“None.”
“Really? I’m the first?”
“You’re no psychic.”
“How exactly has Uncle Ray’s wisdom guided you then?”
“It’s just thinking outside the box. I took this with me to the Academy where Professor Blake Danielson refined my thinking. Believe it or not, the way I approach my cases, as well as my choice to believe in your abilities, has its roots in mathematical concepts.”
This turns my head and causes me to stop massaging his neck. “Mathematical concepts?”
“Are you familiar with decision theory?”
“I studied it in college. Briefly.” He can tell I’m lying.
“All right, how about probability theory?”
“Something about finding patterns in rolling dice?”
“Oh, and finally, there’s Pascal’s Wager.”
I sit up, galvanized, because this is one I actually remember from high school. “If reason can’t be relied upon, it’s a better bet to believe in God than not to.”
“I’m not saying that every paranormal event I encounter is about God. But I don’t automatically dismiss it as nonsense either. Based on the events that brought us together, and the flawless accuracy of your visions, it seems the better bet to believe your abilities are real than not to.”
“Even if you can’t explain them rationally.”
“Right.”
Though it’s a bit of a stretch, I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For believing me.” I put my hand in his. “And coming for me.”
70
We’re pulling up to a secluded property, where a dirt road stretches out for at least a quarter of a mile before we see anything that resembles a house. At the top of a hill, tall palms glower down upon the sun-scorched grass, most of which is golden, save for the lawn areas surrounding Jennings’s ranch house.
Dusty clouds rise up behind the car, and tiny stones grind under the wheels as we arrive. Judging by the cobwebs in the wheel wells of the white Dodge Ram parked on the side of the house, I’d guess old Hank hasn’t driven it in years.
Toward the back of the property, a black horse grazing in a pen lifts its head and stares at us with ears perked. After a while it blows, shakes its mane, and resumes grazing.
“It’s quiet out here.” A cool breeze runs through my hair, tickles my neck, and makes me shudder. “Bit too quiet.”
“I like it that way.” He gives me a peculiar look and pats the backpack I’ve brought with me. “What’s that for?”
“The Graflex. Just in case. You never know.”
We approach the porch, and before he knocks on the screen door’s frame, a loud squawk from directly above makes me jump. “Holy—! What in the world?” Kyle just chuckles and points up. Perched on the rain gutter is a huge black bird. “That’s one honkin’ crow.”
“Raven. You city chicks don’t know jack.”
“Quoth the farmboy, ‘Nevermore.’”
“What?”
“Who doesn’t know jack? Or in this case, Edgar.”
“You’re weird.” The stupid raven doesn’t budge even when Kyle waves his hand to shoo it away. Once again, he knocks on the flimsy door frame.
No response.
He knocks again. “Hello? Mr. Jennings?”
But still there is no answer. The raven caws once again and this time spreads its wings—which, up close, are surprisingly large—and flies away. One of its black feathers alights on the shoulder strap of my backpack.
“Not going to break down the door, are you?”
He opens the screen door and tries the doorknob. To my surprise, the door is unlocked. He steps inside and says, “You watch too much TV.”
Immediately, a stench of something like months-old food you discover in the back of the refrigerator wages an olfactory assault. Trash bags, newspapers, garbage, and magazines cover the floor like a carpet.
“Anyone home?”
“Mr. Jennings?”
We’ve knocked on and opened every door, but there’s no sign of him. With great care, I wade through the trash and follow Kyle into a den on the second floor.
After a quick look, Kyle steps out. “I’ll check the bedrooms.”
Something on the far side of the room catches my eye. In a glass display case on the wall are war medals. Next to them, old sepia-tone pictures of young soldiers.
He’s got a Purple Heart and a letter from the White House in a nice frame. There’s something here, I sense it. But not in the natural realm. So I unzip my backpack and snap off two pictures with the Graflex.
The medals, the framed pictures, and then …
A low-pitched rumbling like thunder fills my ears. Everything around me fades into shadows. Extremities go cold and tingly. Here we go. The images from that one photo, with the soldiers standing in front of a jeep in the rice fields of Vietnam, float up from the frame.
Before I realize what’s happened, I’m transported into another realm. Everything exists in monochrome, sepia tones. Different images, like movie clips flash before me. Only it’s real.
Machine-gun rapid fire, mortar shells, white hospital beds, Jennings’s wife who has left with their baby boy in her arms.
Now it’s Hank Jennings. His hair white, his blue eyes faded and wide open, not blinking. All around the back of his head, a crown of dry hay. A single ribbon of sunlight cuts through the musty air.
Because I’ve experienced it before, I know what’s happening. And though I can’t break out of this state, I call out, in case Kyle can hear me.
“I know where he is!”
Then a heartbeat.
Pounding, pounding, pounding. It stops, and for some reason, so does my own breathing. I can’t adequately describe this sensation—it’s cold, it’s lonely, it’s dark.
It’s death.
71
“He’s in the stable, Kyle!” Black and golden curtains of light fall, tearing the vision away. I’m left gripping the Graflex so hard the loose parts are rattling.
“What was that?” Kyle steps into the den, concern scrawled across his face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just had another vision. He’s in the stable.” My head is spinning, but I have enough presence of mind to start for the door. But along the way, I trip. My knee hits the floor, and I let out a pained grunt.
Kyle stops, turns back, and as he stoops to help me up, grits his teeth and strains. His wound might be reopening.
I wave him off. “Don’t worry about me, just hurry. I’ll catch up.” He puts his hands around my waist anyway and pulls me to my feet.
A minute later, we’re in the stable. It takes a few seconds before my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. Still out in the pen, the horse whinnies and grunts and paces around in large circles as we call out to Jennings. Except for the hay, none of this looks like my vision.
Rubbing his chin, Kyle eyes the entire stable in a slow three-sixty. “You sure?”
“I know what I saw.”
“Can you give me some details? Otherwise, I’ll just grab that pitchfork and start—”
A sharp gasp whisks through my lips. “There!”
“What?” He has no idea what I mean because I’m not pointing. To him, I’m merely staring into the air.
Just a few steps ahead, through a small crack in the splintery boards that make up the wall, a lone strip of sunlight stretches down at an acute angle. Flecks of dust fashion it into a golden laser beam pointing to a spot in the hay.
My breath is shallow, tremulous. Two false starts, and I realize what I’ll find if I run over and start digging in the hay. “Under there, Kyle.” Now I point. “He’s there.”
“All right, stay here.” His steps are padded by a thick carpet of sawdust. Slowly, Kyle kneels by the pinpoint of light and reaches into the hay.
I’m terrified. That same sense of death fills my heart like India ink. Once again the images flash before me. I’ve st
ill got the Graflex strapped around my neck. It feels like a noose.
Kyle pulls up a fistful of hay and tosses it aside. “I don’t see anything …” Another bunch. “Here!”
From beneath the pile of hay, a bony hand claws blindly. Grabs at Kyle’s arm. Kyle swears and pulls the old man up, props him against the wall. “Hank Jennings?”
But the old soldier clutches at his own chest, his throat. Like an extradited fish, his mouth gapes open then shuts. His eyes roll back. It takes all my willpower to go over to him.
“Hang on, Mr. Jennings. I’ll call for help.”
“Xandra, don’t,” Kyle calls out.
“We can’t just let him die!”
Jennings reaches out and touches my arm before I can reach for my cell phone. His fingers dig into my sleeve and then go slack. With eyes and mouth still wide open, he slumps back against the wall. Not so much as a breath.
“Oh no. Come on, don’t—!” Kyle starts performing CPR, but it’s no use. After a few minutes it’s clear that Jennings is gone. What good are these visions if I’m always too late? But Kyle continues to try to revive him.
“Kyle …”
“No, wait.” His efforts grow more desperate. “Come on, Hank, come on!”
“Kyle, please. It’s too late.”
“You don’t understand. We need him. I need him. He’s got the answers …” Eventually Kyle sees the futility of his efforts. He stops and wipes his brow. Then he lets out a grunt and punches the thin plywood wall repeatedly, snarling in frustration.
For the first time, I perceive despair in his eyes. Had I not been so stubborn, so prideful, we might have come here first, arrived in time to prevent this, and found answers that could bring us closer to uncovering the truth.
“He was the last of Echo Company.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach over and touch his hand. I sense his pain. He’s wondering if he’ll ever find his uncle’s killers. “What about Colson?”
“Didn’t you hear? He won the election by a landslide.”
“That’s great. Why don’t we—”
“If we try to contact him or get anywhere near him, we’ll be arrested. Every law-enforcement agency is looking for us. It’s too late.”
We seemed to have passed “too late” sometime ago. I’m so tired of this, the stress, the anxiety, I almost want to give up. But I can’t.
“I can’t believe we can’t get any help. It’s not just us, not just my father. There could be an assassination attempt on Colson!”
“Don’t worry about him, he’s got the entire Secret Service and Homeland Security. Right now our priority is staying alive, under the radar.”
“My father might have some information.” Though what he knows is quite different from what he’s willing to discuss. It’s all I can offer, and it’s not enough to express my regret.
Kyle gently sets the old man down in the hay. “We’ve stumbled upon something serious enough that someone’s willing to kill for it, three decades after the fact. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“What’s the next step?”
“Hank’s got to have a gun somewhere in his house. Let’s go.”
It seems wrong somehow to just leave Jennings’s body there. But Kyle’s right. There’s likely a high price on our heads now. We can’t risk getting caught. As we return to the house, I wonder aloud, “How did he kill Jennings?”
“No blood, visible wounds. Looked like he was having a seizure or asphyxiating. I’m sure the ME will deem it a natural death.”
“Natural?”
“Like the others.”
In the den once again, a cold drop of perspiration rolls down the middle of my back. Kyle rifles through every drawer, every cabinet. There’s that tingling sensation in my extremities. It’s about to happen again.
From the back of a desk drawer he pulls out a handgun, holds it up to the light, and checks it. “That’s better.”
I, however, am preoccupied with the sensations of a forthcoming vision. So I quickly pick up the Graflex and start snapping off pictures of anything and everything that might possibly be relevant to our search for answers.
As I take a picture of the gun, it happens. Kyle’s voice fades into a wash of white noise. The spinning in my head isn’t so disorienting this time. And the rush of wind doesn’t make me tense up as much. Instead of simply seeing images now, I’m now standing in them.
I’m in a carpeted hallway with dim sconce lights on the walls that are lined with textured wallpaper and fleur de lis accents and borders. The carpet smells like cigarette smoke. The hallway is cavernous and silent.
Save for the sound of murmurs behind closed doors.
It’s coming from the one at the end of the hall. In an instant, without opening the door, I’m in the room. The murmurs are now clear as glass. Someone’s shouting in the inner room. I step into the foyer and let out a terrified cry.
On the ground, a body lies in an expanding pool of blood by my feet. I don’t know who it is, and yet it feels like I do.
A shout comes from the next room, “No!” It’s a familiar voice, so I rush over to see. Again, no need to open the door to the suite; I’m already in. I blink repeatedly, certain that my eyes are deceiving me.
But they’re not.
Gripped by shock and confusion, I struggle to suck in a breath.
This can’t be!
Standing in the middle of the room is a woman—it’s me—pointing a gun at … How could it be me? It doesn’t make sense! I’m pointing a gun at him!
Then I pull the trigger.
72
“Come on, Xandra. Snap out of it!”
The entire hotel room dissolves around me.
Kyle shakes me out of my trance, his face lit with concern. I’ve not been breathing, though in my head I’ve been screaming. A deep, wheezing gasp—hyperventilation.
“No! No, no, no!” I’m shaking my head so hard, involuntarily tempting whiplash.
“What did you see?”
“It’s me! I’m the one who’s going to kill him!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw it all, the body, the blood, the gun. The gun! I was pointing the gun right at him. I pulled the trigger!”
Kyle’s grip loosens. He backs away. From the look on his face, you’d think that I’d suddenly been replaced with a stranger. “Who did you—who are you going to kill?”
“And someone else was dead, on the floor. I couldn’t see who it was.” I reach up and cling to his jacket. “I think it was someone I care about—oh God, why would I do that?”
“Who did you shoot?”
“Don’t you get it? I’m the assassin. I’m going to kill Richard Colson!” I expect him to say something to make sense of it all, but he’s just as confused.
“Are you sure?”
“My visions haven’t been wrong yet.” Now comes the dizziness. My head feels as though it’s filled with helium. My eyelids flutter. Even though I catch a glimpse of the lightbulb glaring down from the ceiling, everything begins to dim. “I’m going to do it, that’s what it means. I’m going to hold him at gunpoint. I’m going to pull the trigger. I’m going to …”
73
KYLE MATTHEWS
“Xandra!” She’s barely conscious. I’m not sure why this particular vision has affected her like this. But there’s no time to waste. With her arm slung over my shoulder, and through the excruciating pain of my GSW about to tear open, I walk her to the car and lay her down in the backseat where she finally drifts off.
As I speed down the freeway, my cell phone rings. Only one of two people could be calling. Leaning my head over, I activate the Bluetooth by clicking it against my shoulder.
It’s Glen. “You stepped into a pile of it, Kyle. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?”
“An inkling. What’s our status?”
“My guys have arranged everything. Peter Carrick’s agreed to meet you.”
“Good.”
“No, wait. It’s worse than you imagined.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You always said conspiracies are always found where you never expect, right? Well, I took that principle and looked exactly where I would never think of looking.”
“And?”
“You’re not going to like this.”
“I already don’t.”
“It’s your boss.”
“Maguire? She’s sending someone to bring me back in, I know.”
“You don’t get it! She’s in on it!” In a brief moment, that statement goes from making no sense to complete sense. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, she totally doesn’t want you sticking your nose in it.”
It takes a moment to sink in. The signs were all there: her tension at the mere mention of my investigations into the Echo Company murders, the adamant insistence that they weren’t connected. “Do you have any proof?”
“It’s all here on my flash drive. Voice mails, emails, memos.”
“Did you make backups?”
“What are you, my mother? I just got this stuff today and rushed home to call you.”
“Fine. But you need to make multiple copies and—”
“Hold on, someone’s at the door.”
“Glen, wait!” Before I can say another word, he’s put the receiver down. In the background, his door opens. A low murmuring of dialogue exchanges.
The door slams shut.
He lets out a cry, but it’s cut off quickly. “Glen!”
A horrible gurgling. Someone’s just slit his throat.
Immediately I disconnect the call. But it’s too late. They’ll be able to track me down. Sure enough, my phone rings. It’s Glen’s number. I roll down the window and toss the phone out into the freeway.
Slamming my hand on the steering wheel, I swear silently, cursing myself. I shouldn’t have gotten him involved. He didn’t deserve this!
More than ever, I’ve got to find the person or people responsible. I owe it to Uncle Ray and, now, Glen.
Carrick’s our last hope.
Darkroom Page 23
