Authors: Joshua Graham
Dinner consists of sushi delivered and a Diet Coke, courtesy of Ichiro’s. If I were feeling more social, I’d call Hailey, Jenn, and Tina and go out. But they’re all cutting back on eating out, what with the economy and all. I end up spending more money having my dinner delivered to my apartment.
The laptop screensaver draws my eyes. Photos from childhood that I’ve scanned over the years fade in and out of view. There’s Mom holding my hand by the rock wall at the Cloisters. The next is me and Daddy playing basketball in the driveway. Here’s me sitting on his lap. I was seven years old and had just learned why birds fly south for the winter. I talked his ear off while he listened with genuine interest. Loving me unconditionally. It’s been years.
I still don’t know when exactly it happened, why it happened, or how. But at some point, he simply retreated into a dark cave of introspection. Dad wouldn’t talk to anyone about what was troubling him. Anytime we noticed the despair on his face, he’d quickly feign happiness.
No one knew why. He had everything a man could want: fame, wealth, success, a family that adored him. Had I disappointed him somehow? Is that the reason?
I’d like to call him now. But I’m still smarting from our last conversation. He’s the one who should be calling me. To apologize and make amends.
But that’ll never happen. He’s too proud.
Like me.
19
IAN MORTIMER
The dreaded phone call comes at the worst possible time—in the middle of a board meeting of the St. Deicolus Children’s Foundation that’s run overtime. In haste, Avijit gives the financial report for Q3. All eyes and ears are upon him. The incessant buzzing of my BlackBerry, however, causes them to turn toward me to see if I’ll answer or dismiss it.
A quick glance at the caller ID confirms my fears. It’s TR.
Bugger, not now!
With a silent apology, I excuse myself from the meeting and take the call in my office next door.
“Ian?” TR is calm. A bad sign.
“I told you never to call me at work.”
“We need to talk.”
“I wasn’t contracted to talk!”
“You were hired because of your reputation.”
“There’s irony for you.”
“Come now, I know your work; you’re the best.”
“Another time, another life, perhaps. This was a one-time service I delivered, only because—”
He scoffs. “Seems you haven’t made good on your deliverables.”
“What are you on about?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“You’re getting rusty, old friend. The police found the Dellafina girl’s body in the pond.”
My innards twist into so many knots. Twenty years ago, this would never have happened. “That’s absurd.”
“Someone phoned in a tip to the police. Which means they must have seen you.”
“Bollocks! I scoped out the entire area before—”
“I’m sure you’ll be more open to my suggestions next time.”
“There is no next time.”
“Oh, but there is.”
“You listen to me, old bloke. Our business is done.”
“Not when there’s a big operation to clean up after your shoddy work!” TR calms himself. But the tension beneath his words seeps through nevertheless. “What’s happened to you, Ian? You were a virtuoso, your reputation preceded you both domestically and abroad. It’s almost like … like your heart’s not in it anymore.”
All I can think of is Bobby now. He’s not quite seven and has no idea what kind of man his father really is. “Things have changed.”
“And they’re going to continue changing. Now listen. I’m going to send you some data my person in the Department dug up. You’re going to fix this, you hear? Any of it traces back to me, you know what happens.”
It’s not as though he needs to reiterate his threats. I’m already beholden to him in the most perverse way, and no amount of posturing is going to change that. “You don’t have to—”
“It’d be a shame if you couldn’t get the Praxol for Bobby anymore. And thanks to the FDA, it’s near impossible to get onto wait lists for experimental treatments these days.” The doctors had given Bobby ten months to live. That was a year and a half ago, thanks to the Praxol, which by FDA regulations might take seven more years, if ever, before it becomes available.
“Stinking sonofa—! You fancy yourself God or something?”
“As far as you’re concerned. And think of Nicole too—all those nights she spends alone …”
“I swear I’ll tear your bloody—”
“Relax, Ian. I’m just saying that it’d be a shame if she were to find out about your past. Why, I don’t think anyone could take that kind of betrayal. She’d take Bobby as far away from you as possible. All because you didn’t have the integrity to correct a tiny mistake.”
“Don’t be daft, I’ll fix this. But after that, we’re done. Do you understand?”
“We’re done when I say we are. And if you do your job right, all will be fine. Nothing would make me happier than to complete our contract amicably.”
“Right.”
“So Ian, are we square here?”
“Just have your man send the information.”
20
XANDRA CARRICK
Last night’s thunderstorm left a musty odor in the streets as the midmorning sun begins to evaporate puddles, which reflect objects around them. Still haunted by yesterday’s darkroom experience, I don’t dare look into any of them.
I’m taking the subway uptown to Feldman’s, the only photo-supply store I trust. If I’m going to win the Marbury, nothing but the finest supplies will do. Mr. Feldman knows Dad’s Graflex because they’re the ones who serviced it all these years.
The best thing about riding at 11:00 a.m. is that the train isn’t crowded. You can relax and read a newspaper comfortably and not worry about intruding upon another’s space. Or them upon you.
Today’s news source is
USA Today
. According to the front page, Citicorp plans to cut about fifty thousand jobs and Colson is ahead in the polls. He’s creating a genuine sense of excitement in this election. Unlike Ross Perot, Colson poses a significant threat to both the Democratic and Republican nominees.
Headlines in the local section announce the positive identification of Stacy Dellafina’s body. The report states that she was found based on an anonymous tip. The missing-persons case has become a murder case, and the authorities are trying to find the killer.
I’d best distance myself from this.
I want nothing to do with psycho killers. The details of crime investigations make my skin crawl. I could never be a forensic photographer. Better to work in the mall, taking Santa pictures.
The conductor announces, “West one hundred thirty-seventh street,” and I’m off.
I step onto the platform, but as I walk toward the exit, I can’t shake this odd sense that someone is following me. I glance over my shoulder. As far as I can see, I’m wrong.
On to the stairs. My own footfalls echoing against the tile walls and concrete floors make my heart race. Now, an additional set of footsteps follows.
It’s nothing.
Or it could be a mugger.
In the morning?
This is New York. Stranger things have happened. I don’t want to become a statistic, so I pick up the pace. By the time my fast walking turns into a jog, the footsteps behind me are matching my speed. I’m being chased. Or I’m acting like a paranoid idiot.
I rush past the exit gates and out onto the street.
And onto a crowded sidewalk.
Amidst a sea of faces, not one of them is looking at me. There probably wasn’t anyone there. People jog through the subway all the time without the intent of attacking anyone.
Okay, Xandra. You’re losing it.
Pins and needles prickle at my skin, from my head to my extremities.
Even as I shake it off, a brief sensation floods my mind. Like being under water, bubbles rising up. Smothering any sound I try to make. I’m not able to breathe!
It’s not until an old woman bumps into me that I pull myself out of this dread. “Watch it!” she grumbles and continues down the sidewalk.
Not taking my usual time to shop, I quickly find the needed chemicals and paper. Feldman’s may be one of the oldest mom-and-pop
photographic-supply stores, but it’s well organized. Ready to pay, I take the wallet from my bag and a business card falls to the counter. It’s Agent Matthews’s.
“Cash or credit?” Marty smiles at me the way he has since I was twelve, when Dad first brought me here.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Credit.” I’m still eyeing the business card when I hand Marty the Visa. For some reason I want to call Matthews. Something tells me he might actually believe me if I told him about my hallucinations.
“Sorry, kiddo, it got declined.” Marty hands the credit card back to me. “Got another one?”
“Wow. That’s never happened before. Maybe it’s because I just came back from overseas and used it in the airport in Saigon.”
“Yeah, call them. They’ll straighten it out for you.”
I hand him my debit card. This time it goes through. It hits me now. I’ve already maxed out my Visa card and planned to pay it down with my first paycheck after returning to work. Oh well.
“Here ya go.” He hands me my card and bag full of supplies. “Don’t be a stranger. And say hi to your dad, will ya?”
“Sure.”
I step outside and realize I’m still holding Agent Matthews’s business card. Maybe I should call now and set up a meeting to discuss …
Just what will I say to him, anyway?
There’s a clear view of the subway station from outside Feldman’s. Not as many people around now.
I’ll take a cab back.
21
MARK COLLINSWORTH
This isn’t project management in its true sense. But I recognize the parallels Colson’s drawn between the traditional business model and this special security project he’s appointed me to head up.
The pay scale is a major step up for me, probably because it’s 75 percent travel. This is my third trip back to California in less than a week. But it’s a rush. I’m the youngest member of the team, and many of my former supervisors now report to me. You know why? Because I get the job done. I’m not afraid to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty shutting down operations, terminating employees, cutting budgets and positions. Does that make me heartless?
I don’t care. You don’t climb to the top without stepping on a few heads.
The black-tinted windows of my limousine hardly block the effects of the blinding sun. For pity’s sake, it’s November and girls are prancing around in brightly colored bikinis. Dudes with surfboards under their arms drip seawater. I hate Southern California.
The driver cracks open the black privacy window. “We’ve been here for an hour, Mr. Collinsworth.”
“We’re early. He’ll show.”
“Of course.” The privacy window goes back up. I’ve never seen
so much superficiality as I do here in San Diego. With all the money spent on cosmetic surgery, it’s no wonder this state is suffering from a $40 billion deficit.
At last, he’s here. I open the door, invite him in, and shake his hand. “Mr. Carrick, thanks for taking the time to speak with me.”
He looks around and sits. “Where’s Colson?”
“He sends his regrets, but he’s on the trail and can’t make it back to the West Coast until next week.”
“I’m out of here.”
I grasp his arm and pull him back to his seat. “I won’t take more than five minutes of your time. Come on, join me for a drink.”
He pulls his elbow away and scowls. “Least he could do was meet me face-to-face. Who are you?”
“Mark Collinsworth, project manager.” I open the wet bar and pour myself a Jack Daniel’s. “What’s your poison, Pete?”
“You’re wasting your five minutes. I’ll give you thirty seconds to get to the point or we’re done.”
“Efficient, cut through the crap. I like that.”
“Tick-tock, you little—”
“All right. It’s simple. The senator wants to make sure that you are still in compliance with the NDA.”
“As if they were just trade secrets.”
“The terms are clear. Are you in compliance?”
“I’ve been in compliance since before you were in diapers.” Carrick fixes me with a sidelong glare. He’s in his late fifties but looks fit enough to prove a considerable threat. I like the poker face, though. He’s the kind of guy we could use on the team. Colson doesn’t agree, but given the right incentive, I think I can turn him. “Have you considered my offer, Pete?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I only have two words for you, and they’re not very nice.”
“Fair enough. As long as you uphold the NDA, we’ll maintain the status quo.”
He lets out a sardonic huff. “That what you call it?”
“For lack of a better term.”
Disdain in his every movement, Carrick slides over to the door and opens it. “Tell Rick the NDA is fine. And that he’d better uphold his end, or so help me—”
“We both know he keeps his word, Pete.”
Without warning, he turns, grabs me by the shirt, and slams me back against the door. “It’s Mr. Carrick to you, boy!” Baring his canines, breathing heavily, with fists trembling, he’d probably kill me on the spot, if not for the terms of the agreement. Careful to conceal my apprehension, I laugh. “I
so
wish you’d join the team.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” He shoves me once more for good measure and opens his door. “On second thought, hold it.”
22
XANDRA CARRICK
This is the first time in three days that I’ve gone into the darkroom. I’m now fairly certain my hallucination was just that. Face it, there are outlandish coincidences in life.
My proof sheets from Bình Sơn are still clipped up to the easel. I’ll have to enlarge those next. But right now, just to prove that I only imagined it, I’m going to develop another print from the duck pond.
I rock the tray, let out a chuckle. “It’ll come out just like the others. You’ll see.” First the water’s edge, the reflected trees, the waves in …
“Oh no.” Stacy’s body is there again. And this time, there’s a white, rectangular object … she’s clutching a white laptop computer in one hand. Looks like a Mac. This time, I’m not as frightened as I am intrigued. I shake the tray, and the ripples distort the phantom image. Now everything’s gone, and a faded image of a computer screen comes into view. At first, I can barely make out what it’s showing. But now it’s clearing up. A web browser … it’s a blog. Her blog.