Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Guadeloupe frowned. Patrick frowned, too, although he wasn’t sure why. Tristan did the eye roll again.

  “Is there a problem?” Patrick asked.

  Guadeloupe tossed her hair over her shoulders sending a perfumed gale sailing right at Tristan and Patrick. Tristan coughed her annoyance. Patrick’s elbow jabbed her with the same sentiment.

  Guadeloupe said, “Most of our crew are day workers. They come and go so fast. I don’t know how to find them.”

  “Don’t you keep records?” Patrick asked. “I mean, how do you pay them?”

  She frowned again. “We pay most of them cash after we know the work is done.”

  “Is there anyone here who might be able to help us?” Patrick said, glancing around the room. “Please, I would be most grateful for your help. It’s very important.” He threw in his best smile for good measure.

  It must have worked: she flashed the whites, and her eyes fluttered. She said, “Un momento. Let me see.” She turned and yelled to a guy in the back, “¡Jorge!”

  Jorge was on the phone but put his hand over the receiver as Guadeloupe strode to his desk. She leaned over. Now Jorge was smiling.

  Patrick watched with interest.

  “Don’t let your eyes fall out of your head,” Tristan said.

  Patrick gave her the elbow again.

  Guadeloupe returned with a slip of paper. “All he knows is that her first name is Maria, and he thinks she lives here. I had him write down what she looks like.” She smiled and blinked.

  Patrick looked at the paper: a location. A brief description. And underneath, a phone number with Guadeloupe’s name.

  “Please let me know if there’s any other way I can help.” She smiled and blinked, and smiled and blinked. The last one might have been a wink.

  “Going to give her a call?” Tristan said cheerfully once they were in the car.

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m not sayin’. I’m just sayin’.” Her grin was loaded with sarcasm. “Work it if you got it, baby.”

  “Shut up,” he said again.

  Once they were on the freeway, he said, “What do you think about getting something to eat? It’s been at least twelve…” He stopped when he noticed Tristan peering intently into the side-view mirror. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, still looking.

  “Which car?”

  “Three back, the blue one. I’ve been watching it since we got on the freeway. Been keeping its distance but staying on us.”

  Patrick glanced into his mirror. He spotted the car and felt his nerves clatter.

  “Get in the lane next to his and slow way down. See if he tries to stay back.”

  Patrick slowed, and so did the blue car. People were now honking at them, annoyed at the holdup in traffic. Patrick said, “I think we have our answer,” and sped up again.

  “Yep.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Same routine as last time.”

  “But the traffic’s a lot thicker here. Don’t know if I can swing it.”

  “It’s moving faster up ahead.” She pointed out the window. “Take the first exit you can.”

  About half a mile ahead, he got into position, did his thing. Lost the car. When they reached the top of the off-ramp, he looked at Tristan.

  “This game just got a lot more dangerous,” she said.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  They decided to nix lunch. Suddenly, staying alive seemed much more important.

  “If someone is following now,” Tristan said, “chances are good they’ve been following us all along.”

  “And if that’s true,” he added, “it means they also know where we’re staying.”

  Tristan didn’t respond, but Patrick could tell she was already thinking things through.

  “So what now?” he nudged.

  “We don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting protection from the Federales, and we can’t go home. No safer for us there.”

  “I’m not leaving until we get what we came for, anyway.”

  “Our tail can only be one of two people, the way I see it,” she said. “One of Pike’s goons, or Clark. Or maybe I’m wrong, and this is someone we don’t know about yet.”

  “I like that possibility even less. Whoever it is, how’d they know we’re here?”

  “I’m positive nobody trailed us into Mexico. I was watching the whole time.”

  “If we’re talking about Clark, it doesn’t matter. The man has a way of striking out of nowhere when you least expect it. He’s like a snake.”

  “He is a snake. A crazy-assed one. I’m willing to bet it was him in the car.”

  Patrick sighed. He was, too. “So which road to hell should we take now?”

  “I’m thinking.” She did, and then, “Let’s keep with the program, see if this Maria woman checks out. The faster we do this, the faster we can get out of sight… and find a new place to hide.”

  The road to hell had just been a joke, but by the time they found it neither was laughing. This neighborhood was worse than the last: a shantytown, an epicenter of poverty that spread as far as the eyes could see—rows and rows of tiny broken boxes, each filled with tiny broken lives. Many of the dwellings leaned in every direction but up, as if the gentlest of winds could blow them over. The only paint on the walls was graffiti, and some didn’t have walls at all, just plastic tarps, torn sheets, and plywood to separate the interiors from the outside world. Electricity seemed to be a luxury. The only running water was a trail of raw sewage; the only mountain view, stacks of trash piled high in the yards, on the sidewalks, even in the roads. Much of it was burning, the smells of smoke and raw sewage mixing together, their toxic vapor dance filling the air.

  Patrick’s nostrils began to burn, and his eyes were itchy and filled with tears. He watched the village children, and sadness tugged at his heart—they were running everywhere, many of them unclothed, most of them covered in filth, mangy dogs bounding in circles around them. Despite their dismal surroundings, they were still playing, still smiling and laughing. He wondered if they were even aware that a better world lay just a few miles north. A world where clothing and shelter were a normal way of life, taken for granted.

  He couldn’t bear to look any longer. He turned his head away.

  They got out of the car, and Patrick heard a groan. When he found the source, he couldn’t believe it: a woman sat on the ground, leaning against a beat-up, overflowing trash can. Strung out, eyes closed, head nodding up and down. A pipe hanging loosely in one hand.

  Her boy—maybe five years old, if that—sat by her side, looking lost and alone. Might as well have been. Then, to Patrick’s horror, the boy snuck the pipe from his mother’s loose hand and took a hit, inhaling deep. He caught Patrick’s gaze, smoke streaming from his nostrils, his innocent child-like smile clashing oddly with the moment; for him, this was normal. For him, this was life.

  Patrick looked at Tristan. She was watching, too, her disgust palpable. She shook her head and said, “This place is hell.”

  “Let’s get it over with,” he said.

  They started canvassing the neighborhood, searching for Maria, but the more they did, the more they realized they were getting nowhere fast.

  “The name Maria’s about as common here as chile relleno,” Tristan said.

  “I know.” Patrick put his hands on his hips, scanning the mess surrounding them. “And by the looks we’re getting from everyone, it’s pretty clear we don’t belong here. We need to get through this as fast as possible.”

  “Problem is, your girlfriend’s description wasn’t much help. Long dark hair, dark eyes, and in her thirties? That’s half the women here.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “This is a bust,” Tristan said. “We’re just spinning our wheels.”

  “In a puddle of sludge,” Patrick added. He was hungry, tired, and they had absolutely nothing to show for their efforts. They’d
just hit a wall. Hard.

  Tristan said, “We don’t even know for sure if this Maria actually exists. The kid could have been giving us the shaft.”

  She wasn’t stretching the truth at all, and he knew it, which drove his frustration even higher. “She’s all we have. There is nothing else. We can’t give up, not yet.”

  Tristan threw her hands up. “I’m open to suggestions…” She spotted a female walking past who matched the description, and out of pure desperation, shouted, “Hey! Maria!”

  The woman didn’t respond, kept walking. A kid on a beat-up mess of a bike whizzed past her.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  They were headed for the car when Patrick stopped. He turned around and scanned the neighborhood.

  “What?” she said.

  “It worked with one—it might work a lot better with more.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just watch.” He walked down the street where a bunch of kids were hanging out on bikes. Tristan followed. From his wallet, he pulled a bunch of twenties.

  “Any of you speak English?” he said to them, holding up the wad of bills.

  Half of them nodded anxiously; the others didn’t need to. He was speaking the International Language of Cash.

  “I’ve got twenty bucks for each of you who brings me a woman named Maria and twenty bucks for her, too. Find your friends. I’ll give them money as well. Are you up for it?”

  Ten heads were now nodding and smiling.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Patrick said, “then the deal’s off. And I want proof, letters with a name and address, IDs, anything. Comprende?”

  The kids scrambled in all directions and disappeared down the street. Tristan watched with wide eyes. “That was fucking brilliant.”

  He nodded. “Now let’s see if it works.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. The kids came back with nearly twenty Marias.

  “Okay,” Patrick shouted out to the crowd. “Everyone line up in front of me.”

  Patrick and Tristan questioned each Maria, but one by one, as he handed them their money, Patrick’s hope began fading again. Maybe his brilliant plan wasn’t so brilliant after all. Or maybe they were simply chasing another ghost.

  Now there was only one person left in line: a man, envelope in hand, looking timid but hopeful.

  “Nice try,” Patrick said to him, his voice cold and flat. “You’re going to need more than that to make it work. A sex change for one.”

  “No!” the kid with him said. “Maria’s his wife! She couldn’t come! She’s at work!”

  Patrick assessed the man, then turned to Tristan. Tristan was already looking at him. He glanced at his watch, looked up at the kid, the wheels spinning in his head.

  Patrick looked at the man and said, “¿Estuvo trabajando su esposa en Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia algunas semanas atras cuando el cuerpo fue encontrado?”

  The man nodded.

  “¿Ella lo vio?”

  He nodded again.

  “Holy tamale…” Tristan said. “I think you just found our Maria.”

  Chapter Sixty

  Maria Saldonado—the Maria—was working just a few miles up the road at a school. Tristan and Patrick couldn’t get there fast enough.

  They found her in the auditorium.

  “Maria?” Patrick called to her from the top of the aisle. She was leaning over and cleaning the seats, and she turned her head slightly to look at him.

  “¿Usted habla ingles?”

  “Un poquito,” she said and nodded.

  “I’m a journalist. May I talk to you?” Patrick rushed down the aisle. “It’s very important. It’s about the body found at the church.”

  She straightened up and turned to face him, and Patrick’s jaw dropped.

  Maria was pregnant, and not just a little; probably somewhere in her final month. She looked to be ailing, dark circles cradling her eyes, her face a mask of exhaustion and pain.

  “Aw, jeez,” Tristan muttered.

  This woman should not have been working, but clearly, this woman had to. Suddenly she swayed, put her hands to her belly, and squeezed her eyes closed. She collapsed into the seat behind her before Patrick and Tristan could reach her. Patrick placed a hand on her arm, and Maria threw her head back, grimacing with pain, breathing heavily. Perspiration covered her face and soaked her blouse.

  Tristan ran up the aisle, and returned with a cupful of water. She handed it to the woman, who drank greedily.

  “Do you want some more?” Tristan asked.

  Maria put a hand up and shook her head, still trying to catch her breath.

  Patrick moved his gaze to her ankles; they were swollen like balloons. No shoes, probably because getting them on would have been nearly impossible. He and Tristan glanced at each other, and without words, each knew what the other was thinking.

  Tristan knelt and looked into the woman’s eyes. “When are you due?”

  “Soon,” she said, her accent thick. “Very soon.”

  “You shouldn’t be working like this. You could lose the baby.”

  Maria nodded her shame and said, “I know… I know… but I have to. My husband cannot work. He is sick. We need food.”

  “Not anymore, you don’t,” Patrick said, lips pressed with determination, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out three hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her. “This should hold you until the baby’s born. We’re taking you home. You need to rest.”

  Maria’s eyes warmed with her smile. “¡Gracias! ¡Muchas gracias! Thank you so much!” She pressed the bills to her chest, raised her gaze to the ceiling. “¡Gracias Dios mio!”

  Now Tristan was smiling, too.

  They headed to the house. Patrick drove while the two women sat in the back, Maria resting a weary head on Tristan’s shoulder, Tristan holding Maria’s hand. Patrick looked in his rearview mirror and smiled. It was one of the rare moments where Tristan had let her guard down. He was moved by the look of genuine concern on her face.

  The expression changed when she realized he was watching. “What?” she said, pulling the wall up again.

  “You’re okay, Reynolds,” he said. “You know that?”

  She fought her grin, and said, “You’re not so bad yourself, Bannister.”

  The wall was down again.

  And Patrick couldn’t stop smiling. Because a month ago he could not have imagined they’d be saying those words to each other.

  But he was so glad they had.

  Maria’s husband lit up with delight when she told him about the money. Patrick didn’t return the buoyant smile; he was too busy feeling overwhelmed by his own deep sadness at the family’s dismal living conditions. The place was in shambles, sheetrock torn from its framework, floors nothing but exposed concrete, a large hole through the ceiling covered on the outside by a plastic tarp. He knew there was no running water; in fact, from what he could see, there was no hope—just a baby on the way into all this poverty, and all the money he had couldn’t repair these people’s lives. Even worse, there were thousands more families here just like them.

  “This is Enrique,” Maria said, grinning with excitement.

  They shook hands, and Patrick said, “Yes, we’ve met.”

  Enrique motioned them to sit on a torn and tattered couch. Maria sat in a chair, her posture straight, palms pressing against her thighs for extra support. She said, “I tell you now about the church. Yes?”

  “We need to know everything you can remember about that night, Maria,” Patrick said.

  She leaned back in her chair, looking at the door as if watching her memories replay. “I was taking out garbage. I hear a car pull up. Someone dumping something… and then, fire. At first, I think they are burning trash. This is normal here. Later, the Federales come and tell me it was a dead woman.”

  “What did the car look like?” Patrick asked.

  “Big. American. Four doors, dark, like black… or blue?”

  �
��Do you remember what time this was?”

  She thought about it. “After midnight, maybe two?”

  Patrick leaned toward her, flattening his hands together. “The guy who dumped the body, did you see what he looked like?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  Patrick frowned. “Nothing at all?”

  “No, I see. I see.”

  “Huh?”

  “Not a man. I see a woman.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Patrick and Tristan drove away in silence, both knowing what the other was thinking, both at a loss for words.

  Patrick gave it a try. “A nun?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Comedian. Okay, Maria said the woman was thin-framed, about five foot three.”

  “Jocelyn Fairchild,” Tristan said.

  “The description matches. So while Wesley ran off into hiding, she cleaned up the mess and dumped the body? But why dressed as a nun?”

  “If she planned on dumping it by the church…”

  “When in Rome?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Weird, though,” he said, still thinking.

  She pulled back. “And this surprises you? Clark and Fairchild have been tossing out strange like Tootsie Rolls on Halloween.”

  “Point taken.” He went silent for a moment, and then, “Well, the cops have got Fairchild locked away now, at least. That’s one less psycho to worry about. Which brings us to the next question. Where do we sleep tonight? We can’t go to the trailer if Clark knows about it.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone on our tail since earlier, and I’ve been watching.”

  “He could be waiting for the right time.”

  “And we’ll be waiting, too.” She reached under her seat and pulled out a very large gun.

  Patrick did a double take. “Where do you keep coming up with all this weaponry?”

  She pulled the magazine out, checked the rounds, smacked it back in. “Just be glad I do. We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  But Patrick knew it would take more than an eye to keep them safe for long.