Darkness & Shadows (5 page)

“No
,” he told himself.

And then he disobeyed his own command, snatching up the notebook as if his next breath depended on it and, with a shaky but determined hand, began writing.

Seven minutes and seven pages later, he was still writing, his hand trembling and stinging, his palm wet with sweat. The pen slipped from his fingers, ripping a hole through the page. He heaved the notebook across the room, the pen too, and opened his throat in a primal scream. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth, he fell onto the couch, shame and revulsion firing through him like bad blood, angry at himself for again giving in to the sweet, toxic temptation—the one he simultaneously loved and hated, the demon he thought he would never be able to conquer.

He reached for his phone and dialed Dr. Ready’s number. Her voicemail came on immediately.

“I need to see you,” he said, voice shallow and weak. “I… I really need to see you. Right now.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, gasping for air.

“
Please
, help me.”

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S
IX

The moment Dr. Ready opened the door and locked eyes with Patrick’s, her expression gave way to concern. In a gentle, reassuring voice she said, “Why don’t you come inside.”

Patrick stood and with heavy feet, moved into the office.

“She’s gone,” he blurted out.

Dr. Ready closed the door, keeping her attention on him, her face of concern now shading toward confusion.

He collapsed onto the couch, dropped his face into his hands.

“Who’s gone, Patrick?” she said, tentatively lowering herself into her chair.

He pressed his hands together, shook his head. Said nothing.

“Patrick… talk to me. Tell me what’s happened.”

“Marybeth is dead,” he said, his voice trailing into a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” she said. “Marybeth’s been dead for years.”

“No, she was alive. I saw her.”

“You’re having the dreams again…”

“No. In real life. I saw her in real life.”

“Patrick, how is that possible?”

“A photo of her!” He stood and began pacing, his voice ramping to match his frustration. “It was on the news.”

“Why was Marybeth’s picture on the news?”

Still pacing, hands raking through his hair, he said, “Her name’s Charlene now… or it was. She was missing, and now she’s dead, before I could even find her, and I don’t know if… My God… I’ve been having the dreams about her, about the fire, and then this happens. Not only has she been alive, but she’s been living here in San Diego all these years!”

“Patrick, it makes perfect sense you’ve been having the dreams. We’ve been doing a lot of emotional connection work together. This is normal. The dreams have nothing to do with whatever you’ve just found out.”

“But my mind is so tangled right now. I don’t know what to—”

“Patrick,” she said, careful and steady, “please, have a seat and take a deep breath. We’ll sort through this together. Okay?”

He stopped to consider her for a moment. He collected himself. He plodded back to the couch.

Dr. Ready said, “Now let’s take it one step at a time, because I don’t want to miss anything. Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened.”

As he took her through the story, she leaned back in her chair, watching him with an expression of careful neutrality. He caught it and said, “You think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t.”

“Well,
I
do.”

“You’re not crazy, Patrick.”

“Then tell me what’s going on, because if I’m not crazy now, I’m scared to death I might be very soon.”

Dr. Ready shrugged and shook her head. “There has to be some logical explanation. And you’re sure Charlene Clark is Marybeth?”

“God! Why the hell does everyone keep asking me that? I’m not making this up!”

“I’m not saying you are. But it’s possible that you could be confused. It’s been more than fifteen years. A lot can change.”

He reached up with both hands and grabbed onto his hair. “I’m not confused, and I know it was her.”

She took a moment to study him, thinking before speaking, then, “And you won’t consider that there could be some other explanation.”

“I won’t.” He shook his head ardently. “I can’t.”

“Okay, then. If you’re sure it’s her, there’s only one thing you can do.”

“I need to figure this out. I
have
to.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’m a journalist. A good one, or at least I used to be, before all this…” His voice faltered, doubt creeping in and strong-arming his confidence.

“You still are, Patrick.”

“I’m just so…”

“What?”

“So angry. So confused. So—” He raised his fists, speaking through gritted teeth. “—I don’t know
what
I am anymore! I don’t even know who
she
was!”

“Then you need to find those answers, Patrick. Use the feelings. Let them mobilize instead of paralyze you. Whatever happened, you can’t change it, but you can still get to the truth.”

“I’m scared of the truth. What if the truth is that she never loved me, that she just left me like a stupid chump? What if everything was a lie?”

“You don’t know that, Patrick, but either way, you have to find out. This has been on your mind for a long time, and it’s been getting worse. You needed this—you needed it in order to go on with your life.”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s okay to be scared, but the only way to get past your fear is to move through it.”

“But how do you move through something that’s no longer here, something that maybe never was?”

“By searching for truth. You find it, you face it, and then you move on.”

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C
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Find it. Face it.

The words lingered in Patrick’s mind, and the farther he drove from Dr. Ready’s office, the more his confusion and sadness wheeled toward anxious determination. He
was
a good journalist. A damned good one. He didn’t have much anymore, but he still had that. Nobody could take it away from him, not Julia, not even Marybeth—she might be dead, but that didn’t mean the truth had to be buried with her, and finding it was a better road than the one paved with helplessness and interminable grief. He’d been driving that crazy freeway for far too long.

Hungry for the latest news on the Clarks, and too impatient to wait until he got home, Patrick stopped at a convenience store to grab the newspaper. Sitting in his car, he started reading.

Rumors were beginning to surface that the couple had been having marital troubles, but investigators still weren’t willing to call Wesley Clark a suspect.

Interesting
.

They were probably awaiting lab results on the blood found at Las Brisas—until then, they had no way of knowing whether the
blood belonged to one or both of the Clarks. Those results might help them zero in on what had happened that night. Blood was life—Patrick knew that more intimately than most. As a reporter, he also knew that blood wrote the story of death, speaking truth when the victim no longer could. It was like ink: red, immediate, and indelible.

He read on. Information had also leaked out that security cameras at the compound showed neither of the Clarks arriving home that evening after the fundraiser. Patrick realized they must have gone straight to Las Brisas.

But why? And what happened after that?

His journalist’s mind began sorting through logistics. He wondered whether there were signs of a struggle at the house and if the couple’s credit cards or cell phone records revealed activity after they disappeared. Then he realized chances were slim he’d find those answers—not with Detective Steve Pike working the damned case. Getting information from him would be like pulling teeth from an alligator. Pike loathed the media, especially after the Waters scandal several years before while the detective was working narcotics.

Eighteen-year-old Ryan Waters had been a junkie—there was no question about it—and he loved his crystal meth; in fact, he was jacked up on an eight ball when Pike’s narcotics team stormed the apartment to arrest him. They swept the place and saw no one else at home—or so they thought—but while reading Ryan his Miranda rights, heard a noise in one of the bedrooms. After realizing someone was under the bed, Pike yelled for the person to come out, hands up. A hand with a gun emerged first, aimed at the squad. They weren’t aware it was a black plastic squirt gun until after Pike pumped a round through the mattress and into the head of Ryan’s eight-year-old brother, who was hiding in fright from the commotion.

Adam Waters died instantly.

The community flew into an uproar, demanding Pike’s resignation, and the media lapped it up like hungry dogs. The reporters were brutal, painting Pike as a hotheaded cop with a lousy attitude. Unfortunately, they’d jumped too soon. Internal Affairs completed their investigation and exonerated Pike. His sergeant, the one who supposedly cleared the room, took the brunt of the discipline. The report said Pike had acted appropriately, fearing his life was in danger, and if his boss had done his job properly, the tragedy would never have happened.

Though his name had been cleared, Pike’s reputation was severely tarnished by the bad press. Now the detective was notorious for blacklisting reporters if they so much as looked at him the wrong way. With Pike working the Clark case, getting information would be a serious challenge. Patrick knew he’d have to work overtime to find any decent leads.

In his office at home, Patrick contemplated his next move. He needed to see what the Clark compound looked like, but with sheriff’s deputies keeping a round-the-clock watch on the place, chances were next to nil he’d have much luck.

Then he got an idea.

Searching for the Clarks’ address scored a direct hit. The home had been featured on Santa Fe Realty’s website just months before the couple purchased it. Asking price: a cool $9.8 million. The listing was still archived on the Wayback Machine, a repository of every web page published since the mid-’90s—even deleted ones. Among other things, the listing included a virtual tour of the home. Patrick decided to take it.

And couldn’t believe his eyes. The place was massive, over fifteen thousand square feet, the kind of home better suited for a rock star than a doctor, complete with a movie theater, huge library, and main dining room the size of a reception hall.

That chandelier alone probably cost as much as a Mercedes-Benz
.

All of it was wildly extravagant, and all of it was far too much. He tried to imagine Marybeth living this sort of life but just couldn’t. She’d never seemed the type who was into money, and material things hardly impressed her.

Looking at the top-floor observatory, Patrick wondered if the Clarks did anything other than spread their wealth around like water. Even more, he wondered how they’d become so filthy rich. Doctors made good money, and owning a top research and treatment facility surely did more than simply pay the bills. But this? It bordered on the ridiculous.

It was unlikely he’d get anywhere near the compound, but Las Brisas, Charlene Clark’s other residence, might be easier. Even more important, it held more meaning in the scheme of things: it was ground zero, the last known place both Clarks went before disappearing.

Patrick shut his laptop down.

Bullet let out a whimper.

He looked down to find the boy at his feet, gazing up with a face Patrick knew well:
Don’t leave again
. He reached down and Bullet’s expression relaxed instantly, his eyes closing in bliss as he pushed his head harder against Patrick’s hand.

“Wanna go see how the rich folk live?” Patrick asked.

Bullet barked.

Patrick took that as a yes.

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C
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Las Brisas was an exclusive gated community just five miles up the road from the Clark-Fairchild Center. Patrick parked across the street from the main entrance. No guard shack, he observed, but security cameras were perched high atop posts on both sides of the gate. Anyone entering through conventional means would be captured on video. Surely, detectives had reviewed that by now. Bullet was probing the scene too, but his investigative instincts were honing in on other aspects: shiny things that moved fast. With his head out the window, he followed each car as it zoomed by, intrigued as only a dog would be.