Darkness & Shadows (37 page)

“I do.”

She didn’t seem terribly surprised, just held out her hand.

Patrick shifted his weight and reached for his wallet. He pulled out the photo and handed it to her. She held it up, splitting her attention between it and the road.

“It was a long time ago,” he said.

Tristan was still eyeing the photo, and her expression fell flat. She handed it back and said, “She was freakin’ beautiful.”

“On the outside.”

“Still look that good now?”

“She looks better,” he said, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like contempt.

“I hate when that happens. Anyway, we’ll need something more recent.”

“We can grab one off the Internet.”

“Perfect.”

“But what are we doing with it?”

“You’ll see.” She nodded her confidence. “I’m going to show you how to work the streets, my friend.”

“Work them how?”

“As in, until we find her or until you can no longer stand on your feet—whichever comes first. In the meantime, find me a print store in the area.”

They pulled into the parking lot. As they got out, Tristan stared at a building in the distance. Patrick looked, too. It was old and historic, probably very beautiful at one time, but years of neglect had left it rundown and badly in need of repair—much like
so many other churches in the area—still, beyond the cracked masonry, the broken windows and awnings, he could see the guts were solid, the architecture nothing short of breathtaking.

“Pretty,” she said.

“It is.” He turned and walked, shaking his head. “And it’s sad.”

“What is?”

“Something so beautiful left to ruin like that, and surrounded by so much poverty. Nobody even has the chance to appreciate it—they’re too busy trying to put food on their tables. Meanwhile it just keeps slipping away, falling deeper into decline, until the beauty becomes nothing more than a reflection of pain.”

She nodded.

Patrick looked over his shoulder and gave it one last glance as he walked away.

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“Grab me a few sheets of plain paper, a glue stick, two rolls of masking tape, and a thick, black marker,” Tristan said once they were inside. She pointed to an aisle at the far end of the store. “I’ll be over there getting you a burner phone. Meet me by the copy center after. And I need some cash.”

Patrick handed her the money. He headed toward the aisle and began searching for supplies.

About ten minutes later, after Patrick printed the photo of Charlene from a newspaper story, they met up at the copy center.

“Paper,” she said, holding out her hand, “and the photo.”

He gave them to her.

“Glue.”

He gave her that, too.

She smeared some glue on the back of the photo, stuck it to the paper, then handed it to him. “Write this in Spanish, all caps: ‘Missing: please help us find her. One-thousand-dollar cash reward for information leading to her safe return.’ And put the number for your new phone on there.”

“A thousand bucks?”

She clamped a hand to her hip. “How much is the truth worth to you?”

He wrote the words.

She said, “Now run off a thousand copies. I’m gonna grab a few more things.”

About twenty minutes later, he returned with the stack of papers. Her eyes went straight to it. “That doesn’t look like a thousand.”

“It’s five hundred.”

“I asked for a thousand.”

“Why do we need that many?”

She didn’t answer; she just looked really annoyed.

He felt anger swell inside him. It didn’t matter that none of this was Tristan’s fault; it felt good to get mad at someone. He threw his hands up and shouted, “I’ll come back and get more if we need them!
Okay?
”

“That’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point?”

Tristan shifted her weight to one side. Now
she
was raising her voice. “The point is that I asked for a thousand, and you brought me half that. You didn’t listen to me.”

“Okay, I didn’t listen. Can we just move past that now?”

“I don’t want to move past it, I want you to—”

“
Look!
” he said even louder. “We’re wasting time arguing! Can we just get busy and do this?”

Several people turned around to stare at them, but Tristan didn’t seem to notice: she was too busy glaring at him, her face pinched with anger.

Patrick looked around at the curious people. He blew some air out, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated, and I’m tired. I just want to get this over with.”

The glare turned into a pissed-off scowl. Her voice wasn’t exactly sparkling with delight when she said, “And I’m just loving every damned minute of it.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

She spun around and walked away, leaving him standing there, holding the stack of papers.

Patrick got to the car with the flyers—all five hundred of them—and a pink bakery box. He slithered into his seat.

“I brought the doughnuts this time,” he offered with a hesitant but appeasing smile.

She didn’t bother acknowledging him, kept her head aimed forward.

“Tristan, please don’t be—”

She started the car, cranked up the radio.

Patrick turned it down. “Can’t I just apologize?”

She wasn’t answering that one either.

He threw a hand over the back of his neck, drew in a weighted breath, released it. “Look… I’m having a really hard time with all this, and I…” He looked out the window, shook his head. “The woman who meant everything to me was a complete fraud. Nothing was as it seemed, nothing at all, and I…” He turned to her, and his voice fell to a near-whisper. “I thought she really loved me.”

“I warned you,” she said grudgingly, still staring out through the windshield.

“I know you did, and I know I was a complete asshole in there. But I have to find her. I need to make some kind of sense of this all. I need to make…” He stopped, closed his eyes. “I spent my entire childhood with a mother who despised me, and the time I spent with Marybeth was the first time in my life that anyone actually seemed to give a damn. Tristan, it was all I had. Now, bit-by-bit, inch-by-inch, it’s being pulled away, and…” He paused again, stared out the window, shook his head. “Now I feel there’s nothing left. I feel like my whole life has been…”

“Some cruel joke.”

He dropped his head. With a weak nod and an even weaker voice, he said, “Yeah. Just like that.”

“I’m trying to help you, Patrick.”

“I know you are, and now I’m screwing that up, too.” He looked at her. “I just keep screwing everything up.”

Her expression relaxed some. The body followed.

He said, “There isn’t much left of me anymore, except maybe just a lot of anger. And so much damned pain. I misdirected it at you.”

She turned to look at him.

“You’re my friend, Tristan, probably the best I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to lose you. I feel like I keep messing this up every chance I get, but I’m trying, I really am. I just… I don’t know how to keep going anymore. I don’t even know if I can.”

“You can,” she said.

He shook his head.

“We’ll do this,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”

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When they reached Calle Segunda, Tristan divided the stack of flyers in two. “We’ll split up. I’ll take this side of the street, you get the other. Give one to everybody you can, but especially focus on the nuns and priests. Got it?”

He nodded.

“And tape one to a telephone post every fifty feet or so. And remember to check your phone. I don’t want to miss a call if one comes in.”

Patrick headed across the street and began working the crowd, handing out the flyers. Most people took one but met him with empty stares or shook their heads. He kept moving, kept handing them out. All it took was one person, and he was holding out whatever hope he had left he’d make that connection.

But after about forty-five minutes, hope ran out, and so did his flyers. He crossed the street to meet up with Tristan, concede to his defeat, eat some crow.

“Any luck?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You?”

“No.” She sat on the curb and pulled a shoe off. Massaged her foot.

“It’s a bust.”

She stopped massaging. “Not so fast, Doubting Patrick. We’re not done yet.”

He frowned. “Actually, I am.”

“Please, don’t start this shit with me again. Just don’t.”

“It’s not that.” He held up his empty hands. “I’m out of flyers.”

She leaned back some, crossed her arms. The smile was smug.

“I know,” he said, before she could rub it in, “and I’ve already apologized for not playing nicely, so spare me the gloat-and-grin. I’ll run and get us a thousand more. I’ll get two thousand, if you want, okay?”

The smile wouldn’t go away. She was enjoying this.

“Go somewhere and have a toast to your self-righteousness, Miss I’m Always Right. I’ll be back soon.”

Patrick left the print store armed with a thousand flyers, hoping it might make up for his bad behavior. He was about to step into the parking lot when he spotted a couple of elderly nuns getting into their car.

No time like the present
, he thought with a shrug.
Work it, dude.

He trotted over and handed them a flyer. They looked at it, shook their heads. Seizing the moment had netted him a big fat zero. This plan had more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. He let out an exhaustive sigh, turned toward the car. Another nun came his way; he mindlessly and dejectedly handed her one—but when he looked up, he almost fell over in shock.

Marybeth didn’t seem to be doing much better.

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In fact, her face went bloodless.

For a split second, they stared at each other in complete disbelief. Then Marybeth’s surprise turned to panic. She wheeled around and took off running. Patrick dropped the flyers and went after her.

“
¡Ayudenme!
” she yelled, as she sped across the lawn. “
¡Me está persiguiendo!
”

Patrick didn’t care if every Federale in the state came to her aid. He’d waited fifteen years for this moment, and nothing was going to stop him.

Except someone did: a man crossing his path who slammed directly into him. The guy flew sideways, tumbling onto the grass. Patrick glanced back to see if he was okay. Other than being really pissed and spouting obscenities, he seemed to be all right.

When Patrick returned his attention forward, he could see Marybeth ahead, gaining distance; but she was no match for his determination. A few moments later, he saw her heading straight for the old, beautiful church that he and Tristan had observed earlier.

His cell rang. He swiped it from his pocket, held it to his ear, still running.

“Where the hell are you?” Tristan said.

“I’ve got her!” Patrick shouted through heavy breaths. “Marybeth! I’m chasing after her now!”

“
Where?
”

“To that church we saw earlier.” Patrick stumbled, and the phone flew from his hand, crashing onto the ground. As he fumbled for it, he saw Marybeth clambering the steps and disappearing into the building.

“Tristan?” he said. But the line was dead.