Darkroom (20 page)

It felt like the end of the world. I had never seen or imagined anything like this. And I suspected the same could be said for most people there. True to his vocation, Peter captured this historic event. I felt proud of him, but I wished he was with me at that moment. I couldn’t bear all this by myself.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” A marine stood behind me with a green duffle bag.

“Is this what it has come to? How could this happen?” I said, too stunned to realize I was trembling.

He took out a thick wool blanket and put it around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“This is the first time we’ve ever walked away, left an ally to themselves. You know, I keep asking myself if there was more I could have done. Maybe if we had some more boats, helicopters, anything, maybe we could have …” He took a deep breath and turned away. “I feel like I’ve let them down. Like I’m just turning my back on them.”

“You are a good man. Try to remember all you have helped. God knows your heart.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

USS Blue Ridge
South China Sea: April 30, 1975

Peter brought me to one of the meeting rooms on the ship where a TV crew and all the news correspondents gathered to discuss all that had happened in the past day.

An official-looking person stood up before the microphone and read from a paper: “At ten twenty-four this morning, President Duong Van Minh announced a surrender. He called for all South Vietnamese forces to cease hostilities and remain where they are. Minh then invited the Provisional Revolutionary Government to engage in a ceremony of orderly transfer of power so as to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed in the population.

“No such ceremony took place. At eleven thirty, PAVN tanks broke through and destroyed the gates of the Independence Palace, where they raised the flag of the National Liberation Front. Minh was arrested. At fifteen thirty hours, he broadcast over the radio and declared the Saigon government completely dissolved at all levels.”

Clinging to whatever hope I could, I reached for Peter’s hand.

Saigon had fallen.

50

XANDRA CARRICK

Too many thoughts flying through my mind. All that rises out of the silent jumble is,
I’m going to die.

“Hands on your head,” Rolston orders. “Good. Now, on your knees.”

“Please … don’t do this.”

“Shut up! I told you, quick and painless.” He tosses my backpack on the grass. “Now, tell me the truth. How did you know about the Dellafina girl?”

“I don’t know, lucky guess. What’s that got to do with—?”

Rolston presses the point of his gun into the back of my head and with one hand pushes me to my knees. My hands squish into the mud, which splashes into my face. His grip is fierce. He could easily break my arm. “What do you know about the circumstances of her death?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me what you
do
know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You bloody well know!” His breath is quivering now as he stands right behind me.

“I swear, I have no idea.”

He clicks the safety off the gun. Presses into my head even harder. “Then you’re truly of no use to me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Should have known talking was a waste of time.”

I can almost feel the tension of his trigger finger pulling back. Then the numbing pins and needles run down my scalp, down my spine, and into my hands and feet.

Faces.

Pale, vacuous eyes.

Death.

So many different bodies buried, submerged in the East River, incinerated … dismembered.

And then comfort, hope, acceptance. It’s the face of a woman with auburn hair … Nicole … and a young boy, very sick, almost dead … Bobby.

In the span of a couple of seconds, I’m seeing what feels like years of memories. The gun is shaking as it presses into my scalp. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Lassie, you have no idea what I have to do, or why.”

“Think of Nicole … of Bobby!”

“What?”

In a split second, fight or flight kicks in. I’m going to die anyway, might as well try what I can. With a feral shriek and all the might I can conjure, I launch an elbow up into his crotch.

Instead of seeing my brains splattering before my eyes, I blink and nothing happens. Only a heavy thud in the grass behind me and stifled groans.

I leap to my feet, whirl around, and find my assailant doubled over, still clutching his gun. Emboldened, I step over to kick it out of his hand. But he catches my ankle with his left hand. With one abrupt twist, he hurls me into a cold puddle.

He gets up and puts me in a choke hold, then drags me to the edge of an algae-covered pond. Splashing wildly, I struggle to break free. But it’s no use. Even though he’s groaning in pain from my well-placed strike, he’s still too strong.

Then with alarming force, he thrusts my head face down into the water. His hands clutch my throat. His arms quiver with tension. I’m unable to lift my face out of the murky pond. Bubbles
float up out of my mouth, tickling at my face. The tingling returns. I’ve been here before. At least, I’ve sensed this place before.

I can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe!

Can’t shut my eyes either. They’re about to pop out. Murky water stings so bad. My vision begins to darken. Is this what it was like for Stacy Dellafina?

51

So this is how it all ends.

Everything’s vanished into the gloom of the inner mind. Mom’s face appears, tears standing in her eyes. She’s reaching out, not to embrace but to push me away.

It’s too soon, Xandi.

Reach down, take hold!

Then, just as I’m about to pass out, a miracle happens. Heeding Mom’s voice, I grope about the pond’s miry bottom and touch something. Smooth. Hard. Heavy. I grasp it with my fingers, even as the final bubbles of life float by my eyes.

With all my strength I swing the rock out of the water and strike my attacker’s head. He lets out a long grunt and staggers. His hands slide off my neck.

Water rushes away as he comes crashing down over me. I put my knee just between his legs. With all the force I can conjure, I ram my kneecap straight into his already-injured testicles. I can feel an awful crushing sensation. He lets out an agonized scream and wretches while hunched over on all fours, like a cat gagging on a hairball. It is now as I sit up, gasping for breath, that I realize the water is not more than two or three feet deep.

I slide out from under him, flail about, kicking at whatever I can. My heel makes contact with his face. He splashes onto his side, still holding his crotch.

I crawl out of the pond and grab my backpack.

Now I’m on my feet, sprinting away.

Can’t look back.

My legs are so shaky, I stumble. Nearly fall on my face. A gunshot rips through the falling rain. I let out a shriek. But keep running.

And running.

The wet backpack straps dig into my shoulder. Right now, I’d love to just toss the Graflex into the middle of the freeway and be done with it forever.

Unable to overcome the burning in my legs and lungs, I press my back against the trunk of a tree and glance back over my shoulder, trying to catch my breath as quietly as possible.

No. He’s not there.

Is that good or bad? At least if I could see him, I’d know to avoid him. But not knowing where he is fills every step, every breath with anxiety.

I’m frozen, trembling. If I move, step on a branch, splash into a puddle, I might give my position away. If I remain, he’ll find me. Dammit, what should I do?

With great caution, I take a step back.

Softly.

Quietly.

All at once, every nerve ending in my body ignites. A pair of hands grab me like a boa constrictor, one of them covering my mouth.

I can’t even scream.

52

Elbows swinging, feet kicking, I struggle to free myself. But the grip over my mouth suddenly gets tighter.

“Quiet!” he hisses. “Xandra, it’s me.”

At the sound of his voice, my arms relax. He senses this and loosens his grip, allowing me to turn around.

“Kyle?” It’s him. It’s him!

“Follow me, but stay close.”

“He was going to kill me!”

“I’m not going to let that happen. Can you climb?”

I nod, wipe the water and mud from my face.

“Good, my car’s up that embankment. On three, we make a run for it.”

“Okay.”

“One … Two …”

Before he reaches three, another series of shots slashes through the leaves. One of them hits the tree next to me.

“Three!” Kyle puts himself between me and Rolston’s gunfire. “Go! Straight up, you’ll see it parked. Careful, don’t slip!” He puts the keys in my hands, pushes me forward, turns back, and returns fire.

A surge of adrenaline-induced energy propels me up the embankment at a surprising rate. Below, a fierce volley rings out.
Kyle is making his way up the hill now, both hands on his gun.

The car is parked at a frantic angle, its tail jutting slightly off the shoulder of the freeway. Its nose hangs over the edge of the embankment. At the edge of the road, a black Porsche hisses by and splashes a sheet of water at me. Misses me by inches.

Kyle calls up as he takes another shot. “Get in and go!”

I fumble with the keys now, trying to find the right one. My hands are shaking and too slick to get it into the door lock. But finally I do and leap into the driver’s seat where I start the engine. Rolston climbs up to the roadside, swings around with his gun, then points it down and fires two shots in Kyle’s direction. Through the rearview, I see Rolston turn around. He’s spotted me and is approaching the car with his weapon trained.

A truck roars by at full speed and blasts its horns at my tail, which it nearly clips. Its wind tosses the car like a dinghy in a maelstrom.

I keep waiting for Kyle and an opportunity to speed out onto the road, but there’s just too much oncoming traffic. Visibility is poor. All I can see are headlights, just seconds before they reach me. But I have nowhere else to go. The shoulder ends with a high dive over a ravine, just twenty feet ahead.

Alternately glancing over his shoulder and stepping purposefully toward me, Rolston lifts the muzzle of his gun and points it straight at the passenger window.

My gaze shoots back and forth between the rearview and the driver’s-side mirrors. I race the engine. Don’t dare shift into Drive. Not yet. Death by gunshot or vehicular suicide, what’ll it be?

Then comes a bone-chilling tap on the passenger window. I scream and jump back against my door. My eyes zoom in on his trigger finger. He’s just about to pull it.

Instead of glass shattering and a bullet lodging into my skull, a thud and a muffled grunt divert my eyes. Kyle has knocked Rolston to the ground.

From the edge of the passenger window, fist and limbs fly. The sounds of thumps and cracks join the cacophonous strains of horns and wheels zooming by.

I’m too afraid to unlock the door and let the wrong man in. But this doesn’t stop me from leaning over to look. “Kyle, hurry!”

The side of Rolston’s face slams up against the glass, which squeaks as he grits his teeth, snarls, then kicks backward. Kyle falls back, nearly toppling down the embankment. Rolston lunges at him, but Kyle swipes his feet out from under him. The fight draws them both toward the back of the car, where I can only see their legs through the passenger mirror.

Now Kyle is on his feet. A couple more swings and Rolston is down. Kyle rushes to the passenger door, which I unlock.

“Let’s go!”

Just as I put the car in Drive, the loud squawk of a California Highway Police car makes me hesitate.

“Ignore it,” Kyle says. “Just go!”

“Straight into that?” A double length UPS truck rolls past us. About three car lengths behind us, the CHP pulls over onto the shoulder, its blue and red beacons flashing.

“Remain inside your vehicle,” the officer says over the bullhorn. Meanwhile his beige-clad partner steps out and notices Rolston lying at his feet.

“Now!” Before Kyle even says it, I seize the opportunity and blaze onto the freeway. The angry driver in the Benz I just cut off flashes angry high beams. I can’t help but steal a glance back at Rolston.

In that split second, I almost wish I hadn’t.

Rolston gets up, points his gun, and shoots the CHP officer point blank in the chest. And with cold precision, he turns and fires at the other officer who is standing on the opposite side of the squad car. “I can’t believe it, he shot them!”

Kyle groans. “Get … to … the center lane!”

Within seconds I’m up to eighty miles per hour, weaving through cars that are now slowing down and moving to the right, as Rolston pursues us with the CHP’s car, siren and lights blaring and flashing. “Rolston can’t be working for the government.”

Kyle grunts. “There is no Agent Rolston. Drive faster … will you?”

“Would you like to take the wheel? Stop barking at me.”

“Trying to save your life.”

“And I’m just playing around?” A bullet cracking the rear window interrupts our highly mature discussion. I let out a gasp. Rolston is right behind us now. “Can’t you shoot at him or something?”

“Dropped my gun …” Kyle grimaces. His words trail off into a strained groan. He’s holding his side with a hand soaked in blood.

“You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No! No hospitals or police stations … first place they’ll check. Just … try to shake him.” He forces a weak smile. “And find a place to hide.”

“Where do you suppose we can do that?” Weaving through traffic, I discover there are now three police cars closing in on Rolston—or whatever his name is. “I think we might just have found some help.”

The opportunity reveals itself now. I’ve got a clear path across two lanes to an exit into a town called Miranda Springs. The police cars have surrounded him. A vindictive grin tugs at the corner of my lip.

Off the exit ramp and driving down a quiet road now. Beyond the 7-Eleven and Chevron station, there’s nothing but veined asphalt and verdant junipers. “Think we’ll ever find out who that thug was?”