Darkroom (22 page)

“Sorry to intrude.” I point down to the car. The top of Kyle’s
head is pressed against the window where blood from his fingers smears three macabre lines. “My friend’s been injured. We need your help.”

The smile falls from Mr. Overalls’ face as he jogs over to the car. “What happened?”

Keeping in step, I state what must be obvious—or perhaps not so obvious. “He’s been shot.”

Overalls stops momentarily, then calls back. “Ruth! Get Eli out here, right now!”

“Is Eli a doctor?”

“The only one in the colony.” He reaches into one of his manifold pockets and gets a cell phone. “Good Lord, why didn’t you take him to the ER?”

“I … I’m lost. Don’t know the area.”

“Okay, I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No, wait.” I grab his hand. “Don’t call anyone, please.”

A puzzled look. “Why?”

“Please, just don’t.” How am I supposed to explain this? I’m just hoping this Eli person can help Kyle before it’s too late. Overalls gives me a probing look. There’s no deceiving him, it seems.

A frail-looking man comes running. Eli, I gather. The heavyset woman behind him must be Ruth. Eli adjusts his wire-frame glasses and stares through the open door, where Overalls presses his ear to Kyle’s chest.

“What’s happened, Pastor Jacob?” says Eli. “Oh!” He puts his arm around Ruth, whose eyes are as wide as they are blue. The young pastor in overalls straightens and rolls up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. “This man’s been shot.”

Ruth gasps. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Eli turns to me. “Have you called nine-one-one?”

“No, sir.”

“Why in heaven not?”

“
We
need to help him,” the pastor says.

Eli frowns. Leans in and checks on Kyle’s pulse. “Ruth, fetch my bag from the wagon, please.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, wondering if by respecting Kyle’s wishes, I’ve condemned him to death.

Eli lowers his glasses and peers over the rims. “This man needs to go to a hospital.”

Pastor Jacob looks at me.

For a moment, I’m paralyzed. Kyle clearly said not to go. If we did, there would be some great danger for him, likely for us both. But what good will any of this be if he dies right here? How can I go through life with his blood on my hands?

Eli stamps his foot in the dirt. “Best hurry, he’s not going to get better just lying here.”

56

“He insisted.” I take a deep breath. “No hospitals or police.”

Eli nods. “No time anyway.” He asks Pastor Jacob to help him lift Kyle out of the car. Ruth brings Eli’s black medical bag. I follow as they carry him back into the building.

It’s completely lit by candles inside. A handful of people look on as Eli and Jacob bring Kyle in and place him on a table. Ruth directs several youths to clear the chairs away and bring a cot to the center of the meeting room, while Eli washes his hands and prepares himself.

“Welcome.” A little girl in a black cape dress and a soft white cap tied under her chin hands me a towel for my hair, which is still soaked. She smiles, pushes her glasses back up her nose. “I’m Rebecca.”

“What a sweet name. Thank you.”

With a slight bow of her head, she pulls the kerchief tighter around her shoulder and walks back to her mother.

Pastor Jacob comes over and gestures to the door. “Come, we’ll wait in the office.”

“Will Eli be able to help him?”

“In the end, life and death are in the Lord’s hands. As for Eli, he has treated a man with gunshot wounds before.”

“Did he live?”

“There were … complications.”

We arrive at the office door. I stand at the threshold and hesitate. “Complications?”

“John had lost too much blood by the time they brought him to Eli. Please, come in. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks.” I take a seat on the sofa facing his desk. He pours me a cup anyway.

“It’s jasmine, from China.”

“Despite my appearance, I’m not Chinese.”

“Neither am I, I just like it. I have a feeling you will too. Here.”

The mug is warm and soothing. I take a sip. Why haven’t I tried this kind of tea before? Mom used to buy it from Ten Ren Tea House in Chinatown and brew it every weekend. “Mmm. Thank you, it
is
good.”

He sits at his desk, sets his mug down, and folds his hands over his stomach. “You never told me your name.”

“Xandra Carrick. Everything’s happened so fast, I apologize.”

“No need. Pleased to meet you. Now, I must ask—and forgive me if it seems intrusive, but—are you and your friend in some kind of trouble with the law?”

“You could say that.” I take another sip. “But it’s not what you might think.”

“How do you know what I would think?”

“I mean, it’s not what most people would think.”

He spreads his hands and smiles. “Look around you. We’re not like most people.” His office is lit by a kerosene lamp, no lightbulbs, nothing electric. There’s a distinct absence of things you’d find in a typical office: no computer, no printer, no fax machine, no telephone …“But you’ve got a cell phone.”

“Yes, well …” The young pastor bows his head slightly. “For emergencies only. After John died in the hunting accident, I decided against the elders’ counsel to get one. It’s still a sore issue, modern technology and all. But they’ll get used to it.”

“So you’re Amish?”

“Sure aren’t. We’re Old Colony Mennonites.”

“Ah, Mennonites.” I’ve heard but know very little about them.
I certainly don’t want to trumpet my ignorance. “Pastor, sorry to be so direct, but are you going to call the police?”

“You
are
in trouble, aren’t you? Why won’t you just come out and say it?”

I’m in no mood to get into a debate with him. Either he’s going to report us or not. Right? Yet, something in his eyes tells me he has no such intention. “Is it that obvious?”

“Besides the fact that you’re avoiding the authorities,” he slides the drawer out from his desk and places a copy of
USA Today
before me, “it’s all over the news.”

“Oh crap!” There’s a huge, unflattering picture of my face on the front page, taken during my arraignment. “Pardon my French.”

“Quite all right.” His eyes narrow, but at the same time something of a smile emerges.

The headline reads:

Former NY Times Photographer Charged with Murder, Turns Fugitive

“Pastor Jacob—”

“Jake, please.”

“You’ve got a good eye to recognize me from this picture, in my present condition.” The newspaper is trembling in my hands.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Aren’t you going to call the police and turn me in? I’m a murder suspect. For all you know, I’m dangerous.”

Jake simply smiles and shakes his head. He opens a drawer and looks for something. While he does so, he continues to speak, though his eyes are involved with his search. “For all I know—and that’s not really too much, in the grand scheme—you represent a danger to our entire colony, bringing in your worldliness and all.”

“Oh thanks.” I was shot at, beaten, and almost drowned. I’m dangerous? It takes all my self-control to bite my tongue.

“But I do know the truth. You’re innocent.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ah, there it goes.” He places a black notebook on the desk
next to his Bible and thumbs through the pages. His eyes narrow in concentration. He stops on a page, then looks up a passage in the Bible. “Do you believe in God, Xandra?”

“Too deep for me right now.”

“You do or you don’t.”

“Does it matter?”

“It will affect how you receive what I’m about to tell you.”

“Can we check on Kyle first?”

“Don’t worry; Eli will send for us.”

“Fine.” For a moment, neither of us speaks. I want to give Dad a call. But then it occurs to me: someone’s trying to kill me. If I call Dad, I’ll be dragging him into the crossfire. And though that Homeland Security agent was a fake, he had access to my credit-card activity and flight information. He’s obviously someone with impressive resources. For now, I’d best sit tight and hope that Kyle will recover, and soon. He’ll know what to do.

Jake is still waiting for my response. I glance at the worn edges of the leather Bible on his desk. “You know, back when I was thirteen, I stepped up in a youth-group service at church and—how did they put it?—gave my life to Jesus. But it’s been so long since I’ve even thought about it. Since high school, I haven’t even gone to an Easter or Christmas service. Can’t remember the last time I prayed.”

“But do you believe?” Something about Jake and this entire community that looks like a nineteenth-century time capsule puts me at ease.

“I suppose I’m sitting on the fence.”

“Interesting.”

“I mean, part of me thinks there’s got to be more to existence than just being born, living seventy or eighty years, then dying. Of course, you try to do your part in making the world a better place before you go, but … you know? Something more.”

Jake nods thoughtfully.

“But then, there are things that just make you wonder how there could be a God if there’s so much evil in this world.”

“Want to discuss that?”

“Not really.” I set the tea down on the end table. “So, why do you ask?”

He sits up and leans toward me. “You see, depending on what you believe, my answer to your question—how I know you’re innocent—will either make you believe in God more, or simply make you think I’m a liar with a hidden agenda.”

“Let’s say for argument’s sake, I do believe in God.”

“Well then, let’s just say that the Holy Spirit told me you’d be coming here, in need of help.”

If it had been just a couple of weeks ago, I would have laughed (silently, though). But after all the visions I’ve seen, this fascinates me. I reach over to take another sip, but my cup is now empty. I place it back down on the end table. “So what exactly did the Holy Spirit say?”

He gets up and pours me another cup of tea. “It wasn’t an audible voice. More of a knowledge of something to come. But it feels like it already has.”

“Like a premonition?”

“That’d be oversimplifying it a bit, but yes.” He returns to his seat and gazes out the window, from which pale light fades in. The room has grown dim, save for the flickering glow of the lamp. Outside, night descends. “It was revealed to me that someone in great need would be coming to us, seeking help. And that she—
you
have been wrongly accused.”

“You think God’s willing to testify in court?”

“In a way, he’s done far more than that for you and all of mankind. Anyway, great as that false accusation may be, it’s not your biggest challenge.”

“It isn’t?” A chill slithers down my spine.

“When you showed up tonight, I recognized your face from the newspaper and knew you were the one the Holy Spirit meant. The one in great need.”

A chill races through my body. My hair still feels wet and slimy as I twirl it between my fingers. But I’m too focused on what he’s saying to care about pond sludge. “Do you know what just happened to me, to Kyle?”

“No.” His eyes are back now, but with a more troubled expression. “But I do know you’ve got something very important to do, and that you’re still in danger.”

At this point, I feel compelled to share about my darkroom visions. It takes a good ten minutes, but finally I get through it all—the body in Central Park, the awful images of Vietnam, Dad, that soldier from Echo Company living in Alpine. “It feels like they’re all connected. I just don’t see how.”

“Remarkable. But not unbelievable.”

“What are
your
visions like, Jake?”

“They’re spiritual gifts called ‘words of knowledge’ and ‘words of wisdom.’ I believe that’s what you’re manifesting.”

“How is it that I just happen to run into someone like you, who just happens to—”

“Nothing
just
happens. Everything’s connected. By a divine plan. What we humans perceive as infinite possibilities of events doesn’t even come close to the infinite from God’s point of view.”

This is just a bit too bizarre. Should it not be comforting to know that I’m not the only person in the world who experiences these visions, or words of whatever? Instead, Pastor Jake’s confirmation makes me even more anxious. Part of me would like to be told, “You’re just imagining things,” to be written a prescription and medicate it with some antipsychotic pills.

“Charles Spurgeon said, ‘We must take care that we do not neglect heavenly monitions through fear of being considered visionary; we must not be staggered even by the dread of being styled fanatical, or out of our minds. For to stifle a thought from God is no small sin.’”

His words resound in my mind. It feels as though the floor beneath me has vanished.

“You okay, Xandra?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine.”

“You seem upset.”

“Why is all this happening? Why am I having these visions, being charged with murder, and why in the world is someone impersonating a Homeland Security Agent and trying to kill me?”

All at once, I’m aware of a hollowness within me. A void left in Mom’s place when she passed away. She always had answers for me, could always make sense of things. It’s now, as I lean over my knees and bury my tears in my hands, that I realize how much I’ve truly missed her.

Jake’s voice is quiet and gentle but has an authority that speaks to my situation. “Your answers lie in finding the truth behind all those visions. Christ said, ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’”

“I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

“Perhaps that’s what you came out here to discover.” Before he can say another word, a knock comes on the door.

It’s Ruth. “Eli needs to speak with you, Miss. It’s about your friend.”

57

IAN MORTIMER

I’ve been waiting in a locked interrogation room in a suburban police station. All my personal effects have been confiscated. My badge, my gun, my cell phone.

Officer Dowler steps in and takes a seat facing me. “Here’s the problem. Homeland refuses to give me the four-one-one on you, and it’s nagging me like a pebble in my shoe.”