Dark Pursuit Part 5

Heat flamed his nerves. If someone was reading his ma.n.u.script, they'd know he couldn't write.

Was it his agent? His publisher?

But what would they they have to do with a killer? have to do with a killer?

Darell's throat ran dry. "Margaret, get me a gla.s.s of water."

She scurried off, her footsteps pattering against the floor like a nervous child's.

Kaitlan stood before him, empty handed and trembling. She'd left her purse in the hallway.

"Sit." He waved the back of his hand at her.

She sidled over to the matching couch and perched on its edge.

Margaret returned with the water, placing it on a coaster on the table beside Darell. She faded back and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Kaitlan.

"Now." Darell gave his granddaughter a stern look. "Tell me your story, and I'll decide whether or not to believe it."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "It started this afternoon when I came home early from work ..."

Time stalled for Darell as she rattled out her tale. A crazy, heart-stopping scenario that sounded as if it had been pulled from one of his novels. The young, unsuspecting woman returning to her out-of-the-way apartment. The noise outside. Was it the cat Was it the cat? Signs of an obvious intruder. A body. Victim's ident.i.ty unknown. The boyfriend with a key to her place. Who knew too much. His pen on the floor.

Somewhere along the way Darell's disbelief faded. Kaitlan, with her wildly gesturing hands, the round eyes and uneven voice, was not spinning a lie. She was reliving. reliving.

Panic trailed down his spine. Kaitlan was indeed in terrible trouble. What if he couldn't help her? What if puzzling through the mystery lay beyond him? Wait, slow down! Wait, slow down! he wanted to cry as she hurried on. So many details for his mushy mind to remember. he wanted to cry as she hurried on. So many details for his mushy mind to remember.

Even so, excitement began to sing in his veins.

He gripped the arms of his chair, torso bent forward, listening for all he was worth.

"... then I looked away from the footprint toward-"

"Stop." Darell lifted his hand. "Explain the print."

"Um." Kaitlan blinked. "It was just inside the sliding door that leads to the little patio off my bedroom, like I said."

"Pointed what direction?"

"Oh. Sort of like parallel to the doorway, but not quite."

"Explain 'not quite.' "

"It was like the heel was closer to the threshold than the toes. So maybe at a ... forty-degree angle to it?" She scrunched her face. "Does that make sense?"

"How big was it?"

"Bigger than mine. I think it was Craig's."

"Left foot or right?"

She thought a minute. "Left."

Darell closed his eyes, picturing. Forty-degree angle. Forty-degree angle. As if someone had hurried outside, then stepped his left foot back in, not intending to enter but merely leaning in to listen ... As if someone had hurried outside, then stepped his left foot back in, not intending to enter but merely leaning in to listen ...

For what?

The sound of a key in the lock?

"Grandfather?"

He grunted impatiently. "Yes, yes. Did you see an unknown car in the area?"

"No."

"And this area is pretty rural, you say."

"Well, on the edge of town. Neighbors are kind of scattered. We're backed up to woods."

Woods. Nice place to hide things. Maybe the victim's car? Nice place to hide things. Maybe the victim's car?

"Describe the body."

Kaitlan did. Darell pulled from her every nuance. Position of the victim's arms and legs. Marks on her skin. Was she warm or cold to the touch? He s.h.i.+vered to hear she'd been still warm. The woman hadn't been dead long. Kaitlan might have been able to establish an alibi for time of death had the woman died much earlier. But if it was soon before she came in the door ...

"How wide are they?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"The stripes on the cloth. Tiny? Medium? Large?"

"I don't know. Medium, I guess."

"And green."

"Yes."

"Gra.s.s green?"

Kaitlan stilled. "Yes." Her eyes swept over Margaret's face, then pulled back to Darell's. "Is all of this ... ? I mean, is it really from your ma.n.u.script? The body and everything?"

"Not the body. Nothing about the scene. Just the cloth. But it's a perfect match. Perfect. Perfect."

Kaitlan's gaze roamed the library, as if searching for an answer to this madness. "Craig talks about you a lot." She looked to Darell. "You're his favorite author. He dreams of meeting you-having you look at the ma.n.u.script he's writing."

Darell tilted his head-of course. "Does he know you're my granddaughter?" "Does he know you're my granddaughter?"

A pause. "No."

"No?"

She licked her lips. "I ... no one knows. You and I weren't talking. I moved to this area, hoping some day ... But I was afraid to come see you. I knew you'd throw me out. If I told my friends who I was, they'd ask questions." Kaitlan's voice lowered and she hugged herself. "Questions that would have been too painful to answer."

Margaret caught Darell's eye as if to say, see what your stubbornness has done?

Darell grimaced at Kaitlan. "How long have you lived here?"

She swallowed. "Four months."

"Four months. And you're only now coming to see me."

"I'm sorry. I should have-"

"Only because you need something."

She shook her head hard. "Not 'only.' I missed you. I want my family. Please believe that."

Darell sniffed.

Silence rang in the room.

Kaitlan lifted her hand in a helpless gesture. "Craig's writing a suspense novel. He won't let anyone read it, but I know he scribbles on it whenever he gets the chance. He told me the scenes in the killer's point of view come easily. Now I think about that and just ..." She shuddered.

How very interesting.

Darell ran his tongue behind his teeth. "When did he start writing?"

"I think about a year ago."

A year. When the first murder occurred. And when Darell started his own ma.n.u.script. As soon as Kaitlan spoke the words, he saw the revelation on her face. When the first murder occurred. And when Darell started his own ma.n.u.script. As soon as Kaitlan spoke the words, he saw the revelation on her face.

Is that boy stealing my work? If Craig thought he would never recover from his injuries ... Easy thing to believe, after all the salacious news articles to that effect. If Craig thought he would never recover from his injuries ... Easy thing to believe, after all the salacious news articles to that effect.

But Craig had used the fabric to kill for real.

Was he using it in his book as well?

Which came first, fiction or reality?

Darell struggled to unwind the vicious circle and found only confusion. The gears in his head gummed up as if an unseen hand squeezed glue into the cogs. His thoughts creaked and groaned.

Margaret's hand lay against her cheek. "I've heard about the murders from local news. They must have mentioned the cloth."

Kaitlan shook her head. "No. Craig said only a few people working the case know."

"The police would withhold the information in case they ever got a confession," Darell said distractedly. He still struggled with the conundrum of Craig Barlow. "Too many crazies confess to crimes they didn't commit. This way only the real killer could describe the full MO."

"Oh." Margaret frowned. "But I ..."

The puzzlement in her voice caught Darell's attention. He pierced her with a look.

Understanding poured like ice water over his head. She'd heard of the fabric. And there was only one place that could have come from.

Indignation rolled up his back. His face went hot. "You've been reading my ma.n.u.script, haven't you."

"Well, I-"

"How dare dare you!" She may as well have laid his soul bare. Checking on his damaged brain, was that it? Critiquing his ability to write. "You stay you!" She may as well have laid his soul bare. Checking on his damaged brain, was that it? Critiquing his ability to write. "You stay away away from my computer." from my computer."

Margaret spread her hands. "D.-"

"Do you see what you've done?"

Her eyes darted from him to Kaitlan. She shook her head.

"You told somebody about my story." Darell's voice rose. "Who was it? A friend? Some big mouth at that church you attend? What if that person told another and another-until it got to Craig Barlow? And now, thanks to your big mouth, he's imitating Leland Hugh. And three women are dead."

Margaret's face blanched white.

OBSESSION

CHAPTER eleven

Yesterday I talked to a mother of two young kids. She's on drugs. Meth. Pure vileness. "Hey," I told her, "why give the dealers your money? You want to ingest poison, just mix up some bleach, ammonia, and gasoline. About as good for your system."

Her kids were put in foster care. They screamed when they were taken from their mother. I wanted to hit something.

The woman's pretty in a hardened way. She was probably once beautiful. Three months from now, if she keeps doing the methamphetamine, she'll look like death walking.

"Why?" I asked her.

"I don't know." And she started to cry.

Her words haunted me.

That night I watched local TV news, hoping to see something about the second murder. Nothing. As if it carried no importance at all. One life gone five days ago. The world turns on.

I paced around, ill at ease, restless.