Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Now it seemed one was chasing him, and it seemed there was no escape.

  Patrick sat up in bed. He looked at the clock. It was nine a.m. He’d tried going back to sleep several times, but it wasn’t going to happen. Too much chaos. Too much worry.

  His cell went off and he lifted it, immediately recognizing Dr. Ready’s number. He turned the phone over onto the bed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He’d been avoiding her calls because he didn’t want to talk about his feelings anymore; feelings hurt and, after the last appointment, jumping through emotional hoops was the last thing he needed. Besides, with the way things were going right now, figuring out his feelings would be about as easy as defining the edges on paint splatter.

  The mechanical ding went off on his phone: Dr. Ready now safely quarantined to voicemail. Problem solved.

  At least for now.

  He managed to pull his worn-out ass from bed and drag it toward the kitchen, dull pangs of sleepiness throbbing behind his eyes, a slow-burning headache not far behind. But his most immediate worry slid easily through the fog and into the forefront of his mind.

  Hell hath no fury.

  It wasn’t just a statement; it was a threat. He contemplated who his phantom terrorist could be, and right away Jocelyn Fairchild came to mind. He hadn’t just scorned her—he’d managed to piss her off in a supreme way. The ice princess had thrown out some seriously nasty vibes along with a precise and stern warning. If there were any question whether she was capable of this, the steel wrath in her eyes removed them all.

  Another thing also seemed clear: his stalker was getting bolder and more dangerous, not only breaking into the cottage where he’d been staying but also trying to get into his mind. It was hardly a stretch to think Fairchild could be orchestrating this as a means of intimidation, hoping to curb his curiosity about the Clark case. The car invasion had happened pre-Fairchild-confrontation, but that could have just as easily been a coincidence. Everything else came after, and they all had the mark of retribution branded all over them.

  He poured some coffee and then, in his office, powered up the laptop. The alleged affair had been Fairchild’s hot button. Now that it was up on the radar, Patrick knew where to start. Hanky-panky could be a strong motivator for murder, and Charlene Clark might have been caught in the middle. What he still couldn’t figure out was how that might have been connected with the fire all those years ago and a failed attempt on Marybeth’s life. There was no link Patrick could see.

  Then there was the lawsuit Lilliana had mentioned in which her husband, Chet the Attorney, had represented Wesley. Maybe it had no bearing, but Patrick wanted to rule it out sooner rather than later.

  Scanning through newspaper archives and court documents, Patrick saw the suit had been filed by Gerard Tillsdale on behalf of his deceased wife, Gretchen, who had undergone treatment for stage IV non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Several weeks into her therapy, she suffered cardiac arrest and died. A private autopsy ordered by the family revealed two very interesting findings: one, her death was caused by a combination of drugs—that were not approved for treating cancer—and two, Mrs. Tillsdale didn’t actually have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

  She had Lyme disease.

  Mr. Tillsdale settled out of court for an undisclosed award, code for: We fork over the big bucks, you keep your mouth shut, and the whole thing goes away. The California Medical Board took no action against Clark—not a surprise, since there was no longer a grieving husband to agitate—but Patrick was willing to bet they were keeping a close eye on the doctor.

  He read on.

  The attorney representing Tillsdale was Rebecca Miller. There was also a list of witnesses for the plaintiff, but nothing to indicate whether any of them were Clark’s patients. One witness, Helene Lockhart, was identified as Clark’s former employee. No word on whether she’d been fired or left on her own accord, but ex-employees were often eager to pull back the curtain on their bosses. Helene Lockhart could be lightning in a bottle.

  Patrick wondered whether any of Clark’s other patients had filed complaints against him. The Medical Board of California made disciplinary actions and complaints readily available through their website. Patrick went there and found pay dirt. Five years before the Tillsdale suit, a woman named Jodie Silva filed a complaint against Clark for misdiagnosing her stage IV non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma as well. The board had responded with an investigation and a warning to Wesley Clark.

  Two cases of misdiagnosis, or medical fraud? Patrick was leaning toward the latter.

  A search of Jocelyn Fairchild’s background turned up something just as interesting. She’d had a few tangles herself with the Medical Board while operating a clinic up in Los Angeles: one disciplinary action for misdiagnosing a patient, plus a couple of health code violations. A few stern warnings later, along with the threat of having her license revoked, she packed it in and headed south to San Diego. That must have been when she and Clark joined up.

  Quackery times two.

  There was only one Gerard Tillsdale listed in San Diego. Patrick dialed the number, but the man cut him short, saying the terms of the settlement forbade him from discussing the case. “Talk to my attorney,” he said, and hung up.

  Patrick took the advice and threw Rebecca Miller the next pitch.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s a no-go for me, too. Terms of the agreement. Can’t discuss the case.”

  “Is there anyone you know who can talk?”

  “Maybe Clark’s attorney?”

  “He’s not terribly helpful.”

  “Sorry, my hands are tied.”

  Patrick hung up. Strike two, bases empty.

  He found Helene Lockhart’s number fairly easily. She was working at a doctor’s office in La Mesa, and she gave him the most direct brush-off he’d had since Lilliana. “I’m not interested in talking about Dr. Clark. Leave me alone.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  “The reason is that I don’t want to.” Her tone wasn’t exactly nasty, but it was headed there.

  Patrick figured he had nothing to lose by pushing his luck. “Would you mind being a little more specific?”

  She hung up.

  Pretty specific, although not much help. It appeared Wesley Clark had done one hell of a job locking down the flow of information.

  Patrick checked his notes. One name left. Jodie Silva, the other misdiagnosed patient, a horse trainer in Lakeside with a phone number listed on her website—and, at last, a friendly voice. “I’d be more than happy to talk to you,” she said.

  He hits it out of the park. “I’m guessing you’ve got a story to tell.”

  “Yeah, the story is, the man nearly killed me.”

  “The bad cancer diagnosis?”

  “I had all this treatment, and I just kept getting sicker. He told me it was normal, that it would get worse before it got better… to stick with it.”

  “So you did?”

  “Yeah, because I was scared, and because he kept promising me results. Then I decided to get a second opinion. And guess what?”

  “No cancer.”

  “Nope. Not a trace.”

  “Was it by any chance Lyme disease?”

  She fell silent.

  “Still there?” Patrick said.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “Oh, good Lord.”

  “Did he ever give you an explanation for the misdiagnosis?”

  “Claimed it was an honest mistake, and they believed him. Mistake, my ass.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind. It was deliberate.”

  “But why? Why would he do that?”

  “One word: greed. I had money, and I was stupid and vulnerable, and he took full advantage of it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “When he gave me the cancer diagnosis, he told me my prognosis wasn’t good, that there was no effective treatment available for what
I had. Then he gave me hope with some new medicine. Said it was still going through clinical trials down in Mexico, but the results were nothing short of amazing. Completely safe. No side effects. But it could be years before it was approved for use in the US, and by then it would be too late for me.”

  “So you went for it.”

  “Hook, line, and sinker, but since the drug hadn’t been approved yet, he said insurance wouldn’t cover it, that I’d have to pay cash.”

  “And you did.”

  “Dumb. All I could think about was my daughter, my grandchildren, how I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to them yet. It’s amazing how far you’re willing to bend when you think your last breath’s just around the corner. He knew that. He took advantage.”

  “Just playing devil’s advocate here, Ms. Silva, but how do you know it wasn’t actually a mistake?”

  “Because after I went for a second opinion, I requested he send my records to the new place. He never did. I called his office for weeks, and all I kept getting were excuses. I got sick of it, so I walked in and demanded they hand them over.”

  “And?”

  “They did, but not all of them.”

  “Huh?”

  “There were pages missing, including any evidence of the drug from Mexico… or the scam.”

  “How do you lose part of someone’s medical records?”

  “It supposedly happened while they were switching over to a new system.”

  “No backups?”

  “I know, right?” Patrick could hear her livid smile. “Cutting-edge research, my ass. All he cut into was my pocketbook.”

  “How much of it?”

  She spoke through her sigh. “Over fifty thousand bucks, all to save a life that didn’t need saving. My whole retirement account, down the tubes. I’ll be working for the rest of my life now.”

  “So that’s when you filed the complaint?”

  “Yeah, but without my records they couldn’t prove it was anything more than a simple misdiagnosis. There wasn’t even proof of his phony treatment—no receipts or documentation. And get this: apparently, Lyme disease can mimic lymphoma. Convenient, huh?”

  “So he got away with it.”

  “Of course he did. The man’s slicker than cat shit. I bet his whole life is built on dirty money.” She sighed. “I just hope he stays gone—it’ll be better for everyone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dirty doctors. Dirty money.

  Patrick had nothing to prove that either was connected to Charlene Clark’s murder or her husband’s subsequent disappearance, but he did know one thing: dirt was dirt, and when you followed it, there was usually plenty more at the end of the trail.

  On his way to the hospital, Patrick finally listened to Dr. Ready’s voicemail message telling him how proud she was of him for staying at Tristan’s side during her difficult struggle. Patrick wondered how proud she would be if she knew he’d been operating as an imposter and lying his ass off. She also called their last session a major breakthrough. For Patrick, it felt more like a major breakdown. And she ended by asking him to contact her after things settled some with Tristan so they could schedule their next appointment, get back to work.

  Patrick wasn’t feeling that one, either.

  He found that Tristan’s condition hadn’t improved. She remained trapped within herself, and as much as Patrick hated to admit it, he was starting to lose hope; still, he sat at her bedside, talked to her, squeezed her hand. “Tristan,” he said. “It’s Patrick.”

  She squeezed his hand. Just like before.

  “Tristan, please. Please give me something, a sign. If you can hear me, let go of my hand.”

  She kept her grip tight.

  Patrick shook his head. Then with her hand still locked tightly in his, he gently placed the other on top. “It’s okay. You can hold on to me for as long as you need to. I won’t let go. I promise.”

  Her hand went slack.

  Patrick drew his focus there, watching with caution, unsure if this was just another involuntary reflex.

  “Can you squeeze my hand again, Tristan? Can you do it now?”

  She tightened her grip.

  “Loosen it?”

  She did.

  Patrick ran to the door, nearly stumbling over himself, calling for Candy.

  She came into the room and went directly for Tristan’s bed.

  “She’s responding this time!” Patrick said, his words hurried and breathless, splitting his attention between the nurse and Tristan. “It’s intentional! She squeezed my hand—she did it—and then she let go when I asked her to. Then she squeezed it again!”

  Candy leaned over the railing and reached for Tristan’s hand. “Can you squeeze my hand, Tristan?”

  Tristan did.

  “Now can you release it?”

  There was nothing.

  “Tristan, squeeze my hand twice if you can hear me. Squeeze it two times. Can you do that for me?”

  Patrick held his breath.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again, raising her voice a little more. “Tristan, squeeze my hand twice. Can you squeeze it twice?”

  Nothing again.

  Candy looked up at him, shaking her head, and for the first time, Patrick felt hope fade to near nothingness. It must have shown on his face, too, because Candy’s expression changed to one he’d not yet seen on her. A deeper, more visceral level of compassion, the kind usually reserved for the most hopeless of situations. With her hand still locked in Tristan’s, very softly, she said, “I’m sorry, Patrick. I really am.”

  Patrick nodded his acceptance and sadness.

  Then Candy blinked, and looked down at her hand.

  Very slowly, but very firmly, Tristan was loosening her hand, then tightening it, loosening it again, then tightening it.

  Candy turned to Patrick. He was already moving closer, watching with a slow, cautious shake of his head.

  She smiled, keeping her grip on Tristan’s hand, and with the other, squeezing Patrick’s arm. “She’s responsive. I’m going to page the doctor and let him know.”

  He blinked back tears that, for the first time in a long while, came from a place other than sadness.

  “She’s definitely responding to external stimuli,” the neurologist said after examining Tristan. “It’s great news.”

  Patrick closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of relief.

  “She still has a long way to go,” the doctor cautioned. “Recovery isn’t assured, but at least now it seems possible.”

  Possible. Patrick would take that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The next day, Patrick felt buoyant, almost giddy, as he stepped from the hospital elevator. Moving through the hallway, he spotted two nurses coming toward him from the ICU. As they passed, one said to the other, “She put up a good fight. It’s such a shame.”

  Patrick faltered… then sped up the pace toward Tristan’s room.

  And found it empty. The bed was freshly made. The machines were gone. The room smelled of ammonia.

  Patrick stood stunned in the doorway.

  No… Please, no. Not after all this.

  Gathering his courage, he took hesitant steps into the room, lowered himself onto the chair—the same chair he’d occupied for days, waiting for Tristan to recover.

  Truth settled, and with that came aching sadness. Something had gone terribly wrong overnight, and Tristan’s difficult journey had come to an end. It was over: for her, and for him, too.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “Patrick…”

  He looked up and found Candy standing before him, frowning.

  “She’s gone…” he said.

  “Patrick, I’m so sorry.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “They should have caught you when you were coming in… I should have been watching. I thought for sure they’d have her back before you got here.”

  He looked up at her, his sadness turning to perplexity.

&n
bsp; She smiled. “Patrick, she woke up in the middle of the night. She’s downstairs now. We were able to get her off the ventilator, and she’s in radiology having a few tests. She’ll stay in the ICU tonight, and tomorrow they’ll probably move her to a regular ward.”

  Patrick glanced at the empty bed, then into the hallway as if seeing both for the first time. He looked at Candy, shaking his head and said, “She’s alive?”

  “Very much alive.” The smile grew wider. “She made it, Patrick.”

  He waited in the room for Tristan’s return, stunned into silent contemplation of his excitement, exhaustion, and lingering confusion. He couldn’t believe she was actually awake. He couldn’t believe he’d actually be talking to her face-to-face.

  He couldn’t believe how much trouble he was in.

  And something he’d not considered until now, but that he really should have: the not-so-minor fact that before all this happened, Tristan actually hated him.

  No, wait. Hate’s a very strong word… Let’s go with despised.

  Patrick’s stomach flip-flopped, imagining the look on her face when they rolled her back in and she saw the asshole from the elevator waiting in her room.

  His stomach sucked into his esophagus.

  The asshole from the elevator, now posing as her damned brother.

  Oh. My. God. I am so in trouble.

  His irrational, impulsive mind told him to get out of there, make a run for it as fast as he could.

  His logical mind told him he’d do nothing of the sort.

  Screw logic, his irrational mind said. It wasn’t like he’d be abandoning her. After all, he’d followed through on his promise. He could make a quick escape now, and nobody would be any the wiser.

  The logical mind pushed the irrational one aside, telling him he’d done the right thing. Surely that would break through her rough exterior.

  His irrational mind told him that was a load of horseshit and to make tracks while he still had the chance.

  Patrick glanced nervously at the door, eyes blinking, foot pumping, trying to decide what to do next. Then it was too late. He heard Candy’s voice saying cheerfully in the hallway, “And we have a wonderful surprise for you, Tristan. Your brother, Patrick, is here!”