Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  They made it through the night without incident: that was the good news. The bad news was that it did little to calm their nerves. The enemy’s imprecise, unpredictable movements put them even more on edge. Not knowing when or where Wesley would strike next had them constantly looking over their shoulders, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or the bullet to hit.

  Since neither could remember their last meal, the hole-in-the-wall taco shop looked like a slice of heaven, sure to deliver a slice of heartburn on the side.

  “We need to flip this cat and mouse game,” Tristan said. She took a bite from her burrito, chewed without seeming to taste, dropped it onto the plate. “We’ve got to find Wesley before he finds us.” She pushed her refried beans around on the plate. “He and Fairchild killed Charlene. We know that now, and I’m pretty sure the cops know it, too.”

  “And your point?”

  “Wesley wants us, and Pike wants Wesley. We could set a trap and lead them to each other. Get them both off our backs.”

  Patrick shook his head. “We’d need to get Wesley across the border, not to mention have Pike waiting for him. We’re not in a position to do that. And we’re not done here yet.”

  She slashed a line through the pile of beans with her fork, shaking her head.

  Patrick persisted. “I think we should stick with our plan and stay focused on getting what we need here, then get out. I’m skittish enough without making it more complicated.”

  She looked amused.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’re skittish all the time.”

  “I’m not skittish all the time.”

  She raised a brow.

  He looked down at his burrito, poked at it.

  She said, “Where does all that fear come from?”

  “What fear?”

  “Whatever you’re always trying to hide from. The way you avoid things. Like how you answer questions with questions.”

  He kept his gaze down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  He shook his head.

  “Patrick.” She examined him with sharp eyes. “You know I know.”

  “Know what?”

  She didn’t answer at first, but her expression told him exactly what. Then she said the thing he was most afraid to hear. “The lists. Why do you make them?”

  Patrick’s stomach took a roll, and heat swept across his face. He felt his body shrink into his chair. He felt trapped. All he could do was stare vacuously into her eyes.

  “Patrick?”

  He looked down, spoke in barely a whisper. “I don’t know why…” But he did know—or at least he was in the process of trying to. He shook his head and said, “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”

  “Why?”

  “To survive.”

  “Survive what?”

  He looked up and locked onto her eyes. “The pain.”

  She didn’t answer, but her face expressed what words could never touch: an empathic declaration of unanimity, a manifestation of profound and heartfelt confirmation. She’d been there, too.

  He smiled, warming at the thought.

  “What?” she said.

  “We’re quite a pair.”

  She nodded. “We are that.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  They drove away from the restaurant in companionable silence. Their friendship had just moved to a new level, and in that moment, Patrick knew he’d formed a bond like no other before. This was a challenging time for them both—there was no question—but in some strange way, it was turning into a truly extraordinary one.

  After a while, Tristan said, “So, what do you say? Ready to take on the world and kick some ass?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. So, I have an idea. The way I see it, there’s only one person who can tell us what really happened.”

  “Yeah, and she’s dead.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still ask her.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re clairvoyant, too.”

  “No, smart-ass, but here’s the thing.” She straightened up in her seat. “You told me the newspaper said investigators have been waiting weeks for permission to have Charlene Clark’s body returned to the US so they can examine it, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Any chance there might be a medical report by now?”

  He pondered the thought. “There’s no guarantee, but it’s possible.”

  He saw her mind working, then he saw it click. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go see if we can find out what happened to your sister.”

  “My who?”

  “You know… the one who drove down into TJ to party on her birthday and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Poor sis.”

  “And if that doesn’t get us inside, you can always work your hot man-love on some lonely and unsuspecting female.”

  “Seriously,” he said, “shut up.”

  The State Medical Services Forensic Facility was located in the heart of TJ, on Los Fundadóres, a business strip fronted by a haphazard and random array of transmission and tune-up shops, restaurants, and nondescript buildings that might or might not have been inhabited. The morgue fit in well with its surroundings, a plain, windowless brick structure painted half orange and half beige.

  Tristan and Patrick stepped into the lobby, an unremarkable space decorated in Modern Industrial Bland: gray vinyl flooring, gray walls beneath a drop-panel ceiling. Off to one side was a counter with an INFORMACIÓN sign. Patrick told the story of his missing sister. The woman behind the counter directed them to a waiting area, two rows of empty metal chairs sequestered to one side.

  A few moments later, a man in medical scrubs opened the door just enough to lean halfway out and address them with a stare. They approached him. His nametag said Federico, but Federico wasn’t talking—Federico was still staring. Not in a necessarily unfriendly manner, more a display of listless apathy. It was a peculiar contrast considering the blood smeared all over his shirt, along with other things Patrick didn’t want to think about.

  Patrick said, “¿Usted habla ingles?”

  “Sí,” Federico said.

  “I wonder if you can help us. We’re trying to find out what happened to my sister. She came here to celebrate her birthday, and we haven’t heard from her since. We’re very worried.”

  As it turned out, Federico spoke more Spanglish than actual English. “We have información on our website, señor. Have you looked to see?”

  “We didn’t see anything. What we’re wondering is if there are… bodies… that might not be shown.”

  Federico seemed to be searching for words, then he seemed to find some. “Cuerpos no identificados.”

  Tristan shook her head.

  Patrick said, “Unidentified corpses.”

  Federico nodded.

  Tristan’s lips twitched.

  Charlene’s body had already been identified, but since it was burned beyond recognition, and since authorities still hadn’t claimed it, Patrick knew that was what Federico meant. Patrick said, “Is there a way to find out if one of them might be my sister?”

  “We’re very worried,” Tristan chimed in.

  Federico thought, and then said, “Un momento, por favor. Let me see.”

  He closed the door.

  “What’s he doing?” Tristan said. “Checking with the bodies to make sure they don’t mind?”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  A few minutes later, Federico returned.

  “I’m sorry, señor. The no identificados are not for looking.”

  Patrick wasn’t onboard with that. He stepped up the performance. “Please, help us. We drove all the way down here, and we’re very scared something happened to her. My mother is worried sick. Mi madre.”

  Federico looked at Tristan, looked at Patrick. Then he shook his head. “Señor, you no can tell if it is her by seeing.”

  “But are there report
s with information that could tell us?”

  Federico shrugged. “Some yes, some no.”

  “Could we see those?”

  “Señor, there are muchos reports to see. We no can show them all.” Federico stepped back, and the door began to close.

  Patrick stuck his foot in the gap, and his face directly into Federico’s. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and produced a hundred-dollar bill. “Won’t you help us? Please?”

  Federico looked at the money, looked at Patrick, took the cash without a word.

  He led them toward an office full of records.

  Several minutes and a stack of files later, with Federico looking increasingly impatient, Tristan nudged Patrick and angled a sheet of paper toward him. He looked closer, saw the name, Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia.

  “Bingo,” Patrick said softly.

  “Señor?” Federico said.

  Patrick asked, “Would it be possible to make a copy of this?”

  “Oh, no, señor. We no can allow this.”

  Patrick knew what that meant. He produced another hundred and said again, “Is it possible to make a copy of this?”

  They sat in the car. Patrick began reading anxiously, translating for Tristan. “The body of a female, about five foot five, probably in her thirties, severely burned. Jewelry still intact—a gold necklace.” Patrick remembered reading about that, along with the wallet used to identify her. “An unknown accelerant used to ignite the fire.” So far, everything fit. He continued. “Prior bone trauma to the right wrist and left ankle, likely old, healed fractures.” Patrick wasn’t aware if Marybeth had suffered those, but there was so much about her past he never knew. He read silently for a moment then looked up at Tristan. “She died from a head injury.”

  Tristan nodded, urging him to read on.

  He did. “No other apparent signs of trauma.” Then he stopped.

  “What?”

  He pulled the page closer, staring at it. He felt the blood drain from his face and prickly heat doing a needle dance near the base of his spine.

  “Patrick, what is it?”

  He looked up and locked eyes with Tristan’s. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak. He wasn’t even sure if he could breathe.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Still looking at her in a daze, he said very slowly, “I think I just did.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  He looked down at the paper again, still unable to believe what he knew to be the truth—the cold, obstinate truth. He looked up at her and in an unsteady voice said, “Wesley didn’t kill Charlene.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “The dental records.”

  “What about them?”

  “This person still had her wisdom teeth.”

  “And Marybeth didn’t? Are you sure?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  Tristan’s mouth fell open. No words came out.

  Patrick stared at the report again, rubbing his forehead, and in a shaky voice, said, “My God, it’s the same thing. It’s the same damned thing. This is college all over again.” He looked out through the windshield, seeing nothing, his vision clouded by an odd hybrid of deep sadness and utter confusion.

  He turned to Tristan and said, “She’s not dead. Marybeth is still alive.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  He shoved the gearshift into drive and took off down the road, his body numb, his mind not much better. Shockwaves were still thrashing through him, the mental anguish tearing him up.

  “Watch out!” Tristan shouted.

  A horn blared, then fell away in the distance. Tristan put a palm to her chest, took in a deep breath, and said in an admirably calm voice, “Stop signs, Patrick. I know you’re upset, but stop signs.”

  He didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to reconcile with reality. Once more, the story had flipped. Marybeth wasn’t a victim—she was the mastermind behind all this, doing exactly what she’d done all those years ago, staging her own death. Patrick had tried to settle his pain by thinking she never wanted to leave him, that she’d been forced to, and that she might have even loved him. Now he knew none of this could be true. All these years, all those lies, marinating in deceit—her deceit. And all along, Patrick had been her fool. She’d taken advantage of his trust, his love. He’d been her victim not just once, but now twice. He clenched his teeth, flexed his jaw.

  “Patrick…” Tristan offered. “You gonna be okay?”

  He nodded, but it was a lie. He wasn’t, and he’d never be.

  Silence fell between them, but there was nothing peaceful about it.

  A few minutes later, in a broken but resolute voice, he said, “I’ve got to find her.”

  “No, Patrick,” she said, guardedly shaking her head. “You don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “Don’t let her do this to you again. You know the truth now. What good would it—”

  “The truth isn’t enough. I need to know why.”

  “Patrick, listen to—”

  “I have to,” he said again, shaking his head, fighting his tears.

  “The woman lied to you. She was a lie. What else do you need? And even if you do find her, she’ll just do it to you again. She will lie. Believe me, I know the type. I’ve been there. Don’t do this, Patrick. Don’t set yourself up for more pain. Let it go.”

  “I can’t,” he said, his voice cracking, shaking his head with wounded vehemence. “I cannot.”

  More time passed, filled with more silence, more thoughts.

  Then he said, “This is important to me.”

  She nodded in reluctant acknowledgment but did not look at him, did not speak.

  He turned his head to her and said, “I have to do this.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Will you help me?”

  “Of course. You know I will.”

  They returned to the trailer. Tristan passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow. No such luck for Patrick. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind—too many thoughts running nonstop, too many emotions soaring, looking for a place to land. Besides, someone needed to stay up and keep a watch out for Wesley.

  Patrick lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking. About what an idiot he’d been for letting Marybeth fool him. Apparently, once hadn’t been enough—all these years later, he’d managed to fall into her web of lies again.

  How could I be so damned stupid?

  The more he thought of her betrayal, the deeper the pain penetrated, then anger arrived, giving him a merciless slam. The two emotions whipsawed him until he could no longer keep still. He jumped out of bed and into the kitchen, powered up the laptop, began searching for something to make sense of the senseless.

  Tristan sat up in bed. “What the hell?”

  “I need answers,” he said, his eyes locked on the screen.

  “Now?”

  He nodded, still searching.

  “Good freakin’ Lord. It’s three a.m.,” she said, clutching her pillow to her chest. “Whatever you’re looking for will still be there in the morning.”

  “Can’t wait,” he said, fingers clicking, mind on full throttle.

  She got out of bed, walked to the fridge, stared inside.

  Patrick combed through all his notes, his research, and his resources, but page after page showed information he already knew or that held no significance. Nothing. He looked up past his screen at Tristan, now sitting patiently across the table and said, “It’s got to be here, somewhere. It has to.”

  “Maybe it’s not there at all,” she said, aiming a half-eaten candy bar at him. She peeled the wrapper back farther, took another bite.

  He kept searching. Tristan kept watching.

  Moments later, he said, “Beaumont, Louisiana.”

  “And?”

  He scrolled, eyes dashing back and forth across the screen. “Sully mentioned another girl
named Marybeth Redmond who died there at age sixteen. We blew it off at the time, but now…”

  Tristan came around and rested her arms on the back of his chair, looking on. “I still don’t get it.”

  “Wesley Clark lived in Choctaw Lake, Louisiana.”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be, but I’ve looked at everything else.” He pulled up a map, studied it. “And Beaumont’s just a few miles from Choctaw Lake.”

  “So, another coincidence.”

  He peered over his shoulder, gave her an aggravated look.

  She took another bite from the candy bar, chewed and shrugged.

  “Does your phone get Internet?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Let me see it.”

  She grabbed it from the counter, handed it to him.

  He began searching. The trouble was, getting access in their remote area was spotty at best. The signal kept going in and out, driving Patrick’s nerves closer to the edge.

  He kept a link long enough to find a newspaper story dated June 4, 1989: an obituary for Marybeth Redmond in Beaumont. He zoomed in on the photo: a cute kid with short, blond hair, rosy freckled cheeks, and plump lips framing a beautiful smile, but not his Marybeth. Not by a long shot. He turned the phone to Tristan.

  She said, “Completely different girl.”

  He read the obit out loud so she could hear. “Students, faculty, and parents at Joseph’s High School are mourning the death of popular student Marybeth Redmond, who died early Friday morning after the car she was driving with three other teens as passengers lost control and crashed on East Findlay Road near Lake Fredrick’s Pass. Authorities estimate the vehicle was speeding in excess of 80 miles per hour when it slammed into a tree. Jonathan Sanders is listed in critical condition at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Fairlawn. Cynthia Wallace and Sandy Friesland escaped with minor injuries. Redmond is survived by two brothers, William, 8, and Samuel, 4.”

  “It’s a bust, Patrick. Go to sleep and give it a rest.” Tristan moved toward her bed.

  Patrick tried searching for more information but lost the connection. Frustrated, he put the phone down.

  And heard a loud crash outside. He stood up and spun around; Tristan was already reaching for her gun.