Darkness & Shadows (4 page)

“Julia McGovern’s office.”

“Elizabeth, it’s Patrick.”

Silence.

“Bannister?” he added.

“Patrick…” Long pause. “Hi.”

“I need to talk to Julia. Can you grab her for me?”

She strung her words out very slowly. “Let me see.”

No more than five seconds later, she returned, her voice weirdly brisk and detached. “Sorry, Patrick, she’s in a meeting right now. Take a message?”

He looked at his watch. A meeting at this hour? Julia was usually about ready to leave by now. “Any idea when she’ll be back? I need to talk to her. It’s important.”

“I really don’t, but like I said, I can leave her a message.”

“Okay.” Patrick sighed his frustration. “But please tell her it’s urgent.”

“I will,” she said, then hung up before he could say another word.

There was a time when he could call Julia day or night, no gatekeepers, no operators. Those times were gone. Patrick shook his head and pursed his lips with determination. It would take a hell of a lot more than one assistant to keep him away. He dialed Julia’s cell.

Halfway through the second ring, the call went to voicemail. He left a message.

He tried Sully’s number again, and again, got nowhere. “Damn it!” he shouted at nobody. “Doesn’t anyone answer their phone?”

Patrick spent the next several hours obsessively dialing at regular intervals, alternating between calls to Sully and Julia; when he wasn’t doing that, he was scouring the Internet for anything he could find on Charlene Clark.

Exhausted, he gazed up at the clock, scrubbing his face with both hands. It was two a.m. His eyelids felt like lead, his mind and body sapped. He let his arms fall onto the desk, dropped his head; even then, he could still hear his pulse throbbing in his ears.

The phone went off, jolting him out of the moment.

He answered before it finished the first ring. “It’s about time.”

“Seven calls?” Sully said. “
Seven?
Holy shit, Pat. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you answer?”

“Just got back from the field, man. You know the rules. Phones off.”

Patrick groaned.

“Dude, you sound like crap. What’s going on?”

“Marybeth is what’s going on.”

“The girl who died in college?”

“She’s not dead, Sully.”

“Say what?”

“She’s alive. Or she was.”

Silence.

“Sully?”

“Yeah, I’m here. So… let me make sure I understand you correctly. You see dead people?”

“I’m not making it up. I swear.”

“But where the hell are you getting it?” Sully’s tone didn’t sound suspicious, but it wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.

“I saw her on TV.”

“On TV…”

“Yeah. I mean… not her. A photo of her.”

“And what exactly was this photo doing on TV?”

Patrick told him. About the Clarks, their mysterious disappearance and probable murders. How the picture of Charlene was the spitting image of his college love.

“Okay,” Sully said. “You do realize how completely whacked out this sounds, right?”

“I know it does, and…” Patrick stopped, his mind catching up, realizing where this was headed. “… and you totally don’t believe me.”

“I’m not saying that,” Sully replied, his voice struggling to fall into a more consoling tone. “I’m just concerned.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“
Me?
”

“Hell, yeah,
you
. Of course,
you
. Things haven’t exactly been going swell these past few years. Now you’re leaving messages all night saying the dead girl from college is walking the earth and living
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
? It sounds a little wonky, Pat, you have to admit.”

“I’m not losing it, Sully, I swear.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but can you just try to pull it together for me?”

“Of course,” Patrick said, his voice failing, a note of defeat creeping into his words.

“Okay. Now first of all, are you one hundred and ten percent sure it’s her?”

“I’d bet my life on it. I’ll send you the link. Check it out for yourself, and you’ll see.”

“Pat…”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t know the woman if I tripped over her. That was freshman year, before you transferred to Marshall. I mean, you showed me a picture of her, but I barely remember what she looked like.”

“Oh, God.” Patrick groaned.

There was silence on the line.

“Sully? You still there?”

“Yeah… I’m just… Never mind.”

“I need your help, Sul. I need it bad.
Please
. Get me whatever you can on the two names, Marybeth Redmond and Charlene Clark. See if you can find some kind of connection between them… anything. And while you’re at it, run a check on the husband, Dr. Wesley Clark. They’re from Rancho Santa Fe. I need to know what’s going on here.”

“I will. I promise. But do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

Sully paused. “Just… go easy on yourself, will ya?”

“I will.”

“Because—”

“I’ll get it under control,” Patrick said. “I won’t go off the deep end again, I swear. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Sully said, his tone a mix of concern and warning, “but don’t make me come down there. I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“A threat worth taking seriously.”

“Bet your ass.”

“I get it,” Patrick said, “and I appreciate it.”

He clicked his phone off and looked at the computer screen. Marybeth’s photo stared back at him, her pale crystalline eyes like windows to his past. Only now it seemed the past had changed—someone had rewritten it when he wasn’t looking.

Either that, or he really was losing his mind.

But I saw it
.

That was the problem—he couldn’t stop seeing it. Horrific, unthinkable images of the only woman he’d ever loved, reduced to a burnt corpse, tendrils of resinous smoke curling through her dark, fleshless ribcage. Her once-beautiful, flawless face transformed into a frightening messenger of tragedy: just a scorched and eyeless skull, all jaws and teeth.

The tears.

The pain.

Gone in an instant. Killed by her worst fear.

Patrick’s mind rewound to the last time he saw her alive, smiling and waving from the sciences building’s second-story window, mouthing the words
I love you
. Marybeth had snuck in to retrieve the notebook she’d left there. Seconds later, a fiery explosion erupted, erasing the one person, the only person, who ever mattered to him. The only one who ever made him feel as though he mattered.

He wound back even farther, thinking about those hushed words she’d whispered to him the night before she died. Words he would never forget.

Never understand.

Patrick threw his hands over his eyes and shook his head rapidly as if he could shake out the feelings. But he couldn’t, and he felt so terribly alone.

Bullet nudged his leg. Patrick looked down. He ran a palm over the boy’s head, and the dog leaned into the motion, keeping his eyes on Patrick as if to say,
It isn’t so. You’re not alone, not anymore.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Patrick said, trying to work up a smile. “It’s okay.”

C
hapter
F
our

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Marybeth’s head rests comfortably against my chest, her shoulder curled to the inside contour of my arm. She fits so perfectly there, as if we were made to connect this way. She gazes up at me with that beautiful smile.

“What?” I say, trying to fight back my own grin.

A mischievous expression slides across her face. “I want to show you something.”

I look deeper into her eyes. I can’t stop looking, can’t stop loving her.

Amused by my curiosity, she slips away from my arms, sits up, and with a playful wink says, “Follow me.”

“What is it?” I ask, intrigued by her impishness
.

“
You’ll see,” she replies with a singsong voice as she gets out of bed. Slowly, she moves forward, looking back at me every few steps, still flashing that smile.

When I catch up to her, I throw my arms over her shoulders, press my body against hers and my lips against the back of her neck. I close my eyes and breathe in her scent, then I spin her around for a deep, passionate kiss. She reciprocates with a helpless moan,
locking her hands behind my neck, pulling my mouth harder against hers. I can taste her, smell her, feel her—I can’t get enough of her. I want to stay here forever, wrapped up with her: connected to her. I realize this is how it is meant to be. How we are meant to be.

She gently pulls away, holds my gaze, and presses a finger against my lips. “Sexy man,” she whispers.

I grin.

She proceeds toward the dresser. When she gets there, she wraps her pinky around the knob of the top drawer while holding my eye contact as if to tease me. Her voice glides up an octave as she says, “Are you ready?”

I play along with a quick wink and anxious nod.

She pulls open the drawer and gazes inside, pushing her hair behind each ear, looking like a little girl filled with excitement and wonder. I’m enjoying it immensely.

She whispers, “Come and see.”

So I do.

And feel my skin crawl, and a burn in my stomach, and my eyes forcing themselves wide open with shock. I step away, appalled.

“Don’t you like it?” she says with a pout, as if wounded by my reaction.

Inside the drawer is a human heart, wrapped so tightly with wire that the flesh bulges between the gaps as the muscle beats, laboring, trying to pump through the tight confines.

She reaches inside and pulls it out. Blood drips down her arm and the dresser, splattering into a pool on the floor. She presses her lips against the heart, kissing it, then she looks at me.

With blood covering her mouth, she says, “It’s yours.”

I shake my head quickly
.

“
It is,” she assures me. “It really is, baby.”

I look down at myself. First I see the blood oozing down my stomach, then I discover the gaping hole in the center of my chest. I look up at her and scream.

She lets out a tiny giggle that erupts into hysterical laughter. The sound echoes inside my head, through the room, so loud it’s almost deafening.

Patrick shot straight up in bed to the sound of his own quick breaths. He couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. Then he felt the wet T-shirt clinging to his body and instinctively threw his hands over his chest.

I’m bleeding.

He flicked the lamp on and looked down: no blood, just perspiration.

Patrick buried his face in his hands, trying to steady the labored breaths shooting out between his fingers.

He scrambled to the bathroom and filled the sink with water, lowered his face into it. The harsh sensation was like a cold slap. He didn’t care; he needed it—or needed
something
—to jar himself from this confusion, this sorrow. Then he wondered if he’d ever again see a night where he didn’t wake up in the dark hours, scared half to death.

He lifted his head and saw his face in the mirror, colorless and soaked.

And wondered if he was staring into the eyes of a fool.

C
hapter
F
ive

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Morning sunlight filtered through his drapes, casting a dismal haze throughout the room. The air felt flat and dormant as if waiting for something to give it life.

Patrick threw the covers over his head.

The night had not been kind. He’d spent most of his time tossing, turning, and thinking.

About Marybeth. He wanted to trust she’d been a victim, that she’d never wanted to leave him. He wanted to believe that if she wasn’t actually dead, she might still love him.

He wanted to, but he couldn’t—not yet. Not until he knew the truth.

Patrick made his way to the kitchen on autopilot. He fed the dog. He flipped on the coffee machine. He reached for the remote and aimed it at the TV. It was all movement and mechanics.

Mindlessly, he poured his cup, eyes half-open, half-listening to the jolly banter between two news anchors who sounded like they’d just sucked helium. “As mentioned earlier, we’re working on a developing story out of Mexico.”

Patrick lifted his cup off the counter, glancing at the TV with negligible interest.

“We’ve just received word that a body’s been found that may be connected to a missing Rancho Santa Fe couple. Jack Webber’s in the newsroom with more. Jack?”

Patrick set his cup down with a trembling hand, nearly spilling his coffee.

The reporter in the newsroom looked disheveled but all business, his top button undone, his tie loosened. “Information’s moving very slowly out of Mexico this morning, Susan, but here’s what we know right now: a female body was discovered early this morning in the residential neighborhood of La Azucena, in Tijuana. Authorities are only saying they believe the body is that of Charlene Clark.” He gave a single, downward nod, along with a solemn expression. “Susan, this is no longer a missing persons case. They’re now calling it a homicide.”

The anchor said, “Jack, any word on the cause of death yet?”

“Authorities will only say that the investigation is ongoing. We hope to have more for you at noon.”

“Thanks, Jack. When we return, a look at your weekend weather…”

Patrick stared at the TV, seeing nothing.

Gone.
In a blink of an eye, and this time for good. I
never had a chance.

He stood helplessly in the middle of the room. Then the notebook on the coffee table claimed his attention. He focused on it, and the more he looked, the more its familiar, enticing draw pulled him in, whispering those sweet words, telling him that it would be okay to indulge himself just this once, that he deserved it, even needed it. He moved closer, reaching out to the notebook like a long-lost friend. Then he stopped just short of making contact, realizing he was about to put his hand in the fire.