Darkling I Listen (37 page)

Because they knew Rufous had not simply vanished.

Alyson had eventually given up her attempts to communicate with
Brandon
. He appeared totally unconcerned and unaffected by the injuries Jack Dillman had inflicted on his face, although it had taken an hour of ice packs to stop the bleeding from his nose. His remoteness frightened her. His lack of emotion terrified her. He had become an android. The deputies' questions about Anticipating and Mitsy Dillman had been responded to with
a brevity
that confounded her.

At
four
A.M.
,
Alyson rolled out of bed and wearily descended the stairs. The stagnant stink of beer made her queasy. She flipped on the kitchen light to discover
Brandon
no longer there, frowned
at
the pile of cigarette butts he'd crushed out in an open container of sour cream. A noise from the den alerted her, and she cautiously hurried down the short hall to the room. Her heart stopped.

"What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"

Calmly, he loaded Henry's Smith & Wesson .357 magnum.

Her gaze locked on the weapon, she moved across the room.

His head down, a cigarette between his teeth,
Brandon
said, "Go back to bed, Aly, and mind your own business."

"You
are
my business,
Brandon
. You made yourself my business when you asked me to many you and I accepted. Who has more of a right to tell you that you're about to do something stupid than the future mother of your children? Please, put the gun away and come to bed. I'm too damn tired to get hysterical."

He snapped the chamber shut with a flip of his wrist. "A man has a right to protect his family. The law's going to do nothing to help us—she's basically one of their own, isn't she? Jack's sister. If they'd picked her up like they were supposed to, this wouldn't have happened."

"We don't know for sure that she did this. We don't know that she's Anticipating."

Removing the cigarette from his mouth,
Brandon
looked
at
her through curls of smoke as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. "You've certainly changed your tune. You sound like the goddamn deputies. 'Let's not rush to any conclusions. Let the Crime Scene Unit do their job.' Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Yours. Henry's. If you get yourself killed or sent back to prison, what do you think that will do to him?"

"She's going to kill me, Aly. Or Henry. Or you. She's made that more than apparent tonight. If you think I'm simply going to stand around idly and let it happen, you've got another thing coming."

"Deputy Conroy said they'll put a watch on the house—twenty-four hours a day until she's in custody."

"So that means we sit around this farm for God knows how long, afraid to venture out because she could be squatting behind some tree with a rifle aimed at my head? I don't think so, Cupcake. I spent three damn years in prison already, thank you very much."

"Sugar, three years is going to be a drop in the old bucket compared to what you'll get if you shoot someone—if you even act like you're going to shoot someone. Your driving out through the front gate with that gun in your pants will be enough to revoke your parole. Please." Alyson struggled for an unsteady breath. "Put the gun away and come to bed. Once we get some sleep, we can look
at
this more objectively. Who knows? Perhaps by morning they'll have taken her into custody."

Brandon
regarded her for a long, silent moment, resembling one of his macho, ego-driven movie characters,
then
he stepped around her and started for the door.

Alyson ran after him, grabbed his arm; he jerked it away. As they reached the kitchen, she attempted
to
dart past him and grab the car keys on the table. He shoved her hard enough so that she stumbled and went down hard on her butt. Concern briefly gave him pause; their gazes locked—his as dark and turbulent as the weather rattling the rafters—then he picked up the keys, turned on his heels, and went out the back door.

A rush of cold, wet wind barreled through the kitchen and slammed Alyson where she sat on the floor, legs sprawled,
dress
hiked above the lace edge of her tattered stockings. God, oh God, what was she supposed to do now?

The sudden blast of the phone ringing made her jump. She stared at it dumbly as it rang again. Bernie's bedroom door opened and Henry stumbled out, squinting against the light as he grabbed the receiver and barked a hoarse hello. His eyes went to the open back door,
then
swung to Alyson as she pushed herself to her feet.

"Yes, yes, I understand. That's wonderful, Deputy. Terrific news. Yes, I'll tell him immediately. Thank you. Thank you, very much."

He hung up the phone. "They have Mitsy in custody—"

Alyson sprang for the door. The frigid wind drove the air from her lungs as she ran into the night and straight into the headlights of
Brandon
's car. He slammed on the brakes. The car skidded toward her as she threw up her hand to shield her eyes and stumbled back, bracing herself for the impact as she hit the wet ground.

The car stopped inches short of her.
Brandon
jumped out and ran to her, dropped to his knees and grabbed her. She locked her arms around him. "They have Mitsy in custody. Thank God, it's over."

*

Mildred lit her first cigarette of the morning. Her head hurt
like hell. Having spent the entire weekend staring at the Pine Lodge walls, she felt like screaming. If that wasn't bad enough, the weather had turned miserable and she hadn't brought
so
much as a sweater. Rain mixed with sleet was predicted by nightfall. God, what she wouldn't give to be back in sunny
California
. Breathing Monday morning smog was heaven compared to rotting another day in this Petticoat Junction of a town. But, all in all, if her instincts proved correct, the mind-numbing boredom of the last few days would be worth it. Oh, yes, things were about to heat up in good old
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
. They were positively going to incinerate.

Smiling, she settled back against her bed pillows and checked her watch. Time to rock and roll.
Eight
A.M.
Pacific
time
.

She situated the phone on her stomach, punched the numbers, and waited, humming to herself, and smoking.

"Good morning,
Galaxy Gazette
. How may I direct your call?"

"Alyson James, please."

Silence. "Who do you want?"

Mildred frowned. "A.J. Farrington, please."

The phone buzzed twice, clicked.

Mildred's heart skipped. If she was wrong about this—

"Editorial. This is Shana."

"Alyson James, please." She tapped her ashes into
a
empty Coke can.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Does Alyson James work there or not, honey? I haven't got all day."

"What's the nature of your call, ma'am?"

"I've got a lead for her."

"I could help you with that—"

Mildred laughed. "Tsk tsk, sweetheart. Not nice. I'm certain Miz James wouldn't be too thrilled to hear that her coworker attempted to steal her story."

Silence. "Will you hold, please?"

Mildred rolled her eyes. "Look, what's so freaking hard about answering a simple question? Does Alyson James work there or not?"

"Hold, please."

"Oh, for the love of—"

"This is Cheryl Flynn. How may I help you?"

"I
…
want
…
Alyson
…
James. A.J. Farrington. Whatever the hell she's calling
herself
now."

"And you are
…?"

"For the love of God Almighty, what difference does it make? I met the woman a few months back, okay? I've got a lead on a major story—"

"I can help you with that."

"No, you can't. Look, you tell me if Alyson James works there, or I'm taking my story to the
Enquirer."

Silence. "Alyson James has taken an extended leave of absence. We're not certain when or if she's coming back. Therefore, I can help you."

Mildred closed her eyes and smiled. "Sweetheart, you've helped me tremendously already."

*

By Sunday night Henry's house had been restored to normal,
or as normal as it was going to be until they could repaint the kitchen walls and the outside of the house that had been doused with red paint. After another long search for Rufous, turning up nothing, they had fallen into bed exhausted, and while
Brandon
had fallen asleep almost immediately, Alyson had stared
at
the ceiling and listened to every bump and groan of the wind.

The last days had played back through her head like a rewound video on Fast Forward. The Yamboree seemed like a surreal dream. The incident with Dillman might never have happened—if the evidence hadn't stared back
at
her every time she looked into
Brandon
's swollen, bruised face, which was often. With her head resting on the pillow next to his, she'd studied his sleeping features and imagined kissing him goodnight for the rest of their lives. Imagined giving him the children he craved. Imagined making up for all the sadness in his life.

But it was fear she'd experienced as she'd finally drifted off to sleep. Fear of losing him. That reality loomed greater with each passing hour. She could no longer avoid the inevitable. The time had come to tell him the truth, yet
…
she couldn't. Not yet. Not while he and Henry were still reeling over the destruction of their home and Anticipating's escalating threat.

Monday morning had brought news that though Mitsy was still in custody, keeping her there for much longer was going to prove difficult. There was nothing to tie her to the vandalism of Henry's house—yet. Her alibi for the period during which the vandalism had taken place was that she'd been fishing. A clerk from the Wonder Worm could prove she had purchased bait at seven-thirty sharp Saturday evening, but said clerk couldn't be located; he'd taken a trip to the
Shreveport
casinos and wasn't expected to return until tonight.

Also, there was nothing to link her to the Anticipating letters, although handwriting experts were going over them. Mitsy supposedly had an alibi for the night of Emerald's death—she was living in
Santa Fe
and could provide proof. The only thing they could hold her for was her assault on Alyson. However, considering she was Jack's sister, the likelihood of her making bail by
noon
Monday was very strong.

Brandon and Henry made a joint decision. Alyson was to check out of the Pine Lodge as soon as possible and move into Henry's house.

Brandon
wasn't comfortable leaving Henry—since the vandalism Henry had suffered several spells. Alyson volunteered to take Henry's prescription to the drugstore to be refilled on her way to the motel. As she was leaving the farm, she was nearly sideswiped by Mildred, who had obviously gotten her car out of the shop at long last. Mildred was going to be in for some very unpleasant surprises. Her client was hardly going to be in the mood to tolerate her attempts at manipulation. The news that Alyson was moving in with
Brandon
would be enough to set Mildred off like a keg of gunpowder. God only knew how she'd react to the news that they were about to be married.

As she waited for Henry's prescription to be refilled, Alyson dropped off her film to be developed—all photos taken at the Yamboree. She'd been out of film during Dillman's assault on
Brandon
. Not that he'd ever know that. As long as there was the threat that she'd caught his abuse on film, and would use the shots against him if necessary, he'd be less likely to repeat such actions.

Alyson stepped out of the bitter cold into the Dime
A
Cup for coffee.
A half-dozen
patrons stared up at the television suspended from the ceiling, hypnotized by soap opera shenanigans.

She ordered coffee and settled back to think.

First on her list of things to do was phone the
Gazette
and resign. Cut the ties completely. That way, when she confessed all to
Brandon
, she wouldn't be lying about no longer being associated with the tabloid. She'd destroy the few tapes she already had on Carlyle—not that he'd given her much, but best to start clean.

Alyson checked her watch—
noon
—paid her tab, and returned to the drugstore. She picked up Henry's medicine and her photos, sat in the car while thick rain collected on the windshield, her body shivering thanks to the broken heater, and flipped through the two dozen black-and-white photos, smiling to
herself
.
Brandon
would be pleased with the shots of Henry and Bernie. She tossed them into the passenger seat,
then
headed for the motel.