The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh (книга регистрации txt) 📗

He said patiently, «It washed down the aqueduct and lodged somewhere. I don't know. But I do know that whoever is doing this, it's not Hammond.»

I was struggling against a riptide of emotions: fear, frustration, bewilderment all dragging me further and further from shore, from safety, from sanity. «Then who?» I cried, trembling. «Nothing else makes sense!» «You've got to calm down.»

«How can I be calm when you can't – or won't – see what's happening? What does it take to convince you? He's out there. He's coming for me.»

His hands clamped on my shoulders, anchoring me fast. «He's not getting you. No one is getting to you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I stopped Hammond, I'll stop this freak too. He's not getting near you.»

«He's already near me!» I couldn't help it. My control was slipping. I heard my voice shaking and wild. «He's out there now. How could he know about what a pest that damn dog was? Tell me that? He had to have heard us. He could be listening to us now. This place could be bugged.»

«Jesus, Sean.» He pulled me close, holding me against him like he wanted to smother the words spilling out. «Stop it. Sweetheart. Stop. You're making yourself sick.»

He kept murmuring words I couldn't comprehend, but I understood that he was petting me, quieting me, and after a while I stopped ranting, stopped trembling, finally managing to slow those panicked shallow breaths that were making me lightheaded.

We moved over to the sofa. He left me for a moment or two. I scrubbed my face, wiping away tears I didn't remember crying. I rested my head in my hands and tried to think. Nothing made sense. The postcards had stopped but Hammond had escalated to violence. It had been all threats up until this point. What had changed?

Dan sat down beside me. Set a glass of water on the table. He held a small brown vial that I recognized from my bathroom cabinet. I had news for him; those pills were well past their expiration date – like me apparently. I watched him shake two tablets into his palm. «I don't want those.» «I know. But you need them.»

I gave him a hostile look. Anything I said now would be put down to my irrational state of mind. I held out my hand. He dropped the pills in my palm, I popped them in to my mouth, took the glass of water he handed over. I washed the pills down, handed him back the glass, stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.

Dan brushed my hair from my forehead. I kept my eyes closed, rejecting that light, tender touch. «Just relax.» Yeah. Right. «Everything will be okay, I promise you.»

I swallowed. Didn't answer. Kept my eyes closed. He said that a lot: «I promise you.» But what did that mean? He couldn't promise me anything. Not when he didn't even believe me – when his main concern was to shut me up.

He kept stroking my hair. I didn't want him to. I didn't want to be comforted by him. I didn't like the fact that his touch seemed to find a way through my defenses, that he seemed to be able to converse with me through his fingertips and my nerve endings. I tried to shut out my response, but my scalp seemed to tingle beneath the deft fingers threading my hair. The tears stopped leaking beneath my lashes. The torpidity lurking at the edge of my consciousness eddied around and sucked me down. * * * * *

When I opened my eyes it was dark. I was lying on the sofa in the living room. Someone – Dan – had tossed the lambswool throw over me. The lights were off, but there was a fire in the fireplace. The shadows changed against the walls, flickering and indistinct. Never two the same – like Rorschach plates.

I turned my head. Dan was sitting in one of the chairs before the fireplace. His profile looked flushed in the firelight. He was staring at nothing in particular. I wondered where the gun was now. On TV and in the movies cops shoot people all the time. Dan told me he had only drawn his weapon a dozen times – and he'd only fired once. That was when he had shot and wounded a robbery suspect. He had been off-duty at the time. He had earned a citation for bravery, but there had also been an Internal Affairs audit. «What time is it?» I asked.

His head snapped my way and he stood up. I didn't want that. It was hard to keep the walls in place with him near me, and I wanted the walls up. It was safer behind the walls.

«How are you feeling?» He started to sit on the edge of the sofa, but I sat up, moving away from him. «Groggy. Sorry for the … hysterics.» «Sean.» I cut across his compassion. «What happened – while I was out?»

«I called the sheriffs and filed a report. Then I walked down to Mrs. Wilgi and told her what happened.» He added, before I did more than look at him, «A deputy stayed here at the house until I got back.»

I nodded. I wasn't thinking about who had been watching over me; I was thinking about poor Mrs. Wilgi who had loved that ugly little dog as though it had been her child. «No one is taking this threat lightly, Sean.» I refused to look at him. «I know.» «I've been thinking that it might be a good time to move back to the house.» I shrugged. «What's the difference? He knows where I live.»

He didn't speak for a moment, then he said, choosing his words, «If this is not Hammond, then he may not know that you have a home in the Hollywood Hills.»

I laughed derisively. «If? You mean you're willing to consider the idea that Hammond may not be dead?» «Yes.»

That surprised me, and I did look at him then, trying to read his expression in the gloom. His eyes glittered in the glow from the fireplace – a little spooky. «Are you humoring me?» «No.» Some of my tension drained away. «What changed your mind?»

«I don't know that my mind has changed – but I'm keeping it open. I agree with you that it is highly unlikely you would attract two aggressive stalkers in this space of time.»

Tiredly, I thought this over. He didn't think I was crazy; that was good, right? The fact that someone was out to get me: not so good. «When you said it wasn't Hammond's MO, what did you mean?»

«Hammond was what we call an Attachment Seeker. Killing the dog is more the action of a Rejection-based stalker – except the dog wasn't yours. You didn't even like the dog, so as threatening as the action seems, it could be perceived as a service to you.» Wearily, he added, «Which still doesn't make sense psychologically.»

«It makes sense,» I said. I'd done plenty of reading on stalkers all on my own. «He sees himself as rejected. He didn't get what he wanted from me and he's moved from simple stalking to intimidation and threats. Rejection-based stalkers are the most likely to turn to violence. Isn't that true?» «Yes,» he said reluctantly.

«If he's watching me, he knows that you and I are involved now. That could be the catalyst.» «Hammond wasn't gay.» «Maybe he was a closet case.»

«Either way,» Dan said, «We need to think about how best to ensure your safety. I think moving back –«

«I don't think the locale matters. We've got a great security system here and I can see anyone coming from a mile away.»

He looked unconvinced but didn't argue, and I guessed that he didn't want to pressure me when I was already emotionally distressed. That's one of the perks of having a history of breakdown. People don't like to upset you unnecessarily.

«All right. We'll leave it for now. I've already spoken to my captain and we'll have someone from Special Investigations here tomorrow on security duty.» «Who? I don't want some stranger in my –«

«Listen,» Dan said crisply, «We've got to have someone here during the day, and it can't be me.» «Why? I don't understand.»

«Because we're involved now, chief. There are protocols that have to be followed in order to authorize protection for you. We're dealing with a government bureaucracy, among other things.» «What other things? If you were the best person for the job before –«