Darkling I Listen (40 page)

"My motel room."

"Thirsty as hell."

"I'll get you some water."

He shook his head and tried to get up. She forced him back down. "Would you prefer a cola? I'll get you one, but you must promise to stay in bed."

Groaning, he closed his eyes and pulled the pillow over his face.

She dug a dollar in change out of her purse, slid on her shoes and sweater, took one last glance at Brandon, who appeared to be sleeping again, and stepped out into the shock of bitter cold. Over the last hours the storm had settled its frozen hand solidly over the countryside. Beneath the parking lot lights the grounds and cars shimmered like ice mirrors.

The vending machines were in an alley behind the office, which was across the parking lot. Pulling her sweater more tightly around her, Alyson balanced her weight carefully on the ice and trudged forward.

Up ahead and to her right, sandwiched between a minivan and a Ram, a car idled. A cloud of vapor coiled from its exhaust pipe like a genie from Aladdin's lamp. As she walked past it, she glanced
at
the windshield, which stared back
at
her like an oblong black eye, reflecting the distant pole light like a glowing white iris. The car looked empty.

Her steps slowed.

She looked back
at
the motel room door, which remained slightly ajar. Again
at
the car, then allowed her gaze to sweep the parking lot, along the line of motel doors and windows, all of which, other than hers, were lightless.

The memory of the dead dog in her bed crept into her mind, along with the lipstick scrawl.

YOU'RE NEXT BITCH

Her teeth began to chatter. She stood in the middle of the parking lot, her body crawling with gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold.

This is ridiculous,
she thought, vaguely aware that she gripped the coins so tightly their serrated edges bit into her flesh. Only she knew the fear wasn't ridiculous. Not at all. Someone sick enough to murder a dog and hide it in a person's bed was sick enough to hurt her.

She forced herself to breathe. Woodenly, she turned again toward the vending machines, which seemed to float in the distance like a mirage. With one last glance
at
the empty, idling car, she shuffled toward the machines.

The coins plinked into the machine's hollow belly. The cola thumped down the shaft and rolled into the catch. Alyson grabbed it and headed back to the room, retracing her footprints in the slush, slowed near the car, unable to look at it now for some odd reason—afraid that perhaps it would no longer be empty, that someone would be there behind the wheel staring out at her, someone who might have been hiding before, perhaps lying down in the seat…

A sound behind her.

Her feet slid like skates on ice. She danced in place, dropped the cola, and watched helplessly as it rolled toward the growling car.

The figure moved up behind her, grabbed her arm. Her mouth flew open, but all sound caught in her throat and nothing came out—
"Careful," the voice said, followed by amused laughter as the man steadied her on her feet. She looked around, into his bearded face, or what she could see of it burrowed deep into his raised coat collar. A knit cap covered his head, to just above his bushy eyebrows. "Peggy Fleming you ain't," he joked, then chased the cola can, sliding in the attempt. He tossed it back to her, and without a backward glance, climbed into the car and turned on the headlights. Alyson shuffled aside as the car crept past her, tires crunching the ice.

She felt limp with relief and chagrin.

Back in the room, Alyson found
Brandon
asleep again. Wearily, she dropped into the chair. Finally, she kicked off her
shoes,
pulled off her sweater and climbed into the bed next to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. She listened to his heartbeat until the sound lulled her to sleep.

*

She stared bleary-eyed at the clock on the bedside table.
Nine-twenty. The bed beside her was empty. Her heart stammered,
then
she heard the water running in the bathroom.

Alyson eased from the bed and walked to the partly open bathroom door. Steam rolled over her, as did the smell of toothpaste and soap. Hot water ran freely from the sink faucet.

Brandon
, a towel wrapped around his waist, pressed his forehead against the fogged lavatory mirror, eyes closed,
his
face pale. He made a sound in his throat.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

A moment passed before he responded. "Do I look okay to you?"

"You look like hell."

He swallowed. "Please, shoot me and put me out of my misery." Rotating his head, his temple still pressed against the mirror, he looked at her with bloodshot eyes and pain etching deep lines in his face. "Aly…
"
He swallowed again. "I fucked up."

"It's okay," she said softly, smiling. "We all fuck up occasionally,
Brandon
. I'm a perfect example. I'll forgive you if you forgive me."

Cautiously, she stepped into the hot room and against his body, damp with humidity and sweat. His arms wrapped around her tightly, almost too tightly, as if anger lingered. Sliding his hand into her hair, he twisted his fingers in it, pulled back her head and looked hard into her eyes.

"Forgive me," she whispered.
"Please."

He pressed her back against the wall, body moving against hers as his hands slid down her body. His breath touched her temple. His lips brushed her mouth.

The phone rang.

The wall came down in
Brandon
's
eyes,
and with it the same condemnation that had cut her to the bone the day before. He backed away, and the moment vaporized like the steam swirling around them.

Her heart sinking, Alyson ran to the phone. "Hello?"

"Miss James? Miss James, is that you?"

Alyson frowned and looked around.
Brandon
, his face and hair dripping water, a towel in his hands, stood near the end of the bed, face ashen and eyes shadowed. He was shirtless. His jeans were only partially zipped.

"Who is this?" she asked.
Brandon
dropped into a chair and began wedging his feet into his boots.

"Betty Wilson."

"Betty?" Her gaze locked with
Brandon
's. His movements froze.

"I'm afraid something dreadful has happened,"
came
Betty's trembling voice, loudly enough that Alyson was forced to hold the receiver slightly away from her ear. "We got a call around seven. From the Emergency Clinic."

Brandon
grabbed the receiver from Alyson's hand.

"Someone said you and Mr. Brandon had been in an accident—that you were both critical and
were
being airlifted to Tyler General. Mr. Henry left for the clinic immediately. When I didn't hear from him, I called the clinic; they told me they knew nothing about it, there must be some mistake, and Mr. Henry had never arrived there. I'm terribly concerned that he's stranded in the ice, or worse."

"Have you called the police?"
Brandon
asked.

Betty
began
weeping.
"Thank God, you're all right. We thought—"

"Did you call the police?" he shouted.

"No, not yet. But I will. Immediately."

Brandon
slammed down the phone. Alyson jumped from the bed, grabbed for her socks and shoes.

"Don't bother,"
Brandon
snapped as he reached for his shirt.

"Oh, no, you don't. No way are you leaving this room without me."

He turned on her, jaw tight, and jabbed one finger in her face. "Just because I was oblivious enough last night to climb back into your bed—"

"This isn't about us, Brandon. If you want to shut me out of your life, fine, but you can't shut me out of Henry's. That's Henry's choice to make, not yours. Besides"—she pointed
at
his hands—"you're shaking so badly, the last thing we need is for you to climb behind the wheel of a car—especially in these icy conditions."

He glared at her as he buttoned his shirt and she tugged on her socks. They shrugged on their jackets.

Low clouds turned daylight to dusk. Alyson gripped the steering wheel hard, her fear for Henry and her concern for
Brandon
adding to the stress of manipulating the car down the icy highway.

Here and there trucks had dumped sand and gravel to aid traction—always too little too late. Any town south of the
Red River
simply could not cope with such freakish weather.

She glanced
at
Brandon
. He stared out over the frozen countryside, his lower lip caught between his teeth. She reached for his hand, curled her fingers around it. For a long moment he did nothing; no response, just sat still and cold. Then his fingers entwined with hers and squeezed so hard her bones felt crushed.

"What the hell happened to me?" he said. "What the hell was I thinking? I don't even remember reaching for it. Four fucking years blown. What was I thinking, Aly?"

"You weren't thinking,
Brandon
. You were reacting. You were sad and angry, and looking for a way to make those feelings less painful."

He shook his head, and when he looked at her, his eyes were dark pools of panic. "I'm unraveling. My whole fucking life is unraveling. I feel like I'm careening toward that goddamn guardrail again, and I can't stop it." Running his hand through his hair, he squeezed his eyes closed, gripped her numb hand more tightly. "We both know who made that phone call to Henry, don't we? What kind of lunatic pulls that kind of sick joke?"

In that instant Alyson realized that he hadn't heard about Rufous. Of course he wouldn't have. He'd been gone from the farm when Deputy Greene contacted Henry.

"Jesus," she heard him groan. He leaned forward, focusing on something in the distance that was little more than a dark blue blur in the cold haze. "Oh, Christ. Don't let that be Henry's truck. Please, God, don't let that be Henry."

Closer.

The old truck materialized through the mist, parked on the roadside, wipers scraping back and forth over a thin film of ice on the windshield.

"Stop the car,"
Brandon
ordered. "Stop the goddamn car." The Jag slid sideways as Brandon threw open the door and jumped out, slid to his knees, clawed his way back to his feet and ran, slipping and sliding, toward the truck. He couldn't breathe. The pressure in his head began to pulse like a heartbeat. He could see Henry now, sitting behind the wheel, only something wasn't right. His glasses looked askew on his face, and he was leaning—resting, yes, he was resting—against the door. He grabbed the door handle and yanked, sending slivers of thin ice to the ground and over his feet.

Henry slumped into his arms, the heavy, sudden weight propelling them to the ground.

The horn-rimmed glasses bounced on the frozen road.

"Henry?"
Brandon
took his uncle's cold face between his hands and searched his dull blue eyes. "Ah, Henry. Oh, Jesus. Oh, no. Oh, God
…
no."

He looked up as Alyson dropped to her knees, fists pressed to her mouth to stop the sobs rising up her throat. Her eyes were big and tear-filled, reflecting the acknowledgment that he, in that terrible moment, refused—though it was there, filling him up inside, expanding with painful pressure, crawling up his throat and buzzing between his ears. His eyes suddenly felt too large for their sockets.

Suddenly her arms were around him, holding him as if she were fighting to keep him from falling off a precipice. She wept his name and cried, "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

*

"The doctor's with him now," Alyson said softly into the
phone. She pulled her jacket tighter around her as she sat on the front porch step, shivering and staring up at the ice-heavy tree branches. The temperature hovered at thirty degrees, but the precipitation had finally stopped. She did her best to swallow her emotion. Her eyes throbbed and her throat ached. "Alan, he just sits there, smoking, staring at nothing, unresponsive. I want desperately to comfort him—"

"He's in shock, A.J., not to mention denial. He's been forced over the years to keep his pain and anger bottled up inside him. No doubt he'll find a way to blame himself for this. Not good, considering everything else that's going on. When he rouses out of his stupor, he'll head for the bottle to punish himself. Or worse. Do you think he's suicidal?"

She shook her head, frowning, refusing to acknowledge that the possibility had coiled around her concerned and suspicious mind the last hours. "I don't know.
I
don't think so, but—"

"Don't leave him alone, whatever you do."

"You're joking, right? I can hardly get within three feet of him. Betty hasn't left his side for thirty seconds all day. I've seen dogs trained to kill guard with less ferociousness."