Darkling I Listen (36 page)

"Spread 'em, asshole. I said spread 'em." Dillman kicked
Brandon
's legs apart. "You move so much as an
eyelash,
and I'm gonna introduce you to a new kind of lover, Carlyle. I'm gonna shove the muzzle of this 226 so far up your twenty-million-dollar ass, you're gonna spit bullets when you talk."

Pain reverberated through him. The metal under his face felt wet and hot, and in some small corner of his muddled brain he realized he was swimming in his own blood.

"Stop this! Oh, my God—" Somewhere beyond his red haze of pain Alyson began to cry.

"Get back in the car, lady," Dillman snarled.

"You can't do this—"

"I can do whatever the hell I want—"

"This is police brutality. This is against the law!"

"Get back in the car, Alyson,"
Brandon
yelled, although he suspected he wasn't yelling at all. He couldn't seem to drag in enough oxygen through his congested throat to breathe, much less yell. "Get back in the car and stay there."

"He can't—" she began again.

"Get back in the goddamn car!" he shouted before gagging so hard his entire body felt as if it were drawing in on itself. He thought for certain he would pass out, but he wouldn't. He couldn't. No telling what Dillman might do to Alyson—
"That's right, Miss Bitch, get in the car, cuz you don't wanna see what I'm liable to do to lover boy here. Ain't that right, Mr. Wonderful? Mr.
People
magazine. Mr.
G.Q.
, Mr.
Vanity Fair
and all those other fag rags that once upon a time thought you
was
such hot snot. They don't anymore, though, do
they
, pretty boy? Only folks who think you're meat on the hoof are the prison fudge packers, who must have thought you were Prime
A
Number One beef." He drove one knee hard against
Brandon
's crotch. A new sort of pain rocketed through him—low, and dull like an old knife blade cutting him in two. It wasn't unfamiliar—too familiar. It made the lower half of his body feel like hot water, and the fear washed over him that he'd pissed himself. No. No, he hadn't. Not yet, anyway. But one more knee in his scrotum, and he suspected he might. He just might. And while he could tolerate a great many things—including the agony in his face—wetting his pants was not going to be one of them.

Lowering his mouth near
Brandon
's ear, Dillman said more softly, "I don't appreciate your makin' more trouble for my little sister, Carlyle. Fact is
,
I'm real upset about it, in case you can't tell. I do believe it's thanks to you that she's crazy in the first place, and now here you come stirrin' up garbage again. Now I'm gonna give you fair warnin'. If you keep makin' trouble for Mitsy, I'm gonna bury you so deep in shit you'll be pleadin' to get sent back to the fudge packers."

"Look up here and smile, Sheriff Dillman. I want a real up-close and personal shot of your ugly face."

"Huh?" Dillman raised his head and looked straight
at
Alyson, straight into the lens of her Nikon that whirred and chirped like a bird. "Son of a—"

"This is going to look real nice on the front page of the
Ticky Creek Mirror.
In fact, it's going to look pretty damn good on the front page of the
Galaxy
Gazette
." Whir, whir,
click
. "I can see the headlines now." Whir, whir,
click
. "'Dillman can kiss his job as sheriff goodbye.' In fact, I suspect that after the D.A. presents these shots to a jury, you're going to be spending a little time with those fudge packers yourself, sugar, and from what I understand, they absolutely love to sweet-talk law enforcement."

Dillman roared in rage. He hurled himself over the car hood, swiping his big hand at the camera as Alyson lost her footing and stumbled back into the weed-clogged ditch that was shin-high in murky water. She went down with a splash.

Brandon
pushed off from the car—right hand slipping in the streaks of dark blood on the Jag's white paint. He caught Dillman in two strides, twisted his hands in Dillman's uniform shirt, and heaved him back so suddenly and hard that his feet left the ground. Pivoting on his heels,
Brandon
threw him against the car as he twisted his right arm halfway up his back and jabbed his thumb into his jugular, paralyzing him with the excruciating pain and pressure that, if
Brandon
applied it any harder, would have brought instant death. Dillman stared up
at
him with bulging eyes, his face white, his teeth bared like a grinning skull. Blood dripped from
Brandon
's nose and formed a dark, wet blotch on the front of Dillman's shirt
"Guess what, Jack? Those fight scenes in my last two movies—I did them myself. No stunt doubles. Now listen to me very carefully. I'm going to get in my car now and go home. If I discover that my aunt or uncle is dead because of this antic of yours, I'm going to come looking for you. And make no mistake—I'll kill you. And another thing. If you ever so much as look at Alyson James again, much less threaten her, I'll rip out your heart while it's still beating. Do you understand me, Sheriff Dillman?"

Dillman blinked and made a gurgling sound.

"Aly, get in the car,"
Brandon
said.

She dropped into the car seat, clothes sodden, body shivering. She clutched the camera to her chest protectively. Slamming the door closed, she locked it.

Brandon
released the pressure on Dillman's throat and backed away. Dillman clutched at his throat and hacked, never taking his wide, shocked eyes off
Brandon
as
Brandon
moved around the car, stopped to pick his license off the ground,
then
climbed into the driver's seat.

«
^
»

A
butcher knife jutted out of the jack-o'-lantern face as if it
were a prop to add to the ghoulishness of the macabre atmosphere. Window glass lay in shards on the front porch. The metal mesh of the screen door hung in tattered strips from the frame. Great blotches of red paint streamed down the outside walls, like the blood that continued to drizzle out of
Brandon
's nose.

Standing in the open doorway, looking down the center hallway of Henry's house,
Brandon
barely listened to the conversation between Deputies Conroy and Sebastian, and Henry, who sat on the porch swing,
face
pale, body shaking. Alyson sat at his side with her arm around his shoulders as she attempted to comfort him.

Bernie remained close in her wheelchair. Henry had wrapped a blanket around her to ward off the escalating cold. All
Brandon
could think in that moment was
thank God she's oblivious.
She would have been horrified and heartbroken at what had become of her home in the last few hours.

As fury crawled in the pit of his stomach, he tried to take a breath. First Dillman, and now this. The best night of his life had been turned into a fiasco—worse, a nightmare. His face throbbed as he wiped his bleeding nose with the back of his hand and recalled just how close he'd come to killing Jack Dillman. But even that combustion of fury didn't hold a candle to what was rolling over in him in that instant. He felt afraid to enter the house—afraid of what he might find, afraid if he found evidence of Mitsy Dillman, his last tenuous thread of control would snap.

His voice unsteady, Henry did his best to answer the deputies' questions. "We left the house around seven-fifteen. Met Brandon and Alyson
at
the Yamboree at eight. Bernie and I arrived back home shortly before eleven. The front gate was closed. You can't get in without a code." Turning his troubled eyes up to
Brandon
's, he added, "Rufous is gone. I called and called…"

"Is there another way onto the premises, Henry?" Conroy's voice was patient and sympathetic.

"Back of the property. Beyond the trees. We use that entrance for the hauling equipment: trucks, trailers, tractors. No more than a handful of people even know about the entrance."

"I'll drive back and have a look," Sebastian said, then looked at Brandon, his expression still registering disbelief over Brandon's explanation that he'd bloodied his own face and nose when stumbling in his haste to get home to Henry. "Sir, please don't disturb anything. We have a CSU on route. They'll turn this place over looking for evidence."

"Has Mitsy Dillman been arrested?"
Brandon
heard himself ask. A hazy memory tapped at his skull—seventeen years ago, his
midnight
rendezvous with Mitsy, who hid her car in the trees.

"No, sir." Deputy Sebastian cleared his throat. "We have an APB out on her. I'm sure we'll be picking her up real soon. But this incident might be nothing more than a Halloween prank—"

"You call this a prank?"
Brandon
cut his eyes to the dep
uty. "Someone's destroyed my uncle's home. I'd say that's a bit more serious than a prank. Wouldn't you?"

Brandon
moved down the hallway, stepped over the shattered remains of the Tiffany lamps, splintered antiques, destroyed glassware that Bernice had collected throughout her married life—her mother's china cups and saucers and Occupied Japan statuettes, Bernie's collection of Lenox porcelain figurines dressed in period costumes that
Brandon
had bought in
Boston
.

He walked toward the kitchen, avoiding streaks of spilled paint on the floor.

Bernie's room remained untouched—at least he could be grateful for that.

In the kitchen
Brandon
found the refrigerator door open. Puddles of milk, ketchup, and mustard stained the floor and smeared the walls. Beer had been poured over the countertops and tabletop. Pools of it glistened on the floor like urine. The smell of it made his body ache and his stomach turn. Despite the cold, he began to sweat.

He shoved open the door to The Shrine.

The room lay in shambles: glass cases
shattered,
magazines and photographs ripped to shreds. He kicked aside crushed picture frames, noted that Oscar was gone, as was the life-size cardboard cutout of him as Jesus that had been leaning against the wall.

Brandon
climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Only then did he realize just how tired he felt, depleted of all strength—of emotion other than exploding anger that shortcircuited his reason. The pain in his face had become numb, like a deadened toothache. It was there, a low, pulsating pressure, but
Brandon
couldn't feel it. Aside from the anger there was coldness, like the coldness when he awoke from his coma to be greeted by the news of Emerald's death. Disbelief. Fear. Despair. They all curled chilled fingers around his heart and squeezed. He leaned against the staircase wall and tried to breathe, couldn't manage it through his bloody nose, opened his mouth, and sucked in oxygen like a man on the verge of drowning.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he stared toward his bedroom, dread resonating like a cathedral bell in his head. Adrenaline electrified his nerves, and he became aware that blood had begun to drip more freely from his nose. Again he wiped it with his hand. It made a bright red smear over his skin.

Finally
Brandon
moved
to
the closed bedroom door. He slowly nudged it open with his foot, part of him wondering what he'd do if he came face-to-face with the vandal—vandal shmandal, he knew who the hell had done this. She was going to pay, and pay big time. It was one thing
to
threaten him, but when she crossed the line and included Henry and Bernie in her dark, twisted little games, she was going to be made very, very sorry. And if he couldn't count on the goddamn law enforcement to help him, he'd do it himself.

The room yawned dark before him—
Brandon
recalled leaving the lamp on, as he always did. He slid his hand up the wall, located the switch, and flicked it. Harsh, white light bathed the room.

A groan rumbled in his chest and a fresh spear of pain shot through his face.
Not now,
his mind pleaded.
Please not now.
He wasn't certain he could tolerate pain along with the fury eating into his self-control.

His father's photographs had been removed from the walls, the glass broken from the frames, the photos torn into confetti.
Brandon
stooped to one knee and lifted the ragged scraps of paper in his hand; puzzle pieces of his father's face smiled up
at
him. The blood on his fingers left dark prints on the residue of what had been all that was left to him of his parent. His fingers curled around them as he stood.

The mattress and pillows had been slashed. Stuffing billowed out of both, and lay on the floor like snowdrifts. The dresser drawers gaped open and empty. Except for a few articles scattered on the floor, his clothes were missing, as was most of what had been hanging in his closet.

Brandon
lifted his eyes to the wall.

"Mr. Brandon?"

His head turned. Betty stood in the door. Tears streamed from her eyes.

"Mr. Henry called me. I came as soon as I could." She crossed the room in choppy strides, hands clasped below her chin. Tears painted tiny dark spots on the front of her indigo blouse. "Oh, what's happened to your face? Your wonderful face? You're bleeding. And your nose. Your poor nose. Sit down, and I'll get a cloth. Perhaps you should go to the clinic. I'll drive you, if you'd like. You must be in excruciating pain." Betty caught his arm and urged him toward the bed, where he sat and listened as she hurried to the bathroom.

Water rushed and splashed.

Brandon
looked toward the dresser mirror, and for a confused moment wondered who the hell the man staring back at him was. Certainly not the same man who had earlier combed his hair while looking in that glass and contemplated the idea of proposing to a woman he had met only days ago. Certainly not the same man who naively believed his life was about to take a turn for the better. Certainly not the man who, a few short hours ago, believed Mitsy Dillman and/or Anticipating could be eliminated with a phone call to the police.

The stranger staring back at him had glazed eyes, a slightly out-of-kilter nose that continued to stream blood, and a bruise eating up one side of his face. Brandon half expected a makeup artist to come dashing in to pat this and blot that and squirt a little extra red-tinted corn syrup on his face to offer a full blood effect for the camera.

Betty hurried from the bathroom, carrying several damp cloths. "Lie back, dear. Flat on your back. Good. Very good. I'll try not to hurt you. I would never, ever wish to hurt you. You know that, don't you? I would pluck out my own eyes rather than harm a hair on your head."

Brandon
winced as she placed a cool, damp cloth over his nose. With another she gently began to cleanse the blood from his face.

"This is a very, very sad thing, and I'm sorry about it. It all seems so tragic, considering that tonight was to be so special for you. Henry told me that you were going to propose to Miss James." She straightened and blotted her own face with the bloody cloth. "He was so thrilled about it. Positively glowing. Said he'd prayed, as had Bernie, for a woman like her to come along. Someone to make you happy at long last."

A sad smile turned up her mouth. "Of course, it's not for me to say whether Miss James will prove to be the woman of your dreams. I'm only an employee, aren't I? Not like I'm actually a member of this family. But I'll say this, and I hope you won't take it the wrong way, Mr. Brandon. Perhaps the problems of the last days are a sign that you should focus your energies and interests less on the female persuasion and more on helping Mr. Henry get through his difficult time losing Bernie, not to mention his own health."

Brandon
stared at the ceiling and felt the blood drain down his throat. It tasted like copper wire in his mouth. As Betty continued to ramble—to preach—annoyance began to infiltrate his pain and fuel his anger. Christ, why wouldn't she shut up? A lunatic had just ransacked his home, and all she could talk about was his screwed-up priorities—as if he needed that reality rubbed in his face.

"—
Simply
feel that Henry and Bernie need your undivided attention. There will be plenty of time for other things once he and Bernie are gone. While Henry might tell you that he's thrilled about this scandalously rushed relationship with Miss James, truth
be
known, I suspect that he'd like—"

"Shut up, Betty," he said as he continued to stare at the ceiling.

"I beg your pardon?" She blinked
at
him.

"I said 'Shut up.' If I want your opinion, which I don't, I'll ask you for it."

Betty blinked again. Opened and closed her mouth. Wrung the washcloth in her hands so a thin rivulet of water streamed toward the floor. Her cheeks flushed.

Sitting up,
Brandon
closed his eyes at the sudden, intense pressure in his head. The room spun dizzily. He thought he might vomit. "What I do with my life and who I do it with is none of your business. I fully intend to marry her, so you may as well get used to the reality that there's going to be another woman living in this house very soon. If you have some kind of personal problem with Alyson, you'd better get over
it."

"That sounds very much like an ultimatum, Mr. Brandon." Betty's voice quavered as she looked
at
him with grieved disbelief. Though he supposed he should feel guilty for his sharpness toward Betty, he didn't. The memory of Alyson turning her eyes up to his and saying "She doesn't like me" replaced the hurt hammering his head.

"I see." Betty drew back her shoulders. "My apologies for believing that my opinions actually matter to you." She walked to the door and looked back; the corners of her mouth turned down. "Forgive me for saying this, but my opinions did matter before she intruded into the family. She's changed you, Mr. Brandon. I only hope you open your eyes before it's too late."

*

After an exhaustive search and study of the premises, the
Crime Scene Unit departed at just after one in the morning. Alyson fell into bed in Henry and Bernie's old room with her clothes on—dress, stockings that were riddled with snags and runs—she was too damn tired to take them off, had barely made it up the stairs, her feet like lead weights. She lay in the dark and counted the minutes until
Brandon
joined her, knowing even as she lay there in the shadows, her heart still beating double time with each slam of the wind against the house, that he wouldn't climb the stairs and join her.

For over an hour he'd driven the farm's perimeter, in search of Rufous, whistling and calling the dog's name—no luck. The dog was gone. Now Brandon continued to sit in the dark kitchen among the food and rubble, smoking one cigarette after another, drinking one can of Pepsi after another, incapable of waking Henry, as Henry had requested, to tell him his dog had vanished.