Now they heard footfalls moving rapidly outside the trailer—and now they knew: someone was there.
Tristan moved quietly toward the front, finger firm on the trigger, motioning with her free hand for Patrick to follow. She stepped to the side of the door and hunched against it, listening intently.
More movement and more noise.
A car door slammed, and an engine roared, then came the sound of tires spinning in the dirt and a vehicle speeding away.
Tristan pushed the door open and hurried outside. Patrick grabbed a flashlight off the counter and followed her. They ran around the trailer. When they got to the other side, they stopped in their tracks and stared at two wooden crates scattered under a window, one cracked in two.
Tristan looked at Patrick.
Patrick was already watching her with a troubled expression.
Tristan said, “Someone’s been looking in on us, and it sure as hell wasn’t to make sure we were having sweet dreams.”
The enemy was getting bolder, moving closer—an enemy determined not just to shut them down but also wipe them out. If there had been any question about just how much danger they were in, there was none now.
“We’d probably be dead if the crate hadn’t busted,” Tristan said, lifting a cracked slat of wood, then tossing it. She looked at Patrick and shook her head. “We let our guard down and gave him a clear shot at us—big mistake. We have to get out of here, and this time, we need to make sure he doesn’t follow.”
“How do we do that? And where do we go?”
She crossed her arms, stared up the road. “Anywhere but here.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
For a lack of a better idea, they spent part of the night sitting at a truck stop diner, alternately staring into their cups of coffee, at each other, and over their shoulders, trying to figure out their next move. The other part they spent in the car, taking shifts, one trying to sleep while the other kept a watchful eye out for any sign of danger.
They made it through until morning alive—still heavy on their minds, though, was the reality that, were it not for a lucky twist of fate, they might not have been.
They drove toward TJ because they didn’t know where else to go, their path feeling more uncertain than ever before. As they drew closer to the city, the Internet connection got stronger, and Patrick decided to take advantage of the drive time to pick up where he left off the night before.
“What are you looking for?” Tristan said, sparing him a glance.
“Anything that makes sense,” he said.
“Good luck with that.”
“Something’s still bugging me about that story.”
“Seems irrelevant to me.”
“Yeah, well my instincts are telling me otherwise, and I’ve learned to trust them,” he said. “This is my department.”
“Okay, what’s bothering you about it?”
He lost his Internet connection once more. “Two tiny towns, less than ten miles from each other. Seems like too much of a coincidence. Problem is, I can’t find anything more on the car accident… or the girl.”
The connection returned. Tristan kept driving, and Patrick kept searching for an answer he wasn’t even sure existed.
On the outskirts of TJ, he was able to search without interruption and found a story published about a week after the crash. Patrick zoomed in on the photo. And felt his jaw practically become unhinged.
“Not loving that look on your face,” Tristan said. When he didn’t respond, her voice became more fretful. “Patrick, what is it?”
“Pull over,” he said.
She found the nearest parking lot and turned in.
He handed her the phone.
She looked at it, and he could see the shock register on her face. Slowly, Tristan moved her eyes up toward Patrick and said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
He shook his head.
It was a picture from the Redmond memorial service: a crowd of students and teachers and relatives with vacant expressions, gathered around the casket, paying their respects.
And in that crowd was a face Patrick knew very well.
Marybeth. His Marybeth.
Chapter Sixty-Five
“Her name wasn’t Marybeth,” Tristan said.
Patrick nodded somberly, his jaw set.
She held his incensed gaze a moment longer, then started the car and pulled out of the lot. For the next mile or so, bewilderment rendered them silent, then Tristan said, “She took the girl’s name after she died.”
Patrick was staring into oblivion. He couldn’t even nod his answer.
“She’s good,” Tristan said, shaking her head. “I’ll give her that much.”
Coming from her, it was quite a compliment, but for Patrick, it felt like another cruel slap in the face. More deception, more pain—the bad just kept coming. He’d fallen in love with a fraud. Now, to make matters worse, not only did he not know the woman; he didn’t even know her real name.
And he also didn’t know what to feel anymore. Or maybe it was just that he was feeling too much, information overload sending him into a state of mental paralysis. A mind could only take so much, and he was pretty sure he’d reached his limit. But through it all, one emotion still managed to rise to the surface, and it was growing stronger with each passing minute: he was angry.
No, he was furious.
And now more than ever, he wanted to see her face-to-face, whoever the hell she was. He wanted to look into the eyes that used to captivate him and demand answers from the demon who had been destroying his life one year at a time, leaving him with nothing but a legacy of pain and suffering.
“We’ll find her,” Tristan said, as if answering his thoughts, her voice rising with steady and indignant determination. “We will.”
When they reached TJ, a dark ceiling of cloud cover moved above the city, swirling its way through bygone blue skies. Patrick couldn’t help but feel as if it were some sort of symbiotic reaction, a force of nature brought about by his inner turmoil. His emotions began to settle into a hazy mix, anger giving way to acceptance, truth leading him toward a path paved with resolve and firm determination.
He looked at Tristan and said, “So, what’s the plan?”
She glanced at him and smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
“Sorry, my mind’s been occupied. Or maybe hijacked is a better word.”
“We’re going to take care of that. So, here’s the deal. Your Marybeth is still in Mexico. I’m willing to bet on it.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on she’s burned every other bridge, so to speak.”
“Not funny,” he said.
“I’m trying. Work with me here.”
He nodded noncommittally.
She went on. “There’s nowhere else the woman can go. She sure can’t head back to the US now. Besides, there’s a reason she chose to dump the body here. People are hardly ever as random as they think they are. There’s always some kind of unconscious logic.” She nodded to herself. “So, we have to figure out her logic.”
“Which would be…?”
“For starters, she likes to hide in plain sight, and quite honestly I’ve never seen anything like it before. The woman is amazing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s an expert. More than likely, she’s been doing it her whole life. She was fine hiding out in public at a university filled with her peers, and as Charlene Clark—well, I don’t know how the hell she pulled that one off, but it shows just how good she is at it. I’m willing to bet she’s doing the same thing now, hiding out among the masses, someplace where she can blend in.”
“But how? And where?”
“Well, we can assume now it was Marybeth that dumped the bogus body.”
Patrick nodded.
“Dressed as a nun.”
“You think she’s hiding out as one?”
“It’s a perfect cover.”
“But we can’t
search every church in TJ.”
“Right, we can’t. But we can go to the places with the highest concentration of Catholic churches.”
“That’s pretty much the whole city. Three-fourths of the people are Catholic.”
“They have an archdiocese? Or even the biggest cathedral? Remember how she thinks. The more obvious, the better.”
Patrick was already on Tristan’s cell and searching. He said, “Calle Segunda, downtown. It’s got the biggest cathedral, and there are a bunch of others scattered over the surrounding area.”
“Perfect. Lots of other nuns, priests, and churchgoers. Someone might recognize her. We’ll start there.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“We start hitting hospitals, then the orphanages. Nuns can go lots of places without being recognized. We’ll hit them all until we find her.”
“But what’s our strategy?”
She thought about that. “It would help if you had a photo of her.”
“I do.”
She didn’t seem terribly surprised, just held out her hand.
Patrick shifted his weight and reached for his wallet. He pulled out the photo and handed it to her. She held it up, splitting her attention between it and the road.
“It was a long time ago,” he said.
Tristan was still eyeing the photo, and her expression fell flat. She handed it back and said, “She was freakin’ beautiful.”
“On the outside.”
“Still look that good now?”
“She looks better,” he said, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like contempt.
“I hate when that happens. Anyway, we’ll need something more recent.”
“We can grab one off the Internet.”
“Perfect.”
“But what are we doing with it?”
“You’ll see.” She nodded her confidence. “I’m going to show you how to work the streets, my friend.”
“Work them how?”
“As in, until we find her or until you can no longer stand on your feet—whichever comes first. In the meantime, find me a print store in the area.”
They pulled into the parking lot. As they got out, Tristan stared at a building in the distance. Patrick looked, too. It was old and historic, probably very beautiful at one time, but years of neglect had left it rundown and badly in need of repair—much like so many other churches in the area—still, beyond the cracked masonry, the broken windows and awnings, he could see the guts were solid, the architecture nothing short of breathtaking.
“Pretty,” she said.
“It is.” He turned and walked, shaking his head. “And it’s sad.”
“What is?”
“Something so beautiful left to ruin like that, and surrounded by so much poverty. Nobody even has the chance to appreciate it—they’re too busy trying to put food on their tables. Meanwhile it just keeps slipping away, falling deeper into decline, until the beauty becomes nothing more than a reflection of pain.”
She nodded.
Patrick looked over his shoulder and gave it one last glance as he walked away.
Chapter Sixty-Six
“Grab me a few sheets of plain paper, a glue stick, two rolls of masking tape, and a thick, black marker,” Tristan said once they were inside. She pointed to an aisle at the far end of the store. “I’ll be over there getting you a burner phone. Meet me by the copy center after. And I need some cash.”
Patrick handed her the money. He headed toward the aisle and began searching for supplies.
About ten minutes later, after Patrick printed the photo of Charlene from a newspaper story, they met up at the copy center.
“Paper,” she said, holding out her hand, “and the photo.”
He gave them to her.
“Glue.”
He gave her that, too.
She smeared some glue on the back of the photo, stuck it to the paper, then handed it to him. “Write this in Spanish, all caps: ‘Missing: please help us find her. One-thousand-dollar cash reward for information leading to her safe return.’ And put the number for your new phone on there.”
“A thousand bucks?”
She clamped a hand to her hip. “How much is the truth worth to you?”
He wrote the words.
She said, “Now run off a thousand copies. I’m gonna grab a few more things.”
About twenty minutes later, he returned with the stack of papers. Her eyes went straight to it. “That doesn’t look like a thousand.”
“It’s five hundred.”
“I asked for a thousand.”
“Why do we need that many?”
She didn’t answer; she just looked really annoyed.
He felt anger swell inside him. It didn’t matter that none of this was Tristan’s fault; it felt good to get mad at someone. He threw his hands up and shouted, “I’ll come back and get more if we need them! Okay?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Tristan shifted her weight to one side. Now she was raising her voice. “The point is that I asked for a thousand, and you brought me half that. You didn’t listen to me.”
“Okay, I didn’t listen. Can we just move past that now?”
“I don’t want to move past it, I want you to—”
“Look!” he said even louder. “We’re wasting time arguing! Can we just get busy and do this?”
Several people turned around to stare at them, but Tristan didn’t seem to notice: she was too busy glaring at him, her face pinched with anger.
Patrick looked around at the curious people. He blew some air out, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated, and I’m tired. I just want to get this over with.”
The glare turned into a pissed-off scowl. Her voice wasn’t exactly sparkling with delight when she said, “And I’m just loving every damned minute of it.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
She spun around and walked away, leaving him standing there, holding the stack of papers.
Patrick got to the car with the flyers—all five hundred of them—and a pink bakery box. He slithered into his seat.
“I brought the doughnuts this time,” he offered with a hesitant but appeasing smile.
She didn’t bother acknowledging him, kept her head aimed forward.
“Tristan, please don’t be—”
She started the car, cranked up the radio.
Patrick turned it down. “Can’t I just apologize?”
She wasn’t answering that one either.
He threw a hand over the back of his neck, drew in a weighted breath, released it. “Look… I’m having a really hard time with all this, and I…” He looked out the window, shook his head. “The woman who meant everything to me was a complete fraud. Nothing was as it seemed, nothing at all, and I…” He turned to her, and his voice fell to a near-whisper. “I thought she really loved me.”
“I warned you,” she said grudgingly, still staring out through the windshield.
“I know you did, and I know I was a complete asshole in there. But I have to find her. I need to make some kind of sense of this all. I need to make…” He stopped, closed his eyes. “I spent my entire childhood with a mother who despised me, and the time I spent with Marybeth was the first time in my life that anyone actually seemed to give a damn. Tristan, it was all I had. Now, bit-by-bit, inch-by-inch, it’s being pulled away, and…” He paused again, stared out the window, shook his head. “Now I feel there’s nothing left. I feel like my whole life has been…”
“Some cruel joke.”
He dropped his head. With a weak nod and an even weaker voice, he said, “Yeah. Just like that.”
“I’m trying to help you, Patrick.”
“I know you are, and now I’m screwing that up, too.” He looked at her. “I just keep screwing everything up.”
Her expression relaxed some. The body followed.
He said, “There
isn’t much left of me anymore, except maybe just a lot of anger. And so much damned pain. I misdirected it at you.”
She turned to look at him.
“You’re my friend, Tristan, probably the best I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to lose you. I feel like I keep messing this up every chance I get, but I’m trying, I really am. I just… I don’t know how to keep going anymore. I don’t even know if I can.”
“You can,” she said.
He shook his head.
“We’ll do this,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
When they reached Calle Segunda, Tristan divided the stack of flyers in two. “We’ll split up. I’ll take this side of the street, you get the other. Give one to everybody you can, but especially focus on the nuns and priests. Got it?”
He nodded.
“And tape one to a telephone post every fifty feet or so. And remember to check your phone. I don’t want to miss a call if one comes in.”
Patrick headed across the street and began working the crowd, handing out the flyers. Most people took one but met him with empty stares or shook their heads. He kept moving, kept handing them out. All it took was one person, and he was holding out whatever hope he had left he’d make that connection.
But after about forty-five minutes, hope ran out, and so did his flyers. He crossed the street to meet up with Tristan, concede to his defeat, eat some crow.
“Any luck?” she asked.
He shook his head. “You?”
“No.” She sat on the curb and pulled a shoe off. Massaged her foot.
“It’s a bust.”
She stopped massaging. “Not so fast, Doubting Patrick. We’re not done yet.”
He frowned. “Actually, I am.”
“Please, don’t start this shit with me again. Just don’t.”
“It’s not that.” He held up his empty hands. “I’m out of flyers.”
She leaned back some, crossed her arms. The smile was smug.
“I know,” he said, before she could rub it in, “and I’ve already apologized for not playing nicely, so spare me the gloat-and-grin. I’ll run and get us a thousand more. I’ll get two thousand, if you want, okay?”
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