Dark Pursuit

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 Margaret didn’t see her in the darkness and passed her by …

The terrible thought fueled her body.

Kaitlan hurtled across the last five feet like she’d been shot from a cannon. The hard slap of her feet against sidewalk sent shock waves up her spine. Her head swung toward the car. It was a mere twenty feet up the road.

Too close. She couldn’t stop in time.

The moment spun out. Kaitlan’s muscles squeezed, everything within her straining to slow her pounding legs. Her limbs shuddered like machine gears at the throw of brakes. Both hands flung up, pushing against air. A horrified cry grated up her throat.

She sprang across the sidewalk to curb. Margaret wasn’t slowing.

I’m dead.

Kaitlan’s foot sailed out over the road.

Tires screeched. The car swerved. Not enough.

Her body slammed into the rear door at an angle and bounced off.

Kaitlan collapsed in a heap.

She lay on the road, stunned and groaning. Vaguely she registered the car grinding to a stop. Red hazard lights flashed. A door opened. Running footsteps.

“Oh, oh my—” A woman’s voice, not Margaret’s. A sob. “I didn’t see you—what were you—you came so fast—are you all right?”

Kaitlan raised bleary eyes to the dim form of a stranger, bent over her with hands flailing. Short brown hair. Her cheeks and gaping mouth strobed red to black, red to black.

“I … yeah.” Kaitlan’s words croaked. “Just … help me up.”

“Oh. I can’t believe …” The woman thrust both hands underneath Kaitlan and pushed her to sit up. “Are you dizzy? Is anything broken?” Her voice shook. “Can you stand?”

Margaret. Craig. “I have to get up. Help me.”

“Okay, okay.” The woman put her arm underneath Kaitlan’s shoulder. “Up you go.”

Kaitlan wobbled to her feet, the woman clinging tightly. Kaitlan’s mushy brain calculated bodily injuries. Nothing hurt too badly—yet. Shock? Or was she really okay?

“What were you doing out here?” Relief and fear pushed accusation into the woman’s tone. “You ran right at me!”

“I’m sorry.”

The woman blew out air. “Can I take you somewhere? Home?” Sweat on her forehead gleamed in the flashing red. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone at night.”

A high-pitched chuckle popped from Kaitlan. “Tell me about it.”