Patrick ran to Marybeth—he couldn’t think of her as Bridget—and went down on one knee. He reached for her hand, and she opened her eyes, expression fraught with fear and confusion. Patrick helped her to her feet.
“Out the back door!” Tristan said.
In the distance, Patrick heard shouts and sirens.
Chapter Seventy-One
Patrick held tightly to Marybeth’s hand as they ran toward the thick shrubs that bordered the grounds.
“We’ll need to crawl through,” Tristan urged.
Patrick stared at the hedge with consternation. The shrubs rose on trunks about eighteen inches off the ground—enough room to crawl under—but the bushes themselves were thick with brambles. It would only take one good scratch to break his skin and send his blood flowing. He realized that neither of the two women knew about his condition, and this didn’t seem like the best time for a lecture on Von Willebrand disease.
Tristan looked Marybeth up and down and said, “You’ll need to lose the Halloween costume, sweetie, or you’ll be tangled up here forever.”
Marybeth threw her a momentary and slightly put-off expression, then removed the veil and billowing tunic. Underneath, she was very practically attired in shorts and a T-shirt.
“What are we waiting for here? The damned resurrection?” Tristan said. “Wake up and move!”
Patrick stared at the prickly thorns, then at Tristan, and something flashed in her eyes, something that signaled sudden recognition, followed by compassionate understanding. In that instant, Patrick realized she had indeed seen his Medic Alert necklace on the counter that night.
“It’s okay,” she whispered with gentle reassurance. “Pull your sleeves down over your hands and take it slow. You can do this.”
Patrick blinked fast, unsure how to react, but he didn’t have time to feel awkward. He glanced at the thorns again, knowing he had no choice; either way he could die, but the gap under the hedge at least offered a chance for escape. The Federales would offer no such chance.
“You go first. I’ve got your back,” she said with an encouraging smile and a wink.
Patrick held her gaze for a fast moment, then nodded. He pulled his sleeves down and carefully eased his way under the bushes, Tristan behind and Marybeth following them.
Patrick heard a branch snap.
“Damn!” Tristan said in a hushed whisper.
Patrick kept moving and didn’t look, his heart speeding up and hammering against his ribs.
The sirens were getting louder, closer.
And Patrick was watching every branch, every thorn that passed above as if they were razor-toothed snakes.
A thorn snagged Patrick’s cuff. He winced, but it hadn’t gone through to his skin; still, it was a stark reminder of the impending danger as the sirens drew even closer. Danger near and far, both equal in their threats.
It was a relief to wriggle into unbroken daylight. But his fears weren’t allayed for long. Standing before them was a tall chain-link fence.
With barbed wire stretched across the top.
Patrick swallowed hard, the sharp, jagged steel demanding his attention—and his fear. The fence was too high. There was no going over without being hurt.
“What do we do now?” he said.
Tristan gave him an indecipherable look. She stepped exaggeratedly along the fence line—to a gate about twenty feet away. She pushed it open.
Then she walked right through.
Marybeth fought back a grin.
Patrick felt like an idiot.
When they reached the street, Tristan said, “We need to get to the car without anyone seeing us.”
“How?” Patrick asked. “There are people all over the place.”
A Mexican government vehicle came swerving around the corner. They darted behind a bush until it passed.
“Shit!” Tristan said. Then she spotted a guy in a four-seater touring bike across the street.
She looked at Patrick. “Our chariot awaits.”
Patrick handed the driver a twenty and said, “¡Rapido! ¡Llevame al estacionamiento cruzando la calle!” They hunched in the seat, and the bike took off, Marybeth holding tightly on to Patrick’s hand.
Patrick wasn’t sure what he was doing, other than wondering whether he was running from danger or directly into it.
Chapter Seventy-Two
They sped down the freeway as fast as the old Buick would take them. Patrick drove, with Marybeth in the front seat, Tristan in back. He prayed the car would hold its own, each rattle and clink suddenly more noticeable, like warning bells reminding him of yet another vulnerability.
“Where am I going?” he asked.
“I’m thinking.” Tristan looked out the window, tapping a finger to her lips. “We can’t cross the border now, not until I figure out how without getting—”
“I can’t go back there anyway,” Marybeth interrupted. “I’m supposed to be dead.”
Patrick looked at Tristan for answers, but all he got was a quick roll of the eyes.
“Like I said,” Tristan replied. “We can’t go across the border.”
Patrick interjected, “Can we please just figure this out?”
“I’m trying!” Tristan snapped, shaking her head with aggravation. She turned pensive and then, “I’m just not sure if I know anyone else down here to put us up.”
“I do,” Marybeth said tentatively.
They both turned to look at her.
She moved her glance back and forth between them. “The place I hid out when I first got here. It’s down past Ensenada.”
“What kind of place?” Patrick said.
“A campground on the beach, about an hour and a half from here. It’s safe and it’s cheap.”
Tristan said, “But is it secluded?”
“It’s very small, mostly locals. Nobody asks questions.”
Tristan gave a fast nod and said, “Let’s do it.”
They stopped at a cantina to get some supplies and clothes for Marybeth, then they were off again. With danger at their backs, things got quieter. Tristan had fallen asleep, while Patrick and Marybeth sat silently up front. He didn’t know what to say to her. So much had happened so fast, none of it feeling real and all of it hard to process. Charlene Clark and Marybeth Redmond: two names. Two deaths that never happened. A woman he once loved more than anything, then hated briefly; and now things had flip-flopped again. In all honestly, Patrick wasn’t sure whether they were coming full circle or heading into yet another tailspin.
He wasn’t sure about anything.
He stole a quick glance at her just to be sure she was real, feelings swirling through him, powerful and complex. She smiled at him, and in that instant, all his confusion seemed to evaporate, the years dissolving away, all the bad memories irrelevant. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. There was no Bridget. There was no time. It was just Marybeth and him again. His Marybeth.
She looked down at her hands, and her expression changed to something that seemed to mirror regret. “I know I have a lot more explaining to do. And I want to. I really do.”
For the first time, Patrick felt his body and mind relax. He smiled. “We’ll have plenty of time for that now.”
She turned her body toward him, her face pleading along with her words, “Patrick, I never thought this day would come, that I’d be able to see you again. He kept me from you, but I swear I never stopped thinking about you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
Words that for so many years he’d longed to hear; words he never thought he would. Not from her, not from anyone.
Tristan let out a gigantic snort.
He looked into the rearview mirror and spotted her shifting around in her sleep. She stretched and through a groggy moan said, “Are we there yet?”
“Almost,” he said, looking at Marybeth and smiling. Her face lit up. She returned the smile.
They reached the campground about an hour later.
“W
hy don’t you go inside,” Tristan said to the other woman. She rubbed her eyes, then stopped and said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. I just realized I don’t even know what to call you. Who are you these days?”
“Marybeth will be fine,” she said, eyeing Tristan with a hint of a glare.
“Okay. Thanks.” Tristan smiled, but Patrick could see a trace of cynicism riding just around the edges of it. “Anyway, why don’t you go on inside and get us checked in, since you already know the lay of the land here.”
Marybeth gave Tristan a quick, speculative look, then smiled and winked at Patrick. “I won’t be long, baby. I promise.”
Tristan trailed the woman with guarded eyes. Patrick watched too, and as soon as Marybeth disappeared inside he said to Tristan, “What seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t like her.”
He sucked some air in sharply. “Okay… and why is that?”
Tristan crossed her arms. “She’s a fake.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on that she’s full of bullshit. Patrick, she’s totally playing you. That half-hearted codswallop she was slinging about how much she’s always loved you?”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
She gave him a deadpan look. “Honestly, Patrick.”
His gaze lingered on her for a brief moment, then he glanced away, shook his head.
“This is the same damned thing all over again, can’t you see? She’s lying through her teeth, and you’re too blinded by this… this… bottomless hunger for love to even see it. Trust me: you’ll never get love from her, not in a million years. She doesn’t have it. She’s not it. I’m warning you, Patrick, there’s something terribly wrong with that woman. Do not fall into her trap again. Don’t do it. She’ll break your heart all over again.”
“You’ve got nothing to prove any of that.”
“I’ve got my gut, and it’s screaming at me that you’re headed straight for trouble.”
“How am I supposed to go on a gut feeling?” he said, his annoyance sharpening into anger.
“Because that feeling comes from my gut—that’s why. Because you trust me, and you know that from day one, every goddamned second, I’ve had your back. Because you know that, no matter what, I always will have your back and I will never lead you astray. Never.” She shot a furious glance toward the office. “Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for Miss Presto-Chango in there.” She looked at him again. “My God, Patrick. Stop being everyone’s damned victim and once and for all, start living your life. It’s well past time.” She flung her body back into the seat, crossed her arms, and stared angrily out the window.
Patrick sat for a long moment, watching her in stunned silence, unsure what to say. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t speak, her expression stiffening more with each passing moment.
Marybeth came breezing out of the rental office, waving the keys with a big airy smile. “We’re in!” she said, getting into the car, beaming with excitement.
Tristan couldn’t have looked less thrilled.
Chapter Seventy-Three
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Marybeth said as they unloaded their belongings from the car. Tristan had already stormed into the trailer.
“It’s okay,” Patrick said and smiled. “She just takes a little getting used to.”
“A little?”
He tried his best to shrug it off.
“Where’d you dig her up, anyway?”
“It’s a long story, but she’s good people.”
“Good for what?” Marybeth laughed. “Entertainment?”
Patrick felt his face go expressionless.
“Oh, baby, I was just kidding,” she said with a placating grin. “I’m sorry, she just put my back up a little. She’s your friend, so of course I love her.”
He forced a smile.
“Jeez,” she said. “Did you leave your sense of humor behind all those years ago?” She slapped him on the rear, grinned some more. “It’s me, remember?”
Tristan came out of the trailer just in time to catch the playful swat. She didn’t look pleased, but to her credit, did her best to ignore it. As she walked toward the car for her belongings, the two women crossed paths without so much as a word or glance toward one another, but it was abundantly clear to Patrick: there was some bad energy going around, and he had a problem. He felt caught between two women and two worlds.
“This is great,” Patrick said as he stepped inside the RV. And it really was much better than he had expected, more spacious and a lot cleaner than the one Tristan had taken him to. Tristan shot him a quick, dry look as if his comment were a direct insult, then went on about her business.
“Look here, baby!” Marybeth called from the rear, pointing and grinning. She disappeared through a door.
Patrick followed her inside.
“Our own room!” She hopped onto the bed and lay back, her smile teasing and playful. “I can’t wait for tonight.”
Patrick couldn’t see or hear Tristan, but he could sense her listening, and he could feel her angry vibes shooting through the walls like missiles. He said, “We’d better get unpacked. I’ll get the rest of our things.”
When he moved into the other room, Tristan was hefting her bags, her face emotionless.
Awkward. Patrick felt terribly awkward.
“You okay?” he asked, grabbing her bags.
“Yeah, fine.” She jerked them back.
“Tristan—”
“I’m fine,” she said repressively. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
Patrick raised his voice toward the bedroom while holding an appraising gaze on Tristan. “Baby, why don’t we go for a walk on the beach and give Tristan a chance to rest?”
“Okay,” Marybeth yelled gleefully from the bedroom. “Just give me a minute to change into something more comfortable.”
It was more than a minute—actually about fifteen—before she surfaced in the doorway, makeup freshened, wearing a white button-down blouse tied at the stomach above a pair of festive red shorts. “How do I look?” she said, spinning around, smiling.
Tristan muttered something that sounded like BeachBlanketBingo.
“You look great,” Patrick said. “Ready to go?”
She nodded, then flittered ahead of him and through the door.
Patrick looked at Tristan one last time before leaving. She was still unpacking, still resolutely avoiding his gaze. He started to say something, then stopped, headed out.
They walked along the shoreline, and Patrick was finally able to relax, feeling as though he’d just managed to separate two feral cats. The waves crashed in, and the turquoise skies spread for miles, reminding Patrick of that time so long ago where it all began for them. Being by her side again as their past sprung into real life was strange, but also strangely wonderful.
He closed his eyes, breathed in the sea air, and let it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, his tension was almost completely gone. He was beginning a new life, and it was euphoric.
Marybeth wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and gave him a strong passionate kiss, sending him into a state of weak-kneed weightlessness. She smelled exactly as he remembered; in fact, everything about her, about this moment, was so familiar and so wonderful. It was like coming home. It was heaven.
“Patrick?” she said. “You okay?”
He couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. “I’m better than okay. I’m fantastic.”
Running a finger across his lips, she said, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Patrick Bannister. I don’t want to live another moment without you. I don’t care if we have to run deep into the jungle and live there forever. I don’t care what we have to do, as long as we’re together. I love you, and with every minute that passes, I just keep loving you more.”
Loving you.
Patrick was beaming, every part of his body feeling electric, parts that for all these years had seemed l
ocked up, off limits.
“What are you thinking right this minute?” she asked, gazing into his eyes, running her fingers through his hair.
Still grinning, he said, “How amazing this moment is. I want to feel every bit of it, remember it forever, because I know I’ll look back on it as the happiest day of my life.”
She lowered her arms over his shoulders, drew her lips to his, and they kissed.
Chapter Seventy-Four
They sat on the rocks, holding hands, staring at the ocean. The sun was sloping downward, barely touching the horizon, an eruption of color decorating the sky: a final prelude to the fall of gathering darkness. Out on the water the surf stirred restlessly, waves chasing their way to a fading shoreline. Patrick felt his emotions shifting as well, his internal tide rising to even higher levels. Now they were talking about spending the rest of their lives together, even about having a family—he could barely fathom the thought, let alone understand the feelings that came with it. He wondered if that was because what had never seemed remotely possible was now suddenly coming true. All these years, all that pain. It felt like his life was just beginning.
He turned to look in her eyes, liquid green waves rolling through them. The most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, and now more than ever.
Marybeth ran a hand over his leg, smiling. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with you. I can’t believe this is real.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
“I still have so many questions.”
She looked up at him. “Ask them. I want you to know everything.”
He looked at her scarred earlobe with sadness. Marybeth noticed and self-consciously put her hand over it; Patrick reached up, gently pulling it away. Softly, he reassured her. “It’s okay.”
“He was trying to force me to admit I’d broken into his office,” she said through a distraught and shattered voice. “He wanted to know what I found.” She wiped a tear away. “Patrick, he tortured me. That was when I knew I had to get out of there. I had to get away before he killed me. So I killed myself—or made it look that way—but I knew that making myself dead wouldn’t be enough. I’d tried that before. Making him the killer would keep him away for good. So I took the earlobe and left it in the garage with Wesley’s car, knowing it would seal his fate.”
Darkness & Shadows Page 28
