Dark Pursuit Part 4

"I told you I never wanted to see you again!" His long bony fingers grasped the door, ready to slam it shut. "Now get out of here!"

Kaitlan flung herself across the threshold.

She pressed against the wall, chest heaving, hardly knowing how she'd gotten there. To her right spread the wide entrance to the TV room.

Her grandfather's head rotated toward her like a buzzard following prey. The sheer hatred on his face. His cold eyes and twisted mouth. Darell Brooke looked meaner than ever. Kaitlan tried to speak. Nothing came out.

She glanced past him at Margaret, some five feet back. Anxiety crisscrossed the woman's face, her hands tightly clutched to her neck. Kaitlan's grandfather flung a hand toward the porch. "How dare you enter this house! Get out!"

The old grief stirred in Kaitlan. Her mind flashed on nights of sleeping in doorways, wondering how she'd sunk so low. Her hard jail cot. How she'd wished with all her might for a family.

"Please. I'm just here to talk to you."

"Talk?" He sneered. "We talked six years ago. You showed up here, so repentant after running away, remember? I let you in. And the minute I turned my back, you stole from me."

His gold Rolex watch-the special gift Kaitlan's grandmother had given him in celebration of his first number-one bestseller. Kaitlan knew that watch meant the world to him, especially after Grandmother died. She'd stolen it anyway.

Spittle flew from his lips. "A twenty-five-thousand-dollar watch. How much did you get when you p.a.w.ned it, huh? Five hundred? Enough for one lowly fix?"

"I didn't ... I was wrong. But I'm different now. I'm clean. I have a new life-"

"That's what you said last time."

Kaitlan's mouth snapped shut. It was true. Cold-blooded manipulation then earned her no trust now.

Margaret took a step forward. "Maybe if you just-"

"Shut up, Margaret."

Her head jerked as if she'd been slapped.

Darell Brooke's eyes bored into Kaitlan. "You've got fifteen seconds. Either you leave or I call the police."

"No!" Kaitlan flung out her hands. Her purse dropped to the floor. "You can't. I need your help, please. please. They'll never believe me. I came home and found a dead woman on my bed. Strangled. With a piece of black fabric with green stripes. And I'm afraid my boyfriend did it. But he's a cop and the son of Russ Barlow, Gayner chief of police. No way will the police believe he's responsible. They'll arrest me for it; I know they will." She leaned toward her grandfather. "You have to tell me what to do. You know crime; you've written suspense-all of a sudden I'm They'll never believe me. I came home and found a dead woman on my bed. Strangled. With a piece of black fabric with green stripes. And I'm afraid my boyfriend did it. But he's a cop and the son of Russ Barlow, Gayner chief of police. No way will the police believe he's responsible. They'll arrest me for it; I know they will." She leaned toward her grandfather. "You have to tell me what to do. You know crime; you've written suspense-all of a sudden I'm living living it!" it!"

Margaret's mouth hung open.

Kaitlan sagged against the wall, drained of energy. Her heart thudded in her ears.

Her grandfather stared at her, emotions moving across his face. Shock ... disbelief ... suspicion. His eyes widened then narrowed, and his lips trembled. For the first time in her life, Kaitlan saw her grandfather at a loss for words.

No one moved. Outside a bird chirped. In some distant room a fluorescent light hummed.

Her grandfather's neck arched like a snake ready to strike. "How dare you." He shoved the front door closed. The slam rattled Kaitlan's bones. He breathed in long and hard, nostrils flaring. "How did you do it? How?"

Kaitlan darted a glance at Margaret-what's he talking about? Margaret lifted a shoulder.

Darell Brooke pushed his grizzled face into Kaitlan's. His lips pulled back and his cheeks were mottled. She could smell his musty breath. "Answer me."

"I ... don't know what you mean."

"The cloth!" He spat the word. "How did you know? What have you done-hacked into my computer? Not enough to steal my watch, now you want to take my work?"

Kaitlan threw another helpless look at Margaret. The woman's face creased in sadness. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Oh. No. No.

The horrible truth sank into Kaitlan. Her grandfather was talking nonsense. Forget not being able to write-the King of Suspense was now nothing but a mindless old man.

Kaitlan's heart folded up. She couldn't bear this. She wanted to run out the door and forget she'd ever come.

"Kaitlan!" He shook his fist at her. "Answer me. How did you know?"

She licked her lips. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me!" He reared back, cheeks flaming. "I see what you're doing. You're playing with me. You want me put away so you can get my money." He creaked around toward Margaret. "And you're in on it. The two of you, planning against me. You You told her about the cloth. You both want me to believe I've lost my mind." told her about the cloth. You both want me to believe I've lost my mind."

Margaret stuck her palms out. "Now calm down, D. You don't know what you're-"

"I know exactly what I'm saying! Strangled, using black fabric with green stripes-that's what!" A ragged vein popped out on his neck. "I'm calling my lawyer. I'll tell him you two are conspiring." He jabbed his finger from Margaret to Kaitlan. "You won't get away with it!"

Kaitlan started to protest, but her mouth snapped closed. A tingle started down in her gut. The cloth. The cloth. Was there something here for real? Not just the raving of an old man? Was there something here for real? Not just the raving of an old man?

"Wait." She caught her grandfather's bony wrist. "What do you know about the fabric? All I know is-this is the third victim in Gayner it's been used on in the past year."

"Third? In a year year?" He gaped at her, eyebrows jammed together over his nose.

"Please. Lives may depend on it. Including mine. What do you know?"

Her grandfather's forehead flattened. He pulled back and looked to Margaret. She nodded in encouragement. His eyelids flickered. In that little motion, Kaitlan saw his vulnerability. He wanted to believe them.

He straightened his shoulders. Lifting his arm from Kaitlan's grasp with all the dignity he could muster, he raised his chin, surveying her with the haughty expression she knew so well. For a moment he looked like the grandfather she remembered.

Relief burst in Kaitlan's chest.

"The fabric you spoke of. Silk, is it?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes."

He nodded. "Of course. Because it's straight from the ma.n.u.script I've been working on for the past year. My antagonist's MO-the crazed killer who hears the dead knocking. He strangles his victims using a black silk cloth with green stripes."

UNt.i.tLED MS.

CHAPTER nine

The fabric silks across Hugh's palms like the soft kiss of a lover.

Black with green stripes. An alluring sight, fraught with familiarity. He b.a.l.l.s the long, enticing strip, raises it to his nostrils. Breathes in deeply. The scent of promise and l.u.s.t, joy and betrayal, ecstasy and revenge.

The scent of death.

His eyes consume her lithe form across the dim and crowded bar. She leans with nonchalance against a railing, wine gla.s.s in hand, held up and crooked toward her bare decolletage. So casual, so cool. In a motion of pure fluidity her left fingers ease a strand of blonde hair from her temple. Her glossed red lips are parted, bent in a slight smile of amus.e.m.e.nt at the story of the hopeful male before her. Her lashes are feathery, thick. When she laughs her head tilts back, exposing the tan suppleness of her throat.

Hugh's fingers flex.

She is a G.o.ddess.

She is a witch.

No one pays the slightest attention to him, but that's the story of his life. No matter. He has learned to edit its once stuttered prose. He sits in a corner on a three-legged stool, his face and torso beyond the umbra of light. Pale white rays from an overhead lamp spill across his jeaned legs, puddling on the hardwood floor. His hands, rubbing the black and green vesture of his vengeance, rest against his chest. Hugh arches his shoulder blades against the wall, imagining the mystery his half-illumed body must surely project-should anyone notice.

No one will.

They don't see, though they seek him. They don't know, though the criminal profilers have psychoa.n.a.lyzed him to the core.

The cloth brought him here. To her. her.

Whenever he lifts it from his dresser drawer, cradles it in his arms, Hugh feels the power. It electrifies his veins with desire. Always, always it sings him into the night, and he follows, captive to its siren song. Until it leads him to the one who must die.

Across the bar, for no apparent reason her head turns-and she gazes in Hugh's direction.

What thought made her He stills.

Emotion wells within him.

His hands No. Not yet He is A Her He jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

CHAPTER ten

Darell studied his granddaughter's reaction. She may have fooled him before but not this time. He wasn't a doddering old man. He still had his wits about him.

Kaitlan's cheeks washed white. She stared at him, arms sliding up to cross against her chest. A protective gesture.

Her grandmother used to do that.

Darell's heart cramped.

Kaitlan had grown to look so much like Gretchen. She was no longer the ragged, hard-faced teenager with movements jerky from crack. Her features had softened, filled out. And she had a new confidence. Those wide-set brown eyes held light in them, even now through her fear. Her shoulder-length hair was l.u.s.trous, stylishly cut in layers with bangs. That upturned nose, the oval face-all Gretchen.

Don't get sucked in. She still could be a lying little thief. She still could be a lying little thief.

Darell's fingers tightened on his cane. He set his jaw, casting a sideways glance at Margaret. No deceit on that face he knew so well. She looked completely flummoxed. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. She held his gaze, obviously trying to read him, trying to figure out if this was one of his "loose goose" moments.

Stupid woman.

"Your ma.n.u.script?" Kaitlan swallowed. "I don't ... what do you mean?"

He looked down his nose, surveying his granddaughter under half-hooded eyes.

No sign of her lying either.

It hit him then-a punch in the solar plexus. Breath snagged in his throat. Could this be true? A real-life killer, copycatting his newest antagonist?

The killings-she said they'd started a year ago. Just about the time he began to write.

But how how could anyone get hold of the ma.n.u.script? could anyone get hold of the ma.n.u.script?

If you could even call it that. Scattered, unfinished, frustration-producingscenes was more like it.

No. A ma.n.u.script. The plot will come.

Sudden weariness blanketed Darell. This was too much; his brain couldn't hold it all. His shoulders drooped. Quickly then he caught himself and straightened as best he could. Whatever was happening here, he must remain in control.

"Kaitlan," he spoke her name harshly, "I will hear you out. But I want to sit down. Follow me into the library."

He turned and headed toward the north wing.

Behind his back he sensed the exchanged questioning looks, the bonding of females in their shared confusion. So be it. He could handle them both.

His heart fluttered. Who has gotten hold of my ma.n.u.script Who has gotten hold of my ma.n.u.script?

Darell crossed the entryway and headed toward the long hall. He pa.s.sed the formal living room on his left. Ten feet from the end of the hall he turned left into his stately library.

He had chosen to meet in this room where he still reigned King. Darell Brooke novels lined the shelves-in over twenty languages and multiple formats. Hardcover, paperback, audio tape, CD, large print. Special editions, book-club issues. Not to mention an entire case of awards he'd won. On other shelves were other authors' books-cla.s.sics and contemporary, some cheaply bound, some in leather. A sea of books, symbolic of the literary world in which the King of Suspense lived and moved and had his being.

Kaitlan and Margaret trailing, he thumped over to his burgundy leather armchair and lowered himself down. He sat with back straight, palms on top of his cane. So many thoughts in his head. There had to be an explanation for this.

Maybe these women were were lying. lying.

Was his online data storage not secure? The company declared it was. The system automatically backed up any changed files in his computer. He'd used it since before the accident with never a problem.