A truth about Darell Brooke himself that he could not, would not see.
Out of the Blue. Lights Across the Water. River’s Edge.
Margaret stuck a hand in her hair. Why was she here?
On impulse she pulled out All But Dead, not remembering the story. She read the prologue. Oh, yes. Coal miner Ed Bramley and his nightmares, his epileptic daughter.
Margaret replaced the novel and opened a second—one of D.’s earlier works on the top shelf—and scanned the first two pages. This one she barely remembered.
Wind gusted at the windows. Margaret lifted her head to gaze into the night. The lights of Half Moon Bay dimmed, then disappeared. Fog was rolling in.
She checked the clock. Just past nine. Was Kaitlan still at the restaurant? Was she safe?
Margaret’s limbs fairly trembled with tension, anticipating the phone.
A clue.
Her eyebrows raised. Yes, that was it. She was looking for a clue in one of D.’s books. Some plot point that would ignite an idea of what they should do—one he had surely forgotten. His past novels were nothing now but a jumble in his head.
Had he ever written a story about a female protagonist trapped as Kaitlan was—one who couldn’t go to the police and had no evidence to present if she did …
Margaret slid out another novel and read the first chapter until the story surfaced in her memory.
No. Nothing here.
She lowered the book and focused out the window again, seeing only her dulled and anxious reflection. The fog now blocked out all view.
The wind had died down. The house was so very still.
Kaitlan.
This bookcase held thousands upon thousands of pages. Where to begin? It could take weeks to find what Margaret needed—if she found it at all.
She put the book back on the shelf and buffed her upper arms, chilled in the warm room of rich wood and leather.
Frustration balled in her throat. She should be moving, working, doing something. Tearing down the hill to the restaurant—did Margaret even know which one it was?—and rescuing Kaitlan. Just barge in and take her, who cared which people saw?
And what then, Margaret, after tipping your hand to Craig? What then?
She gazed at D.’s novels—the very reason Kaitlan had come to him for help in the first place. Somewhere in one of them must lay a crucial piece to this puzzle. A piece that had slipped into the milky waters below her and Darell’s consciousness.
Random reading wouldn’t do. She needed a systematic approach.
The oldest books first. These were the least familiar.
Margaret reached for D.’s first novel on the far left of the top shelf.
twenty-eight
Kaitlan’s legs felt rubbery as she walked through the kitchen. At each step her brain screamed there must be some way out of this nightmare. Something beyond this world, a rescue swooping out of the clouds …Craig stood in her bedroom doorway, simmering with impatience. “Where’s your vacuum cleaner?”
Vacuum cleaner? Kaitlan stared at him.
Craig gestured with his head toward the sliding glass door behind him. “Your carpet’s dirty.”
The footprint. Kaitlan’s eyes cut toward it.
“We need to clean it up.”
We
The word sank to the depths of her. We—a team. Hiding evidence that could be used against him.
She could go to jail for that.
He nudged her arm. “Go get it.”
Zombie-like, she turned and headed for the closet near her front door. There she pulled out her small portable vacuum. She returned to Craig.
He gave her a smug smile. “Thanks.”
A realization spun through her. He’d planned this moment of entrapment.
The thought sent her back to a scene in her childhood. At the age of eight she’d been playing with a neighborhood boy when he caught a moth. He stuck one of his mother’s sewing needles through the moth’s body and pinned it to cardboard. As it fluttered in a death dance she begged him to let it go. But he’d merely looked on, fascinated.
Now she was the moth.
Craig took the vacuum. “Go sit in the living room.”
Heart scudding, she obeyed.
We.
Kaitlan perched on her couch and waited.
The vacuum surged on. She listened to the rise and fall of its whine as it pushed across the carpet. She imagined the dirt particles it was picking up, the footprint pulled apart. Obliterated.
The noise cut off. Kaitlan heard the sound of a plug pulled from a socket, the whizzing grate of the automatic cord roll-up. Craig’s footsteps in the hall. A thunk of vacuum against floor. The closet door closing.
Kaitlan focused on a magazine upon her coffee table. Filling its cover—the perfect face of a laughing model. An article heading: “Six Secrets to Make Yourself Irresistible.”
Craig approached. She tensed. He laid both hands on her shoulders.
Kaitlan thought she would crack in two. Right down the middle, between those hands. Between those fingers that had strangled three women.
“Thanks for helping,” Craig said.
We.
“Get up, Kaitlan. Come with me into the bedroom.”
She stared at the magazine. A second article—“Budget Now for Christmas.”
A holiday she would never see.
Quiet despair uncoiled in her chest. The way he was doing this. Drawing it out, like he enjoyed every minute.
She stood and turned to face him, the couch as a barrier. “You going to kill me now too?”
His jaw flexed. “Just do as I say.”
Her eyes teared up. “Where did this come from, Craig? Why?”
Silence.
“Does your father know?”
Anger shrank his eyes. “Leave my father out of it.”
“He does, doesn’t he. That’s why he threatened me tonight.”
“I said leave him out of it!” He lunged for her over the couch.
Kaitlan reared out of his reach, hit the coffee table. Almost fell.
Craig cursed. He pulled back, face darkening, and strode toward the end of the sofa.
Kaitlan turned and ran. Around the coffee table, into the kitchen. She flung herself at the door.
Craig caught her left arm at the elbow and yanked her backward.
“No!” Kaitlan writhed from his grip. She pulled toward the door with all her might, her right hand reaching, flailing for the knob, fingers almost touching —
He grasped her right shoulder and whirled her around.
Kaitlan’s arms flew out, pummeled his chest. Sickly little sobs spilled from her lips. He spat curses, hands slicing the air, trying to catch her wrists.
“Stop!” Kaitlan aimed a knee at his groin.
He swiveled to one side, raked up a handful of her hair and wrenched her head toward the floor. Her body twisted in on itself. She fell forward into his waist. He gripped her shoulders hard, shoved her upright and back against the door. The knob hit her left kidney, knocking the wind clean out of her. Kaitlan gasped.
“Want to try that again, huh?” Craig pushed himself into her, breathing hard. Rage hardened his features into a face she couldn’t recognize.
Kaitlan slumped in his arms and cried.
“Now you listen to me.” Craig’s words flattened to steel. “We are going in the bedroom. You can walk or I can drag you. But we are going. Got it?”
Kaitlan’s world blurred. She looked down at his feet. The shoes that had left the footprint, now swept away.
Craig stepped back, still gripping her shoulders. “Go.” He pushed her.
She moved.
At the angled entrance of the bedroom he shoved her forward until she could see the whole room. “Look around. Anything else that needs to be cleaned up?”
Now he wanted her to find lingering evidence?
Kaitlan gazed dully.
The body was gone. The bed straightened. But the smell of urine on her be
dspread—that Kaitlan would keep to herself.
Craig raised an eyebrow—well?
“You’re the cop, Craig. What are you asking me for?”
He hit her hard with the back of his hand. She reeled, fell to the carpet. Her cheek flamed with fire, slugged twice in the same night. She struggled up on one elbow, head lolling, sucking air. Craig loomed over her, legs spread apart.
“Get up.”
She closed her eyes.
“Get up!” Craig kicked her side.
Slowly Kaitlan gathered both arms beneath her and pushed to her knees. She staggered to stand.
The world tipped.
Craig grabbed her chin, and Kaitlan flinched. He jerked her face to one side, examining her cheek.
In that moment a change swept over him. His fingers loosened, emotions rippling over his features like wind over water.
He let go of her. Stepped back.
“That’ll bruise by tomorrow.” Craig spoke the words as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Okay, look. When people ask, you’ll say you got up in the night to go to the bathroom and ran into the door. Got it?”
She nodded.
“Say it. Say the words.”
“I got up at night to go to the bathroom and ran into the door.”
“You don’t sound very convincing. Say it again.”
A tremor jagged down Kaitlan’s spine. “I got up at night to—”
“No! Laugh first. Shrug, wave your hand in the air. Something to make the story believable.”
Kaitlan swayed. Craig steadied her with stone fingers. “Try again.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
She swished her hand and forced a chilling little laugh. Reached down inside for the words he wanted to hear, but in her righteous indignation the wrong ones blurted out. “Oh, silly me. I ran into my boyfriend’s fist.”
She shrank back, shocked at herself.
Craig’s jaw moved to one side. He took a slow, deep breath. “You think you’re smarter than me? Think I can’t shut you up?”
Kaitlan threw her hands up, palms out. “I’m sorry. Really. I’ll say whatever you want.”
His expression relaxed. Hints of the Craig she once knew softened his face. He gathered her hands in his and brought them to his chest. “Nothing needs to change between you and me. I still love you. You just have to keep quiet.”
Her cheek throbbed. Kaitlan tried to draw away, but Craig wouldn’t let go. The fierce control etched back into his eyes.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you kill them?”
His gaze drifted over her shoulder. For a drawn out moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I don’t know.”
The words writhed between them. Kaitlan couldn’t breathe.
Defensiveness carved into Craig’s face. “It’s not going to happen again.” He gripped her hands until they hurt. “You are not going to tell anyone.” His gaze flicked around the room. “As you can see, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
“The woman on my bed, Craig.”
“Gone.”
“They’ll find her soon, like they did the rest.”
“Not this time.”
“Why did you bring her here?”
“Shut up, Kaitlan.”
“Why?”
“I said shut up!” He shoved her backward.
Kaitlan stumbled two steps and turned away from Craig. Crossing her forearms, she laid her palms on opposite shoulders. She focused out the sliding door to the black forest beyond. Was the woman buried out there?
If the body wasn’t found, what could she and her grandfather do? They’d have nothing for the police.
“I’m leaving.” Craig jerked her around to face him. “Tomorrow you’ll go to work as normal. Tell the door story to anyone who asks about your face.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you fully understand the situation you’re in, Kaitlan? Telling anyone, anyone, will do no good. Because no one will believe you. Even if they did, they’d be as powerless as you to prove it. And then”—he pushed a finger against the base of her throat—“I’d have to take care of both of you, wouldn’t I.”
He was going to get away with this. And there wasn’t a thing she could do. Her grandfather’s schemes—useless.
Craig exhaled and ran a hand down his face. “Please, Kaitlan, don’t even think of running away. Don’t ruin us. If you try running, I’ll have to stop you. Before you know it, you’ll have a warrant on your head for drugs found in your apartment.” Determination flattened his features. “That is, if I don’t catch up to you first.”
He surveyed her. “Plan on running?”
“No.”
“Telling someone?”
She shook her head.
“Good girl.”
Abruptly he turned away. “I’m taking your cell phone with me. And your car keys.”
“No! How am I supposed to—”
“Supposed to what?” He halted in the doorway. “Call someone tonight? Go somewhere?”
If she couldn’t phone her grandfather … “No, I wouldn’t. But how do I get to work in the morning?”
“My shift starts at six. I’ll drive by on patrol and give them back to you. Just for the day.”
Kaitlan stared at him, picturing the face of her childhood friend as he gloated over the pinned and dying moth.
“See you then.” Craig shot her a tight smile. “Sleep well.”
OBSESSION
twenty-nine
In the weeks that passed after that infamous night, my mind dulled out. Scenes of what happened after the party sank to the bottom of my memory. Not gone. Just covered by the daily issues of life. Sometimes when I fell into a masochistic mood, I’d fish out the memory, turn it over in my hand. Examine it like some disinterested onlooker, barely able to connect myself to the events.
I hid the black and green silk fabric in the bottom of a box of books in my bedroom closet. Out of sight, out of mind.
It was some months before the cloth called to me again.
One night I came across an envelope of old family pictures. Didn’t even know I had them. I dumped them out on a table, started flipping through the stack.
One stabbed my attention.
I felt the pierce go right through me—even before my brain registered what I’d seen. Mouth open, unable to move, I stared at the photo. Sweat popped from my pores, chilling on my skin.
The picture taunted me.
Thoughts flitted and knocked through my brain. Why was I rendered so helpless at the sight of that photo? Why did it have such power over me? I couldn’t find the answers, only knew the strength of the questions. This picture held the key to who I’d become, what I’d done. And it wasn’t about to give up its secrets.
It was as if the thing had some ethereal power all its own. The power to lead me to the envelope, make me open it. The colors of the photo looked overbright. Greedy. They wanted more of me, and they would get it.
I racked my brain for understanding. None came.
My initial shock gave way to anger … bitterness… and finally, the dread of a soul inevitably bound for hell.
There would be no end to this. To what I’d become.
Strange, how I knew that just from seeing the picture. I can’t explain how—and certainly still couldn’t fathom the whys. But I knew.
The fist of this reality clutched me for over an hour. I paced from room to room, trying to shake it off, telling myself I could overcome. Eventually the anger returned. I never asked for this. Never expected to be some unwilling and hapless pawn. Was it my fault I was born?
What about the other people on this earth? Didn’t I see scarred and struggling slobs every day? They were all around me, fish floundering on a dry beach, shriveling in the sun. If, indeed, a perfect God created the world—was this the way he intended it to be?
Something, somewhere had go
ne terribly wrong.
I pitched and whirled around my place, cursing God, cursing my own futile existence. Emotions built up inside me until I thought I would explode. My muscles were steel tight, heart ramming against my ribs like a frantic prisoner.
Then—just when I thought my head would burst, I found myself in my bedroom, standing before my closet.
I stared at the door. It beckoned me to open it.
I spread both hands and shook my head. Backed away.
Left the room.
Retraced my steps.
Despairing, I gazed at the door.
My hand went to its knob.
I stood there, feeling the cold, hard metal in my fingers. And a voice in my head whispered, “That’s your heart. Cold and hard.” But the words were oddly encouraging. They said—you’re indestructible. You can handle this.
Next thing I knew, the door stood open.
I pushed through clothes to the back of the closet. Stooped to pick up the box.
On my bed I dumped out the contents, books scattering everywhere, some falling to the floor.
And, of course—the fabric.
It beckoned to me.
I picked it up.
The cloth radiated heat into my palms. Soothing, assuring. What an amazing, wondrous feeling! How had I left it in that box for so long? How had I lived these months without it?
Folding it three times, I wrapped it around my shoulders like a blanket. I walked around the room, feeling its lightness and warmth envelope me. This was right. This was good. Not a curse. This was life.
Humanity has its own calls. Out of nowhere hunger hit. I had to eat—now, as if that fabric heightened the mortal needs of my body. I ended up in the kitchen, slapping together a roast beef and cheese sandwich with lots of mayo, the cloth knotted around my waist.
I sat down on the couch to eat, staring out the window. Watching darkness fall.
I gulped down the sandwich, my mind entertaining strange and wild thoughts about how lucky I was. How some power in the universe had chosen to give the fabric to me.
Sandwich gone, I strode to the kitchen sink and washed my greasy hands, longing to touch the fabric, not wanting to dirty it.
Dark Pursuit Page 11