I did not even mind that he was unable to tell me about these trips due to the sensitive nature of the projects. But how can a photography assignment be “classified”?
Honestly, I have been more than patient with him. But this government work he’s doing is affecting our family. Xandi is four now and too smart to accept anything less than a reasonable answer when she asks, “Why isn’t Daddy home?”
“He’s away on business” is always met with, “Why?”
Why indeed? Is any work so important that a man must leave his family, often with no prior warning, then come back and completely withdraw? He avoids us for days.
Today I did something I never dared before. I opened Peter’s MasterCard bill. It was there I saw the airplane tickets he bought for the dates he’s been away. I called the 800 number and learned that his flights were to Washington, D.C., and California. Why the secrecy? Could he not even tell me where he was going?
I began to think the worst. Maybe he’s having an affair. The problem with belief is that it becomes faith. And faith, true faith, translates into action.
So when he came home tonight—late for dinner—I held up the credit-card bill with the mysterious charges circled in red. “Why have you been lying to me?”
He snatched the papers from my hand and stuffed them into his coat pocket. “Why did you do that? I told you not to pry!”
“It’s not prying! I’m your wife. We should have no secrets.”
“I told you, these are highly classified business trips. I can’t talk to you—”
“That’s right. You can’t!” I was raising my voice, frustration threatening to erupt into rage. Xandi began to cry. Peter went over and picked her up, shielding her ears.
“What are you talking about?”
“Even when you’re home, you are distant. You just go to your office to do God knows what. And when you do come out, it’s just for a meal, or because you’re feeling frisky and want to have—”
“Grace, please!” He pointed his eyes at our daughter whose ears he now cupped. “I’m sorry if I’ve been preoccupied.”
“It’s been four years like this! Four years of your sneaking out of the house like a criminal, four years of your missing your daughter’s school plays, her first recital, our anniversaries, your own birthday …”
“I swear, I forgot about Xandi’s recital; otherwise I would not have—”
“You have a photographic memory! You do not forget!”
“I don’t get it. You never complained before. Why the hell are you whining about all this now?”
Never before had he used such language with me, never before had his eyes burned with such anger at me. I was afraid, for myself and my daughter. “Xandi, come to Mama.”
He let her go, stepped into his office, and slammed the door shut.
The Phở Ga I had prepared for dinner was cold now. Not that either of us had any appetite left. When he returned, instead of appearing calmer, it seemed that his anger had only become more inflamed.
“You have no idea! The things I’ve had to—ugh!” He slammed his hand on the door so hard, Xandi began to cry.
“Wait in your room, baby. Okay?” She nodded and, staring at her father with eyes as big as a cow’s, stepped around him and shut herself in.
I pointed a finger at him. “See what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done? I come home and you’ve become a person I don’t even know.”
“That took four years to happen. You were too busy to notice!”
Peter almost slammed his hand on the wall but looked over to Xandi’s room and stopped. He pulled his lips taut. “I’m doing my best to be a good father, a good provider. Just what do you want?”
“How about a good husband?”
Letting out a frustrated grunt, he clenched his fist. I drew back, but he was not going to hit me. I think I hurt him with that last remark, but I was too angry to care about his feelings. “Peter, I’m only going to ask you this once, because I expect only the truth. Your daughter deserves that. I deserve it.”
“For heaven’s sake, what?”
The words were so simple, yet so difficult to utter. But there was no turning back. I had to ask. “Are you having an affair?”
His upper lip twitched, as did the corner of his left eye. His eyes were red, but there would be no tears. And if there were, what would they indicate?
“Are you?”
Peter marched right up to me and glared down into my eyes. A single teardrop drew a moist line down his face. “No.”
And with that, he walked out the door and shut it quietly.
Central Park West, New York: March 3, 1991
Looking back on the past six years, I am amazed at how so much has changed and yet how much has remained the same. Peter came home the next morning after that one huge fight in my last entry in 1985. Tearfully, we both came to what he called a cease-fire.
He pleaded with me to trust him, promised he had never been unfaithful. I wanted so much to believe him. But how could I know if he was telling me the truth when he continued with the secretive behavior?
To this day, he still goes to those classified business meetings. I came to the realization that my choices were clear. I could 1) continue to suspect he was having an affair and work toward proving him a liar; 2) take his word that he cannot tell me about these meetings for our own protection; or 3) divorce him and, for the second time in my life, start anew.
Since there was no way to know for sure without destroying my marriage, I prayed. The Holy Spirit brought a word to me from the Gospel of John, when doubting Thomas finally believed it was the risen Christ because he had seen and touched His wounded hands and side. And Jesus said: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”
I had seen visions in the past, like the boy and his father trapped in the burning house in Cholon. I believed the vision was true, and because I acted in obedience, I was able to save their lives. I took this verse as another sign. Believe what you know in your heart, even though you don’t have visible evidence.
The peace that filled my heart was enough to make me stop questioning my husband. I entrusted this matter to divine wisdom and justice. From that day on, we have lived in harmony. Not perfect harmony, for it still pained me that the Peter Carrick with whom I first fell in love had never quite returned to me emotionally.
We have since moved up to a vast apartment overlooking Central Park. Peter’s career and fame have grown enough to make this economically possible.
I must confess to enjoying the benefits of being married to a celebrity. Aside from that part of Peter’s life we will never share, and the distance that has grown between us, I am grateful for my life.
Xandi is ten years old now, and such a smart girl. I see a lot of Peter in her—his intense manner, that indomitable spirit, with a hint of self-righteousness. She has taken an interest in photography, but Peter is very cautious about it.
For a girl of her age, she’s very insightful, oftentimes pointing out things that both her father and I may have overlooked. She’s our official finder of missing keys and eyeglasses. Somehow, for no apparent reason, she knows where to find them.
Xandi’s so pretty, but she has no idea that one day boys will all want to date her. Right now, she plays with insects and scrapes her knees with all the boys who treat her just like one of them. I thank God every day that she does not have to grow up in a country torn apart by war.
Peter left today on another of his business trips. There have not been many for the past two years—at the most, twice a year. After putting Xandi to bed tonight, while I was watching a rerun of China Beach, a news flash came across the screen.
The show was interrupted to report a plane crash in Colorado Springs killing all twenty-five passengers. Right away, I thought of Peter. Lord, please don’t let it be his flight. When I found out that United Airlines flight 585 originated in Peoria, Illinois, I fell on my knees and thanked God. I realized then, f
or that torturous half a minute, just how much a part of me my husband was.
I stepped into his office, where his awards, trophies, and old camera from the war were displayed. There, the empty chair by his desk caused me to shudder.
Is this what it would be like walking into this room if he died?
No.
He’s alive, and well. He will come back to me.
I rested my hand on his antiquated camera and shut my eyes. “Peter, where are you?”
While I stood there, something happened within my mind’s eye.
Peter as an older man sits curled up on the hard floor of a prison cell that can only be unlocked from the inside. Hideous creatures surround him, taunting, accusing, and tormenting him. Demons, I think. I want so much to go to him, but I cannot move.
Then a beautiful young woman appears—she reminds me a bit of myself, when I was that age, though she is not pure Vietnamese. Might this be a vision of the future, and the young woman, Xandra? But whenever she approaches the cell, Peter shrinks away, as if she means to harm him.
But she does not seem that way at all. In fact, she holds in her hand a key. But Peter does not see it.
“She has the key. Let her free you!” I shout, but not a sound comes out of my mouth.
When she approaches again, offering him the key, he cringes, covers his face, and backs deeper into the utter darkness of his cell.
Instantly, the entire vision vanished. I was filled with compassion, even a bit of pity for my husband. His secretive behavior, his nightmares that he refuses ever to speak about: they torment him.
From the day he brought me my brother’s cross, and with it the news of his death, I have always felt that he was withholding something from me. If I am to be consistent with my faith in him, I should believe he is doing this to protect me.
Ironically, he has a photographic memory. After all he’s seen as a war photographer, I can only wonder what demons have entrapped him in this prison of his soul.
60
XANDRA CARRICK
I’m jolted awake by the sound of cows mooing outside. For a moment, the darkness disorients me. The crick in my neck from sleeping in a padded chair does little to help.
The lamp has burned out, so I pull open the blinds behind me. Moonlight splashes over the bed. It’s when Kyle stirs and groans that I remember where I am. He’s sitting up and holding his side.
“Xandra?”
I hold my watch up into the moonlight. It’s four forty-five. A rooster crows in the distance. “Morning.”
“Where are we?”
“A place called Lucky to Be Alive. Don’t try to get up just yet.”
“I’m fine, really.” He wraps the blanket over his shoulders and leans back against the headboard. From the tray on the nightstand he takes a buttermilk biscuit. Good, he’s got an appetite.
“Sorry, I finished the egg sandwich.”
“What is this place?”
“Mennonite Colony. Their doctor treated you. Can’t believe I fell asleep.”
Straining, he puts his hand on his wound and sucks in a sharp breath. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where do we go?”
“Give me a sec … head’s spinning.”
In the meantime, I pull out my cell phone. Risk or not, I have to call Dad. If he’s in danger, I’ve got to warn him.
“Don’t!” Kyle tries to get up, but the pain in his side stops him. “They’ll track you down within a tight radius of the nearest cell tower.”
“Don’t worry.” I get up and show him the phone. In bold letters, the screen displays: NO SERVICE. “I hate cellphones.”
“Good. Man, I’m burning up!” Judging by the heat from his forehead against my hand, it seems he’s got a temperature. There on the nightstand, next to the food and water, is the pouch of antibiotic medication Eli left.
“Okay, just relax. Take this; the doctor said it’d help.”
Kyle takes the pill and swallows it without question. He makes a better patient than expected. “How far off the freeway did you drive?”
“About twenty minutes. Nothing but open fields and farms out here. That Homeland Security impersonator got pulled over by the cops long before I exited.”
“Yeah, but if he’s got the resources I think he has, he’s probably out of their hands already. We’re still in danger.”
“Can’t you get help from the FBI?”
“Yeah, right.” He offers me a biscuit, but I decline. “I don’t know who I can trust now. This whole thing’s out of control.”
“I’ll say.” Out the window, a bovine sea of white and black flows by. The sun hasn’t yet peaked over the horizon, but a young man in dungarees and a thick wool sweater, very alert and very awake, urges the cattle on. “I could never live on a farm.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“Hello? I’m here.”
“For at least a year or two. You’d be surprised how it grows on you.”
“Have you?”
“Till I went to college, yeah.” He pours some water from the white-and-blue ceramic pitcher into his cup and takes a sip, then squints in pain. “Okay, priorities.”
“First thing is to contact my father. He’s probably worried sick.”
“But we need to get to Hank Jennings before it’s too late. I’m pretty sure he’s in danger too.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Sometimes, when a pattern reveals itself, you smack yourself for not seeing it earlier. It was under my nose all these years, but I didn’t see it until that guy tried to kill you.”
“What pattern?”
“Echo Company. Over the past four years, just about everyone who served in Echo Company has died, whether by natural causes or in some kind of accident. I’ve been watching this for a long time. Last December, two of them died in the same month.”
“Last I checked, Jennings was still alive.”
“Last you checked?”
“At least he sounded that way on his answering machine.”
He tries to sit up but stops abruptly and clenches his teeth. “Okay, besides Jennings, there’s only one other person from Echo Company who’s still alive.”
“And that is?”
“Senator Richard Colson.”
I gasp. “I knew he fought in Vietnam, but he was in Echo Company too?” Dad never mentioned him, even now as Colson’s running for president. “You don’t think there might be an assassination attempt?”
“Every time I try to mention these potential connections and their implications, my supervisor dismisses it. So I’ve worked on this case entirely on my own time—in fact, when I met you, I was on paid leave. But they all think I’m paranoid, so forget any help from them.”
“Dad was an embedded photographer with Echo Company. We’ve got to warn him.” On my feet, I straighten out my clothes and ignore the fact that a shower would be in order right about now. “Can I use your phone?”
“Listen, Xandra. We can’t—”
“Fine. I’ll ask Jake, his works.”
Now Kyle is on his feet, taking excruciating steps toward me as I pace on the rug. “If you call your father—”
“I can use a landline … at a gas station.”
“No, that’s too—”
“I saw one by the freeway. There’s got to be—”
“All right, Xandra. Stop!” He grabs my shoulders.
But I pull free violently. “I am not going to sit around while that creep goes after my father!”
“Slow down for a moment, okay?” He reaches for his shirt. But it’s been replaced with a new one Jake left him, as his own was ruined by the gunshot and blood. The mere act of buttoning it is painful for him. He grimaces. “You’re working yourself up.”
I didn’t realize how frantic I’d gotten until I stopped and noticed my chest rising and falling, my heart pounding in my ears. “I’m fine … I’m fine.” With my hand up deflecting any possible approach, I catch
my breath and turn away from him. The cows have all gathered outside the doors of a tall barn. They’re entering now in a steady stream.
“Take a deep breath. Good. Now, let’s think this through.”
“Okay.” I turn around. I can’t stand to see him struggling with the shirt, so I go over and help him. “All right. Based on your experience, what do you think we should do?” My eyes are fixed on his as I button his shirt. He’s got to have some answers, a plan, a tiny reassurance that it’s going to be all right. As he speaks, my fingers inadvertently wander into the groove between his pectorals. His skin is smooth, save for the subtle patch of hair that …“I’m sorry, I wasn’t …”
“It’s quite all right.”
“I didn’t mean anything.”
“’Course not.”
Quickly refocusing, I finish buttoning his shirt and step away. My instincts and burning ears tell me to look away. But I’m drawn to his eyes. They’re so intense as the light from the oil lamp strikes his brow, casting a profound shadow over them. “You were saying?”
“We’ll get some prepaid cell phones and calling cards. Can’t contact your father by any traceable means. They’ll be monitoring.”
“They? You think someone in the government has been killing those vets?”
“I’m almost certain of it.”
“But why?”
“The answer to that might just be our salvation. Those visions of yours have gotten us this far, but they’ve also put us in danger. Whatever this is about, someone really doesn’t want you to learn the truth.”
“Jake read me a verse from the Bible. ‘The truth shall set you free.’”
“Who’s Jake?”
The answer comes in a light rapping on the door. “Hello? I heard talking. Everything okay?”
I open the door and let Jake in. “You’re an early bird, Pastor.” He steps in and sees Kyle standing with one hand resting on the edge of the headboard. “Glad to see you up and running, Agent Matthews.” He hands him his gun and wallet. “I’m Pastor Jacob Rittenhouse.”
Kyle reaches to shake his hand. “I want to thank you for …” He places a hand over his wound.
Darkroom Page 19
