Darkling I Listen (22 page)

"And buried." He took a deep, steadying breath. "I accepted the responsibility for it. I'm attempting to put it behind me. Stirring up the memories and regrets won't help me forget it."

"What if someone—not you—killed her?"

He hit the brake, causing the car to fishtail across the double yellow lines. Both hands gripping the steering wheel, he stared through the windshield at the twin shafts of headlights disappearing into the dark ahead. Familiar raw emotions shot through him: anger, frustration
…
helplessness, and confusion—everything he'd experienced during those horrifying days following Emerald's death.

Forcing himself to look at Alyson, he said through his teeth, "Obviously Mitsy hit you harder than we thought. You're hallucinating."

"What if
Anticipating
was there?"

He stared into her eyes, a sudden rise of unreasonable anger directed at her for prying open his Pandora's
box
of memories. Now Alyson James and her writing aspirations had opened that box just enough to allow the sound of clattering bones to remind him that he could run and he could hide, but inevitably the past would come tapping him on the shoulder.

When he spoke again, his voice shook. "There were only two people in that car, Alyson. Me and Emerald—"

"And only one of you went through that guardrail." Her voice remained soft, calm,
reasonable
, as if she realized that she had just wandered too close to a land mine and one wrong move meant disaster. Shifting her body toward the door, her hand dropping toward the handle, she continued to hold his gaze with hers although the swelling of her eyelid made her squint and the puffiness of her lip gave her a slight lisp as she continued.

"The D.A. would have had the entire world believing that you somehow purposefully sent the car careening over the cliff, hurling yourself out of harm's way the instant before the car and Emerald went airborne. What if
…
someone removed you from the
car,
then sent the car and Emerald over the cliff? Who would have a motive to do such a thing
…
except someone who considered women in your life as competition to be eliminated? Carlyle, the letters she's sent you
have
made it crystal clear that she watches your every move. What if she followed you that night? She witnessed the accident, removed you from the car,
then
eliminated Marcella from your life by using her own car to shove the Ferrari through the guardrail."

His jaw tightening, he glanced away. The unwelcome memories rushed back to him, closing off his throat, making him sweat.

Mr. Carlyle, Emerald Marcella is dead…

Mr. Carlyle, you're under arrest for the death of Emerald Marcella. You have the right to remain silent…

Brandon Carlyle, on behalf of the State of California, I hereby sentence you to six years in the
Corcoran
State
Prison
…

Alyson touched the lump on her forehead and sank against the seat, closed her eyes, and sighed wearily. "A car was seen leaving the scene of the accident, according to the D.A.'s investigative officer, Ronald Peterson. He considered the possibility that someone in that car removed you from the vehicle then did a number on Marcella, but he couldn't prove it any more than he could prove you intentionally killed her."

"How the hell do you know all this?"

"I got a call from Alan while I was in the ladies' room. He met Peterson at a symposium. Your name came up or something, and Peterson was apparently more than willing to discuss the case."

"Who the hell is Alan? And what business am I of his?"

"He's my friend—"

"Boyfriend? Lover?"

"Don't change the subject, Carlyle."

"Considering we would have ended up in bed tonight if it wasn't for Mitsy, I think I have a right to know if you're involved with someone."

A grin toyed with her swollen mouth as she regarded him. "Jealous?"

As bright car lights appeared on the road behind them, Carlyle stomped the accelerator on the Jag. They sped down the black road as if by doing so he could outrun the images materializing before his mind's eye.

Fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour—

The rain-slick highway curved like a serpent's back in the Ferrari's high beams. Heavy metal music screeched with ear-shattering volume from the radio. He turned it down. Marcella turned it up, higher. The crazy bitch had hit him. There was blood in his mouth. Blood seeped through his shirt and pants: dark, thin stripes where her fingernails had torn his flesh. She gyrated in her car seat, swinging her head from side to side with the guitar crescendo, her eyes rolling and her nose running. She flung herself across the console, buried her face in his crotch. He grabbed a handful of her hair and hauled her back, shoved her into her seat and shouted, "Enough! Stay the hell away from me!" She tore at her hair as her mouth spewed obscenities. Her hands came at him; her jagged nails ripped at his face, then she went for the steering wheel. He hit the brakes, felt the car surge sideways as he fought for control—losing it, losing it—the guardrail loomed ahead, reflectors glowed red like devil eyes—going over, they were going over—Jesus, oh Jesus, they were going to die—

*

Perhaps bringing up the topic of Emerald Marcella at that
point in time hadn't been the smartest move on her part, but considering what had happened at the
River Road
, Alyson felt the topic should be broached. Obviously, Carlyle didn't agree. For the remainder of the drive he stared straight ahead while the car's speed crept faster and his expression turned darker.

He did not slow as they neared the motel. As they flew past the entrance, she sank deeper in her seat. "I trust you aren't intending to ride me out of town on a rail."

"You're going home with me. You'll be more comfortable there, and I can better keep an eye on you. I'm still not convinced that I shouldn't take you straight to the clinic. You look like hell."

"There you go, smooth talking me again. I'm not sure how much more of your charm my heart can take. I'd feel a whole lot better if you didn't look as if you're about to explode."

"Don't get involved in my business, Alyson, and we'll get along just fine."

"Mitsy just shoved me headfirst into your business." She pointed to the knot on her forehead. "This baby is throbbing involvement. At this very minute she's no doubt fantasizing ways—very messy ways—of assuring that our relationship ends before it can begin. If you want to ignore the possibilities I've mentioned and stick your head in the sand, fine. But I can't help wondering if she's capable of more than punching my lights out. If she's Anticipating—and she was following your Ferrari the night Marcella was killed—then I have a right to suspect that she'll stop at nothing to make certain you and I have no future together, be it business or pleasure."

She watched his jaw work. "I only want to help," she added more softly.

"You want." He gave a cold laugh. "I want a lot of things, Alyson. I want to pull this car over and make love to you until you scream in ecstasy. I want you to give me a blow job until I scream in ecstasy." His head turned, and he skewered her with his eyes. "I want Bernie and Henry to be well again. I want to play ball with my dad again. Sometimes I want to never have been born. But we can't always get what we want, can we?"

*

Brandon
lifted Alyson out of the car seat and into his arms.
Straightening and stumbling back a little, he attempted to shift her weight as he kicked the car door closed.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said, "Ah, come on, Carlyle, in movies I've seen you heft at least half a dozen women up entire flights of stairs."

"They were anorexic with the bone density of sparrows. Christ, I'm trying to be chivalrous here, and you weigh a ton."

"I'm one-twenty, soaking wet."

"Bullhockey. You're one-forty, easy."

"It's muscle mass. I work out."

"You eat too damn many Twinkies."

Pooching her swollen lip out, she attempted to look pitiful. "Are you calling me fat?"

Gritting his teeth, he mounted the porch steps, staggered sideways before righting again.

"I wear size six jeans, sucker. I'm telling you,
it's
muscle. All muscle. I have an incredible metabolism. Twinkies don't stand a chance at my thighs."

"Yeah? Wait until you hit forty, cupcake—or, better yet, drop three or four babies. Every Twinkle you've eaten since you cut teeth will be riding on your butt."

Since she'd last visited Henry's farm, great care had been taken to decorate the porch for Halloween. A giant jack-o'
-
lantern perched on the top step. Ghosts dangled by fishing line from the rafters, shifting and spinning as the night breeze teased them. Alyson caught the screen door handle and flung it back so
Brandon
could manipulate the doorknob with the hand hooked behind her knees. With an exaggerated grunt, he stepped into the house, and came face to face with Mildred.

Brandon
set Alyson on her feet. "What's this, trick or treat already? I like the mask, Mildred. Very scary. What the hell are you doing here this time of night?"

She ignored him as she stepped closer to Alyson. "My, my, looks like you forgot to duck, Sweetie. What happened? Lover's spat?"

Brandon
brushed Mildred aside as he caught Alyson's arm and propelled her toward the kitchen. "I'm not in the mood to forgive your cattiness tonight, Mildred." He glanced at Alyson and said, "Mildred is my agent. She'll try and convince you we were madly in love. Don't believe her. I allowed her to seduce me once when I was stinking drunk. I don't remember anything beyond waking up the morning after. As I recall, I reacted as if I just woke up in a rattlesnake pit. It hasn't happened since, and it will never happen again. Did you hear that clearly, Mildred? Never again."

"Do you hear me complaining, darling? I'd have experienced more satisfaction with something battery-powered."

He pointed his middle finger at her.

The door to Bernie's room was open, allowing Jay Leno's monologue to spill into the kitchen. Henry lay on his roll-away bed next to Bernie's. Propped up on pillows, his glasses askew on his nose, Henry slept deeply, his snores resonating behind the high-volume laughter of Leno's audience.

Brandon
closed the door,
then
sat Alyson in a chair by the harvest table. Spread over the surface were several dozen fishing lures, an open tackle box, a shoe box of red-and-white bobbers, and reels of fishing line. There was also a clear plastic bowl full of miniature Halloween chocolates, and a dozen or more discarded wrappers scattered among the lures. Obviously Henry had not begun playing with his fishing toys until Betty had left for the evening. The diet watchdog would not have approved of Henry's bingeing on milk chocolate Krackles.

Brandon walked to a cupboard where he located a bottle of peroxide, cotton swabs, and Band-Aids, all of which he moved to the table where Alyson remained, her gaze locked on Mildred, who returned her stare with eyes as cold as marbles. Even if Mildred hadn't caused Henry's old heart to go haywire, and even if Mildred's energy wasn't so overwhelmingly acid that Alyson felt like her skin was going to melt from the bone, she wouldn't have liked Mildred just on principle. Her appearance made Alyson think of something reptile. All that was missing was a long black tongue to slither through her lips.

Brandon
pulled a chair up to Alyson's and sat. He reached for a cotton swab and peroxide. "What are you doing here, Mildred, besides reminding me why I should fire you?"

"Waiting for you, dear."

"Where's your car?"

"Seems the alternator is sick. I dropped by to see you earlier, and when I tried to leave, the car wouldn't start. Someone named Joe Bob or something hauled it away behind a wrecker. Henry offered to drive me back to the motel, but I declined. I said I'd wait for you. I didn't realize I'd be forced to endure an education on jigging spoons and crank-baits and the pros and cons of baiting fishing holes with soured corn."

Brandon
caught Alyson's chin with one finger and tipped her face toward his. His eyes said,
Ignore her.
Gently, he touched the cotton swab to the cut above her eye. She winced and jerked away. He blew on it lightly until the burning eased,
then
he carefully cleansed the cut again.

Mildred dug a cigarette from her purse as she watched the procedure. She was extraordinarily beautiful, a petite package wearing jade capris and a cropped black off-the-shoulder angora sweater that accentuated her slender, pale throat, as did the upswept raven hair. Jade and diamond earrings glittered on her lobes. If Carlyle never worked again, Alyson suspected that Mildred would fare just fine. More than fine. She'd buy more overpriced baubles for her ears and in another three, possibly four years she'd splurge on another face-lift. Alyson suspected that Mildred Feldman was every bit of fifty-five, because though a surgeon could yank up face flab until the client talked out her scalp, the hands didn't lie. Mildred had the hands of a woman who'd lived the better part of half a century.