Darkling I Listen (38 page)

Ice bit at Alyson's face as she ran to her room. Clutching the key in her hand, she reached for the door, stopped, and took a step back, thinking she'd run to the wrong place. Number ten. Not the wrong room. But—
The door was ajar and a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the knob. She had dropped by the Pine Lodge yesterday to pick up a change of clothes and her car, and though she couldn't be positive that she'd closed the door soundly as she left, she was positive she hadn't hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

Perhaps the maid had put it there.

But why?

Alyson nudged the door open farther. The lights were out. She slid her hand up the wall and flipped the switch. A globe lamp over the kitchenette sink flashed on, dimly illuminating the room.

Cautious, she stepped into the room, did not close the door, tossed her purse aside, and moved on the balls of her feet toward the kitchenette—keys jutting from between her fingers in case she needed a weapon. Her eyes were fixed on the open bathroom door, the only place someone could hide, her heart accelerating with each step, her every breath sounding like a rush of wind in her ears.

The room heater kicked on with a sudden deep thud that vibrated the walls. Alyson jumped and dropped the keys. They made a loud
chink
as they hit the carpeted floor. Still, she didn't take her eyes off the tinted shower door even as she bent to retrieve the keys. Slowly, slowly she moved into the bathroom, reached for the stainless steel handle on the door, held her breath, and jerked it open.

Nothing.

Resting against the sink, Alyson pressed one hand to her heart, let out a breath, and gave a dry laugh. Only when her heart's pounding steadied did she return to the room, pull off her jacket, and toss it and the keys onto the chair with her purse. She closed the door against the cold wind and rush of freezing rain, and sank against it as she willed strength back into her knees.

Beads of ice scratched at the door, and it occurred to Alyson that if she didn't hurry and get her things packed and out of here, the roads might be too treacherous to travel.
Tyler
's Channel Four News had predicted accumulations of two to six inches by this time tomorrow. Just as well that they'd delayed their trip to
Longview
to get her birth certificate. Riding out the storm with
Brandon
in front of a roaring fire would give her time for confession, and the time to deal with the consequences of that confession.

She grabbed up her suitcase, already partially packed, tossed it on the bed.

The bed wasn't empty.

She hadn't noticed, thanks to the dim light and the dark bedspread—hadn't noticed the lump under the covers. Why should she, when the bed was so neatly made, not a solitary wrinkle in the paisley cover? But there was something there—something solid—something hard, about the size of a small child.

Alyson backed away, glanced
at
the door. Again
at
the bed. Tried
to
draw in a breath that stuttered like the frantic, frightened pounding of her heart. The rumble of the heater thumped like slow footsteps on a hollow wood floor. Each second that she stared down
at
the mound, the sound magnified until it seemed the walls were pulsing with the bump-bump-bump. Only then did she note the smell: musty heat and…

Dragging the case off the bed, she flung it to one side, spilling her clothes around her feet, caught the corner of the bedspread, and yanked it hard. It billowed like a cape in the air before drifting to the floor.

She stared at the dog's corpse. Its gray muzzle was frozen in a snarl. The dim light made Rufous's teeth look like yellowed ivory.

Her hand flew to her mouth as the death stench washed over her. As she turned on her heels, her gaze swept the room, fixed on the mirror above the dresser. Something was there. She clawed for the light by the dresser, hands shaking so badly she could hardly grip the switch to turn it on. The sudden light blinded her as she tried to focus on the mirror. It read

YOU'RE NEXT BITCH

scrawled
in her Crushed Cranberries lipstick.

Cold, horrifying realization slammed
at
her temples.

Mitsy Dillman was not Anticipating.

Mitsy Dillman had been in custody since
three
A.M.
Sunday.

Alyson had dropped by the motel room at four yesterday afternoon. Anticipating had been here sometime after that.

Alyson grabbed her purse and keys—no way would she
so
much as glance toward the bed. Her ability to remain mentally and emotionally functional was dependent on focusing, on getting to
Brandon
as soon as possible.

She flung open the door.

Mildred stood there. Minuscule crystals of sleet shimmered like glitter in her dark hair. Her face was colorless except for the red slash of her lips, which were pulled up on both ends in something that vaguely resembled a smile. Only there was no friendliness in it. Her expression resembled someone who had just witnessed a portent of her own death.

Mildred knew, Alyson realized as her gaze shifted to the copy of the
Galaxy
Gazette
in Mildred's hand. Suddenly the horrible thing in her bed ceased to matter. The expression on Mildred's face filled her with a dread that expanded to excruciating pain.

"What have you done?" The voice that leaked from her mouth rattled like dry bones. "Oh, my God, Mildred, what have you done?"

Seconds ticked by before Mildred responded. "Apparently
…
he cared more for you than I thought—"

"Foolish, self-centered, idiot! Do you realize what you've done to that family? Don't you care? Don't you think I've wanted to tell him?"

Mildred turned her face away. "Never thought I'd see the day he'd give a damn about a woman this much. Thought you were just another fling. Sure, I knew he'd be angry. Who could blame him? The
Galaxy Gazette
hasn't exactly been Carlyle-supportive over the years, has it?" Turning her gaze back to Alyson, she said, "Look, I don't give a damn about you. I think what you do to people and their
reputations makes
you as disgusting as snot. But I do care about Carlyle. He's
…
special. I was trying to protect him. He's been hurt enough, know what I'm saying?"

Alyson shoved Mildred aside and stepped into the freezing drizzle. A thin glaze of ice covered the parking lot. She skated to her car, was forced to swipe her hand over the windshield to rid it of accumulating sleet. The engine turned over reluctantly, and only as she pulled out onto the highway did she realize that she hadn't taken the time to slip on a jacket.

Her hands were numb with cold and the fierceness with which she gripped the steering wheel. The windshield wipers whined with the effort to smear the freezing rain from the glass.

The Carlyles' security gate stood open. Odd.

Car idling, Alyson parked outside the entrance and stared
at
the house in the distance. Henry's truck sat in the drive. Next to it, Betty's car.
Brandon
's Jag would, of course, be in the garage.

Easing off the brake, she moved up the drive.

The front door of the house opened.

Brandon
stepped out, carrying a baseball bat in one hand. At first he looked no different than when he kissed her goodbye three hours ago. Still wearing the Hard Rock Café sweatshirt, jeans, and Roper boots, jaw unshaven. Oh, but there was a difference, she noted, her heart climbing up her throat. She hit the brakes and the car skidded. She shifted into Park.

"Please," she shouted as he moved toward her through the drizzle. "
Brandon
, listen to me! I wanted to tell you—"

He swung the bat as if he were trying for a grand slam out of the ballpark. She ducked as the bat connected with the driver's side window. Glass erupted over her head and shoulders, bit into her hands as she threw them up to shield her face. "Stop it!" she screamed, as he struck again, this time smashing the back passenger window. "Listen to me. Please listen to me. It's not what you think,
Brandon
—"

The windshield popped, and a thousand cracks webbed outward from the impact point.
Brandon
moved the car, shattering the headlights, moved to the passenger side and swung the bat against the glass, which flew over her head and shoulders like razor-sharp confetti.

Alyson began to cry, barely hearing the disintegrating glass as he continued to drive the bat into the windows, the taillights, and, when done with the glass, began to beat the car roof and doors, trunk, and hood.

Eyes closed, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, hands clasped in her lap, cold biting at her wet cheeks.

Brandon
jerked open the driver's door, scattering bits of glass over the ground. Twisting his fingers into her hair, he turned her head so she was forced to look into his eyes, which were like two deep bruises in his white face. She felt his hand trembling against her scalp.

"I loved you," he said softly, tightly, dryly. "I don't think I've ever loved another human being, aside from Bernie and Henry, like I loved you. More important, I trusted you, Miz Farrington."

"Please believe me. I came to Ticky Creek to get a story that would help me make a break with the
Gazette.
I couldn't go through with it, not after getting to know you and Henry. Not after falling in love with you. I realized then that I could help you. Not simply with the autobiography, but with Anticipating. I love you, Brandon. That's not a lie. I swear it. I wanted to tell you Saturday night—I tried. You wouldn't listen. I was so damn afraid this would happen. That you wouldn't understand—"

"Get the hell away from me, Alyson."

As he backed away, she grabbed his arm. He tried to twist free. She held on, and he dragged her out of the car. Her feet slid out from under her, and she nearly pulled him down. "Dammit, you're going to listen to me," she wept. "If you want to hate me, fine. Maybe I deserve it, but please listen to me, Brandon. Something's happened. At my motel room—"

"Get off me, goddammit!" He planted one hand against her chest and shoved. She sprawled on her back hard enough to momentarily wind her. Above her the ice-heavy pine needles looked like glass daggers. Wet cold crept through her blouse and cut at her back.

Brandon
towered over her, legs slightly spread, one hand a fist, the other holding the bat as if he intended to beat her with it. His face appeared whiter, if that was possible. The mean braise over his right cheek looked like diluted watercolor. His eyes flashed with fierce anger under his lowered brows, and when he spoke again, the tone was low and ominous. "If you don't get the hell out of here now, I'm calling the law. If you come back on this property, or attempt to see me, or Henry, I'll have you arrested for trespassing." Turning on his heels, he headed for the house.

Alyson sat up and watched him walk away. "Mitsy is not
Anticipating
!" she called after him in a defeated voice so weak and full of tears, she suspected that even if he heard her, he didn't understand.

Entering the house, he slammed the door.

Alyson covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.

«
^
»

A
s Deputy Greene and the CSU combed Number Ten, Pine
Lodge Motel, for evidence, Alyson moved her belongings to another room—one next to Mildred's. She briefly considered banging on her door, and when Mildred answered, punching her lights out. But that would be laying the blame
at
someone else's feet, and one thing she was very, very good at was accepting the consequences of her actions. She'd known all along that by refusing to be upfront with
Brandon
, she'd set herself up for a major disappointment. An understatement, of course. The crushing despair pressing in on her could not remotely be compared to disappointment.

Not bothering to turn on the heater, she removed her clothes and crawled into bed, under the covers, and listened to the shush of ice against the window—tried not to think of her short-lived romance with Mr. Hollywood or how much she hurt inside, even more than she had expected.

But it was better to dwell on the pain than the images of a dead dog and a psychotic stalker.

She didn't want to think that she was on some maniac's hit list; then again, since
Brandon
had virtually kicked her out of his life, that might have changed. Probably. Obviously she was no longer a threat to Anticipating. She only hoped Anticipating got the news before coming to call again. Alyson imagined painting a sign with what was left of her Crushed Cranberries lipstick and taping it to her motel door.

Dear
Anticipating. News Flash! Lover Boy dumped me!

Perhaps she should call Alan, cry on his shoulder and whine in his ear. Then again, perhaps not. He'd only say,
A.J., I told you so
in that patient monotone; he'd try to convince her to return to
San Francisco
immediately; and she'd refuse, of course. She'd been a fighter all her life—stubborn, never say die, never give up; the harder she was beaten down, the more fiercely she fought back.

But that was neither here nor there. This situation wasn't about her. It was about
Brandon
. Someone wanted to hurt him. Someone was going to hurt him. Had already hurt him. She felt very certain now that
Anticipating
had been involved in Marcella's death. If he wasn't prepared to accept that reality, then she'd deal with the situation herself. Hell, at the
Gazette
she was notorious for tracking down the most inconsequential clues. She had an instinct for it.

By now, Alan had received copies of Anticipating's letters. If anyone could read between the lines, Alan could. He had an uncanny ability to shuck aside personas and get to the raw data. He gloried in revealing the Hannibal Lecter lurking in everyone's psyche. If there were clues to Anticipating's identity buried somewhere in those letters, Dr. Alan Rodgers would find them.

The phone rang at just after seven, jolting Alyson awake. For an instant, between phone rings, she lay in the dark, hearing Mildred's television babble through one wall, and through the other, the whoosh of a toilet flushing. Her heart raced with the hope that the caller would be
Brandon
.
Hey, baby, I miss you, let's kiss and make up…

She grabbed the receiver and sat up, fumbled for the lamp switch.

"Al? It's Henry."

She frowned and cleared her throat. "Henry? Oh, Henry. I've so wanted to talk to you. To explain—"

"Never mind
all that,
Al. I think I understand how you're feeling. I was shocked at first. Disappointed, I guess. But I can certainly appreciate your hesitancy to explain your situation. That's not why I'm calling."

"Did Deputy Greene contact you?"

Silence. When he spoke again, his voice trembled. "Yes. That's one of the reasons I'm calling. I'm extremely concerned, Al, about this escalating threat from Anticipating. I don't think it's a good idea for you to remain there alone. I must insist that you collect your things and come back to the farm."

She smiled and sank against the pillows. Henry's concern brought tears to her eyes—emotion that she had fought throughout the afternoon to deny. Now it surged like a tide inside her. She wanted to bury her face against his shoulder and cry like a baby. "I'd like nothing better, Henry, but I suspect your nephew isn't inclined to agree. I'm probably the last person, aside from Anticipating, that
Brandon
cares to see."

"That's another reason I'm calling, Al. I'm concerned about
Brandon
."

Alyson sat up; her hand tightened on the receiver. "What's wrong, Henry? What's happened?"

A long pause, then, "He said he needed to get away for a while. He had some thinking to do. I guess that's not so unusual. He often takes that damn speed machine out on the back roads when he needs to release a little steam. But not in this kind of weather. Al, he hasn't come back. And that's unusual. Normally he might be gone an hour or two—he left here just after two. That's five hours, Al. He hasn't called to check in, even though I paged him. The weather's getting pretty damn nasty…
"

Swinging her legs from the bed, Alyson said, "Try paging him again. I'll cruise around a
little,
see if I can find him, or
at
least someone who might have seen him. And, Henry, try not to worry. I'm sure everything is fine. Maybe he got caught up in the ice someplace. Maybe his pager isn't working."

"Maybe."

"You might give Deputy Greene a call
…
just to be on the alert."

"Yes, I've thought of that. I'll call him right now."

"Henry
…
just so you know beyond any shadow of a doubt. I love him desperately. And you, too."

"I know I can speak for
Brandon
when I say we love you as well, Al. We'll get over this. He's
…
hurt and confused right now. Once he's had time to reason all this through, he'll come around. As I pointed out to him after you left this afternoon, he's made his share of mistakes. Love means understanding and forgiving, right?"

"Right." She smiled. "I'll call you. Betty is with you, right?"

"Yes. She's here."

"And you found the prescription I left on the front porch?"

"Yes. I'm fine, Al, but I'll be much better when
Brandon
is home safe and sound."

Alyson replaced the receiver and grabbed for her clothes. She dressed in two minutes, was standing outside the motel room door in the freezing drizzle before recalling that there was no hope of driving what was left of her Rent
A
Heap. As she had left the Carlyle farm, the windshield had caved into her lap. She'd driven back to the motel with sleet coating her face and blurring her vision.

Her phone began to ring. She fumbled the key into the lock, finally managed to shove the door open in time to grab the receiver, praying Henry would announce that
Brandon
had safely found his way home.

First the sound of music blasted in her ear, then, "Alyson James? Is that Alyson James?"

"Yes." She plugged one ear, hoping to hear the caller better.

"Thank God. I took a guess you'd be stayin' at the Lodge. This is Ruth Threadgill. At the
River Road
? You remember I waited on you and Mr. Carlyle last week?"

"Yes." She nodded, feeling her stomach cramp. Somehow she knew what Ruth would tell her—knew it as well as she knew her own name.

"Look, I didn't know who else to call. Didn't think givin' ol' Henry a ring was such a good
idea,
ya know what I'm sayin'?"

"How bad is it?" she asked, closing her eyes.

"The man's shitfaced. He
come
in here around four lookin' like roadkill and with a mad-on big as
Dallas
. Good thing the place was empty, cuz this baby was lookin' for a fight. He ordered his usual Chivas, only this time he didn't walk away from it.
Clyde
locked him in the office. I reckon he could stay here until he sleeps it off, but we're closin' this place due to the weather."

"I'm on my way, Ruth."

She marched to Mildred's
room,
beat the door with her fist. Mildred answered with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. She stared
at
Alyson with raccoon eyes.

"I need your car keys," Alyson said.

"For what?"

"
Brandon
's drunk."

Mildred rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Figures. I told him last week it was only a matter of time—"

"You're just brimming with support for your client, aren't you?" She shoved Mildred aside and stepped into the smoky room. Mildred's purse lay on the bed. Alyson grabbed it and dumped the contents out.

"You've got some nerve," Mildred declared. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Snatching up the keys, Alyson turned on Mildred. "Someone who obviously cares about him more than you. If you had one splinter of common sense or conscience—not to mention decency—you'd have come to me first with your information. You'd have let me break it to him and Henry as gently as possible. If you really suspected he was tottering on the edge of drinking again, why did you push him? I'll tell you why. Because when he's weak and vulnerable, you can manipulate him. Maybe you even thought you'd manage to seduce him back into your bed. Or maybe you're just a vile, mean bitch without the brains God gave a maggot."

Mildred barked a harsh laugh. "Look who's talking, Miss Stalkarazzi. Where were you on
August 30, 1997
? In
Paris
, no doubt, on the back of a freaking motorcycle chasing Diana to her death!"

Alyson moved toward the door, her face burning.

"He wouldn't be drunk if you hadn't broken his heart!" Mildred yelled after her. "So if you want to lay the blame at someone's feet, toots,
lay
it
at
your own. He stayed sober four freaking years until you came along."

Alyson scraped ice from the windshield with the keys. As she unlocked the door, Mildred stepped out into the sleet and slammed the motel door closed behind her. She ran to the passenger side of the car and jumped up and down, hugging herself to keep warm. The tip of the cigarette in her mouth glowed like a fat orange firefly.

"No way," Alyson declared. "You're not going with me."

Looking through the iced window, Mildred rattled the door handle. "Believe me, you want me to come. I've seen him smashed, remember? I know what that poison does to him." She said more firmly, "I'm serious, Alyson. He needs
…
handling. I'm used to the abuse. You, on the other hand, might get your feelings hurt."

Alyson turned the ignition and hit the lights. She watched falling spears of ice reflect the illumination like slivers of Christmas tinsel. With a sigh of resignation, she unlocked the passenger door.

Mildred tossed her cigarette away and climbed in, her teeth chattering.

So far so good. The highway remained clear of accumulation. Still, Alyson drove carefully, never allowing her speed to creep beyond forty-five.

Mildred settled back, gazed out the window into the dark. "Whatever you do, don't mention Cara. Never mention Cara when he's smashed. Don't even think her name. Just friendly advice. He'll want to argue. Just agree with everything he says. If he says it's a sunny eighty-five degrees right now, nod your head and suggest a swim and a picnic.

"He might try to bully you. I recognize your willfulness, dear, but this is not the time to dig in your heels. It's a control thing with him. Must stem back to Cara's domination of him as a child or something. You try to force him into something he doesn't want to do, and you might as well walk a torch into a room full of dynamite. Directors were forced to take out extra insurance on themselves before working with him those last few years. Directing
Hollywood
's Hellion became both an obsession and a challenge.

"The damn sad thing is
,
he's so freaking brilliant when his head is on right. Name me another actor who could play a drugged-out rock star
and
Jesus Christ. He should have won another Oscar for his Jesus—would have, if there hadn't been so much controversy about his playing the role, considering his reputation was already on the skids. It didn't help that the
Gazette
ran that photo of him dressed as Jesus and throwing a punch at his costar."

Alyson frowned. "The photo certainly didn't hurt the movie. It was number one at the box office for God knows how long. Yes,
Brandon
was brilliant in the role. But he was too damn sexy. You can't have a sexy Jesus. When you look into Jesus' eyes, you should want
to
repent, not jump his bones."

Mildred smirked.

They drove in silence down the deserted highway, which was fast becoming icy the farther out of town they got. At long last, with a heavy sigh of relief and a flutter of nervousness in her stomach, Alyson turned the car in to the
River Road
parking lot.
Brandon
's Jag sat under a vapor light near the entrance.