Dark Pursuit

by Collins, Brandilyn

  Or the coroner.

  A state senator.

  Yes—a state senator immersed in pushing through tougher legislation on crime …

  Darell’s gaze drifted out the window. Thoughts of his story swirled and dipped like leaves in a mercurial wind.

  Sometime later—he didn’t know how long—the gusts abruptly died. Images of Hugh, the senator, the psychiatrist plummeted to earth and stilled.

  Darell blinked.

  He swung his focus back to the monitor. What was … ?

  The news article. He’d been reading about the Gayner homicides. The chief.

  Did the man know his son was the murderer?

  Darell’s eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility.

  Perhaps. It would explain why the chief hadn’t asked for help. He didn’t want the murders solved. As months dragged on, evidence could lie uninvestigated or even disappear. Meanwhile the chief would be trying to rein in his son.

  Had anyone explored links between the victims? Or sought the origin of the black and green fabric? It could be sent to an outside lab, tests run to determine its unique makeup. From there they could discover what company made the cloth, where it was sold. Try to track down who purchased it.

  Darell gazed at his keyboard, a realization dawning. For two years he’d cut himself off from the world. What a disser vice to his career. Just fifteen minutes’ drive away this fascinating case had been playing out for the past twelve months. Real life that could have fueled the fire of his creativity. Were novels not slices of life, reflections of the world?

  Little wonder his imaginative flame had barely flickered.

  Tiredness seeped into Darell’s veins.

  He sighed. Dinner was hitting his digestive system. He took deep breaths, scowling at his weakness. It could be hours yet before Kaitlan phoned.

  If she called at all.

  The hair on his arms nudged up.

  He wrenched his eyes back to the screen. He must help her. He needed to concentrate. Read another article.

  Before Darell’s hand could click the mouse, Leland Hugh pulsed again into his thoughts. Trailed by his senator father …

  Chief Barlow …

  The fabric and a body on the bed …

  Hugh’s psychiatrist … Kaitlan … Craig …

  Darell’s brain floundered. It turned in futile circles, seeking direction.

  He was lost.

  Darell pressed both hands to his temples and closed his eyes. Why had he thought he could do this?

  Even in his halcyon days he’d struggled. His suspense plots were Daedalean labyrinths, fraught with red herrings and foreshadow and innuendo and assumptions, both right and wrong. Some tunnels misled readers. Others ended in truth. Theme and metaphor lay in yet other passages. Each fed off the other, creating an intricate and precarious maze. One tiny change in plot, veer two degrees instead of four—and everything shifted. Every character motive, every word and thought. How then to retrace his steps to the beginning, rewrite everything as required?

  Sometimes his writing had wandered for days, searching for the silken thread of Theseus to lead it back.

  Darell’s head flopped to one side. His tiredness now surged on a high, dark tide.

  Maybe after a good night’s sleep he could think again.

  But Kaitlan needed him now.

  He stared at the monitor. With mouth-firming determination he clicked to a second news article. He hunched forward, fighting to read it.

  The words blurred.

  Darell sagged back against his chair. His gaze floated to the edge of his screen, then out the window …

  With a sigh he pushed away from his keyboard and stared dully at the soulless night.

  twenty-four

  They spoke little in the car.

  Craig drove a souped-up blue Mustang, the final touch to the perfect picture of muscled cop with good looks and charm. Or so Kaitlan once thought. Now that picture looked mottled and ugly, acid-stained.

  Her pulse skimmed.

  The Mustang’s top was down, and cold wind whipped hair against her tingling cheek. She tensed in the chill. Northern California was so different from L. A. When the sun set, the temperature dropped. Kaitlan gathered her hair in one hand and held it against the nape of her neck. The leather upholstery beneath her whispered a tale of horror. Had this seat been the last thing that woman’s body warmed?

  Kaitlan shivered.

  Craig’s jaw was set, his mouth a thin line. His left hand gripped the steering wheel, the right shifting with hard movements. He wouldn’t look at her.

  She leaned her head back against the seat rest and closed her eyes. Her stomach fluttered, and she knew the nausea would soon return. Probably about the time they sat down to eat.

  Craig had hit her.

  Kind of stupid how that had thrown her, in light of everything else she now knew about him.

  Maybe abuse ran in the family. Had Craig’s father mistreated his wife? Is that why she’d walked away from him and her kids?

  But what kind of woman would leave her children with an abusive man?

  They wound down Edgewood Road, the divide between Redwood City and San Carlos, hit Alameda and turned left. Craig’s father lived in a three-bedroom white wood house in the Belmont Hills. Craig and Hallie had grown up there. Schultz’s restaurant, one of the family’s favorites, was in a strip mall in Belmont, less than a mile from the house. The party was being held in a private room.

  Kaitlan touched her cheek. Had the redness faded?

  She spotted the strip mall a few blocks up. Kaitlan dug her fingers into the seat. Everything within her wanted to jump out of the car and run away. How was she supposed to get through this party?

  Kaitlan didn’t know how many people would be attending. Plenty, she hoped. All the more easily she could avoid Chief Barlow.

  Craig pulled into the parking lot of the mall and cut the engine. He turned toward her and nudged hair off her cheek—almost like the old Craig. “You might want to comb it.”

  Her fingers fumbled as she opened her purse.

  He watched until she finished, then touched her shoulder and smiled—the expression that sparkled his eyes and deepened the grooves in his cheek. Pain and longing shot through Kaitlan. Was he trying to torture her? The way he looked right now, she could almost convince herself …

  She tried to smile back. It came out crooked.

  Craig reached in the back seat for Hallie’s present. “What’d you get her?” Kaitlan asked. She just wanted to sit here. She dreaded going into that restaurant, especially facing Chief Barlow. She’d never figured out how to read the man. If she stayed here long enough with Craig, maybe she could talk herself out of everything. Her grandfather was wrong about Craig. He was no killer, and his hand had just slipped. He hadn’t really meant to hit her.

  “Scrapbooking stuff. A binder and pages, plus headlines and picture frames and graphics. You know how much she’s into all that.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  That’s what a killer did on an ordinary day. Bought scrap booking materials for his little sister’s birthday.

  Kaitlan’s mind flashed to her grandfather. Was he figuring out what to do? She couldn’t take much more of this.

  They got out of the car. Craig put his arm around Kaitlan’s waist as they walked toward the restaurant. An arm that had strangled a woman just hours earlier. It took every ounce of willpower Kaitlan had not to draw away.

  Schultz’s—odd name for an Italian eatery—smelled of garlic and olive oil. Kaitlan’s stomach recoiled. The place was brightly lit, with ferns and gold metal railings and lots of glass. Shine and animated voices. Background music, too loud. Her senses overloaded. She wanted to close her eyes, stop up her ears. Most of all, get away from the smell of food.

  How was she going to eat?

  The host directed them into a party room at the back of the restaurant with large double doors open wide. People milled inside. Loud, laughing people.

/>   Guided by Craig, Kaitlan walked numbly into the room.

  Her eyes flicked over the group of about fifteen people. Some she didn’t know. There were three friends of both Craig and Hallie from the Gayner police force—Steve Arden, Joe Babisi, and Eddie Sanchez. The Three Musketeers, Craig called them. Steve was tall, lanky, and loud. Brown hair, coarse and curly, cut short. He was the clown of every party. Or at least he tried to be. Kaitlan had wondered at his antics. It seemed like they were almost driven, as if hiding a hungry soul that craved attention.

  Joe’s hair was thick and dark, almost black, his body muscular. He didn’t talk much and was kind of a mystery to Kaitlan. She’d tried to figure what was going on behind those thoughtful eyes. He looked at her a lot. Something told her if she wasn’t dating Craig, Joe would have made a move.

  What would he do if he knew Craig had hit her?

  Eddie, a detective, was older, around thirty. Divorced, with three kids. He had a friendly face and quick smile, but he pulled no punches. Eddie had a way of looking you straight in the eye and saying just what he thought, good or bad.

  Was he one of the investigators on the murders? Did he know about Craig?

  “There you are. It’s about time.” Chief Barlow strode over, his hard brown eyes landing on Kaitlan. “You’re late.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s my fault.”

  Like frames from a movie, scenes flashed in her head. The body on her bed, the footprint, Craig’s expression as he slapped her.

  “You know women, Dad,” Craig said lightly. “Always have to wait while they get ready.”

  Chief Barlow grunted. He raised his hand, holding a bottle of beer, and gestured. “Your sister’s in fine form.”

  Hallie stood near the far wall, surrounded by chattering friends and their dates. Her pixie face was full of animation as she told a story complete with wild hand gestures. She delivered an apparent punch line, and everyone around her broke into laughter.

  Kaitlan liked Hallie. She was unassuming and laid back, and loved to have fun. Much more outgoing than her brother, with a wider circle of friends. Hallie worked in a nonprofit organization as a counselor for dysfunctional families. Her clients loved her.

  Craig touched Kaitlan’s arm. “Let’s go say hello.”

  “Not so fast.” Chief Barlow stepped closer. She could see the faint scar across his bulldog chin, the veins in his nose. His left hand found his hip, and he leaned forward, making a point of looking down at Kaitlan. “I want to talk to her.”

  Her. Why wouldn’t he even say her name?

  Craig surveyed his father. His lips pressed, his gaze moving from Chief Barlow to Kaitlan. Animosity glinted in his eye. Craig’s relationship with his father seemed complicated. On one hand they were close enough for Craig to follow in his dad’s footsteps. And Kaitlan didn’t doubt for a minute that the chief would turn into a raging bull to protect Craig if he had to. Lie for him, cover up for him. Kaitlan could see that.

  But a part of Craig clearly resented his father.

  Maybe Chief Barlow had abused him as a child.

  On the outside Craig wasn’t anything like his dad. He was reserved instead of blustery. Compliant under his dad’s bossiness. Craig still grieved over his mom’s leaving, while his dad hated Ellen Barlow with his whole being. At least that’s what Craig had told Kaitlan. “Don’t ever bring up my mom to him. Ever.”

  But underneath maybe father and son were just alike. Both boiling with rage over being abandoned.

  “Now, Dad, don’t be hard on her.” Craig pressed a playful fist against his father’s shoulder. “She’s had a rough day.” He turned and locked warning eyes with Kaitlan—keep yourself in line. Then he walked away.

  Kaitlan faced Chief Barlow, insides trembling. She slid her purse off her shoulder and held it with both hands at her chest.

  “So.” He smiled—an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “How was hair styling today?”

  “Fine.”

  He ran his tongue below his top lip. “Craig said you had a rough day. You work long hours?”

  The question startled her. He’d backed into it nonchalantly enough, but …

  “I—I had some cancellations at the last minute. Not good. I lose money when that happens.”

  “I see.”

  He looked down on her with heavy-lidded eyes. “I’ve been doing a little checking on you.”

  Her breathing hitched.

  The chief sniffed, and his large nostrils flared. “Seems you’ve done some time. For drugs.”

  She should leave this party now. Just walk home.

  The chief raised his thick finger and pointed at her. “I don’t like that kind of background dating my son. You could bring him down. And I won’t let that happen. He’s going to be chief some day.”

  Kaitlan swallowed.

  “Unfortunately I can’t control my grown son’s choices.” The chief gave Kaitlan a penetrating look. “I raised him. Now he’s his own man. He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

  His gaze dumped ice in the pit of her stomach. What was he really saying?

  “So I’m telling you, Kaitlan. Watch yourself. Don’t do anything, don’t say anything that would give Craig trouble.” He thrust his head forward—and for one second fear gripped his features. “Am I making myself clear, young lady?”

  Kaitlan had gone numb.

  He knows.

  The hard, meaningful stare screamed his story—sleepless nights, the decisions he’d made, and chances he’d taken to sweep his son’s guilt under the rug.

  Craig must have told his father she’d found out. Driven by the fear of being caught, he’d confessed he’d killed again—and begged his dad to help him keep her quiet …

  How easily they could. Given her history, one planted package of drugs in her car could send her away for years.

  Or worse. Craig would kill her.

  “Kaitlan. Answer me.”

  She willed full understanding into her expression. “Yes, you’ve made yourself clear. Completely.”

  Chief Barlow pulled back with a slow smile of satisfaction. He nodded once and raised his bottle of beer in a toast.

  “Enjoy the party.”

  OBSESSION

  twenty-five

  My first kill happened the night of a party.

  A friend of mine and his wife found out she was pregnant. They were ecstatic after trying for over three years. His wife wanted to wait to tell people until she was sure the pregnancy would last. Women always seem to be more cautious about such things than men. My friend—forget it. He wanted to tell the world. And he did.

  That weekend they threw the celebration. “Everybody, come over! Bring a bottle of wine, let’s celebrate!”

  Of course I went. Of course I was happy for them. Bringing a baby into this world. Messed up as it is. Going to hell as it is.

  You can always hope. Maybe redemption’s out there somewhere.

  It had been a week since I bought the fabric. I was still running on automatic, my insides twisted and waiting for … something.

  At the party I watched his wife, knowing she shouldn’t be drinking. The thought of alcohol mixing into that tiny little baby’s blood made my own boil. You don’t mess with kids. You don’t want to screw their lives up—before they’re born or after. They just might turn into something you wouldn’t like.

  She drank three glasses of wine.

  At her first sip I told her she shouldn’t. “It’s not good for the baby. All the warnings tell you not to drink.”

  She grinned at me and raised her glass. “I know!But it’s only tonight. I’m so happy. Just one night won’t hurt.”

  How do you know?

  After that I moved through the house like a robot. I did everything right. Talked to people, raised toasts to the parents-to-be. But every move I made, every word I spoke tremored with vibrations from that new mom. Even with my back to her, I knew where she was at all times. I felt her walk, sit down on the
couch, get up. I swear I could even hear her think. When she touched her husband, I was aware. When she leaned against the kitchen counter, I felt the tiles under my own palms.

  Every time she took a drink, it burned my throat.

  Weird, I thought, as I stood in the corner of the living room, watching her. What was happening to me? Since when did I feel so in tune with a pregnant woman?