Darkling I Listen (56 page)

Looking into Billy's eyes,
Brandon
called, "Betty! Please, Betty, help me! Help me!"

The change was as brief but as bright as the flash of a comet in the night sky. Billy's face changed, his eyes softened. His grip on the gun weakened, allowing
Brandon
to swing the barrel away from himself and toward Billy—
"Do it," rushed Betty's voice. "Quickly, quickly, Mr. Brandon. Do it now!"

It was the sound of Betty's voice that made him freeze, the heartbreaking shadow of desperation in the eyes as she fought valiantly to contain the monster. Then, as if acknowledging
Brandon
's quandary, she wrenched the gun from his hand and turned it on herself.

The gunshot was little more than a muffled bump under the water. A look of surprise rushed over Billy's features; his eyes flew wide and his mouth fell open.

Brandon
stumbled back, his gaze still locked on the face that appeared to shift and change like the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope. With a groan, the body slowly, silently, slid like a sinking ship below the surface and disappeared.

Brandon
closed his eyes, covered his face with his dripping hands while the frantic fear and adrenaline left him so suddenly that it felt as if every bone in his body had vaporized. Then realization slammed him—
"Alyson." He searched the water, fresh panic surging through him. God, oh God, this would be too cruel. Then he saw her, clinging to the pier. She flung herself into the water, splashed and stumbled her way to him, laughing and crying, her hands reaching desperately for him as he pulled her against his body and steadied her. They clung, pressed, rocked with the gentle motion of the cold water.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," she said.

Wearily, supporting one another, they waded out of the water, trudged through the mud to solid ground, both beginning to shiver as the brisk morning air bit at their wet skin.

"Down!" came the distant shout, sounding almost like the cry of a bird. "Down, get down—behind you!"

Brandon
looked up.

Dillman staggered toward them, one hand holding his bloody side, the other waving a gun. "Behind you!" he shouted again.

Brandon
turned.

As Billy rose out of the water, sunlight sparkled on his head like gold glitter. He raised the gun, pointed it—

Brandon
shoved Alyson aside.

The gun blast resounded like a lightning strike, reverberated through the trees, sending flocks of startled egrets rising into the air.

Brandon
stared down the barrel of Billy's gun, waiting for the pain to start; slowly, he shifted his gaze to Billy's oddly blank
face,
and the bullet hole in his forehead. The gun slid from Billy's hand,
then
he drifted backward, settled gently into the water and momentarily floated like flotsam before sinking from sight.

Alyson's arms came around him. They sank to the ground.

Dillman staggered up, plopped down beside them, bloody hand gripping his side. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at
Brandon
. "You're a goddamn pain in the ass, Carlyle."

"You're right."
Brandon
gave him an exhausted grin. "A big pain in the ass. And by the way
…
thanks, Jack."

Giving a grunt, Dillman looked at Alyson, then away. "Let's get somethin' straight—for the record. I did this for only one reason. Figured by savin' your
Hollywood
hind end, I'd keep my job and win me a few votes come election time. It ain't as if I like you or nothin'."

"Just the same."
Brandon
offered his hand.

A flush crept up Dillman's pale cheeks as he stared at it. Then, raising his eyes to
Brandon
's, he muttered, "Jeezus," and took it.

«
^

A
lyson stood at
Brandon
's bedside, her hand holding his,
watching as he slept. A needle in his arm dripped fluid into his vein—electrolytes to hydrate him. It would be a while before he could stomach solid food.

After twelve hours in the hospital, he was beginning to rouse. His color was better. All vital signs stable. She looked toward the muted television near the ceiling. The morning's rescue played out over the silent screen: helicopters and boats converging on the compound, law enforcement officers carrying weapons piling out of choppers like soldiers invading some Middle Eastern country. She watched Brandon and Jack being placed on gurneys and carried onto the Air Ambulances that would transport them to Tyler General. She watched herself climb in after them.

His hand squeezed hers. With a skip of her heart, she smiled down into his sleepy eyes.

"Do I look as bad as I feel?" he asked.

"Never, I assure you." She pressed a kiss to his warm forehead. "Looking better by the minute, Carlyle. Soon you'll be as good as new, and the women will be swooning at your feet again."

He groaned. "I've had enough of fanatic fans, thank you very much." Lifting his hand, he gently touched her swollen face. "God, I'm sorry, Cupcake. Sorry you got involved in this nightmare. If you'd died because of me—"

"Get this straight," she said firmly and stared hard into his bloodshot eyes. "None of this is your fault,
Brandon
. What happened to Henry and Bernie and Emerald Marcella—it was the work of a very disturbed individual." More softly, she added, "Alan said this kind of reaction is to be expected. He warned me; once the shock of all this wears off and reality hits hard again, you'll go through some tough periods. Fear. Grief. Guilt. Paranoia—"

"Great." He grinned weakly. "Gives me something to look forward to."

"I'll be there with you." Then she added softly, "If you still want me to be."

"As if I'd ever go anywhere again for the rest of my life without you." He pulled her close. "Aly, all I could think about in that damn black hole was you. Sometimes, when I thought I might never see you again, I wanted to give up hope."

She kissed him, lightly. "Are you up to a few visitors? They're out in the hall,
have
been for hours." He nodded, and Alyson walked to the door.

Mildred stalked into the room, steel-tipped high heels clicking, dark hair swept atop her head, earrings dangling. She flashed Alyson a resolute look before marching over to
Brandon
's bed. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she lifted her chin and pointed one long, red-lacquered nail at him.

"Look, you, I've put up with your arrogant bullshit for too long—got paid squat diddly for
it,
too. If you think you're going to fire me before I've gotten some freaking commissions out of your hide, you've got another thing coming. Furthermore—"

"Fine."

"What?"

"I said fine. If I rehire you, will you go away and leave me alone?"

"Let's get something straight, Bubba. I'm a damn good agent—"

"That remains to be seen."

"I could still get you seven million for that Scorsese movie."

"Thirty."

"
Fifteen,
tops."

"Thirty-five."

Pursing her lips, Mildred narrowed her eyes, then said through her teeth, "Carlyle, I'm going to get you thirty-five million for that movie if it's the last thing I ever do, then I'm going to shove it so far up your—"

"Excuse me
…?"

They looked toward the door.

Charlotte Minger beamed at them, exposing a mouth full of thread-thin wires. She shambled in, limping, her eyes twinkling. The injuries on her face were healing but still red.

Reaching for
Brandon
's hand, she bent and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Man, am I ever glad to see you. Hey, you look almost as bad as me."

He grinned and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Sorry about what happened to you, Charlotte."

"My fault.
Shouldn'ta done
what I did. What matters is we both pulled through okay. Right?" Her eyes widening, she managed an unsteady bounce of excitement. "God, you'll never believe it. Do you know who I met in the hallway? Johnny Whitehorse. Oh—my—God. That man is sooo gorgeous! My mom is gonna bring up his poster—that one of him walking half-naked down
Fifth Avenue
? And he's gonna autograph it for me. Like, I almost fainted right there
at
his feet."

As
Brandon
raised one eyebrow and gave her a lopsided smirk, she covered her mouth and giggled. "Sorry. Course you know there ain't
nobody
like you, Brandon, even if you are gettin' sorta old."

The door bumped open. Jack Dillman rolled into the room in a wheelchair. Mitsy trailed him, heels dragging, chewing the fingernail of her right thumb. There were no signs of Marilyn tonight. She had curled her own hair and anchored it back from her face with a child's red plastic barrettes. Her jeans were baggy, and the sweater she wore drooped nearly to her knees. She kept her eyes averted as she stopped just inside the door.

Jack looked back at her. "Git up here, Mitsy. I ain't got all frickin' night. Jeez, I ain't even supposed to be out of bed. If I bleed the hell to death, who's gonna take care of your skinny behind?"

Cautious, she moved to the foot of the bed. Her big eyes finally
raised
to
Brandon
's. Her chin trembled. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Louder," Jack ordered.

"Sorry." She took a deep breath. "I was crazy for a while, I guess. I'm still a little crazy. Probably always will be. But I'm gettin' better ever day." She glanced at Alyson and as quickly looked away. More softly, she added, "I lied to you 'bout that baby. It wasn't yours. I guess that'll relieve you some, knowin' it wasn't your kid that I…" Tears rose in her eyes. "All I ever wanted to be was a movie star. Is that so much to ask? Well?" she said, looking around at the different faces. "Is it? You told me you'd help me get an agent, and then you went off, left me waitin' and hopin', stuck in
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
, like a stupid wart on a log."

"I'm sorry."
Brandon
extended his hand to her.

She sprang around the bed and grabbed it, clutched it to her cheek while tears spilled down her face. "I just wanted to be somethin', Brandon. I wanted to count for somethin'. You were the first person ever made me feel special, like I had a chance."

"I'm sorry," he repeated in a thick voice and closed his hand more tightly around hers.

"If that baby had been yours, I never, ever would
of
got rid of it. I loved you so much my heart still hurts to think about it. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry my stupid brother hurt you. He's just a big dumb dog turd with a turnip for brains, and if he thinks he's gonna keep treatin' me like I'm worthless, he's got another think comin'
."
Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, Mitsy glared at Jack. His brow lowered, and he sank back in his chair.

Laughing,
Brandon
drew her close, closer, tugged her down so he could whisper in her ear. She gasped. Nodded. Her body began to vibrate like a plucked fiddle string. When she backed away from the bed, her normally colorless face glowed like red neon.

Brandon
looked at Mildred, a smirk curling his lips. He crooked his finger at her. Her eyes widened—looked from
Brandon
to Mitsy, widened even farther as Mitsy jigged in place.

Eyes narrowing, cheeks burning with hot color, Mildred flashed
Brandon
a look that said
You
wouldn't dare.

He nodded, his smirk turning to smugness.
Oh, yes, I would,
his eyes responded.

The door opened again and Alan walked in, followed by Ron Peterson,
followed
by Senator Whitehorse. While Mitsy cornered Mildred and
Charlotte
attached herself to
Whitehorse
, Alyson introduced
Brandon
to Alan and Ron, then stepped back and watched the interplay between the people crowded around
Brandon
's bed.

Funny how such a short time ago their faces had been shadows of despair and desperation, and how with the simple words "I'm sorry," their lives had been changed in the blink of an eye. Even Dillman sat with a grin on his face, an expression bordering on pride as he watched Mitsy. New hope electrified the air, and as Alyson focused on
Brandon
's face, she watched his sadness fade away. He looked
…
at peace. His eyes shone with a serenity that transformed the haggardness of his features. It was as if he were healing before her eyes.

The phone rang. She picked it up. Listened.

Brandon
looked
at
her.

She smiled at him. "I'll be right down," she said into the phone, then gently replaced the receiver. "I have to step down the hall a minute," she told him, and dropped a kiss onto his mouth.

Stepping into the quiet corridor, Alyson briefly closed her eyes, took a deep breath,
squared
her shoulders. She marched down the hallway, eyes focused straight ahead, only vaguely aware of the nurses who watched her go.

A group of suited men loitered outside a waiting room. They turned to watch her approach. One stepped forward. "Alyson James?"

"Get out of my way," she snapped, shoved him aside,
then
hit the closed door.

Cara Carlyle looked up from the magazine she was reading and into Alyson's face.

Alyson's first thought was that the camera didn't come close to doing her justice, incapable of capturing the absolute perfection of her bone structure and skin, or the coldness of her presence. Her eyes were two ice blue stones, and with new awareness Alyson realized what it must have been like for
Brandon
, as a child, to have looked into those emotionless spheres, craving love, tolerating hell in hopes of earning it. Impossible, of course. The woman unfolding from the chair was incapable of loving anything or anyone other than herself.

"Miss James, I assume," Cara said with a lift of one eyebrow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Alyson demanded in a trembling voice.

Cara's red lips curved. "I should think that's obvious. I'm here
to
see my son."

"Over my dead body. If you think I'm allowing you to hurt him any more than he's already been hurt, then you're as stupid as you are vile and vicious."

Her eyes narrowing, Cara purred, "Who do you think you are?"

"I'm the woman who loves him. Who intends to marry
him.
Who intends to have his
children.
Who intends to spend the rest of my life making up for the misery you've caused him. How you can even show your face here amazes me. You don't deserve to occupy the same town as Brandon, much less the same building."

"I don't care who you are. You're not going to stand between me and what's mine."

"Think again." Alyson moved toward her.

Cara's eyes widened and hot color suffused her face. She backed away, dropping the magazine to the floor. "Touch me, and I'll have you arrested. I'll sue you—"

"You'd love that, wouldn't you? Nothing like scandal to manipulate the press and gain people's sympathies. Is that why you came here, Cara? Looking for free publicity? Play the concerned Mommy Dearest and get your face blasted across the tabloids—wind up on Jay Leno or Oprah?

"You used
Brandon
all his life to bolster your career. If it hadn't been for him, you'd be back in Ticky Creek flipping burgers at the Dime
A
Cup. Enough is enough, Cara. Because of some mother-son bond, he might have rolled over and tolerated your abuse—but now you're going to have me to deal with, and I won't put up with it. I'll spill my guts—everything I know about you and your sordid secrets. Oh, yes, Cara, he told me, and I'll never, ever forget the look in his eyes when he did. I don't think I've ever seen so much pain, humiliation, and heartbreak. And the sad, befuddling reality is, if I let you walk into that room right now, and you asked for his forgiveness, he'd forgive you."

Cara glared at her, expressionless,
then
drew back her shoulders. "You could spill your guts, of course. But it would be your word against mine. If, as you say, there is that bond between us, he'll keep his mouth shut, just as he has for the last twenty-five years. Now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to see my son."

Sweeping her purse off the chair, Cara tucked it under her arm, stepped around Alyson, and walked to the door.

"Don't do it," Alyson said to her back, stopping Cara in her tracks. "Please. If there's one molecule of decency in your body, if there's the tiniest spark in your heart of a mother's love for her son, leave him alone. He's suffered enough. Let him bask in the love I can give him—the love
he's craved all his life. Just leave him in peace, and let him heal."