Darkling I Listen (32 page)

He flashed
her a
disbelieving smile and raked one hand through his dark hair. "Christ, what are you, a freaking private investigator?"

Opportunity
had just presented itself.
No, actually, I'm a tabloid writer—was a tabloid writer until my love and respect for you and your family redeemed me. Ferreting out the nasty on people's lives is second nature to me.

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Truth lodged like a bone in her throat as she looked into Carlyle's eyes—imagined his anger at her confession—and experienced a rush of such intense grief and loss that her blood turned cold.

"If Anticipating did follow you and Charlotte to the quarry, if she
…
he was furious enough to beat up a teenage girl, doesn't
it
stand to reason that he might have been diabolical enough to murder Emerald Marcella?" She held up one hand as he started to respond. "Before you argue that the supposition is ridiculous, remember that John Lennon was murdered by a man. George Harrison was stabbed by a man—"

"They're love letters, Aly, written by a woman."

"We don't know that for certain, do we?" Forcing a smile, she walked to him, cupped his cheek with her hand. "I'd like to see them. All of them. Maybe there's some clue hidden there that might tie Anticipating to Marcella."

He turned away, shook his head. "I don't want to go there again. What the hell good would it do?"

"Prove that your actions that night didn't cause her death. Clear your name and reputation. Maybe stop Anticipating from hurting anyone else. If you won't do that for yourself or for me, do it for Henry."

Sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees, he stared down at the floor, silent, his expression intense. Alyson sat beside him.

"Will you tell me what happened the night of Emerald's death?"

"We met at a party. A friend introduced us. I was drinking. She was snorting, only I didn't know it then. One thing led to another, and we left together. I pulled off the road someplace—hell, I don't know where, just down some dirt road into a secluded area. She was into
…
crazy."

He gave a short, dry laugh. "She was into rape fantasies. Rough stuff. The rougher, the better. Pain turned her on. I don't mean discomfort. I mean major pain. Not just getting it, but giving it as well. I might be a lot of things, but masochistic isn't one of them. I told her enough was enough, and things turned ugly. It was starting to rain. I stuffed her in the car, threw her clothes at her and told her to get
dressed,
I was taking her back to the party. She began cursing, screaming, and trying to beat the hell out of me. The last thing I remember was her grabbing the wheel and the car sliding out of control."

Finally, he looked at her. "I'd like to think that my stupidity didn't kill Emerald. For the last four years I've reminded myself that if she hadn't grabbed the wheel, the car never would have careened out of control, but the same voice comes back reminding me that I shouldn't have been out there with her in the first place. I shouldn't have climbed into that car after drinking, but it had been a bad day—a bad week, actually. I'd been dropped from the movie I was working on, couldn't get my act together. It was the third project I'd been fired from in the last year and a half because of my drinking and temper, so maybe I was feeling self-destructive."

"You didn't deserve to spend three years of your life in prison for Emerald's death, not if she was the cause of the accident." Alyson slid her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "It's time to stop punishing yourself for the terrible things other people did to you."

He took the ring from her, turned it over in his fingers so the candlelight reflected off the smooth, worn gold, reached for her left hand, and slid the ring onto her fourth finger. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss onto it.

«
^
»

A
lyson paced the motel room, her phone to her ear, pausing
long enough to glance out the window at the mostly empty parking lot. Halloween Saturday had dawned partly cloudy and warmer—the major cold front had, predictably, stalled at the
Red River
. At least the trick-or-treaters wouldn't freeze tonight, and the Yamboree carnival goers wouldn't find their sweet potato pies and cotton candy waterlogged by rain.

"I have all of Anticipating's letters, at least the ones he saved. There's absolutely nothing here to indicate these letters were written by a man, Alan. The woman obviously is obsessively in love with
Brandon
. But then, she'd have to be, to have followed him to Ticky Creek."

"Which brings us back to Mitsy Dillman," he replied. "I can't believe you haven't pressed charges against her, A.J. What were you thinking?"

"She's crazy, Alan. Delusional. She needs hospitalization, but thanks to her idiotic brother, she's already on the street again. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd filed charges against
her,
she'd be out on bail within hours. The last thing I wanted to do was give Jack Dillman another excuse to harass Carlyle. Jack's life ambition is to see him back in prison."

Alan remained silent,
then
said wearily, "Send me copies of the letters. Peterson wants a look at them as well. If there's something there we can tie to the Marcella incident—"

"There were letters written to Carlyle shortly after his incarceration." She picked up the note from the table and tipped it toward the lamplight.

I tried to
warn
you. You wouldn't listen. You never listen. You never see me. Why wouldn't you see me? I would gladly give you my heart and soul, but you look right through me as if I don't exist. Now look where your arrogance and indifference have gotten you. The next time we meet, perhaps you won't be so quick to ignore me.

She put the letter aside and picked up another.

Are you enjoying your confinement yet? Are you regretting your promiscuity? I tried to warn you, didn't I? I told you something dreadful would happen if you didn't behave yourself. I miss you terribly. But this brief separation will only bring us closer, eventually. I'm going to make myself beautiful for you. So beautiful. And you'll have no more excuses to ignore me. And I'll have no further reasons to punish you.

"Again?" Alan said. "The last sentence—read it again."

"And I'll have no further reasons to punish you."

"As in
I'm going to punish you for your promiscuity by shoving your date over a cliff in a car,
maybe?"

Alyson nodded. "Maybe."

"As in
I'm going to dress myself up like Marilyn Monroe, one of the most beautiful women in the world, so you'll have no more excuses to ignore me."
Alan cleared his throat and did his best to contain his mounting frustration. Alyson could imagine him staring off into space. "I want you to make copies of those letters. Send me the copies and take the originals to the sheriff. If the sheriff blows you off, go to the State Police. Hell, go to the Texas Rangers if you have to. I want you to file assault charges against Mitsy Dillman immediately. There should be enough evidence between those letters, her recent behavior, and her assault on you to keep her behind bars for a little while, maybe long enough to get something going on this end regarding the Marcella case."

Alyson touched her sore lip and tried not to think of Jack Dillman's reaction if his sister was arrested.

"A.J., just how emotionally involved
are
you with Carlyle?"

"Very."

"Have you told him the truth—who and what you are?"

"No." She glanced toward the muted television, where the face of a smiling teenage boy stared back at her.
Tyler
's
Channel Four News
had broken the story an hour earlier—the White Sands resident, quarterback for the Tyler Cougars,
was
believed drowned in Ticky Creek after his fishing boat had capsized.

"Are you going to?" His voice sounded stressed.

"Yes," she replied with obvious uncertainty.

"When?"

"When I work up the courage, Alan."

"Are you prepared for the consequences?"

"Meaning?"

"My dearest friend, he's going to rock your world. You know you've had trouble in the past dealing with rejection and abandonment. Hell, you spent years dealing with your breakup with Farrington and you didn't even love him. You were glad to be rid of him. I'm simply concerned over how you're going to take Carlyle's punting you back to
California
—and that's being generous. Judging by his past tantrums, I suspect when he blows over this, repercussions are going to be felt in
Bangladesh
."

"I can deal with tantrums," she said. "I'm more concerned over how the truth is going to affect him emotionally. He's a lot more fragile than I am, Alan. He's been hurt so damn much and for so long." She covered her eyes with one hand and did her best to keep her voice steady. "If I could somehow undo what's been done—the lies—I would. I'll even deal with the consequences, because I know I deserve them. But the shattering of my heart won't come close to the destruction that the truth would cause him right now. I'm prepared to walk away if I must, when the time is right. But I can't turn my back on him now, when there's someone out there who plans to harm him—not if I can, in some way, help to stop it."

"Christ." Alan released a heavy breath.

She shook her head, gave a dry little laugh. "How is it possible to be so damn blissfully happy and pitifully grief-stricken at the same time?"

A long moment of silence ensued. "You're really in love with this guy, aren't you?"

"Afraid so." She stared at the wall and tried her best to force back the swell of emotion making her throat hurt.

"Walk away, A.J." Alan's voice sounded unusually compassionate, making the pain in her chest more acute. "The longer you stay, the more deeply you get involved, the harder it's going to be on both of you. Aly, I don't want to see you hurt like this."

"I can't, Alan. As long as Anticipating is out there—as long as there's a threat that she might hurt him—I can't walk away. Some voice in my head is telling me I can make a difference in his life. "Hey"—she forced a smile—"would you walk away from me if you thought I was in trouble?"

"You
are
in trouble. You just don't know it yet. And no, I'm not about to walk away. Haven't I always told you that if I wasn't gay, I'd marry you myself?"

She moved to the window again.
A pair of lanky teenage boys wearing Halloween costumes were
walking down the highway, one dressed like Elvis, the other like Frankenstein.

"He's going to ask me to marry him, I think," she confessed, more to herself than to Alan. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge the thought until now, though it had hovered on the edge of her subconscious since the night before. "He put his grandmother's wedding ring on my finger last night. Then he nervously dropped hints that Henry and Bernie were married less than a month after they met. It was all quite charming, actually. He was like a boy trying to work up the courage to ask a girl out on a first date—terrified of rejection."

"What are you going to do, A.J.?"

"Reject him, of course." She closed her eyes. "What else can I do, considering?"

"He'll want an explanation. He'll demand it."

"Then I'll simply—"

"Lie again?"

"I'll tell him I need time to think about it. Then I'll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what I am—or was when I came to Ticky Creek."

"Sheesh. I feel like a bystander watching two trains on a collision course. A.J., if there are survivors after this catastrophe, it's going to be a miracle."

"I know," she said sadly.

*

Deputy Greene shifted from one foot to the other as he held
his hat in his hand and tried not to wilt under Jack Dillman's stare. Not easy. Jack prided himself on his stares. His peers at the station often joked that his stares could melt titanium—especially after he'd had a few drinks, and he'd definitely had a few drinks that afternoon: a full six-pack of Coronas and three straights of Smirnoff, what with watching college football since
noon
. In fact, he'd been one drink shy of sloshed when Deputy Greene pounded on his door. But anger had a way of sobering Jack real quick. He could feel his mellow buzz vaporizing like steam from his pores.

His fists planted on his hips, his body blocking Greene's view of his living room, Dillman curled his lip and demanded, "What the hell do you mean you got a warrant for Mitsy's arrest?"

"For assault," Greene replied. "You had to know it was coming, Jack. Maybe if you hadn't pulled Mitsy out of the hospital so quick—"

"I ain't havin' my sister locked up in no loony ward. And I ain't havin' her locked up in no jail cell. How the hell does that make me look, Tommy? Who the hell is gonna vote come Election Day for a sheriff whose sister is a jailbird?"

Deputy Greene shook his head and looked away—down the street, up the street—his face flaming red and his throat so constricted his Adam's apple looked like a kiwi. "I don't like this any more than you, Jack, but I got a job to do. Miz James has filed charges against Mitsy, and I got to take her in."

Dillman narrowed his eyes, and Greene took a step back on the porch. "That shithead Carlyle put her up to it, didn't he?"

"I don't know, Jack. He wasn't with her when she
come
to the station this afternoon. Don't matter anyhow. Mitsy punched her lights out. There were witnesses. Dozens of 'em. Mitsy'll be lucky if the D.A. don't hit her with attempted murder."

"What?!"
Jack shouted so loudly that the neighbor across the street, who was washing his new red Bronco, looked around.

Greene chewed his lip, then said, "There's somethin' else. We got to question Mitsy about some letters Carlyle's been gettin' from some nutcase who calls herself
Anticipating
."

"Jeeezus!" Jack slammed his fist against the doorjamb, making Greene jump.

"And that ain't all." Greene's voice trembled and
rose
an octave, as if Jack had already grabbed a fistful of his testicles. "The lady suggested that maybe we need to look into Mitsy's whereabouts the night of Carlyle's accident—the one that killed that porno star. They've got some P.I. snooping into the case again."

"What's that got to do with Mitsy?"

"Looks like they're gonna try an' tie her to those Anticipating letters, Jack. And maybe even to that woman's death."

The sheriff's head started to pound, and his eyes felt big as Ping-Pong balls, like they were gonna pop out of his face at any minute.

"'Course, all Mitsy's got to do is prove she wasn't anywhere near the scene of that accident. That should be easy enough, right, Jack? Like she was probably living back here with you then, right?"

Dillman pressed his lips together. "Right," he finally managed through his teeth.

"I got to take her in, Jack. I'm sorry. So if you'll just—"

"She ain't here."

Greene glanced toward Mitsy's blue Impala in the driveway.

"She ain't here," Jack repeated in a tone that made Greene rest his hand on the butt of his Sig 226 9 mm.

"Fine," Greene said with a nervous nod. "Okay. I'm gonna take your word on that, Jack, 'cause I don't want this to get any uglier than it already is. We both know
it's
gonna be in Mitsy's best interest if she turns herself in. But if she don't turn herself in by
six
P.M.
,
we're gonna come back, and then it's gonna get real ugly." Mustering up his most official voice, he added, "Understand, Sheriff?"

"Understand, Sheriff?" Jack mocked. "Of course I understand. Do I look like a moron to you?"

"
Six o'clock
. Not a minute later."

"Kiss my ass," Dillman growled as he stepped back and slammed the door in Deputy Greene's face.

Standing in the center of the room, his arms hanging at his sides and his hands fisted, Jack Dillman stared at the television screen where football players scattered like insects over the artificial turf, the volume muted. This wasn't good. Not good at all. This sort of trouble would land him back in a Caprice cruising backstreets for punk junkies and stinking winos. All because his dizzy diphead of a sister couldn't behave herself.

"Mitsy!" he shouted, jabbing one finger toward the floor in front of him. "Get in here now!"

The bedroom door opened slightly. Mitsy peered out
at
him with one bloodshot eye that was ringed by clumps of smeared black mascara.

She skulked into the room, looking at him from behind her tangled blond hair, making certain to keep far enough from him that, if he made a grab, she could dart away. He thrust one blunt-tipped finger toward the plaid sofa. She skirted the braided rug, bumped into the Barcalounger that was speckled with pretzel salt, nearly toppled the pyramid of empty Budweiser cans from the previous evening's binge, and finally crawled into one corner of the sofa and pulled her knees up to her chest.