Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

74

  XANDRA CARRICK

  A gentle nudge wakes me. “We’re here.”

  I’m lying down in the backseat of the car. It’s dark outside. We’re in a parking lot with dim, jaundiced lights. Looks like a mall, with people walking back and forth.

  “What happened? Where are we?”

  “You fainted. Come on, let’s go.” Kyle takes my hand and pulls me up. I step outside, and a cold breeze sends a shiver through me. In reaction, I rub the back of my arms. Kyle removes his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. His warmth still lingers in the sleeves as I pull it around me.

  By the time we walk past the tour buses and into the lobby, I can tell by the choking cigarette fumes that the not-so-subtle “Welcome to Comanche” sign is for a casino.

  “I don’t want to go in there. All that smoke.”

  “We’ll just pass by, then take the elevators up to the hotel room.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  He takes my hand and starts walking. I’m jolted by the touch of his fingers. So warm and at the same time toughened like old leather. “We’re meeting your father.”

  “When did he contact you?”

  “He got the message to Glen before …” For a moment, his countenance darkens.

  “What is it?”

  “They killed him. We’re completely in the dark now.” Suddenly, he affects a smile, puts his hand around my waist, looks around. “It’s a surprise, honey. Happy anniversary!” He leans and whispers into my ear, “In case we’re being watched. Follow my lead.”

  Which, I suppose, is to impersonate a married couple, celebrating their—what, first anniversary? “I hate surprises, sweetie.” A forced grin.

  “Trust me, you’re going to love this. I got us the honeymoon suite.”

  A simulated smile and we’re off to walk through the throngs of people in the casino lobby and into an elevator. Shielding myself from the toxic nicotine fumes, I cover my nose and mouth. But it doesn’t help much.

  Kyle casts a furtive glance around, seems glad we’re alone, then presses the button for the fifteenth floor.

  For some odd reason, it’s moving from floor to floor really slowly.

  “You can take your hand off my waist now. No need to pretend in here.”

  “Surveillance cameras,” he whispers and nods to the black dome in the corner above us. I would guess that he’s enjoying this charade, but his tone is completely businesslike. “Keep up the act.”

  Act?

  “Fine.” Then for reasons I hope one day to fathom, I turn and grab the back of his head, pull him down toward me forcefully, and begin kissing him. Several times he tries to say something, but the best he can manage is, “Xan—wait—”

  What I’m trying to prove eludes me. Perhaps that I can be just as unemotional as he is. Or that he shouldn’t have to work so hard at pretending.

  After a few long seconds, our bodies relax. His arms are no longer stiff. I don’t have to hold him to my lips anymore.

  My backpack falls and hits the floor. The otherwise nauseating crack of vintage equipment doesn’t faze me in the least. I’m too busy getting lost in Kyle’s thawing embrace. Like a bridge, erected from both sides, we converge. At once, I sense the little boy in him that fought so hard to overcome loss and fear to become the man that he is. I’m sure he senses something similar flowing through me as well.

  “Kyle …”

  “Shh …” His fingertips glide over my face, touch my lips; then as he replaces them with his own lips, he runs those fingers through my hair, down the back of my neck. Pulls me into a deeper kiss.

  Blissful confusion.

  We separate slightly to breathe. Heavily. Hearts pounding to the point of exhaustion. Or relief. Or both. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I don’t know what … I was just—”

  “You think too much.” Those intense eyes, unyielding, so profound with unspoken pain, joy, all the things that I want desperately to know about him. He lets up and says, “You know what you need?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I cup his face in my hands and kiss him again.

  “You need to have some faith.”

  “Not what I had in mind.” This time when I kiss him, he kisses back with equal intensity. We grip into a tighter embrace.

  Whereas before, our tension was as opposing forces, we’re now pulling together against something else. Something so inevitable that it both frightens and excites me. He desires me. And I him. I think I always have. “What would be so wrong if—”

  The bell chimes, and the elevator door slides open. A geriatric couple stands before us like nocturnal frogs stunned by a flashlight. A white-haired granny in a gaudy warmup suit starts and puts her hand over her mouth. Gramps just grins and gawks, until his wife slaps the back of his head with her little pink, bling-studded clutch. “Harold!”

  “What? What?”

  “Excuse us,” Kyle says as he leads me by the hand down the hall. As the elevator doors close, Harold continues to smile stupidly.

  What just happened between us? Perhaps it’s all the stress, but all I can think of is Kyle pulling that key card out of his pocket, sliding it into the slot, and opening the door to the honey-moon suite.

  He does, with more haste than I expect. He slams the door shut, and we don’t even make it to the bedroom.

  “We’ve got an hour.”

  “Till?”

  “Your dad.”

  I’ve liberated myself of the jacket and simultaneously, as I lie back on the sofa, he’s on top of me. Gazing into my eyes. Never before has anyone looked at me this way. I can’t possibly allow this moment to slip.

  He kisses my forehead. “I never thought—”

  I silence him with a kiss. “Now who’s thinking too much?”

  A boyish grin stretches across his features. He slips his arm under my back and leans in close. My face against his. It’s as though we’ve been together for years. I trust him.

  Despite what happened in New York, I trust him. Because he’s trustworthy, though a bit dangerous. Transparent, though somewhat enigmatic. When I’m with him—and not just now, in the throes of passion—I feel secure.

  “You might not believe this,” I say, as I begin unbuttoning his shirt. “But I’ve never …”

  “I believe it.”

  I thump his shoulder. “Want me to get Harold’s wife and make her slap you with her bling-bling purse?”

  His shirt falls half open now. But I’m going to resist the temptation to feel his sinewy chest again. He’s got to make a move.

  And he does, but it takes me by surprise. Instead of raw animal passion, he touches my face tenderly. “I have no idea how this is going to end, Xandra. But from the moment I saw you, I knew … I mean, I knew that …”

  “What?”

  “I knew that you were a person I had to know better. Someone I could open up to.”

  “I thought you were going to say you knew I was a psycho.”

  “That, and that you really needed help.”

  “As in psycho.”

  “No.” He laughs, in spite of himself. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, you’re smart—”

  “I’ve got a cute tuckus. Don’t forget that.”

  “Yeah, and a weird sense of humor.”

  Right now, I’m wondering at what point he’s going to rip my clothes off. But something above and beyond my raging hormones rises to the surface. It’s almost frightening. Kyle isn’t simply physically attracted to me. It’s deeper than that.

  Still, I’m not letting this moment escape us. “Let’s talk later, okay?” I slip my hand into his shirt, caress the firm lines of his shoulder muscles, his chest, his back.

  Now he’s reaching for my buttons.

  One.

  Two. Keep going, don’t stop there.

  He doesn’t.

  Our eyes meet. There’s a mutual sense of recognition. It doesn’t take long before we both realize it. I take his hands. “Kyle, I’m sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t.”r />
  Shaking it out of his head, he blinks. “I’m the one who should apologize.” He gets up and starts buttoning his shirt. Again, a tender touch to my face, a kiss on my head.

  My head is clearing now. Catching my breath. All my adult life I’ve focused on—all right—hidden behind my work, my goals. I’ve found some guys attractive, but my one and only foray into the strongholds of romance ended badly. I’d concluded that relationships simply weren’t worth the trouble. Since then, I’ve never allowed myself the time to meet anyone, to date, or otherwise. Could it be that in the back of my mind, I sense that my days are numbered? And for that reason, I’m permitting myself to have passion, to be passionate? It’s intoxicating. It’s dangerous. “Look, just so you know, I’m not the kind of girl who just—”

  “Of course not. And I’ve just had so many so-called relationships that went bad because … well, let’s just say I promised myself I’d never do this again unless it was for keeps.”

  “Honorable.” A smirk twists my lips.

  He leans in close and takes my hand. “But when this is all over, I’ll give anything to spend time with you, get to know you. Under normal circumstances.”

  “Hello? It’s me, Xandra Carrick, psycho seer. I don’t do normal. Why would you want to know me?”

  “Because I … I really—oh, I stink at this!”

  He turns and stares into the kitchenette. Recomposed and sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, I lean against him like a cat. That I’m so comfortable confuses me. I can’t remember the last time a man made me feel this way. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  He takes my hand again. “All right, listen. You are the most beautiful, fascinating, weird, annoying—”

  “Hey!” I punch his shoulder.

  “I’ve never wanted to connect with anyone like I do with you. It’s deeper than physical. When you look at me, I feel like you’re looking into my soul.”

  “I haven’t had a vision about you yet.”

  He brushes my hair away from my face and kisses me. “I’d sure like to know if you see a future for us.”

  “I prefer living in the present.”

  “Carpe diem.” As he wraps his arms around me, I lean into his chest, relieved that our heads came out victorious over our hormones. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. I’m content knowing I’m not alone in this world. I sense it’s mutual. Just for this moment, when all the world is quiet—no visions, no one trying to kill us, no mysterious murders to connect—it’s sufficient.

  The exhaustion of the past couple of days weighs down my eyelids. Just for an hour, I’d like to disappear. Exist in another world where Kyle and I can be free. The truth shall set you free. “You know what would be nice, Kyle?”

  “Quitting the FBI. Going somewhere nice together.”

  “Venice.”

  “I was thinking Maui, but sure, that’d be—” He stops abruptly at the sound of someone jiggling the door. He checks his watch, swears, and gets up. “Quick, get in the bedroom, out of sight.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know. We’re supposed to meet your father later in the bar.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Hide in the bedroom. I’ll try to draw them away from the door. If you see an opportunity, get out and run. Take the car.” He puts the keys in my hand, pulls the gun out, and kneels behind the arm of the sofa, his gun aimed at the door. “Go.”

  75

  It’s difficult to hear what’s going on through the closet and bathroom doors. Could anything other than a gunshot be heard from here?

  I’ve got to know what’s going on. Waiting in here could cost me precious seconds. Quietly, I turn the doorknob and crack open the bathroom door. Outside of the bedroom door a volley of muffled shouts erupts.

  Then it’s quiet.

  What’s happened? I put my ear up against the bedroom door.

  Before I reach it, it clicks open.

  Startled, I freeze in place.

  Kyle comes in. “It’s okay.”

  I peer through the door, and the first thing I see is my backpack lying on the floor. Then a pair of shoes. Then further up, my heart just about stops. “Dad!”

  I can’t tell how long we’ve been gazing at each other. Countless emotions rage like a Class VI rapid. Finally, he comes to me and gathers me in his arms.

  I begin to sob. “Daddy, I can’t believe …”

  “It’s going to be all right, sweetie.”

  “We just scattered Mom’s ashes. How did it come to this?”

  “Are you hurt, Xandi?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks to Kyle.”

  “I know.” He pats him on the shoulder. “Do you know what a pain it was following the instructions that friend of yours sent? Prepaid cell phones, setting up call-forwarding, and then destroying one—”

  “Necessary precautions, Mr. Carrick.” Kyle motions for him to take a seat on the sofa. I, too, sit, with Dad’s arm around me.

  “Agent Matthews, could I have a moment with my daughter?”

  “I’ll be in the bedroom.” He shuts the door, and awkward silence seeps into the room like household methane. In and of itself, it won’t poison you. But it’s highly combustible, and if enough of it fills a closed area, it will suffocate you. All the joy of reuniting and finally seeing Dad has ebbed, leaving those haunting images behind.

  “I can’t believe the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, Xandi.”

  The entire mood shifts. Relieved smiles pull into taut frowns. Glad eyes narrow as the decade-old floodgates give way. “I’m not a murderer. And I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Says the fugitive.”

  “I thought you were on my side.” I push his arm off and slide away from him.

  “I am on your side! Always have been.”

  “You’ve got a strange way of showing it.”

  “And you’ve been clueless. It’s not just murder charges, it’s not just fleeing the jurisdiction. Every law-enforcement agency’s going to be hunting you down after that news release tonight.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You listen to me, young lady! The Department of Homeland Security’s flagged you as a domestic terrorist. In addition to that Dellafina girl, they’re holding you responsible for the deaths of Mitchell Cooper, George Kimble, and … what are you doing, Xandra?”

  “You think I killed them?” I launch to my feet, put my shoes on, ready to walk out and slam the door. “It’s just like you! You assume, assign blame without even bothering to hear my side of the story!”

  “You have no idea what you’re—”

  “No, you have no idea!” I slam my hand on the counter so hard that the glasses in the cupboard rattle. Dad blinks in surprise. I’ve never shown him the full extent of my emotions before. But now, I’m not holding back. Never again. “You’re the one they should interrogate. You’re the one who’s been hiding behind some stoic wall of silence. You, the great Peter Carrick, Pulitzer Prizewinning monolith! You think you can hide? I know, Dad. I know about Bình Sơn!”

  Kyle opens the bedroom door and sticks his head out. “Problem here?”

  “Family matter, Agent Matthews.” Dad controls his voice. Barely. “Give us a few.”

  “Try to keep it down.” He looks over at me. I nod and wave him off. He shuts the door. If Dad’s eyes were flamethrowers, I’d be lit up by napalm. His jaw is set, his lips curl. “I will not have my little girl talk to me that way!”

  “I am not your little girl!”

  Now he’s on his feet, stabbing his finger in my face. “You’re acting like a pubescent teenager, shacking up with Secret Agent Man back there. Meanwhile the whole stinking world is going to hell in a handbasket!”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. You know everything even without asking, without seeing, without knowing! That’s why I ran off with him. Right.”

  “Listen, Xandra—”

  “You listen! You talk big, but you don’t know, you don’t see. But g
uess what? I can see. And I have. And you’re going to tell me the truth about Bình Sơn.”

  “What are you yammering about?”

  “I saw you back there. Not last week, thirty-seven years ago. The bodies, the ashes, the graves!”

  “I don’t—how could you possibly …?” His face has turned paper white. “Nobody knows about that except …” He takes an absentminded step back and stumbles into the sofa.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Nobody. I saw it. I saw you.”

  “How?”

  As I explain all the visions, how every one of them proved true, how each brought me step by step to where we are now, he listens without question, without doubt.

  But there’s such fear in his eyes. He’s more vulnerable than I’ve ever known him to be. Overtaken by compassion, I sit next to him and hold his hands. “Daddy, please. Tell me what happened in Bình Sơn.”

  76

  “Why couldn’t it just stay put?” Dad buries his face in his hands.

  “If this is at all connected with the murders, you’ve got to tell me.”

  He sits up, grits his teeth. “Agent Matthews!”

  The door opens. “Sir?”

  “Take notes, you’ll need to hear this.”

  Kyle takes a seat at the bar, ready with pen and paper. “Go ahead, sir.”

  Dad takes a deep breath and steadies himself on the arm of the sofa. “Anything in the wet bar?”

  “High octane or regular?” Kyle says.

  “Diesel.”

  Kyle pulls out a small bottle of Absolut, pours it into a glass, and hands it to him. “Best I could find.”

  Dad nods his thanks, downs a gulp, and sighs. All the fire in his eyes has been smothered, replaced with fear, regret. “You have to understand. Your mother didn’t even know. I had to protect her, protect you both.” He takes another swig. “It happened before I met her.”

  How must it feel to keep a secret like this for thirty-three years? I feel more pathos for him than anger now. “Go on, Dad. It’s all right.”

  “I’ve never told anyone this story before, and with good reason …”