Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  With unmistakable reluctance, Carrick relents and sits. “Only the best for you, eh?”

  “You get used to it after a while.” Manufacturing his most sincere expression of sympathy, he lets out a heavy breath. “I heard about Grace. You have my condolences.”

  “Save it.”

  “Oh, come now, Peter. We’ve known each other far too long to let a simple business arrangement impede our friendship.”

  “Friendship?” Carrick scoffs and reclines into the ebony leather. “I love the way you euphemize. You’re a politician through and through.” He runs his hand over the buttery leather arms of the chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see.”

  “Unlike some people, I wasn’t born into money. I’ve earned everything through hard work and dedication. Fought my way to the top.” Dear old Dad beat those values into me, ostensibly to toughen me up for the real world. But I suspect it was really to punish me for Deanna. The abuse continued until I was twelve, when armed robbers broke in and shot him in the back of the head, making off with forty-seven dollars in cash. From that point on, I was the man of the family, while Mom shuffled two or three jobs—it was difficult to tell exactly how many. I clawed my way through high school, college, the corps, and finally the senate with—as Winston Churchill put it—blood, sweat, and tears.

  “My family’s economic status never kept me from doing my absolute best,” Carrick says sharply. “Why do you always bring that up, as if you had something to prove to me? Ever since Bình Sơn—”

  “For pity’s sake, Peter, once and for all, can we just leave the past in the past?”

  He locks onto my eyes. “You tell me.”

  “I can and I have. Why haven’t you? Look, there’s no sense in destroying the future over things in the past you can’t change.”

  “How do you sleep at night?”

  “Sleep? Well …” I cleared my throat. “It’s overrated, I’m told.” Truth is, I avoid it as much as possible because it’s the one place I can’t exercise absolute control. Better to divert this conversation. “Now what’s this I hear about your daughter’s legal issues in New York?”

  “A mistake.” Folding his arms over his chest, Carrick scowls and stares out the window. “I was planning on flying out tonight to see her.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, but we needed to have this talk first.” I fold my hands and rest them on the desk. “As always, if there’s anything I or Suzanne can do. Anything at all.”

  “Magnanimous of you.”

  I smile, my palms open in genuine fellowship. “I can hire the best legal team on the Eastern seaboard. Just say the word, they’re yours. Xandra’s as good as exonerated.”

  “Thanks, but you’ve done so much already.” Carrick gets up and goes to the display case by the window. There he examines the eight-by-ten sepia photo of me in fatigues with Echo Company. He’d taken that back in 1973. “You kept this?”

  “I keep a copy in every office.” I go over and look at it with him. “Reminds me of where it all started.”

  “Like a psychopath’s souvenirs?”

  “Said it before, I’ll say it again: you’re a hoot.”

  Carrick doesn’t respond in kind to the grins, the brotherly slap on the back. “It was wrong, Rick. We all knew it.”

  I feel my shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “Look, Peter. You’re a decent man and I admire your conviction. But you’ve never had to carry the burden, the difficult choices that hover between the boundaries of what ordinary people call moral absolutes—as if such a thing existed in the real world.”

  “Haven’t I? You’ve forced that burden upon me all these years. My only regret was not having the guts to—”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You understood the importance of what we did.”

  “No, I allowed myself to believe a lie.” He sets the picture down and turns to face me. “If the polls are correct, you’re about to become the president of the United States. You can’t keep this up forever. One day, when it comes out—”

  “When?”

  “If it comes out, it’ll destroy your credibility, and the credibility of the country you swore to protect.”

  “Which is exactly why the terms of the NDA must be upheld.” I smile, hoping my anxiety doesn’t show. I’m holding to the illusion that we’re on the same page.

  “Ironic that you call it a nondisclosure agreement.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s generally held that an agreement is arrived upon by choice.”

  “You had a choice.”

  A bitter laugh. “Right.”

  My already-perforated patience starts to come apart. Carrick’s clearly not going to respond to the kid gloves. It’s time to shed them and wield the iron fist. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

  “About time.”

  “I remind you that if anything comes out, you’ll be every bit as liable.”

  “There are worse fates.”

  Unable to restrain myself, I swear and stomp my foot. “Are you going to honor the terms or not!”

  This brings out the first glimpse of a smile from Carrick since he stepped into the office. “Honor?” Nodding slightly yet triumphantly, he says, “What makes you think I’d change my mind after all this time?”

  “I’m simply assessing the integrity of our arrangement.” I say this dusting off my sleeve and trying to effect nonchalance.

  “And integrity? Again with the euphemisms.”

  “Do we have an understanding?”

  Carrick brushes past me and walks to the door. He opens it and says, “We’ve had the most perverse understanding for nearly forty years.”

  “These are the rare cases in which status quo is for the best.”

  “If you say so.”

  A minute after Carrick leaves I pick up my cell phone and dial Collinsworth. I’m shaking when he answers. “Mark, much as I hate to admit it, you were right. Carrick’s going to be a problem.”

  43

  XANDRA CARRICK

  Patient, and without a trace of skepticism, Kyle awaits my confession. It still amazes me that he’s taken me seriously from the start. He shows no sign of doubt as I begin. “It’s not just in the darkroom now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw one about my father in the mirror. Are there no boundaries?”

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. I have to talk to him about it first.”

  “So is that what you’re planning to do when you see him?”

  “I guess.” All these years he has never been willing to talk about the war—what makes me think that’s going to change now?

  “I think we both need to speak with him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “I dug up some information on Stacy Dellafina’s father.” From under his seat, he pulls out a laptop that he wakes from standby mode, and shows me a photo. “Did you know that during the Vietnam War, Tony Dellafina was a member of Echo Company, Third Platoon?”

  The blood rushes from my face. “Isn’t that the same—”

  “Yes. Your father was an embedded photographer with them. Which explains why Stacy wanted to meet him.”

  “No, you don’t get it.”

  Kyle leans in closer. “What?”

  “There was another vision. This one was a magazine article about a soldier. You know, Corporal Hank Jennings? When I Googled his name, I found out that he served in that same platoon.”

  His fingers fly over the touchpad of his laptop, and he pulls up a spreadsheet. When he finishes moving the cursor, he lands on a name: “Corporal Henry ‘Hank’ Jennings, retired vet, lives in Alpine, California.”

  “Which is another reason I’m going to San Diego. Alpine’s just forty minutes away.”

  “There’s a reason for all this.” He shuts his laptop, rubs his eyes, and yawns, which makes me follow in kind.

  “For what?”

  �
��The connections. Your visions are all somehow connected. Not sure how, but I feel it in my gut.” He reaches behind his back, pulls out a pillow, and slips it behind his head. “However …”—another yawn—“research and keeping tabs on you is exhausting. Did you sleep last night?”

  “Was it you who interrupted my internet connection?”

  “No.”

  “How did you know I was taking this flight?”

  “Red flags go up when defendants in a murder trial buy plane tickets. Now get some rest. We’ve got some time before we arrive.”

  Glad he said defendant and not suspect. I’ve yet to tell him about the vision of the mass graves in Bình Sơn. But for now, I think I’ll take his cue and get some rest.

  “Kyle?”

  He grunts a little.

  “I’m going to have to turn around and go back to New York, aren’t I?”

  “Eventually.”

  44

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re making our final approach to Lindbergh Field. The temperature in San Diego is seventy-two degrees and it’s partly cloudy with a seventy percent chance of thunderstorms. We’re on storm watch for the next forty-eight hours. Drive carefully. Thanks for flying Southwest Airlines.”

  I’m amazed that I actually slept for the remainder of the flight. It must have been at least four hours. Instead of fast asleep, as I had expected he might be, Agent Kyle Matthews is awake and packing up his gear. I can’t help but notice the gun and badge under his jacket as he stands up.

  We’re deplaning now and I have to squeeze under him to get my backpack from the overhead. I’ve brought the Graflex with me, just in case. “Excuse me.”

  “Do you have a rental car lined up?”

  “No. Do you have the local police ready to arrest me?”

  He grins. But doesn’t say anything.

  “Not funny.”

  “I might be able to pull a few more strings, just long enough for us to connect the dots, which might be the key to finding the real killer.”

  “And to my exoneration?”

  “Of course.”

  It’s unjustly sunny and bright outside on the tarmac of Lindbergh field. What about that 70 percent chance of rain? The workers outside are wearing shorts, for crying out loud. No wonder Mom and Dad kept telling me I should move out here.

  As we exit the airport and walk toward the taxi stand, warm springlike air brushes against my face. The long pointed blades of palm fronds stretch out before me. All around me, I see something that in New York I can find only if I look straight up: the sky. No apartment buildings or skyscrapers impede my view.

  Kyle slips on a pair of dark sunglasses. “Where are you staying?”

  “Dad’s, probably. He lives in Del Mar. But he doesn’t know I’m coming. He’ll be in for a surprise.”

  “Maybe we can go see him first.”

  “You keep saying ‘we,’ as if—” I’m interrupted by the sudden approach of a tall man in a black suit. Reacting, Kyle gets between us, his hand not so subtly placed near the gun behind his back.

  “Alexandra Carrick?”

  “Who are you?”

  The black-suited man stands stiffly and produces a badge. “Special Agent Rolston, United States Secret Service, ma’am. We need to speak. In confidence.”

  “Hold on, just wait a second. Let me see that badge.” Kyle takes it from his open hand and inspects it.

  Rolston waits patiently until he gets his ID card and badge back. “And you are?”

  “Special Agent Kyle Matthews, FBI.” This display of IDs and badges is starting to resemble a cock fight. “Ms. Carrick is under my custody. Anything you need to—”

  “I’m sorry, but she needs to come with me now. Ms. Carrick, if you would kindly follow me.” He’s got me by the arm now, and it actually hurts. Something’s not right.

  “Kyle?”

  “Hey! You can’t just take her like that.”

  Agent Rolston doesn’t stop, just speaks coolly as we walk toward his car. “Ms. Carrick is a fugitive and under investigation by the Department of Homeland Security, Agent Matthews.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Now Rolston stops and shoves Kyle in the chest. “No. You’re not.”

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “One, that’s classified. Two, I doubt someone like you has the clearance to know.”

  “Who’s your supervisor?”

  Rolston shakes his head, pulls his shades down just enough to look down over the rims. “If you have any questions, you can call to verify with the ECTF field office in Los Angeles.”

  “Count on it.” Kyle is already dialing his cell phone and trailing us toward the center island where Rolston’s black Lincoln is idling. “Don’t say a word, Xandra. I’ll get to the bottom of this!”

  45

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Saigon: April 29, 1975

  Men and women, children and elders, all pushed in every direction, trying to free themselves from the crowd as more gunshots rang out over our heads.

  “Get down! Get down!” shouted a soldier in Vietnamese. I could not see who he was, if he was one of ours or from the NLF. My only concern was finding Peter. But he was rushed into the embassy with the crowd, and the door had slammed shut.

  Alone, despite the raging crowd, I dropped to the ground next to my suitcase and clung to it as though my life depended on it. For all I knew, it did. More shots rang out, this time a combination of automatic gunfire and heavy artillery. Would I die out here, without the chance to see Peter one last time?

  The crowd barely thinned, and as quickly as the gunfire started, it ceased. How much time actually passed, I do not know. But it seemed an eternity. What caused me to lift my head was a shout from a woman behind me.

  “They’re taking off! My daughter is going to live, thank heaven!” Sure enough, the beating of the helicopter’s rotors cut through the air and pummeled my eardrums.

  From where I stood, the helicopter appeared full, and this time no one dared cling to the landing skids. I kept picturing Peter on board, banging against the window, trying to find me in a crowd of frantic people. How anxious he must be, wondering if and how he would ever find me again.

  And I, too, wondered.

  For a long while, I refused to move from my place at the gate. What if someone were to come out and give me instructions on how to find Peter? So I propped up my suitcase and sat on it, holding on to the bars like a prisoner.

  An old Vietnamese man stood over me and held a letter through the bars. “I Tran Nguyen. I have paper! I have paper!”

  “Sir, you need to wait right there,” said the marine behind the gate.

  “See this?” He pulled out a small metallic object that resembled a pair of wings. It was a pin or brooch of some sort. “Major Tom Bradley give me. I work for him, bartender in U.S. Air Force officers’ club seven year!”

  The marine took the letter and the pin and examined them both.

  Mr. Nguyen smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. I tried to move away from him, but he kept pressing in harder. Frantic and losing control, he shouted. “Major Bradley say, ‘Just show letter, they let you go!’ Please!”

  “Sir, you need to stay calm and back away from the gate.”

  “No, please! I have paper!”

  The marine tossed the letter and the pin back through the gate, sending the old bartender scrambling to the ground to retrieve them. The marine pointed his gun at the old man, just in case.

  That was enough for me. I grabbed my suitcase and moved out of the way. But it wasn’t necessary. Mr. Nguyen sat at my feet, weeping and holding his pin in one hand, the letter in his other.

  I could not help but place a hand on his shoulder.

  Without lifting his hands from his eyes, he showed me the letter and spoke in Vietnamese. “Seven years. I worked for Americans seven years!”

  The letter read:

  6 June 1967

  Mr. Nguyen, the bearer of this lett
er, faithfully served the cause of freedom in the Republic of Vietnam.

  Major Thomas Bradley

  United States Air Force

  “I am sure they will let you in,” I said, more hopeful than certain. “I, too, am waiting.” At this point, Mr. Nguyen looked up and noticed a space between the bars. As he was a very gaunt man, he stood up and slid through it.

  But the marine caught him in the attempt and pushed him back out before he could get through. “For the last time, you cannot enter without proper authorization!”

  “You don’t understand!” Nguyen said. Of course he didn’t—Mr. Nguyen was panicking and speaking in Vietnamese. “The Communists are going to torture us, kill us, cut out our brains, and run them under soap and water!”

  His eyes were now like those of a madman. I feared for him and held his frail hand. “Mr. Nguyen, please. You’ll get hurt.”

  “Vietcong kill us!” Once again, he pushed through the bars so fast, the marine could not stop him in time. A second marine hit him with the end of his rifle and shoved him out through the bars. He then threw the letter and pin out over the heads of the crowd.

  I knelt down beside the old man, who wept pathetically. “My children and grandchildren. They have all left me here to die. Just like the Americans.”

  Left to die.

  Nguyen was not the only one here in Saigon who shared this sentiment. Many who counted on the protection and provision of the United States felt the same. I, too, wondered if this would be my fate.

  “Grace!”

  I turned and there at the embassy building’s door was Peter, running to the gate. As we called out to each other, another helicopter came to land on the roof where many more people climbed that ladder to the very top where it rested.

  “Grace, are you all right?”

  “Yes, what happened?”

  The marine opened the gate slightly, pointed his rifle out as he allowed me to pass, then shut it again. “I just spent the last hour on the phone,” Peter said, as we walked into the building. “They wouldn’t take my word that we’re engaged. We have no legal documents proving it. For all they know, you’re a stranger I decided to help.”