Darkling I Listen (28 page)

"We were married two weeks later. Your dad stood up with me. He was only ten, and had to borrow a suit from a neighbor. It was too big, and the sleeves kept slidin' down over his hands."

Henry turned his blue eyes on
Brandon
and smiled. "
Me
and Bernie used to lie in bed at night and conjecture on the type of woman you'd marry. Ever' time we'd hear or read about you dating this or that actress or model, we'd just shake our heads. 'Not his type. Ain't gonna last.' And we were right. The minute Al fell out of that tree on top of you I knew she was the one. Got spunk, that one. I wouldn't mind seein' you married before I croak. I'd rest a little better in my grave knowin' you were happy for the first time in your life."

Brandon
frowned. "Don't talk about croaking, Henry. It's not something to joke about."

"Why not?
It's
gonna happen whether you want it to or not. I'm not a young man, Brandon. I'm tired. This old ticker is runnin' down. Bernie will be gone soon. I just can't imagine a life without her. For forty years she's been my reason to get up every mornin' and my reason for climbin' into bed at night. I won't want to go on without her."

"What about me?"
Brandon
demanded angrily. "I need you, Henry. You're all I've got in the world."

"You have Al now. That's where your focus needs to be, boy. She's the future. She and the young'uns she'll give you."

A clap of thunder ripped the air and the rain drove harder. The creek stirred under the boat, turning it in a slow spiral
-
like flotsam on an eddy. "We'd better go in,"
Brandon
shouted.

Henry nodded and secured his fishing pole in the bottom of the boat while
Brandon
began cranking the outboard motor. Once. Twice. The motor roared, then sputtered, died. He cranked again. Nothing. He unscrewed the gas cap and peered down into the empty tank, glanced back at Henry. "I thought you said you filled this baby up on Sunday."

"I did."

"She's bone dry."

"Can't be. I put enough gas in that tank to do us—"

"She's empty, Henry!"

The boat moved along the water, driven by escalating currents from heavy rains farther north.
Brandon
grabbed for the paddle on the boat bottom just as the sky erupted and the west bank of trees exploded in a crash of white light and fire.

«
^
»

T
yler
General
Hospital
was a multistory redbrick building
with satellite offices and a helipad marked with a gigantic fluorescent yellow H. Alyson parked the Jag, and reached for the
Tyler Herald
she'd thrown onto the passenger's seat. Charlotte Minger's high school photograph smiled back at her, along with the caption

ASSAULT INVESTIGATION CONTINUES AS TEENAGER'S CONDITION IMPROVES

With the newspaper tucked under her arm, Alyson entered the hospital lobby, paused long enough to take a deep breath and try to reason one last time why she had come here. No doubt Nora's directives had something to do with it. But as she'd opened the paper and looked down into
Charlotte
's eyes, a sense of foreboding had come over her so powerfully that she felt close to shattering.

Fear over Anticipating had swallowed her. The stalker had become, in the blink of an eye, real and threatening.

The idea that
Charlotte
could have been Anticipating's victim hadn't occurred to her until that moment. Might never have occurred to her if Alan hadn't suggested that Emerald Marcella might, by some unbelievably slim chance, have been murdered by an obsessed stalker. Those voices in her head had argued heatedly. Minger had glimpsed her attacker—a white male, stocky build. Bald. But what if
…
she was wrong?

What if the same individual who'd followed Carlyle and Marcella that night had also followed Carlyle and Charlotte? Assuming that someone had followed Carlyle and Marcella, and the car seen leaving the scene wasn't simply someone who didn't care to get involved—
But who would simply drive off and leave a man lying unconscious—perhaps dying—by the side of the road, unless it was someone who didn't want to be found at the scene of the accident?

She stopped in the florist shop and chose a plastic vase of red carnations from the cooler and sprang for a helium balloon emblazoned with
Get Well Soon.

A police officer sat in a chair outside
Charlotte
's room, drinking coffee from a foam cup and working on a crossword puzzle. By the looks of the half-dozen empty cups on the floor, he'd been there awhile. He looked at her with a blank expression as she walked up—the certain sign of a man who'd sat staring at the opposite wall for too many hours.

Alyson introduced herself, explained that she and Charlotte were acquaintances. He disappeared into the room, reappeared, wrote her name on a clipboard pad and thumbed toward the door. "Fifteen minutes. Not a minute more."

Charlotte
hardly resembled the sex doll who'd attempted to seduce Carlyle. She looked like a horrified sixteen-year-old as she stared at Alyson through the slit of a swollen purple eyelid. The other eye was completely closed, with stitches running from the center of the eyelid through her shaved eyebrow and into her hairline—or what would have been her hairline. The front third of her hair had been shaved to expose the sutures that made her scalp look like a bruised and bloody jigsaw puzzle. Her lips had been sewn into place, her jaw wired shut. Her right ear was an abraded mess. There were yellowing bruises—like dingy fingerprints—on her throat.

Alyson put the flowers and balloon aside, noted the dozens of arrangements crowding the windowsill and dresser. There were stuffed animals, stacks of magazines, and books. She forced a smile, winced at the sting of her own injury,
then
felt guilty for it. The pain Charlotte Minger was going through must have been excruciating, not to mention her mental horror.

"You probably don't remember me," Alyson said unsteadily. "I was at the quarry that night."

She nodded and uttered something that sounded like "I memer ou."

"I'm so sorry this happened,
Charlotte
. Whoever did this is a vicious animal."

She nodded as a tear crept from under her eyelid.

What now? Alyson suddenly felt lost, mentally bumping into walls like a blind person in unfamiliar territory. And her desperation mounted. The horror that was Charlotte Minger's face made her reasoning scatter, and she worked furiously to contain it. She thought of Mitsy Dillman and tried to imagine the petite Marilyn Monroe wanna-be inflicting so much damage. The reality of it fell short, despite last night's incident.

"Sorry,"
Charlotte
uttered through the wires on her teeth. "'Bout Banon.
Shou'na done
it. 'Swat I get for ben such a bitch."

"You didn't deserve this,
Charlotte
. No one deserves this for any reason."

"Really nice. Sent me doze." She pointed toward a massive arrangement of yellow roses. "Call my mom tree times." Her battered mouth turned up. "Tol' her he would hep wif bills."

Alyson smiled. "Yes, he's very nice."

"Wish we wen to Dairy Queen instead."

"So do
we
all."

"Wa
happen
to ou?"
Charlotte
raised one unsteady hand and pointed to Alyson's face.

"It's not important,
Charlotte
." She took
Charlotte
's hand in hers. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"Dark. Tryin' get in car. Grab me from behind. Hit me side of my head."

"Did he say anything?"

She nodded and briefly closed her eye. "Been naughty. Naughty girl."

"Do you think it was someone who knew you?"

"Knew my name. Call me slut an' somethin' else. Can't memer." She swallowed with effort, then added, "Guess I won be cwownin' any yams dis year, huh?"

By the looks of
Charlotte
's face, she wouldn't be crowning any yams ever again, not without a fortune in plastic surgery.

"Do the police have any leads?" Alyson asked.

"No. Queshionin' carnies an' some the guys I work wif at Wal-Mart. Guys I've dated. Can't think of anyone who
do
this."

She felt ridiculous asking the next question, but it had to be asked. "Are you sure it was a man, Charlotte?"

The eye stared up at her, and Alyson could feel her own heart beating in her temples. The idea that a woman could have inflicted such injuries seemed absurd, and she felt her face warm with embarrassment
"Big hands, strong. Grab me from behind, hand over nose an' mouf. Saw in door mirror. No hair. Gold stud in left ear. Hand smelled weird. Like
…
baby formula. Then slam facedown on the ground. That's all I memer. Woke up here."

"Baby formula?" Aly tried to imagine some creep skulking around quarries beating up teenagers—and smelling like baby formula.

"My mom baby-sits. Kid pukes on her afer eatin'. Smell sweet. Make me wanna gag."
Charlotte
sighed wearily. "Guess I won' be eatin' for long time, huh? Seven my teef gone." Holding up her opposite arm, punctured by an IV hooked to a bag of fluids, she added, "Soon I get to suck my food through straw. Yum. Can hardy
wait.
"

The door opened and the officer looked in. "Time's up, Miss James."

Charlotte
wrapped her fingers around Alyson's wrist. They felt weak and clammy, and trembled. "Tell Banon sorry. Tanks for the flowrs. See him sometime at Wal-Mart maybe. Owe him Belt Busser."

Alyson smiled. "I'll tell him,
Charlotte
." She patted
Charlotte
's hand.
"If
you remember anything else, let us know, okay?"

Charlotte
nodded and made a feeble, pained attempt at smiling.

Alyson stood in the corridor outside
Charlotte
's room. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. She felt disoriented, confused over her reasons for coming here in the first place. There was absolutely no indication that what happened to Charlotte Minger had anything to do with Anticipating, so why did she still feel that there was something there
…
?

She felt ridiculous.

Sighing, she headed for the elevator, crowded inside with visitors, their arms full of flowers and gifts. There was a new mother in a wheelchair, holding a red-faced infant to her shoulder as new papa beamed beside her and the orderly escorting her out of the building checked his watch. Baby squirmed, and a bubble of formula erupted over mom's shoulder, spattering on the orderly's shoe.

The sweet odor of it filled the crowded space, and Alyson thought of
Charlotte
. "Smelled weird. Like
…
baby formula. Make me wanna gag."

It occurred to Alyson that perhaps
Charlotte
's attacker was a new daddy. She imagined a stocky, bald dude with an earring and a weakness for beating up teenage girls burping a newborn on his shoulder.

The elevator doors opened, and Alyson stepped out in front of the reception/information desk. She walked over to the same woman who'd given her
Charlotte
's room number. "Is Mitsy Dillman a patient here? I believe she was brought in last night."

The woman turned to her computer screen and typed in Mitsy's name. "Miss Dillman was discharged this morning."

Alyson mouthed a soundless
thank-you,
walked out of the hospital through revolving doors. She sank onto the first bench she came to, oblivious to the crowds moving around her or the stream of cars inching their way around to pick up discharged patients.

No need to panic yet.

Of course there was a reason to panic.

Mitsy Dillman was an A-number one fruit head.

Mitsy Dillman was more than capable of violence. Go look in a mirror.

Just a few hours ago a complete stranger who listens to voices she calls Watchers predicted that someone was going to kill Brandon Carlyle!

The man you love.

Oh, God.

The man to whom you've been lying.

The man you were going to sell out for a chance to better your career.

Sugar, you'd better start focusing less on 1-900-Psychic and more on how you're going to get out of this mess if you have any hope of your relationship with Carlyle lasting more than a couple more orgasms.

The air had grown colder, and although the rain had stopped, the clouds were dark. So dark that the streetlights along the boulevard were flickering on. Settled into the Jag's leather seats, Alyson tossed the newspaper aside and wearily rested her head back and closed her eyes. She thought briefly of calling
Brandon
to warn him that Mitsy was again a free woman,
then
recalled that her phone battery was dead.

*

As
Brandon
pulled a clean undershirt over his head, he
glanced at Alyson, who sat on the bed, hands clasped in her lap, resembling a scolded six-year-old in the presence of an irate parent. The day had gone from bad to worse. Before the crack of dawn, he had to troop out into the cool, damp weather to fish when he wanted to spend the morning in bed with Alyson. Then he was forced to tell Henry about Anticipating and Mitsy Dillman. Then there was the storm that had nearly blown them to Kingdom Come, and them with an empty gas tank and Henry tottering on the verge of a heart attack—not only had his uncle forgotten to check the gas level in the motor, he'd forgotten to pocket his medication.

If that weren't enough, Mitsy Dillman had been released from the hospital. A phone call to Deputy Greene had confirmed that Jack had arranged for his sister's discharge. Now he learned that another lunatic was wandering around like Chicken Little, predicting the sky was about to fall in on him.

"Let me get this straight, Aly. You were confronted by a psychic who hears voices in her head. She calls them Watchers. And you actually allowed her in the car and you drove her around."

She nodded.

"Jesus." He raked both hands through his hair and took a deep breath, hoping it would soothe the flurry of irritation inside him. Not just irritation. Fear. Marrow-chilling alarm. "I'd think that last night's nightmare would have been enough to teach you to be on guard at all times. Watch your back. Don't talk to strangers. Christ, I feel like I'm talking to a five-year-old. Honey, in case you haven't noticed, I don't, and can't, live, like a normal human being because there are fruitcakes out there like Mitsy Dillman who insist that I owe them my body organs because they slap down eight bucks to see my movies."

Alyson frowned. "You're right, of course. But to be fair, Mitsy's problem with you stems from something other than fan adoration, right? The woman hates your guts. Want to tell me why?"

"Not particularly." He returned to the small bathroom that was still steamy from his shower, rubbed the condensation off the mirror, and regarded the dark stubble on his face. Alyson's reflection joined his as she moved behind him, slid her arms around his waist, and propped her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes met his in the mirror.