Dark Pursuit

by Brandilyn Collins

  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?

  Only then did the realization hit me. It wasn’t the mom I identified with.

  By the time I left the party—early—I wanted to kill that new mother. Wanted to feel my hands around her throat. Watch the life choke out of her. Wanted to see in her eyes the regret, the guilt over her supreme selfishness.

  I drove the streets randomly, chaotically, not wanting to go home. Knowing I would only claw the walls if I did. But I didn’t understand what was happening inside me. As if the cloth thing a week ago hadn’t been enough. Now a ball burned in my stomach, churning, churning. Felt like the Hyde coming out of Jekyll. Memories of childhood and my mother flashed in my head. Memories of Dad. I didn’t know why, didn’t understand how they were connected.

  It was barely ten o’clock.

  I drove along the south end of town. Saw a woman coming out of a bar. Alone. No one else was in the parking lot. She vaguely resembled my friend’s wife. Medium-length brown hair. About the same build, same height. A small purse slung on her shoulder. She had a haughty walk, as if saying to the world, “I’ll do as I please, just see if you can stop me.”

  Everything in my being fastened on that woman. My hands gripped the steering wheel, my eyes glued to her. I watched her cross toward a car and get in. Throw her purse on the passenger seat.

  And then I knew what I would do.

  My body relaxed. I fell into a state of heightened numbness, if that makes any sense. Very aware but emotions turned off. Except for a vague anticipation in carrying out justice.

  How I would go about my business I didn’t know. Somehow. That night. Before the woman got home.

  I would follow her.

  Sometimes the world turns on its axis right. Sometimes it gives up the deserving.

  The woman’s car wouldn’t start.

  I drove up beside her and offered help. Told her who I was. Who wouldn’t trust me?

  “I have Triple A,” she said. “I’ll call for a tow truck.”

  “Let me take you home. You don’t want to be waiting out here in the dark. Tomorrow’s Sunday anyway. It’s safer to take care of this in the daylight.”

  “Okay.”

  Just like that—“Okay.”

  She picked up her purse, locked her car doors, and slid into my passenger seat. Told me where she lived.

  We talked as I drove. I asked if she had children. A young daughter, she told me.

  “Oh. Who’s watching her now?”

  “Her grandmother.”

  Her grandmother. While Mom went out to bars.

  The ball in my stomach flamed.

  “You lived here long?” I asked.

  “No.”

  How had I known that? Instinct. Bubbling up from deep inside me.

  “I know a quicker back way to your house.”

  I turned on a road headed west, toward the hills. Past some houses and into a rural area framed by woods.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” She didn’t even have the sense to be scared.

  “Don’t you think I would know this town?”

  There’s an old dirt road in that area. Teenagers used to park there until too many of them were caught on a slew of drug raids. After that word got around to avoid the place. Now on a Saturday night it was pitch dark and empty.

  I turned into it, shoved my car in park, and lunged for her throat.

  They say pit bulls don’t let go once they bite. My fingers were like that. No matter what she did to me, they weren’t about to let loose.

  She fought. I rammed my head down against her chest, shielding my face from her nails. With long sleeves on, I wasn’t worried about my arms.

  The silence surprised me. I expected gurgles, choking. But those require air, and I gave her none. She thrashed in her seat like a mute, her only sound the rustle of her clothes.

  Without warning she fell slack.

  “Playing dead,” a voice told me.

  I squeezed even tighter. My fingers hung on until they cramped. Even then I wouldn’t let go. Anot
her thirty seconds, another minute …

  When I pulled away she slumped over like a puppet with its strings cut.

  I gazed at her for a very long time. I hated what I saw.

  She looked much uglier than she had in life. Worthless. I wanted her dirty body out of my car. And yet … something. Something wasn’t right.

  The fabric.

  That thought screamed at me, froze my limbs. My mouth unhinged. I stared at the sack of flesh, that bent neck—and I understood.

  My life opened up before me.

  I reached for the glove compartment and reverently removed the black silk cloth. Suddenly it was no longer a mystical unknown. It had become my purpose.

  I ran it through my hands. Closed my eyes and smelled it.

  Yes. Yes.

  I pushed the woman’s body up straight. Wound the cloth tight around her neck and tied a knot.

  Sitting back, I surveyed my work.

  No. Still not right.

  My fingers found the fabric again. Over the knot I formed an awkward bow.

  Again I pulled away and gazed, like an art critic before a painting.

  Yes. This was it. Perfection. I felt it in my gut. She looked like a wrapped present. A gift. To me.

  I smiled.

  For a moment I leaned back in my seat and simply breathed.

  Logistical details began to surface in my head. I forced the body down over the console, where it couldn’t be seen by anyone else. Just in case. I drove farther into the woods. Dragged her out of the car and into the trees about a hundred feet from the dirt road.

  I laid her on her back, chin tilted up. My last lingering look focused on the cloth. Even though I had more, much more, I felt sorry leaving it behind.

  Under the sliver moon, I made my way back to the car and drove off.

  My heart floated. Relief and joy wrapped around me like an oven-warmed blanket.

  On the way home I threw the woman’s purse in a dumpster behind a closed grocery store.

  By the time I reached my place, I was exhausted. That night I enjoyed the best sleep I’d had in the past week. Before going to bed I felt compelled to cut another strip of the black silk.