Darkling I Listen (18 page)

"I understand you're interested in helping
Brandon
write his autobiography," Mildred said. "Who's your agent?"

"I don't have one
…
yet."

"Who's your publisher?"

"Don't have one
…
yet."

Mildred raised one eyebrow, and all pretense of pleasantry disappeared from her voice. "Who do you work for?"

"I freelance."

"My dear, no one pays their bills by freelancing in publishing. Where do you live?"

"
San Francisco
."

Her eyes narrowed. "Sweetie, you could sell articles to
Reader's Digest
every day of the week and still not afford to live in
San Francisco
—unless, of course, you live under a bridge and eat scraps out of trash bins. You look healthy enough. So I'll ask you once again. Who do you work for?"

"That's enough," Henry declared, pointing a finger in Mildred's face. "Alyson doesn't owe you a detailed résumé of her work history."

Mildred rolled her eyes and sat back. "Sorry, Henry, but I have every right to protect my client's best interest."

"Since when have you had my nephew's best interest at heart, Mildred? The last job prospect you presented him was a hemorrhoid commercial."

"That's what he gets for making an ass out of himself."

"
Brandon
never made an ass out of himself. The media made an ass out of him. Other actors can throw hissy fits and we never hear a word about it. Let
Brandon
sneeze,
and they hear about it in
Mongolia
."

"With one of the most recognizable names and faces in the world, he has an obligation to live up to his fans' ideals."

"Nobody can live up to everyone's ideals, Mildred. Not if they're human. Besides, there are individuals out there who want to rip an artist or his work apart because it makes them feel better about their own miserable lives."

As Henry's face turned red as the plastic roses, Alyson reached for his hand, which was clenched on the table. "Enough," she said sternly. "I'm sure
Brandon
appreciates your enthusiastic defense of his character, Henry, but not at the expense of your health. Take a deep breath and relax. Do you need a pill?"

He shook his head and looked away, attempting to control his anger. Alyson shifted her gaze to Mildred, who obviously didn't share Alyson's concern for Henry. Mildred's focus was still on her.

With her red mouth curled at one end, Mildred relaxed against the back of the booth and drummed the table with her fingernails. "Convince me that I should agree to this project. Why should I? You're
a nobody
, Miss James. Your name won't sell a solitary book."

"But
Brandon
's will," Henry said, his face growing redder. "This story is going to show Cara Carlyle for what she is. And isn't. And for your information, Mildred, we don't give a dizzy duck whether you agree to this project or not. You're not agenting this project. Keep your nose to your own business, and maybe
Brandon
won't fire you."

She laughed. "
Brandon
won't fire me, Henry. He's burned too many bridges. If he ever hopes to get a job in front of a camera again, he'll need an agent. We both know Brandon's made enough money to last him very comfortably through the next ten lifetimes, but we also know he's a workaholic. I'm sure he'd like nothing more than to be on location
this very minute, spitting obscenities
at the director and telling the producers exactly where they can cram their budgets."

Henry's face turned darker, and his voice began to shake. "Are you insinuating that he's unhappy living here with me and Bernie? That we're somehow cramping his style?"

Alyson slid from the booth and took hold of Henry's arm. "Time to go. Will you walk me to my room, Henry?" She tugged on him, bringing his attention reluctantly back to her. His face looked pinched, and he was sweating. She felt him trembling under her hand. "Time to go," she repeated, smiling as calmly as possible, considering her mounting concern. The color was leaving Henry's face. His eyes were glazed.

He stood unsteadily. She turned him toward the door, gave him a little nudge, and watched as he moved slowly across the room, his broad shoulders rounded and his heels dragging slightly.

Alyson dug into her pocket and withdrew a ten-dollar bill that she tossed on the table,
then
focused on Mildred. "I don't profess to know
Brandon
well, but I do know how he treasures Henry and Bernice. I suspect that if he knew you'd caused Henry distress in any way, there wouldn't be enough left of you to box up and ship back to
Hollywood
. Henry said you were a snake. Obviously, he overstated your character."

She ran after Henry, catching up to him outside the café. He leaned against his old pickup, his face colorless as he struggled to breathe. He clutched at his pocket. "My pills," he barely managed before sliding to the ground, landing hard on his backside, his legs outstretched and his hands falling helplessly at his side. Alyson dug in his pocket, extracted the medicine bottle,
fought
, cursing, with the cap while attempting to read the directions on the label. Her hands shook so badly that the words blurred.

Finally, she poured the pills into her hand, took one small pill from the heap, grabbed Henry's chin, and slid the pill under his tongue. "I'll call
Brandon
," she told him.

He shook his head and grabbed her hand. "I'll be fine in a minute. Don't want him bothered."

Taking his face between her hands, she shook her head and did her best to blink back the tears of worry and anger that burned her eyes. "Pay no attention to what Mildred said, Henry.
Brandon
adores you, and he's exactly where he wants and needs to be. You and Bernie are the most important treasures in his life. He's told me so."

His eyes closing, Henry rested his head back against the truck. Gradually, his color returned and his breathing evened. Sinking down beside him, limp as a rag doll as the fear and adrenaline subsided, Alyson buried her face in her hands and willed back the swell of emotion in her throat.

*

In the Pine Lodge parking lot
Brandon
sat in his car that
purred like a contented cat. From the CD player Garth
Brooks
sang about wolves at his door while the darkening sky
drizzled
slow rain on the windshield. There was just enough light left for him to reread the letter in his hand—bold, angry print in red ink.

YOU'VE BEEN BAD BAD BAD. I WON'T TOLERATE THIS BEHAVIOR. YOU'VE SUFFERED ONCE FOR YOUR STUPIDITY. DON'T FORCE ME TO PUNISH YOU AGAIN. THE TIME IS COMING FOR US SOON VERY VERY SOON. NOW MORE THAN EVER IT SEEMS RICH TO DIE, TO CEASE UPON THE
MIDNIGHT
WITH NO PAIN. UNTIL THEN, I AM STILL
…
ANTICIPATING.

He hit the stereo
Off
button, then turned off the car ignition. Silence filled the Jaguar's interior as
Brandon
stared through the rain-speckled windshield at room number ten. Even before the arrival of the letter in the late afternoon mail, he'd been planning to come here. He'd rehearsed a thousand excuses; now he had a legit one. Going to the sheriff with the letter was a waste of time. Jack's own sister could be Anticipating. She could be sitting in her car watching him at that very moment. A shudder ran through him as he glanced in the rearview mirror, as if expecting to find the eyes of a lunatic staring back at him—like something out of
The Twilight Zone—
an
entity that could materialize itself in glass.

No supernatural entity this, however. No figment of a horror writer's imagination. Anticipating was real, and somehow he had majorly pissed her off.

Tucking the letter into his shirt pocket, Brandon got out of the car and glanced around the parking lot, which was empty except for Alyson's car and a couple of trucks parked outside the café. Looking for what, he wondered. He could be looking Anticipating square in the eye and he wouldn't know it. She could have him focused in the crosshairs of a rifle scope, and what the hell could he do about it?

His hand dropped to the pager on his belt—a habit he had established over the last months. If there was trouble at the farm, Henry would alert him.

He knocked on the door and waited, listened to the television chatter from within. The television shut off, and her voice called out:
"Who is it?"

"
Brandon
."

Silence.

He grinned. "Come on, Aly, open up. The last thing I need is for someone to see me skulking around a tawdry motel. They'll think I'm into cheap hookers."

The door opened, slowly. She peered up at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. "So what else is new, Carlyle? According to the biography, you were Heidi's best customer."

"The key word here is 'cheap.'"
He frowned, and said in a softer voice, "If you'll let me in, we'll discuss why you're crying."

"It's none of your business why I'm crying." She sniffed and propped her hands on her hips—a defiant stance that said, despite the tears, she wasn't a pushover when it came to sweet talk and charm.

"Okay, then I'll appeal to your guilt. If you let me in, I won't die of the pneumonia I nearly caught when you left me by the road in a thunderstorm." He shouldered the door open, forcing her to step back so he could enter. "FYI," he added as he spotted the partially packed suitcase on the bed, "I never bought a hooker in my life. Are you going someplace?"

She closed the door and leaned against it. "Home. And it wasn't raining when I left you. Not that it would have made any difference if it had been. You were being a jerk."

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he glanced around the shabby room. It smelled like sex. Hers, maybe. More likely the hundreds who came before her—cheating lovers who drove in from surrounding towns to scoot boots and binge-drink at the River Road Honky-Tonk before finding their way
to the Pine Lodge. It sure as hell wasn't tourists that kept the place in business.

"Why are you leaving?" He turned his gaze back to her. Her hair was mussed, as if she'd been sleeping. She wore a mid-thigh green T-shirt that hung off one
shoulder,
and bright yellow kneesocks imprinted with tiny Bugs Bunnys. "Why?" he repeated, watching her mouth and trying to ignore the desire the sight of her always evoked in him. Bugs Bunny looked sexy as hell on her.

Averting her eyes, she shrugged. "Something happened today that made me realize this entire idea was stupid. I've got no business here, Carlyle. I'm losing my objectivity. I came here to do a job, and suddenly I can't
…
rationalize my reasons for doing it any longer."

"Think money." He smiled.

She didn't. "That just makes me another bone picker. I'm taking advantage of someone's misfortune to line my own pockets."

"There's a difference. I've invited you to pick my bones."

"Well, don't. I'm a hack, okay? Today I realized and accepted that you—your family—deserve better. Call Andrew Morton. You have my blessings." She moved to the bed and continued to shove jeans and Tshirts into the case.
Brandon
watched her, unsettled by the idea of her leaving. Sick and running a fever the last few days, he'd spent most of his miserable hours thinking about her—how good she'd tasted when he kissed her. How the compassion in her eyes made him want to confide. How the scent of her made him ache.

Christ, he ached. Badly.

"Aly." He reached for her.

She stepped away and shook her head. "Don't. Just don't. In fact, I want you to get out of here."

"What the hell are you afraid of?" he asked, angry with frustration. "Me? Do you think I'm going to do a Marcella number on you or something?"

"Brother, do I wish it were that simple." She tunneled her hands through her hair, sweeping it back from her pale and flawless face. "I wish you were the ass I expected when I came to Ticky Creek. I didn't want vulnerability, Carlyle. I didn't want tenderness. I didn't want to see so much love in your eyes when you look at your family that I want to cry. I didn't need to know the sort of pain you feel over your mother's betrayal. And I sure as hell didn't want to know that you cry in your sleep at night."

His face turned hot. "You've been talking to Henry."

She nodded, refusing to look at him. "He came to see me today. Dammit." She kicked the nightstand by the bed, knocking the telephone receiver off the hook. The dial tone filled up the heavy silence.

Brandon
stepped around her and hung up the phone. His face still burned, and he couldn't quite catch his breath. Because he was embarrassed that Henry had shared one of his most intimate secrets with a virtual stranger? Or because the smell and closeness of Alyson James's body was like slow torture to his senses, and had been since the instant he'd stepped into the room? Or, worse, because the thought of her walking out on him now seemed as bleak and unsettling as spending years in a prison cell?