Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  “Jocelyn Fairchild,” she said.

  “The doctor he owns the center with?”

  “Yeah, but trust me. Those two were swapping a helluva lot more than test tubes.”

  “Any proof?”

  “Word was, one of the employees walked in on them while they were getting it on in his office, but Char had her suspicions long before that. Anyway, take it from me. Fairchild is serious trouble. I’d watch her if I were you.”

  “Any particular reason? Besides the alleged affair, I mean.”

  “She’s the kind of person who’ll smile right in your face, but watch the hands—they move fast, and if you’re not careful, they’ll rip the lungs right out of your chest.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Not exactly a ringing endorsement for Jocelyn Fairchild, but the word on Wesley Clark seemed even worse. Still unclear was how Wesley fit in with the homicide investigation. Charlene Clark’s body had already been found, but her husband’s was unaccounted for, and nobody knew whether he was dead or alive. But after hearing about Wesley’s alleged marital infidelities, there was still one body that Patrick definitely wanted to see—the one that was alive and running the center.

  Clark-Fairchild sat on a westward-facing bluff in Del Mar overlooking the ocean, a prime slice of real estate. The building itself looked more like a posh rehab facility than a cancer treatment center. Ivory steps flowed like silken ribbon to a modern three-story structure of white concrete and slick, mirrored glass. A refined and masterfully elegant sculpture stood out front, tall and proud: part phallic, part bronze, and part that-must-have-cost-a-bundle. It seemed Clark’s excesses didn’t end at home.

  Inside, the orgy of superfluity raged on with Italian marble floors so shiny they looked like coral-colored ice. Water tumbled playfully down a colorful glass fountain that hugged the reception area. Overhead, a clear elevator cube swept its way to the top floor where it kissed a beautiful glass-domed ceiling, then made a graceful, earthward decent.

  Patrick felt ill.

  He decided to poke around a bit before hunting down Fairchild, unless someone challenged him.

  But nobody did: things were hopping here, the staff far too busy dealing with their abundance of patients. Patrick breezed past the consulting rooms, ten in all, each occupied by a frightened-looking patient and an unctuous-looking doctor. Just as he passed, two rooms emptied out, only to have more potential patients fill the spots. Pricey cancer cures seemed to be a hot commodity. He wondered where all the people came from. Treatment at a center this swanky, and in this part of town, couldn’t be cheap.

  He turned his head and saw trouble coming down the chute: a security guard heading his way with an expression that was not at all warm and fuzzy. Big dude with a shaved, egg-shaped head atop a cinderblock neck. Pants yanked halfway to his chest, a likely attempt to hide the expanding girth that didn’t want to play nicely.

  Trying to think fast on his feet, Patrick rushed to the guard and with the most distraught voice and expression he could manage, said, “Excuse me. I can’t find my wife. Can you tell me where the cafeteria is? I’m supposed to meet her there.” He capped the performance with an Oscar-caliber frown.

  The guard relaxed a millimeter, pointed toward the opposite side of the building, and said, “Down that hallway, second door on the left.”

  “Thanks so much,” Patrick replied, still working the bad theatrics. “She told me it was on this side, but she’s really shaken up after her diagnosis. I’m sure she got confused.”

  Guard bought that one, too.

  It wasn’t the most clever ploy he’d ever used to save-ass, but the guard’s reaction was a good indication that the place was mindful of intruders—especially ones who liked to snoop. Patrick knew he might end up with his can kicked to the curb if the guard caught up with him again. Now he just needed to figure out where to find Jocelyn Fairchild. He headed for the receptionist’s counter, where a nameplate informed him the woman sitting behind it was Samantha. She greeted him with a spirited smile.

  He tried the wife routine again.

  “Would you like me to page her?” Samantha asked.

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not. That would be a bad idea.” Patrick frowned. “She’s very upset about her diagnosis.”

  Samantha frowned back, nodding.

  “But I was just wondering,” he continued. “She mentioned she was supposed to see Dr. Fairchild, I think?”

  “Oh, yes,” Samantha said. “The doctor is in consultations this afternoon. I could call her if you’d like. What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Quack,” Patrick said.

  Samantha looked confused.

  “Sheila Quack,” he confirmed, nodding.

  Confusion turned to reason—or something like it—and the smile blossomed again.

  “But no need to bother the doctor,” Patrick said. “I’m sure she’s with my wife as we speak. I’ll just go on over and wait for her. Can you tell me where they might be?”

  “Certainly.” She pointed to the hallway Patrick had just left. “Right down there. I believe I saw Dr. Fairchild in Room 3?”

  “Room 3,” Patrick repeated, with a quick, affirmative nod. “Thank you so very much.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Quack,” Samantha replied.

  He walked back toward the consultation area. In the waiting room, he thumbed through a magazine, keeping one eye on Room 3. A few moments later, Security Stooge came strolling by again, observing Patrick with renewed interest.

  “I finally found her. She’s in there now,” Patrick said, pointing toward the room. The stooge seemed satisfied—although, a smile was apparently still not an option—and went on his way.

  About five minutes later, the door to Room 3 opened, and a woman emerged sobbing, tattered tissue clenched in one hand. A man, probably her husband, guided her out with a comforting hand on her shoulder. Then a guy wearing a white medical coat exited the room briskly.

  Unless Dr. Fairchild had recently undergone sex-reassignment surgery, Patrick was pretty sure the dude in the coat wasn’t her.

  He edged his way toward the room and peered inside: empty. As he turned around, he saw the Security Stooge coming his way again. Patrick darted back to the seating area, grabbed a pamphlet off the table, and pretended to be fully engrossed in Tips and Advice for Breastfeeding Mothers. The guard turned up the hallway, and Patrick decided this was becoming a royal waste of time. Frustrated, he headed toward the lobby.

  Halfway down the hall, a door swung open, smacking him in the knee, and narrowly missing his face. “Oh, my! I’m so sorry!” a woman’s voice said.

  Patrick rubbed his leg, and then looked up into the face of Dr. Jocelyn Fairchild.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, touching an appeasing hand to his shoulder.

  “I think so,” he replied, enjoying the perfection of kismet. He delivered a grimace, followed by an impressive groan.

  “Please,” she said, running the hand lightly down his back. “Let’s get you to a seat and take a look at that knee. I’m a doctor.”

  Yes, he knew.

  She was also a babe, Patrick decided as she sat beside him to check his knee. In her late thirties, she looked like she’d been keeping up on the Pilates. Her crisp white medical coat stopped just short of firm, muscular calves, like two shapely bowling pins. Upstairs, the party was rocking, too: slender waist, firm breasts, well-defined cheekbones covered by silky smooth skin. Wesley Clark had outstanding taste in women—too bad the reverse was true for them. Rich bastard.

  “There appears to be some minor swelling,” she said. “I’m really very sorry. Can I get you something, maybe? A beverage?”

  “Actually,” he said, forcing an ironic laugh. “It’s kind of funny this happened. I was hoping to meet you.”

  Her posture stiffened, her head shifting a side notch away from him.

  “My name is Patrick Bannister, and I’m a reporter for National Monthly.” He really needed to stop saying that. Although really, h
e hadn’t exactly been fired, just placed on Hate and Ignore. No pink slip yet. He was good. He continued, “I’m doing a story about the Clarks. Would you mind talking to me?”

  She pushed a flawlessly highlighted tress behind each ear, her head slightly lowered, mouth slightly ajar. Patrick had seen all this before: Awkward Avoidance on the horizon.

  “Dr. Fairchild?” he said.

  She glanced at her watch, gave a mechanical smile. “You know, as much as I’d love to, I really don’t have time. I have patients to see.” The tone wasn’t tense—not just yet—but it seemed to ride the undercurrent. Awkward Avoidance had officially landed.

  “It won’t take but a few minutes,” he offered.

  “Really, I’m sorry, I’d love to…” she said, but her head was shaking no.

  “Dr. Fairchild,” he persisted, “I’m trying to help find out what happened to your business partner.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the investigators. I think we should leave it up to them to figure it out. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She spun and headed fast down the hall like a speed walker in open-toe slingbacks.

  He called out, “Dr. Fairchild, a ‘no comment’ from you in my story won’t serve your image well.”

  Not bothering to turn around, she said, “I’m a doctor. My image—and my priority—is helping my patients.”

  Patrick ran up and jogged alongside her. He said, “I’m just wondering, because there’s been talk of marital problems between the Clarks.”

  She walked faster.

  “Even rumors of a possible affair.”

  Her expression hardened. She kept moving and said, “I know nothing about any of that.”

  “I’d think you would.”

  She offered him a fleeting glare, kept walking.

  “Because,” Patrick said, “the rumor is he was having it with you.”

  Fairchild body-slammed an invisible wall. She turned to look at Patrick. The smile had gone south, replaced now with the most venomous glare Patrick had ever seen. As she spoke, her lips moved, but the rest of her face was stone, her words framed with razor precision: “You really do not want to fuck with me, Mr. Bannister. I promise, if you do, I’ll make sure the most sincere wish of your lifetime is that you’d never set eyes on me.”

  Patrick felt the sharp chill of her words, and then a firm hand clutching each of his shoulders. He turned his head and found Security Stooge behind him, who didn’t appear happy, either.

  “Mr. Bannister is leaving,” Fairchild said, the heat of her glare intensifying. It wasn’t just a statement—it was a direct order. “Please be sure he finds his way to the door.”

  Patrick pulled out of the parking lot, shaking his head. He’d been thrown out of lousier places, and this one had been a privilege. The building was beautiful, but Patrick’s instincts told him something ugly was going on in there.

  And he knew something else: a story was starting to emerge, one with more kinks than a roll of razor wire and just as many barbs. Lilliana could sling nasty with the best of them, but Jocelyn Fairchild had made it look like a game of Sunday croquet. And as smart as the woman was, she sure hadn’t acted that way; in fact, losing her cool only made her look worse. Patrick didn’t need more confirmation on the affair: Fairchild’s eyes had said it all. The only question now was whether she’d had a hand in Charlene Clark’s murder.

  Marybeth’s murder.

  Patrick took a deep, despondent breath and kept driving.

  He turned his thoughts to National Monthly and Julia. This story was getting more interesting at every turn, and Patrick knew he could cover it better than anyone; the only problem was getting the chance.

  On impulse, he snatched his phone, punched the autodial, and immediately got Julia’s voicemail. He stayed on the line anyway, hoping for one final shot.

  “Look,” he said after the beep, “I know you don’t want to talk to me anymore, and I know I screwed up. I totally get that, but at least listen to me. Please. I’m working something big here—it’s huge—and I’ve been covering it since it started. I’ve made connections with the major players, and I can seriously nail this, and I know I can make things right by you… if you’ll just let me.”

  He went on, explaining the whole story, how it had every element the magazine craved, and that it was sure to be a winner.

  “Julia,” he continued, “I’ve been through some rough stuff this past year. I know that’s not your problem but… I’m doing great now… really, I am. Please, just give me one more chance.” He stopped. He could hear the raw need in his voice. It was embarrassing. “I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”

  Patrick hung up, feeling like he’d done more harm than good. Feeling once again humiliated.

  Once again defeated.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “How do you feel today, Patrick?”

  He thought about it. He wasn’t sure—not at first—but as he focused in, he realized he felt, “Lost.”

  Dr. Ready crossed her legs and leaned slightly forward, questioning him with an attentive, compassionate gaze.

  “And lonely,” he added. “So very lonely…”

  Her eyebrows drew together, and she nodded with concern. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  He looked out through the window, shaking his head. “It’s been this way for so long.” The words were out, but the pitiful truth lingered deep and weighty inside his chest.

  She nodded. “Can you remember any time when you didn’t feel that way?”

  “I’ve caught glimpses, but they were so fleeting, almost like they were dealt to me by mistake, and then someone pulled them away after they realized.”

  “Why do you feel you don’t deserve to be loved?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t deserve it.”

  She raised a brow.

  His smile was weak. He shrugged. “People kept their distance.” He paused and thought. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Could it be possible it was actually the other way around?”

  He tilted his head.

  “I’m just wondering if because of the way Camilla treated you, maybe you became fearful, making a choice to keep yourself at a distance from others. As a result, your interpretation became distorted.”

  He thought about that—he’d never even considered it.

  “Tell me. What was it like when you first realized you could be loved? Do you remember?”

  The memory was like a splinter of light in smothering darkness. His gaze went distant, his mind traveling deep into the past. Suddenly, he was there again with Marybeth. “We were sitting under a giant willow. It was on campus, right by a road. She had her head in my lap…”

  The doctor nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “I was running my fingers through her hair. Cars were flying by, but we barely noticed. So peaceful…”

  “What was?”

  “The feeling. Everything. Us. Suddenly, at that very moment, it was like the world made sense. We made sense. Nothing else mattered.”

  “It must have felt wonderful.”

  He gazed toward his lap, and he could almost see Marybeth lying there, smiling. “She looked into my eyes—I mean, deep, like no one had ever done before. She touched my face and said, ‘I love you, Patrick. I love you so much because you are kind, and you are good.’ ”

  He could feel the doctor watching him in momentary silence. Her voice was soft and gentle when she said, “What was it like for you to hear that?”

  He looked up at her, his vision clouded over by the memory. His voice was faint, his words faltering. “Nobody had ever said that to me… that they loved me. It was the first time I knew it was possible. I didn’t even know what love was.”

  “Because love was never made available to you, Patrick, but you knew what it was. We all do.”

  Her words struck hard. He turned his head, as if trying to turn from his pain, but it was still there, still staring him in the face. “Why?”

  “Why what?”


  “Why did Camilla do that to me? Why couldn’t she just love me?”

  “Because, Patrick, she didn’t know how.”

  He felt that sink in. “She hid it from me.”

  “She didn’t just hide it. She fought like hell to make sure you never knew it existed. She was terrified of love, and she made you afraid of it, too.”

  The sadness in that truth took hold of him, a grip so tight he could barely breathe. Through a soft, trembling voice, eyes welling with tears, he said, “She had no right. It was so wrong.”

  “She was supposed to love you, Patrick. That was her job, but instead she destroyed your faith in it.”

  He gazed into the doctor’s eyes, saw his own sadness reflected in them, then looked away because he couldn’t endure it any longer. Shaking his head, speaking in soft disgust, he said, “She did a great job.”

  “But you’re not broken, Patrick. You’re badly hurt, but you can love. You deserve love.”

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know what I feel…”

  “Confused?”

  He closed his eyes tightly. “God, yes. And…”

  “And what?”

  “And… and angry,” he said, with a vehemence that surprised him.

  “Good,” she said.

  “It doesn’t feel good. It feels horrible.”

  She leaned in toward him. “That’s because you’re finally letting it in—you were never able to because she wouldn’t let you.”

  The truth in those words sliced to the deepest part of him. He wrapped his arms around his waist and began rocking himself, as if by doing so he could rock away the pain.

  “Patrick, just feel it.”

  “I can’t,” he said through heavy breaths and clenched teeth.

  “You can.” Her voice became louder. “Take control. Take the power away from everyone who has ever hurt you before. Take the feelings back, Patrick. Accept them and then let them go. Once and for all.”

  “THEY MADE ME FUCKING ANGRY! OKAY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT ME TO SAY?”

  Then he leaned forward, dropped his face into his hands, and wept like he never had before. The pain had found a way out—a pain so powerful that it was literally squeezing the air from his lungs. A pain that had been hiding deep within him for years, marinating in him. Destroying him.