Parker 05 - The Darkness (13 page)

watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that

probably won't come."

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Chester looked out the window as he said those last

words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.

Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.

Didn't want Chester to know what he was thinking.

"Think how many of those people," Chester continued,

"would give anything for the chance to replace that income." He stopped. Looked at Morgan. "And then some.

What would you do for that chance?"

Morgan's eyes met Chester's directly. Without hesitation, he said, "Anything."

"We'll see."

13

"I, uh...I think I'll go check my mail," Pam said.

Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said,

"That's not a bad idea. If you wouldn't mind giving us a

few minutes."

"She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to,"

Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.

"No, she doesn't. That's why I'm asking. And," Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a

twenty-dollar bill, "I'll pay for her next beer run."

"Classy, mom," Abigail said. She sighed, looked at

Pam. "This won't take more than fifteen minutes."

"Half an hour," Paulina said. Abigail looked at her

mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.

"Fine. Half an hour. And take the money."

"I really shouldn't..." Pam said.

Abigail continued, "Trust me. It doesn't begin to cover

what she owes me."

Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room,

leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.

"Can we talk inside?" Paulina said. She peeked into

the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was

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covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense

sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag

chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as

Paulina's ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the

twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.

She didn't have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose

to, so be it.

"Fifteen minutes," Abigail said, checking her watch.

"Then I want you out of here."

"I don't like being here any more than you like me being

here," Paulina said. "Trust me, I'll make it as quick as I can."

They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took

a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk

chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail

pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window

slightly to let the smoke drift out.

"When did you start smoking?" Paulina asked.

"When did you start caring?" Abigail answered.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Is that what you want? You want me to make this

easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great

memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish." She said the last

words with biting sarcasm. "Why are you here, Mom?"

Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took

a breath. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just promise me you'll answer

me, and be honest. I don't care about the answers and I won't

judge you. I just need to know it for safety reasons."

"Safety reasons? What the hell are you talking about?"

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"There's a photo, of you. It was taken at the beach. I

need to know how someone could have seen it?"

"I go to Jones Beach every weekend during the summer," Abigail said. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You're wearing a pink bikini. Yellow sunflowers on

it. You look like you dug some sort of big hole, and...you

look happy. And you were still a blonde."

Abigail thought for a moment. Then she smiled, too.

"Like two months ago," she said. "I went to Jones Beach

with some friends, and buried this guy named Ryan in the

sand. He's dating our friend Marcia. Good times."

"How could somebody else have gotten a hold of that

photo?" Paulina asked.

Abigail's scornful look disappeared, and suddenly

she became concerned. "Why are you asking that?

What happened?"

Paulina leaned back in the chair, the wood stiff and

playing hell with her neck. "There's some guy...he's

trying to get to me, to threaten me, and he said...well, and

he found that photo of you somehow. I need to know

where he could have gotten it."

Abigail's fright took center stage now. She cupped her

hands together, started breathing into them. Paulina was

unsure of what to do at first, but the sight of her only

daughter terrified was too much to bear. She stood up

and went over to her daughter, placing her hands on

Abigail's shoulders.

"Listen, Abby, I would never let anything in the world

happen to you. You might hate me, and you might have

reason to hate me. But I'd sooner let my body be ripped

limb from limb than let anything happen to you."

Abigail choked back a laugh. "Can't we just avoid both?"

Paulina laughed. "Hopefully."

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"I posted a set of those photos to Facebook," she said.

"Maybe a month ago. I'm not sure."

"So who could see the photos?"

"Anyone I'm friends with online."

"How many friends do you have on Facebook?"

"Hold on, I'll check."

Abigail went over to the desk and sat in the stiff chair.

She turned on the laptop, waited for it to boot, tapping her

dark, polished fingernails on the desk. When the computer

started, Abigail opened Internet Explorer and logged on

to her Facebook account. Paulina saw that Abigail's

profile photo was a close-up of her face, specifically her

left eye and cheek. It was so close you could see every

individual pore. It looked faux artsy, the kind of thing you

took with a webcam and thought it to be poignant.

"A hundred and ninety-six," she said.

"Jesus," Paulina said. "A hundred and ninety-six

people have access to photos of you in a bikini."

"You want to judge me, Mom? I've heard some stories

about you."

"This isn't about me. Somebody used one of these

photos. Is there any way to see who's accessed the set?

Or who's printed them out?"

Abigail shook her head. "Nope. Privacy issues."

"Privacy my ass. Listen, Abby, I need you to print out

a list of all your friends on this thing, anyone who has

access to those photos."

"No way, Mom. Other people have privacy, too."

"Trust me, these other people would prefer this than

the alternative."

Abigail looked her mother in the eye, huffed and said,

"Okay. Fine. But nobody else sees them besides you."

"You have my word. And if these 'friends' have e-mail

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addresses, that would be helpful. I'm not looking to pry,

I just want to be sure. I promise once I'm done it'll all be

shredded."

"You gave your word," Abby said.

"One more question, then I'm done," Paulina said.

"Have you recently seen a man around campus--tall,

blond hair, about ear length? Late thirties or early forties

and well built?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Sure he's not one of 'your'

friends?" she said pointedly.

"No. He's not."

"I haven't seen anyone like that. Trust me, he'd stand

out on this campus."

"All right then."

Paulina stood up. Abigail did not. Paulina waited to see

if her daughter would, to see if there was any chance at a

last embrace before she left. Abigail was already opening

her page and scrolling through photos. Paulina leaned in

closer. Abby was staring at one of her and Pam, standing

in front of a gushing fountain, holding hands and smiling.

When she noticed her mother was looking, Abigail

covered the screen with her hand.

"I'll scan it and e-mail it to you," Abigail said. "You'll

have it by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Paulina said. "You know, Abby, I don't

even have your cell phone number."

Paulina laughed at this. Abby did not. It took a moment,

but Paulina understood why that wasn't quite so funny.

"That's not a surprise," Abigail said, "considering I

hear from you once a year. I figured either you didn't have

my number or you just couldn't find more than five

minutes every twelve months."

"I know I could have done a better job, could have

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been a better friend. Consider this my attempt to make it

up to you."

Abigail considered this for a moment, then said, "Fine."

Paulina took out her cell phone, plugging in the numbers as her daughter spoke them.

"That's it?" Paulina said.

"That's it."

"Thanks, hon, I promise I'll call soon."

"Mom?" Abigail said.

"Yes, Abby?"

Abigail's face looked far more pale than it did when

Paulina first entered. Eyes wider, more fearful. A pang of

guilt ripped through Paulina, knowing her daughter

wouldn't have to deal with any of this if that blond bastard

hadn't needed her to promote his sick agenda. She knew

many more lives were at stake than Abby's...but this was

her daughter.

"That photos set I mentioned," Abby said. "The picture

you mentioned was in that set. It was Pam's favorite

picture. She told me she loved it, and she said she wanted

to keep one just for us."

"Wait," Paulina said. "What are you saying?"

"I never posted that photo online. That guy you're

talking about...somebody else must have given it to him."

14

"Nothing," Jack said, slamming down the phone in

disgust. "I've called his office, his cell phone, his secretary, his publicist, his wife, his alleged mistress, and

nobody will connect me to Brett Kaiser. Please tell me

you have something."

I shook my head, discouraged. "I've spent the entire

morning trying to reach Marissa Hirschtritt and Joel Certilman. Nothing. They won't talk to me, or refer me to

anybody who will. And they said that if anything is

printed about their firm, their official position is 'no

comment.' At least until they sue us for whatever libel

they seem certain we're going to print. That firm is locked

up like a vault. And the worst part is that they know we're

looking into them, so they can already start preparing."

"And knowing our good-hearted chairman, he's not

going to want to pay thousands of dollars in legal fees to

fight a law firm over a story that we have no backing to

go on yet." Jack paused, thought for a moment. "When

people aren't responding to you, there's only one way

around it."

"What's that?" I asked.

Jack stood up. Picked up his briefcase. "You walk

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right into the enemy's camp, lay down your weapons and

ask to speak to their leader."

"You learned this, where, reporting from the jungle?"

"Vietnam, actually."

"No kidding. I never knew you reported from Vietnam."

"Spent most of my time in Laos," Jack said. "Worked

a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You

enjoy photojournalism?"

"A little. Back in Oregon," I said. "Before I was old

enough or smart enough to really understand history, I

used to love flipping through old magazines just for the

photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time

or place that words could never fully describe." Jack

nodded, agreeing. "I used to really admire a photographer

named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the 'You

Are Leaving' sign that had just been removed from along

the Berlin Wall."

"Great eye, Gustofson. Didn't he die a few years ago?"

"Yeah," I said, shifting uncomfortably. "Badly."

Jack nodded.

"Eddie Adams," I said. "Why does that name sound

familiar?"

"Nguyen Ngoc Loan," Jack said.

"Excuse me?"

"General Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Chief of the National

Police of the Republic of Vietnam. You say you liked historical photographs, you might remember that one. Loan

was the commanding officer during the arrest of a Viet

Cong political operative. The national police mistakenly

identified the prisoner as having plotted the assassination

of numerous Viet Cong police officers. And so on February first, nineteen sixty-eight, in the middle of a des-110

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olate street in Saigon in broad daylight, with the unarmed

man's arms tied behind his back, General Loan took out

a pistol, put it to the prisoner's head and pulled the trigger.

Eddie Adams was the man who took that photograph.

That one snapshot, taken right as the bullet entered the

innocent man's brain, was one of the catalysts that singlehandedly changed American perception of the war in