Dark Pursuit

by Brandilyn Collins

  Darell shook his head, clearing it. Time he took back charge of this situation. “Pete, I want to see what you’ve done in the library.” He pushed out of the chair, glowering at Kaitlan. “And I don’t want another word out of you.”

  fifty-four

  Margaret and Pete trailed her grandfather out of the office. Kaitlan refused to follow.

  Left alone, she stalked the hardwood floor, insides roiling.

  None of this would work. The plan was stupid, stupid. Margaret knew it too. But would Kaitlan’s grandfather listen? Oh, no. He just wanted to write his book.

  Fear and dread clumped in Kaitlan’s lungs. She passed a window and stalled, gazing into the fog. A wind sent swirls of mist dipping, turning, whisking ghost fingers against the pane.

  She pictured the dead woman’s silently screaming face and shuddered.

  The clock read 1:40 p.m.

  Kaitlan fretted her way out of the office and up the hall. She found herself in the formal living room on the other side of the entryway. All muted colors of browns and beige, everything perfect. She could remember when her grandfather would hold grand parties here. When wine glasses clinked and women trilled laughter and men tried to emulate the great King of Suspense, standing straighter in his presence, working their eyebrows.

  Once, even, her mother had come.

  Kaitlan slid onto the corner of a couch, brought her knees up, and hugged them. When this plan failed she would have to flee the area, she and her unborn baby. Go … somewhere.

  But in what car—with Craig’s ability to track her license plate?

  The gate’s bell sounded. The reporter.

  Margaret’s footsteps clicked up the hall. Around the corner, unseen, Kaitlan listened dully as she answered the bell.

  “It’s Ed Wasinsky.”

  “Yes, good! Come on up.”

  Kaitlan wandered out to the entryway as her grandfather and Pete appeared. Soon two men were at the door, a notepad in the reporter’s hand, a camera balanced on the shoulder of his partner. Ed Wasinsky was tall and broad-chested, thick blond hair parted on the side. Wide lips, a Grecian nose. Booming voice. The guy had TV written all over him.

  He looked at Kaitlan’s face, and his eyelids flickered.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  Sam, the cameraman, was a bald guy with a bulldog face and one gold loop earring. “Where can I put this?” He jerked his head toward his equipment.

  “In here.” Pete gestured toward the north wing, then led him down the hall.

  Ed shook hands with Kaitlan’s grandfather. “So good to meet you, sir. I’m a big fan.”

  Of course. Wasn’t everybody? The man who lived to write.

  “Thank you. Glad you could do this.”

  They chatted about books for a moment—pure insanity to Kaitlan. A killer was coming here in less than an hour, and the world just turned on. Her grandfather had thrown back his shoulders, trying to stand straight, but Kaitlan saw the strain on his face. He was tired, too tired, and he hadn’t had enough sleep, and besides he was half senile, and this would never work.

  She pressed against the wall, sick to her stomach.

  “You need to move your car,” Margaret told Ed. “Follow the driveway on around back. I’ll open the garage door.”

  “What’s up?” Ed tapped his notebook against his leg, looking to Kaitlan’s grandfather. “You told me this was good.”

  “Oh, it’s good all right. And it’ll only get better.”

  Ed’s gaze cut to Kaitlan. Curiosity shone in his eyes, mixed with something else. Empathy?

  “This involve you?”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “What happened to your cheek?”

  Kaitlan stared back defensively. Reporters. But for some reason she didn’t want this man to think badly of her. “I got hit—twice. And I fell. Running from a madman.”

  His eyebrows rose. “What madman?”

  “The one you need to help us catch. If this works. Which it won’t.”

  Her grandfather huffed.

  Ed cocked his head, as if considering which question to ask next. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “I’m dead.”

  He flinched. “What—”

  “You really must move your car,” her grandfather said. “Immediately.”

  The cameraman and Pete reappeared. Margaret’s hands flitted about as she reopened the door. Ed stepped out onto the porch, then turned back. His eyes found Kaitlan’s. “Come with me.”

  She drew back like a frightened child and shook her head.

  As he retreated down the porch steps, she hurried to the kitchen for a drink of water.

  Placing the glass in the sink, she thought of Craig, and last night, and a half dozen red roses. Suddenly she felt his presence, right behind her, reaching for her throat.

  With a cry she whirled—to see only an empty room.

  She sagged against the sink, fingers to her lips. She wouldn’t survive this. Just the thought of being in the same house with him. If anything went wrong, if he somehow found out she was here …

  The door from the garage clicked open. Margaret and Ed passed by in the short hall. Kaitlan flung her head up, trying to look normal, knowing she failed badly.

  Minutes ticked, ticked away toward Craig’s arrival, and the next thing Kaitlan knew their group was gathered in the darkened library, its lights off and shades drawn, her grandfather pointing to the monitor, explaining to Ed what he would see. “Keep your camera on the monitor,” he told Sam. “Close up.”

  “Wait a minute.” Ed held up a hand. “This guy doesn’t know he’s on camera?”

  “No.”

  “I have to check with the station then. That’s secret taping—”

  “You’re not taping him,” Pete said. “I am. You’re filming me filming him. You’re okay.”

  Kaitlan’s grandfather nodded.

  He’d actually thought of this?

  Ed scratched his jaw. “Who is the guy?”

  “Craig Barlow.” Kaitlan’s grandfather spoke the name with disdain. “A Gayner police officer and son of the police chief.”

  “A policeman?”

  “More than that. The killer of the three women in Gayner.”

  Sam cursed under his breath.

  Ed’s jaw sagged. “What … there’s a third woman dead?”

  “One’s missing. You’ll hear about it soon.”

  “You mean the gal running for town council? Martina Pelsky?”

  Kaitlan’s grandfather shot up his eyebrows. “You heard?”

  “Oh.” Margaret brought a hand to her cheek. “It was on the news this morning, D.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t have a chance—”

  “I’m trying to catch her killer, and you didn’t even give me this very important information?”

  Like he was going to bring it up to Craig.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t have time.”

  Kaitlan’s grandfather glared at Margaret, the confidence he’d displayed seconds ago rippling from his face. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “No, you’re fine.”

  A pitiful laugh escaped Kaitlan. None of this was fine.

  Ed blinked at her, then her grandfather, as if the whole lot of them was crazy. “How do you know Pelsky’s dead?”

  “Because I found her,” Kaitlan blurted. Her voice sounded shaky, off-tune. She crossed her arms and pulled in her shoulders. Ed gawked at her, and for some reason that made her mad. “She was on my bed, in my apartment. Craig is—was—my boyfriend. He killed her, he buried her body where it won’t be found, and now he’s trying to keep me quiet, and because I ran from him, now he’s trying to kill me too. And he doesn’t know Darrel Brooke is my grandfather, so he has no idea this meeting’s about him. There. That enough for you, Mr. Reporter?”

  Silence. Ed’s shocked expression mirrored Sam’s. Ed pulled out of it first, the experienced calm of a reporter in cris
is smoothing his brow. Sympathy pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Craig’s the one who hit you?”

  Kaitlan’s defensiveness dwindled away. She nodded.

  The gate bell sounded.

  Everyone froze.

  “That can’t be him!” Margaret burst. “It’s only two-thirty.”

  “It has to be him.” Kaitlan’s grandfather paled, as if reality suddenly hit. He pushed himself into motion. “I have to answer it.”

  He shuffled up the north wing hall as fast as he could go, Kaitlan and everyone else chuffing behind him. In the entryway, her grandfather hesitated, visibly pulling himself together. The rest of them crowded around, muscles tense, eyes riveted to the intercom.

  He pushed the button. “Hello?”

  Kaitlan fisted her hands to her mouth.

  “Hi, it’s Craig Barlow.” A car engine rumbled in the background—too quiet for his Mustang. “Sorry I’m early. And I thought I’d be late.” He gave a nervous laugh. “At the last minute I had to put my car in the shop and borrow my sister’s SUV.”

  SUV?

  Her grandfather motioned for everyone to remain quiet. “That’s all right, Craig. I’m opening the gate for you. You can park in front of the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was nothing wrong with his car last night …

  The distant clank of the gate filtered through the intercom. Sam started to move and Margaret caught his arm. “Wait,” she mouthed.

  The engine surged as Craig drove through the gate.

  Seconds later the intercom fell silent.

  “Go, all of you!” Kaitlan’s grandfather snapped. “Into the library! And don’t come out no matter what. Remember, he thinks we’re alone.”

  Margaret shot him a final desperate look. “I could send him away, tell him you’re sick.”

  “Go!”

  She hung there, uncertain. Then she turned and trotted for the hall. Pete and Sam followed.

  “Come on, Kaitlan.” Ed grabbed her elbow.

  “No, wait!” She yanked her arm away and swung back to her grandfather. “Something’s not right. Why would he have such a big car?”

  Her grandfather swiped a hand in the air. “Get out of here!”

  “But I don’t believe him.”

  “Go, Kaitlan, before he drives up and hears you!”

  “Listen to me—”

  “Get out of here!” Her grandfather thwacked his cane against the floor. “Ed, take her!”

  “No—”

  “Come on, there’s no time.” Ed clamped a hand around her shoulder and pulled her toward the hall.

  Kaitlan’s head twisted back for one last look at her grandfather before the corner of the hallway shut him from sight.

  fifty-five

  A heady business, meeting a murderous antagonist face to face.

  Fascination trickled through Darell’s fear.

  Craig Barlow stood on his doorstep, clad in a brown sport jacket over jeans. He carried a soft-sided black leather portfolio case, presumably with his manuscript chapters inside. If you didn’t know him for what he was, you’d think him a good-looking kid. Perfect face for a killer. Women would never guess.

  “Come in, come in.” Darell stood back, ushering him into the web, the spider to the fly.

  Craig stepped inside. His gaze cruised the entryway as if cataloguing details. “This is just such an honor, Mr. Brooke. Thanks again for inviting me.”

  Darell surveyed him. A keen confidence overrode his air of faux humility, although no doubt he didn’t think it showed. It was in the tilt of his head, the firmness of his mouth. Most telling were his eyes. In their glacial blue Darell saw the depths of the man’s calculation. They were eyes that could look straight at you, sheening with sincerity while he lied.

  Leland Hugh.

  “Thank you for coming.” Darell led him down the hall.

  Like an old fluorescent light, Darell’s brain hummed as he rounded the corner into his office. Weariness pulled at him even as adrenaline coursed through his veins. So many details to remember. So much he had to get right.

  “Please.” Darell indicated the chair upon which the hidden camera was fixed. “Sit.”

  “Thank you.” Craig put his black case on the table and settled in the offered chair. Resting his forearms, he laced his hands, torso bent forward, body language exuding the picture of eagerness to help.

  Taking his time, Darell positioned himself, resting his cane on the floor.

  “So.” Craig smiled, and the grooves in his jaw deepened. Such model good looks wouldn’t keep long in jail. “What research questions did you want to ask me?”

  “Let’s talk about you first. Tell me about your writing.”

  “Oh. Well, I started about a year ago. Have maybe half a book done.”

  “What’s it about?”

  He looked chagrined. “It’s a suspense novel. A detective investigating a string of homicides.”

  “Really.” Darell raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s right up my alley.”

  “Yeah.” Craig reached for his portfolio and unzipped it. He stuck his hand inside. “I brought some chapters, like you asked.” As he pulled out pages, he glanced at the top one. Immediately dismay creased his face. “Oh, no.” He slapped down the papers and leaned over to shuffle through the stack.

  He looked up at Darell, embarrassed. “I stuck the wrong ones in here.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll look at whatever you’ve got.”

  “No, no, I—these are an older draft. I had everything in my own car and then had to transfer over when I borrowed my sister’s. What I want is probably on the passenger seat. Mind if I go get them?”

  Darell started to push back from the table. “Not at all.”

  “No, just sit.” Craig was already on his feet. “I’ll just let myself out and come right back.”

  “No, I’ll—”

  “Please. I don’t want to put you out.”

  Before Darell could pick up his cane, Craig whisked up the papers, stuffed them into his portfolio, and hurried from the room.

  fifty-six

  In the library, Kaitlan gasped. “He’s going to look through the house!”

  On Pete’s monitor, her grandfather was cranking his torso around, trying to peer out the office window. Opposite him, Craig’s empty chair mocked.

  Kaitlan flung a horrified look at Pete. “What if he comes in here?”

  Sam swung his camera toward her. She turned away.

  “Shh,” Pete hissed. “Just wait.” He sprang from his chair at the folding table and stepped toward the door. His right hand hovered at his waist.

  Hunched over, muscles about to crack, Kaitlan strained with all her might to listen. In the frozen silence she could hear Margaret breathing.

  Sam’s camera panned to Ed.

  The faint metallic click of an opened door latch spun to Kaitlan’s ears. Craig had gone outside.

  Pete’s forefinger came up—hear that?

  Kaitlan locked eyes with Ed. He nodded grim reassurance. If the reporter hadn’t believed them to this point, her fear had clearly rubbed off on him. He stood some six feet away, spine ramrod straight, fingers clasped to the back of a folding chair.

  An interminable minute later the front door slammed.

  “He’s back.” Kaitlan’s eyes darted to the monitor. Pete returned to watch the screen. His hand remained at his waist.

  Sam refocused his camera to the monitor—and the empty chair.

  Craig reappeared onscreen.

  He tossed down the black case and seated himself, puffing a little. “Sorry about that.” Over the microphone his voice sounded a little tinny and distant but clear enough. “They were on the front seat.”

  “Glad you found them.” Kaitlan’s grandfather placed his palms on the table.

  Pete sat down in his folding chair and reached for the gear shift on his console. Watching the monitor beside him, he nudged the control forward and slightly to the left.
Craig’s body edged into a close-up.

  “So let’s have a look.” Kaitlan’s grandfather’s voice, offscreen.

  Kaitlan and Margaret locked eyes.

  “Okay.” Craig opened the case. “Only now I’m really nervous. My writing’s probably horrible.”

  “You have to start somewhere.”

  Craig slid the pages across the table until they disappeared from the screen.

  A pause.

  “Your first chapter’s in the detective’s point of view?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  Craig watched. His lip began to curl.

  Ice melted down Kaitlan’s back. “Look at him.”

  She pictured her grandfather’s head down, focused on the manuscript. Unaware of the transformation taking place.

  Pages rustled.

  Pete zoomed in even closer on Craig’s face. Kaitlan saw the hard, cold look in his eyes. The smugness. The same killer expression he’d used to terrorize her last night.

  Margaret sucked in a breath.

  Abruptly Craig’s smirk vanished. Chased by a small, pleasant smile. The drastic change chilled Kaitlan to the bone.

  “Your detective is—”

  “Mr. Brooke, you didn’t really bring me here just to see my manuscript, did you?”

  “Well, no, I have questions to ask you.”

  “Then why don’t we get to them?” That pleasant look hung on, but Craig’s tone edged.

  Kaitlan’s muscles turned to wood. He knows something’s up.

  Her grandfather hesitated. “What, are you pushed for time?”

  Craig leaned forward, his smile gone and eyes narrowed. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Mr. Brooke? Why did you really bring me here?”

  fifty-seven

  Margaret swiveled to Kaitlan, feeling sick. “This isn’t right.”

  “Shh.” Pete flung up a hand, eyes riveted to the monitor. “If something goes wrong, I’ve got a gun.”

  Surprise flicked across Kaitlan’s face. She looked at Margaret and swallowed hard.

  So what, Margaret thought, we’re too far away to help! She swung away, a hand thrust to her scalp. Why hadn’t she stopped this?

  Her focus landed on the bookcase of Darell’s first editions. Ratcheted up to the top shelf.