Dark Pursuit

by Brandilyn Collins

  Following this afternoon’s nightmare he’d nearly wrenched them apart in fury.

  But no. They were right. They were good. Women liked roses.

  This evening he had to keep Kaitlan unsettled. Frightened enough to keep her mouth shut.

  Reaching an intersection, Craig turned right on red. Gayner was a small town. He’d reach Kaitlan’s place in minutes.

  She’d lied to him on the phone. He’d never, ever expected she would do that. Never expected she would so quickly finger him as the killer.

  Funny how your life could be turned upside down in one wretched moment. Who he was he could be no longer. The things he used to worry about, hope for—all gone.

  He’d thought he loved Kaitlan. Maybe he still did. Right now he just couldn’t feel it.

  But it was better this way. If the emotion came flooding back, he might waver, and that he couldn’t afford.

  Craig already knew what had to be done. He’d considered it and, aghast, quickly discarded the thought. When he found no alternative, it boomeranged.

  But not yet. First they had a birthday party to attend. For Hallie. For her friends. So all would seem well.

  After the party he’d have to do it. He’d have to take care of Kaitlan.

  twenty-two

  Craig arrived bearing a half dozen red roses. Looking like he sat on a razor’s edge but was trying not to show it.

  Kaitlan had opened the front door, skin on fire, her senses hyper-aware. Her feet were unsteady, like maneuvering the deck of a rocking ship, and her heart fluttered.

  She wasn’t really doing this—facing a man she could no longer deny was a killer, pretending everything was all right. She stood outside herself, looking on. Watching the movie unfold.

  Craig wore khaki pants and a tucked-in blue shirt. His hair was slightly windblown, as if he’d stepped out of a modeling shot. His lips spread in that smile that used to turn her insides to mush. No more. “I brought you a present.” His blue eyes held hers as he stepped over the threshold.

  The same one he crossed hours ago, luring his latest victim.

  Who was that woman?

  “Oh. Thank you.” Kaitlan took the flowers and lifted them to her nose. “They’re so pretty.”

  The smell of perfume and urine.

  Kaitlan’s eyes bounced to Craig’s. He surveyed her like a sculptor studying a flawed creation. The look laid her bare.

  These flowers were no present. They were a bribe.

  The thought was so insane. Roses—for keeping quiet about a dead woman?

  Something flicked across Craig’s face. His eyes narrowed, but his ever-dazzling smile remained. “You look good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kaitlan couldn’t even remember getting ready. Somehow she’d found herself in beige pants and a short-sleeved coral blouse.

  Maybe this was all a dream.

  “I’ll just … put these in some water.” Kaitlan scurried into the kitchen, feeling his eyes on her back and his shadow at her heels. She didn’t like him behind her but couldn’t let him see her fear. She fought not to turn around.

  Kaitlan fetched a tall glass from a cabinet. At the sink, the running water sounded so loud. Her fingers shook as she slid the rose stems into their holder.

  Craig moved in behind her and put both hands on her shoulders.

  Kaitlan turned to ice.

  She caught herself, then forced her body into motion. You play your part, he’ ll play his.

  Kaitlan turned off the tap and set the flowers on the cabinet. She turned around. Craig’s fingers slid toward her neck with intimacy, one thumb coming to rest at the base of her throat.

  Her heart nearly stopped.

  His head tilted, his eyes filling with suspicion. “You love me, don’t you?”

  “I … of course.” Kaitlan’s pulse surged back to life, startling her veins with heat.

  His hands pressed against her skin. Dizziness swirled in Kaitlan’s head.

  “Then why did you lie to me?” Craig’s voice lowered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play with me, Kaitlan. You told me you were at work when I called. You weren’t.”

  At any other time, with any other guy she would have stood up for herself, given it right back to him. And just what were you doing checking up on me? Now she trembled like a trapped bird.

  “Oh?” She forced a little smile. “How’d you know that?”

  He slapped her.

  Kaitlan’s head ricocheted back. Her left cheek blazed with the sting of a hundred fire ants. She stared at Craig, mouth open, shock glazing her brain. He’d never hit her before. Had never come anywhere close. Her hand floated up to her face, tears biting her eyes.

  “Don’t”—his forefinger jabbed at her, stiff and full of fury—“ever lie to me. Understand?”

  Her head bobbed up and down. One tear slipped out of her eye.

  He saw it, and the anger on his face unraveled. “Come on now.” His voice gentled. “Stop crying.”

  Kaitlan gulped. Her hand pressed harder against her cheek.

  Craig rested his weight on one leg, a hand on his hip. His breathing came unevenly. “Tell me why you lied.”

  He hit me, he hit me! was all Kaitlan could think. Where had this come from?

  Yeah, like she should be surprised. He’d killed a woman, hadn’t he? What was hitting his girlfriend compared to that?

  But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her grandfather said they were supposed to play their parts …

  Craig pulled her hand away from her burning cheek. “I asked you a question.”

  “I …” She swallowed. “Two of my clients canceled at the last minute. And I was feeling sick. I didn’t want you to worry about me, so I just …”

  “You just decided to lie.”

  “Yes.” Her voice squeaked. “I’m sorry.”

  “Because you thought I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I really didn’t think.”

  They surveyed each other.

  “No. Apparently you didn’t.”

  Kaitlan’s breathing shallowed. Was he going to hit her again?

  Craig stepped back. “Time to go. We’re going to be late, thanks to you. Do you think you can pull it together? My father will expect us to be in a party mood.”

  She nodded.

  He studied her with half-closed eyes. “The redness will be gone by the time we get there.”

  The words sounded so casual, as if he’d commented on the weather. But their meaning hit Kaitlan in the gut. The dead woman’s body was gone, the mark on her cheek would be gone. All was right in Craig Barlow’s world. As long as he kept her under control.

  If she said a word against him …

  “Get your purse.” Craig turned away. “And don’t forget your present for Hallie.”

  Present. Kaitlan’s mind flashed white. Oh, no. Had she forgotten to buy Craig’s sister a birthday gift?

  Hallie wouldn’t care if Kaitlan didn’t show up with a gift. She’d wave her hand in the air and say, “Hey, no worries. Bring me chocolate tomorrow, I’m happy.” But Chief Barlow was hardly Kaitlan’s greatest ally. He wouldn’t like it.

  “You told me you bought her a bracelet.” Craig’s tone sharpened. “Is it even wrapped?”

  “Oh. I … yeah. It’s in my bedroom. On the dresser.”

  Had it been there the whole time? While that dead woman lay on her bed?

  “Well, go get it. Hurry up!”

  She hustled into the bedroom, telling herself to think nothing, nothing at all. Not about the sight she’d seen here just hours earlier. Or the sounds that would have filled these walls. Muffled screams, Craig’s grunts as he cinched a striped cloth around the woman’s neck …

  What that must feel like—to have the life choked out of you. To struggle for that last breath.

  A whimper escaped Kaitlan’s throat.

  She spied the small wrapped box, complete with white ribbon.
She grabbed it and returned to the kitchen.

  Craig tilted his head. “Kaitlan, don’t look so frightened.”

  She dropped the gift into her purse. Pushed the terror down her throat, down, down to her toes. “I’m ready.”

  As she slid into Craig’s car, Kaitlan wondered if she’d live to see morning.

  twenty-three

  Seven-thirty.

  Outside his office window night drew a sullen, gray blanket over the shoulders of the hills.

  Darell faced his computer, belly full of casserole and salad, and his mind fairly alert. Normally he’d be fading by this time of day. But he couldn’t afford to do that tonight. He had to stay awake until Kaitlan called.

  As he ate dinner Margaret’s words had fully taken hold of him, giving him confidence. She was right—he had no time to fret about his inabilities. Besides, he had been right in predicting Craig Barlow’s actions. Now he needed to proceed with his instinct. Hadn’t he done that many times when faced with a novel that refused to be finished? Margaret had searched online for news articles on the two previous Gayner homicides, looking particularly for information about the victims. She’d flagged stories for him to read. Darell now opened the first, an article in the San Jose Mercury News.

  July 19, 2008

  BODY OF SECOND STRANGLED WOMAN FOUND

  The body of an alleged homicide victim, the second in ten months, was discovered yesterday in Gayner near Edgewood and Cañada roads, at the town’s northern border. The victim has been identified as Linda Davila, Hispanic, age thirty-one, a Redwood City resident who worked as a receptionist in the dental office of Dr. Harvin Coutz in Palo Alto.

  Davila’s body was found by Gayner residents Marty and Tricia Darton as they jogged a trail off Cañada Road. Gayner police and the San Mateo County coroner’s office responded to the scene.

  Gayner law enforcement have been tight-lipped about details of the two murders due to their ongoing investigation. In a press conference late yesterday Chief of Police Russ Barlow refused to identify specific similarities between the two murders, saying only, “We do have reason to believe they are linked.”

  Some Gayner residents are now demanding that Gayner police step up their efforts in solving these murders. Tina Arbuckle, president of Gayner Women’s League, spoke with reporters after the press conference. “This is a small town, and we know for a fact the police department has little experience with homicides,” she said. “Before these recent murders, Gayner hadn’t seen a homicide in thirteen years. So why aren’t Gayner police calling in other, more experienced departments for help?”

  Chief Barlow responded, “That kind of talk is what happens when a citizen, who has no inside knowledge of the crimes, thinks she knows more than local law enforcement, whose members are working night and day to solve these murders. I suggest she keep quiet and let us do our work.”

  Contacted for his opinion, Samuel Buckman, a San Mateo County veteran homicide detective of seventeen years, noted the “telling circumstances” of both victims being killed in Gayner, population 18,000. “The Bay Area Peninsulais a huge mass of people,” he said, “one town running into the next. When you get two similar homicides in a town as small as Gayner, chances are high that the perpetrator lives in the area. If I were on the Gayner force I’d be looking for a suspect in my own backyard.”

  First victim Tamara Strait was discovered last September in the hills on the south side of Gayner. Strait, twenty-seven, Caucasian, was a checker at the Sequoia Station Safeway in Redwood City. Recently divorced, she was new to the area, living alone in a one-bedroom apartment at Hampton Place. Strait’s daughter, age five, lives with Strait’s mother in Los Angeles. According to police her ex-husband, Samuel Strait, also living in the L. A. area, was questioned and determined to have been in Southern California at the time of the murder.

  Linda Davila was a single mother of two children with no other family in the northern California area. The children’s father, Tom Gerritson of Reno, Nevada, is being questioned today by Gayner Police.

  Darell read the article twice, one hand plucking at his lip.

  Victim’s ages were fairly close. Varied ethnicities. Both divorced. Both mothers. Worked very different kinds of jobs in different towns.

  Strait was new to the Bay Area. Was Davila?

  Did they both know Craig Barlow?

  That may not matter, considering Craig was a cop on patrol. He would see many women come and go from their homes and could track them with immunity.

  As for his father, the man sounded like a real hothead. A police chief should keep his cool under fire. Lashing back at a concerned citizen would not win him any points with the public or media.

  Darell rubbed his chin, thinking of his novels. If he placed a murder in a small town under the jurisdiction of a police force inexperienced with investigating homicides—wouldn’t he have a smart police chief request help from outside sources?

  Of course he would. In fact his police chief had done just that in Sweetriver Affair.

  No, not that one. Sideswiped.

  No, not Sideswiped.

  What was the title of that novel?

  Maybe Sidetracked …

  “Pssh,” he muttered. Didn’t matter.

  Darell stared at the screen, trying to retrace his line of thought.

  The chief.

  Why would he not ask for help? Especially after the second murder.

  A horrific thought surfaced. Did Chief Barlow know about his son?

  Prickles hotfooted between Darell’s shoulder blades—the sensation he used to feel at the rise of an unexpected plot twist. His thoughts snagged on the feeling, the excitement it generated. Yes, yes, this was right. Just what he’d do in a book!

  He’d reveal the twist … halfway through the story.

  No. In the crisis/climax.

  Maybe Leland Hugh was the son of a police chief.

  No, too close to this real case. The son of a … county sheriff.

  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 ar
ticle.

  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?