Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  He gets up and pours me another cup of tea. “It wasn’t an audible voice. More of a knowledge of something to come. But it feels like it already has.”

  “Like a premonition?”

  “That’d be oversimplifying it a bit, but yes.” He returns to his seat and gazes out the window, from which pale light fades in. The room has grown dim, save for the flickering glow of the lamp. Outside, night descends. “It was revealed to me that someone in great need would be coming to us, seeking help. And that she—you have been wrongly accused.”

  “You think God’s willing to testify in court?”

  “In a way, he’s done far more than that for you and all of mankind. Anyway, great as that false accusation may be, it’s not your biggest challenge.”

  “It isn’t?” A chill slithers down my spine.

  “When you showed up tonight, I recognized your face from the newspaper and knew you were the one the Holy Spirit meant. The one in great need.”

  A chill races through my body. My hair still feels wet and slimy as I twirl it between my fingers. But I’m too focused on what he’s saying to care about pond sludge. “Do you know what just happened to me, to Kyle?”

  “No.” His eyes are back now, but with a more troubled expression. “But I do know you’ve got something very important to do, and that you’re still in danger.”

  At this point, I feel compelled to share about my darkroom visions. It takes a good ten minutes, but finally I get through it all—the body in Central Park, the awful images of Vietnam, Dad, that soldier from Echo Company living in Alpine. “It feels like they’re all connected. I just don’t see how.”

  “Remarkable. But not unbelievable.”

  “What are your visions like, Jake?”

  “They’re spiritual gifts called ‘words of knowledge’ and ‘words of wisdom.’ I believe that’s what you’re manifesting.”

  “How is it that I just happen to run into someone like you, who just happens to—”

  “Nothing just happens. Everything’s connected. By a divine plan. What we humans perceive as infinite possibilities of events doesn’t even come close to the infinite from God’s point of view.”

  This is just a bit too bizarre. Should it not be comforting to know that I’m not the only person in the world who experiences these visions, or words of whatever? Instead, Pastor Jake’s confirmation makes me even more anxious. Part of me would like to be told, “You’re just imagining things,” to be written a prescription and medicate it with some antipsychotic pills.

  “Charles Spurgeon said, ‘We must take care that we do not neglect heavenly monitions through fear of being considered visionary; we must not be staggered even by the dread of being styled fanatical, or out of our minds. For to stifle a thought from God is no small sin.’”

  His words resound in my mind. It feels as though the floor beneath me has vanished.

  “You okay, Xandra?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine.”

  “You seem upset.”

  “Why is all this happening? Why am I having these visions, being charged with murder, and why in the world is someone impersonating a Homeland Security Agent and trying to kill me?”

  All at once, I’m aware of a hollowness within me. A void left in Mom’s place when she passed away. She always had answers for me, could always make sense of things. It’s now, as I lean over my knees and bury my tears in my hands, that I realize how much I’ve truly missed her.

  Jake’s voice is quiet and gentle but has an authority that speaks to my situation. “Your answers lie in finding the truth behind all those visions. Christ said, ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’”

  “I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

  “Perhaps that’s what you came out here to discover.” Before he can say another word, a knock comes on the door.

  It’s Ruth. “Eli needs to speak with you, Miss. It’s about your friend.”

  57

  IAN MORTIMER

  I’ve been waiting in a locked interrogation room in a suburban police station. All my personal effects have been confiscated. My badge, my gun, my cell phone.

  Officer Dowler steps in and takes a seat facing me. “Here’s the problem. Homeland refuses to give me the four-one-one on you, and it’s nagging me like a pebble in my shoe.”

  Time to put on my public-service face. “One call. That’ll assuage your doubts.” Even though I’m projecting confidence, I dread calling TR. But if I’m to move on, I must.

  Dowler brings in a Polycom phone from outside and sets it on the table. “One call.”

  In less than two minutes, Dowler is leaning over the speaker phone, listening to TR give him the entire rundown on national security and how any attempt to impede my investigation would result in severe consequences for him and his entire division. “Is that clear, Dowler?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  “The sooner you release Agent Rolston, the sooner we’ll get the person who shot your men.”

  “Right away. We were just doing things by the book.”

  “Completely understandable, Lieutenant. Now, get Rolston out of there.” TR hangs up.

  Dowler barks at his subordinates. My gun, my BlackBerry, and badge are returned to me. A minute later my BlackBerry buzzes. It’s TR again.

  I motion for Dowler to leave the room. “Privacy, please.” He nods and shuts the door behind him. My hand shakes as I press the cell phone to my ear. “Mortimer.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Ian?”

  “A minor inconvenience, that’s all.”

  “You’re supposed to keep a low profile.”

  “Not to worry, I’m playing my part perfectly. But this assignment has its hazards.”

  “So you’ve terminated the Carrick girl already?”

  Uncertain how best to respond, I hesitate. If I become a liability, he’ll have me terminated. The problem is, every time I try to carry out my assignment, I’m haunted by ghosts of my past. All the people I’ve killed before Nicole and Bobby came into my life. How naive I was to believe I could just walk away from it all. No, everyone pays for his sins. Everyone.

  “Ian?”

  “Right. Sorry, someone stepped into the room, and I had to send him off.”

  “So, is Xandra Carrick dead?”

  “Yes. So is that FBI agent she traveled with.” At the very least, I can buy some time to make it so retroactively and finish the job. Stupid of me to lie. But at the moment, it’s the only thing I can do to keep myself and my family alive. I know what TR is capable of.

  “Knew I could count on you, Ian.”

  “All right then. Our business is concluded.” Just a bit earlier than delivered.

  “Not quite. Your last assignment cast some doubt. I’m going to need proof she’s really dead.”

  “Already thought of that,” I lied.

  “And there’s one more assign—”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “There’s one more assignment. Upon completion, barring unforeseen complications, that should conclude our association.”

  “I want this to be over with.”

  “As do I, believe me. This has been every bit as distasteful to me as—”

  “Distasteful? Is that all this is to you? Of all the twisted, demented—”

  “Oh don’t start pontificating, you hypocrite. The very reason I’m working with you is because you’re a cold-blooded, calculating killer who understands the necessary sacrifices for the greater good! At least, you used to understand.”

  The accusation cuts like barbed razor wire that surrounds the Supermax Prison that I’ll likely end up in when this is over. He’s right. I’ve killed so many, even after I stopped believing in the ideals that commanded such decisions. A deep breath. Mustn’t let him rile me so. “You’ll keep your word?”

  “Lifetime supply. I will personally guarantee that Bobby will get the best treatment possible. Even experimental stem-cell research.”

  “
Even when I’m dead.”

  “Even then. Come on, Ian. After all these years, you know me. I always keep my word.”

  True enough. That had been one of his greatest strengths. But now it’s become his Achilles’ heel as his integrity has been compromised by Machiavellian delusions. That he wields such power over me disgusts me profoundly. But most frightening is what will happen if he reaches his goals, which I’m helping him achieve.

  “So what’s this final assignment?”

  TR explains, and I feel like vomiting, as I did the first time this operation began. “Another EC vet? You’re sick, TR. Of all the persons—”

  “Who are you to judge me? Anyway, he’s never recovered. He’s got no family, friends. Nine toes in the grave. If you ask me, we’re doing him a favor.”

  “The favor is for you.”

  “And for Bobby, don’t ever forget that.”

  “Swine.” I should just blast the cover off this whole wretched thing. But TR’s got the resources to silence and discredit me before I could ever do him any harm. And in the end, Nicole and Bobby would pay.

  For my sins.

  “Again, details will be sent to your BlackBerry. Remember, I want proof of purchase for Xandra Carrick’s termination.”

  “What did the lass ever do to you, anyway?” I let out a weary sigh. Dowler has returned and is standing outside with his back to the glass door. “Shouldn’t I have been more concerned about her than you?”

  “Doesn’t matter now. She’s all over the news as a fugitive. Let the media speculate on her disappearance. You’ve made sure there’s nothing identifiable this time, right?”

  “Of course.” At least, when I find her, I’ll make sure to do so. She can’t have gotten too far, but if TR doesn’t get off the phone soon, I might be too late. “I really need to get out of here. So I’ll contact you tomorrow, when everything’s completed. I’m going offline for twenty-four.” Which means radio silence, or at the very least, cell phone, text message, and email silence for the next twenty-four hours.

  “Be sure to complete your next assignment cleanly. I’m counting on you.” A haughty scoff. “And if that doesn’t move you, think of your boy.”

  I hang up, imagining that the End button I stab with my thumb is TR’s windpipe. The urge rises up to hurl my BlackBerry at the wall and smash it to pieces.

  I open the door; Dowler turns around. “All set?”

  “Indeed.”

  He escorts me to my car, which his partner drove to the station while I sat in the back of their squad car. At the exit, he shakes my hand. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Agent Rolston. If there’s anything you need, anything we can—”

  “You’ve done quite enough, thank you.” I shut the door and roll down the window.

  “This cop killer’s under my jurisdiction, remember.”

  “Maybe so, but Homeland Security’s been after him well before he showed up here. So sit tight and keep this quiet until we contact you. There’s a lot more at stake than the lives of two cops.”

  His brow crinkles. He inhales deeply but refrains from saying what’s truly on his mind. “Yeah, whatever. You’re not the one who has to tell their wives and kids.”

  Wives and kids. I have to focus on mine or I’ll never get through this. “I don’t envy you.”

  “Just find him, all right?”

  “Trust me. I will.”

  58

  XANDRA CARRICK

  For some reason we’re not walking back toward the meeting hall where Eli had been treating Kyle. Ruth hasn’t said anything yet. She just presses forward with a concerned expression.

  Finally, I have to ask. “Where are we going?”

  “To the rectory, dear.”

  When we arrive, Kyle is lying on a bed in a small room toward the back of the apartment. It’s dimly lit by oil lamps. He’s unconscious and connected to an IV. The stand that holds the saline pouch looks like it came from a 1950s movie set.

  Sitting bedside in a chair is Eli. He’s patting Kyle’s brow with a towel. “Didn’t lose as much blood as I thought.”

  “How is he?” I step over and kneel to get a closer look.

  “Came this close.” Eli pinches his thumb and forefinger together. He points to Kyle’s side. “Went in here, passed clean out there. Almost hit an artery, but didn’t touch anything crucial. Quarter of an inch to the left and … Well, it’s a miracle.”

  “That’s luck for you.”

  “No. That’s God’s grace,” says Ruth.

  “Grace?” I let out an inadvertent chuckle.

  “Something funny?” Eli asks, slightly annoyed.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just that my mother …” I can’t help it. I’m starting to cry. To hold it back, I put my hand over my mouth. “My mother miraculously survived a gunshot wound during the Vietnam War. The bullet passed through her too.”

  Jake puts a hand on my shoulder as I wipe my eyes. I don’t usually get so emotional, but the past couple of days have been too much.

  “Mom’s name is … her name was Grace.” Gunshot wounds, miraculous survivals. Grace. God’s grace.

  “Well then,” Eli says, standing and wringing the towel into the basin on the nightstand. “I’d say she was well named.”

  By her father, who became a Christian through a Jesuit missionary. With each realization, I’m starting to see what Jake meant when he said, “Everything’s connected. By a divine plan.” “So is he going to be all right?”

  “Trauma is trauma,” says Eli. “He’s going to need time to fully recover. But yes, he’ll be fine.” He reaches into his bag and takes out a rectangular case. With a small key, he unlocks and opens it to reveal several compartments of pills, each immaculately labeled. After he locates the ones he wants, he fills a small velvet pouch with them, pulls the drawstring tight, and hands them to me. “Three times a day with food. It’s an antibiotic. Fever’s gone down, but we’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll stay with him tonight,” Jake says.

  “No, we’ve put you out so much already. I’ll stay. We have things to discuss when he wakes up.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, Jake.”

  At this, Eli turns and scowls. “Getting a bit familiar, are we?” He peers disdainfully over his glasses at Jake, or me, or at both of us, I’m not sure.

  “Oh, Eli,” Ruth nudges him with her elbow. “You leave them be.”

  He packs everything into his bag and nods to me. “If you need anything, call on me. Ruth and I live just down the road from”—he scowls at the young pastor—“Jake.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  With a final harrumph, he leaves with Ruth. A chilly draft blows into the room when they open the door.

  I take the seat next to Kyle and touch his forehead. It’s quite warm, so I wring the washcloth and apply it. “What was that all about?”

  “Never mind them,” Jake says. “Eli doesn’t approve of my ‘compromises’ with the world. I’m too liberal for him.”

  “You?”

  “Cell phone, TV, computer. Yes, liberal.”

  “Besides the cell phone, I haven’t seen anything like that around here.”

  “Oh, I keep it hidden from those in the colony who are offended by it. Eli’s like a father to me. I’m used to his indignant attitude.”

  “Ruth seems nice.”

  “Well, she’s my aunt. Raised me since … I was only three months old.”

  Kyle takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly, and though he’s asleep, pain twists his brow. Instinctively, I put a hand on his chest and he seems to relax.

  “Jake, are your parents …?”

  He nods.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I don’t remember them. We have no photos here, so I don’t even know what they looked like. Ruth and Eli raised me as their own. They couldn’t have children, so they saw me as a blessing in the midst of tragedy. But you know, Ruth always says I’m just like my father. Headstrong, reb
ellious, I even have his chin. You can imagine how Eli felt when I became pastor for our colony and started challenging some of our Old Order practices.”

  “Like electricity?”

  “Like electricity, yes.”

  “My mother passed away last year. All my life, I’d been close to her. So when she left us and I didn’t cry much, I thought there was something really wrong with me. Guess I was too busy being strong for Dad, because it nearly destroyed him. Strange, I never felt the pain as much as I do these days. It’s all coming at me at once.”

  He gestures to Kyle. “And now this.”

  “And more.” I still don’t know how Kyle found me back there in the woods. As far as I know, he hadn’t followed us. But I’m glad he did, even though it nearly cost him his life. “I remember a verse they taught us back when Mom took me to Sunday school. Something about laying down your life for a friend.”

  “‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ John 15:13.”

  “That’s it.”

  “So, he almost died protecting you.”

  “You have no idea.” I notice a subtle smile on his face. “Or perhaps you do.”

  “I’m going to go back and finish our prayer vigil with the congregation, then home.”

  “This is a rectory, right? Aren’t you supposed to live here?”

  “The last pastor did.”

  “Oh? Where do you live then?”

  “The house right behind this building.” He opens the door and starts walking out.

  “Why don’t you live here?”

  A boyish grin and a wink. “No electricity.”

  59

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Brooklyn, New York: June 25, 1985

  I have had enough! I know the Bible says that it is not right to divorce, but after tonight, I am beginning to wonder if I can be true to my faith. Peter has once again left on an unexpected business trip. When these trips first began, about a month after he was awarded the Pulitzer, I did not think much of it. Like a dutiful wife, I smiled, kissed him, and counted the days till he returned.