Darkness & Shadows (23 page)

“Actually, it was a word. Written in blood. Everywhere. All over the bathroom walls.”

Blood and words: two things Patrick knew intimately, and tragically, all too well. The connection rendered him silent for a long moment. Trying to steady his voice, he managed to say, “What was the word, Detective?”

Jim Dotson paused, and then said, “Damned.”

For a long moment, silence fell on both ends of the line.

Patrick’s voice was still trembling when he said, “So what happened after that?”

“Well, Bridget’s mental breakdown drew a lot more attention than Wesley’d hoped for—or could stand—but now folks around here were starting to wonder what was really going on inside that house. Everywhere he went, heads would turn, not to mention the dirty looks. He couldn’t take the heat any longer. A few weeks later, he packed it up and left town.”

“Just left? To where?”

“As far the hell away from here as he could get. Opened up a small practice somewhere in Illinois.”

“But what about Bridget?”

Dotson made a disgusted sound deep in his throat. “Bridget Clark now calls a private Illinois mental hospital her home. Wesley dumped her there after he left town.”

“He found a way to shut her up.”

“While destroying any credibility she had left about the murder. From what I hear, there’s not much left of Bridget Clark’s mind these days—Wesley did an outstanding job destroying it. Swear to God, that man’s a special brand of evil. As if murdering his wife wasn’t heinous enough, he sacrificed his own daughter’s life to cover it up. Lord have mercy on anyone who stands in his way—because if they do, they sure as hell won’t ever live to talk about it.”

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Patrick was still holding on to the phone but could barely feel it; his fingertips were numb, and Dotson’s final words lingered on his mind like the stain of cold blood.

Lilliana began laying the groundwork, but the detective nailed it firmly in place. Wesley Clark’s dark side was taking shape—ugly, controlling, and dangerous. Now Patrick knew without a doubt that Marybeth had indeed fallen in with the wrong man—one who probably took her life after she got in his way. How, he wasn’t sure, but he was determined to figure it out.

And more than ever, Patrick had to get Clark’s former employee, Helene Lockhart, to speak with him. With the clinic recently shut down, and knowing what he did now, it was entirely possible he’d heard fear talking before she hung up on him. Her answer had been definitive, but Patrick had made a career out of turning
no
into
yes
. The only thing he had to lose was his pride, and at this stage, there wasn’t much of that left, anyway.

On his way to Helene’s office, he thought about calling Tristan. She knew how the criminal mind worked—after all, she had one herself, and it was about as sharp and intuitive as any he’d ever seen. He grabbed his cell, was about to get her number,
but stopped after having second thoughts. Did he really want to get her involved? Did he even feel he knew her well enough to call? He threw his phone onto the seat, drove on.

He walked up to the receptionist’s counter. A young woman was busy talking on the phone: attractive, twentyish, brunette. Pink headband, pink cheeks. The most perfect teeth Patrick had ever seen. She didn’t appear to be on a professional call; she appeared to be on an argument-with-a-boyfriend call. During the five minutes Patrick had to stand and listen, he learned the beau’s name was Trevor. Apparently, Trevor was facing some hard time in the doghouse. Patrick eyed the nameplate that said Kirsten. As Kirsten hung up, she gave Patrick a brooding look, as if his arrival were a disruptive nuisance.

Patrick endeavored to be friendly: “I’m looking for Helene Lockhart.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Kirsten challenged.

“Nope.” He smiled. “Just dropping by.”

Kirsten picked up the phone as if it weighed a hundred pounds and said, “Your name?”

“I’m a friend.”

“Your
name
.”

“Patrick,” he said, hoping he could get away with just that.

“Your
full
name,” she demanded. The glare went flinty.

“Bannister.”

“Please have a seat,” she said, and kept the fisheye on him until he did.

About ten minutes later—just as Patrick was about to give up—Helene came out, but her demeanor wasn’t much better than the receptionist’s. Keeping a stern eye on Patrick, but speaking to Kirsten, she said, “I’m going to step outside for a moment. I won’t be long.”

Kirsten was back on the phone, tearing Trevor a new one, her hands flailing. She didn’t bother looking up.

As soon as they reached the hallway, Helene’s expression hiked up in severity; so, too, did her tone of voice. “I already told you, I do
not
want to talk!”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “I’m really—”

“No. Apparently, you’re not. You cannot come to my work and do this. You
cannot
. Do you understand?”

“At least please tell me why you won’t help me.”

She crossed her arms, looked up and down the hallway, and through an urgent whisper said, “Because the guy scares the hell out of me.”

“All the more reason to talk,” Patrick said. “People could be in danger.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve been—” She stopped herself abruptly, as if realizing she’d already said too much.

“Tell me,” Patrick pleaded. “
Please
. He’ll never know you spoke to me. I just need information. No quotes. I won’t even print your name.”

She shook her head but not in a way that meant
no
—rather, as if she were frustrated, perhaps even wavering.

“Please,” Patrick tried again. “I’m desperate, Ms. Lockhart. He may not even be alive, and even if he is, he won’t know you spoke to me. I promise. I can assure it.”

Helene met his pleading gaze and held it for a long moment, as if measuring his sincerity. Then she surprised him by saying, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Patrick leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

“I’ll meet you after work. There’s a park up the road. Navajo Canyon. I’ll be there at five-fifteen, exactly. If you’re not on time, I’m out of there.”

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Navajo Canyon Park sat at the edge of a southward-facing cliff. On a clear day, you could see the Coronado Bay Bridge, sometimes even as far as Mexico. Not a particularly busy place, but Patrick assumed that was why Helene had chosen it. She was taking no chances at being found out.

He parked and waited. A few minutes later, a Toyota Camry pulled into the lot with personalized plates reading, LUVANRN. Still wearing her uniform, Helene hurried briskly through the lot, eyes nervously scanning the area. Patrick caught up with her at the foot of a hiking trail.

“Let’s walk,” she said, not stopping or looking at him.

About forty feet later, she said, “I hope to God that bastard’s really dead. For everyone’s sake.”

Patrick waited. She would not have come this far if she didn’t plan to tell him what she knew.

After another twenty feet in silence, Helene looked back to make sure nobody was there, and then began. “About a week before my scheduled testimony, someone broadsided my car into a guardrail. I ended up at the bottom of a canyon.”

“How badly were you hurt?”

“Severe concussion, cracked pelvis, other broken bones.” She drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I almost died. I was in the hospital for over a month.”

“Enough to keep you out of court,” he said.

“Forever was the plan, I’m sure of it. Luckily, they settled the case.”

“And you think it was Clark who ran you off the road?”

She shook her head. “I never saw the driver. It happened too fast. The last thing I saw was the guardrail coming at me, but I’m sure he was behind it.”

“And no witnesses?”

“It was out in Pine Valley. Too dark, and the road was lightly traveled. It was all very well planned.”

“I can see why you were afraid to talk to me.”

“I’ve managed to steer clear of that bastard all these years, and I have no intention of getting in his way now.” She stopped walking and leveled her eyes with his. “I don’t want to put my life in danger ever again. I feel like I’m taking a huge risk even talking to you now.”

“You’ll be safe. I promise.”

She regarded him for a moment, then turned and began walking back to the trailhead, arms crossed. His time with her was running short.

He followed and asked, “So what was your testimony going to be about?”

“I knew about his affair with Dr. Fairchild.”

“How?”

“That was how all this started. I walked in while they were lip-locked in his office. I was coming in to put some reports away. It was late, and I thought they’d already gone home for the day. Imagine my surprise.”

“And theirs.”

“Especially theirs. They were not happy about it. I knew I’d just involuntarily signed my pink slip. I was right: for the next
few weeks, the warnings started coming in about my job performance.”

“Just because of that?”

“You bet.” Her tone was bitter. “I had ten years of excellent performance reviews, so they needed to get their ducks in a row. They sabotaged me. Then, lo and behold, on a Friday afternoon, I was handed my walking papers, escorted out of the building by security, paraded in front of all the employees like some damned pariah.” She groaned. “It was so humiliating.”

“But how was this relevant to the malpractice suit?”

“When the plaintiff’s attorney interviewed me after I was fired, I told her about the affair. And the records.”

“What records?”

“The ones that disappeared.”

Patrick shook his head.

“I’m sure you saw on the news the other day about the center being shut down—it all stemmed from that. Word is they’ve been falsifying clinical trial data on a new drug they were giving patients.”

“Can that be done?”

“Hell, yes. It’s easy. And it happens a lot more frequently than people realize.”

“So, where are the records?”

“I have no idea,” she said, “but after the center got subpoenaed, about half were missing.”

“And they got away with that?”

“It was a helluva lot better to have missing data than falsified records, if you know what I mean. One’s a crime, the other’s just a mistake.”

“And your testimony?”

“I was the one who maintained the paperwork for all clinical trials, and I knew it like the back of my hand. I noticed that files were missing. My testimony was to verify approximately when that happened.”

“Did you mention it to anyone at the time?”

“To Dr. Clark.”

“And?”

Her smile was ironic. “After I caught Clark and Fairchild together, the first complaint they filed on me was that I’d lost the records.”

“Convenient.”

“Very.”

“So it would have been your word against theirs at the malpractice trial.”

“Exactly. But I had something else that would have nailed the case shut.”

“Other evidence?”

She nodded. “I saw Clark leave the building with those records the night before I was fired. When I stepped into the elevator, he was there, and he gave me one of those deer-in-the-headlights looks. At first, I thought maybe he just felt awkward being alone with me—you know, after I’d caught him and Fairchild together—but my instinct told me it was more than that. He seemed a little too nervous. I’m a mother. I can spot these things.”

Patrick smiled.

“So, on the way down, I look at my feet—you know, trying to avoid eye contact, appear casual—and that’s when I notice a box on the floor, and he’s standing right in front of it, which I thought was strange. Like he was trying to hide it.”

“How did you know they were the records?”

“It was one of those boxes where even when you close both flaps, there’s still a gap down the middle, and I could see inside. The hard copies of our patient reports were very distinct—light pink—and since I maintained them…”

“You had no doubt.”

“None whatsoever. We had a very strict policy: trial reports were never allowed to leave the building, and that’s exactly where he went with them, straight out to the parking lot.”

“And he had no idea you knew what was in the box?”

“If he did, he probably would have pretended he was taking them to the administrative wing and waited until I was gone.”

“I can see why he didn’t want you taking the stand.”

She gave him a grave look, turned her head forward. “And it didn’t end there. After the case settled, he wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut forever. I got another warning.”

“Did he hurt you again?”

“Not physically, no, but this was worse. He got inside my head.”

“How?”

“I went to my daughter’s school one day to pick her up from cheerleading practice. As I pulled up, I saw she was standing out front talking to someone. A man.”