Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “I don’t know, lucky guess. What’s that got to do with—?”

  Rolston presses the point of his gun into the back of my head and with one hand pushes me to my knees. My hands squish into the mud, which splashes into my face. His grip is fierce. He could easily break my arm. “What do you know about the circumstances of her death?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You bloody well know!” His breath is quivering now as he stands right behind me.

  “I swear, I have no idea.”

  He clicks the safety off the gun. Presses into my head even harder. “Then you’re truly of no use to me.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Should have known talking was a waste of time.”

  I can almost feel the tension of his trigger finger pulling back. Then the numbing pins and needles run down my scalp, down my spine, and into my hands and feet.

  Faces.

  Pale, vacuous eyes.

  Death.

  So many different bodies buried, submerged in the East River, incinerated … dismembered.

  And then comfort, hope, acceptance. It’s the face of a woman with auburn hair … Nicole … and a young boy, very sick, almost dead … Bobby.

  In the span of a couple of seconds, I’m seeing what feels like years of memories. The gun is shaking as it presses into my scalp. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Lassie, you have no idea what I have to do, or why.”

  “Think of Nicole … of Bobby!”

  “What?”

  In a split second, fight or flight kicks in. I’m going to die anyway, might as well try what I can. With a feral shriek and all the might I can conjure, I launch an elbow up into his crotch.

  Instead of seeing my brains splattering before my eyes, I blink and nothing happens. Only a heavy thud in the grass behind me and stifled groans.

  I leap to my feet, whirl around, and find my assailant doubled over, still clutching his gun. Emboldened, I step over to kick it out of his hand. But he catches my ankle with his left hand. With one abrupt twist, he hurls me into a cold puddle.

  He gets up and puts me in a choke hold, then drags me to the edge of an algae-covered pond. Splashing wildly, I struggle to break free. But it’s no use. Even though he’s groaning in pain from my well-placed strike, he’s still too strong.

  Then with alarming force, he thrusts my head face down into the water. His hands clutch my throat. His arms quiver with tension. I’m unable to lift my face out of the murky pond. Bubbles float up out of my mouth, tickling at my face. The tingling returns. I’ve been here before. At least, I’ve sensed this place before.

  I can’t breathe.

  Can’t breathe!

  Can’t shut my eyes either. They’re about to pop out. Murky water stings so bad. My vision begins to darken. Is this what it was like for Stacy Dellafina?

  51

  So this is how it all ends.

  Everything’s vanished into the gloom of the inner mind. Mom’s face appears, tears standing in her eyes. She’s reaching out, not to embrace but to push me away.

  It’s too soon, Xandi.

  Reach down, take hold!

  Then, just as I’m about to pass out, a miracle happens. Heeding Mom’s voice, I grope about the pond’s miry bottom and touch something. Smooth. Hard. Heavy. I grasp it with my fingers, even as the final bubbles of life float by my eyes.

  With all my strength I swing the rock out of the water and strike my attacker’s head. He lets out a long grunt and staggers. His hands slide off my neck.

  Water rushes away as he comes crashing down over me. I put my knee just between his legs. With all the force I can conjure, I ram my kneecap straight into his already-injured testicles. I can feel an awful crushing sensation. He lets out an agonized scream and wretches while hunched over on all fours, like a cat gagging on a hairball. It is now as I sit up, gasping for breath, that I realize the water is not more than two or three feet deep.

  I slide out from under him, flail about, kicking at whatever I can. My heel makes contact with his face. He splashes onto his side, still holding his crotch.

  I crawl out of the pond and grab my backpack.

  Now I’m on my feet, sprinting away.

  Can’t look back.

  My legs are so shaky, I stumble. Nearly fall on my face. A gunshot rips through the falling rain. I let out a shriek. But keep running.

  And running.

  The wet backpack straps dig into my shoulder. Right now, I’d love to just toss the Graflex into the middle of the freeway and be done with it forever.

  Unable to overcome the burning in my legs and lungs, I press my back against the trunk of a tree and glance back over my shoulder, trying to catch my breath as quietly as possible.

  No. He’s not there.

  Is that good or bad? At least if I could see him, I’d know to avoid him. But not knowing where he is fills every step, every breath with anxiety.

  I’m frozen, trembling. If I move, step on a branch, splash into a puddle, I might give my position away. If I remain, he’ll find me. Dammit, what should I do?

  With great caution, I take a step back.

  Softly.

  Quietly.

  All at once, every nerve ending in my body ignites. A pair of hands grab me like a boa constrictor, one of them covering my mouth.

  I can’t even scream.

  52

  Elbows swinging, feet kicking, I struggle to free myself. But the grip over my mouth suddenly gets tighter.

  “Quiet!” he hisses. “Xandra, it’s me.”

  At the sound of his voice, my arms relax. He senses this and loosens his grip, allowing me to turn around.

  “Kyle?” It’s him. It’s him!

  “Follow me, but stay close.”

  “He was going to kill me!”

  “I’m not going to let that happen. Can you climb?”

  I nod, wipe the water and mud from my face.

  “Good, my car’s up that embankment. On three, we make a run for it.”

  “Okay.”

  “One … Two …”

  Before he reaches three, another series of shots slashes through the leaves. One of them hits the tree next to me.

  “Three!” Kyle puts himself between me and Rolston’s gunfire. “Go! Straight up, you’ll see it parked. Careful, don’t slip!” He puts the keys in my hands, pushes me forward, turns back, and returns fire.

  A surge of adrenaline-induced energy propels me up the embankment at a surprising rate. Below, a fierce volley rings out. Kyle is making his way up the hill now, both hands on his gun.

  The car is parked at a frantic angle, its tail jutting slightly off the shoulder of the freeway. Its nose hangs over the edge of the embankment. At the edge of the road, a black Porsche hisses by and splashes a sheet of water at me. Misses me by inches.

  Kyle calls up as he takes another shot. “Get in and go!”

  I fumble with the keys now, trying to find the right one. My hands are shaking and too slick to get it into the door lock. But finally I do and leap into the driver’s seat where I start the engine. Rolston climbs up to the roadside, swings around with his gun, then points it down and fires two shots in Kyle’s direction. Through the rearview, I see Rolston turn around. He’s spotted me and is approaching the car with his weapon trained.

  A truck roars by at full speed and blasts its horns at my tail, which it nearly clips. Its wind tosses the car like a dinghy in a maelstrom.

  I keep waiting for Kyle and an opportunity to speed out onto the road, but there’s just too much oncoming traffic. Visibility is poor. All I can see are headlights, just seconds before they reach me. But I have nowhere else to go. The shoulder ends with a high dive over a ravine, just twenty feet ahead.

  Alternately glancing over his shoulder and stepping purposefully toward me, Rolston lifts the muzzle of his gun and points it straight at the passen
ger window.

  My gaze shoots back and forth between the rearview and the driver’s-side mirrors. I race the engine. Don’t dare shift into Drive. Not yet. Death by gunshot or vehicular suicide, what’ll it be?

  Then comes a bone-chilling tap on the passenger window. I scream and jump back against my door. My eyes zoom in on his trigger finger. He’s just about to pull it.

  Instead of glass shattering and a bullet lodging into my skull, a thud and a muffled grunt divert my eyes. Kyle has knocked Rolston to the ground.

  From the edge of the passenger window, fist and limbs fly. The sounds of thumps and cracks join the cacophonous strains of horns and wheels zooming by.

  I’m too afraid to unlock the door and let the wrong man in. But this doesn’t stop me from leaning over to look. “Kyle, hurry!”

  The side of Rolston’s face slams up against the glass, which squeaks as he grits his teeth, snarls, then kicks backward. Kyle falls back, nearly toppling down the embankment. Rolston lunges at him, but Kyle swipes his feet out from under him. The fight draws them both toward the back of the car, where I can only see their legs through the passenger mirror.

  Now Kyle is on his feet. A couple more swings and Rolston is down. Kyle rushes to the passenger door, which I unlock.

  “Let’s go!”

  Just as I put the car in Drive, the loud squawk of a California Highway Police car makes me hesitate.

  “Ignore it,” Kyle says. “Just go!”

  “Straight into that?” A double length UPS truck rolls past us. About three car lengths behind us, the CHP pulls over onto the shoulder, its blue and red beacons flashing.

  “Remain inside your vehicle,” the officer says over the bullhorn. Meanwhile his beige-clad partner steps out and notices Rolston lying at his feet.

  “Now!” Before Kyle even says it, I seize the opportunity and blaze onto the freeway. The angry driver in the Benz I just cut off flashes angry high beams. I can’t help but steal a glance back at Rolston.

  In that split second, I almost wish I hadn’t.

  Rolston gets up, points his gun, and shoots the CHP officer point blank in the chest. And with cold precision, he turns and fires at the other officer who is standing on the opposite side of the squad car. “I can’t believe it, he shot them!”

  Kyle groans. “Get … to … the center lane!”

  Within seconds I’m up to eighty miles per hour, weaving through cars that are now slowing down and moving to the right, as Rolston pursues us with the CHP’s car, siren and lights blaring and flashing. “Rolston can’t be working for the government.”

  Kyle grunts. “There is no Agent Rolston. Drive faster … will you?”

  “Would you like to take the wheel? Stop barking at me.”

  “Trying to save your life.”

  “And I’m just playing around?” A bullet cracking the rear window interrupts our highly mature discussion. I let out a gasp. Rolston is right behind us now. “Can’t you shoot at him or something?”

  “Dropped my gun …” Kyle grimaces. His words trail off into a strained groan. He’s holding his side with a hand soaked in blood.

  “You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  “No! No hospitals or police stations … first place they’ll check. Just … try to shake him.” He forces a weak smile. “And find a place to hide.”

  “Where do you suppose we can do that?” Weaving through traffic, I discover there are now three police cars closing in on Rolston—or whatever his name is. “I think we might just have found some help.”

  The opportunity reveals itself now. I’ve got a clear path across two lanes to an exit into a town called Miranda Springs. The police cars have surrounded him. A vindictive grin tugs at the corner of my lip.

  Off the exit ramp and driving down a quiet road now. Beyond the 7-Eleven and Chevron station, there’s nothing but veined asphalt and verdant junipers. “Think we’ll ever find out who that thug was?”

  All I hear are the wheels rolling on the gravelly pavement.

  “Kyle?”

  He’s leaning over against the door, his face pale and shining. His chest is rising and falling in short rapid breaths. His eyes are rolled back and white, eyelashes flitting like a moth’s wings.

  “Oh no. You can’t leave me alone in this!” I think he’s dying.

  53

  IAN MORTIMER

  He was right. My heart’s no longer in it. Hasn’t been for ages. Yet somehow, he’s managed to yank me back like a bleeding dog on a choke collar. I’ve gotten dreadfully sloppy. Xandra Carrick appears to have enlisted an ally from the Bureau, something that has slipped past my research. Bloody hell, she’s managed to complicate things by not dying.

  Carrick and Matthews are getting away. And if they do, TR will tighten that choke collar on my neck. If I’m lucky, that’s all he’ll do.

  Flippin’ CHPs are tailing me with backup now. I’ve no time for this!

  “Come on, you buggering idiot!” I just cut off a truck driver, who flips me the bird. Three police cars are tailing me now. If I end up getting interrogated by any law-enforcement agency, TR might not kill me, but he will see to it that Bobby suffers. What kind of fouled-up country is this anyway, where someone like TR can literally get away with murder?

  Focus.

  For Bobby’s sake.

  It’s no good. I have to get him to clear this obstacle. But that would mean admitting that Xandra’s still alive. This mess grows increasingly difficult to clean.

  Xandra and Agent Matthews are gone. But I’ve got the license-plate number memorized, and limo services usually install tracking devices in their cars.

  When it seems inevitable, I pull over and wait for the police to approach. Two officers approach with guns aimed while another instructs me over the megaphone to come out with my hands visible.

  I comply and set my hands on the roof of the squad car, while the officer with the name Dowler etched into his nameplate frisks me, takes my gun. “Special Agent Rolston, Department of Homeland Security. Badge is in my left breast pocket. The shooter’s getting away.”

  “I’ve got two officers down back there, so you’ll excuse me if I check your credentials.” He takes out my badge and scrutinizes it. Hands it to his partner, who takes it back to their squad car. “What’s the make and model of the perp’s car?”

  “Black sedan, I didn’t get a good look. He’s been shot. His accomplice is an Asian American woman, about twenty-seven, dark brown hair. She’s driving.”

  “I’ll put out an APB—”

  “This is a Homeland Security case. Can’t have anyone else interfere. Now release me so I can—”

  “You’re the only one seen leaving the scene of the crime, in the squad car of the downed officers.”

  “Mine was half a mile back! I pursued the suspect on foot until your men confronted him. Then he shot them!”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to verify your identity. Should be quick.”

  “Look, I know you’re just doing your job. But I’ve got to do mine. The guy who shot your men was a domestic terrorist. If we lose him, it’s on you.”

  “I still gotta do this, Agent …”

  “Rolston. Special Agent Rolston.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He cranes his neck back to his partner in their car. “Anderson, you get anything?”

  Even though the rain is drizzling down on me out here on the shoulder of the freeway, I’m feeling hot, my collar’s shrinking. Dowler’s partner comes out of the car and hands my badge back to him. “Checks out. They said the information on him was nontransferable. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I try to remain collected. “It means you boys are in over your heads.”

  “Actually, Agent Rolston”—Dowler pulls my hands down off the car, one at a time and cuffs them—“it means you’re coming with us.”

  54

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Brooklyn, New York: May 7, 1975

  I was remi
nded of the opening of a book by Charles Dickens, one of my favorite English authors among the many that Peter has introduced me to since we met:

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.

  This should have been the most joyous occasion of my life. Today, before God and before man, Peter and I were joined in marriage. Nothing could have diminished the joy of this occasion except for the news that came in a whisper from Juliana, Peter’s sister, who served as my bridesmaid.

  Because communication had been cut off since the Communists took over Saigon, I had no means of speaking or corresponding with any of my classmates or teachers who might still be there.

  Footage of a big rally celebrating the new administration has been playing on all the television sets in department-store windows. We learned that Saigon would be renamed Ho Chi Minh City. But to me and all the other refugees here in the States, it will always be Saigon.

  I determined not to let the news ruin our special day. In fact, I didn’t even mention this to Peter until the wedding was over. We spent our wedding night at the Mayflower Hotel in Manhattan, but because of our limited budget, we will not be having a honeymoon.

  I do not mind it as much as a girl who grew up in America might. My head was never filled with such dreams. It is enough for me to move into our apartment overlooking the trees and ponds of Prospect Park and begin our new life together.

  Brooklyn, New York: August 15, 1977

  I have been so busy with English classes, working as a cashier at Woolworths, doing community work at church, and taking care of the home that the past two years seem to have flown by and vanished before I knew it.

  After hearing the harrowing stories of some of the Vietnamese and Cambodian refugees I have met through the Asian American Service Center, I realize how blessed I was to have arrived in America with relative ease.