“But thank you.” I give Jake’s hand a squeeze, discreetly.
“We’ve got a long day tomorrow, Xandra. Lots to do.” Kyle starts back to the rectory. “We should get an early start.”
“Are you up to it?” Jake asks him.
“I’m just fine, thanks.”
“Because if you’re feeling too weak, you can stay and rest up as long as you—”
“I said I’m fine!”
I turn to Kyle and pat his chest, the way I’d pat Oscar, our old Labrador, whenever he’d bark aggressively at visitors to the house. “Hey, take it easy.”
Kyle turns and walks back into the rectory. “Early start in the morning. That’s when we’ll be leaving, Pastor.”
Oh, we will? I’m tempted to make a snappy comeback and say something to the effect of having to consult with me before trying to dictate my schedule. But he’s right. We’ve lost precious time and must get going.
Jake looks at me. “What’s gotten into him?”
“Never mind him. Thank you so much for helping us with the transponder.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“There’s one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“Eli wants to speak with you.”
64
Kyle had hoped to avoid seeing people when we left, but in the end everyone came out to say good-bye. Even Eli. Kyle thanked him for saving his life. Eli even came to me and said in a conciliatory voice, “You’re a good girl. Be careful out there. Don’t let the darkness overtake you.”
Whatever had been troubling Kyle last night didn’t seem like much of an issue this morning. He shook hands and patted backs with Jake like a good sport.
When it was time for me to bid Jake farewell, I felt my face heat up. We shook hands, but soon thought it silly and hugged instead. “You’re a godsend, Jake. I can’t believe how lucky we were to meet you.”
“Not luck. Everything’s connected, remember.”
“Of course.”
“See you soon, Xandra.”
Just as I was about to get into the car, Rebecca came running. She held a rag doll up to my face. “Xandi, this is Dolly.”
“Hello, Dolly.”
“I told her she needs to go with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh huh.” She puts Dolly in my hands. “Whenever I get scared at night, I just hold her, and we pray together.”
“Well, thank you Becky. I’ll take good care of her.”
“And remember to spin a little, every day.” With a wide grin, sans front teeth, she curtseys.
After winding through manifold unnamed roads some twenty miles from the colony, the nearest 7-Eleven stands like an oasis. No cell phones on our persons: they were turned off long ago and buried in the barn where the morning cows went to get milked. It’s all part of the plan.
We’re discreet, Kyle in sunglasses and baseball cap courtesy of Pastor Jake, and I hiding in the restroom while he makes his purchases. I’ll confess, his confidence and skill are as attractive as his chiseled features.
Three minutes later we’re driving into Nowheresville with breakfast burritos, coffee, and a white, green, and red plastic bag full of prepaid cell phones and calling cards.
I reach for a bacon-and-cheese burrito and cup of coffee, the aroma of which wafts up into my nose and makes my mouth water. “How much did all that cost?”
“Most of my cash. We’ll have to be careful how we spend from now on.”
“My credit cards are maxed, and I’ve got less than a hundred dollars on my debit card, not that I can use it anyway.” Not with my every financial transaction being tracked.
It’s the first cup of coffee I’ve had in what feels like years. It might as well be a magical elixir, judging by the way my entire body awakens to the mere scent of it. While I drink and nibble on my breakfast, Kyle makes a call on one of the new phones. All the technical jargon he employs discourages me from eavesdropping, so I just tune him out for the duration of the call.
“Thanks, Glen, I owe you.” Kyle ends the call and hands me the cell phone. “Communications are set.”
“Great. Who’s Glen?”
“An IT-Telecom engineer back at the field office. I’ve worked with him for years. He’s helped me on more cases than I’d like to remember, or admit.”
“How is he going to help us?”
“By getting a prepaid cell phone, calling cards, and dialing instructions to your father so we can reduce the chances of detection when we communicate.”
“Isn’t your friend in Virginia?”
“One of the advantages of knowing a guy who spends his whole life on the internet: he’s got friends all over the world.”
“You think his Facebook buddies are reliable?”
“Facebook?”
I let out a frustrated grunt. “You know what I mean.”
“If Glen says his friend will do it …” But Kyle doesn’t finish his sentence, and the half he did speak lacked conviction. “It’ll happen.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because if he lets me down, he’s a dead man.”
I roll my eyes. “Lovely.”
He shrugs, and after a few minutes of neither of us speaking, he turns on the radio. A sleazy talk-show host is yelling.
“What do you expect? I’m telling you, this Carrick chick is guilty as sin! She’s probably doing that FBI agent and running off to South America with a boatload of embezzled money. But hey! I say, if you can get away with it, rock on! Run, baby. Run like the wind!”
“That’s not particularly helpful.” I smack the dial and shut off the radio.
“Hey, I was listening to that.” Kyle turns it back on.
“Try a less trashy station.”
Through the dark lenses of his shades, he glares at me and then turns the dial. This time he stops on NPR. The announcer goes on to speak about the elections.
“… and today, on the eve of the election, Independent presidential candidate Richard Colson has the analysts on the edge of their seats. Most predict that he will win.”
“At least there’s some good news there.”
Kyle scoffs. “You can’t be serious. Colson?”
“Yeah. He’s got my vote. What about you?”
“Not.”
“Oh let me guess, you’re a Republican.”
“What if I were?”
“Are you kidding? Haven’t you had enough of the current regime?”
“He isn’t on the ticket. And I don’t trust Colson. Something about him.”
“It’s not in your nature to trust, is it? Anyway, Colson reminds me of my father.”
With a smirk Kyle says, “Oh so that’s it. He reminds you of Daddy?”
“Quiet, you.” Disarmed by his attempt at ribbing me, I jab him with my elbow. At which he lets out a hissing groan.
“Ow! Watch it!” It was his wound.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, sure.”
We’ve kept clear of the freeway and taken many a back road. After forty-five minutes of driving, we arrive at Larry’s Preowned Cars. By some strange maneuvering, Kyle has persuaded Larry to lend us a car. I use the terms “persuade” and “lend” in their broadest sense.
“So you’ll take this Camry that Larry has so graciously loaned us, and I’ll take Srinivasu’s limo,” Kyle says, holding the door open for me. I slide into the driver’s seat and adjust the seat.
“Are we going to split up?”
“No. We’re going to drive together to a lake five miles from here and sink Sri’s car. From there, we’ll take the Camry. And go straight to Hank Jennings—”
“No. I told you, we go to my father first.”
“He’s in Del Mar, Xandra. Alpine’s the opposite way. If there’s any chance of stopping these people, we’re going to have to find out if anyone unusual has contacted Jennings.”
“I will not put a stranger before my family.”
We’re raising our voices
now. Kyle sees that and comes to the window, leans on it, and calms himself. In a patronizing tone that irritates me to no end, he says: “I don’t think you understand.”
“Don’t I?”
“This conspiracy goes beyond any one government agency. I’ve put everything on the line to expose it.”
My jaw falls open. “So you want me to put my father on the line for one of your cases! I should have known. That’s all that matters, your investigation. You betrayed me in New York, and you’re doing it again now!”
“Look, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“But it did!”
“How many times do I need to apologize for that? I’ll say it again if it makes you feel better: I’m sorry, all right? But right now—”
“This is not just some pet case of yours, Kyle! It’s my father’s life. It’s my life!”
He lets out a long breath and speaks slowly, as if by doing so, I will understand better. “You really don’t understand, Xandra. The first—”
“Save it!” Furious, I shift the car into drive.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“If you’d been paying any attention, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Final straw. “No, you don’t know!” Before he can say another word, I kick the accelerator and speed off.
65
KYLE MATTHEWS
Standing in the dust cloud Xandra kicked up as she sped away, I’m trying to comprehend how she could act so recklessly. Of course her father is her priority, but allowing emotions to determine one’s course of action is the surest way to failure.
Peter Carrick may very well become a target. And we do need to arrange a meeting with him, as he could provide more information. But it all needs to be done under the radar.
Speaking with Hank Jennings is the first thing we must do, because he’s the next probable target. And he’s probably the best bet for clues as to the killer’s identity.
From Xandra’s point of view, though, I’m unreasonably consumed with solving this case. What she doesn’t know is that it’s not just a professional obsession.
In 1988, Lieutenant Raymond O’Neil was the second Vietnam veteran from Echo Company to die prematurely. Local authorities officially filed his death as a suicide brought on by posttraumatic stress disorder, but I knew better. Raymond O’Neil was my uncle.
My father passed away when I was about three years old, so Uncle Ray, Momma’s older brother, was the father figure in my life. Yes, he had been treated for PTSD. But it was his faith and the loving support of his family and friends that helped him overcome the nightmares and relapses.
He and I were close enough for me to know to an absolute certainty that he would never have killed himself. I’d sooner believe it if he were to be struck by lightning three times in a row, hit by a truck, then mauled by a polar bear. Not only was suicide against his beliefs, he just had too much joy and gratitude at that point in his life.
“I’ve found my peace and forgiveness in Jesus,” he’d tell me. “I’m a new creation. The old is gone and the new has come.”
I was only twelve when they came to his house and wheeled his body away under a white sheet. I can remember the shock on Momma’s face, her hand holding back a scream of terror. I ran over shouting, “Uncle Ray, Uncle Ray!”
For weeks, Momma kept telling me to be at peace. He was with the Lord now, and all things work for the good of those who love God, etcetera, etcetera. But I always knew there was something suspicious about his death. And that is what drove me to a degree in law-enforcement investigation, then directly to the FBI Academy.
In my nine years of service I’ve been honored three times for investigative excellence by the Bureau. But none of that means a thing to me. Not while Uncle Ray’s killer—or killers—continues to go unchecked.
So, while I’m not about to admit it to her just yet, Xandra is not the only one taking this personally.
I enter the car, slam the door shut, and start the ignition. Why does she have to complicate things? Why now, when we’re so close to the key that will lead me to the case that has haunted me for twenty years? The voice of that twelve-year-old boy whose uncle, the closest thing he ever had to a father, was murdered, cries out for justice. Forget Xandra, follow your head, not your heart.
Another voice urges me to go after her. It’s the voice of that part of me that longs to stop hunting and find peace with the woman who, despite her emotionalism, makes me feel whole. She might very well be walking into the lions’ den.
Pulling up to the intersection, the proverbial fork in the road confronts me like Cerberus at the gates of Hades. To the east, Jennings’s house. To the west, Peter Carrick’s.
66
XANDRA CARRICK
I really ought not to be here like this. But Dad has not answered any of my calls on his cell, nor in his house. There are no cars parked along the long road leading to his house on the hill, so I can assume that he has no visitors. But even as I pull up into the fountain rotary, a sense of dread courses through my blood.
This place has never truly been home. Mom and Dad moved out here during my first semester at Princeton. And during the few holidays that brought me back, I felt like a guest, even though they had set up a guest room for my exclusive use.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s a splendid house. High vaulted ceilings, chandeliers that sparkle with refracted rainbows, rococo crown molding that frames every room and door. The photographic art that adorns the walls tells a story. This house is Dad’s personal gallery.
The baby grand Steinway—which many a pianist had played, accompanying me for rehearsals and recitals at home—brings nothing but emptiness, disillusionment. Still, Mom insisted on bringing it all the way from New York.
The security key code still lingers in my mind from the months I spent living with Dad last year. I punch the numbers into the keypad and open the door. The alarm beeps twice. It’s already been disarmed. “Dad?”
The lime alarm console LCD reads:
WATCHPOINT 14 DEN
He must be in his study with the window open to the coastal view he enjoys so much. “Dad?”
Bringing the Graflex back here reminds me of a salmon fighting all kinds of turbulent conditions to return to the spawning ground of its birth. As I step through the threshold and enter the wide open foyer, that inner rumbling alerts me. The tingling radiates from my heart to my hands and feet.
I reach into my backpack and take hold of the Graflex. Before I even take it out, several images flash into my mind.
An elderly Vietnamese man, on his knees, squinting in anticipation of something truly terrible.
Two Vietnamese girls, sisters—twelve and fourteen years of age—curled on a straw mat. Blood stains their torn white shirts. They’re shrieking, eyes wide with trauma.
This is not a full-on vision, as I’m still aware of my surroundings. But the images flash quick and clear.
I don’t want to see this, because I’m starting to recognize the dread I felt at the door. Quickly, I shake it off. Pull my hand from the backpack.
Again, I call out to Dad. My voice echoes through the marble-lined hallways. Please be home. I need to speak with you about these visions. A door opens upstairs. Any second now I expect he’ll show up, take me in his arms, and make sure I’m all right. I make my way up the winding staircase and turn toward the den.
More images assail my inner mind:
Corporal Hank Jennings.
A ditch with bodies. It’s Bình Sơn. The Mekong Delta!
There’s Dad, taking pictures with the Graflex!
My knees buckle. I grasp the balustrade. “Dad, where are you?” Though it cannot possibly be, it feels as though these images come from within my memory.
But if these visions persist, I think I’ll be ill. When they come in such rapid succession, the nausea is almost too much. Straining, I pull myself up.
The alarm system
beeps.
Which means another window or door has opened.
It’s not the front door, I can see from up here.
“Dad?” I whimper, not realizing until now how frightened I’ve grown. His den is just ahead. The door is open. God, please let him be there.
But he’s not. I gasp as I behold the sight. Papers strewn all over the floor, blowing in the wind of the open window. Desk drawers ripped out and overturned, their contents strewn all over the floor. Locked file cabinets pried open. Who’s been here? Why is the den the only room that seems to have been touched?
A casualty of this pillaging, an old photo of Dad with the soldiers of Echo Company in Vietnam lies on the floor, the glass shattered. I should get out, but I cannot help but examine it closely. While gazing carefully at each face in the black-and-white photo, I lift my hand and touch the frame.
Without warning, a vision grips my mind.
Dad!
Someone takes him at gunpoint and forces him into a car. It’s not a vision of the past. Dad’s hair is gray, and he’s wearing the jacket I bought him last month.
Suddenly, I’m falling. I catch hold of the back of a chair and brace myself. Breathe … don’t pass out! My entire body has gone pins and needles now. The images become more insistent. I almost feel like I’m being pushed into doing something. Dad’s safe. The panic room. Get out!
The next alarm system beep confirms my fears. I’m not alone! With labored steps, I stagger into Dad’s bedroom.
It’s untouched.
Letting out a strained grunt, I pull on the headboard of his king-size, four-poster bed and slide it away from the wall. There, built into the wall is a safe, the combination of which Dad insisted Mom and I memorize:
5–7–7–5
Their wedding anniversary.
Not the most secure passcode, but easy enough to remember when under duress. Out in the halls of this five-thousand-square-foot house, someone opens and closes a door. Hurry. My fingers slip, and the dial spins the wrong way.
“Come on!”
Again, I dial the combination.
Darkroom Page 21
