Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “It’d be a shame if you couldn’t get the Praxol for Bobby anymore. And thanks to the FDA, it’s near impossible to get onto wait lists for experimental treatments these days.” The doctors had given Bobby ten months to live. That was a year and a half ago, thanks to the Praxol, which by FDA regulations might take seven more years, if ever, before it becomes available.

  “Stinking sonofa—! You fancy yourself God or something?”

  “As far as you’re concerned. And think of Nicole too—all those nights she spends alone …”

  “I swear I’ll tear your bloody—”

  “Relax, Ian. I’m just saying that it’d be a shame if she were to find out about your past. Why, I don’t think anyone could take that kind of betrayal. She’d take Bobby as far away from you as possible. All because you didn’t have the integrity to correct a tiny mistake.”

  “Don’t be daft, I’ll fix this. But after that, we’re done. Do you understand?”

  “We’re done when I say we are. And if you do your job right, all will be fine. Nothing would make me happier than to complete our contract amicably.”

  “Right.”

  “So Ian, are we square here?”

  “Just have your man send the information.”

  20

  XANDRA CARRICK

  Last night’s thunderstorm left a musty odor in the streets as the midmorning sun begins to evaporate puddles, which reflect objects around them. Still haunted by yesterday’s darkroom experience, I don’t dare look into any of them.

  I’m taking the subway uptown to Feldman’s, the only photo-supply store I trust. If I’m going to win the Marbury, nothing but the finest supplies will do. Mr. Feldman knows Dad’s Graflex because they’re the ones who serviced it all these years.

  The best thing about riding at 11:00 a.m. is that the train isn’t crowded. You can relax and read a newspaper comfortably and not worry about intruding upon another’s space. Or them upon you.

  Today’s news source is USA Today. According to the front page, Citicorp plans to cut about fifty thousand jobs and Colson is ahead in the polls. He’s creating a genuine sense of excitement in this election. Unlike Ross Perot, Colson poses a significant threat to both the Democratic and Republican nominees.

  Headlines in the local section announce the positive identification of Stacy Dellafina’s body. The report states that she was found based on an anonymous tip. The missing-persons case has become a murder case, and the authorities are trying to find the killer.

  I’d best distance myself from this.

  I want nothing to do with psycho killers. The details of crime investigations make my skin crawl. I could never be a forensic photographer. Better to work in the mall, taking Santa pictures.

  The conductor announces, “West one hundred thirty-seventh street,” and I’m off.

  I step onto the platform, but as I walk toward the exit, I can’t shake this odd sense that someone is following me. I glance over my shoulder. As far as I can see, I’m wrong.

  On to the stairs. My own footfalls echoing against the tile walls and concrete floors make my heart race. Now, an additional set of footsteps follows.

  It’s nothing.

  Or it could be a mugger.

  In the morning?

  This is New York. Stranger things have happened. I don’t want to become a statistic, so I pick up the pace. By the time my fast walking turns into a jog, the footsteps behind me are matching my speed. I’m being chased. Or I’m acting like a paranoid idiot.

  I rush past the exit gates and out onto the street.

  And onto a crowded sidewalk.

  Amidst a sea of faces, not one of them is looking at me. There probably wasn’t anyone there. People jog through the subway all the time without the intent of attacking anyone.

  Okay, Xandra. You’re losing it. Pins and needles prickle at my skin, from my head to my extremities.

  Even as I shake it off, a brief sensation floods my mind. Like being under water, bubbles rising up. Smothering any sound I try to make. I’m not able to breathe!

  It’s not until an old woman bumps into me that I pull myself out of this dread. “Watch it!” she grumbles and continues down the sidewalk.

  Not taking my usual time to shop, I quickly find the needed chemicals and paper. Feldman’s may be one of the oldest mom-and-pop photographic-supply stores, but it’s well organized. Ready to pay, I take the wallet from my bag and a business card falls to the counter. It’s Agent Matthews’s.

  “Cash or credit?” Marty smiles at me the way he has since I was twelve, when Dad first brought me here.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Credit.” I’m still eyeing the business card when I hand Marty the Visa. For some reason I want to call Matthews. Something tells me he might actually believe me if I told him about my hallucinations.

  “Sorry, kiddo, it got declined.” Marty hands the credit card back to me. “Got another one?”

  “Wow. That’s never happened before. Maybe it’s because I just came back from overseas and used it in the airport in Saigon.”

  “Yeah, call them. They’ll straighten it out for you.”

  I hand him my debit card. This time it goes through. It hits me now. I’ve already maxed out my Visa card and planned to pay it down with my first paycheck after returning to work. Oh well.

  “Here ya go.” He hands me my card and bag full of supplies. “Don’t be a stranger. And say hi to your dad, will ya?”

  “Sure.”

  I step outside and realize I’m still holding Agent Matthews’s business card. Maybe I should call now and set up a meeting to discuss …

  Just what will I say to him, anyway?

  There’s a clear view of the subway station from outside Feldman’s. Not as many people around now.

  I’ll take a cab back.

  21

  MARK COLLINSWORTH

  This isn’t project management in its true sense. But I recognize the parallels Colson’s drawn between the traditional business model and this special security project he’s appointed me to head up.

  The pay scale is a major step up for me, probably because it’s 75 percent travel. This is my third trip back to California in less than a week. But it’s a rush. I’m the youngest member of the team, and many of my former supervisors now report to me. You know why? Because I get the job done. I’m not afraid to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty shutting down operations, terminating employees, cutting budgets and positions. Does that make me heartless?

  I don’t care. You don’t climb to the top without stepping on a few heads.

  The black-tinted windows of my limousine hardly block the effects of the blinding sun. For pity’s sake, it’s November and girls are prancing around in brightly colored bikinis. Dudes with surfboards under their arms drip seawater. I hate Southern California.

  The driver cracks open the black privacy window. “We’ve been here for an hour, Mr. Collinsworth.”

  “We’re early. He’ll show.”

  “Of course.” The privacy window goes back up. I’ve never seen so much superficiality as I do here in San Diego. With all the money spent on cosmetic surgery, it’s no wonder this state is suffering from a $40 billion deficit.

  At last, he’s here. I open the door, invite him in, and shake his hand. “Mr. Carrick, thanks for taking the time to speak with me.”

  He looks around and sits. “Where’s Colson?”

  “He sends his regrets, but he’s on the trail and can’t make it back to the West Coast until next week.”

  “I’m out of here.”

  I grasp his arm and pull him back to his seat. “I won’t take more than five minutes of your time. Come on, join me for a drink.”

  He pulls his elbow away and scowls. “Least he could do was meet me face-to-face. Who are you?”

  “Mark Collinsworth, project manager.” I open the wet bar and pour myself a Jack Daniel’s. “What’s your poison, Pete?”

  “You’re wasting your five minutes. I’ll giv
e you thirty seconds to get to the point or we’re done.”

  “Efficient, cut through the crap. I like that.”

  “Tick-tock, you little—”

  “All right. It’s simple. The senator wants to make sure that you are still in compliance with the NDA.”

  “As if they were just trade secrets.”

  “The terms are clear. Are you in compliance?”

  “I’ve been in compliance since before you were in diapers.” Carrick fixes me with a sidelong glare. He’s in his late fifties but looks fit enough to prove a considerable threat. I like the poker face, though. He’s the kind of guy we could use on the team. Colson doesn’t agree, but given the right incentive, I think I can turn him. “Have you considered my offer, Pete?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I only have two words for you, and they’re not very nice.”

  “Fair enough. As long as you uphold the NDA, we’ll maintain the status quo.”

  He lets out a sardonic huff. “That what you call it?”

  “For lack of a better term.”

  Disdain in his every movement, Carrick slides over to the door and opens it. “Tell Rick the NDA is fine. And that he’d better uphold his end, or so help me—”

  “We both know he keeps his word, Pete.”

  Without warning, he turns, grabs me by the shirt, and slams me back against the door. “It’s Mr. Carrick to you, boy!” Baring his canines, breathing heavily, with fists trembling, he’d probably kill me on the spot, if not for the terms of the agreement. Careful to conceal my apprehension, I laugh. “I so wish you’d join the team.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” He shoves me once more for good measure and opens his door. “On second thought, hold it.”

  22

  XANDRA CARRICK

  This is the first time in three days that I’ve gone into the darkroom. I’m now fairly certain my hallucination was just that. Face it, there are outlandish coincidences in life.

  My proof sheets from Bình Sơn are still clipped up to the easel. I’ll have to enlarge those next. But right now, just to prove that I only imagined it, I’m going to develop another print from the duck pond.

  I rock the tray, let out a chuckle. “It’ll come out just like the others. You’ll see.” First the water’s edge, the reflected trees, the waves in …

  “Oh no.” Stacy’s body is there again. And this time, there’s a white, rectangular object … she’s clutching a white laptop computer in one hand. Looks like a Mac. This time, I’m not as frightened as I am intrigued. I shake the tray, and the ripples distort the phantom image. Now everything’s gone, and a faded image of a computer screen comes into view. At first, I can barely make out what it’s showing. But now it’s clearing up. A web browser … it’s a blog. Her blog.

  “All right. Just stay right there, okay?” As if talking to an image in developer solution made any sense. Of course, when I switch the lights on, it’s gone. If this is just another coincidence, then nothing will come of it, right? It’s just another hallucination.

  A minute later I’m dialing Agent Kyle Matthews.

  It gets dark early these days. At 4:45, the sun has already gone over the Hudson, casting its amber hues on the sides of tall apartment buildings overlooking the park.

  It’s best to meet with Agent Matthews here at Starbucks, rather than at my apartment. He’s wearing black Levi’s and a rugged denim shirt. No stranger to the gym, apparently. I like how he looks with glasses—learned. His short cropped hair reminds me of some of the brave men in Iraq who treated me like a queen when I was on the base and traveling via Humvee around Fallujah. He’s as handsome as Dad was in his pictures from back in the Vietnam War.

  “So, you think you might have more information about the Dellafina case?”

  “I might.”

  “Because you didn’t call me here just to have coffee.”

  “No.” The thought makes me pause unwittingly. “No, I didn’t. Have the investigators checked Stacy’s laptop?”

  “How do you know she has one?”

  “She’s a college student, isn’t she?”

  “Good point.” Matthews leans back and takes a sip of his latte; it leaves a frothy white mustache on his upper lip. “Yes. We’ve checked it. Nothing unusual except—”

  “Is it a MacBook?”

  “Another lucky guess?” He’s not as credulous this time. But it seems inevitable that the image I saw reflects reality. Hope for a scientific explanation seems more and more elusive.

  “MacBooks are popular on college campuses.”

  “So, what’s this new information?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think she might have had a blog.”

  “Facebook, Myspace, LiveJournal, yeah. We found nothing unusual there.”

  “You sure that’s all she had?”

  “One can never be absolutely certain.”

  “Can’t you have them check a bit deeper? Don’t those people also check things like ID addresses, that sort of thing?”

  “You mean IP address.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So you have reason to believe there’s more to find?” When he smiles, the white latte mustache almost makes me laugh. But I’m not going to tell him about it. Not just yet.

  “I have a feeling. Yes.”

  With a thoughtful expression and a white frothy brim on his upper lip, he ponders. “Just what makes you think this?”

  He’s going to think I’m involved, I’m sure. Absently, I twist a lock of hair around my fingers—a bad habit Mom has bugged me about since childhood. “I just … Never mind. I knew this was stupid.”

  “Just relax, Ms. Carrick.”

  “I’d feel better if you just called me Xandra.” Will inane phrases never cease to flow from my lips whenever I’m around him?

  “As long as you call me Kyle.” He opens his cell phone and dials. At this point, I’m eyeing the exit, seeking the clearest path to escape before he calls the police to arrest me as a suspect. He senses this and places his warm hand on mine. Then he lifts a finger and whispers, “Hold on.” There’s no force whatsoever, just lightly resting his hand on mine. And yet, he’s holding me to my seat as if I were handcuffed.

  “Glen? Kyle Matthews. Listen, I want you to run a full ISP sweep, traceroute and all, on the MAC address associated with Stacy Dellafina’s laptop. Focus on social networking and blogs … Yeah, I know. Yeah-yeah-yeah. No, there might be something if you take it to the next level … Of course I’m serious. Trust me. Call me if you find anything of interest, okay?”

  For once in my life, I’m speechless. Kyle smiles again, and I can’t help but notice the boyish twinkle in his eye. His hand is still on mine, and I’m not sure why I haven’t withdrawn yet.

  “Why didn’t you …? Excuse me, I’m sorry.” Finally, I take my hand back from the table.

  “You thought I was going to have you arrested?”

  “With all this information, maybe. At least taken in for questioning.”

  “You’re not a suspect.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “For one thing, you don’t fit the profile.” A couple of girls at an adjacent table are looking at him and giggling. He takes note of this and turns back to me. “What?”

  “Don’t kill me, okay?” I pull a paper napkin from the dispenser and wipe his upper lip. “You’ve had that there the whole time.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “It was kind of cute.”

  “Maybe I should have you arrested after all.”

  We both laugh. For a moment I forget we’re talking about a murder investigation.

  “Who knows what else you’re not telling me.” His grin begins to fade.

  “Look, maybe this was a bad idea. I mean, I made a lucky guess is all. Promise me, whatever you do, you won’t tell anyone about the blog thing. I probably imagined everything.”

  He shakes his head and exhales slowly. />
  “What?”

  “I get it,” he says. “You don’t think you can trust me because you’ve got a secret that no one could possibly believe. You’re afraid of getting entangled with something that could end up involving you—or worse—costing you.”

  All I can do is blink. Right now, there’s nothing I would like more than to tell someone what happened in the darkroom. Because it’s driving me crazy.

  “I just want you to know, Xandra. You can trust me. And I don’t think you’re insane.”

  “Who said anything about—?”

  “Your eyes.”

  “Profilers!”

  “Thanks for the latte.” He gets up and places his hand on my shoulder. “If you feel like talking about it, call.”

  23

  The Marbury Award submission deadline is about a month away and without a photograph I’m confident about submitting, each day that passes makes me more anxious.

  It’s been a couple of days since my last darkroom episode, and to be frank, I haven’t given it much thought. That’s probably because of Kyle. I’m on a first-name basis with a federal agent now. Splendid.

  If I think more about my visions—hallucinations, rather—I’ll eventually have to talk to him about them. Part of me really wants to, but another part wants nothing to do with all this superstition. That’s all it is.

  For the past couple of days, I’ve gone to places of great human interest and taken pictures with the Graflex, despite my misgivings. The antique camera drew more than one odd look from passersby.

  From Chinatown to the Village on foot, I tried to capture all walks of life, in all conditions. The grimy homeless man leaning on his shopping cart and inadvertently posed next to a slick executive with her Sergio Rossis and Prada tote, the policeman helping a lost elderly Chinese woman across Canal Street. This is New York—for all the good and bad—the city I love.

  I even managed to snap a photo of an NYU student holding a campaign sign depicting the rugged, can-do face of Richard Colson. Vote for Colson, Vote for Change!