Darkness & Shadows (39 page)

And before he was aware of deciding to move, Patrick’s anger exploded. He let out a wordless cry, lunging at Wesley, pushing the gun aside, and toppling them both to the aisle floor. Marybeth released an unearthly shriek that echoed throughout the chapel.

Patrick went right for Wesley’s hands, trying to pry the gun away, but the older man’s grip was monstrously strong. Patrick clamped onto Wesley’s wrist as tight as he could while they struggled in the narrow space of the aisle, trying to keep Wesley from aiming the weapon; but he had difficulty managing the gun and his struggling opponent at the same time. Patrick was stronger, but Wesley was larger, and now he used his weight to leverage Patrick off him. Then he leaped on top of Patrick.

“No!” Marybeth shouted, and flung herself toward Wesley. He reached out with his fist and slammed her face so hard that she fell completely backwards, her head banging sharply on the corner of a pew. Then she lay limp.

With Wesley still on top of him, Patrick grabbed the gun barrel with both hands and jammed his thumb behind the trigger just as Wesley tried to pull it. The older man snarled in
frustration and squeezed the trigger harder. Patrick’s hand was covered in sweat, his thumb aching and slipping, and with every millimeter, he felt his grip on life doing the same.

He lost his hold.

A blast rang out.

Wesley toppled off Patrick and rolled to one side, blood trailing from his shoulder.

Patrick scrambled up and scanned the room, looking for the source of the gunfire, but saw nobody… except for Wesley on his knees, randomly sweeping his gun back and forth with his good arm.

More gunfire erupted. The shooter was in the rear of the chapel. Wesley returned fire, and now bullets flew from both directions, plaster popping off walls and throwing clouds of dust into the air. Patrick crawled behind a statue hoping to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

A bullet grazed Wesley’s other arm; he tumbled from his knees onto his rear, still firing toward the back of the chapel.

More shots: this time from the side of the room. Wesley rolled the other way and slammed his head into the platform supporting the statue of Mary cradling her infant son. The gun slid from his hand and spun across the floor as Wesley shook his head, fighting for consciousness.

Again, Patrick moved almost without thought: he dove across the floor, grabbed the gun, then rolled onto his back just in time to see Wesley coming right toward him. There wasn’t time to aim. Patrick looked up, raised the gun, and fired, the bullet striking the arm of the statue of Mary looming above Wesley. With a loud
crack
, Baby Jesus broke free from his mother’s embrace and began his earthward descent, crashing directly on top of Wesley. Blood spilled out from beneath the crumbled plaster.

Tristan emerged from an alcove along the side of the chapel and ran toward Patrick, gun in hand, fright on her face. “Come on!” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here, fast!”

Patrick ran to Marybeth—he couldn’t think of her as Bridget—and went down on one knee. He reached for her hand, and she opened her eyes, expression fraught with fear and confusion. Patrick helped her to her feet.

“Out the back door!” Tristan said.

In the distance, Patrick heard shouts and sirens.

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Patrick held tightly to Marybeth’s hand as they ran toward the thick shrubs that bordered the grounds.

“We’ll need to crawl through,” Tristan urged.

Patrick stared at the hedge with consternation. The shrubs rose on trunks about eighteen inches off the ground—enough room to crawl under—but the bushes themselves were thick with brambles. It would only take one good scratch to break his skin and send his blood flowing. He realized that neither of the two women knew about his condition, and this didn’t seem like the best time for a lecture on Von Willebrand disease.

Tristan looked Marybeth up and down and said, “You’ll need to lose the Halloween costume, sweetie, or you’ll be tangled up here forever.”

Marybeth threw her a momentary and slightly put-off expression, then removed the veil and billowing tunic. Underneath, she was very practically attired in shorts and a T-shirt.

“What are we waiting for here? The damned resurrection?” Tristan said. “Wake up and move!”

Patrick stared at the prickly thorns, then at Tristan, and something flashed in her eyes, something that signaled sudden
recognition, followed by compassionate understanding. In that instant, Patrick realized she had indeed seen his Medic Alert necklace on the counter that night.

“It’s okay,” she whispered with gentle reassurance. “Pull your sleeves down over your hands and take it slow. You can do this.”

Patrick blinked fast, unsure how to react, but he didn’t have time to feel awkward. He glanced at the thorns again, knowing he had no choice; either way he could die, but the gap under the hedge at least offered a chance for escape. The Federales would offer no such chance.

“You go first. I’ve got your back,” she said with an encouraging smile and a wink.

Patrick held her gaze for a fast moment, then nodded. He pulled his sleeves down and carefully eased his way under the bushes, Tristan behind and Marybeth following them.

Patrick heard a branch snap.

“Damn!” Tristan said in a hushed whisper.

Patrick kept moving and didn’t look, his heart speeding up and hammering against his ribs.

The sirens were getting louder, closer.

And Patrick was watching every branch, every thorn that passed above as if they were razor-toothed snakes.

A thorn snagged Patrick’s cuff. He winced, but it hadn’t gone through to his skin; still, it was a stark reminder of the impending danger as the sirens drew even closer. Danger near and far, both equal in their threats.

It was a relief to wriggle into unbroken daylight. But his fears weren’t allayed for long. Standing before them was a tall chain-link fence.

With barbed wire stretched across the top.

Patrick swallowed hard, the sharp, jagged steel demanding his attention—and his fear. The fence was too high. There was no going over without being hurt.

“What do we do now?” he said.

Tristan gave him an indecipherable look. She stepped exaggeratedly along the fence line—to a gate about twenty feet away. She pushed it open.

Then she walked right through.

Marybeth fought back a grin.

Patrick felt like an idiot.

When they reached the street, Tristan said, “We need to get to the car without anyone seeing us.”

“How?” Patrick asked. “There are people all over the place.”

A Mexican government vehicle came swerving around the corner. They darted behind a bush until it passed.

“Shit!” Tristan said. Then she spotted a guy in a four-seater touring bike across the street.

She looked at Patrick. “Our chariot awaits.”

Patrick handed the driver a twenty and said, “
¡Rapido! ¡Llevame al estacionamiento cruzando la calle!
” They hunched in the seat, and the bike took off, Marybeth holding tightly on to Patrick’s hand.

Patrick wasn’t sure what he was doing, other than wondering whether he was running from danger or directly into it.

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They sped down the freeway as fast as the old Buick would take them. Patrick drove, with Marybeth in the front seat, Tristan in back. He prayed the car would hold its own, each rattle and clink suddenly more noticeable, like warning bells reminding him of yet another vulnerability.

“Where am I going?” he asked.

“I’m thinking.” Tristan looked out the window, tapping a finger to her lips. “We can’t cross the border now, not until I figure out how without getting—”

“I can’t go back there anyway,” Marybeth interrupted. “I’m supposed to be dead.”

Patrick looked at Tristan for answers, but all he got was a quick roll of the eyes.

“Like I
said
,” Tristan replied. “We can’t go across the border.”

Patrick interjected, “Can we please just figure this out?”

“I’m trying!” Tristan snapped, shaking her head with aggravation. She turned pensive and then, “I’m just not sure if I know anyone else down here to put us up.”

“I do,” Marybeth said tentatively.

They both turned to look at her.

She moved her glance back and forth between them. “The place I hid out when I first got here. It’s down past Ensenada.”

“What kind of place?” Patrick said.

“A campground on the beach, about an hour and a half from here. It’s safe and it’s cheap.”

Tristan said, “But is it secluded?”

“It’s very small, mostly locals. Nobody asks questions.”

Tristan gave a fast nod and said, “Let’s do it.”

They stopped at a cantina to get some supplies and clothes for Marybeth, then they were off again. With danger at their backs, things got quieter. Tristan had fallen asleep, while Patrick and Marybeth sat silently up front. He didn’t know what to say to her. So much had happened so fast, none of it feeling real and all of it hard to process. Charlene Clark and Marybeth Redmond: two names. Two deaths that never happened. A woman he once loved more than anything, then hated briefly; and now things had flip-flopped again. In all honestly, Patrick wasn’t sure whether they were coming full circle or heading into yet another tailspin.

He wasn’t sure about anything.

He stole a quick glance at her just to be sure she was real, feelings swirling through him, powerful and complex. She smiled at him, and in that instant, all his confusion seemed to evaporate, the years dissolving away, all the bad memories irrelevant. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. There was no Bridget. There was no time. It was just Marybeth and him again.
His
Marybeth.

She looked down at her hands, and her expression changed to something that seemed to mirror regret. “I know I have a lot more explaining to do. And I want to. I really do.”

For the first time, Patrick felt his body and mind relax. He smiled. “We’ll have plenty of time for that now.”

She turned her body toward him, her face pleading along with her words, “Patrick, I never thought this day would come, that I’d
be able to see you again. He kept me from you, but I swear I never stopped thinking about you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Words that for so many years he’d longed to hear; words he never thought he would. Not from her, not from anyone.

Tristan let out a gigantic snort.

He looked into the rearview mirror and spotted her shifting around in her sleep. She stretched and through a groggy moan said, “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” he said, looking at Marybeth and smiling. Her face lit up. She returned the smile.

They reached the campground about an hour later.

“Why don’t you go inside,” Tristan said to the other woman. She rubbed her eyes, then stopped and said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. I just realized I don’t even know what to call you. Who are you these days?”

“Marybeth will be fine,” she said, eyeing Tristan with a hint of a glare.

“Okay. Thanks.” Tristan smiled, but Patrick could see a trace of cynicism riding just around the edges of it. “Anyway, why don’t you go on inside and get us checked in, since you already know the lay of the land here.”

Marybeth gave Tristan a quick, speculative look, then smiled and winked at Patrick. “I won’t be long, baby. I promise.”

Tristan trailed the woman with guarded eyes. Patrick watched too, and as soon as Marybeth disappeared inside he said to Tristan, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I don’t like her.”

He sucked some air in sharply. “Okay… and why is that?”

Tristan crossed her arms. “She’s a fake.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on that she’s full of bullshit. Patrick, she’s totally playing you. That half-hearted codswallop she was slinging about how much she’s always loved you?”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

She gave him a deadpan look. “Honestly, Patrick.”

His gaze lingered on her for a brief moment, then he glanced away, shook his head.

“This is the same damned thing all over again, can’t you see? She’s lying through her teeth, and you’re too blinded by this… this…
bottomless hunger
for love to even see it. Trust me: you’ll never get love from her, not in a million years. She doesn’t have it. She’s not it. I’m warning you, Patrick, there’s something terribly wrong with that woman. Do not fall into her trap again. Don’t do it. She’ll break your heart all over again.”

“You’ve got nothing to prove any of that.”

“I’ve got my gut, and it’s screaming at me that you’re headed straight for trouble.”

“How am I supposed to go on a gut feeling?” he said, his annoyance sharpening into anger.

“Because that feeling comes from
my
gut—that’s why. Because you trust me, and you know that from day one, every goddamned second, I’ve had your back. Because you know that, no matter what, I always
will
have your back and I will never lead you astray. Never.” She shot a furious glance toward the office. “Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for Miss Presto-Chango in there.” She looked at him again. “My
God
, Patrick. Stop being everyone’s damned victim and once and for all, start living your life. It’s well past time.” She flung her body back into the seat, crossed her arms, and stared angrily out the window.

Patrick sat for a long moment, watching her in stunned silence, unsure what to say. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t speak, her expression stiffening more with each passing moment.

Marybeth came breezing out of the rental office, waving the keys with a big airy smile. “We’re in!” she said, getting into the car, beaming with excitement.

Tristan couldn’t have looked less thrilled.

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