Darkness & Shadows (26 page)

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A car burned wildly out of control in his driveway, flames shooting through its windows, black smoke curling in the air. Neighbors ran from their homes and watched in dumbfounded horror. Patrick stood and watched too, stunned, with Bullet leashed closely at his side, as firefighters rushed in and began attacking the blaze.

A tire exploded with a
bang
so powerful that Patrick could feel it deep in his chest. The flames reacted angrily, leaping higher, sending a bright flurry of gray smoke telescoping through the air. The crowd reacted too—with panic, scrambling in all directions.

“You have to clear the area,” a cop shouted to Patrick with a mix of urgency and annoyance. “Looks like the house may go up soon.”

May go up soon.

Patrick’s jaw clamped down like a steel vise. It finally registered: his home—and his life—up in smoke.

The fire was more aggressive now, flames licking his garage door and climbing toward the roof. Within seconds, it too was burning as firefighters fought to gain control. All Patrick could do was stand, watch, and wonder how long before his house was reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. Before everything was
gone. Little by little, day by day, it seemed everything was being pulled away.

He glanced down at Bullet.

Not all of it. Not the most important thing.

The dog looked as astonished as Patrick probably did. He knelt to gaze in his boy’s eyes. Bullet let out a soft whimper. Patrick ran a hand over his head and said, “It’s okay, buddy. We’ll be fine. We have each other.”

But he was reassuring himself as much as the dog.

Within an hour, the flames were out, but smoke still obscured the damage. Patrick could not tell from where he stood how much of the house, if any, had been spared.

About ten minutes later, a firefighter approached him. “Bill Harwood, San Diego Fire,” he said. “That your house?”

“It was,” Patrick said, shock now morphing into helplessness.

Bill motioned for Patrick to follow him.

The closer he drew to his place, the stronger the fumes became, and the more Patrick’s stomach churned. It was like walking through some apocalyptic afterworld, remnant smoke heavy on the air like a tragic reminder of things lost—not just physical but emotional: gone too was his sense of security. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep again.

He could now see with awful detail what the fire had done. Patrick let out a muted sigh of relief—the overall structure was still intact—but the sentiment soon faded. His garage was a total loss, only a few scant pieces of blackened framework remaining, the rest nothing more than piles of smoking embers—along with his destroyed Jeep, which he’d parked inside.

Whoever owned the other car was also out of luck; it was just a darkened, smoldering hull. Patrick edged closer, squinting through the residual smoke, trying to get a better look.

And felt his breath catch, and his throat constrict, and a burn in his chest.

Oh, dear Lord. Oh, God.

The license plate was singed around the edges and soot-streaked but clear enough to read. A vanity plate that instantly turned his legs to rubber.

LUVANRN.

In a foggy, disconnected state, Patrick stepped to the side of the car, peered inside, and reality slugged him right between his ribs, followed by a thundering wave of nausea. He wheeled and sprinted for the bushes but didn’t make it in time—he threw up onto the edge of his driveway. The image reeled through his mind: Helene Lockhart’s smoky, charred remains still in the driver’s seat, her hands wired to the steering wheel, a bottle crammed between her skeletal jaws.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, queasy and dazed, to find Bill Harwood standing over him with a look of concern. Patrick slipped on the soggy grass as he tried to stand; Bill grabbed his arm and helped him up.

Before he knew it, Patrick was out on the street, sitting on the fire engine’s bumper, although he had no recollection of getting there. He looked down at the plastic water bottle clenched tightly in his hand, squeezed nearly in half, and practically empty; he drank what was left as if it were the last drop on earth.

He looked up at Harwood.

“She never had a chance,” Harwood said.

Patrick tried to get his bearings, words dropping from his mouth like loose marbles. “How… What did they… Did it…?”

“Someone tied her into the car with wire. Shoved a Molotov cocktail in her mouth,” Harwood said, a little dispassionately considering the circumstances. “Poured accelerant all over the interior for good measure.”

Patrick’s whole body broke into a cold tremble. The message was loud, and it was clear, and it was not only directed at Helene Lockhart.

It was also meant for him.

You’re playing with fire.

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There was no doubt now who had sent the message nor, for that matter, who Patrick’s stalker was: Wesley Clark or someone closely associated with him. Someone with a mind just as dark and twisted. Someone intent on keeping Patrick as far from the truth as possible.

Then the bitterest truth of all hit him. He was responsible for Helene Lockhart’s death—a death that was horribly slow and painful and completely undeserved. She hadn’t wanted to talk, but he’d persisted, and now she’d paid the ultimate price. Patrick felt the burden of guilt pressing squarely on his shoulders. He’d never get over this one. Never…

Harwood’s voice startled him. “Her name was Helene—”

“Helene Lockhart,” Patrick said, his words sounding oddly disconnected, almost mechanical.

Harwood gave him a wary look. He reached into his pocket for his notebook. “How do you know her?”

“I’m an investigative journalist. She was a witness in a story I’m writing about…” He took a deep breath. “… about the murder of Charlene Clark and the disappearance of Wesley Clark.” As
Patrick continued, Harwood took notes, his expression growing more troubled by the minute.

And trouble kept coming: Steve Pike arrived shortly thereafter for a very inconvenient house call. It was three a.m. Pike didn’t look happy; then again, he never did. His surly expression flashed annoyance—so did his tone of voice as he nodded toward his government-issued Blandmobile and said, “Let’s you and me sit down for a little chat.”

Finally the man wanted to talk to him, but for all the wrong reasons.

Inside the car, Patrick kept his focus trained ahead, but in his peripheral vision could see Pike’s gaze blazing holes through him. After a good ten seconds, the detective said, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

Patrick recounted the same story he’d told Harwood, again leaving out that he knew Clark was behind it all. Patrick felt partially responsible for Helene’s death, and he didn’t know who to trust anymore. Keeping that information from Pike might not have been the best decision, but considering the circumstances and the detective’s less-than-friendly aura, Patrick felt he had no other choice. For now, he’d take his chances, figure this out on his own.

Pike’s attitude quickly changed to an air of contempt, as thick as gutter sludge, and just as dirty. He said, “You guys fucking amaze me, you know that? You really do.”

Patrick folded his arms across his chest and said, “Us guys.”

“Press vultures.” Pike shook his head, scratching it. “You fuck up people’s lives just for a few minutes of glory.”

“That’s not how it is.”

“Isn’t it?” Pike pointed at Helene’s incinerated car. “Fucked hers up pretty good.”

Patrick tasted bile, and his insides flared with anger. He felt bad enough; he didn’t need to feel worse. It was time to give Pike
a double-barreled shot of his own contempt. “You mean like Adam Waters? I asked Helene some questions. I sure as hell didn’t pull the trigger on her.”

Pike’s expression practically dropped into his lap. The locks on the Blandmobile clicked shut.

Patrick startled at the sound, looked at Pike.

Pike said, “You’re through, Bannister.”

“Is that a threat, Detective?”

“It’s a promise.”

Patrick reached for the button and pushed the lock open.

It clicked shut again.

“I’m not done yet,” Pike said in a slow, low growl. “Remember I can put the lock on you anytime I want. I’ll be waiting for that chance.”

The locks clicked open.

Pike said, “Stay out of my way, Bannister. Stay clear of me, if you’re smart.”

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The morning sun was barely tipping over the Southern California mountaintops, casting long shadows on a new day. For Patrick, it came with a stark realization: trouble on the rise.

Fire crews were still busy mopping up, but Patrick knew all the water in the Colorado River couldn’t wash this mess away. Things were speeding toward danger, and if he didn’t do something quick, he might end up in the same shape as Helene. Now Pike was out to get him too, and although his motives were different, he seemed just as intent on destroying Patrick… and just as capable. Two sides of the law, Patrick thought, both closing in, both trying to crush him. It seemed the more he worked on this story, the deeper he was digging himself into a hole.

He stood in the front doorway and shook his head. Bullet scrambled ahead of him and immediately began sniffing around. The place reeked of smoke; Patrick stared up at the damaged ceilings. “It’s not that bad,” he kept telling himself. “It could have been a lot worse.” But it
was
that bad, both in his home and in his mind.

He closed the door, entered the house.

Another fire, another message; not just for Marybeth, but now for him as well and, most tragically of all, for Helene too.
This message, however, seemed to be a double-edged blade. The intent was not just to keep Patrick from finding out the truth about Wesley’s medical scam; it was also a cruel reminder of what had been taken from Patrick in the first place, a way to drive the point to a deeper, more frightening level. What Wesley didn’t know was that he had started more than one new fire, because now more than ever, Patrick was burning for the truth. He wouldn’t stop until he knew what happened to Marybeth.

His front door burst open so hard that it crashed into the wall. Patrick swung around looking for something to use as a weapon.

“You okay?” Tristan said, out of breath.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, catching his own breath, heart drubbing against his ribs.

“You made the news. I saw your house, and then they mentioned a body. I thought it was you!”

“I’m still alive.” He dropped to the couch. “If you want to call this living.”

She sat beside him, and with a dead-on stare, said, “You tell me what all this is about. Right now.”

He considered her for a moment, then spilled. Told her everything: why he was investigating the Clark case, his relationship with Marybeth, and how he believed that Wesley was out for his blood.

When he finished, Tristan stared at him and said, “All that for a woman?”

“Not just a woman.”

“Yeah, but—”

“A woman who meant a lot to me.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, spoke quietly. “A woman I thought I watched die more than fifteen years ago. And as soon as I find she didn’t, she’s gone again. The more I look for answers, the more things keep falling down around me.”

She leaned forward, rubbing her hands together. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. That’s got to be hard.”

He only nodded because it was too difficult to speak.

Tristan put a strong hand on Patrick’s shoulder; he didn’t respond, not at first, then he turned to meet her gaze. “Slowly but surely, he’s invading my life. He’s shutting me down. I don’t even have a damned car anymore.”

“You can use mine.”

He looked away, shook his head.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“It is,” she affirmed, then said, “and it just got easier.”

“Yeah? How do you figure?”

“Because now you’ve got me.”

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He was in this deep. Married to it. No way out.

But as Patrick spent the next few days cleaning the physical mess, his mind found clarity, helplessness wheeling toward determination, fear superseded by anger. He’d been jacked around, threatened, and dragged through this long enough. He was going to get to the bottom of it or die trying.

There was one last lead, probably the most challenging of all, but also perhaps the most important: the Clark compound. He’d avoided going there before because it seemed nearly impenetrable, but with a wall of fire at his back, the compound’s high walls didn’t scare him nearly as much. Lilliana said that Charlene had talked about breaking into Wesley’s office, that it could have been the last thing she ever did. Now Patrick knew he needed to go there and see what he could find.

Tristan told him that he had her now. He would put those words to the test.

Patrick glanced at his watch. It was nine a.m. Late enough. He fed Bullet and loaded him into the car; no way he was leaving the dog alone.