Carlyle, thinkin' to grab yourself a little publicity cuz you think you're reincarnated Marilyn Monroe, think again. I'll institute your ass in the Terrell loony bin so fast, you won't know what end's up."

She backed away, her eyes widening as he glared at her, his teeth showing behind his ratty mustache, and his nose sweating. "God," she muttered. "Chill. I ain't about to call no tabloids, Jack. I want Carlyle exactly where he is for the time bein'. I've got plans for the bastard."

"Yeah? Well, I don't wanna know about it." He shoved her aside and started toward the kitchen.

"Well, you're gonna know about it," she yelled after him. "The whole goddamn world is gonna know about it by the time I'm done."

«
^
»

"
I
t's been days. I haven't heard a word from him. He said
he'd call when he was ready to discuss the book further, but so far, nothing." Alyson looked out the motel window. Thank God the rain had finally stopped. The dreariness remained, however. The low gray clouds turned the afternoon dark as dusk—like her mood. Ticky Creek and room number ten, Pine Lodge Motel, were beginning to feel claustrophobic. "I drove into
Tyler
and bought a VCR, and found a Video Classics store at the mall that had an entire collection of Carlyle's works, including the complete
Foster Kids
series." She picked up a videotape box and grinned at the image of a cheeky eight-year-old with a twinkle still in his eye. "Wow. Was he precocious or what? Eight years old, and he makes my stomach do flip-flops."

"He must be doing more than making your stomach flip-flop if you were stupid enough to lie to an officer about his alibi. A.J., what am I going to do with you?"

"Alan, you're right. I'm too stupid to live. But so was he, for going out with
Charlotte
in the first place." She punched the VCR remote, kicking on a tape that filled the screen with the muted image of Brandon, not as an eight-year-old but as a naked Army captain putting it to a general's wife while the wife-negligent general ate eggs Benedict in the next room. She sat down on the bed, her mouth going dry and her body warming. His naked buttocks pumped like a machine between the actress's spread legs. Every well-defined muscle in his back strained and flexed. His lover twisted her hands into the sheets, her eyes glazing and her mouth falling open in a silent scream.

Yes, but in the movies you're not really doing it.

Surely you're not that naive.

"A.J., the man is a magnet for trouble. Stay away from him. Pack your bags and come home. Besides, what makes you think he didn't walk back to the quarry and do a number on the Minger girl? I can quote you a textbook full of cases where men with
a mother
hatred take out their anger on women."

She hit the
Off
button, stared at the blank screen while the heat between her legs began a slow throb.

I guess that makes you a voyeur too, doesn't it?

"I don't think so," she finally replied, stretching out on the bed. She tried to rid her mind of Carlyle's image, naked and thrusting, driving the actress mindless.

I love seeing a beautiful woman in the throes of excitement and ecstasy. A woman's face as she's experiencing orgasm is the most fulfilling part of sex for me. She's vulnerable. Oblivious. In those few seconds I could do anything to her I wanted, and she'd be helpless to stop me.

"Alan, regardless of the stories we've read about his temper, he's not a loose cannon. He doesn't just explode. I've seen him pushed. While he might stand up to it, he doesn't push back on a whim. I think it'd take a lot more than some horny teenager to push him beyond his ability to contain his anger. He strikes me as the kind of person who doesn't get hostile unless he's backed against a wall."

"But you've never seen him angry, A.J."

"I've seen him frightened. Shocked. Severely miffed. Distraught over the welfare of his uncle. So gentle and loving to his invalid aunt that I felt like crying. But you're right. I haven't seen him really angry."

"And you won't until it's too late. Guys like that spontaneously combust. You won't see it coming."

"He didn't spontaneously combust when Emerald Marcella angered him. Or when Charlotte Minger tried to seduce him. Driving his car through a guardrail in order to murder
Marcella,
and returning to the quarry to beat up
Charlotte
would indicate premeditation."

"Are you losing your objectivity? Because if you are, I'm coming down there and drag your butt home. Hey, the D.A. knew he had a weak case, which is why he went the manslaughter route. Carlyle pled guilty."

"How did he get out of the car before it went through the guardrail, Alan?"

"This conversation is giving me a headache. Look, you went to Ticky Creek to get a story on what has become of Brandon Carlyle since he left prison. You got it. So come home."

"I came to Ticky Creek for more than that. I want an inside peek at the real Carlyle, not just what we've fed the public and what's been fed to us by the media. I'm dancing on the edge of something here. He's close to opening up, Alan."

"He's close to getting in your panties, I think."

She pointed the remote at the television and clicked. Carlyle rolled from the bed and walked toward the camera. She hit the pause button, freeze-framing the image. The heat returned, making her skin sweat and the air too thick to breathe.

"What's the difference between perversion and voyeurism?" she asked.

"Nothing. Why, A.J.?"

"Because." She sighed. "I'm feeling a little perverted right now."

*

Dressed
in
starched bib overalls over a plaid flannel shirt, a red, sweat-stained Texaco cap on his head, Henry smiled
down at his generous slice of coconut meringue pie. "I don't know why I haven't thought of this before. Hell, I can't stop in at the Dime
A
Cup and just smell the grease without Betty or Brandon finding out. If this pie tastes as good as it looks, I'm liable to become a frequent patron of the Pine Lodge Café. How's your chocolate pie, Al?"

Alyson licked her fork and closed her eyes. "Awesome. Rich as fudge. I give it five stars. Want a bite?" She shoved her plate toward Henry. He dipped his fork into the chocolate, then ate, his eyes slowly rolling back in his head as he savored it.

"There ought to be a law against something that sinfully delicious. Maybe when I finish my coconut, I'll have a piece of chocolate."

"I think if I let you get away with that sort of indulgence, Betty and
Brandon
would run me out of town on a rail. One piece only, Henry. You promised. There's enough cholesterol in that pie to clog up the entire
New York City
sewer system." Sitting back in her booth seat, Alyson smiled as Henry dug into his pie like an eager child. "I take it you don't get pie much at home."

"Are you kidding? You saw what Betty was feeding me for breakfast—fake stuff dressed up to taste like sausage and eggs. Once a week she lets me eat a fried meal. The rest of the time, it's baked this and broiled that. Even tried to feed me baked catfish." He pointed his fork at her. "I wouldn't eat it. God made catfish to be rolled in cornmeal and deep-fried with a side order of
french
fries and a dozen hush puppies."

"Do you take medication for your heart?" she asked.

"Nitro." He patted the pocket of his overalls. "In case I have a spell. Keep a bottle in my pocket, one on my bedside table, another in the glove compartment of my truck in case I forget to put them in my pocket. I don't forget, but it makes
Brandon
feel better." He chewed and watched her. "You haven't asked about him. I figured that'd be the first thing out of your mouth."

"I'm still trying to figure out why you've come to see me. I'm sure it wasn't simply to buy me a piece of pie and a cup of coffee."

"I've got good news, Al. Deputy Greene dropped by the house this afternoon.
Charlotte
got a brief look at her attacker. Bald guy. Stocky. Grabbed her from behind as she was getting in her car."

Alyson sank back in relief. "That's great news.
Brandon
must be hugely relieved."

"
Brandon
hasn't been up to feeling much of anything the last few days. Been sick in bed with a cold and sore throat. Betty's been clucking over him like a mother hen." He took a drink of his coffee and regarded her over his cup. "He'll want to see you. Soon, I suspect. Unfortunately we have a
…
situation that's kept him buried in his room as much as possible. His agent is in town. Mildred Feldman. Staying here at the Pine Lodge, I believe."

"Judging by your tone, you're not pleased."

"Woman's a snake. She and Brandon had a thing for a short while. Ever since she's acted like he owes her something."

"Why doesn't he fire her?"

"There's not a decent agent out there right now who'll give him the time of day. He may have pled guilty to manslaughter, but people remember that the damn District Attorney originally wanted to get him on murder, the idiot." He drank again,
then
set the cup aside. "Al, I believe this autobiography you want to help him write will remedy that. There's things I want people to know about him—good things. He anonymously financed the pediatric wing of the medical clinic out on
Gunther Road
. Before that, parents had to drive their kids to
Tyler
for decent doctor care. In memory of his father, he founded the John Carlyle Fund to help those who've been disabled on the job at the mill. Then there's the Little League ballpark. Kids were playing ball on what amounted to a cow pasture.
Brandon
bought land just outside of town and built an entire ballpark—even pays the utilities so the teams don't have to. And personally? I can't even begin to tell you what he's done for me and Bernie. Back when meat prices went to hell, I about lost the shirt off my back. I had to mortgage the farm to pay my creditors. Without my knowing,
Brandon
went in and wiped out my debts, got me my farm back. And as far as Bernie is concerned, anything that insurance
don't
cover, which is a hell of a lot,
Brandon
picks up. There wouldn't be
no
full-time nurse care if it was left up to the HMO. I got a fifty thousand-dollar van in the garage that he bought so I can transport Bernie around in her wheelchair. Now I ask you, does all that sound like a man who'd kill somebody?"

"It's impossible to help someone who's unwilling to help himself," she pointed out.

Henry nodded and refocused on his pie, his face darkening. His voice took on a rough tone. "When he was a kid, nine, ten years old, and he came home to visit, he'd sit on the front porch and cry. When Bernie or I'd try to get him to tell us what was wrong, he'd run away into the woods and stay there for hours." Putting down his fork and shoving his empty plate away, Henry turned his blue eyes to Alyson. "He still cries, Al. In his sleep. Sometimes it's all I can do not to go in his room and comfort him. But I figure he's a grown man now and won't appreciate my treating him like a kid. He'd be embarrassed. I don't think
Brandon
'll ever open up to me because he's trying to protect me. He needs a confidante he can trust. He likes you, Al. For the last days he's found every excuse under the sun to bring up your name. He's starting to sound a little like a broken record, and a man with more than a casual interest in a woman."

She looked away. Her face warmed and her heartbeat accelerated as she perused the café: the silent jukebox against the far wall, the half-dozen empty tables decorated with vases of red plastic roses. She thought,
Don't
Henry. Don't plant that seed.
If he did, she might not be able to deny the niggling emotions that had bothered her the last days and nights as she hovered near the phone, waiting for
Brandon
to call. It was hard enough hearing Henry go on about trust and confidences
…
not to mention an autobiography that was no more than a figment of her imagination.

It was then she noticed the woman sitting alone at a table near the kitchen. Perhaps thirty. With hollow eyes and gaunt features. She stared at Alyson with an intensity that made her frown. Made a shiver run through her.

The front glass door opened. A woman walked in, dressed in a teal leather skirt and a cream silk blouse. Coal black hair framed a sharp-edged face that was beautiful enough to stop traffic. She stared at Alyson and Henry from behind the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses. Alyson knew instantly who she was. The chocolate pie in her stomach slowly turned over.

"Don't look now," she said, shifting her gaze back to Henry, "but I think your snake just slithered in."

Henry mumbled under his breath as Mildred crossed the room, the steel caps on her heels sounding like tap shoes on the tile floor. As a waitress hurried to greet her, Mildred waved her away.

"Henry, dear. Fancy meeting you here."

"Get tired of harassing Brandon so soon, Mildred, or did he finally throw you out on your keister?"

She gave him a flat smile. "How sweet, Henry. I can certainly see where
Brandon
gets his charm." Her head turned toward Alyson. "And you must be Alyson. James, is it? Our little stalkarazzi with a Nikon. Considering
Brandon
's immense dislike of anyone invading his privacy, I'm surprised there was enough left of you to haul into jail." She slid into the booth beside Henry and removed her glasses. Her eyes were hard and cold and black as charcoal. Her mouth was the same Passion Red as her long fake nails.

Alyson had seen a thousand just like her while married to Farrington: mean and hungry as a junkyard dog for power, money, and recognition. As she returned Mildred's direct stare, the desire to protect Carlyle roused in Alyson.