Darkling I Listen (49 page)

"We're dealing with a very complex situation here," Alan began. "A dissociative identity disorder, complicated by gender dysphoria. You have your host personality, which I must assume is the female. Then there's your Alter personality. Judging by what I've heard about the extreme abuse in this individual's childhood, the Alter probably manifested himself to protect the female. He's the macho personality who was better capable of dealing with Reverend Boyd's fire-and-brimstone mistreatment. Also, he'd be acceptable to the Reverend Boyd, whereas the female who now calls herself Betty would not.

"My greatest concern," Alan added, releasing a weary breath, "is that the Alter has gained the upper hand here,
judging
by the religious evidence decorating those bedroom walls and his abuse of the female. Little by little, he's eroded the more sensitive female's control. I suspect she'd never have murdered Emerald Marcella, or beat up
Charlotte
, or killed Henry's dog, or harmed Henry. While she might not have liked you—even hated your guts, A.J.—I doubt she'd have physically harmed you."

"Are these personalities aware of one another?" Ron asked.

"It's known as co-consciousness. These Alter personalities actually communicate and cooperate with one another. Or fight one another. Or bully one another. Just because they live in the same body and brain doesn't mean they have to like one another. It's like siblings. They might have the same parents and occupy the same house, but that doesn't mean they won't take a punch at one another if push comes to shove. The personalities can eventually merge, with the more powerful taking charge. I believe that's what could be happening here."

"What does all this mean for
Brandon
?" Alyson demanded.

"We hope that Betty still has enough influence that she won't allow Billy to hurt him."

Ron pulled the car into the parking lot outside his apartment building. Mildred's car was parked there. She sat in the dark, the tip of her cigarette glowing, briefly brightening her face as she took a deep drag.

A sense of foreboding stabbed Alyson. Before Ron managed to stop the car completely, she threw open the door and leaped out. Mildred's head slowly turned as Alyson approached her, her step slowing and her throat tightening as Mildred looked at her with mascara-smeared eyes, the streetlight reflecting off the tear streaks on her cheeks. "What's happened?" Alyson heard herself cry in a dry, weak voice.

"You haven't heard?" Mildred covered her mouth with her hand and sobbed, "He's dead.
Brandon
is dead."

«
^
»

"
W
hat the hell were you thinking?" Alan shouted into Mil
dred's tear-streaked face. Holding Alyson, rocking her as she sobbed so hard against his shoulder that her entire body convulsed, he added in a quieter voice, "If I wasn't a doctor,
I'd
punch your lights out. You don't blurt out that kind of information unless you know for a fact that it's true."

"Shut up! All of you!" Ron yelled. He turned up the television volume. A somber news correspondent stared into the camera while around her, people moved in swarms behind barricades. Police officers stood guard against any onlooker who attempted to breach their security.

"Brandon Carlyle was first reported missing this morning by Betty Wilson, a live-in health care provider employed by Mr. Carlyle to care for his invalid aunt. According to Miss Wilson, Carlyle mentioned to her yesterday that he was coming out to this creek you see behind me to fish—a creek that is notoriously dangerous to navigate."

"That's a lie!" Alyson shouted at the television. "
Brandon
would never have—"

"Quiet!" Ron repeated.

"When Carlyle didn't return last evening, and hadn't returned this morning, Miss Wilson contacted the local law enforcement, who found Carlyle's car at the docks where he kept his boat. A search crew was immediately dispatched. An hour later, the empty craft was found approximately two miles down the creek. Search crews from surrounding towns have been arriving since
noon
—"

Ron flipped to the next news channel.

"Sources have informed us that Carlyle's apparent depression stemmed from the very recent loss of his uncle."

Ron flipped again.

"Residents speculate that this might well be a suicide—"

"Sheriff's Department refuses to speculate on what may or may not have taken place here last evening. Until the body is located—"

"Miss Wilson admitted that recently Carlyle had started drinking again—"

"Carlyle spent three years in
California
's Corcoran State Prison on manslaughter charges—"

"Ticky Creek Sheriff's Department is attempting to locate a young woman who, until recently, was romantically involved with the missing actor. According to Betty Wilson, Carlyle began a relationship with Alyson James, who reports as A.J. Farrington for the
Galaxy Gazette.
According to
Wilson
, Miss James misrepresented herself to the family. Once Carlyle learned of it, the relationship was broken off. However,
Wilson
stated, Miss James continued to harass Carlyle by phone. Investigators are now looking into the possibility that Miss James could be tied to the stalker,
Anticipating
, who has beleaguered the actor for some time…
"

Ron hit the
Off
button.

"Son of a bitch." Alan shook his head in disbelief.

Alyson, clutching Alan's shirt, choked, "He's not dead. Alan, he's not dead. As long as there isn't a body—"

"There's always hope." He forced a smile and blotted the tears from her face with a paper napkin.

Mildred coughed a disbelieving laugh. "Right. Sure. He's just crawled off into those goddamn pine forests to contemplate life for a while."

"He would never have climbed into that boat alone," Alyson said, doing her best to remain rational. "He didn't like it even when he was with Henry. He knew that creek is dangerous. He'd never have gone fishing—"

"But if he was suicidal—" Mildred argued.

"He wasn't!" Alyson jumped from the sofa, her fists shaking. "If he wanted to kill himself, there are enough guns in that house to arm the next invasion on
Kuwait
. He'd simply have blown his brains out—"

"Quiet," Ron ordered in a thinly patient voice. "There's a greater issue here that we must deal with right now. And that's the fact that the sheriff is looking for A.J. as a possible suspect in Carlyle's disappearance."

"Stop it!" Dragging her hands through her hair, Alyson took a deep breath,
then
slowly released it. "There's no greater issue than
Brandon
's life. I refuse to accept that he's gone."

"A.J.," Alan said gently. "Hope is a good thing to hold on to, but in most cases—"

"I
don't
want to hear your theories any longer, Alan. I
don't
want
to
be rationalized to death. I
don't
want
to
be told ever, ever again that I should practice caution or risk agitating the psyche of a victimizer. If I'd gone to the sheriff when I first began to suspect Betty was Anticipating,
Brandon
would be alive…" Her mouth snapped shut. The blood left her head, and she sank to the floor. Ron grabbed her, drew her against him, pressing her head against his chest. "Oh, my God," she cried dryly. "Oh, my God. He's dead, isn't he? He's someplace in that horrible water. She killed him—"

"Hold on," Ron urged softly. "Don’t give up yet."

"If I hadn't left—"

"You were trying to help, A.J. We had to be certain you were right before we could act—"

"But we're too late. What does it matter, if we're too late?" He picked her off the floor, carried her into the bedroom, and put her on the bed.

He held her there, his hands pressed against her shoulders. "You'll have to be strong through the next days, Alyson. It's going to be tough. You can't hold it together if you're exhausted."

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Call the Ticky Creek authorities about Betty Wilson. We're going to get this issue of your possible involvement in
Brandon
's disappearance out of the way. Once she's in custody, at least temporarily for questioning, I think the situation will be
…
resolved fairly quickly."

*

Alyson awoke just after three. She staggered into Ron's living
room, where the muted television flickered in the dark. Alan slept on the sofa. Mildred, curled up in a chair, mascara streaked over her cheeks like war paint, also slept. Her gaze locking on the television screen, Alyson sank onto the coffee table.

Video and photographs of
Brandon
rolled before her eyes, cataloging his life. Child actor, adolescent, adult; smiling, brooding, fighting. He stood on a stage in his dark tux, a twenty-year-old with a head of wild curls, holding an Oscar while the audience rewarded him with a standing ovation. He'd turned those bruise-blue eyes toward the camera and flashed that heart-stopping smile that had blown away the last vestiges of his childhood and securely entrenched him as the man women most fantasized over. The Sexiest Man in the World. Oscar winner.

She pressed the remote
Off
button and sat in the dark.
Brandon
as she had seen him that last time at Henry's funeral came back to her. Grief-stricken, bone-weary. His final goodbye had sent a chill through her that had left her with a sinking despair and fear that she couldn't place until now—as if he'd known he'd never see her again.

Returning to the bedroom, she crawled between the sheets. With her cheek buried in the pillow, she allowed the hot tears to flow.

*

"As expected, the world has converged on
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
, a secluded village of less than five thousand people buried in the heart of the deep
East Texas
pine woods. The tragedy that brings us here now is one that, over the last few years, has become far too familiar: a beloved public figure cut down in his prime. And to make matters more shocking, Betty Wilson, the nurse who reported Carlyle missing, is now missing herself.

"Officers, following a lead, visited the Carlyle home this morning, where Miss Wilson has been living. What they discovered there shocked them. Bernice Carlyle, Brandon Carlyle's aunt, was found dead, and apparently had been dead for at least forty-eight hours. There were definite signs of a struggle. Blood was found on the walls and floor. The Crime Scene Unit spent the morning collecting evidence. Although the sheriff declines to make comments at this time, we suspect that the investigation will now refocus on a possible homicide as opposed to a boating accident or suicide."

*

"For the second day, search crews continue to drag Ticky
Creek in hopes of discovering the body of Brandon Carlyle. Dogs have been brought in as well, and they're combing the inhospitable terrain on both sides of this treacherous body of water. Over the last five years, twenty-five people have drowned in these waters, which are notorious for their undertow. With each hour that passes, hope fades for finding Carlyle alive. Weather forecasts are calling for storms tonight, which will certainly worsen the situation. In the meantime, the search continues for Betty Wilson…
"

*

"On this third day of Brandon Carlyle's disappearance,
Ticky Creek law officials have been forced to halt the search due to inclement weather. Storms are predicted to continue through the remainder of the week. In the meantime, fans of the incredibly popular entertainer have been pouring in by the thousands, as have friends and news media. Senator John Whitehorse arrived this morning. Both, of course, were media darlings back before the senator became an outspoken activist for the Native American population and ultimately ran for the Senate. We asked the senator about his friendship with Carlyle and what brought him to Ticky Creek."

"Brandon and I have remained friends for a great many years. I'm here today because of that friendship—to show my support, to pray, along with everyone else here, that he'll be found alive. He's a tremendously gifted actor, and despite the occasionally nasty rumors—most of which are untrue, I might add—one of the nicest guys I've ever had the pleasure of knowing."

*

"A distraught Cara Carlyle is in seclusion tonight at her
apartment in
Manhattan
. We could not reach her directly for comment. However, a short time ago a spokesperson for Ms. Carlyle read a statement: "I grieve for my son. Despite our past differences, I continue to adore him and pray for his safe return.
Brandon
, wherever you are, I love you, my darling."

*

"Liar!" Alyson shouted at the television screen, which was
filled with images of Cara Carlyle, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, as she ran from a limo into her apartment building. Alyson hurled a pillow at the set, knocking a framed photograph of Ron's mother to the floor. Alan wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her toward the bedroom. "That woman destroyed
Brandon
's life! How dare she lie to the public like that? I've got a good mind to—"

"To do absolutely nothing but get in bed and calm down. Christ, A.J., I don't know how much longer I can hold out before I have you committed." Alan dumped her on the bed and glared down at her through his lopsided glasses.

"Alan, I want to go to Ticky Creek."

"No way. Not going to happen. Not yet."

"That idiotic sheriff has all but buried
Brandon
. Jack Dillman has called off the search—"

"Suspended, Alyson, due to the weather."

"He could be out there somewhere, dying."

Alan raked one hand through his hair and sighed wearily. "You believe he's dead already, don't you?" She glared up at him.

He looked away.

"Don't you?" she demanded in a steadier voice.

"Yes," he finally replied. "I do." Alan dropped onto the bed beside her. "I'm sorry. I wish I could continue to tell you otherwise, but at some point one has to start to face reality. We have no way of determining just how long
Brandon
's been gone. No one has seen him since the day of the funeral. Now Betty is gone—and Bernie is dead.

"Alyson, the blood they found was
Brandon
's. Something dreadful happened in that house—a confrontation, perhaps. Betty drove his body out to that creek, disposed of it, and returned to the house on foot, just like
Brandon
did the night you left him by the highway."

"But if she murdered him, why would she call attention to herself? It's almost as if she wanted people to know. Now she's missing …
who's
to
say she isn't with
Brandon
? Perhaps it's a kidnapping situation."

Alan shook his head, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. "I've worked with the police on a great many very strange cases, and I have to admit this one is making me nuts. The normal rationale here is complicated by the apparent dissociative identity disorder. We're not simply dealing with one confused individual, we're dealing with two. Hell, for all we know, we could be dealing with a dozen. What we could actually be confronting here is one hand not knowing what the other is doing. If in fact there's no co-consciousness between the female who now calls herself Betty and the male, Billy, then Betty might not have a clue as to what Billy did with
Brandon
."