Dark Pursuit

But his body betrayed him. Sickness oozed through Darell’s limbs. Like an old man he allowed himself to be propelled to the desk. He half fell into his seat, beaten and worn. Dropped his head into his hands.

“Listen to me.” Margaret knelt down, pushing her face close to his. Her words came in short breaths. “You are going to help Kaitlan. You can do this, D. I believe in you.” She squeezed his wrists. “You were right about the empty apartment, weren’t you? Saw straight into that crazed mind. You started this; now you have to finish it.”

Darell felt stripped to the soul. “But she’s with him right now. She might already be dead.”

“No. You read him right. He’s playing the game he started. We have time to figure this out. ”

“But I—”

Margaret made a furious sound in her throat. She grabbed Darell’s shoulders and shook him. He ogled her in dull surprise. “Listen to me, Darell Brooke. You can’t afford to lose yourself in confusion now. You have no right. This isn’t about you anymore. You sent Kaitlan back there. You’re in this now, and you have to finish it!”

The words sank into Darell. Down … down until they took hold.

He sat back, spent. Blinking rapidly.

Margaret was right. He had to do this.

Darell cleared his throat. He searched within himself for the King of Suspense. What would that man do?

“I need more data,” he said. “I need to know about the other two murders.”

Relief fluttered across Margaret’s face. “We can look up news stories online.”

“You’ll help?”

“Of course.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Margaret stood up and backed away a few steps, still watching him—as if he might collapse any minute.

He straightened his shoulders. What did she think he was—some flighty invalid?

Darell turned to look at his computer monitor. The white page stared at him.

In all the novels he’d finished, he’d known the story’s ending from the very first page. He just wasn’t always quite sure how to get there. Same with Kaitlan’s story, right? He knew the ending: Craig was caught. Solidly. Irrevocably. Darell just hadn’t figured out how to make that happen yet.

But it would come.

It would come.

“Kaitlan promised to call when she gets back home,” Margaret said.

That could be hours from now. If she made it home safely at all.

Darell’s stomach growled.

He focused on the clock. Six-forty-five. Dinner was late.

“You ever going to feed me, woman?”

She blinked then almost smiled. “It’s ready. Come on into the kitchen.”

Darell shuffled out behind her, following the smell of baked chicken and rice. Something about that comforting scent got his mind chugging again.

This latest victim needed to be discovered. Immediately. Two victims may not be enough to connect every dot as to what commonalities they shared—and which were important. Three would be much more effective.

Besides, they needed to tie Craig to this third body.

Darell entered the kitchen and settled himself in his chair. Margaret filled a plate.

He’d been right about the body. He’d been right.

Darell ate without tasting, thinking of Craig. Those thoughts soon drifted to plot points … and characters … and his lagging manuscript.

Why did Leland Hugh kill?

UNTITLED MS.

twenty

Deep in the night Leland Hugh walks the town.

Darkness is his ally.

In movies and in books the dark has been unworthily portrayed. Unpredictable, ferocious, protector of evil and ugliness. The hour of vampires and witches and goblins. Hider of sins.

The velvet blackness drapes soft on the back of Hugh’s neck.

This night the pavement sheens from recentrain. Lamp post light glides across asphalt as he passes, a ghost galleon in a shallow sea.

Although the air is warm, Hugh detects a whisper of coming autumn.

He traverses the central downtown street, nerves thrumming to the music of its silence. Twelve hours ago shoppers and lunchers filled these blocks, fiercely intent on their useless errands and gossip of the absurd. Their absence fills Hugh with a quiet joy. He entertains the thought of himself as sole survivor of the town, an unbridled and brilliant founder of new beginnings.

The world according to Leland Hugh.

He reaches an intersection and swerves diagonally to the opposite curb.

His footsteps strike without noise. This is an art he has perfected. Fear may be unleashed through the shriek of power, but nothing is as terrifying as soundless dread.

On the other side of the street he approaches the coffee shop where he first saw tonight’s victim. He pauses, peering into the café’s shadows. Round wood tables and straight-backed chairs speak of the day-timers who fill the place, the bustling chrome galley now polished and sparse. At the far table—there—she sat two days ago, leaning over a latte in deep conversation with a girlfriend. She was black-haired, slender-shouldered, a small silver locket around her neck. Full pink-glossed lips. A trace of their color pressed into the tip of the straw protruding from her drink.

His eyes riveted, fascinated, to that tinted plastic. To the piece of her it had claimed as its own.