Dark Pursuit

by Brandilyn Collins

  For Kaitlan.

  Darell dialed the number.

  “Gayner Police.” A woman’s voice.

  “Good morning. This is Darell Brooke. I’m trying to get through to Officer Craig Barlow.”

  Stunned hesitation vibrated the line. “The Darell Brooke? The author?”

  In that inopportune moment it all flooded back. The adulation. The reputation he’d once wielded. How he missed it.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Wow! Hello! I’ve read all your books. This is amazing; how are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  “That’s great. Great! Are you writing again? I can’t wait to read a new book from you.”

  That would make two of us.

  “Yes, I’m writing. In fact, that’s why I’m trying to reach Officer barlow. I need to ask him some research questions about police procedure.”

  Silence behind him. He pictured Margaret and Kaitlan holding their breath.

  “Oh.” Hesitation coated the woman’s response. “Uh, you sure you don’t mean the chief?”

  “No. His son, Craig.”

  “Oh, okay. He’s on patrol. I can contact him with your phone number. I’m sure he’ll call soon as he can. He’s a fan too.”

  No kidding.

  “That would be great.” Darell gave the woman his number. “Tell him I’m stuck on this manuscript until my questions are answered. I’d appreciate talking to him as soon as possible about setting up a meeting for tonight.”

  “I will. So nice to talk to you!”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  Darell hung up the phone—and exhaled. His hands trembled.

  “What happened?” Margaret blurted.

  Darell started. Turning stiffly he threw Margaret a look. “I left a message, all right? That’s all I can do at the moment. Now stop gnashing your teeth and fix my breakfast.”

  He hoped he could eat.

  Margaret’s hand rose to her chest, all argument beaten out of her. Besides, it was too late. Events had been put in motion.

  “I … Okay.” She gave Kaitlan’s shoulder a harried pat as she drifted away.

  Kaitlan sidled over the threshold, her arms still clutched and brows knitted. She leaned against the wall, eyes begging Darell to tell her all would be well.

  He firmed his expression into that of a poker player sure to win. “Trap set.” One side of his mouth tugged upward. “Now for the prey to come along.”

  forty-seven

  Craig smacked his cell phone shut and hurled it into the passenger seat.

  Linda at the station’s front desk had been so excited about Darell Brooke’s call. One day ago, he would have been too.

  This “research” meeting was a sure setup.

  What in the world did the old man think he could do?

  Blood simmering, Craig stared out the windshield of his patrol car at Kaitlan’s garage apartment. Morning sun filtered through the trees, spotting the front stoop, the gray-painted wood. Birds chirped in the forest, and a squirrel scampered by, cheeks bulging. The sun went down, the sun came up, forest creatures slept and woke. How perfectly the world continued to turn.

  Nature taunted him. His containment had failed.

  Sudden rage drove his flattened palm against the steering wheel. Again and again he hit, cursing with each blow, pulse pounding in his head and heels dug into the floor. His life was unraveling. Fate threatened to swallow him whole, and he hadn’t. Been. Able. To. Contain it!

  Spent, he threw himself back against the seat, chest puffing.

  His police radio crackled. Dispatch was calling an officer out on a domestic disturbance. The exchange brought Craig back to focus. He closed his eyes. He had to pull himself together.

  Clamping down his breathing, he listened to the skid of his heart.

  It was bad enough that Kaitlan had escaped last night. Even worse when he’d returned to find she’d sneaked back and snatched her purse and toiletries. He should have known then she wouldn’t show at work this morning. But he’d clung to hope.

  Now this.

  Craig pressed his knuckles against his forehead. Now the containment would be harder. Messier. He could get caught.

  No. He would never be caught.

  Their bodies must not be found.

  Craig hadn’t thought Kaitlan would go to her grandfather. Clearly, they were estranged. He’d talked about Darell Brooke numerous times, trying to draw her out, but she’d never admitted their relation. And Craig hadn’t wanted to admit how thoroughly he’d checked up on her when they first started dating. Computers could do a lot these days. He’d been amazed to discover her connection to Darell Brooke. But Kaitlan had stuck to her story—she had no family. Her only living relatives, including her mother, had thrown her out of their lives.

  Recently, when Craig’s father had run Kaitlan Sering through the system, he hadn’t dug past her mother’s name change to discover Kaitlan’s connection to Brooke. Craig had kept the knowledge to himself, afraid that his father or Hallie would let it slip to Kaitlan.

  How glad he was of that.

  More chatter from dispatch. Craig’s unit was being summoned for back-up to the domestic disturbance call. He radioed that he was on his way. How normal his voice sounded.

  Officer Craig Barlow performed a perfect two-point turn in Kaitlan’s driveway and took off. As he rounded the curve, the idea dawned. What he must do this afternoon—for containment.

  A humorless smile bent his mouth.

  How ironic.

  forty-eight

  Eleven o’clock. Kaitlan hunched at the breakfast table, nibbling saltine crackers and drinking mint tea—Margaret’s suggestion for her icky stomach. Her eyes felt gritty and her chest made of stone. Not to mention every muscle in her body hurt. She must have hit that car last night at sixty miles an hour. And her side where Craig had kicked her throbbed.

  She hoped the baby was all right.

  Margaret was furiously sponging down the already spotless refrigerator.

  The crackers sat like sawdust in Kaitlan’s mouth. All the same her nausea was beginning to settle.

  Before she collapsed into bed at 2:30 a.m., Kaitlan had left a message at the salon. She was sick and throwing up. She wouldn’t be in the following morning—please reschedule her appointments.

  It wasn’t far from the truth.

  She picked up another cracker.

  Craig hadn’t called yet. Dread lolled in the pit of Kaitlan’s stomach.

  They’d counted on him to return the call quickly. As soon as the meeting was confirmed they had to call the computer technician, the private investigator, and the reporter. Those people had to travel here and meet with them over details. The tech had to run his diagnostics and leave. The entire setup could take hours.

  Why hadn’t Craig phoned?

  Maybe he was out on a call right now. As soon as he was done and could check his cell for the message …

  He had to be incensed at her disappearance. He’d probably checked her apartment a half dozen times —

  The phone rang. Kaitlan jumped.

  Margaret’s back stiffened, her sponge poised in the air. “D. has to answer.”

  Kaitlan’s eyes riveted to the receiver, her skin tingling. The mere thought that Craig could be on the other end of the line made her want to run and hide.

  No second ring.

  Her head snapped around. “I have to hear what’s happening.”

  “Don’t let your grandfather see you!”

  Kaitlan was already scurrying out of the kitchen.

  On cat feet she crept down the hall toward the office. The door stood open, her grandfather’s voice drifting from the room. At the edge of the threshold she flattened herself against the wall, pulse fluttering. She closed her eyes and steeled herself. If she was this bad now, what would it be like with Craig in the house?

  “Yes,” her grandfather said. “It shouldn’t take too long. But I’d like to sit down with you and la
y out my scenario.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, I know he’s the chief of police. But you’re the one I want. To tell the truth, I’m killing two birds with one stone. Some time ago a friend of yours on the force emailed me saying what a fan you are of my books. He asked on your behalf if you’d be able to meet me. My memory is vague but I think it was around the time of your birthday, and your friend was holding out wild hope to set it up as your present. I know I’m a little late, and granted now I need your help, but if you’re willing …”

  Is Craig buying this? Why would he have reason to doubt?

  “I’m sorry, I can’t remember his name.”

  Kaitlan held her breath.

  “You are? Good for you. Writing that first novel is a difficult thing.” Her grandfather’s voice tinged with excitement. “Tell you what, Craig, in return for your help, if you’d like to bring a chapter or two I’d be happy to look at it when we’re done.”

  Surely Craig’s head was swimming over his good fortune. For one minute at least he wouldn’t be thinking about finding her.

  “I was thinking of seven o’clock.”

  Kaitlan peeked around the corner. At his desk chair her grandfather hunched over, clutching the phone. The hard jut of his knuckles captured her eyes. So white. Not the hand of a confident man.

  “I see. How much earlier?”

  “Oh.” His voice wavered. “Three o’clock.”

  Three? Craig would finish his shift at two. That gave him plenty of time to go home, change clothes. But that was way too early for them. What if they couldn’t get everything in place by then?

  Her grandfather rubbed the phone hard with his thumb. His right hand rose and gripped a thatch of his hair as if to pull logical thought from his brain. Kaitlan could see him struggle to re figure, to get things back on track. Her eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t considering this.

  Come on, come on, tell him it has to be later!

  His head turned and she saw her grandfather in profile, unshaven jaw working. He looked so feeble, so old. For a terrifying moment his face went blank.

  Kaitlan’s heart skidded to her toes. He couldn’t do this. He’d never pull it off with Craig, never. Craig was too smart.

  Her grandfather took a deep breath and managed to recharge himself. “All right, if that’s your only time.”

  No! She wanted to run into the room and wave her arms. Stop him.

  “Three o’clock it is. Let me give you directions …”

  Kaitlan’s eyelids sank shut. They’d never make it.

  forty-nine

  Darell set down the receiver and stared at it. His left fingers flexed, trying to loosen. Elation and fright and dread tumbled around in his gut. He was really going to do this. He would trap this killer—for Kaitlan.

  And he’d get to read some of Craig’s manuscript!

  Somewhere in the back of his brain a warning bell feebly chimed. Three o’clock. Darell checked the time. Less than four hours away.

  Last night’s phone conversations popped to mind. Four hours.

  What had he done?

  Clothes rustled behind him. Darell jerked around. Kaitlan stood inside the door, hands to her mouth, face ashen.

  “Three?” She looked about to throw up. “You’d better start making calls.”

  Defensiveness chafed him. Darell growled in his throat. “You and Margaret, refusing to trust me.” He made a face. “Get out of here, I’ve got work to do—for you.”

  Turning his back on her, he snatched up the phone.

  fifty

  Craig was coming—at three?

  Margaret leaned both hands on the kitchen sink. Lord, help us.

  Kaitlan hovered nearby, her forehead crisscrossed with lines. Desperation rolled off her in waves. “I don’t think he even realized what he did until he hung up.”

  Margaret wrung out the sponge and threw it down. She should have stood her ground with D. and made him stop.

  “Please tell me he can do this.” Kaitlan’s eyes glimmered. She touched her bruised cheek as if it were a mere token of what Craig would do to her if the plan failed.

  Reality squeezed Margaret’s lungs. This had to work for Kaitlan’s sake. Not another lick of energy, not another second could be spent on worrying or last-minute changes. It was too late. D. would need all the help she could give to make it work.

  Margaret placed her hands on Kaitlan’s shoulders, willing the fright from her voice. “Of course he can.” She pulled back and took a deep breath. “I’ll go see what I can do to help. You should get dressed.”

  She bustled from the kitchen.

  In the office D. was hanging up the phone. He turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Pete will be here within an hour.”

  Margaret nodded, studying him. His eyes looked alert, back straight. Energy chugged from him like a warming engine. It wasn’t likely to last long, especially given his lack of a full night’s sleep. “Does he think he can set up by three?”

  Defensiveness flitted across D.’s face. “Pete can. The computer tech he set me up with—name’s Martin Something-or-Other—wasn’t supposed to be available until mid afternoon. I told Pete to tell him I’d pay him triple.”

  D.’s expression gave him away. He’d indeed forgotten the detail of the tech’s availability when he talked to Craig. Margaret refused to let her dismay show. Without proof of the hacking, where would they be? “And the reporter?”

  “I’ve got to call him right now.” D.’s face slacked. He shuffled through papers on his desk. “Where is that number …”

  “Right here.” Margaret pointed to a yellow sheet of paper he had shown her and Kaitlan last night. Ed Wasinsky, from Channel Seven.

  “Yes, yes, I see it.” Darell waved her away.

  The reporter—and cameraman he’d bring along—had no idea what they would be filming. Ed knew only that he’d been offered an “explosive exclusive” story, if he would trust Darell Brooke. If it weren’t for Darell’s reputation, Margaret had no doubt the station wouldn’t have released him and a cameraman to come.

  But would they be available so many hours earlier than expected?

  D. focused on the paper and started dialing. Margaret held her breath.

  Within minutes D. was able to speak to Ed Wasinsky. He and his cameraman couldn’t leave San Francisco until around one-thirty. That would put them here at two. It was barely enough time to be briefed and get into place.

  D. shot her a stubborn look. “They’ll get here. Stop worrying.”

  “I just—”

  The phone rang. He plucked up the receiver. Margaret could hear the gravelly voice on the other end. It was Pete, saying Martin Schloss would do his best to leave his house by noon.

  D. hung up the phone triumphantly. “See? Everything’s falling into place.”

  Maybe. If nothing went wrong. If there was no traffic … “Yes, D., it’ll be fine.”

  Out of tasks, D. took a sharp breath and looked around, as if not knowing what to do next. His chest caved, and he sagged in his chair. His gaze wandered to the floor.

  Margaret touched his arm. “You’ve got time now to shave and clean yourself up. Maybe rest a little.”

  He blinked up at her. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Not even an argument about resting. For once Margaret wished he’d snapped at her.

  D. reached for his cane and struggled from the chair. “When Pete and the rest of them come they’ll be setting up in the library.”

  Her eyes rounded. “D., no! It’s all the way on the other side of the house.”

  “It’s the best choice. The upstairs floors squeak. And my bedroom’s too close. One noise from any of you in there could filter across the hall.”

  “That’s not what you said last night! You made me think we’d be right next—”

  “I didn’t say what room; you just assumed it.”

  “But you’ll be alone with him. If something happens—”

  “Shut up, Margaret!” He thumped
his cane against the floor. “I’m tired of your arguments!”

  He stalked from the room.

  Margaret opened her mouth to lash out again, then snapped it shut. Fighting with him would only rile him up more, and right now he needed to rest. Pete would have to persuade him.

  D.’s bedroom door banged shut.

  She brought a hand to her forehead. It sounded like he was beyond rest already.

  A skreek nearby made her jump. Margaret’s gaze cut to the window behind D.’s desk. A scraggly oak branch scratched the glass like the twisted fingernail of a hag.

  Beyond, the fog had barely lifted, gnarled trees on the front lawn grayed and ghoulish.

  What if Pete and the others couldn’t find their way?

  The branch screeched again. Margaret shivered.

  Abruptly she strode from the office and headed for the north wing. The vague hiss of water ran through pipes. Kaitlan must be taking a shower upstairs. Margaret turned the corner into the library and stalled, not sure why she’d come. Her eyes flitted over the room. The leather sofa and armchair, D.’s cherry wood desk and phone. Far as this was from the office, D. had a point. Sound wouldn’t carry easily from here to there.

  She pictured the men with their equipment. They would need an extra table for Pete’s monitor. Margaret didn’t want the desk scratched.

  Hurrying back up the north wing hall, she swerved toward the garage. If she remembered correctly, she’d seen a square folding table there.

  The garage smelled faintly of oil and dust. Margaret’s footsteps echoed as they clipped over the concrete floor. She passed D.’s black Mercedes in the first parking space, her own Subaru in the second. The third space remained empty, as did the fourth. Pete and the tech could park here, leaving the reporter and cameraman to hide their car just outside the garage. Craig Barlow was to remain in the front part of the house, unable to see the visitors’ vehicle in the rear driveway.

  At least that was the plan.

  In the storage closet at the far side she found the folding table.

  It took her three trips to carry the table and its four chairs into the library. Only when she’d set them all up and stood back, hot and anxious-ridden, did she realize there was little chance they’d need the chairs.