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

Dan said, «He must have been thrown from the car when it went off the road. From what the ME could tell, he crawled several yards away from the crash site before he died from internal injuries. They found him in a small gully. Apparently, because the car wound up in the aqueduct, no one thought to canvass the surrounding area.» I put a hand to my head trying to make sense of this. «There's no doubt?» Grimly, Dan said, «I visited the morgue myself to make sure.»

I gathered from his expression that the trip to the morgue had been pretty ghastly; I recognized that this had been done as a favor to me, something I should be grateful for. Instead I felt bewildered. «Then who shot Lenny Norman?»

«We can't assume that Norman's murder is connected to whoever is harassing you. It could have been a jealous boyfriend, a drug deal gone bad; he was not a popular guy. It could have been someone he fired or someone he turned down for a role.» «You don't believe that, do you?»

«I know that you believe Norman's death is too much of a coincidence, but I'm here to tell you that coincidences happen.»

I barely heard him. It was like someone had dumped water on the circuit board of my brain; my thoughts kept shorting out. Norman's death couldn't be a coincidence, but how could anyone outside my immediate circle know that I feared he would stop me from getting The Charioteer? Only a handful of people could possibly know I was interested in the role. And killing Norman wasn't doing me any favors. Most likely the entire production would be cancelled now; the adaptation had been his baby, his project, he had been the one fueling it. So if someone was trying to do me a favor, it was someone who didn't understand how the film industry ran. Watching me, Dan asked, «Feel ready to sit up?» I assented.

He slipped an arm behind me and I sat up, surprised to find that I really needed his help. I felt weak. Shattered.

I stared around the room like I'd never seen it. It was so white. White carpets and white upholstery, white walls – so clinical. Medicinal. Had I picked all this stuff? The seascape over the fireplace, the dark wood furniture and bookshelves. The books themselves. They all looked like they belonged to someone else, someone who lived a long, long way away from me – maybe on another planet.

The only thing that felt real was Dan's arm around me. Was he afraid I was going to keel over again? I said, «I need a drink.» He hesitated. «You don't want to mix pills and booze.» «I don't plan on taking any pills.»

Another pause while he searched for a way to say what he wanted to without antagonizing me. «You might want something to help you sleep. Later.»

I shook my head. He squeezed my shoulder and rose. He was back in a minute with two fingers of brandy in a tumbler. I knocked it back, barely registering the burn down my throat, the heat pooling in my belly. Dan's hand absently stroked up and down my spine.

«Where's Markowitz?» I asked, then nearly dropped the glass as the phone rang. «I can't talk to anyone,» I told Dan.

«I've got it.» He rose, and I instantly missed his warmth and strength. Too much.

From that detached distance I listened to him talk. Quiet and clipped. Cop talk. I remembered that I had hung up on Steve. I needed to talk to him. Later. He'd understand that it had to be later.

Dan came back and sat down beside me again. «Norman had an argument with his neighbor last night – and not the first.» «I don't believe –« «Just for the sake of argument, look at these things separately for a minute.»

A thought popped into my head. I interrupted him, asking, «When did you find out Hammond was dead?» «Yesterday.» «Yesterday?» No apology, no explanation. Just the facts, ma'am.

Something else didn't make sense, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I said, «Where did you say Markowitz was?» Dan nodded toward the front room. «Did you need him for something?» «No. I don't need him.» I woke up with the confused memory of the phone ringing.

The room was in darkness, the shutters closed, drapes drawn. Dan's side of the bed –he had a side now – was empty. I rolled over in a twist of sheet, checked the clock on the nightstand. Seven-thirty. At night? What the hell was I doing in bed? I was supposed to be at dinner with Winston Marshall and Lenny Norman.

It all came flooding back. Steve's phone call and the news Lenny Norman had been murdered. My faint. Then talking with Dan until the alcohol had hit and I'd gone up to lie down. Had I taken pills after that? I didn't remember, but I felt groggy, doped. I hadn't dreamed that single aborted ring, had I?

I picked the phone up and heard Dan talking. «… shock. I don't want to wake him.» Steve replied, «I understand, but I think he'll want to take this call.» «I'll tell him you rang as soon as he wakes up.»

Still only half awake, I dropped the handset, had to feel around in the coverlet for it. I put it back against my ear in time to hear Steve saying, «You mean, what you think is best for Sean. Maybe Sean wouldn't agree.» «In this five seconds Sean isn't the best judge of what he needs.»

I blinked at this from a great distance. Did Dan mean that the way it sounded? Because what did that mean? And whatever it meant, it was pretty damn high-handed.

And apparently Steve agreed. He said in a tone I'd never heard before, «But I guess you are?» I waited for Dan's answer. He didn't say anything, which I guess was his answer.

I replaced the phone carefully on the hook. I didn't feel up to talking to Steve right now, I didn't feel ready to deal with whatever this new piece of news was, but Steve was right. Dan didn't have a right to screen my calls. I should be a lot more angry, right? It couldn't be a good sign that I felt so apathetic; that all I wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep.

Maybe Dan wasn't so far off base. Maybe I wasn't as well as I believed. My stomach twisted into knots of anxiety.

But anyone would be shocked about murder, right? And death threats, that would take a toll on anyone.

Wasn't I basically stressing over how stressed I was? In fact, this was really sort of funny if I looked at it in just the right way. Yep, hysterical. And if I started laughing, I'd never stop.

Say I did crack up again, what would happen with Dan and me? Nobody was going to hang in there for that. You couldn't expect it. I tried to picture Dan driving down on visiting days to have lunch with me in my bathrobe.

I hugged the pillow and buried my face in the cool cotton. It smelled good. Like Dan. * * * * * I jerked awake to furtive rustling sounds.

«It's me.» Dan spoke from near the window. «I didn't want to startle you with the light.» Right, because creepy sounds in the darkness were a lot less alarming. «What time is it?»

«About three in the morning.» His shadow passed through the bars of moonlight. The mattress dipped on his side of the bed. I could hear the fatigue in his voice. «Do you need anything? You didn't eat dinner. Do you want some scrambled eggs?» «No.» «A hot drink?»

I had a sudden and totally inexplicable longing for the hot cocoa and plain animal cookies my mom used to fix me when I a little kid and feeling sick or sad. I hadn't seen or spoken to my mother in five years. Not since the memorable lunch where she'd spent the

first half reassuring me that there were doctors and clinics and therapies to help me get over being gay, and the second half crying about what she and my father could have done to deserve a son like me.

Two days later I'd checked myself into the hospital for a few weeks of R&R. But, it only took a day for me to realize that being depressed or nervous didn't mean I wasn't safe with the cutlery. The first step had been learning to trust myself. The second step had been putting a healthy distance between me and my family. «Nothing,» I told Dan. And then belatedly, «Thanks.»