Darkness & Shadows (3 page)

Flanagan’s Bar and Grill was noisy, crowded, and made no apologies for it because they served the best burgers in town. Patrick took a seat at a side table so he could watch the big screen and try to coax himself into an appetite. He moved his attention toward the cluster of twentysomethings at the bar with their tanned shoulders and legs, beautiful faces, and big white smiles. All of them drinking and laughing. One dude with huge muscles strutted his best stuff, working the gal on the barstool next to him. He whispered something into her ear; she giggled hysterically, nearly spilling a margarita down her leg. Muscle Man laughed along while casually slipping an arm around her waist… and his hand down her backside. She didn’t seem to notice.

Smooth move, stud.

Patrick turned his attention to the couple at the table closest to him. Older, somewhere in their fifties, busy eating and not talking. The woman caught him staring and shot him an empty expression.

Patrick looked away.

The waitress came to take his order. “How’ve you been, Patrick? Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

“I’m okay, Sandra. Been busy.” He shifted awkwardly after telling his lie.

She winked and grinned. “Working on your next big exposé?”

“Something like that.” He ordered the first thing on the menu to stop the conversation. When she left, he focused on the TV screen. The news was on. Some murder in a neighborhood where it looked like there shouldn’t have been one. Aerial shots revealed a huge mansion on grounds that could have easily rivaled a golf course. Maintained just as beautifully. Green and white sheriff’s units dotted a private road leading to the main house. The locator graphic verified Patrick’s suspicion: Rancho Santa Fe, the most
affluent area in the county, where the median price for a home fell at the $2.5 million mark. This house looked to be worth five times that much.

Patrick watched the screen with mild interest as the video showed yellow crime scene tape hanging loosely across massive wrought iron gates, guarded by a slew of deputies. From the looks of things, one might have thought a foreign dignitary had died. Close enough, Patrick supposed. You didn’t see homicide detectives in those parts very often.

Sandra materialized with his dinner. As she set down the plate, she gave him a searching look. “You okay, sweets? You seem a little out of sorts.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I know. I need a haircut and shave.”

“Not that, darlin’,” she said, a smile sliding across her face. “You’d be good-lookin’ with a paper bag over your head. No… something else.”

He wanted to change the subject, so he nodded at the screen. “Looks like something big’s going on there.”

“Yeah, big all right.” She gave a snort, shaking her head. “Something happens around here, takes a good hour for the cops to show, then another hour for them to give a damn. But up in Big Bucks Country, someone doesn’t show for supper, and they send the whole damned department.” She rolled her eyes. “Ridiculous.”

“What happened, anyway?”

She flung a hand toward the TV. “Some rich couple’s supposedly missing. Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and already everyone’s up in arms, calling it murder.”

An image floated across the screen, an older guy who indeed looked rather well-heeled. The caption identified him as Dr. Wesley Clark. Then a photo flashed of his wife.

“I guess if you got money, your life means more than everyone else’s,” Sandra remarked.

Patrick barely heard her, the words coming through as a faraway echo. With an involuntary jerk he knocked his glass over, sending it straight to the floor where it shattered into pieces, iced tea and broken shards everywhere. Sandra ran toward the kitchen for a towel. Everyone around him stared.

Patrick was in too much shock to care.

The TV said the woman’s name was Charlene Clark, that she was missing and possibly dead. But Patrick knew neither could be true.

Because it wasn’t Charlene Clark he was seeing.

And because you can’t die twice.

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Patrick’s stomach clenched, a hard coldness undulating from his core. His shoes were soaking in a puddle of iced tea and broken glass, but he hardly noticed because he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

This isn’t real. I’m not seeing this.

Just a resemblance? Not a chance. He would have known Marybeth’s face anywhere. Fifteen years older now, but still, those lips, those eyes. The familiar birthmark on her left cheek.

Am I losing my mind?

Sandra’s voice pulled him out of it.

“Honey, you’re going to have to move if you want me to clean up this mess.”

Patrick sharpened his focus and saw her standing before him, one hand on her hip, the other holding a dishrag. He jumped from the chair, yanked out his wallet, threw some money on the table.

“You okay, hon?” the waitress said.

He was already out the door.

And less than a minute later Patrick was racing down the road, ignoring the speed limit, ignoring the stop signs, ignoring
everything except for the torrent of thoughts spinning out in his head. He missed another car by inches, and the driver laid on the horn, shouting obscenities out the window. Patrick didn’t care; he was too wrapped up in his emotions, too distraught. He could feel the past coming back as if it had happened only minutes before. Really, it had never left him: he’d only put it in a safe place so he could move on with his life. Now here it was again, twisting through him like a jagged razor and tearing him apart.

“I’m not losing my mind,” he said, more for self-assurance than as a statement of fact.

As soon as he got inside his front door, Bullet came running, tail flapping, going for the Tongue Shot. Patrick blocked it just in time. He brushed a hand over the dog’s coat swiftly and mindlessly as he headed toward his office. Sliding into the desk chair, he turned on his laptop, drumming his fingers as he waited for the machine to boot up. Then he was online, scouring the Internet for any information he could find. The
Courier
had a story on their Metro page:

What Happened to the Clarks?

By Lucinda Santiago

Like a mystery torn from the pages of a thriller novel, a wealthy Rancho Santa Fe couple has vanished into the night and seemingly into thin air.

Dr. and Mrs. Wesley Clark were last seen yesterday evening after a fundraiser at the Fairbanks Ranch Resort just north of San Diego. When Charlene Clark failed to appear for a lunch date today, a friend went to the Clark compound to check on her. The couple was nowhere to be found, and further inquiry determined that Dr. Clark had not been seen at work all day.

Authorities later investigated another residence where Mrs. Clark had recently moved, a house in the high-end beach community of Las Brisas, in Del Mar. There was no sign of the couple, but blood was discovered. Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Steve Pike declined further comment about other evidence found at the scene or elsewhere.

The article went on to describe the Clarks and their extravagant lifestyle, accompanied by the same photos of the couple Patrick had seen on TV, and aerial shots of their estate, complete with a palatial mansion, servants’ quarters, a guesthouse, and a swimming pool the size of a parking lot. They had a few bucks, no doubt about it.

Patrick tried logging onto InfoQuest, the magazine’s subscription newspaper archiving service, but his password was rejected. He tried again, and again he got bumped. He decided to ask Google. A string of articles about the Clarks came up. The doctor co-owned and operated the Clark-Fairchild Center, a very large, very successful cancer treatment and research facility in Del Mar. Patrick was familiar with the place—so was just about everybody else in town. The commercials ran constantly on television, boasting about their state-of-the-art treatment and care in a “comfortable, nurturing environment.”
Comfortable
was an understatement—from what Patrick had heard, it was Posh City.

The photos showed the Clarks attending fundraisers to finance his cutting-edge work. In all of them, Charlene was either partially turned away from the camera or at least moderately obscured by people standing in front of her.

Hiding.

After more searching, he was able to find a good image of her—the same one shown on the news, only sharper and clearer.
Heat flushed his face and heaviness filled his chest as he zeroed in: the beautiful girl had grown to be a beautiful woman, now with the added sophistication and elegance that only money seemed to buy. She’d cut her hair short, and her cheeks, once delicate and rounded, were now chiseled, her jawline stronger. She wore it all well; but through the designer clothes, the glistening jewels, he still saw Marybeth—
his
Marybeth—and still, she took his breath away.

Patrick looked at a photo of the husband and drew a complete blank. The man was considerably older, his complexion creased by age, hair a thing of the past.
Apparently, money can buy a hell of a lot more than nice homes and expensive jewels
, Patrick thought. No mention of any children.

He fell back into his chair and drew a weighted breath. It seemed the more Patrick knew, the less he was sure of, the gap of uncertainty widening as each moment passed—desperate to close it, he moved on and continued searching the Internet for answers he wasn’t sure he could find about that long-ago fire and the woman who, up until now, he’d thought had died in it. A woman he’d loved more than anything.

It had happened at the end of his freshman year. Devastated by the loss, and unable to face his penetrating sadness, Patrick decided not to return to campus the following fall. Instead, he transferred to Marshall, a private college in West Texas, hoping to erase his tragic memories and not look back. Now, he knew he
had to.

He found an article from several years after the fire, showcasing the newly erected sciences building. The project had been financed by a university endowment fund and local donations. Patrick hurriedly glanced through photos of the modern concrete and glass structure, which paled in comparison to its historic redbrick predecessor.

He shuttled farther in time, catching a story that ran a day after the fire—no new information there; the article covered
everything Patrick already knew. Searching some more, he found another from about two weeks after he’d left town. Patrick involuntarily shot back in his chair after reading the headline.

Investigator Says SDSU Fire was Arson

By Vicky Montgomery

The San Diego Metro Arson Strike Team held a news conference today to release its findings after investigating the SDSU Life Sciences Building fire, which happened a few weeks ago. According to Chief Bill Brandy, the blaze was intentionally set; however, he was unable to supply further details, as the investigation is ongoing. He did confirm that there are no suspects at this time and that a gas explosion ignited the fire. Total damage is estimated to be in excess of $10 million.

“This could have been a far more tragic situation,” Brandy said. “Fortunately, the fire happened on a Saturday, and the building was closed for repairs. A day earlier and we would have had a lot of deceased and injured students on our hands.”

Patrick was shocked to find out the fire was arson, but the feeling didn’t get a chance to settle—it was bumped by confusion and dismay. Why had there been no mention of Marybeth?

He searched some more for an obituary on her: there was none.

Patrick looked up from the screen and shook his head.

He scrambled into the garage and began rifling through boxes, searching for his yearbook. He’d ordered it early in his freshman year—before meeting Marybeth, before the fire. By the time yearbooks were distributed, Marybeth was gone, and Patrick had stuffed the book away, unopened, along with the other painful reminders of his past.

After going through several boxes, he found it at the bottom of one and yanked it out. Frantically swiping at the pages, he searched for something—anything—he could find about the fire or Marybeth.

It wasn’t there.

Nothing. Not even a memorial page.

What the hell?

He backtracked to the student photos, searching for one of Marybeth but again came up empty. Perspiration gathered on Patrick’s neck as he carefully ran his finger between photos of Susan Redford and William Reece, as if doing so might produce different results—it didn’t. Patrick clapped the book shut and stared ahead at the wall, dumbfounded.

She was there. She died in the fire—I know she did. I saw it.

He reached for his wallet, pulled out the photo, and looked at it for reassurance. Marybeth never liked having her picture taken—she hated seeing herself in them—but just once, Patrick had convinced her to pose for him. With shaky hands, he pulled the photo closer, and his memory had a calming effect: she was standing on the shoreline in La Jolla, a magnificent sunset as her backdrop.

Big smile.

Looking as beautiful as ever.

Feeling a little better, Patrick returned the picture to his wallet, then went inside the house.

But he still hadn’t found answers to his questions, and that only made him more determined to find them. Patrick reached for the phone and began dialing Sully’s number. Sully: best friend from college, turned FBI Intel analyst, in Quantico, Virginia.

The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.

“Call me back, ASAP,” Patrick said, struggling to keep his panicky voice in check. “It’s urgent. It’s about Marybeth.”

He hung up, then a few seconds later, on impulse, dialed Julia McGovern’s number. She wouldn’t exactly be excited to hear from him, but the magazine might already be working the Clark
story—they could have information. Besides, if they hadn’t assigned someone, he wanted it.