Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Patrick waited.

  Her voice began to tremble. “They took me to a field and staked me out.”

  Patrick shook his head. Now he knew why she’d become wary as soon as they crossed the border.

  Tristan caught the recognition in his eyes and nodded, tears forming in her bottom lids. She blinked and they glided down her cheeks. Turning her head, she looked out the window, wiping the tears away with her sleeve.

  Patrick reached across the table and grabbed her hand, eyes held tightly on her.

  “They took turns raping me,” she continued. “It seemed like it went on forever. After they were done, Bardez pulled out a box cutter…” She stopped and closed her eyes, breaths labored, unable to go on.

  Patrick gave her hand a quick, gentle squeeze.

  “He said, ‘I’m going to make you as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside, so everywhere you go, the whole world will know.’ ”

  Patrick kept his gaze steady. He wanted to be there for her when she returned from the terrible memory.

  “Then after he cut my face open… he spit in it.”

  The creak in her voice cut to the deepest part of Patrick—he tried to speak, but what came out was nothing more than a soft, shapeless moan.

  “I laid in that field all night, nearly bled to death, shaking, wild dogs licking the blood off my face. I was in so much pain, inside and out. I’ve never felt so…”

  “Alone,” Patrick said.

  She nodded, sniffling away tears. “A homeless guy found me in the morning. He untied me, gave me his water, helped me get cleaned up. The day was getting so hot—it was close to ninety already—and even so, he walked with me into town. It had to be a good ten miles.”

  “He helped you find your way.”

  “I swear, that man barely had any clothes on his back, and yet to me, he had everything. His kindness was so pure, and it came from such a good place, and he offered it so easily.”

  Patrick smiled, warmed by the thought.

  “By the time I got through the border, the cops were waiting on the US side. Bardez had set me up. I was arrested and convicted. But you know something? Being in jail didn’t seem so bad, not compared to what I feel every time I look in a mirror, or when I see my scar reflected by the horror on other people’s faces.”

  Patrick could barely breathe; he tried, but it felt more like a gasp. He searched for something to say that might comfort her, to take away the pain, but there was nothing that could do that, and he knew it. Through a broken voice, he managed to say, “The box cutter.”

  Tristan’s expression blazed as if finding anger easier to manage than sadness. She clenched her teeth, speaking through them. “I wanted to fucking kill that guy when he attacked you. I wanted to beat the life out of him with that tire iron. I would have, too, if he hadn’t knocked me out. Lucky for him.”

  “Not so lucky for you,” Patrick said, sympathetically.

  Laughing softly through tears, she said, “Yeah, well, luck isn’t something I’ve ever had much of. Seems to miss me at every turn—the good kind, anyway. The bad… it finds me, like it knows my name.” She looked down, shook her head with sadness, and her voice became weaker. “I swear, sometimes you just get so tired of fighting every damned day of your life. Know what I mean?”

  He did.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  When he awoke the next morning, Patrick sat up to find Tristan at the kitchen table with a map spread out before her. A tiny rabbit-eared television perched on a flimsy tray table in the corner; it was on and, to his surprise, picking up a San Diego station, albeit not very well. True to form, Tristan was keeping her finger on the pulse, intent on not missing a thing. He stretched and yawned. She kept working, Patrick watching her with amusement.

  “What?” she said.

  “Just thinking about what you could do with all that skill and talent. You could probably take on the world.”

  “Let someone else take on the world,” she said, flipping a page over, studying it. “I’ve got no interest in cleaning up other people’s messes.”

  “But have you ever thought about it?”

  She looked at him. “About what?”

  “Putting your abilities toward something, you know… normal.”

  “Normal is overrated.”

  “You may have to get a real job someday.”

  “Real is overrated, too.” She shuffled more papers. “There’s coffee on the counter.”

  Patrick considered the coffee machine, but after eyeing the black goo inside, decided to opt out. “So what are you doing?”

  “Figuring things out.”

  “Any luck?”

  She gave him a dry smile. “Maybe.”

  He grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it over his head on the way to her—as he did, Patrick realized he’d inadvertently left his Medic Alert necklace sitting out on the countertop after taking it off the night before. Trying to appear casual, he grabbed it, shoving it into his shorts pocket.

  He was about to take a seat across from Tristan, when he heard his name on TV and jerked his head toward the screen. His house was on the news, surrounded by sheriff’s deputies.

  Tristan scooted closer, cranked up the volume.

  “Authorities want to question Bannister in relation to the case. His whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  “What the…?” His jaw dropped.

  “The former news reporter was charged with trespassing Saturday night after officials found him wandering the Clark compound. Authorities are urging him to come forward for additional questioning. A News Seven source speculates that Bannister could be a flight risk and may have jumped bail.”

  Patrick threw his hands up. “There goes my career. And my life.”

  The video wiped across the screen to a sound bite with Steve Pike, appearing unusually on-camera cooperative.

  “Great,” Patrick said. “If it isn’t the freakin’ wind beneath my wings.”

  “Mr. Bannister is a person of interest at this time regarding the Clark case,” Pike said. “We want to talk to him further, but it appears we can’t because he’s on the run.”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said, “from your crooked ass.”

  Pike was still talking. “We’re asking anyone with information on his whereabouts to please contact us immediately.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Patrick said, standing straight up. “I’ve got nothing to do with that case, and he knows it.”

  “Welcome to my world, partner,” Tristan said. “That’s how the fuckers roll.”

  “This is just great. What do I do now?”

  “You blow it off—that’s what you do. Unless he’s got a warrant, it’s all just jaw-flap. He’s grandstanding.”

  “At my expense!”

  “Relax, would you? If he wants to spin his wheels, let him. He’s only wearing himself out. We can’t afford to waste energy on this right now, anyway. Quit worrying about it, and let’s get down to business.”

  He dropped back into the chair, arms crossed, half-attentive, half-scowling.

  “And lose the pissy face. It’s time to show me your stuff, Ace. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

  The old Buick had taken about ten cranks but, even then, refused to turn over.

  “Not a word,” Tristan said, sparing him a snappish glare.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  She was right. A smart-assed remark was just about to roll off his tongue before she put the kibosh on it. She was getting to know him too well, could quell his sarcasm before it got a chance to sparkle.

  She gave the car another crank. The engine sputtered.

  “Almost got off the ground that time.” He aimed his finger up, then gradually arched it downward. “And then…” He made a fart noise with his lips.

  “Shut it,” she said.

  He straightened his grin. Well, he tried.

  Just then, the engine kicked over.r />
  Patrick managed to keep his fingers crossed and mouth shut as they made their way toward the paved road. They were headed to La Azucena, where Charlene’s body had been found burning on a hillside.

  “This is ground zero,” Tristan remarked as they pulled up to the location. “You follow the body.”

  “But the body’s not here anymore,” Patrick said.

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She put the car in park. “Everything else still is. You’re the reporter. You can find the rest.”

  As soon as they exited the car, Tristan put a hand over her nose and said, “Place smells like death.”

  “Raw sewage,” Patrick said, walking around the car toward her. “Indoor plumbing’s a luxury in some areas.”

  She shook her head, then eyed the hillside to their left. They both moved toward the edge.

  Patrick stared at the branded patch of earth among the weeds, and an abrupt and powerful sadness needled through him. He was looking truth directly in the face: this was the exact spot where Marybeth’s body had been tossed and burned, erased from the world like a bad mistake. At no other time had it been more obvious—his only chance to untangle the past had literally gone up in flames.

  Patrick saw Tristan watching him, her sad smile saying she understood. He looked down the hillside, trying to force his attention and thoughts away from his feelings and seeking stability through logic.

  Fire then, fire now, he thought again. History had indeed repeated itself, but this time Marybeth’s attacker had made certain her life was snuffed out. Someone who wanted to teach her a lesson, perhaps someone even burned by her deceit. Now Patrick knew who that someone was—it could only be Wesley Clark. But why and how did Fairchild play into it?

  What happened? he thought, staring at the blackened spot, as if asking Marybeth herself. And how did you get caught in his awful web?

  But he got no answer.

  Patrick let his attention expand. The area was surrounded by houses, many higher up in the hills and so far away that nobody there would have heard or seen anything—at least not until the body was burning and smoke began drifting up. He looked down the hillside and spotted a church about a hundred yards away.

  “What are you thinking?” Tristan asked.

  He looked up toward the homes in the hills. “I’m thinking we need to start working our way from the top down.”

  She nodded her agreement, and they headed up the hill.

  But after reaching the top, they soon realized there was little chance anyone here had seen much. Too far away, with many of the views obscured by the hillside. They headed lower to where the vantage point was better.

  “Turn here,” Tristan said, pointing out her window. “This is good.”

  They rolled up to a man on his patio, listening to the radio as he watched the world go by. Like many of the homes here, his place was in shambles, plaster cracked or missing in spots. Half the roof was covered in plastic, half the windows by plywood.

  Patrick glanced at Tristan. She gave him a nod.

  They got out of the car and walked up to him.

  “¿Usted habla ingles, señor?” Patrick said.

  The man shook his head.

  Patrick gave it another shot. “¿Haz visto el fuego allí en la ladera la otra noche?”

  The man shook his head again.

  Patrick tried once more. “¿Sabes si alguien lo vio?”

  The man continued to shake his head.

  Patrick smiled and said, “Muchas gracias, señor.”

  On the way back to the car, Patrick tried to read Tristan’s expression, unsure whether it was confusion or shock. Maybe both.

  “Where did you learn to speak Spanish like that?” she asked.

  “The Learnin’ at Place.” He grinned.

  “Smart-ass.”

  They drove down more streets, asking everyone they saw the same questions. And got the same results: came up empty-handed at every turn.

  “Half these houses are missing walls,” Tristan said, “or, at the very least, windows. How could they not have seen anything?”

  “I don’t think that’s the issue.”

  “What? The walls or the windows?”

  “Neither. We’re dealing with a completely different culture here. With law enforcement being corrupt, most folks are afraid to talk to anyone, especially a couple of gringos waltzing through their neighborhood. You asked why I didn’t come here: this is the reason.”

  She thought about it, nodded, but didn’t seem satisfied. “Guess we’ll just have to work harder, then.”

  Patrick slammed on the brakes.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He pointed to a kid on a bike about fifty feet away. “I’m going to change the game up a little.”

  They got out of the car. The boy watched them impassively as they approached.

  “¿Hablas ingles?” Patrick said.

  The kid shook his head with the same vacant stare the man had given them just minutes before.

  Patrick reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet, produced a twenty, and again said, “¿Hablas ingles?”

  The kid reached for the bill and said, “Uh-huh.”

  Patrick yanked the money away before he could get it. “Not so fast, partner.”

  The boy frowned.

  “You only get it if you help me. No help, no dinero, comprende?”

  The kid nodded with reluctant annoyance.

  “I need to know if you saw anything the other night when the body was found over there on the hill, or if you know someone who did.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” the kid said.

  Patrick shrugged, put the money back in his pocket. “Okay. Thanks anyway.” They turned around, headed toward the car.

  “What about the money?” the kid called.

  “No help, no money. That was the deal.”

  The kid said, “But I know someone!”

  “So do I. What’s the point?”

  “No, I mean, I know someone who saw what happened.”

  Patrick crossed his arms, waited.

  “A lady was talking to the Federales that night. Down by the church.”

  “Got a name?”

  The boy shook his head. But as Patrick started walking away again, the boy added, “Señor, I’m serious! I saw her!”

  “But you have no name.”

  “A cleaning lady who works at the church.”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes. “You’d better be telling the truth.”

  “I am. I swear, I am!”

  He looked at Tristan. She raised a suspicious brow.

  Patrick gave the kid the money. The boy took off on his bike and disappeared down the street.

  “Smart kid,” Tristan said with a smirk.

  “A hustler, that’s for sure. Reminds me of someone.”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  “I’m not sayin’… I’m just sayin’.”

  “Shut the hell up,” she said again.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia actually looked nicer than the rest of the neighborhood. For a start, it had four walls, all of them solid, all the windows still holding glass.

  “You think the kid was giving us a line?” Tristan asked as they walked toward the entrance.

  “We’ve got nothing else.”

  The doors were unlocked. There was no sign of anyone inside. Cautiously, they moved along the white-tiled floors. Tristan nodded at the OFICINA sign, with an arrow pointing to a door.

  Inside, a man sat behind a desk, staring at his computer screen. He looked up as they entered. In near-perfect English and with a smile, he said, “Can I help you?”

  “We’re trying to locate a woman who worked here,” Patrick said. “We think she was on the cleaning staff.”

  “And the reason, señor?”

  “I’m a reporter from the US, on assignment here.”

  Tristan gave him a subtle sideways glance. Patrick’s return
glance told her to zip it.

  The man smiled politely. “A story about a cleaning woman?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. I’m reporting on the body found up on the hillside,” he said, pointing in that direction but keeping his eyes focused on the man. “I’m told a woman on your cleaning staff might have seen something.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “That’s the problem. We actually don’t.”

  “Then I’m not sure I can help you.”

  “Do you have many women on staff here?” Tristan asked.

  “We have none.”

  They both shook their heads.

  “We use a service.” He smiled some more. “They come every week.”

  “I see,” Patrick said, nodding, thinking. “May I have the name of the service?”

  The man reached for his reading glasses, put them on, and thumbed through an old Rolodex jammed with cards. He pulled one out, held it up, eyeing it. “Limpio y Brilliant.”

  Patrick took out his notebook. “Address and phone number?”

  “At least it’s something,” Tristan offered as they left the church. “Just hope it’s not a wild goose chase.”

  “We have to rule it out, anyway,” Patrick said.

  Going to downtown TJ meant heavy traffic. By the time they made their way to the address, the clock had wound well into the afternoon hours, and both Patrick and Tristan were hungry; they put it aside, motivated more by their need for information than their need for nourishment. Time was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

  They walked into a small office with a half-dozen workers at desks, most talking on the phone. One was an attractive woman, thick raven hair past her shoulders, heavy makeup. Nice business suit. A plaque on her desk said her name was Guadeloupe Martinez, Presidente y Director General. She flashed Patrick a generous smile. Patrick gave her one back.

  Tristan elbowed him and said, “Go get her, hot stuff.”

  He shot Tristan a look. It wasn’t nice.

  Martinez stood and came toward Patrick, her smile spreading wider with each step. “Can I help you?” she said, her accent thick, eyes bright.

  Tristan turned her head to roll her eyes, then turned back and gave the woman a polite, just-a-sidekick-don’t-mind-me smile as Patrick explained what they were looking for.