“I’m an investigative journalist. She was a witness in a story I’m writing about…” He took a deep breath. “… about the murder of Charlene Clark and the disappearance of Wesley Clark.” As Patrick continued, Harwood took notes, his expression growing more troubled by the minute.
And trouble kept coming: Steve Pike arrived shortly thereafter for a very inconvenient house call. It was three a.m. Pike didn’t look happy; then again, he never did. His surly expression flashed annoyance—so did his tone of voice as he nodded toward his government-issued Blandmobile and said, “Let’s you and me sit down for a little chat.”
Finally the man wanted to talk to him, but for all the wrong reasons.
Inside the car, Patrick kept his focus trained ahead, but in his peripheral vision could see Pike’s gaze blazing holes through him. After a good ten seconds, the detective said, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
Patrick recounted the same story he’d told Harwood, again leaving out that he knew Clark was behind it all. Patrick felt partially responsible for Helene’s death, and he didn’t know who to trust anymore. Keeping that information from Pike might not have been the best decision, but considering the circumstances and the detective’s less-than-friendly aura, Patrick felt he had no other choice. For now, he’d take his chances, figure this out on his own.
Pike’s attitude quickly changed to an air of contempt, as thick as gutter sludge, and just as dirty. He said, “You guys fucking amaze me, you know that? You really do.”
Patrick folded his arms across his chest and said, “Us guys.”
“Press vultures.” Pike shook his head, scratching it. “You fuck up people’s lives just for a few minutes of glory.”
“That’s not how it is.”
“Isn’t it?” Pike pointed at Helene’s incinerated car. “Fucked hers up pretty good.”
Patrick tasted bile, and his insides flared with anger. He felt bad enough; he didn’t need to feel worse. It was time to give Pike a double-barreled shot of his own contempt. “You mean like Adam Waters? I asked Helene some questions. I sure as hell didn’t pull the trigger on her.”
Pike’s expression practically dropped into his lap. The locks on the Blandmobile clicked shut.
Patrick startled at the sound, looked at Pike.
Pike said, “You’re through, Bannister.”
“Is that a threat, Detective?”
“It’s a promise.”
Patrick reached for the button and pushed the lock open.
It clicked shut again.
“I’m not done yet,” Pike said in a slow, low growl. “Remember I can put the lock on you anytime I want. I’ll be waiting for that chance.”
The locks clicked open.
Pike said, “Stay out of my way, Bannister. Stay clear of me, if you’re smart.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The morning sun was barely tipping over the Southern California mountaintops, casting long shadows on a new day. For Patrick, it came with a stark realization: trouble on the rise.
Fire crews were still busy mopping up, but Patrick knew all the water in the Colorado River couldn’t wash this mess away. Things were speeding toward danger, and if he didn’t do something quick, he might end up in the same shape as Helene. Now Pike was out to get him too, and although his motives were different, he seemed just as intent on destroying Patrick… and just as capable. Two sides of the law, Patrick thought, both closing in, both trying to crush him. It seemed the more he worked on this story, the deeper he was digging himself into a hole.
He stood in the front doorway and shook his head. Bullet scrambled ahead of him and immediately began sniffing around. The place reeked of smoke; Patrick stared up at the damaged ceilings. “It’s not that bad,” he kept telling himself. “It could have been a lot worse.” But it was that bad, both in his home and in his mind.
He closed the door, entered the house.
Another fire, another message; not just for Marybeth, but now for him as well and, most tragically of all, for Helene too. This message, however, seemed to be a double-edged blade. The intent was not just to keep Patrick from finding out the truth about Wesley’s medical scam; it was also a cruel reminder of what had been taken from Patrick in the first place, a way to drive the point to a deeper, more frightening level. What Wesley didn’t know was that he had started more than one new fire, because now more than ever, Patrick was burning for the truth. He wouldn’t stop until he knew what happened to Marybeth.
His front door burst open so hard that it crashed into the wall. Patrick swung around looking for something to use as a weapon.
“You okay?” Tristan said, out of breath.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, catching his own breath, heart drubbing against his ribs.
“You made the news. I saw your house, and then they mentioned a body. I thought it was you!”
“I’m still alive.” He dropped to the couch. “If you want to call this living.”
She sat beside him, and with a dead-on stare, said, “You tell me what all this is about. Right now.”
He considered her for a moment, then spilled. Told her everything: why he was investigating the Clark case, his relationship with Marybeth, and how he believed that Wesley was out for his blood.
When he finished, Tristan stared at him and said, “All that for a woman?”
“Not just a woman.”
“Yeah, but—”
“A woman who meant a lot to me.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, spoke quietly. “A woman I thought I watched die more than fifteen years ago. And as soon as I find she didn’t, she’s gone again. The more I look for answers, the more things keep falling down around me.”
She leaned forward, rubbing her hands together. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. That’s got to be hard.”
He only nodded because it was too difficult to speak.
Tristan put a strong hand on Patrick’s shoulder; he didn’t respond, not at first, then he turned to meet her gaze. “Slowly but surely, he’s invading my life. He’s shutting me down. I don’t even have a damned car anymore.”
“You can use mine.”
He looked away, shook his head.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“It is,” she affirmed, then said, “and it just got easier.”
“Yeah? How do you figure?”
“Because now you’ve got me.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
He was in this deep. Married to it. No way out.
But as Patrick spent the next few days cleaning the physical mess, his mind found clarity, helplessness wheeling toward determination, fear superseded by anger. He’d been jacked around, threatened, and dragged through this long enough. He was going to get to the bottom of it or die trying.
There was one last lead, probably the most challenging of all, but also perhaps the most important: the Clark compound. He’d avoided going there before because it seemed nearly impenetrable, but with a wall of fire at his back, the compound’s high walls didn’t scare him nearly as much. Lilliana said that Charlene had talked about breaking into Wesley’s office, that it could have been the last thing she ever did. Now Patrick knew he needed to go there and see what he could find.
Tristan told him that he had her now. He would put those words to the test.
Patrick glanced at his watch. It was nine a.m. Late enough. He fed Bullet and loaded him into the car; no way he was leaving the dog alone.
The pregnant smart-ass with the gunnysack eye bags answered the door.
“Oh, you,” she said, and walked away, leaving the door standing open.
Bullet ran ahead of him and straight for Tristan’s room. Patrick followed and knocked on the door.
She opened it. Her hair was a mess, eyes squinty. She let out a lion-sized yawn. Bullet jumped up and gave her the Tongue Shot.
“Hell of a way to wake up,” Tristan said, grimacing and wipi
ng her face.
“He just paid you the highest compliment possible, believe it or not. Consider yourself family.”
Bullet ran into the room and hopped up on Tristan’s bed, making himself completely at home.
“Rise and shine,” Patrick said, slipping past her.
She stopped, thought, and then, “Hey, didn’t you recently give me a lecture about barging in on people?”
He settled himself on her bed, ran a hand over Bullet’s back. “This is important.”
“Oh.” She closed the door, firmed a hand to her waist. “So I guess important depends on who’s doing the barging.”
“I didn’t barge. Miss Loads O’ Fun let me in.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. I need your help.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I need to break in somewhere.”
Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her head did a back-and-forth rattle. “So, let me make sure I understand you correctly. You tear me a new one for breaking into your place, and now you want my criminal ass to help you do the same exact thing somewhere else? What am I missing? Help me out here.”
“I have to get into the Clark compound.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
She joined him on the bed, looked into his eyes, and said, “Let’s back it up a bit, shall we?”
He nodded.
“Why exactly are we wanting to do this?”
“Because there’s something in there I need.”
“And that might be what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Great reason. Try again.”
“I’m not sure. I just know it’s there.”
She spoke around a pithy smile. “You’re out of your freakin’ mind. You know that, right?”
“Not yet, but I will be soon if I don’t get to the bottom of this.”
“Patrick—”
“Are you in or not?”
“I’m not sure what I am.” She did the head rattle again, followed it up with a face-scrub. “Do you even realize what you’re saying here? That place will be locked up tighter than a stripped screw.”
“Which is why I’m asking for your help. If anyone can do it…”
She got up, took a few steps, turned to face him. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Mr. Brain Trust, have you forgotten I’m on parole? As in, if I get caught, I go straight back to jail.”
“We won’t get caught.”
She threw her arms up. “Famous last words! Holy shit, Patrick, I can’t believe you’re actually trying to get me to rob a place!”
“I’m not asking you to steal anything.”
“And I’m sure the judge will appreciate that.” She sat next to him again. “Breaking and entering is a crime whether you steal something or not. I can’t do it.”
Patrick gave her an injured look. “You said I had you now. You said you were on my side.”
“I am on your side, but that doesn’t include going back to jail for you. Don’t you get it?”
Patrick looked away, raked a hand through his hair. “Okay, then tell me how to get inside.”
She broke into laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
Still laughing, she managed to say, “You are.”
“Why?”
“Because! There’s not a chance in hell I can teach you what I know in a few minutes, or a day… or a week even. It’s too complicated, and you’re way too inexperienced. You’d never make it past the front gates. There are fences, locks, alarm systems, guards, and God only knows what else.”
“I’ve got to try. I have no choice.”
“All for that woman.”
He nodded.
“She’s not worth it, Patrick.”
“That’s not your call.”
“I don’t care if it is or not. I may be a criminal, but I’m also your friend, and I’m telling you: don’t do this. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Did you happen to hear about the torched corpse in my driveway? How about the sociopath who put it there, the one who’s been following my every move for weeks?” He stood up, spoke through clenched teeth. “What part of my-ass-is-on-the-line aren’t you getting here? I’m already in danger—now I’m just trying to stay alive!”
“Then let the cops handle it.”
He raised his clenched fists in the air. “The cops can’t handle it! The cops are part of the problem! Steve Pike is the problem! The guy would rather see me dead than lift a finger to help me.”
She crossed her arms, shook her head.
“I’m tired of being the damned victim! I’m not doing it anymore! I can’t! I won’t!” He dropped onto the bed, looked her square in the eyes. “You don’t have to do this, but I’m going. With or without you. It’s a done deal.”
Tristan held his gaze for a long moment.
Patrick unwaveringly held hers.
Finally, she threw her hands up in surrender and said, “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go with you.” She looked the other way, shook her head. “It’s probably the dumbest mistake I’ll ever make, but I already saved your ass once and nearly lost my life doing it. I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by now and let you get killed for being stupid.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Saturday would be the night. The busiest evening of the week for law enforcement. Patrick and Tristan would make their move while deputies were already strapped for coverage; it might buy them valuable time if someone called the sheriff. Tristan needed that time, and, more, she needed to make sure the mission went flawlessly—anything less could land her right back in jail. This was serious, and Patrick knew he was putting her at great risk. He also knew that if anyone could pull it off, she could.
Tristan got busy studying the intended target.
First step: Google Earth—a criminal’s best friend—for a bird’s-eye view of the compound. Patrick watched with fascination as she scrutinized the roads and best possible escape routes, along with mapping out the house’s interior layout after he showed her the virtual online tour.
Next, a real-time look at things. She scouted the neighborhood, studying traffic patterns including those of the security patrol hired to monitor the area. She’d been doing this her whole life, had learned how to sniff out weak spots and turn them into opportunities.
By Saturday, they were ready.
“Okay,” Tristan said. “Let’s do this.”
They drove to the compound in a no-frills econobox rental car, both dressed in black, both silent. Patrick kept his eyes on the road, periodically checking the rearview to be sure nobody was tailing them, while Tristan ran through the logistics in her head.
She reached into her cargo pants pocket and pulled out a high-powered mini Maglite, flicking it on and off, then took out an odd-looking cylindrical contraption, no larger than a cigarette lighter.
Patrick eyed it with interest. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Silence fell over them again. Patrick stole a glance at Tristan here and there; each time her face was solemn and stoic.
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
She turned to him fast, as if startled, and her eyes met his, then she broke contact, looking out through the windshield again.
Mounting tension chipped away at Patrick’s self-confidence with each mile they rolled closer to the compound. Desperation had driven him here; now fear was giving him a run for his money. He assured himself that Tristan knew exactly what she was doing, that she’d taken every precaution possible to ensure success. Then he thought about Marybeth, the one who had brought him here, who refused to leave his mind, even though she’d left him in every other way.
“You must have really loved her,” Tristan said, startling him with her intuitive clarity. He
could see her eyes studying him in the reflection of the windshield and worked hard to keep his expression from changing.
“Ex marks the spot?” she said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to.”
The woman was too smart for her own damned good.
They parked in a ditch shielded by dense trees and heavy scrub brush. From there, they set out on foot through the winding meadows and boundless shadows, rows of brambles their only guide in near-total darkness. When they reached the road, a car zoomed past, its headlights flashing like fire, then fading into the night. An owl screeched from above sending Patrick’s heart into overdrive.
Tristan didn’t seem affected by any of it; she marched forward, keenly focused, counting each step. Patrick could tell she was mentally taking notes of landmarks so they could find their way back safely.
At the foot of the Clark property, Tristan pulled out her cell phone and dialed.
“There’s someone trying to break into my house!” she whispered with urgency and panic. “Please! 2230 Miner’s Well Way. Oh, God, no! They just smashed the window! They’re coming upstairs. Help me, please!” She clicked her phone off, glanced at Patrick. “That’s a good ten miles from here. It should keep at least a few of them out of our way for a bit.”
“Can’t they trace the phone?”
“It doesn’t exist. It’s a clone.”
Patrick fought a grin, shaking his head, fascinated by her forethought. He wondered what a mind like hers could do outside the criminal world.
They turned their attention to the wrought iron gate standing tall before them, impressive concrete walls flanking each side. As Patrick was about to take a step, Tristan yanked him back. He looked at her, confused.
She pointed at three different spots high above and off to the sides. “Security cameras. You almost moved right into the line of sight. Please keep your eyes on me at all times, and from here on do exactly as I say. Not even a sneeze unless I give the okay. Understand?”
Patrick gave her a fast nod.
She studied the gate. He followed her gaze and said, “How do we get through?”
Darkness & Shadows Page 19
