Darkness & Shadows (16 page)

Don’t do it
, the voice in his head warned.
Don’t go there
.

But the inside voice didn’t stand a chance compared to the inside urge.

As if independent of his will, one hand reached for the notebook while the other dug in his shirt pocket, pulling out a pen. With shaky hands and rapid breaths, he pressed the tip against the paper and wrote the word
helpless
eight times.

Then he squeezed his eyes and slung the pad across the seat as if it were on fire, disgusted with himself for being so weak. And yet, as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he despised the act itself, he couldn’t deny that it brought him pleasure, relief now flowing through him quickly and easily, as unencumbered as the blood shooting through his veins, as the oxygen filling his lungs.

And he wanted more of it, so much more; he needed it like a junkie craves the sting of the needle.

He picked up the pen and notebook again, wrote
helpless
twenty-five more times.

Relief.

But as he walked into the ICU, disgust superseded relief, the place itself just making him more depressed. Cold steel, stark white walls, and shadowy doors with sick people behind them. And pain. Lots and lots of pain.

As soon as he reached Tristan’s bed, Patrick noticed that the bolt in her head was gone. He turned around as Candy bustled into the room.

“The neurosurgeon removed it late yesterday after you left,” she said. “The pressure’s stable. It’s a good sign.”

Patrick felt some of his own pressure ease, and all he could do was smile.

“She’s not out of the woods yet,” Candy cautioned, jotting some information down on Tristan’s chart, “not by a long shot. She’s still got a tough battle ahead.”

Patrick kept smiling; he couldn’t help himself. Suddenly, all the waiting and all the worry felt worthwhile. Now there was hope.

Candy left the room, and Patrick turned back to Tristan. He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently, and said, “You’re getting better. You’re going to make it.”

She squeezed his hand.

Patrick’s eyes shot wide with surprise. He shouted, “Candy!”

Within seconds the nurse was back in the room, her expression one of cautious concern.

“She squeezed my hand!” Patrick said. “I told her she was going to be okay and she squeezed it. She can hear me!”

Candy moved slowly and deliberately toward Tristan with guarded interest. She rested both arms on the bed railing, observing her for a moment, then reached down and took hold of her hand. Patrick watched, his nerves a jumble of apprehensive excitement.

Speaking loudly, Candy said, “Tristan, you’re in the hospital. You’ve suffered a head injury, and I’m your nurse. My name is Candy. Can you hear me, Tristan? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, okay? Squeeze my hand, Tristan.”

Nothing.

She looked at Patrick and frowned, shaking her head.

“But she did it for me!” he said. “I swear she did!”

Candy started to speak, then suddenly looked down at her hand. Patrick saw Tristan’s grip tightening. He was speechless with excitement.

Candy said, “Tristan, are you able to release your grip on my hand? Can you do it right now? Tristan, let go of my hand if you can hear me.”

The grip remained firm.

Candy waited a moment longer, watching, then turned to Patrick. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this is something we often see in comatose patients. It’s a reflexive action. It’s not purposeful.”

“How much longer will this go on?”

“There’s really no way of knowing.”

“But why isn’t she waking up?”

“We don’t understand why. There’s no evidence to show that she shouldn’t. We removed the clot, and there’s no brain swelling, which was our concern. She could fall into the small category of patients where there’s no identifiable reason for not waking up—we’re hoping she will, but there’s the possibility she may not.”

Candy offered a sympathetic smile as she left the room.

Her words struck Patrick hard. He felt hope slipping through his hands, his heart sinking. But at the same time, he could not abandon Tristan. All his life, people had given up on him when times got tough. He remembered the profound pain, and most of all, the insurmountable damage it had caused him, damage that he was still trying to repair.

He turned to Tristan. He took her hand again.

“I’m going to do this, damn it. I’ll do it even if it kills me. I won’t stop. I won’t give up. I won’t let you be alone. I’ll stay here. I promise.”

He looked up at the clock. It was time to head back to the waiting room. He squeezed Tristan’s hand and repeated, “I promise.”

On his way out of the ICU he passed Candy doing paperwork at her desk. “Patrick…” she said. “I really admire your commitment to your sister. It’s not something we always see around here, but when we do, well… it’s just very touching.”

Patrick gave a tentative nod.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Candy continued, then she smiled, and this time, there was indeed happiness. “She must love you something fierce.”

Patrick headed for the door, a peculiar mix of sadness, guilt, and tenderness moving inside him.

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He drove back to the cottage for his computer and to offer Bullet some love before returning to Tristan’s bedside for the next round of visiting.

But when he entered, there was no sign of the dog. Patrick couldn’t remember a day when Bullet wasn’t front and center, anxiously waiting for him.

“Bullet-boy?” he called out, unblinking eyes darting around the room, mind veering toward concern.

Silence.

Now he was more than concerned. He was downright worried.

“Bullet?” he said, louder this time, moving forward, his stomach feeling heavier with each step. “Bullet-boy?”

He heard a
click
from the rear entrance. When he got there, he reached for the handle and found it unlocked. He stepped outside, cautiously scanning for an intruder, for Bullet, for anything that might offer an explanation. Then he heard an engine roar and tires squeal. By the time he ran to the front of the cottage, the street was empty except for a couple in the distance casually strolling toward the beach.

Patrick rushed inside, and then heard another noise—like scratching on a wall. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, his pulse hammering in his ears. Worry snapped into panic. He ran from room to room, but still there was no sign of Bullet. He could take just about anything, but not this. Not his boy. That dog was his lifeline. He crammed his hands under his armpits, hugged himself tightly.

Then he heard a faint and distant whimper. Patrick shot his head in that direction: another whimper, and it didn’t sound good—it sounded like pain.

Oh, no. Please, God. Don’t do this to me. Not now.

He moved forward, trying to follow the sound. “Bullet-boy?” he said, voice wavering.

Patrick heard a howl filled with distress coming from the bedroom. He rushed in, dropped to the floor, searched under the bed. Saw nothing. Then a whimper came from the closet.

He stumbled toward it, nearly falling over himself. Jerked the door open.

Bullet scrambled out, tail wagging so hard that it threw his rear end into syncopated countermovement. Patrick dropped to his knees and held the dog’s face in his hands, examining him, making sure he was okay.

Bullet gave him the Tongue Shot.

Yep. He was fine.

“What happened here, buddy?” Patrick said, scratching under the dog’s chin, but really he was asking himself the question.

Bullet gave a dog-curious-head-tilt, then scampered toward the kitchen as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Resiliency
, Patrick thought, watching him with relief and wonder.
Dogs are the living embodiment of it
.

He stood, thankful his boy was fine, but at the same time, knowing things around him certainly weren’t. A dark overcast of uneasiness clouded his mind, and it turned gloomier as he walked from room to room, searching for more signs of trouble.

He moved into the dining room, saw nothing. Moved into the kitchen: everything fine there as well. He leaned against the stove, crossing his arms, trying to think about what to do next, his eyes breezing over the counter and into the living room. Then his gaze swerved back to the counter.

He moved closer, zoomed in. Ran a finger over the surface, lifted it, and examined the crumbs on his finger. Patrick moved toward the pantry, opened the door.

And froze.

He was staring at a bag of cookies, torn wide open, three missing. He hadn’t eaten them. He stepped to the fridge, yanked the door open, studying the contents. And then he felt his stomach slide into his throat.

A cafeteria sandwich he’d bought at the hospital but never unwrapped now sat with the cellophane torn off, a bite missing. A can of cola stood opened on the shelf below. He lifted the can, heavy with liquid, just a few swigs taken.

What the…?

A chill brought goose bumps to his arms.

Patrick took off toward the living room. The laptop he’d forgotten that morning sat on the couch. Patrick dropped into a seat, pulled the laptop toward him, and instantly the screensaver lit up. He tapped the spacebar, and his desktop appeared. He clicked on “Recent Documents.”

He swallowed hard at the long list of files that had been opened within the hour, all while he was away.

Then he looked at one he didn’t recognize, and his stomach seized. It was entitled, “Hell hath no fury.” He opened it up, and six words stared back at him. Six dark and unnerving words.

The devil is in the details

Something frigid raced up Patrick’s spine, branching out through his shoulders and making them ache with stiffness. This
was no mistake—this was real. First his car, then the shadowy movement behind the hospital corridor… and now, someone invading his space, not only rifling through his computer, but putting the one thing that mattered to him most, his best friend, in jeopardy. No trick of the imagination, no product of mental exhaustion. He was looking at startling, irrevocable proof.

No longer was the cottage a place of refuge, a place for reliving happy memories. This place, once good, had turned very bad and very wrong. The retreat was over. He had to get out of here right away.

Patrick gathered up his things, grabbed Bullet, and within minutes they were speeding down the road, away from that place and headed toward home. He kept a nervous eye trained on the rearview mirror, making sure nobody was following them.

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Hell in the day, hell at night. Two different worlds with one thing in common: he was chasing ghosts in both.

Now it seemed one was chasing him, and it seemed there was no escape.

Patrick sat up in bed. He looked at the clock. It was nine a.m. He’d tried going back to sleep several times, but it wasn’t going to happen. Too much chaos. Too much worry.

His cell went off and he lifted it, immediately recognizing Dr. Ready’s number. He turned the phone over onto the bed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He’d been avoiding her calls because he didn’t want to talk about his feelings anymore; feelings hurt and, after the last appointment, jumping through emotional hoops was the last thing he needed. Besides, with the way things were going right now, figuring out his feelings would be about as easy as defining the edges on paint splatter.

The mechanical
ding
went off on his phone: Dr. Ready now safely quarantined to voicemail. Problem solved.

At least for now.

He managed to pull his worn-out ass from bed and drag it toward the kitchen, dull pangs of sleepiness throbbing behind his
eyes, a slow-burning headache not far behind. But his most immediate worry slid easily through the fog and into the forefront of his mind.

Hell hath no fury.

It wasn’t just a statement; it was a threat. He contemplated who his phantom terrorist could be, and right away Jocelyn Fairchild came to mind. He hadn’t just scorned her—he’d managed to piss her off in a supreme way. The ice princess had thrown out some seriously nasty vibes along with a precise and stern warning. If there were any question whether she was capable of this, the steel wrath in her eyes removed them all.

Another thing also seemed clear: his stalker was getting bolder and more dangerous, not only breaking into the cottage where he’d been staying but also trying to get into his mind. It was hardly a stretch to think Fairchild could be orchestrating this as a means of intimidation, hoping to curb his curiosity about the Clark case. The car invasion had happened pre-Fairchild-confrontation, but that could have just as easily been a coincidence. Everything else came after, and they all had the mark of retribution branded all over them.

He poured some coffee and then, in his office, powered up the laptop. The alleged affair had been Fairchild’s hot button. Now that it was up on the radar, Patrick knew where to start. Hanky-panky could be a strong motivator for murder, and Charlene Clark might have been caught in the middle. What he still couldn’t figure out was how that might have been connected with the fire all those years ago and a failed attempt on Marybeth’s life. There was no link Patrick could see.