Then he seemed to control himself.
She said, "At least, let me clean up? Just a shower please. I don't feel comfortable like this."
"I don't think so."
She snapped, "And you say you're Mr. Today? Bullshit. I just want to take a fucking shower and you won't let me?"
He frowned. "All right. Only don't say words like that. Don't ever say words like that again."
"All right, I won't."
"You can take a shower. But you know I have the only keys and there're no weapons here. And all the windows are barred."
"I figured that. I really just want to clean up."
He undid the cuffs and she rubbed her wrists.
Shoulders slumped, she walked through the narrow space into the bathroom.
"Oh, Kayleigh. Wait."
She stopped and turned. He was awkward. Was his face reddening? "About that woman I was telling you about. The one in Seattle. You don't have to be jealous. It wasn't serious between us. I never slept with her. Really. Honest."
Kayleigh could see he was lying but what shocked her was that he seemed honestly to believe that his fidelity was important to her.
He smiled. "Hurry back, love." And he walked into the bedroom to wait.
Chapter 75
EDWIN COULDN'T DECIDE which of her songs was his favorite.
But then he realized that that debate was a clunker, another of his mother's terms. It was like you didn't have a favorite kind of food, you liked everything (well, he did, at any rate--he would have weighed three hundred pounds if Kayleigh hadn't been in his life to keep him trim).
He clicked the air conditioner on a little higher--with the camouflage tarp covering the trailer it was beastly hot inside. But he still kept the temperature warm. Kayleigh, he'd noticed before she headed to the shower, had been sweating. The beads on her skin had turned him on even more. He imagined licking her temples and scalp and grew even more aroused. It had been okay fucking Sally, with Kayleigh Towne's voice singing through the speakers, but this would be a thousand times better.
The real thing.
Hey, that was a pretty good title for a song. "The Real Thing." He'd mention it to her. He had this idea that they could write songs together. He'd come up with the words and she'd write the melodies.
Edwin was good with words.
He thought again: Wedding afternoon. Not wedding night. Afternoon.
That was pretty funny.
That got him wondering if she'd ever made out with anybody when she and her family had lived here. There was that line in her song where she referred to "a little teenage lovin'," at the old house, which had made him absolutely furious when he'd first heard it. Then he remembered Bishop had sold the place when she was about twelve or thirteen. And because she was a good girl he doubted that she'd done anything more than kiss a boy and maybe do a little petting, which nonetheless also stabbed him with jealousy.
Bobby ...
He hoped the fucking roadie had felt a lot of pain as he died. At the convention center he hadn't screamed as much as Edwin would have liked.
Edwin listened to the running water, pictured her naked inside the shower. He was growing hard. He remembered the article in Rolling Stone about her.
Good Girl Makes Good.
And he decided to relent.
He'd forgive her for fucking Bobby. He'd ask her again and insist she be honest. He had to know but whatever she said, he'd forgive her.
He stripped his shirt off and kneaded his belly. Still a bit of excess skin from where he lost all that weight. But he'd kept the fat off, at least.
Anything for Kayleigh.
Should he take a shower too? No. He'd taken one that morning. Besides, she'd have to get used to having him on top of, or behind, her whenever he was in the mood, whether he was clean or not.
She was his wife, after all.
He turned on the radio and caught the news. It seemed the police hadn't gone with the innocent interpretation of Kayleigh's disappearance. Pike Madigan's voice was explaining solemnly about the kidnapping and alerting people that it was likely that Edwin Sharp and Kayleigh Towne were on their way west, heading toward the Monterey area.
"We don't know the vehicle they're in, but go to the website we've set up and you can find Sharp's picture."
Ah, I knew I could count on you, Sally, you lying little slut. He wondered momentarily who'd gotten her to talk. Kathryn Dance came to mind. Had to be her.
Of course, the diversion about Monterey would buy them only so much time. They'd have to move but this place would be safe for a month or so. Kayleigh had said she liked Austin. Maybe they'd go there next. It was Texas; there had to be wildernesses to hide out in. But then she also had commented in her "On the Road" blog that she liked Minnesota. That might be a better place, especially when she had the baby. The weather would be cooler. Tough to be pregnant in the heat, he imagined.
Babies ...
Edwin had Googled that cycle thing about women's bodies. He wondered where Kayleigh was with that. Then decided it didn't matter. They'd make love at least every other night, if not more. He'd hit the target sooner or later.
He undid his jeans, slipping his hand into his Jockeys, though he didn't need any preparation there.
Then the shower water stopped. She'd be toweling off now. He pictured her body. He decided to establish a rule that they had to walk around the trailer naked. They'd only get dressed when they went outside.
Inhaling deeply, he smelled the sweet scent of shampoo fragrance on the humid air.
"Edwin," Kayleigh said, a playful tone. "I made myself ready for you. Come look."
Grinning, he walked to the doorway and found her in front of the bathroom door, fully clothed.
Edwin Sharp blinked. Then the smile vanished and he cried out in horror.
Chapter 76
"NO, NO, NO! What'd you do?"
She'd found tiny blunt-end fingernail scissors in the vanity kit he'd bought. TSA approved for air travel and therefore safe.
But they would still cut. And that's just what she'd done with them: she'd sheared off all her hair.
"No!" He stared in horror at the pile of glistening blond strands on the bathroom floor as if looking at the body of a loved one.
"Kayleigh!"
A two-to three-inch mop of ragged fringe covered her head. She hadn't showered at all, she'd spent the ten minutes destroying her beautiful hair.
In a mad singsong, she mocked, "What's the matter, Edwin? Don't you like me now? Don't you want to stalk me anymore? ... It doesn't matter, does it? You love me, right? It doesn't matter what I look like."
"No, no, of course not. It's just ..." He thought he'd be sick. He was thinking, how long does it take for hair to grow?
Ten years, four months ...
She could wear a hat. No, he hated women in hats.
"I think it looks like you care a lot. In fact, you look real upset, Edwin."
"Why, Kayleigh? Why did you do it?"
"To show you the truth. You love the girl on the album covers, on CMT, on the videos and the posters. In Entertainment Weekly. You don't love me at all. Remember that day we were alone in the theater in Fresno? You said my voice and hair were the best things about me."
Maybe he could find somebody to take her hair and make a wig until it grew back. How could he do that, though? They'd recognize him, they'd report him. No, no, no, no, no! What was he going to do?
Kayleigh taunted, "You want to fuck me now? Now that I look like a boy?"
He walked forward slowly, staring at the pile of hair.
"Here!" she screamed and grabbed a handful, flung it at him. It flowed to the floor and Edwin dropped to his knees, desperately grabbing at the strands.
"I knew it," she muttered contemptuously, backing into the bathroom. "You don't know me. You don't have a clue who I am."
And then he got angry too. And the answer to her question was, Yes, I do know. You're the bitch I'm going to fuck in about sixty s
econds.
He started to rise. Then saw something in her hand. What--? Oh, it was just a cup. It had to be plastic. There wasn't anything inside that could be broken or made into a knife.
He'd thought of that.
But one thing he hadn't thought of.
What the cup held:
Ammonia, from under the sink. She'd filled it to the brim.
The cut hair wasn't a message or a lesson. It was a distraction.
He tried to turn away but Kayleigh stepped forward fast and flung the chemical straight into his face; it spread up his nose, into his mouth. He managed to save his eyes by half a second, though the fumes slipped up under his lids and burned like red-hot steel. He cried at the pain, pain worse than any he'd ever felt. Pain as a creature, an entity, a thing within his body.
Screaming, falling backward, wiping frantically at his face. Anything to get away! Choking, gasping, coughing.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
Then more pain as she hit him hard in the throat, the wound where he'd fired the bullet into his own neck.
He screamed again.
Doubling over, paralyzed, he felt her rip the keys from his pocket. He tried to grab her arm but she was quickly out of reach.
The bitter, biting chemical flowed deeper into his mouth and nose. He sneezed and spit and coughed and struggled to catch his breath. Edwin staggered to his feet and shoved his face under the faucet in the kitchen sink to rinse the terrible fire away.
But there was no water.
Kayleigh had run the supply dry.
Edwin stumbled to the refrigerator and yanked it open, feeling for a bottle of water. He found one and flushed his face, the cold liquid little by little dulling the sting. His vision, though fuzzy, returned. He stumbled to the front door, which she'd closed and locked. But he took a second key from his wallet and opened the door, then hurried outside, wiping his eyes.
He looked around. He spotted Kayleigh running down the road that led to the highway.
As the pain diminished, Edwin relaxed. He actually smiled.
The road was three miles long. Gravel. She was barefoot.
She wasn't going to get away.
Chapter 77
EDWIN STARTED AFTER her, jogging at first, then sprinting.
The terrible burn of the chemical had diminished his passion but not eliminated it. He was all the more driven to fling her to the ground, rip her jeans off. Then over onto her belly ...
Make her cry, the way he was crying. Teach her who was in charge.
He saw her disappear around a curve in the road, only a hundred feet away. He was closing fast.
Seventy feet, fifty ...
Teach her that she was his.
And then he turned the corner.
He ran for ten more steps, five, three, slowing, slowing. And then Edwin stopped. His shoulders sagging, coughing hard from the run and the ammonia.
And he laughed. He just had to.
Kayleigh stood with two people: a uniformed deputy and a woman, who had her arm around the singer.
Edwin laughed once more, a deep, hearty sound. The sound his mother made when she was happy and sober.
The man was a deputy he recognized from Fresno, the one with the thick black mustache.
And the woman, of course, was Kathryn Dance.
The deputy held a pistol, aimed squarely at Edwin's chest.
"Lie down," he called. "Lie down, on your belly, hands to your side."
Edwin debated. If I take one step I'll die.
If I lie down I'll go to jail.
Thinking, thinking ...
In jail at least he'd have a chance to talk to Kayleigh, possibly to see her. She'd probably come visit him. Maybe she'd even sing for him. They could talk. He could help her understand how bad everybody else was for her. How he was the man for her. How he was Mr. Today.
Edwin Sharp lay down.
As Kathryn Dance covered him with her pistol, the deputy circled around, cuffed his hands and lifted him to his feet.
"Could I get some water for my eyes please? They're burning."
The officer got a bottle and poured it over Edwin's face.
"Thank you."
Other cars were arriving.
Edwin said, "The news. I heard on the news--you thought we were in Monterey. Why did you come here?" He was speaking to the dust and gravel but the person his words were intended for answered.
Dance holstered her pistol and replied, "We have teams in Monterey, true, but mostly for the press. So you'd think you'd fooled us if you listened to the radio or went online. To me, it didn't make sense for you to go there. Why would you tell Sally Docking anything about a location unless you figured she'd tell us eventually? That is a pattern of yours, you know. Misinformation and scaring witnesses into lying.
"As for here? CSU found trace evidence near your house that could have come from a mining operation. I remembered Kayleigh's song 'Near the Silver Mine.' You knew she was unhappy Bishop sold the place and it made sense you wanted to bring her back here. We looked at some satellite pictures of the place and saw the trailer. Camouflage netting doesn't really work."
Edwin reflected that Kathryn Dance was impressive but she quickly vanished from his thoughts entirely as he looked toward Kayleigh, standing defiant, feet apart, staring back coldly. Still, he had the impression that there was a spark of flirt in her eyes.
As soon as her hair grew back, she'd be beautiful again.
God, did he love her.
Chapter 78
AT SEVEN-THIRTY THAT night Kathryn Dance was backstage at the convention center.
There'd been talk about canceling the concert but, curiously, Kayleigh Towne was the one who insisted that it go on. The crowds were rapidly filling the venue and Dance sensed the same electricity that she remembered from her times on stage as a folksinger, years ago.
There really was nothing like that utter exhilaration, the power of voice and music in unison, streaming from the speakers, the audience yours, the connection consuming. Once you've been up in front of the lights it's easy to understand the addiction of having thousands of people in your spell. The power, the drug of attention, affection, need.
It's why performers like Kayleigh Towne continue to climb up onstage, despite the exhaustion, the toll on families ... despite the risk from people like Edwin Stanton Sharp.
The singer was dressed for the concert--in her good-girl outfit, of course. The only difference was that tonight she was the good girl who'd just been playing softball with friends; on her head a Cal State Fresno Bulldogs' cap covered her shorn hair.
At the moment she was off to the side, "banging in" a new guitar. She wouldn't perform on her favorite Martin until it had been restrung and completely cleaned--because of the human bone picks Edwin had given her. Dance, as unsuperstitious as they came, couldn't blame her one bit; she herself might've thrown out the instrument and bought a new one.
"Well." P. K. Madigan wandered up, accompanied by a short, round woman of about forty. She had a pretty face, rooted forever in her high school years, with big cheerful eyes and freckles, framed by page-boy-cut brown hair. Dance found it charming that they held hands.
He introduced Dance to his wife.
"The CBI's welcome in Fresno anytime," Madigan told her, "provided you're the point person."
"It's a deal. Let's just hope you don't get any more cases like this one."
"We're gonna hear the concert," he added dubiously. "Or some of it. Long as it doesn't get too loud. Oh, here."
He thrust a box into her hand. Dance opened it and laughed. It was a Fresno Madera Consolidated Sheriff's Office badge.
"Tin star."
She thanked him and resisted the urge to pin it to her green silk blouse.
Madigan looked around grumpily and then said, "All righty then." He led his wife to their seats. It might have been Dance's imagination but he seemed to be looking for something in the back of the hall. Was it shadows or stalkers or ice cream
vendors?
Dance turned her attention back to Kayleigh, who'd handed off the new guitar to Tye Slocum with some instructions. The singer then spoke to the band about some last-minute changes in the order of who would take instrumental solos and when. She'd changed a verse in one of her original songs, one that was meant for Bobby. Now, it included a few lines for Alicia. She'd told Dance that she was praying that she could get through the number without crying.
Tye Slocum shyly approached and told her the action had been adjusted as she wanted. She thanked him and the big man waited a moment. His generally evasive eyes snuck a glance or two at the singer's face and then he headed off. One might infer something suspicious from the expressions and kinesics, but to Dance all they revealed was a sheen of adoration. Which would forever remain unrequited.
But it was clear that he would never act on his secret hope--beyond microsecond glances and making sure her guitars were ready for battle.
Tye Slocum defined the difference between the normal and the mad.
It was then that a man in chinos and starched dress shirt, without tie, came up to Kayleigh and Dance. He was in his midthirties and had a boyish grin. Curly black hair was losing the war against a shiny scalp.
"Kayleigh, hi." Nothing more for a moment, other than a polite nod to Dance. "I'm Art Francesco." Both Dance and Kayleigh regarded him cautiously until his all-access badge dangled forward.
"Hi," Kayleigh said absently. Dance assumed he was a friend of Bishop's; she thought she'd seen them talking earlier that night in the parking lot.
"I'm so sorry about everything's that happened. Your dad told me. What a terrible time. But that guy's in jail, right?"
"Yes."
"Thank God. Well, just wanted to say how happy I am we're going to do business together."
"Uh-hum. And who are you again?"
He frowned. "Art. Art Francesco." A pause and when she gave no reaction the man added, "Your father mentioned I'd be coming tonight, didn't he?"
"Afraid he didn't."
He laughed. "Isn't that just like Bishop--a genius, you know. Sometimes details elude him."
A card appeared.
Dance didn't have to be a kinesics expert to note the shock that went through Kayleigh's body. The agent glanced at the singer's hand. The card was JBT Global Entertainment.
"What do you mean, doing business?"
Francesco licked the corner of his mouth. "Well, I'm sorry. But--"