Darkroom (33 page)

And then, on the vast shore of a beach, Dad is speaking furtively with an older man. He’s got white hair, stands about the same height as Dad. I can’t see his face, but I’m aware of what they’re saying.

“I can’t live with this anymore,” Dad says.

“You’d do more harm to our nation than good, Peter. These are the sacrifices we’ve all had to make. The demons we’ll have to abide.”

“They’re not my demons.”

“Sure they are, don’t be naive. This has always been bigger than you or me. You’re going to keep quiet.”

“If they knew the truth about what you’ve done—”

“Don’t, Pete.” The white-haired man grabs Dad’s arm violently. “How old is that beautiful little girl of yours? Seventeen? You’d give anything to see her grow up, achieve greatness, live a full, long life. Wouldn’t you?”

Dad pulls free.

“Oh, and how is that lovely wife of yours—Grace, is it? After all she’s been through, it’d be such a shame for it to end prematurely, now that she’s living the American dream with you.”

“Sonofa—”

“Such language. I should be hurt, after all I’ve done for you, for Grace. Why, if it weren’t for me, she’d have been stuck at the embassy. Clearly, you’re ungrateful.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be? Thundering Rick, the twice-decorated war hero resorts to cowardly threats?”

“I’m a man of my word. That’s my reputation, isn’t it? Whole country knows it. You’d do well to bear that in mind.”

A blinding flash, and we’re back in the hotel room. Dad staggers, braces himself against the door frame. He can only muster a weak murmur. “Colson.”

Just as I stumble Kyle catches me. “A vision?”

“How long was I out?”

“Five or six seconds.”

“Feels like I’ve lived thirty years of his life. Dad, you okay?”

His chest quivers in tiny convulsions. “This is what you’ve been experiencing?”

“That was by far the most graphic vision ever. And the first I’ve shared.” Nearly falling, I sit down. The sensory overload is draining from me. “It’s Colson.”

Dad exhales slowly. “The only reason he’s let me live is because he can’t be sure what’ll happen with the evidence if he does anything to me. But he’s held your lives over my head ever since I once threatened him with the photos I took of the massacre.” With his hand over his eyes, gritting his teeth, and restraining himself from breaking down, he holds the Graflex. “Three decades of hell. Every day, trying to look normal, happy, all the while wondering if today was the day he’d change his mind and have the three of us killed. If you or your mother had even the slightest hint …”

I’m only beginning to comprehend, but I know enough. “You have to come forward.”

“I know.” Dad regains some of his composure and pulls himself off the door frame. “It’s more than our lives at stake now. Agent Matthews, how do you think this will play out if I turn myself in?”

“If we can build a solid enough case against Colson, we might be able to bring it before the Supreme Court. At the very least, I’m going to prove he’s responsible for the deaths of all those Echo Company vets. We might even bring this straight to the ICC, where he could be tried as a war criminal.”

“What about Dad?”

“With his cooperation, they might grant him immunity. Some statutes of limitation could apply.”

Dad scoffs. “Doubt it.”

“Wait. You could go to prison?”

Dad’s eyes are clearer than I’ve ever seen them. “I’ve been a prisoner for over thirty years. If speaking the truth means doing time, losing my good name, it’s worth it, because I’ll finally be free.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who?”

“Something a pastor quoted from the Bible. The truth will set you free.”

“Your mother whispered those exact words to me just before she died.”

“She never knew about Colson?”

“All she knew was that he signed the papers that let her out of Saigon.” His countenance softened, Dad regards me poignantly. “Thank you, Xandi.”

“For what?”

“Confirming what I need to do.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small Manila envelope. He pours the contents of the envelope out on the coffee table: large-format negs wrapped in onionskin, a USB thumb drive, and a worn notebook. He hands me the book. “That’s for you. It’s your mother’s journal. I can’t read it because it’s all in Vietnamese.” He gives me a weak grin. “Maybe you’ll translate it for me one day.”

“What are you planning on doing with all this?”

“When Agent Matthews’s contacts told me about the danger you’re in, I knew it was time.” He picks up the thumb drive. “It’s been my only trump card, all these years. Now it’s time to play it. It’s the only way to deal with Thundering Rick.”

“So you’re going to strike a bargain with him?”

“No.”

“He can’t be allowed to run this country,” Kyle says.

Dad points to the evidence on the table. “I’m going to put him away.”

Kyle turns and walks quietly toward the door, pulls out his gun. After a tense few seconds he presses his ear against the door, and then staring through the eyehole, he relaxes. “Thought I heard something.” Then to Dad: “With all due respect, I don’t think Colson will let you just walk away.”

“I thought of that for a long time. At first, I considered handing these over to him. Maybe the nightmares would stop, maybe he’d leave us alone. But I know him. It’ll never be enough.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Dad.” Not when it feels like he’s finally returned to me.

“Prison can’t be any worse than the pit I dug myself into.” He kisses my head. “I brought Mom’s journal tonight, thinking it might be my last chance to do so.”

“But, Dad—”

“You and your mother deserved better.”

“We just wanted you in our lives. I still do.”

“A bit late now.” He holds me tight. “But I’m here. And thanks to you, I’m not going to back down from Colson. Matthews, we have a case to build. Do you know anyone in the attorney general’s office?”

“Assuming I can dig myself out.”

Confidence that I haven’t seen in years infuses Dad’s demeanor. “Let’s get started.”

Kyle steps over and hands me the gun. “Would you mind?”

“I don’t like guns.”

“Nothing to be afraid of.” He grabs a pen and paper and sits opposite Dad. “Let’s start with the massacre.”

With Mom’s journal and the gun Kyle placed in my hands, I walk to the bedroom. “My head hurts. I’m going to lie down.” As soon as I sit on the bed, a loud snap jolts me back up. I turn my head and look out to the foyer. The outer door to the hotel room flies open and slams against the wall.

The intruder kicks the door shut and pulls out a gun with a long silencer on its muzzle.

“Dad!”

Kyle leaps to his feet and rushes the intruder, but I’ve got his gun. I recognize him; he’s the one who tried to kill me. The realization freezes me in my tracks. It’s all I can do to aim the gun at him and tremble.

Kyle tackles and wrestles him to the floor, while Dad gathers himself and gets up to help him. Grasping the gunman’s wrists, Kyle points the gun up toward the ceiling. A round discharges.

The gunman thrusts his knee into Kyle’s stomach and rolls over, pinning him to the floor. Dad steps toward them, but with
the gun waving in every direction, he’s unable to get close enough to help.

By the time I take the four steps into the living room of our suite, the sound of a muffled gunshot cracks in my ears.

“Kyle!”

Facedown in a slowly expanding pool of blood that sinks into the carpet, Kyle lies writhing. On his feet, the assailant sees me and points his gun at Dad’s head. I aim my weapon with one shaking hand, the other wiping the tears from my face. Kyle’s been shot. I’ve got to do something!

“Why couldn’t you just keep out of this, lassie?” the gunman says.

Dad tries to step over to me, but the killer orders him to stay in place and turn over the envelope with the photos. Dad reaches down to the coffee table and gathers the evidence, then holds it out to him.

“Keep your hands up in plain view and give those to me!”

Dad does so while glancing over at me. To the killer: “If you’re working for Colson, trust me, it’ll never end.” Dad struggles, but the gunman presses the gun deeper into his temple.

“Bleedin’ fool.” He stuffs the evidence into his coat pocket and takes a hard look at Dad. “You made yourself far too easy to track.”

“Don’t move!” I’m gritting my teeth, snarling, and praying I won’t have to pull this trigger. With great care, I kneel at Kyle’s side. He’s not moving. With one hand, I point the gun at the attacker; with the other, I touch Kyle’s face. “Oh, Kyle.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispers. “Take him out.”

“I can’t do it.”

The gunman ignores me and murmurs through his surveillance earpiece, then speaks
sotto voce
to Dad. “You are going to walk out with me slowly and not make a scene. I have full authorization to shoot and kill. Do I make myself clear?”

Dad nods. They start for the door.

“Stop!” I take a step forward and cock the hammer.

Dad’s eyes widen. “Xandi, no.”

“Please …” I stumble forward, still aiming the gun. “Just leave us alone.”

He turns Dad toward the door, opens it, and as he steps out, he turns back. “I can’t.”

The door swings shut. I squeeze the trigger and scream. Two rounds explode like cannons in the hotel room. Glass from the light fixture, chunks of drywall crumble down in a powdery cloud.

The room goes dark.

The door clicks shut.

80

Go after him!

I’ve got a gun. What am I waiting for? But Kyle’s hurt. I’ve got to get help. Dim light from the bedroom spills into the living area, just enough to illuminate Kyle’s face.

I drop the gun, reach for my cell phone, and try dialing with one hand. I feel for a pulse with the other. It’s useless. Can’t manage both. And then, a fleeting moment of hope. He squeezes my hand. “Hang on, Kyle. Please. You’re going to be all right.”

A hissing sound passes through his lips. It’s now I see it. He’s been shot in the chest. With a weak tug, he beckons me. I lean down to him, and he brushes my earlobe with his lips.

Barely audible: “Hurry.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

With whatever strength he has left, Kyle lifts his eyes, touches my face with cold fingertips. “Would’ve given anything …”

My tears run down his hand. I force a smile. “You’re taking me to Maui when this is all over, remember?”

“You’re weird.” He smiles, winces, coughs weakly. “That’s why I love …” A deep gasp, and his eyes shut. Those beautiful hazel eyes, which once peered into my soul. Connected with my innermost being.

Tears stream down my face. Blood stains my clothes as I hold
him to my chest. Rocking him gently, I weep. “We’re going to Maui.” The words seep through the vice grip on my throat. “To Maui, Kyle.”

Images flash: Kyle smiling with a frothy latte mustache, kissing at twilight, snow-white beaches to which we’ll never go. He’s slipping away.

I barely notice the footfalls entering the room. Absently, I reach for the gun, but someone kicks it away. Then something hard presses into the back of my head. “FBI. Don’t move, Ms. Carrick.”

Gently, I set Kyle’s head down in my lap. His life pulses weakly under my fingertips.

“Put your hands behind your head, stand, and turn around slowly.”

“He needs help.”

“Xandra Carrick, you’re under arrest for the murders of—”

“Call an ambulance, you idiot!”

A female agent steps in and mumbles something to the one Mirandizing me. He pulls me to my feet and directs me to the bedroom door while she looks down and sighs. “Dammit, Kyle, what have you gotten yourself into? Burrell, shut the door.”

He does, but not before I catch a glimpse of the female agent attaching a silencer to her gun and pointing it down at Kyle.

“No, no, no! You can’t do this!” Thrashing wildly, I inadvertently hit Agent Burrell in the face.

“I’m warning you, Ms. Carrick. Keep still.” He pulls me back into the bathroom. For a few horrendous minutes I hear nothing outside in the living area but the low murmuring of the female agent and the voice of another man that’s come into the room.

Beyond the door, a loud but muffled pop rings out. It jolts me. I pull free, the threat of a bullet notwithstanding, and elbow him in the gut so hard he doubles over. Before he can reach me, I shut the bathroom door and prop a chair against the door knob.

Cautiously, I peek through the crack in the bedroom door. Out in the living area, Kyle lies completely motionless, his face covered with a pillow, a single wisp of smoke rising from a black spot in its center.

Serpentine dread coils around my chest, making it difficult to
breathe. That woman is with the FBI, and she just executed Kyle in cold blood.

The tall man who entered the room speaks with the female agent, detached and cold. Shadows obscure his face as she replies.

“It’s done, sir.”

“Thank you, Assistant Director.”

Burrell starts banging on the bathroom door. I bolt into the living area, reach over to the bar, grab the gun that Burrell kicked away. Swifter than I’ve ever reacted before, I point it at this tall man whose identity is somehow clear to me, though I’ve yet to see his face. “You murderous freak!”

Every single hammer in the room cocks. The tall man turns to face me.

“Colson!”

“That’s
President Colson
, sweetheart.”

“Not until January.” It’s clear he’s seen more than his share of weapons pointed at him. He doesn’t even blink, just looks down at me with an arrogant smirk.

“Put that down, young lady. You might hurt someone.”

I refuse to turn. From the corner of my eye, I see Kyle, put down like an animal. I almost forget that I’m pointing my gun at the newly elected president of the United States, who happens to be a war criminal.

“Stuck your nose where you shouldn’t have.” Colson steps forward, not even holding his hands up. “Though I must admit, it’s great to finally meet the daughter of the illustrious Peter Carrick.”