Dark Pursuit

by Brandilyn Collins

  Kaitlan tossed the small stack of mail on her passenger seat. Then—dumb, dumb—checked herself in the rearview mirror. She looked terrible. More like forty than twenty-two. Well, twenty-three next week, but the birthday wasn’t here yet. Her lips, usually curving up, were all drawn down. Dull brown eyes. Lids drooping, forehead wrinkled.

  “Ugh.” She tore her eyes away.

  For one crazy second she wanted to lower her head onto the steering wheel and cry. How long had it been since she’d done that?

  She had no idea how to be a mother. But she wanted the baby more than anything in the world. Unlike her own mother, she would be warm and loving. Never abandon her child. Never.

  Kaitlan took a shaky breath. What an overwhelming day. Sick stomach and now a throbbing head. Fact is, if her clients hadn’t canceled, she’d have been a basket case at those appointments. Three o’clock in the afternoon and all she wanted was some aspirin and a bed.

  Wait, can you take aspirin when you’re pregnant?

  She drove down the long driveway, past the Jensons’ large two-story house and to her renovated garage-turned-apartment at the back of their five-acre lot. The Jensons’ property lay on the outskirts of Gayner in a rural area, the closest neighbor about a half-mile away. Kaitlan loved the quiet, the woods surrounding the place.

  Beat the streets of L.A. any day.

  She parked in the carport and slid out of the Corolla, toting her purse and the mail. Her footsteps dragged across the hard cement toward the door leading into the kitchen.

  She pulled the key from her purse and slid it into the lock.

  A noise.

  Kaitlan’s head came up, her hands stilling. Ears cocked, she listened. Her gaze roved beyond the carport, over the trees in the back of the lot, the large stump with raised and tangled roots.

  A gray and white cat pranced into sight, proudly carrying a mouse in its jaws.

  Kaitlan let out her breath. Boomer, a neighbor’s pet who wandered far and wide.

  He veered in her direction.

  “No! Go on, shoo!” She stomped her foot, and he ran away.

  “Oh.” Kaitlan pressed a hand to her forehead. That jarring hadn’t helped at all. With a sigh, she opened the door. She stepped inside and set her purse, mail, and keys on the table.

  She looked around the kitchen. Pale yellow appliances. White sink with a chip in the left corner. Brown-flecked Formica countertops. The place wasn’t fancy, but plenty big enough. Its high ceilings added to the feeling of space. Most of all, the apartment was hers.

  Her gaze landed on the floor—and she spotted a blue pen. Frowning, she walked over to pick it up. She turned it over in her fingers and saw the familiar engraving of Craig Barlow along its side. Craig’s expensive pen, a present from his father. He always carried it with him, in uniform or out, using it in spare moments to work on his novel.

  Kaitlan was sure the pen hadn’t been there when she left for work this morning.

  She ran a finger over its slim smoothness. Why had Craig been here today? She’d given him a key, but he never just came over while she was at work.

  Kaitlan checked the wall clock. Three-ten. At six-thirty Craig would be picking her up for his sister’s birthday dinner at Schultz’s restaurant. She should call him now and tell him she’d found his pen.

  Laying it on a counter, Kaitlan first crossed to a cabinet for two aspirin and washed them down with water. Her glass clinked as she set it in the sink.

  Kaitlan carried the pen over to the table and set it down. She reached into a side pocket in her purse for her cell phone.

  A fleck of color in the living room caught her eye.

  She focused through the doorway that led from the kitchen. Just within her line of vision—a bit of red.

  Now what?

  She walked to the threshold. Stopped.

  Her red throw blanket was bunched on the floor. It should have been on the back of the couch. Her wooden coffee table sat at a funny angle. Two of its magazines were knocked off, one lying open. The small lamp on the end table—on its side on the carpet.

  Electricity careened down Kaitlan’s spine. Craig wouldn’t have done this.

  Maybe it was a burglar.

  She gripped the door frame. Glanced left and right. Nothing missing. The TV was there, and her VCR and stereo. The CD tower.

  What had happened?

  Her jewelry—what little she had. The cash in her top drawer. Maybe somebody had come to steal that.

  Kaitlan scurried through the kitchen, driven to see, afraid to know.

  The doorway at the other end of the kitchen led to a short hall. Kaitlan first veered right toward the front door and checked to see if it was locked. It was. She retraced her steps, hurried to the left of the kitchen and toward her bedroom—the biggest room in the apartment, running from front to back.

  She stopped just outside.

  Her bedroom door was angled. Peering straight ahead, Kaitlan could only see the back part of the room. She gazed at the sliding glass door that led onto a small rear patio. Closed, like it should be. Black lever down—the locked position.

  But there, next to it on the light blue carpet—a footprint. Almost parallel to the door. Craig’s, or a burglar’s?

  Kaitlan’s heart tripped into double time. She pressed against the doorframe.

  What was that smell? Something flowery, like perfume. Mixed with … urine?

  The back of her neck tingled.

  Kaitlan’s feet propelled her into the room. Two steps in, she looked to the right.

  On her bed—a woman.

  Breath backed up in Kaitlan’s throat.

  The woman lay on her back, clearly dead, chin jutting into the air and mouth open. Clad in jeans and blue knit top, legs and arms askew. Knotted around her neck—the telltale strip of black fabric with green stripes.

  Kaitlan’s knees turned to water. In the time it took for her to sink to the floor—in those staggering, life-altering seconds—two words screamed in her numbing brain.

  The fabric.

  three

  From the armchair in his south-wing bedroom, Darell glowered out the window, heavy brows hanging into his vision. In the distance, under gloomy skies that matched his mood, spread San Francisco Bay.

  His killer and psychiatrist, still frozen, taunted his thoughts. He’d gotten so angry he turned off the computer and stormed from the office. If you could call his cane shuffle storming.

  Darell’s mouth twisted.

  Down a slope he could see Highway 35 leading to Highway 92. Follow 92 east and you’d end up in the Peninsula flats, teeming with people and cars like flies on a corpse. Take it west, and you’d come to Half Moon Bay, a small coastal town. From his mansion’s perch at the apex of hills between the two vastly different areas, Darell could view all directions. Here in his bedroom he used to enjoy the city lights at night. Now he couldn’t stand the sight of them. They symbolized people, the world in which he once reigned.

  Footsteps on the hardwood floor signaled the approach of his assistant, Margaret Breckenridge. Darell did not turn his head.

  “Hello, D.,” she said with bounce in her voice. Margaret was always cheery.

  He pulled in the corners of his mouth.

  “Time for your afternoon pills.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  She set the small ebony tray on the table next to his chair. He wrinkled his nose.

  Margaret chuckled. “I swear if you acted any different one day when I brought your medication, I’d fall over dead.”

  “What do you want me to do, woman, dance a jig?”

  “Oh, stop.” She patted his shoulder, then plucked three small pills from the tray. His antidepressant, a pain pill, and one for his sluggish brain. “Hold out your hand.”

  He obeyed, swinging his head toward the window. She placed the medicine in his palm.

  “Bombs away.” He threw the pills into his mouth, took a water glass from her efficient fingers, and swallowed.

&
nbsp; Three times they repeated the process. Pills, always pills, day and night. He didn’t even know what he took anymore. Most of them were vitamins and herbs. Did no good at all, except to keep snake oil salesmen in business. As for the inventor of the one that was supposed to make him think more clearly—Darell could imagine a million torturous ways to kill the shyster off in his next book.

  If he ever had a next book.

  Margaret nodded with satisfaction when he swallowed the last batch. She stood back, folding her arms across her ample chest. Darell tilted his head to view her with unspoken challenge. A weak ray of sun filtered through the window, showing up the crow’s feet around her eyes. The woman was looking old.

  She was only sixty-one. Compared to her he looked like death.

  “Have you done your exercises this afternoon?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Her lips pressed. “D., you know you should.”

  He shrugged. “They don’t work anyway.”

  “They might, if you’d do them three times a day like you’re supposed to.”

  “Aaah.” He swatted the air with his hand.

  She exhaled loudly. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Put me out to pasture, like everyone else.

  “Where’s your Thera-Band?”

  The hated thick rubbery band from the therapist. At first he’d worked hard with it, determined to regain all the movement he’d lost. But as time ticked by and progress proved slow, the choking cloud of depression set in.

  “I don’t know. Maybe in the office.”

  Margaret picked up the glass and tray. “I’ll go get it.”

  Darell focused out the window, waiting until she was almost to the door, far enough away to allow him space.

  “Margaret. Thank you.”

  She turned back. “You’re welcome, D.”

  For some reason her smile—so loyal and loving—reminded him of his granddaughter when she was little.

  A sudden brutal image of Kaitlan filled Darell’s head—the last time he’d seen her, six years ago. The hard, bitter face that looked decades beyond her sixteen years.

  “I hate you!” Spittle had sprayed from her mouth as she marched toward his front door.

  “Good.” White-hot rage at her treachery seared his veins. No one stole from him. “Then you won’t care that I never want to see you again.”

  She’d turned back, lips curled. “I don’t care. You never showed me any love anyway. Your writing—that’s all you care about. And now you have nobody left. Nobody!”

  In Darell’s mind, he heard the door slam.

  Margaret reappeared, toting the Thera-Band. She held it out to him, and he snatched it from her fingers. Why had he thought of Kaitlan? Anger at her betrayal swirled within him, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He leaned over, slapped the long band around the ball of his foot, and pulled the ends up hard with both hands, forcing his toes downward.

  “There,” he said through gritted teeth. “See? I’m exercising.”

  Margaret studied him. “Good. Whatever you thought about just now—keep thinking it.”

  As she turned away, Darell pulled tighter, jaw clenched. His ligaments screamed. So did the memories. Maybe a little more pain would drive them away.

  He relaxed for a second, then pulled again—harder.

  four

  Kaitlan’s body shook. How could this … what …?

  Somehow she pushed herself off the floor. Call 911! her mind screamed, but her stupid feet wouldn’t move. She swayed like a drunkard, shoulders hunched and breathing ragged. Her gaze glued to the corpse on her bed—the woman’s bugged eyes, drool coming out of her mouth. And her expression! Didn’t faces go slack in death? This one was frozen in shock.

  The glands around Kaitlan’s mouth started to drain. She was going to throw up.

  She lurched for the bathroom. Rounded the corner, fell on her knees before the toilet, and threw back the lids with a loud crack.

  Kaitlan heaved, holding back her hair, eyes squeezed shut. Again and again until nothing was left in her stomach.

  When it was over, she trembled from head to toe. She flushed the toilet and put down the lids. Washed out her mouth with toothpaste and water. Trying to tell herself none of this was true. She’d leave the bathroom to see nothing on her bed. She was just tired, that’s all. Too stressed.

  Clutching her arms, Kaitlan sidled back into the bedroom.

  The body was still there.

  She stared at it, mind bouncing. Looking for one rational thought she could grasp.

  Why would anyone bring a body here?

  Craig. He’d been in the apartment today.

  But he couldn’t have done this.

  Who was this woman? Kaitlan had never seen her before. She looked … maybe in her forties.

  That cloth around her neck. Black with green stripes. It was silk, wasn’t it? Kaitlan forced herself to move closer, peering at its shiny texture.

  Yes. Silk.

  She drew back, shuddering. This fabric had been used in two other killings in the area over the past year. The last one just two months ago.

  Craig.

  Kaitlan sagged against the wall, disbelief eating a deep, dark hole inside her. Craig had told her about the two killings. But he knew far too much for a mere beat cop, details only the investigators should know—like the black and green silk fabric. He’d claimed his father, the chief of police, had told him everything. She wasn’t supposed to say a word to anyone.

  Kaitlan shook her head. So what? So he knew too much. He and his father were close. Chief Barlow would have talked to him.

  But Craig was the only person with a key to her place. And he’d been here. She’d found his pen.

  No. He couldn’t have done this.

  Three months ago Craig Barlow had stolen her heart. He was charming and a little mysterious. Abercrombie model gorgeous, with deep blue eyes and grooves around his mouth when he smiled. Craig was private, not a lot of friends. Often he didn’t open up as much as she’d like. But he’d been good to her. They’d fallen in love. With her past, finding someone stable and strong like him had been incredible.

  Kaitlan shivered. She didn’t care about the pen or the fact that he knew too much about the killings. Craig couldn’t kill anybody. There had to be another explanation.

  Maybe the body was here before he came.

  But then why did he leave it? A police officer wouldn’t just walk away from a crime scene. And why hadn’t he called her?

  Okay, then someone did it after he was here.

  But who? And how did that person get in?

  How long had the woman been dead?

  Heart pounding, Kaitlan edged to the bed. She raised a hand to touch the body, to see if it was cold. Twice she pulled back. The third time she grazed the woman’s wrist.

  Still warm.

  What did that mean? She died an hour ago? Two?

  Craig would know. He lived for crime. He watched all the forensics shows on TV, wrote every chance he got on the suspense manuscript he never let anybody see …

  A memory reeled through Kaitlan, and her hands flew to her mouth. He’d told her his favorite scenes to write were about the killer. And he wrote those scenes in first person.

  She swallowed hard. No. She still couldn’t believe this.

  Kaitlan glanced out the front window. Whoever did this must have thought she’d be at work all day. What if he came back?

  She ran out of the room.

  Kaitlan stumbled into the kitchen. She had to call 911. Head throbbing, she thrust a hand into her purse for her cell—and it rang just as she touched it. Craig’s tone.

  She jumped and snatched back her hand.

  A second ring.

  Kaitlan pulled out the phone and stared at it, eyes wide.

  Third ring.

  He expected her to be at work. There, she would answer the phone.

  Why was she afraid to answer? He didn’t do this.

 
Kaitlan flipped the phone open, willing herself to sound calm. “Craig?”

  “Hi. You sound out of breath.”

  And he sounded … not right. Tight-throated.

  “Oh.” She laughed, gripping the edge of the table. “I was just coming out of the bathroom at the back of the shop and somebody said my cell was ringing.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut. Why had she lied?

  Silence. “Really.” Craig’s voice lowered, heavy with suspicion. Like he knew.

  Kaitlan stilled, that deep hole inside her widening. No. This can’t be.

  “I was just calling to check on you,” he said.

  During his shift? He’d never done that before.

  “Oh. Well. Thanks.” She swallowed. “Were you … at my apartment today?”

  “No.” The word was clipped, hard. “Why do you ask?”

  Kaitlan’s heart flipped over. Her eyes fastened on his pen lying on the table. “No reason.”

  “Then why do you sound so funny?”

  Why do you?

  Her mind thrashed for something to say. “Your day going okay?”

  “Yeah.” Defensiveness crept into his tone. “Just out patrolling, giving speeding tickets. Pretty boring.”

  Out patrolling. Alone. He could have been here, done this, and nobody would know. Besides, the tone of his voice. Denying he’d been here. He was lying.

  She picked up his pen and gripped it hard. “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  No response. Kaitlan could hear Craig breathing over the line, like he was waiting for her to admit she wasn’t at work.

  But how would he know that?

  Her fingers curled around the phone. “Are we still on for tonight?

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” he snapped. “You know I’d never miss my sister’s birthday.”

  He’d never talked to her like that before. “Sure. Of course.” No way could she face that dinner. Like she could eat.

  His pen burned in her fingers. She tossed it down.

  “Please be ready on time.” His tone evened a little. “You know Dad hates it when people are late.”

  “Okay, I will. ’Bye.”

  Kaitlan threw the phone into her purse and fell into a chair. She dropped her head in her hands.

  He’d just called to say hi. She’d imagined his suspicion.