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Dark Pursuit

Page 4

by Collins, Brandilyn


  Kaitlan ran her fingers through her hair. She didn’t even know what shape her grandfather was in. After two years the broken bones should be healed. But she’d heard all that publicity about how he’d lost his huge contract because he couldn’t write. What if he wasn’t any better?

  She should just turn around and call the police.

  Yeah, try to explain to Chief Barlow why a dead body was in her apartment—and she’d fled the scene. She’d never gotten the feeling he liked her all that much in the first place. He was too protective of Craig.

  What if she was arrested? How was she supposed to prove she’d had nothing to do with this? The only other plausible person was Craig. And who’d believe that?

  She could go to prison for years.

  Kaitlan leaned her head on the steering wheel. She couldn’t imagine going back to jail. It was a horrible place. Six months behind bars on a drug charge had been enough for her entire lifetime.

  What about the baby? The thought pierced her soul. She’d have to give up her daughter. (Certainly it was a girl.)

  No. Never. Her daughter would have a family.

  Kaitlan bit her lip and gazed at the intercom button. She could just run. Go back to L.A. and hide out. The old friends were no doubt there—those who were still alive.

  She might as well crawl into a black cave and die.

  Her stomach flip-flopped. If anything had been in it, she’d have thrown up again.

  She reached her arm out the window. This was the best choice. For her, for her baby.

  Kaitlan punched the button.

  seven

  Margaret had just finished topping the chicken casserole with herbed bread crumbs when the gate bell sounded.

  She stilled. Who was down there? The gardener? He came yesterday. A delivery? She hadn’t ordered anything.

  Quickly she rinsed her hands, drying them on a paper towel as she hurried to the gate intercom in the large front hall. She pushed down a silver button. Once she let go, for half a minute the visitor’s response would be automatically picked up.

  “Yes?”

  Margaret heard vague noises of the outdoors. The distant zing of car tires against the highway. A bird chirping.

  “Oh. Hi.” Cautious relief tinged a female voice, as if a dreaded encounter had been postponed. “This is Kaitlan. I need—I’m here to see my grandfather.”

  Kaitlan?

  Oh. My.

  Margaret’s chest prickled with heat. She so disliked confrontation. And if she let Kaitlan in, there would surely be one. D. would have a fit.

  She listened for sound from the man. Was he in his office?

  Her finger pushed the button. “Kaitlan. What a surprise.”

  A nonresponse, but it bought her a few seconds. God, what should I do? The estranged granddaughter had finally come. She and D. might have a yelling match, but maybe after they calmed down they could begin to reconnect …

  Talk about wishful thinking. The girl was a drug addict.

  “Please.” The voice caught. “Is this Margaret? Please let me in. I have to see him.”

  Protectiveness rose in Margaret. D. was as stubborn and irascible as a man could be, but he’d lived through so much. After Gretchen divorced him, he’d never been the same. Her death dealt another crushing blow, one that pummeled guilt so deeply into D. that he couldn’t look at it, couldn’t live with it. His only defense had been anger.

  Margaret had prayed for his heart to be softened.

  “What do you need, Kaitlan? Perhaps I can help you?”

  A half sob filtered through the intercom. “No, you can’t. Please, Margaret.”

  “Do you need money? Is that it?”

  “I don’t need money! I don’t do drugs anymore, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve been clean for two years. Margaret, I have no family. I want to make things right. I can’t do that if you won’t let me in.”

  From down the hall, Margaret heard the distinctive sound of D.’s cane approaching.

  Indecision froze her. Was this finally his chance to heal the rift with Kaitlan? What a change that could make in D.’s depressing life. Or was it a ruse on Kaitlan’s part, merely to manipulate drug money out of him? Steal from him again?

  “Who is that?” D. barked, his expression dark. The tension in his shoulders, that edge in his voice signaled his suspicions—and that he’d better be wrong. “What’s going on?”

  Margaret turned toward him, her finger sliding to the “gate open” button, almost of its own accord. She pushed in and held. Through the intercom, she heard the clank of the heavy gate responding.

  With a deep breath Margaret prepared herself for the wrath of the King of Suspense. “It’s your granddaughter.”

  eight

  Kaitlan could hear him roaring before the front door opened. She stood weak-ankled on her grandfather’s porch, clutching her resolve as tightly as the purse in her hands.

  Her grandfather’s shouts and curses blasted through the thick wood. “What did you let her in for? I’m not seeing her, understand? You can just send her right back to the streets where she belongs!”

  A hard thump against the floor. “Never mind; I’ll tell her myself!” Footsteps and more thumping—just beyond the door. Kaitlan could feel his presence mere feet away.

  She steeled herself.

  A memory rushed at Kaitlan—herself at ten, peeking into her grandfather’s office. He’d been hunched over his keyboard, typing like mad and muttering to himself. She just wanted to talk to him. She knew he was famous. People said so. They said it almost breathlessly, like they couldn’t believe she was related to him. Kaitlan was so proud of him. It took a long time for her to get her courage up. Finally she whispered, “Grandfather?” He jerked up straight like somebody jammed a rod through his spine. He swung around, thick brows mashed together in a fierce frown. “Don’t bother me, can’t you see I’m working?” He shooed her away with a hard swipe of his hand. Kaitlan had melted back, eyes burning. She never tried that again.

  On the porch Kaitlan heard the click of a handle. The front door flung open.

  Darell Brooke glared at her, his wild gray brows knitted, gnarled hands on a cane. His cheeks were wizened and hollowed. And his shoulders—not straight and proud like she remembered. Now they hunched like an old man’s.

  Kaitlan felt shock flit across her face. This couldn’t be her grandfather.

  “I told you I never wanted to see you again!” His long bony fingers grasped the door, ready to slam it shut. “Now get out of here!”

  Kaitlan flung herself across the threshold.

  She pressed against the wall, chest heaving, hardly knowing how she’d gotten there. To her right spread the wide entrance to the TV room.

  Her grandfather’s head rotated toward her like a buzzard following prey. The sheer hatred on his face. His cold eyes and twisted mouth. Darell Brooke looked meaner than ever. Kaitlan tried to speak. Nothing came out.

  She glanced past him at Margaret, some five feet back. Anxiety crisscrossed the woman’s face, her hands tightly clutched to her neck. Kaitlan’s grandfather flung a hand toward the porch. “How dare you enter this house! Get out!”

  The old grief stirred in Kaitlan. Her mind flashed on nights of sleeping in doorways, wondering how she’d sunk so low. Her hard jail cot. How she’d wished with all her might for a family.

  “Please. I’m just here to talk to you.”

  “Talk?” He sneered. “We talked six years ago. You showed up here, so repentant after running away, remember? I let you in. And the minute I turned my back, you stole from me.”

  His gold Rolex watch—the special gift Kaitlan’s grandmother had given him in celebration of his first number-one bestseller. Kaitlan knew that watch meant the world to him, especially after Grandmother died. She’d stolen it anyway.

  Spittle flew from his lips. “A twenty-five-thousand-dollar watch. How much did you get when you pawned it, huh? Five hundred? Enough for one lowly fix?”

 
; “I didn’t … I was wrong. But I’m different now. I’m clean. I have a new life—”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  Kaitlan’s mouth snapped shut. It was true. Cold-blooded manipulation then earned her no trust now.

  Margaret took a step forward. “Maybe if you just—”

  “Shut up, Margaret.”

  Her head jerked as if she’d been slapped.

  Darell Brooke’s eyes bored into Kaitlan. “You’ve got fifteen seconds. Either you leave or I call the police.”

  “No!” Kaitlan flung out her hands. Her purse dropped to the floor. “You can’t. I need your help, please. They’ll never believe me. I came home and found a dead woman on my bed. Strangled. With a piece of black fabric with green stripes. And I’m afraid my boyfriend did it. But he’s a cop and the son of Russ Barlow, Gayner chief of police. No way will the police believe he’s responsible. They’ll arrest me for it; I know they will.” She leaned toward her grandfather. “You have to tell me what to do. You know crime; you’ve written suspense—all of a sudden I’m living it!”

  Margaret’s mouth hung open.

  Kaitlan sagged against the wall, drained of energy. Her heart thudded in her ears.

  Her grandfather stared at her, emotions moving across his face. Shock … disbelief … suspicion. His eyes widened then narrowed, and his lips trembled. For the first time in her life, Kaitlan saw her grandfather at a loss for words.

  No one moved. Outside a bird chirped. In some distant room a fluorescent light hummed.

  Her grandfather’s neck arched like a snake ready to strike. “How dare you.” He shoved the front door closed. The slam rattled Kaitlan’s bones. He breathed in long and hard, nostrils flaring. “How did you do it? How?”

  Kaitlan darted a glance at Margaret—what’s he talking about? Margaret lifted a shoulder.

  Darell Brooke pushed his grizzled face into Kaitlan’s. His lips pulled back and his cheeks were mottled. She could smell his musty breath. “Answer me.”

  “I … don’t know what you mean.”

  “The cloth!” He spat the word. “How did you know? What have you done—hacked into my computer? Not enough to steal my watch, now you want to take my work?”

  Kaitlan threw another helpless look at Margaret. The woman’s face creased in sadness. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Oh. No.

  The horrible truth sank into Kaitlan. Her grandfather was talking nonsense. Forget not being able to write—the King of Suspense was now nothing but a mindless old man.

  Kaitlan’s heart folded up. She couldn’t bear this. She wanted to run out the door and forget she’d ever come.

  “Kaitlan!” He shook his fist at her. “Answer me. How did you know?”

  She licked her lips. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” He reared back, cheeks flaming. “I see what you’re doing. You’re playing with me. You want me put away so you can get my money.” He creaked around toward Margaret. “And you’re in on it. The two of you, planning against me. You told her about the cloth. You both want me to believe I’ve lost my mind.”

  Margaret stuck her palms out. “Now calm down, D. You don’t know what you’re—”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying! Strangled, using black fabric with green stripes—that’s what!” A ragged vein popped out on his neck. “I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll tell him you two are conspiring.” He jabbed his finger from Margaret to Kaitlan. “You won’t get away with it!”

  Kaitlan started to protest, but her mouth snapped closed. A tingle started down in her gut. The cloth. Was there something here for real? Not just the raving of an old man?

  “Wait.” She caught her grandfather’s bony wrist. “What do you know about the fabric? All I know is—this is the third victim in Gayner it’s been used on in the past year.”

  “Third? In a year?” He gaped at her, eyebrows jammed together over his nose.

  “Please. Lives may depend on it. Including mine. What do you know?”

  Her grandfather’s forehead flattened. He pulled back and looked to Margaret. She nodded in encouragement. His eyelids flickered. In that little motion, Kaitlan saw his vulnerability. He wanted to believe them.

  He straightened his shoulders. Lifting his arm from Kaitlan’s grasp with all the dignity he could muster, he raised his chin, surveying her with the haughty expression she knew so well. For a moment he looked like the grandfather she remembered.

  Relief burst in Kaitlan’s chest.

  “The fabric you spoke of. Silk, is it?”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Because it’s straight from the manuscript I’ve been working on for the past year. My antagonist’s MO—the crazed killer who hears the dead knocking. He strangles his victims using a black silk cloth with green stripes.”

  UNTITLED MS.

  nine

  The fabric silks across Hugh’s palms like the soft kiss of a lover.

  Black with green stripes. An alluring sight, fraught with familiarity. He balls the long, enticing strip, raises it to his nostrils. Breathes in deeply. The scent of promise and lust, joy and betrayal, ecstasy and revenge.

  The scent of death.

  His eyes consume her lithe form across the dim and crowded bar. She leans with nonchalance against a railing, wine glass in hand, held up and crooked toward her bare décolletage. So casual, so cool. In a motion of pure fluidity her left fingers ease a strand of blonde hair from her temple. Her glossed red lips are parted, bent in a slight smile of amusement at the story of the hopeful male before her. Her lashes are feathery, thick. When she laughs her head tilts back, exposing the tan suppleness of her throat.

  Hugh’s fingers flex.

  She is a goddess.

  She is a witch.

  No one pays the slightest attention to him, but that’s the story of his life. No matter. He has learned to edit its once stuttered prose. He sits in a corner on a three-legged stool, his face and torso beyond the umbra of light. Pale white rays from an overhead lamp spill across his jeaned legs, puddling on the hardwood floor. His hands, rubbing the black and green vesture of his vengeance, rest against his chest. Hugh arches his shoulder blades against the wall, imagining the mystery his half-illumed body must surely project—should anyone notice.

  No one will.

  They don’t see, though they seek him. They don’t know, though the criminal profilers have psychoanalyzed him to the core.

  The cloth brought him here. To her.

  Whenever he lifts it from his dresser drawer, cradles it in his arms, Hugh feels the power. It electrifies his veins with desire. Always, always it sings him into the night, and he follows, captive to its siren song. Until it leads him to the one who must die.

  Across the bar, for no apparent reason her head turns—and she gazes in Hugh’s direction.

  What thought made her

  He stills.

  Emotion wells within him.

  His hands

  No. Not yet

  He is

  A

  Her

  He

  jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

  ten

  Darell studied his granddaughter’s reaction. She may have fooled him before but not this time. He wasn’t a doddering old man. He still had his wits about him.

  Kaitlan’s cheeks washed white. She stared at him, arms sliding up to cross against her chest. A protective gesture.

  Her grandmother used to do that.

  Darell’s heart cramped.

  Kaitlan had grown to look so much like Gretchen. She was no longer the ragged, hard-faced teenager with movements jerky from crack. Her features had softened, filled out. And she had a new confidence. Those wide-set brown eyes held light in them, even now through her fear. Her shoulder-length hair was lustrous, stylishly cut in layers with bangs. That upturned nose, the oval face—all Gretchen.

  Don’t get sucked in. She s
till could be a lying little thief.

  Darell’s fingers tightened on his cane. He set his jaw, casting a sideways glance at Margaret. No deceit on that face he knew so well. She looked completely flummoxed. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. She held his gaze, obviously trying to read him, trying to figure out if this was one of his “loose goose” moments.

 

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