Darkling I Listen (30 page)

"Tell me to take a hike, and I will,"
came
Alyson's voice behind him.

"Take a hike." He took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked toward the line of trees in the distance. Once upon a time, he would have run there and hidden.

She moved beside him, sat down close, and slid her arm around his shoulders. "You're shaking."

"I want to be alone, please." He forced a flat smile. "I've just acted like an ass to a sick old man, and I need time to relish it."

"You can't keep running from it,
Brandon
."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"I watched you as Henry began talking about
Those Foster Kids.
Absolute horror came over your face. It was the same look you had last night when I woke up to
find
you trembling. Please, let me help—"

He shoved her aside and stood up, walked away. He sucked hard on the cigarette, holding the fire inside until his chest felt as if he might combust.

"I watched the episode only a few nights ago,"
came
Alyson's steady voice. "I bought all the videos—thought I might get to know you better if I watched you grow up. That particular episode was called 'Nightmare.' You were riveting. I wept. I wanted to take Jeff in my arms and soothe away his pain and suffering, and obliterate the nightmares that tortured him. I can imagine that his every waking and sleeping minute was haunted by the fear that he'd be subjected again to the monster who abused him. Is that what you're frightened of,
Brandon
? That your monster will—"

"He can't come back, because he's dead!" he shouted at her. The words floated over the dark trees and seemed to hang like low clouds above the earth.

Her face hazy in the deepening twilight, she stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Her skin looked white with cold, and her hair stirred with the night breeze.

"He's dead," he repeated more softly.

The cold had begun to bite at his skin, and he realized he'd been sweating heavily. "He died of cancer when I was twenty. The son of a bitch had the nerve to ask to see me on his deathbed. I went, not to do him any favors—hell, no. I'd spent the last eleven years of my life fantasizing all the ways I could kill him. I hadn't seen him for seven years, not since the series was canceled. There was this pitifully wasted man hooked up to machines, blubbering in fear—like I used to blubber every time Cara took me to see him. He actually begged me to forgive him—like I use to beg him to leave me alone. Only when I begged, I was on my knees."

He laughed and shook his head. "Can you believe that? As if I'd forgive him. I looked down in his bulging, glazed fish eyes, and I said, 'You'll rot in hell, you goddamn sicko.' And then he died. Right there in front of my eyes, he died. I started laughing and couldn't stop. I was furious. I wanted him to suffer as long as possible. I wanted him to fester in his agony and think about what hell had in store for him when he finally croaked.

"I thought that would be the end of the nightmares. But they didn't end, they just changed. Instead of dreaming of him raping me in his apartment, I dreamed he crawled out of his grave, his skin squirming maggots, and tried to drag me into the grave with him.

"I used to throw myself out of bed and crawl into the shower, spend half an hour trying to wash his stink off my skin. Only it wasn't his stink, it was mine, rank with fear. No, not fear. Fear doesn't describe what I felt. Horror. He was right, though. Chivas was my friend. At least for a while. Amnesia in a bottle. Happy juice. If I drank enough, I obliterated the past and blacked out the present."

He sat down beside Alyson, close, so his thigh and shoulder pressed against hers. She reached for his hand and pulled it into her lap.

"I used to sit for hours and stare at my reflection in a mirror. I'd pore over the magazine covers featuring this image of what millions of people thought was perfection. I'd go to my movies and sit for hours, hoping for a solitary clue that would enlighten me as to what all the idiotic fuss was about. Because all I saw in the mirror, on the magazine covers, on the movie screen, was the kid who used to hide in a closet in a fetal position and cry…"

He coughed into his hand, only it wasn't a cough. It was a sob. The skin around his eyes began to swell and burn, and for a long moment he couldn't speak. All his strength focused on controlling the emotion shortcircuiting his self-discipline.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" she asked gently. "Because Cara—"

"Cara had nothing to do with it. Any love or respect I had for her as my mother disintegrated the first time she walked out the door and left me with Reilly." The ache rolled over in his chest, swelled painfully, closing off his throat like a noose. He threw the cigarette to the muddy ground and crushed it out with his boot heel. Only then did he look at Alyson directly, and he curled his fingers more tightly around hers, cleared his throat twice before he was certain his voice wouldn't shake when he spoke.

"It's Henry. I couldn't have him knowing. He and Bernie
…
too damn innocent. The reality would've shattered them. That sort of ugliness doesn't exist in Ticky Creek—at least not out in the open. He'd have found a way to blame himself. Then he'd have despaired that he'd let my dad down. There'd have been legal issues, lawsuits; the story would have been blasted on every television screen and in every tabloid headline in the world. Cara would have found a way to eat him alive. By the time the dust settled, he wouldn't have had a dime left to his name. And there was the show to think about. That kind of scandal would have tanked
Those Foster Kids
a lot of people out of work. Besides…" He tried to smile, couldn't quite pull it
off.
"I was Brandon Carlyle. The golden child. Kid Perfect. I clung to the love of my fans by my fingernails because, except for Henry and Bernie, they were my only source of self-worth. If they turned away from me, I'd have been lost."

Taking a deep breath,
Brandon
turned his face into the chilled breeze. "He can't ever know about this, Aly. I don't give a damn about how the rest of the world perceives me—not any longer. If they want to believe I'm an irresponsible, alcoholic jerk whose arrogance and love for booze ultimately led to self-destruction, fine. But Henry can't ever know the truth about my past. It would kill him."

«
^
»

B
randon
kissed the top of Henry's bald head and apologized
for his earlier tantrum,
then
he kissed Bernie and settled into a chair next to his uncle, whose attention did not drift from the television.
Brandon
stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, fixed his gaze on the screen, and stared at it blankly, seeing nothing but the pictures in his head. Alyson watched him from the doorway, trying to keep her own emotions in check. She was having a hard time looking at him and not imagining the horror he endured as a child—lost and helpless, bearing the burden of protecting Henry and Bernie from the horrifying nightmare that was his life. The outrage she felt at Cara Carlyle made her shake. Somehow, she was going to make damn sure the woman paid for her outrageous sins.

The phone rang. Betty put down a stack of dirty plates and answered it. She stared at the wall as she listened to the voice in her ear, then, "Mr. Brandon isn't here at present. I'll tell him you called." She hung up and, without looking at Alyson, stepped to the door and announced, "That was Mildred Feldman. She's called six times today. She says it's imperative that you phone her at once."

"Fine,"
Brandon
responded, but didn't move.

Betty returned to clearing the table. Alyson joined her, stepping over Rufous where he sprawled on the floor near his food dish, hound eyes regarding her dolefully. As she collected the platter of cold fries, Betty snatched it from her hand.

"That won't be necessary, Miss James."

"I'd like to help, Betty."

"This family is my responsibility. Besides—" Her mouth stretched into something vaguely resembling a smile. "You're a guest here. I wouldn't think of allowing Mr. Brandon's visitor to dirty her hands in greasy dishwater."

"I don't mind. Really."

"No."

Betty turned away and, with her hand, raked the potatoes into the dog dish. Rufous sniffed at them and laid his head on his paws.

Alyson followed her to the sink. Leaning one hip against the counter, she crossed her arms under her breasts and focused on Betty's profile. The steam from the hot water caused Betty's mascara to smudge under her eyes, and beads of sweat formed over her upper lip.

"Thought you had Bible study tonight," Alyson said softly, almost conspiratorially, certainly with an edge of spiteful amusement in her tone.

"I do."

"Guess you'll have to pray doubly hard. I'm staying over again."

"I ascertained as much." Betty plunged her hands deeper into the water. Her mouth pursed.

"I would think, as much as you profess to care about Henry and Brandon, that you'd be grateful that
Brandon
has a girlfriend."

"Is that what you are?" Raising one black eyebrow, Betty looked at her askance.

"So it would seem."

"Well." Betty shrugged and wrung water from the dishcloth. "Considering his last fling was with a porno queen, I suggest that you not let this little dalliance go to your head. Obviously, good judgment isn't one of his strengths."

Alyson moved closer and lowered her voice. "Are you jealous, Betty?"

Betty's face flushed, whether from the heat of the water or anger, Alyson couldn't tell.

"Worried that I'm going to usurp your position in this house?"

"Nonsense. As far as I can see, Miss James, you've got little to nothing to offer this family."

"Then would you mind telling me why you so dislike me?"

Betty's head turned slowly, and her intensely green eyes fixed on Alyson's face. Her expression was so expressionless that the effect was as disconcerting as a slap. "My dear young woman, I don't care about you one way or the other. You're simply a temporary nuisance, as insignificant in my life as an insect."

Betty threw the wet cloth onto the countertop, spattering dishwater over Alyson's shirt and jeans. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth curved. "If you'd like to help, dear, why don't you take out the garbage? You look as if you'd be very, very good at that." She pointed to the bulging plastic bag near the back door. "The Dumpster is down near the barn."

Betty turned on her heel and left the room. Alyson stared after her, not certain if she wanted to laugh or hurl something, then she chastised herself. What Betty thought of her didn't matter. She was apparently a good nurse. She worked very hard at taking care of Brandon and Henry. No doubt Betty's animosity stemmed from her concern over
Brandon
's happiness and well-being. And whether Alyson wanted to admit it or not, Betty had a legit reason to distrust her.

That sharp reality filled her with mortification. She'd come to Ticky Creek to get the scoop of a lifetime, so she could put her tabloid days behind her.

Well, you're sitting on one hell of a scoop now, aren't you? Brandon Carlyle sexually molested as a child. Cara Carlyle an accessory to the crime. The woman could go to prison for what she did to her son.

Brandon
is eventually going to find out who you are—no way to hide it, really. Hell, the
Galaxy Gazette
is going to trumpet its association with you to the high heavens when they get wind of your relationship with
Brandon
. Best to get it out in the open. Beg for mercy, and just maybe he'll forgive you. That's a big maybe.

That thought made her want to laugh hysterically.

She grabbed the garbage and dragged it out the back door, into the cold and dark, trudged down the path toward the barn. Rufous followed, detoured to a bush, and hiked his leg. She found the big Dumpster west of the barn, and hefted the bag into it. She thought of crawling in with it and slamming the lid closed behind her.

The easy way out would be to return to the Pine Lodge, pack her things, and drive off into the sunset, never to be seen or heard from again. There would be no need for confessions. No more concerns about Anticipating or Mitsy Dillman. Face it, Carlyle would never forgive her for what she'd originally come here to do; she'd never be able to forgive herself. Every time she looked into his eyes, she'd think about how her motive might have destroyed a man who'd been victimized all his life.

She thought, at first, that the brief flash of light in the distance was lightning. Then she realized that it had not come from the sky, but from the line of trees stretching across the east pasture. Perhaps she'd imagined it.

Rufous growled.

And perhaps not.

Squinting, she stared hard through the dark. Blackness stared back at her.

Rufous waddled that direction, stopped, lifted his nose, and sniffed the air. He looked back at Alyson, gave an old dog grunt,
then
with a chesty bay, took off at a lope.

She ran for the house and met
Brandon
coming out the door. Pointing toward the distant trees, she said, "Someone's there. I saw lights."

Brandon
turned on his heel and entered the house. Alyson followed, catching up with him as he went into the den. She stopped abruptly as he opened the gun cabinet and reached for a rifle.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" He grabbed bullets as Betty moved up behind Alyson.

"What's happened?"

"Call the sheriff, Brandon," Alyson said. "Don't do this yourself. Please—"

"What the hell are you doing?"
came
Henry's panicked voice.

"Trespassers," Brandon said, flashing Henry a calm smile. "No big deal. I'll check it out."

"The hell you will," Henry declared.

Brandon
slid the bullets into his shirt pocket and returned to the kitchen. He grabbed a jacket off a peg on the wall and started for the back door. Henry tried to stop him.

"I forbid it,
Brandon
—"

"It's no big deal, Henry," he repeated as he shrugged into the jacket. "I'll be back in ten minutes. It's probably nothing more than some teenagers fooling around in the backseat of a car."

Henry's face drained of color. Betty caught his arm and propelled him toward a chair as Alyson followed
Brandon
out the door and into the dark. "Don't do this," she pleaded as she ran to keep up with him.

He headed for Henry's old pickup. "Go back in the house and stay there, Aly."

"What if it's Mitsy?"

The truck door squeaked and rattled as he jerked it open. "Then I'm going to make her very sorry for taking a swing at you."

"I'm coming along."

One foot in the truck, he looked back at her, his hair fallen over one eye. The composed facade he'd presented to Henry was gone. He looked a little unbalanced, as he had during those taut moments when he related his nightmarish childhood—as if, with the slightest provocation, he would disintegrate before her eyes.

"No, you're not," he said simply, but effectively enough to stop her in her tracks. His dark eyes held her another second before he swung into the truck and slammed the door.

With a labored whine the engine fired, sputtered, roared, and hiccupped as he shifted into gear. As the truck rolled past her, she threw herself onto the tailgate. He braked so hard she sprawled over the bed on her stomach, the wind momentarily punched from her. Climbing over the side of the truck, he grabbed her by one arm and hauled her to the ground, tossed her into the grass as effortlessly as she had earlier flung away the sack of garbage.

Thrusting one finger in her face, he said, "Don't push me, Alyson. You don't want to see me mad."

"I don't want to see you dead!" she cried at him.

He ignored her and jumped back in the truck. Alyson watched the red taillights bump up and down as he drove off through the dark pasture toward the line of trees. The brake lights flashed like tiny fireflies,
then
the truck's interior light popped on as
Brandon
got out of the truck, leaving the door open. He disappeared into the dark, carrying the rifle with him.

Alyson sat on the back porch step, arms locked around her knees, her teeth chattering, not with the cold that was biting her cheeks but with fear. Henry's voice drifted to her, followed by Betty's as she attempted to assure him that
Brandon
was fully capable of taking care of himself.

Brandon
climbed back in the truck. The truck disappeared beyond the line of trees. Alyson stared out into the complete darkness, her ears straining for any sound, her body hard as stone with mounting tension. She kept seeing Mitsy's eyes in her mind—glazed with fury
and
madness as she launched herself at Alyson. Then there was
Charlotte
's face, beaten beyond recognition. Suddenly Anticipating was everywhere: the
Pacific Coast Highway
on a rainy summer night, the Ticky Creek quarry, the River Road Honky-Tonk, Carlyle's cow pasture. Not only that, but she was a shape-shifter: Marilyn Monroe one night, a stocky bald man who smelled like baby formula the next.

Gunfire jolted her from her thoughts. She jumped to her feet and turned to see Henry sitting in a chair and Betty standing over him, soothing him. Obviously, they hadn't heard the shot, or maybe she'd just imagined the sharp report—
Again, a crack like timber snapping.

She ran almost blindly through the dark, down the path past the Dumpster, the old gray barn, farm implements, and the water trough. She found the rutted tire path and ran harder, gulping air, thinking that at any minute she'd sprawl hard on the ground. Yet, as if her feet had an instinct of their own, they magically avoided the stones and clips in the tracks.

Where the line of trees began, the tire ruts became overgrown with scrub brush and vines. She stumbled, caught herself, pushed through the undergrowth that raked at her jeans and made sounds like an animal breathing. The tall pines formed a cathedral ceiling that intensified the dark and electrified the still air. She almost ran facefirst into a tree before she realized the path had taken a sharp bend to the left. For an instant she lost her equilibrium, turned round and round, panic closing off her throat as she suddenly realized she could no longer tell where she was going or where she had come from. Alyson could no longer see the path. Instead, she jogged down the black tunnel that was treeless, her footfalls muted on the thick carpet of wet pine needles that was overwhelmingly pungent to her raw senses. Her clothes felt wet and clung to her skin. Her lungs hurt, and her eyes felt as if they would bug out of her head as she tried to see through the dark. One thought pounded in her skull:
What if I find him dead?

What if I find him dead?

What if I find him dead?

Suddenly there was light up ahead. The old truck listed slightly to one side, its driver's door open, spilling dingy illumination into the tangle of brush and weeds crowding against the running board. She eased up to the door, held her breath as she checked out the cab—no blood, no body, only Rufous stretched out on the seat, barely giving her a second's notice. She moved into the light from the headlamps, followed her shadow down the path until the light grew dim and dimmer, until the tracks took a sweeping bend to the right and disappeared again into a cave of nothingness.