Darkness & Shadows (18 page)

He looked up at her, his sadness turning to perplexity.

She smiled. “Patrick, she woke up in the middle of the night. She’s downstairs now. We were able to get her off the ventilator, and she’s in radiology having a few tests. She’ll stay in the ICU tonight, and tomorrow they’ll probably move her to a regular ward.”

Patrick glanced at the empty bed, then into the hallway as if seeing both for the first time. He looked at Candy, shaking his head and said, “She’s alive?”

“Very much alive.” The smile grew wider. “She made it, Patrick.”

He waited in the room for Tristan’s return, stunned into silent contemplation of his excitement, exhaustion, and lingering confusion. He couldn’t believe she was actually awake. He couldn’t believe he’d actually be talking to her face-to-face.

He couldn’t believe how much trouble he was in.

And something he’d not considered until now, but that he really should have: the not-so-minor fact that before all this happened, Tristan actually hated him.

No, wait. Hate’s a very strong word… Let’s go with despised.

Patrick’s stomach flip-flopped, imagining the look on her face when they rolled her back in and she saw the asshole from the elevator waiting in her room.

His stomach sucked into his esophagus.

The asshole from the elevator, now posing as her damned brother.

Oh. My. God. I am so in trouble.

His irrational, impulsive mind told him to get out of there, make a run for it as fast as he could.

His logical mind told him he’d do nothing of the sort.

Screw logic
, his irrational mind said. It wasn’t like he’d be abandoning her. After all, he’d followed through on his promise. He could make a quick escape now, and nobody would be any the wiser.

The logical mind pushed the irrational one aside, telling him he’d done the right thing. Surely that would break through her rough exterior.

His irrational mind told him that was a load of horseshit and to make tracks while he still had the chance.

Patrick glanced nervously at the door, eyes blinking, foot pumping, trying to decide what to do next. Then it was too late. He heard Candy’s voice saying cheerfully in the hallway, “And we have a wonderful surprise for you, Tristan. Your brother, Patrick, is here!”

Oh. Shit.

Candy wheeled Tristan into the room.

He made an instant eye-connect with Tristan; he wasn’t sure who looked more stunned, him or her.

“He’s been here since you first arrived,” Candy said, kneeling down, locking the wheels on Tristan’s chair. She stood, beaming at Patrick. “We all think he’s terrific.”

Tristan didn’t appear to be feeling the love.

The nurse went on, “You’re so lucky to have him.”

Tristan wasn’t feeling that, either.

In fact, Patrick wasn’t sure what she was feeling behind her expressionless gaze. All he could do was envision security guards rushing into the room, grabbing him by each arm, and dragging him out—that and the newspaper headlines about the hospital lunatic posing as a patient’s brother, unflattering mug shot and all.

Tristan kept her eyes locked on his and said nothing for a good five seconds. For Patrick, it felt like an eternity. When she spoke, her voice rang flat, a slender shade of hostility trolling just beneath the surface. “It’s so good to see you.”

Candy glowed.

Patrick wanted to crawl under the bed and hide.

“I’ll leave you two alone now,” Candy said, loving every minute of this bastard family reunion. “I’m sure you two have lots of catching up to do.”

Tristan was still looking at him funny.

Patrick glanced at the window: there was still time to escape.

“Oh, one more thing,” Tristan said to Candy as she was heading out.

The nurse turned around.

“Would you mind closing the door when you leave? My brother and I have so much to talk about. We could really use some privacy.”

Patrick wanted nothing of the sort.

“Oh, of course! Absolutely!” Candy said, gently closing the door behind her.

Patrick returned his jittery attention to Tristan and found her regarding him in loaded silence, her gaze like a high-powered telescope. On the warmth-meter, she was banging in at subzero.

He cleared his throat, offered her a thin smile.

“My brother?”

“I can explain—”

“Oh, trust me, you will.” She reached for the call button, held it up, her finger wavering over it.

“Don’t do that!”

She lowered it slightly, shaking her head and smiling her warning. “Dude, this better be really good.”

“I had to!” he said, nervously eyeing the call button as if speaking to it. “There was no choice. It was the only way they’d let me be here.”

“And the reason you had to
be here
?”

“Well, no one else was exactly lining up outside.”

She raised the button, moved her finger over it again.

Patrick stood straight up. “Stop that!”

“Let’s try this again, okay? Only this time we act nice.”

“Okay…” He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. “I didn’t want you to be here all by yourself.” He looked down at his clenched fists, then up at her. “I just couldn’t do that.”

Her expression relaxed a little.

“I made a promise to myself… that I was going to see you through this. You were fighting for your life, for God’s sake. I wanted you to make it. I wanted it more than anything, and I didn’t want you to have to do it alone, so I did it with you. I did it as best as I could.”

Tristan stared at him with something that might have looked like amazement, might have even looked like the slightest hint of admiration. Then she said, “You did all that?”

Patrick nodded quickly.

“All this time?”

He nodded faster.

“All for little old me?” Her tone was ironic.

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t for the engaging conversation or the fabulous food.”

She looked away, rolling her tongue inside her cheek. Then she looked at him again.

And smiled.

“That was pretty fucking cool of you,” she said.

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From the moment Tristan came out of her coma, she came out fighting, and doctors were stunned by her rapid progress. The damage appeared to be minimal. All in all, they were calling it nothing short of a miracle.

But the more Patrick got to know her, the less he was surprised. The woman was a firebrand on wheels. There wasn’t much that could hold her down.

Now that she was in a regular ward, he could make longer visits. He sat with his laptop and worked while she dozed or ate a meal.

“You don’t have to stay here anymore, you know,” she said late the second evening through a groggy, drawn-out yawn.

Patrick stopped typing and looked at her. “I know. I want to.” He brought his attention back to the screen but could still feel her gaze on him. He tried to ignore it.

She said, “So what’s your story, Bannister?”

“My story?”

“Just what I asked.”

He looked up again with a tolerant grin. “If you mean what I do for a living, you already know I’m a reporter.”

She shrugged. “What do you report?”

“News.”

“For who?”

“A magazine… or I did.”

“Not anymore?”

He shook his head. “I’m not really sure.”

“
Not really sure
,” she repeated, scratching her nose. “It would seem to me that being employed is kind of like being dead. Either you are or you aren’t.”

He smiled. “Witty.”

“I try,” she said, with an expression he’d learned to recognize as her version of inner amusement. “So were you shitcanned or what?”

“Let’s just say I hit a rough spot.”

She didn’t appear satisfied by that but moved on anyway, nodding toward the laptop. “So then what are you working on?”

He went back to typing. “A story.”

She spoke with slow, exaggerated patience. “And what’s the story about?”

He looked up at her; he felt an exigent headache coming on. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“I know. What’s it about?”

He sighed. “The Clark case.”

“The who?”

“A missing couple from Rancho Santa Fe.”

“What happened to them?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.”

She turned toward the window, her eyes appearing to follow a thought, and then, “Married?”

“Separated.”

“The dude kill her?”

That startled him. He wondered why she would automatically assume that. “I don’t know yet. Maybe.” Now he was curious. “So what’s
your
story?”

She averted her gaze out the window again, shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, no… I don’t think so.”

She shot him a curious stare. “What?”

“You don’t get to skate around your answer, not after you just grilled me for mine. Come on, cough it up.”

She stared at her lap and twisted a fold of blanket between her fingers.

Patrick waited. He’d gotten pretty good at that.

Then, almost defiantly, she said, “I’m a criminal.”

Patrick raised a wary brow.

“Not nearly as glamorous as being a reporter.”

“Sounds interesting,” he offered.

“Nice try.” She looked down again, resumed her blanket twirling.

“So… what kinds of crimes do you commit?”

“I steal stuff. Cash, cars. Information. Identities.”

Patrick nodded, trying his best to look unaffected but knowing he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“I already got your Social Security number,” she said.

He snorted… and then paused. She looked serious.

“And your date of birth. And your mother’s maiden name.”

He felt a swell of concern.

“And I drained your checking account and opened Macy’s and Amex cards in your name. Got me a big, fancy HDTV waiting at home. All while I was lying here comatose. I’m really good at my job.”

“All that and a flair for the sarcastic,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

She raised her brows, half-smiled. “Actually, I’m kind of like you right now. Unemployed in my chosen profession.”

“Didn’t know it was an actual job.”

“Was for me.”

“So who fired you?”

“The judge did.”

“Would that explain the visits to the shrink and the piss tests?”

Her smile mixed derision with scorn. “Court ordered.”

“So what exactly happened?”

“You know…” she said, her expression turning dimly combative, “I’m thinking that’s probably a conversation better suited for another day, maybe when you tell me why you were eighty-sixed from your job.”

“Touché.”

She looked down. “So now you think less of me, probably.”

He thought about it. “You know, oddly enough, I don’t.”

She looked genuinely surprised. “How come?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“ ’Cause I saved your life?”

“Well, there’s that.”

“And almost died?”

“That, too.”

More blanket twisting. “Well, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t like charity.”

“Good, because I already gave at the office… the one I no longer have.”

She snorted.

He said, “Can I ask you something, though?”

“Shoot.”

“What made you do it?”

“What the hell was I going to do, just stand there and let some lowlife slit your neck?”

“That’s not what I mean. Most people would have dialed 9-1-1, or yelled for help, or… What made you put yourself in danger?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know… It was like my body shifted into autopilot. I saw what he was about to do to you, and all I knew was that I had to stop it. Kind of like the ‘Baby and the Beetle.’ ”

“The what?”

“You know. Kid gets stuck under a Volkswagen and all of a sudden his mother finds the strength to lift the car off him. You see it on the news all the time. It happens. Maybe that’s what happened to me.”

He nodded.

“Or maybe it was something else…”

“Like what?”

“In the elevator that day. When you apologized to me. I felt bad after, like I didn’t really give you a chance.”

Man, she’d hit that one dead-on… and in reverse.

“Besides, the dude made me angry.”

“Angry, how?”

“I mean, I’m no angel. I’ve done some shitty stuff. But what he was going to do to you… that was something completely different. That’s from some other place.” She was intent on his face. “Know what I mean?”

Indeed, he did.

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Who Killed Charlene Clark, and Where is Wesley?

By Lucinda Santiago

Great questions.

And judging by the
Courier
’s banner headline and its front-page placement, Patrick wasn’t the only one growing impatient for answers. If investigators had them, they weren’t tipping their hand. Information was trickling out like a choked-off faucet during a Death Valley summer. The article also made it perfectly clear who was holding the cards: