Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Tristan’s posture softened. A little.

  “It’s just…” He paused. “It’s just that you and I are from two different worlds. I get that, but I don’t hate it.”

  “You don’t exactly love it.”

  “I don’t understand it. There’s a difference, but that doesn’t mean I can’t figure it out… or that I don’t want to.”

  She looked away. “Sure have a strange way of showing it.”

  “I didn’t, and that’s the problem.” He looked down, struggled with some thoughts, and then, “The truth is, I’ve never met anyone like you before, and to be perfectly honest, sometimes you scare the hell out of me.”

  She locked a stern gaze on him. “Something tells me there’s a lot that scares you.”

  The statement stung because it was direct and it was honest.

  And it was true.

  And it left Patrick momentarily silent, but in a strange way, his vulnerability felt like a sudden and strong connection to her. He looked down at his hands, rubbing one against the other. Softly, he said, “Tristan, I know what it’s like.”

  “What what’s like?”

  “To be on the outside. To be different.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Get to know me a little better. You’ll see. We’re a lot more alike than you think.”

  “I tried. You wouldn’t let me.”

  “I know… It’s a problem. I can be a bit closed off at times.”

  She widened her eyes. “A bit?”

  “Okay, more than a bit.”

  “Dude, you’re not even swinging by the neighborhood.”

  He raised a brow with a challenging grin.

  “What?” she said.

  “You haven’t exactly been an open book yourself.”

  A hint of recognition flashed across her face.

  “See what I mean? A lot more alike than you know.”

  She relaxed a little more. Just enough to shrug.

  “What I’m trying to say here is…” He stopped, looked away, swallowed hard. “Man, I suck at this…” He turned to her again. “It’s just that I really do give a damn about you.” He felt ridiculous again, waiting for her to make a joke, throw an insult, slam the door on his friendship.

  But it didn’t happen.

  Instead something changed on her face, like a wall coming down, a connection; and there she was, exposed, defenseless, and authentic. And in that instant, he knew, without knowing how, that no one had ever told her that she actually mattered.

  They sat in silence for a long moment.

  Then she took a breath.

  “Well, shit,” she said finally. “You could have at least brought the doughnuts.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “It’s good to see you again, Patrick,” Dr. Ready said. “Please. Come in.”

  He entered and took his place on the couch. He glanced around the room, his attention eventually settling on her bookshelf. “You replaced the figurine that Tristan broke.”

  She followed his gaze. “Oh, no. I was actually able to glue it back together.”

  Patrick narrowed his focus and realized the doctor was right: the broken mother had tiny hairline cracks running through her. The glue had made her stronger, but the damage remained. She was forever flawed, but nevertheless, whole again. Easily broken. Not so easily repaired.

  “It’s been a while, Patrick,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts. “How is Tristan doing?”

  “She’s much better.”

  “I’m glad. It’s wonderful what you did for her.”

  Patrick offered a polite smile instead of an answer, uneasy about inviting more questions. He didn’t want to explain that he’d posed as Tristan’s brother, and he felt reluctant to share the news of their budding friendship. The doctor seemed to get the message, moved on. “And how are you doing?”

  His shrug felt requisite. So did his words. “Okay, I guess.”

  The doctor didn’t say anything, but her gaze was incisive.

  He said, “And you don’t believe me…”

  She shook her head.

  The room went silent and awkward, and Patrick wasn’t sure what else to say. She wasn’t making much effort to spur the discussion, either. Finally he let out a deflating sigh and said, “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

  She nodded.

  He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, tried again. “It’s just… everything. The attack.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m upset. I mean, well… that’s actually kind of an obvious thing to say, but…”

  “The feelings, Patrick. Think feelings.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Understandable. So let’s go a little deeper into that.”

  “Deeper where?”

  “Well, I’m just wondering if you can be a little more specific.”

  “Specific.” He repeated the word, as if by saying it he might understand it better.

  “What frightened you most about the attack?”

  “He was going to cut me,” Patrick said, feeling his breath hitch.

  “So, your Von Willebrand disease,” she confirmed.

  “Yeah. I could have bled to death.”

  “Does it scare you to be more vulnerable to cuts than most people?”

  He nodded.

  She leaned back and watched, letting him absorb the idea, and then, “Are you able to connect with those feelings?”

  “Right now?”

  She smiled her encouragement.

  He turned his attention toward the wall, focusing on the picture hanging there: abstract paint splashes, formless, meaningless Technicolor blobs. When he looked back, she was still watching him. He crossed one leg over the other, studying them as he spoke. “When he was holding the blade to my neck, all I could think was, is this it? If it all ends right now, my whole life would be so… so definitively incomplete. And in a way, I think that cut deeper than any knife ever could.”

  “So there was something worse than the danger itself.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking at the statue again. “It’s like not moving past it is kind of like staying forever broken.”

  She smiled a knowing smile.

  He thought about it some more and felt his expression tense with worry.

  “What, Patrick?”

  “But it’s so hard.”

  “What is?”

  “Life. You try to put it back together, but then the world can just come along and break you again.”

  “How does it make you feel to know that?”

  “Like the ground beneath my feet is so unstable.”

  “Can you remember any time in your life when it wasn’t that way? When you felt safe?”

  “I guess sometimes with Marybeth—or at least I thought so then.” He paused. “Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Patrick turned his phone on as he headed toward the elevator. He’d missed three calls and a text from Erika. He read the text:

  pike confirms charges will b filed in Charlene Clark murder. Will follow up and get back 2 u.

  Before he could call her, the phone rang in his hand.

  “They found Clark?” he answered.

  “No, not that good,” Erika said, out of breath, “but almost.”

  “What?”

  “Jocelyn Fairchild has been arrested and charged with Charlene’s murder.”

  “How’d they get her?”

  “Pike won’t say, but according to my source, apparently they’ve been questioning her for days. They took a DNA swab, and guess what.”

  “The third bloodstain at Las Brisas.”

  “Yep. It’s hers.”

  “Can’t say it surprises me.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s what we’ve been thinking all along, but this confirms it.”

  “And with Wesley’s blood there as well…”

  “They may have killed Charlene toget
her. Or maybe she killed them both.”

  “Might have,” he cautioned, “but we still don’t know how much of his blood was there, and Pike won’t say.”

  “Pike won’t say—that’s starting to sound like a broken record.”

  “Starting?”

  “Point taken,” she said. “In any event, it looks like the Mighty Kingdom is starting to crumble.”

  “So what’s our next move?”

  “That was my other reason for calling. I have to go up to LA for a few days.”

  “LA? Now?”

  “I know. Unfortunately, this was scheduled months ago.”

  “What was?”

  “A follow-up on Brad Simpson.”

  “The movie guy with the drug problem?”

  “Yeah, that one. He’s out of rehab and agreed to do an exclusive one-on-one. Since I showed him some love when he got arrested, he only wants to talk to me.”

  “Giving you some love back…”

  “Something like that. But obviously, I can’t miss it.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’ll be home soon. I just need you to keep an eye on things until then. See if Fairchild makes bail, and of course, if they find Clark.”

  “You got it.”

  Bullet gave the sad look as soon as Patrick walked through the door.

  “What?” Patrick said. “I’m home now. Doesn’t that count?”

  The dog wasn’t buying it.

  “Tell you what,” Patrick said. “Movie night. Just you and me. I’ll make some popcorn. Auntie Tristan said it’s okay.”

  Bullet barked and forgave.

  They both fell asleep about halfway through the movie. Patrick was exhausted and Bullet… well, he was a dog. Several hours later, Patrick woke with a jolt but wasn’t sure why. No bad dreams, no sweat, no anxiety. He glanced at the clock. It was two a.m.

  Then he heard the noise.

  He smoothed his hand over the spot beside him. Bullet was gone.

  “Tristan?” he said cautiously.

  Silence.

  Then a crash. The sound jackknifed Patrick into full-blown panic, practically throwing him out of bed. He grabbed the baseball bat he’d been keeping there ever since all this madness had started, snatched his cell, and padded softly down the hall.

  Closer now, he could tell the noise was coming from his office—sounded like papers shuffling, and it was getting louder. Patrick stiffened his grip on the bat and crept cautiously to the half-open office door. Peered through the crack above the hinges.

  And let out a sigh, then pushed the door open.

  Bullet peered innocently at him, surrounded by a storm of papers, the globe from Patrick’s desk on the floor and still rolling to a stop.

  The dog was in trouble, and clearly, the dog had been having the time of his life. Not so much for Patrick. It was late, and he was tired.

  “What exactly are we doing here?” he said, as if the dog might answer.

  Bullet flopped his tail up and down a few times, making thuds against the floor.

  Patrick tossed the bat, leaned over, and began picking up papers, shaking his head. “I buy you every toy a dog could want…”

  Bullet barked.

  “I know. I know. Not your fault. Children act out when their parents don’t pay enough attention to them.”

  Bullet barked again. Twice.

  After gathering up the rest of the mess and returning things to their place, Patrick corralled Bullet toward the bedroom. “Party’s over, bud,” he said, patting the bed. “Let’s both try to get some rest.”

  He slid between the sheets. Bullet stretched on top of the covers with his head against Patrick’s leg. The dog passed out almost instantly. Patrick followed him down into sleep shortly after.

  But not for long. He woke to the sound of Bullet barking again, now near the front of the house.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” he said, pulling himself from bed. “In one damned night, I’ve lost a dog and gained a problem child.”

  He slumped wearily toward the living room, his patience wearing thin as Bullet’s barks came louder and faster. Then, as he walked down the hallway, he could see Bullet scratching at the front door. Patrick’s mood shifted to caution, a feeling in his gut telling him something wasn’t right. The living room looked odd; the lighting was off, the walls illuminated with a peculiar sepia tone.

  Then he heard a whoosh, and the sepia flashed into feverish orange.

  Patrick scrambled into the room, and the first thing he saw was the window glowing like a fiery hot spot.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  A car burned wildly out of control in his driveway, flames shooting through its windows, black smoke curling in the air. Neighbors ran from their homes and watched in dumbfounded horror. Patrick stood and watched too, stunned, with Bullet leashed closely at his side, as firefighters rushed in and began attacking the blaze.

  A tire exploded with a bang so powerful that Patrick could feel it deep in his chest. The flames reacted angrily, leaping higher, sending a bright flurry of gray smoke telescoping through the air. The crowd reacted too—with panic, scrambling in all directions.

  “You have to clear the area,” a cop shouted to Patrick with a mix of urgency and annoyance. “Looks like the house may go up soon.”

  May go up soon.

  Patrick’s jaw clamped down like a steel vise. It finally registered: his home—and his life—up in smoke.

  The fire was more aggressive now, flames licking his garage door and climbing toward the roof. Within seconds, it too was burning as firefighters fought to gain control. All Patrick could do was stand, watch, and wonder how long before his house was reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. Before everything was gone. Little by little, day by day, it seemed everything was being pulled away.

  He glanced down at Bullet.

  Not all of it. Not the most important thing.

  The dog looked as astonished as Patrick probably did. He knelt to gaze in his boy’s eyes. Bullet let out a soft whimper. Patrick ran a hand over his head and said, “It’s okay, buddy. We’ll be fine. We have each other.”

  But he was reassuring himself as much as the dog.

  Within an hour, the flames were out, but smoke still obscured the damage. Patrick could not tell from where he stood how much of the house, if any, had been spared.

  About ten minutes later, a firefighter approached him. “Bill Harwood, San Diego Fire,” he said. “That your house?”

  “It was,” Patrick said, shock now morphing into helplessness.

  Bill motioned for Patrick to follow him.

  The closer he drew to his place, the stronger the fumes became, and the more Patrick’s stomach churned. It was like walking through some apocalyptic afterworld, remnant smoke heavy on the air like a tragic reminder of things lost—not just physical but emotional: gone too was his sense of security. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep again.

  He could now see with awful detail what the fire had done. Patrick let out a muted sigh of relief—the overall structure was still intact—but the sentiment soon faded. His garage was a total loss, only a few scant pieces of blackened framework remaining, the rest nothing more than piles of smoking embers—along with his destroyed Jeep, which he’d parked inside.

  Whoever owned the other car was also out of luck; it was just a darkened, smoldering hull. Patrick edged closer, squinting through the residual smoke, trying to get a better look.

  And felt his breath catch, and his throat constrict, and a burn in his chest.

  Oh, dear Lord. Oh, God.

  The license plate was singed around the edges and soot-streaked but clear enough to read. A vanity plate that instantly turned his legs to rubber.

  LUVANRN.

  In a foggy, disconnected state, Patrick stepped to the side of the car, peered inside, and reality slugged him right between his ribs, followed by a thundering wave of nausea. He wheeled and sprinted for the bushes but didn’t make it in time—he thre
w up onto the edge of his driveway. The image reeled through his mind: Helene Lockhart’s smoky, charred remains still in the driver’s seat, her hands wired to the steering wheel, a bottle crammed between her skeletal jaws.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, queasy and dazed, to find Bill Harwood standing over him with a look of concern. Patrick slipped on the soggy grass as he tried to stand; Bill grabbed his arm and helped him up.

  Before he knew it, Patrick was out on the street, sitting on the fire engine’s bumper, although he had no recollection of getting there. He looked down at the plastic water bottle clenched tightly in his hand, squeezed nearly in half, and practically empty; he drank what was left as if it were the last drop on earth.

  He looked up at Harwood.

  “She never had a chance,” Harwood said.

  Patrick tried to get his bearings, words dropping from his mouth like loose marbles. “How… What did they… Did it…?”

  “Someone tied her into the car with wire. Shoved a Molotov cocktail in her mouth,” Harwood said, a little dispassionately considering the circumstances. “Poured accelerant all over the interior for good measure.”

  Patrick’s whole body broke into a cold tremble. The message was loud, and it was clear, and it was not only directed at Helene Lockhart.

  It was also meant for him.

  You’re playing with fire.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  There was no doubt now who had sent the message nor, for that matter, who Patrick’s stalker was: Wesley Clark or someone closely associated with him. Someone with a mind just as dark and twisted. Someone intent on keeping Patrick as far from the truth as possible.

  Then the bitterest truth of all hit him. He was responsible for Helene Lockhart’s death—a death that was horribly slow and painful and completely undeserved. She hadn’t wanted to talk, but he’d persisted, and now she’d paid the ultimate price. Patrick felt the burden of guilt pressing squarely on his shoulders. He’d never get over this one. Never…

  Harwood’s voice startled him. “Her name was Helene—”

  “Helene Lockhart,” Patrick said, his words sounding oddly disconnected, almost mechanical.

  Harwood gave him a wary look. He reached into his pocket for his notebook. “How do you know her?”