Dark Pursuit

At the edge of the forest she halted, neck craned to look up the street for headlights. The minute they appeared she’d have to dash out and flag down the driver. But what if it was Craig? Without the ability to see the car itself, she could only listen for the engine.

Kaitlan leaned forward, hands poised in the air, muscles gathered to spring.

What if Craig came back? He could decide to check the woods on the other side of the driveway.

And where was Margaret? She should have been here long ago —

Pale illumination spilled across the curve. Kaitlan cocked her head, straining to hear.

No sound of the Mustang’s revved engine.

The glow brightened and gelled into headlights. A car rounded the bend.

Kaitlan jumped into open grass and ran.

thirty-eight

Darell prowled the house, limbs quivering. He shuffled in and out of the office, his bedroom, then back up the long south hall to the kitchen. Down the north wing into the library. There he found himself staring at the couch where Kaitlan had sat. A pillow in the corner lay tilted, compressed by the weight of her back. He could almost feel her presence, as if her desperate spirit lingered, begging for help.

He shifted his feet, unnerved. If anything happened to Kaitlan, he would never forgive himself.

A plan to catch Craig. He had to come up with something tonight. Time had run out.

What a misstep to assume the body would be discovered quickly. He should have known that Craig would leave no evidence for Kaitlan to use against him.

But what to do without it?

The crush of the sofa pillow pulled at Darell. He stared at it.

Memories of Kaitlan’s childhood wafted into his head. Small and unsteady on her toddler feet, tugging at his pant leg. Older and asking if he’d play with her. What was that silly game? Something about climbing ladders. It had been her favorite. Darell had seen her playing it by herself, manning her own pawn and that of an imaginary opponent. Her mother, Sarah, never had time for such nonsense. Neither had Darell.

Sorrow hit him in the chest. Why had he been so busy? Would one game have hurt?

Kaitlan, a preteen, coming to visit, portable CD-player headphones plugging her ears. By then she had drawn away from him, from her mother, pretending to no longer care. The scene fuzzed in his mind. Darell vaguely remembered fighting with Sarah. A screaming match over … something. That was the last time he’d seen his daughter. Three years later she’d taken off for England, leaving fourteen-year-old Kaitlan with him to raise.

Regret graveled in Darell’s throat. If only he’d done it better.

He turned away from the sight of the pillow.

A plan. The tolling bell rang in his head. He needed a plan.

His gaze fell on his old hardback novel, lying on the desk by the phone. He frowned. Why would Margaret be reading that at a time like this?

He thumped over to the desk and picked up the book. The Neighbor. His lips bent downward. The Neighbor. He wrote that? Couldn’t remember it at all. He glanced at the shelves of his first editions and spotted an empty space about nine novels over from the top left. This was his tenth book?

Darell turned it over and read the back-cover copy. Still no memory.

He cursed and slapped the book down on the desk. Turning away, he stomped to his leather armchair. So what? He didn’t need long-term memory right now. Just a clear head. And he had that. Just before Margaret left, hadn’t his brain been working?

Besides, he had remembered those scenes of Kaitlan.

Darell stacked both palms on his cane, focusing on the rich wooden floor. Think, now. Think.

Nothing came.

His thoughts shifted, meandering out the window into the foggy night. There they thickened, soaking in moisture. Clouding covered his brain …

Sometime later his muscles startled. He looked around. What had he been thinking?

Where was Kaitlan? What time was it?

Darell blinked at the clock, trying to determine when she and Margaret would return. But he couldn’t remember when Margaret had left.

Panic bubbled in him.

He gripped the armchair, lips mushing in and out—the mouth of an old man. How he hated himself. Weak and mindless.

Just ten minutes of clear concentration. For that right now he’d give all the years of his fame and fortune.

Darell turned accusing eyes toward the heavens. “Can’t you help me for once?”

His fingers slipped off his cane. It fell to the floor with a loud crack. Darell jumped.

Leaning over, he picked it up. He thumped the rubber end against the hardwood floor as if hammering concentration into his head.

Leland Hugh.

Low current shimmied in Darell’s mind.

The scene he’d been working on that morning unfolded before him. Hugh, awaiting trial in jail, during a heated session with the defense psychiatrist. Riddled with guilt, yet denying it.

Craig clearly identified with Leland Hugh, down to using the same black and green fabric to strangle his victims.

Darell rubbed the hook of his cane. Why was Craig pulled toward Hugh? What similarity did he see, given that Darell had barely formed his own character? He hadn’t even been able to complete an entire scene.

With no evidence to prove a crime, apprehending Craig could not be a chess match of forensics. This would come down to a psychological game.

Leland Hugh.

Darell took a deep breath. What might the man’s weakness be? Other than killing, of course. In the core of his being, how did he see himself? What did he want?

What did Craig Barlow want?

The answer hissed up in Darell’s brain like a bowling ball spat from its machine. All along it had been coming, he realized, sucked slowly through the invisible tube of his subconscious.

He stilled, a current of thought humming. Ideas began to form.

Yes. This was the right direction. This was good.

Darell stared at his feet, thinking.

Pete Lynch would help. The savvy private investigator had been research consultant on quite a few of Darell’s books. Darell hadn’t seen him since he’d visited at the hospital after the accident, although Pete had called more than once in the past two years to check on him.

At least he couldn’t remember seeing Pete since then.

Darell rubbed his lips. Pete would have the equipment they’d need.

Thoughts flitted in and out of Darell’s head, like elusive butterflies. He chased after them … lost himself.

Sometime later he turned toward the clock.

Pete.

It was late for making calls, but no matter. What was time in an emergency?

With renewed vigor he pushed to his feet. In minutes he was back in the south wing, crossing the office toward his Rolodex and phone.

thirty-nine

Kaitlan’s legs scissored through the grass, both arms above her head, frantically waving. Gasps spilled from her mouth, stabs of pain in her chest. So short a distance, but the car was coming fast. She didn’t dare shout. If