Darkroom (27 page)

“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.

Footsteps come thumping up the stairs to the second floor.

The safety box opens. There, like a perfectly preserved artifact, lies a handgun, which I take with my jittery hands. They’re so slick with perspiration, I’m afraid the gun will slide out.

A blast of amber sunlight hits me in the eyes as I pass the open window. For a moment I’m blinded. The only thing I hear is the sound of the ocean, door hinges in the distance, and the percussion of my own heart.

From the sound of the rushing footfalls, there’s more than one person in the house—no fewer than two. Furtive murmuring, irregular movement patterns. They’re looking for something, or someone.

Should I call the police? I’m a fugitive, hunted by God knows how many law enforcement agencies—probably not. The panic room! That’s why I saw it. I’ll hide there until they leave.

Regardless, I can’t just stand around here. The master bedroom has a door leading directly to the media room. From there I can exit to the back stairs and go directly to the panic room. Or continue downstairs past the mud room, then the garage.

I open the door, steal inside, and shut the door behind me.

Pitch black. Of course.

There are no windows in the home theater room. If only I could remember where those light switches are. The farther in I walk, the shakier my breath gets. It’s still as death in here. The acoustic insulation and heavy curtains dampen any sound that might escape.

But sounds in the room can be heard. Such as someone taking a step onto the carpet before me.

Someone’s in here with me.

If I could find the door, I would turn and run. But any move I make will give my position away. Silent as I can, I bring the gun up in front with both hands.

Cock the hammer.

Within a fraction of a second, another gun hammer clicks right in front of me.

“DROP IT!” he hisses.

“YOU drop it!”

In an instant, I thrust my hands forward. The muzzle of my gun presses against something. It moves at first then freezes in place. Then something cold and metallic presses against my forehead.

There’s going to be blood.

67

GRACE TH’AM AI LE

Del Mar, California: December 31, 1999

Sitting on the deck of our beautiful house overlooking the Pacific Ocean, I now see what Peter meant over twenty years ago when he described the beauty of a Pacific sunset. Life has been wonderful since we’ve moved out to San Diego, Peter’s birthplace. Del Mar is such a beautiful place. So quiet, so serene, and the ocean view is spectacular.

Peter has not had any secret meetings for six years now, and I am happy to say that he is becoming more and more like the man who loved Phở Ga and proposed to me not once but twice.

Xandra has been accepted to Princeton on a full scholarship. She has grown into a fine, trustworthy young woman. Serious about her work and studies, not like those loose girls you hear about who think only about parties, sex, and drugs. No, Xandra has taken after her father and become an award-winning photographer in her own right. Peter doesn’t show it, but we both know that deep inside he’s proud. As a graduation present, he gave her his Graflex camera, the one that helped him win the Pulitzer.

The stocks Peter’s invested in, once fledgling internet companies, have returned over four million dollars in gains. Financially, we are set for life. And yet I am troubled by dreams and visions
concerning Peter and now Xandra. The images seem random, and I cannot discern their meanings as clearly as I could when I was younger. Perhaps it is my advancing age.

Del Mar, California: September 11, 2001

We were awakened by a phone call from Peter’s colleague in New York. Right away, while still on the phone, he tossed me the remote and motioned for me to turn on the TV.

On every channel, the most horrific, surreal scene imaginable filled the screen. Over and over again, the footage of a huge airliner crashing into the Twin Towers played.

But what really made me cry out loud was when one of the towers just crumbled like sand. If you have never stood on the sidewalk and tried to look up to the top of the Twin Towers, you would have no idea of just how immense those buildings were.

It was like a scene from a high-budget Hollywood disaster movie. But it was real. And that is what put me in a state of shock, my hand over my open mouth the entire time I watched.

“Dammit!” Peter had been trying to make a call on his cell phone, then on the landline. “I can’t get through.”

That’s when I remembered. Xandi had taken a semester off to work an internship for a law firm located in the World Trade Center towers. “Oh Peter, you have to call her!”

“That’s all I’ve been doing, but the circuits are busy.”