Darkroom (36 page)

And what about Kyle? We came so close to a true connection. Only to have it ripped away. I’m sure they’ll spin up some kind of bunk about him as a rogue agent helping the infamous terrorist who almost murdered the president and a million onlookers at his inauguration. Every day, anger competes with grief. Today, grief has the upper hand.

The door locks click open, the highlight of my day. It’s Corporal Davis. She flashes a brief smile. “You have a visitor.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Sure enough, when I arrive at the conference room, there with my attorney is Pastor Jake, dressed in a charcoal suit and a red tie. “Hello, Xandra.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Mr. Morgenstern told me you wanted to see me. I’m here in a clerical capacity.”

“Don’t perform my last rites just yet, I just …” I slump into my chair at the table. The guard secures my chains as they clatter. My cheeks burn, and tears fill my eyes as I behold my closest approximation to a friend. “John, could we have a moment?”

He looks at the guard, who nods. “Don’t talk about the case,” John says and points to his ear. All but Jake leave the room, though armed guards stand outside.

Jake takes a seat opposite me. “Are you all right?”

“No.” I sniff and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my orange
prison uniform. “I’m sorry. You would not believe what I’ve been through.”

“I can only imagine. But you’re being held in a military prison as an enemy combatant. Have they—?”

“No. No, it’s not like Abu Ghraib. I saw some brigs while on assignment in Iraq. This one isn’t so bad.”

He takes my hands in his. A pained expression comes over him. “Your courage is inspiring.” Jake’s the first ray of sunlight, breaking through the dark clouds. I glance into his eyes for a moment, then look down at the table for fear I might start crying.

“Have you had any more visions?”

“The Graflex is gone. I don’t think I’ll have any more visions. Maybe it’s for the best.” I tell him about everything else that’s transpired since I left the colony. And then about that last vision, the one that uncovered Dad’s past.

A knowing look comes upon him. “They’re saying you killed your father.”

“Oh, sure. I’m sure Colson’s already scripted my motive, means, and opportunity. Does no one in this entire nation know what a danger their new president is? It’s hopeless.”

“It’s never hopeless, Xandra.”

“Wish I had your faith.”

Jake leans forward, holds my gaze intently. “It’s been said that you only need faith the size of a mustard seed. And with it, you can speak to a mountain, tell it to be cast into the sea. And it will.”

“I’m facing Everest. And it shows no sign of budging.”

His eyes brighten. Like he’s got a secret but wants me to figure it out. “What would your mother have done at a time like this?”

“Well, I guess she’d pray. I don’t know, I always thought it was just kind of superstitious, you know? Like a rabbit’s foot, a placebo to get you through the tough times.”

“Maybe it’s more than that. Want to give it a try?”

He’s right. Mom would have done just that. Pray, when things were looking their worst. It couldn’t hurt. “All right. I could use all the help I can get.”

Jake begins, “Father God, I thank You and praise You that You alone are sovereign, and You alone have established all authority in heaven and earth …”

My head is bowed, eyes shut. I’m actually hoping that another vision will come and reveal what is to come. But the words flowing from Jake’s lips grow quiet. Now speaking in a strange language. I know I shouldn’t, but I open my eyes—I can just hear Mom scolding me for doing that—and gaze, fascinated. He’s deep in prayer, and it evokes a memory that I’d long forgotten until now.

I’m about three or four years old. At the time I don’t know that I’ve got a high fever that isn’t responding to medications. Mom is by my bed, praying just like Jake is. She has called her pastor over to lay hands on me and pray for healing. He, too, is speaking the same strange prayer language.

“You shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the L
ORD
.
”

And at the same moment as this heretofore-forgotten memory comes to me, Jakes declares, “Xandra Phuong Carrick, you shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the L
ORD.
” His hand is on my head now. A warm tingle flows through me down to my feet like an anointing of light.

When he finishes, he looks up. “Another word. The Lord wants you to know. You’re not alone.”

89

AP Press Release

CARRICK’S REMAINS FOUND

FBI officials announced last night that the charred remains of Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalist Peter Carrick were found in a remote wooded area three miles from the California Interstate-8 freeway. Forensics experts identified the body by dental records. Carrick’s body was found in a car that had been set on fire, but the cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head.

Carrick’s daughter, Xandra Carrick, a former photojournalist for the New York Times, has been charged with his murder. Ms. Carrick, who is best known for her work on the plight of female suicide bombers, spent six months on assignment in Iraq. She has been named by the Department of Homeland Security as an enemy combatant and charged with multiple counts of murder, domestic terrorism, and the attempted assassination of President-elect Richard Colson. Carrick is currently being
detained at the Naval Consolidated Brig in San Diego, awaiting a military tribunal.

Staff members for Colson, who, shortly after the election, had announced his intention to resign as the chairman of the Investigative Branch of the Senate Oversight Committee on Homeland Security by December, spoke on the condition of anonymity. The Department of Defense has approved a request to expedite the tribunal so that sentencing and security matters can be resolved well before Colson’s inauguration in January.

In related news, the St. Deicolus Children’s Foundation in New York announced today that its CEO, Ian Mortimer, is missing and presumed dead. Mortimer, a longtime supporter and personal friend of President-elect Colson, was sailing with Terrance Finley, a business associate, on Tuesday afternoon when the boat capsized. The Coast Guard continues to search for Mortimer and Finley’s bodies, but after forty-eight hours, given the depths and temperature of the water and the distance from land, it is improbable that anyone could survive this long.

Mortimer is survived by his wife, Nicole, and son, Robert. They could not be reached for comment. Of Mortimer, Colson remarked, “He was a magnanimous man, devoted to the betterment of children with terminal illnesses. In the twenty-five years of our association and friendship, I have yet to meet someone with his level of integrity and competence.”

90

XANDRA CARRICK

It takes a great deal of faith to believe that, as Jake prophesied, I’m not alone. Standing before a jury of uniformed officers and a judge who reminds me of General Patton, I couldn’t feel more alone than I do right now.

It’s difficult to concentrate during the opening statements. My thoughts are weighed down with grief. Dad, Kyle, Mom. They’re all dead. Does it really matter what happens to me?

If God gave me a gift of clairvoyance, then I have to ask, to what end? All it did was get people I cared about killed. The truth has not set me free at all. On the contrary, it’s imprisoned me and condemned me to death, and all the while the perpetrator of mass murders and the deception of our nation creates his version of the facts surrounding my arrest.

The list of charges is absurd. When Lieutenant Colonel Nevins, the prosecutor, gets to the portion of his opening that asserts that he will prove to the court that I spent a year in Iraq establishing connections with al-Qaeda, I can’t help but laugh aloud.

Colonel Hardings, the judge, scowls. “Mr. Morgenstern, you will advise the defendant to refrain from disruptive outbursts.”

“I apologize, Your Honor.”

Morgenstern chastises me, but only in a written note:
Watch it!

The prosecution calls a telecom expert from Homeland Security
to testify about my so-called communications with terror cells in Iraq. While he speaks, the browser screen on Morgenstern’s cell phone draws my attention. It’s CNN.com. The headlines mention that Dad’s body has been found. It’s finally confirmed. I want to cry out, weep, scream. But I have to cover my open mouth, trying to control myself from another disruptive outburst.

At some point, the telecom expert concludes his testimony. I haven’t heard a word he said.

Colonel Hardings addresses Morgenstern. “Counsel, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”

“No, thank you, Your Honor.” A quiet stir can be felt throughout the room. He’s still thumbing through his notes. I’m so numb, it doesn’t bother me like it should. I really have lost hope.

Hardings: “Lieutenant Colonel, your next witness?”

Nevins: “The prosecution calls FBI Assistant Director Sharon Maguire.” She’s sworn in and takes a seat. Our eyes meet briefly, and she seems a bit reticent. But I’m glaring at her, as if the scorn in my eyes could strip her bare before the tribunal so that all can see her for what she is. A murdering, traitorous thug!
You killed Kyle … you killed him!

Nevins walks up to her. “Ms. Maguire, would you describe for the court the conditions under which you found the defendant on that night in question at the Comanche Hotel?”

“We were following a tip on Kyle Matthews, one of my field agents who at the time had gone AWOL and was traveling incognito with Ms. Carrick. Upon arrival at the hotel room, I found Ms. Carrick standing over Agent Matthews’s body. She’d shot him in the head point blank.”

This launches me to my feet. “That’s a lie!
She’s
the one that—”

“The defendant will remain seated and quiet, or be removed!”

John pulls me back down into my chair. “Yes, Your Honor.” He puts a finger as a bookmark in his notes. “My client apologizes.” I did no such a thing.

“The witness will continue,” says Colonel Hardings.

“Shortly after, President-elect Colson and a Secret Service detail
arrived. It is my belief that he wished to interrogate the defendant. Before I could secure her, Ms. Carrick got a hold of my gun—”

Nevins looks surprised. “Your gun?”

“I’ll admit it. I was distraught to see one of my top agents, a person I considered a friend, dead on the floor of that hotel room. My professionalism slipped for just a moment, and … I suppose when someone is as desperate as Ms. Carrick—”

John objects.

Hardings sustains the objection. “Move on, Ms. Maguire.”

“The defendant pointed the gun at the president. She was swearing and threatening to shoot him. But President Colson—likely because of his military experience—remained calm and disarmed her.”

Nevins returns to his chair. “Nothing further.”

Finally, John decides to do his job and cross-examine a witness. He looks at his watch, then gets up and approaches the stand. “Ms. Maguire, at what point did my client become a suspect for the FBI?”

“The moment she fled the jurisdiction of her original incarceration.”

“Meaning New York. The Dellafina case.”

“Yes. Agent Matthews had been working on a case involving the deaths of several veterans of the Vietnam War. A connection to the defendant was found and he … As Agent Matthews had an outstanding record, I am loathe to say anything that would dishonor his nine years of service.”

Colonel Hardings nods to her from the bench. “Noted. Please continue, Ms. Maguire.”

“Matthews had been working on a case in which various Vietnam veterans of the same unit were dying. He believed there was a pattern to these seemingly natural deaths, or accidents. The connection led him to the defendant. It came to my attention at some point that he had become romantically involved with her. That was his mistake, and he paid for it.”

“I see. Thank you, Ms. Maguire.”

So far, I’m not terribly impressed by Morgenstern’s cross-examination.
Judging by the faces of the uniformed officers in the jury box, neither are they.

“Is it true, Ms. Maguire, that Agent Matthews was shot and killed with a twenty-two caliber round from a Beretta Bobcat?” He picks up the gun from the other exhibits on the table. “This very gun?”

“Yes. And I’d like to add that this gun had been registered to retired Corporal Hank Jennings, whom the defendant also killed.”

“Allegedly.”

Morgenstern returns to the desk and picks up a large Manila envelope. From it, he pulls out a photograph, a close-up of the gunshot wound to Kyle’s forehead, and clips it on the whiteboard just left of the witness stand. It takes a good deal of willpower not to react. “Defense enters this photograph subpoenaed from the FBI forensics laboratory as exhibit four. Ms. Maguire, take a good look at this picture. Do you recognize it?”

“Of course, it’s the gunshot wound to Agent Matthews’s forehead.”

“Do you notice anything unusual about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Anything else would take a trained medical examiner or ballistics expert.”

Morgenstern takes the photo down and hands it to Maguire. “Sure you don’t need another look?”

“I’m sure.”

“You went on record stating that the gun was fired near point-blank. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Sure you don’t need another look?”

Nevins objects. “Asked and answered.”

She glances down and back up. “I don’t see anything unusual.”

“Well, I’m not so sure. You see, at so close a range, there should be some gunpowder residue, don’t you think?”

“Academically, yes.”

“I’m not seeing any dark stains that resemble gunpowder residue
around the wound. And there’s no explanation offered in the ballistics report as to its absence. Ms. Maguire, isn’t it true that such an absence of residue is consistent with the use of a silencer?”