Dark Pursuit

by Collins, Brandilyn

  “She ran off with some other man when Craig was eight. Abandoned her kids. Craig’s father ended up raising him and his sister, Hallie.”

  Ah. Childhood troubles. “He still have issues with that?”

  “Yes, he’s bitter. I don’t think the pain has ever gone away.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “How long has he been a cop?”

  “Three years.”

  Darell’s thoughts were flowing freely now. “How long have you been dating him?”

  “Three months.”

  Darell tapped his cane. “And the last known victim was two months ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was Craig at the time of that murder?”

  She focused on the far wall. “I don’t know. I think that one and the one before it happened at night. ”

  At night. So this one was an anomaly. Perhaps because he now could lure the victim to Kaitlan’s rural apartment?

  “What about this afternoon? Was Craig on duty?”

  “Yes, patrolling. Alone in his car. Which, really, could give him time to …” Kaitlan crossed her arms and gazed at the floor.

  Darell’s brain picked up speed. How terrible yet fascinating this was. Exhilarating. He felt the creative juices begin to flow. It felt good, like the old days.

  Could these real-life murders spur his faltering story?

  Darell recoiled at the selfish thought. Three women dead and his granddaughter in dire trouble—and he was thinking about his need for a plot?

  Still …

  If he could just learn more about this real killer. Get into Craig’s mind—if, indeed, he was responsible, which seemed highly likely. Manipulate him. Catch him—that would be the main goal. At the same time … if Craig Barlow had used Darell Brooke’s fiction to create reality, why couldn’t Darell Brooke use that reality to spark his fiction?

  Darell’s mind hummed. What serendipity. Just think of the novel he’d get out of this. Based on real events. Imagine the publicity! He’d reclaim his reputation, climb even higher —

  The story needs a twist.

  The creaking gears in Darell’s brain shuddered to a halt. In the racking quiet, the old emptiness rushed back.

  No, no, no. Not yet.

  Darell’s shoulders slumped. He dropped his head low.

  “What is it?” Kaitlan demanded.

  He raised up, his face slack. “It’s too easy.”

  Stunned silence. Margaret and Kaitlan exclaimed in stereo, “Huh?”

  Darell turned a weary gaze on his granddaughter. How could he have thought for one minute this would work? “The perpetrator, the bad guy. It should never be who readers first suspect. They’ll be disappointed.”

  Kaitlan’s brow knitted. She stared at him, lips parted. Then her eyes rounded, her cheeks draining of color. “Grandfather.” Her voice fell to a thick whisper. “This isn’t one of your novels. This is real.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow and dread, as if she’d gazed into his brain and seen its flimsy barrier between clarity and confusion.

  Just what did she think he was, a demented old man?

  Darell drew himself up with a huff. “Of course it’s real, girl, you think I don’t know that?”

  Kaitlan cast a pleading glance at Margaret. “It’s just … you said …”

  He puffed out his chest. “Tell me—why did you come here?”

  “I thought you could—”

  “Was it not because I have the keen mind, the wits to guide you?” His voice rose. “Was it not because of who I am? My experience, my cunning, my knowledge of psychology and crime?”

  She nodded.

  “And just where does that come from?” he shouted. “From writing suspense novels!”

  Kaitlan bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  Margaret tilted her head. “Now, D.—”

  He threw her a steely look—shut up. She closed her mouth.

  Kaitlan stared at her lap. A tear dropped onto her cheek, and she brushed it away. “Grandfather, please. I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m scared, and …” She raised her head, mouth trembling. “Can you tell me what to do?”

  Darell’s heart twinged. Even now his mind phased in and out. Could he logic through this puzzle?

  Leland Hugh. Finding the truth here would give motivation for Leland Hugh.

  Darell took a long breath and straightened. He summoned what remained of the man he had been—both for Kaitlan’s sake and his own. The strong voice, the confidence. That brilliant writer who knew how to plot suspense. “Of course I can help you. But you must not question my decisions. You must do exactly as I say.”

  thirteen

  Kaitlan could only nod. Yes, she’d do whatever her grandfather said. No way in her own confusion could she think straight. And she had to admit, she wanted to believe Craig was innocent. She couldn’t look at the facts objectively.

  Margaret shifted on her end of the couch. Kaitlan glanced at her. Margaret’s shoulders were drawn in, her lips pressed. Almost like she was biting her tongue to keep quiet. Kaitlan raised her eyebrows —what?

  The woman looked away.

  Kaitlan drew a ragged breath and focused on her grandfather. “I’m running out of time. Craig’s supposed to pick me up for Hallie’s birthday party at six-thirty. I need to call and give him some excuse for not going. And what are we going to do about the body?”

  Her grandfather rubbed his cheek with a gnarled finger. “It’s too late to go to the police. Even with Craig’s ties to the force, it may have worked if you’d called right away. But you fled the scene. They won’t buy your explanations.”

  “Wait, they can’t pin the murders on her.” Margaret leaned forward. “The first one happened before she even moved to town.”

  Kaitlan’s grandfather gave her a long-suffering look. “They’d say she was copycatting on this one. Craig would quickly admit he’d told her about the cloth—better that than become a suspect himself.”

  “Oh.” Margaret’s face fell.

  “But I don’t even know who the woman is!” Kaitlan burst.

  Her grandfather scoffed. “She’s in your apartment. She’s dead. What more do they need?”

  Kaitlan gripped the edge of the couch. “I’ll prove I didn’t do it. They have to believe me, I’m innocent!”

  “Yes, you might prove it eventually. But in the meantime you’ll be arrested and denied bail. You’ll sit in jail for months while the newspapers parade all the ‘evidence’ before the public. They’ll convict you before the case ever goes to trial. Is that what you want?”

  Kaitlan squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  Her grandfather rapped his cane against the floor. He focused across the room, brow furrowed. Interminable seconds passed by … a full minute. Still he said nothing.

  “Grandfather—”

  “Quiet!”

  Kaitlan edged back against the couch.

  Her grandfather focused on the wall.

  Terror wormed its way through Kaitlan’s gut. Was he stumped already? Maybe he really couldn’t do this. Hadn’t Margaret indicated his mind wasn’t so sharp? And the way he talked about all this like it was some novel …

  Her grandfather’s head snapped toward her. “I need fifteen minutes to sort this out. Get out, both of you.” He shooed a hand at them.

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Kaitlan looked at Margaret. Together they pushed off the couch. Kaitlan’s knees wobbled as she left the room.

  Margaret closed the library door. “This way.” She pointed with her chin.

  Kaitlan followed.

  The kitchen smelled like a hot oven. “Oh.” Margaret made a face. “I was just putting together a casserole when you rang the bell.” She crossed to a counter with purpose, as if glad for something to do. She picked up a filled square glass pan, stuck it in the oven, and set the timer. Then she turned to face Kaitlan.<
br />
  Like boxers at the ropes they leaned against opposite counters, eyeingeach other. The large center cooking island stood between them. Kaitlan stole a glance at the stove clock. Five-fifteen. So little time …

  Margaret’s forehead zigzagged with worry. Not good. Kaitlan ran a hand over her face. “You’re wishing I’d never come.”

  “That’s not it.” Margaret stared at the floor, both hands gripping the tile counter. She sighed deeply. “Your grandfather’s condition is called MTBI. Mild traumatic brain injury. It happened when his head was hit hard. The skull didn’t crack, but his brain was shoved around inside. Contre coup trauma, they call it.” Margaret shifted from one foot to the other. “He’s a lot better than he used to be. For the first year he struggled with balance. His concentration was nil. No sleep—unless he took pills. Terrible depression. Then he slowly started getting better. It was a major milestone when he tried to write again. Now antidepressants are keeping his mood more level.” She lifted a shoulder. “But he still can’t always think clearly. It’s strange how he comes in and out of it. At any time he might just … go blank. And he gets confused. Mixes things up.”

  Kaitlan’s chest tightened. No way could she lose this last hope. “But he’s writing. He must be able to concentrate if he’s writing.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Kaitlan, the last time I sneaked onto his computer to check, he’d done thirty pages at most. Thirty pages in an entire year. He used to complete two full books in that time. And by the way, despite his accusations, I’ve barely read any of that manuscript. I just wanted to see how much he’d written.”

  Fear rattled through Kaitlan. “Are you telling me he can’t help me?”

  “I don’t know.” Margaret gazed around the room, looking ready to cry. “He wants to.”

  “Wanting isn’t enough.” Kaitlan’s voice turned off key. Nausea rolled through her stomach. This couldn’t be. What had she done? If she left here with no help, with that body still lying in her apartment, she was done for.

  “Well.” Margaret fiddled with the neck of her blouse. “Let’s see what he comes up with.”

  Kaitlan flung herself to the center island. “But you’re telling me he may not come through! What am I supposed to do then, just go home and wait for Craig to show up? I don’t have time, Margaret.”

  “But none of this makes sense. Craig couldn’t really be planning to pick you up tonight. If he saw a body at your place he’d have to arrest you.”

  “Exactly! Maybe that’s what he planned all along. What a way to throw everybody off his trail.”

  Where had that thought come from? Kaitlan sagged against the island, trying to breathe. Could it possibly be true? He was a murderer—and planned to pin this crime on her? She pictured the scene. Her coming home from work, finding the body just before he showed up. What would an honest cop do but arrest his own girlfriend?

  No. Craig wouldn’t, couldn’t do that to her.

  But even now she felt the Craig she knew slipping away. Too much evidence stared her in the face.

  Margaret pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. “You’ll just have to stay here. Hide out.”

  “Fine, but there’s a body in my apartment!”

  Margaret gave a distracted nod. “Well, I … we’ll just …” She looked around helplessly, hands rising to her cheeks. “D. will figure it out. He will. He’ll come through for you.”

  Let’s hope so.

  They waited.

  Kaitlan sank into a chair at the table, head down, her mind like sludge. Margaret busied herself at the sink. After five long minutes Kaitlan pushed to her feet. “I’m going to the restroom.”

  In the bathroom mirror she stared at herself with horror. Hollowed cheeks, makeup smeared, fear written all over her face. Panic rose up, closing her throat. Pregnant and now this. Trapped.

  This couldn’t be happening. She loved Craig. She longed for him to step up and be a good father to their baby. Finally she was close to having the family she’d always wanted.

  Some good it had done, pulling herself out of the gutter. Might as well go back to snorting crack.

  What a stupid thought.

  Still, it echoed in her head. Remember the elation? One hit and she’d forget all of this. She wouldn’t even care.

  Know what? She should do it. Just go back to the streets. Lose herself in the cement jungle where no one would find her. Maybe some big city across the country, where they wouldn’t think to look. Atlanta. D.C. New York.

  If her grandfather couldn’t help, that’s what she would do.

  Kaitlan leaned her head against the cool glass, feeling her dreams blow away like rose petals in a fierce wind.

  She’d believed she could stay clean forever. Going through the Twelve Step program, she’d found God, that “Higher Power,” and clung to Him for help. She’d prayed and prayed, turned herself around. She’d thought God was giving her a second chance, bringing someone like Craig into her life.

  “I messed up, God, didn’t I? Are you punishing me for not going to church? For not being as close to you as I should? And now I’m pregnant—”

  A knock on the door. “Kaitlan?”

  She jerked up. Sweat popped out on her brow. “Yeah?”

  “Your grandfather’s calling for you.”

  “Coming.”

  She gazed at her reflection once more. Funny how life turned out. You work hard to make something of yourself, then wham, you get hit upside the head.

  What’s this life for, anyway? What’s the point?

  Kaitlan took a drink and patted cool water against her face. She opened the door, ready to descend to her fate.

  fourteen

  The angled footprint—that was the key. Darell felt it in his gut.

  Plus, the body had still been warm. And the objects out of place in the living room—evidence that a struggle had occurred.

  The noise Kaitlan heard while in her carport. The cat? Not likely. Cats didn’t tend to knock into things while carrying their prey.

  Darell’s mind had sharpened as he wandered the library, his cane thumping. Cunning plot points now bounced around in his brain, details of the murder creating a visual in his head. He’d calculated what had happened at Kaitlan’s apartment. Her boyfriend, Craig, was the perp, all right. His clean-cut police officer persona meant nothing. The most cunning killers fooled everyone around them. Darell had looked at the evidence forward and backward, and everything fit. Any homicide detective with their knowledge of the evidence would zero in on Craig Barlow.

  But first they had to convince the police Kaitlan was telling the truth.

  He didn’t believe Craig had merely used the black and green fabric from his manuscript. To some extent Craig actually saw himself as Leland Hugh.

  Darell had been stuck for months on Hugh’s motives. Why did Hugh choose a certain victim?

  Craig was going to show him why.

  Darell pulled to a halt, overcome. Joy and power welled in his chest. His heart beat with new life, new confidence. He hadn’t felt this like in years. Like he could sit down right now, write page after page, long into the night.

  He threw his head back and laughed. Raised his fist in victory.

  The King of Suspense was back.

  All these years Darell Brooke had guided his protagonists to safety, even when they faced certain death. He was about to do the same for Kaitlan. He would save her from this disaster. And through saving her, he would pen the best novel he’d ever written.

  Darell walked to the doorway. Even his gait felt stronger. “Margaret!Kaitlan!”

  Pulse tripping, he resettled himself in the leather chair. A tremble in his fingers threatened to betray his excitement. He placed his cane on the floor, leaned back, and folded his arms.

  Footsteps. They were coming.

  Darell took a deep breath. He couldn’t wait to call his agent, tell the man of his surge in energy. Good old Malcolm. He’d be thrilled to hear from his favorite client, Dar
ell Brooke.

  They hadn’t spoken in at least a month.

  fifteen

  Kaitlan slumped onto the same end of the couch as before. Hopelessness and defeat sat in her chest. She felt old and heavy and dry. The only way to breathe was to put her mind on hold.