Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  “I’d bet my life on it. I’ll send you the link. Check it out for yourself, and you’ll see.”

  “Pat…”

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t know the woman if I tripped over her. That was freshman year, before you transferred to Marshall. I mean, you showed me a picture of her, but I barely remember what she looked like.”

  “Oh, God.” Patrick groaned.

  There was silence on the line.

  “Sully? You still there?”

  “Yeah… I’m just… Never mind.”

  “I need your help, Sul. I need it bad. Please. Get me whatever you can on the two names, Marybeth Redmond and Charlene Clark. See if you can find some kind of connection between them… anything. And while you’re at it, run a check on the husband, Dr. Wesley Clark. They’re from Rancho Santa Fe. I need to know what’s going on here.”

  “I will. I promise. But do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  Sully paused. “Just… go easy on yourself, will ya?”

  “I will.”

  “Because—”

  “I’ll get it under control,” Patrick said. “I won’t go off the deep end again, I swear. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” Sully said, his tone a mix of concern and warning, “but don’t make me come down there. I’ll do it. You know I will.”

  “A threat worth taking seriously.”

  “Bet your ass.”

  “I get it,” Patrick said, “and I appreciate it.”

  He clicked his phone off and looked at the computer screen. Marybeth’s photo stared back at him, her pale crystalline eyes like windows to his past. Only now it seemed the past had changed—someone had rewritten it when he wasn’t looking.

  Either that, or he really was losing his mind.

  But I saw it.

  That was the problem—he couldn’t stop seeing it. Horrific, unthinkable images of the only woman he’d ever loved, reduced to a burnt corpse, tendrils of resinous smoke curling through her dark, fleshless ribcage. Her once-beautiful, flawless face transformed into a frightening messenger of tragedy: just a scorched and eyeless skull, all jaws and teeth.

  The tears.

  The pain.

  Gone in an instant. Killed by her worst fear.

  Patrick’s mind rewound to the last time he saw her alive, smiling and waving from the sciences building’s second-story window, mouthing the words I love you. Marybeth had snuck in to retrieve the notebook she’d left there. Seconds later, a fiery explosion erupted, erasing the one person, the only person, who ever mattered to him. The only one who ever made him feel as though he mattered.

  He wound back even farther, thinking about those hushed words she’d whispered to him the night before she died. Words he would never forget.

  Never understand.

  Patrick threw his hands over his eyes and shook his head rapidly as if he could shake out the feelings. But he couldn’t, and he felt so terribly alone.

  Bullet nudged his leg. Patrick looked down. He ran a palm over the boy’s head, and the dog leaned into the motion, keeping his eyes on Patrick as if to say, It isn’t so. You’re not alone, not anymore.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Patrick said, trying to work up a smile. “It’s okay.”

  Chapter Four

  Marybeth’s head rests comfortably against my chest, her shoulder curled to the inside contour of my arm. She fits so perfectly there, as if we were made to connect this way. She gazes up at me with that beautiful smile.

  “What?” I say, trying to fight back my own grin.

  A mischievous expression slides across her face. “I want to show you something.”

  I look deeper into her eyes. I can’t stop looking, can’t stop loving her.

  Amused by my curiosity, she slips away from my arms, sits up, and with a playful wink says, “Follow me.”

  “What is it?” I ask, intrigued by her impishness.

  “You’ll see,” she replies with a singsong voice as she gets out of bed. Slowly, she moves forward, looking back at me every few steps, still flashing that smile.

  When I catch up to her, I throw my arms over her shoulders, press my body against hers and my lips against the back of her neck. I close my eyes and breathe in her scent, then I spin her around for a deep, passionate kiss. She reciprocates with a helpless moan, locking her hands behind my neck, pulling my mouth harder against hers. I can taste her, smell her, feel her—I can’t get enough of her. I want to stay here forever, wrapped up with her: connected to her. I realize this is how it is meant to be. How we are meant to be.

  She gently pulls away, holds my gaze, and presses a finger against my lips. “Sexy man,” she whispers.

  I grin.

  She proceeds toward the dresser. When she gets there, she wraps her pinky around the knob of the top drawer while holding my eye contact as if to tease me. Her voice glides up an octave as she says, “Are you ready?”

  I play along with a quick wink and anxious nod.

  She pulls open the drawer and gazes inside, pushing her hair behind each ear, looking like a little girl filled with excitement and wonder. I’m enjoying it immensely.

  She whispers, “Come and see.”

  So I do.

  And feel my skin crawl, and a burn in my stomach, and my eyes forcing themselves wide open with shock. I step away, appalled.

  “Don’t you like it?” she says with a pout, as if wounded by my reaction.

  Inside the drawer is a human heart, wrapped so tightly with wire that the flesh bulges between the gaps as the muscle beats, laboring, trying to pump through the tight confines.

  She reaches inside and pulls it out. Blood drips down her arm and the dresser, splattering into a pool on the floor. She presses her lips against the heart, kissing it, then she looks at me.

  With blood covering her mouth, she says, “It’s yours.”

  I shake my head quickly.

  “It is,” she assures me. “It really is, baby.”

  I look down at myself. First I see the blood oozing down my stomach, then I discover the gaping hole in the center of my chest. I look up at her and scream.

  She lets out a tiny giggle that erupts into hysterical laughter. The sound echoes inside my head, through the room, so loud it’s almost deafening.

  Patrick shot straight up in bed to the sound of his own quick breaths. He couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. Then he felt the wet T-shirt clinging to his body and instinctively threw his hands over his chest.

  I’m bleeding.

  He flicked the lamp on and looked down: no blood, just perspiration.

  Patrick buried his face in his hands, trying to steady the labored breaths shooting out between his fingers.

  He scrambled to the bathroom and filled the sink with water, lowered his face into it. The harsh sensation was like a cold slap. He didn’t care; he needed it—or needed something—to jar himself from this confusion, this sorrow. Then he wondered if he’d ever again see a night where he didn’t wake up in the dark hours, scared half to death.

  He lifted his head and saw his face in the mirror, colorless and soaked.

  And wondered if he was staring into the eyes of a fool.

  Chapter Five

  Morning sunlight filtered through his drapes, casting a dismal haze throughout the room. The air felt flat and dormant as if waiting for something to give it life.

  Patrick threw the covers over his head.

  The night had not been kind. He’d spent most of his time tossing, turning, and thinking.

  About Marybeth. He wanted to trust she’d been a victim, that she’d never wanted to leave him. He wanted to believe that if she wasn’t actually dead, she might still love him.

  He wanted to, but he couldn’t—not yet. Not until he knew the truth.

  Patrick made his way to the kitchen on autopilot. He fed the dog. He flipped on the coffee machine. He reached for the remote and aimed it at the TV. It was all movement and mechanics.

&n
bsp; Mindlessly, he poured his cup, eyes half-open, half-listening to the jolly banter between two news anchors who sounded like they’d just sucked helium. “As mentioned earlier, we’re working on a developing story out of Mexico.”

  Patrick lifted his cup off the counter, glancing at the TV with negligible interest.

  “We’ve just received word that a body’s been found that may be connected to a missing Rancho Santa Fe couple. Jack Webber’s in the newsroom with more. Jack?”

  Patrick set his cup down with a trembling hand, nearly spilling his coffee.

  The reporter in the newsroom looked disheveled but all business, his top button undone, his tie loosened. “Information’s moving very slowly out of Mexico this morning, Susan, but here’s what we know right now: a female body was discovered early this morning in the residential neighborhood of La Azucena, in Tijuana. Authorities are only saying they believe the body is that of Charlene Clark.” He gave a single, downward nod, along with a solemn expression. “Susan, this is no longer a missing persons case. They’re now calling it a homicide.”

  The anchor said, “Jack, any word on the cause of death yet?”

  “Authorities will only say that the investigation is ongoing. We hope to have more for you at noon.”

  “Thanks, Jack. When we return, a look at your weekend weather…”

  Patrick stared at the TV, seeing nothing.

  Gone. In a blink of an eye, and this time for good. I never had a chance.

  He stood helplessly in the middle of the room. Then the notebook on the coffee table claimed his attention. He focused on it, and the more he looked, the more its familiar, enticing draw pulled him in, whispering those sweet words, telling him that it would be okay to indulge himself just this once, that he deserved it, even needed it. He moved closer, reaching out to the notebook like a long-lost friend. Then he stopped just short of making contact, realizing he was about to put his hand in the fire.

  “No,” he told himself.

  And then he disobeyed his own command, snatching up the notebook as if his next breath depended on it and, with a shaky but determined hand, began writing.

  Seven minutes and seven pages later, he was still writing, his hand trembling and stinging, his palm wet with sweat. The pen slipped from his fingers, ripping a hole through the page. He heaved the notebook across the room, the pen too, and opened his throat in a primal scream. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth, he fell onto the couch, shame and revulsion firing through him like bad blood, angry at himself for again giving in to the sweet, toxic temptation—the one he simultaneously loved and hated, the demon he thought he would never be able to conquer.

  He reached for his phone and dialed Dr. Ready’s number. Her voicemail came on immediately.

  “I need to see you,” he said, voice shallow and weak. “I… I really need to see you. Right now.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed, gasping for air.

  “Please, help me.”

  Chapter Six

  The moment Dr. Ready opened the door and locked eyes with Patrick’s, her expression gave way to concern. In a gentle, reassuring voice she said, “Why don’t you come inside.”

  Patrick stood and with heavy feet, moved into the office.

  “She’s gone,” he blurted out.

  Dr. Ready closed the door, keeping her attention on him, her face of concern now shading toward confusion.

  He collapsed onto the couch, dropped his face into his hands.

  “Who’s gone, Patrick?” she said, tentatively lowering herself into her chair.

  He pressed his hands together, shook his head. Said nothing.

  “Patrick… talk to me. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Marybeth is dead,” he said, his voice trailing into a hoarse whisper.

  “Yes,” she said. “Marybeth’s been dead for years.”

  “No, she was alive. I saw her.”

  “You’re having the dreams again…”

  “No. In real life. I saw her in real life.”

  “Patrick, how is that possible?”

  “A photo of her!” He stood and began pacing, his voice ramping to match his frustration. “It was on the news.”

  “Why was Marybeth’s picture on the news?”

  Still pacing, hands raking through his hair, he said, “Her name’s Charlene now… or it was. She was missing, and now she’s dead, before I could even find her, and I don’t know if… My God… I’ve been having the dreams about her, about the fire, and then this happens. Not only has she been alive, but she’s been living here in San Diego all these years!”

  “Patrick, it makes perfect sense you’ve been having the dreams. We’ve been doing a lot of emotional connection work together. This is normal. The dreams have nothing to do with whatever you’ve just found out.”

  “But my mind is so tangled right now. I don’t know what to—”

  “Patrick,” she said, careful and steady, “please, have a seat and take a deep breath. We’ll sort through this together. Okay?”

  He stopped to consider her for a moment. He collected himself. He plodded back to the couch.

  Dr. Ready said, “Now let’s take it one step at a time, because I don’t want to miss anything. Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened.”

  As he took her through the story, she leaned back in her chair, watching him with an expression of careful neutrality. He caught it and said, “You think I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “You’re not crazy, Patrick.”

  “Then tell me what’s going on, because if I’m not crazy now, I’m scared to death I might be very soon.”

  Dr. Ready shrugged and shook her head. “There has to be some logical explanation. And you’re sure Charlene Clark is Marybeth?”

  “God! Why the hell does everyone keep asking me that? I’m not making this up!”

  “I’m not saying you are. But it’s possible that you could be confused. It’s been more than fifteen years. A lot can change.”

  He reached up with both hands and grabbed onto his hair. “I’m not confused, and I know it was her.”

  She took a moment to study him, thinking before speaking, then, “And you won’t consider that there could be some other explanation.”

  “I won’t.” He shook his head ardently. “I can’t.”

  “Okay, then. If you’re sure it’s her, there’s only one thing you can do.”

  “I need to figure this out. I have to.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I’m a journalist. A good one, or at least I used to be, before all this…” His voice faltered, doubt creeping in and strong-arming his confidence.

  “You still are, Patrick.”

  “I’m just so…”

  “What?”

  “So angry. So confused. So—” He raised his fists, speaking through gritted teeth. “—I don’t know what I am anymore! I don’t even know who she was!”

  “Then you need to find those answers, Patrick. Use the feelings. Let them mobilize instead of paralyze you. Whatever happened, you can’t change it, but you can still get to the truth.”

  “I’m scared of the truth. What if the truth is that she never loved me, that she just left me like a stupid chump? What if everything was a lie?”

  “You don’t know that, Patrick, but either way, you have to find out. This has been on your mind for a long time, and it’s been getting worse. You needed this—you needed it in order to go on with your life.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s okay to be scared, but the only way to get past your fear is to move through it.”

  “But how do you move through something that’s no longer here, something that maybe never was?”

  “By searching for truth. You find it, you face it, and then you move on.”

  Chapter Seven

  Find it. Face it.

  The words lingered in Patrick’s mind, and the farther he drove
from Dr. Ready’s office, the more his confusion and sadness wheeled toward anxious determination. He was a good journalist. A damned good one. He didn’t have much anymore, but he still had that. Nobody could take it away from him, not Julia, not even Marybeth—she might be dead, but that didn’t mean the truth had to be buried with her, and finding it was a better road than the one paved with helplessness and interminable grief. He’d been driving that crazy freeway for far too long.

  Hungry for the latest news on the Clarks, and too impatient to wait until he got home, Patrick stopped at a convenience store to grab the newspaper. Sitting in his car, he started reading.

  Rumors were beginning to surface that the couple had been having marital troubles, but investigators still weren’t willing to call Wesley Clark a suspect.

  Interesting.

  They were probably awaiting lab results on the blood found at Las Brisas—until then, they had no way of knowing whether the blood belonged to one or both of the Clarks. Those results might help them zero in on what had happened that night. Blood was life—Patrick knew that more intimately than most. As a reporter, he also knew that blood wrote the story of death, speaking truth when the victim no longer could. It was like ink: red, immediate, and indelible.

  He read on. Information had also leaked out that security cameras at the compound showed neither of the Clarks arriving home that evening after the fundraiser. Patrick realized they must have gone straight to Las Brisas.

  But why? And what happened after that?

  His journalist’s mind began sorting through logistics. He wondered whether there were signs of a struggle at the house and if the couple’s credit cards or cell phone records revealed activity after they disappeared. Then he realized chances were slim he’d find those answers—not with Detective Steve Pike working the damned case. Getting information from him would be like pulling teeth from an alligator. Pike loathed the media, especially after the Waters scandal several years before while the detective was working narcotics.

  Eighteen-year-old Ryan Waters had been a junkie—there was no question about it—and he loved his crystal meth; in fact, he was jacked up on an eight ball when Pike’s narcotics team stormed the apartment to arrest him. They swept the place and saw no one else at home—or so they thought—but while reading Ryan his Miranda rights, heard a noise in one of the bedrooms. After realizing someone was under the bed, Pike yelled for the person to come out, hands up. A hand with a gun emerged first, aimed at the squad. They weren’t aware it was a black plastic squirt gun until after Pike pumped a round through the mattress and into the head of Ryan’s eight-year-old brother, who was hiding in fright from the commotion.