The Room of White Fire

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Before your time.”

  Wesley sat at a picnic table under the palapa, threading his video camera onto its tripod. Sunglasses on, a bottle of water on the table beside him. He glanced up at us, then went back to his task. He wore cargo pants and athletic shoes, a UCSB hoodie over a T-shirt, and an MTV ball cap. “If we set up in the shade here, I can get enough natural light for Clay’s face,” said Wesley. “But no glare off his monitor.”

  I asked Lindsey how much time she would need to edit Clay’s old video into Wesley’s new video, and upload the best ten minutes of it to YouTube.

  “Hour and a half, minimum.”

  My mind was jumping thought to thought. “I’ve got you an hour,” I said. “Maybe.”

  She looked at me but said nothing.

  —

  I watched through the binoculars as Paige Hulet came up the drive in a sensible white Toyota. Hair up, black suit, white blouse buttoned to the top. Dressing the doctor part for Clay. I thought of her that night in her penthouse, dancing in the swaying black dress, but couldn’t hold the thought long. I waved her into the barnyard shade and took her hand as she climbed out of the car. She kissed me on the cheek, slung her satchel over one shoulder. A smile. Black running shoes instead of the usual black dress shoes. “I can’t wait to lay eyes on him,” she said. “I haven’t not seen him twelve days in a row since he came to Arcadia.”

  “Well, your drought should end at noon.”

  —

  The black Mercedes SUV came up the gravel drive slowly and heavily, a bear sniffing its way through the woods. Through my binoculars I could see the alert young man driving and the older man beside him, and barely make out the shapes of Rex and Patricia Hickman jostling gently in the back. Behind the vehicle, within a faint cloud of dust, the steel gate rolled back into place. I set the remote on the picnic table and checked my watch: 11:33 a.m. Clay was due at noon. I felt the .45 autoloader strapped inside my left calf. Sweaty and rough. Loose-cut cotton trousers and a black T-shirt, light jacket, and low-rise work boots to accommodate the gun. I hoped to be the only armed citizen at this convention but doubted that I would be. Especially if DeMaris and Bodart figured out my trick and decided to loop back and look for the smoke at Rancho de los Robles.

  Rex got out first and marched straight toward me as Patricia climbed out of the vehicle behind him. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt. Patricia hustled to catch up, wobbling in dress shoes, the hem of her white dress lilting. The two security men flanked her, slowing their pace to hers, and escorted her into the shade of the palapa.

  Rex pumped my hand, then Paige Hulet’s. His two security men drifted from the shade to the sun but stayed within earshot. Compact men, sunglasses, the unsubtle signature of weapons under their windbreakers. Rex glanced dismissively at Burt, Lindsey, and Wesley. “Any word from my son?”

  “None anticipated,” I said.

  “He’s due here in exactly twenty-six minutes.”

  Patricia shook my hand and introduced herself to my tenants. She looked flushed and eager. She brushed a fingertip under one eye. “I haven’t seen my son in a year. That’s too long! I hope this all goes well. It has to go well.”

  “Explain your plan,” said Rex.

  I told them what had led us here and what they were about to see. I explained their son’s assignment to White Fire, and his relationship to Briggs Spencer, Donald Tice, and Joe Bodart. And of Clay’s gradual awakening, of the flash drives and the video they contained. I explained Clay’s enthusiasm for Nell Flanagan’s San Diego, and that I had impersonated a Nell Flanagan story editor to get Clay to come here to tape a show.

  Last, I told them about the drugs that Spencer and his co-conspirators at Arcadia had secretly used to keep Clay numb and incoherent for three years, and unable to face his past, or his family’s visits. Paige explained the altered formulary, the medication procedure, how she’d been duped by Spencer and Tice.

  Rex and Patricia both stared at her silently, then turned to me. I could see the anger roiling on his face, and the astonishment on hers. “They gave him drugs to make him crazy?” she asked. “To make him afraid of us?”

  Rex exchanged looks with his security men. “We’ll deal with that son of a bitch Spencer later,” he said to his wife. I thought: Let him.

  “The video you’re about to see is sickening,” I said. “But we need to accomplish two things. One is convince Clay to tell his story to us, in the absence of Nell Flanagan and Briggs Spencer. The second thing is to upload it to YouTube before Arcadia security or Joe Bodart’s Special Activities spooks can intervene. I’ve thrown Spencer and Bodart off the trail, but probably not for long. We might not get more than a minute’s warning if they figure their way here.”

  I told the Hickmans and Paige that if anyone threatened us here, in any way, Lindsey and Wesley would take them and Clay into the house and down into the wine cellar. “It’s the safest place on the property. Burt and I and your two hired gentlemen will deal with whatever disagreements arise. Lindsey and Wesley will be there with you.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Rex. “If there’s trouble, I’m on the front line. Nonnegotiable.”

  “You want your son back?” I asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then do what I say and your chances go up.”

  “Front line, Mr. Ford.”

  “Rex! You can’t—”

  “I can, Pat,” he said quietly. “I’m bringing him home.”

  In the silence that followed Rex Hickman’s words I raised my binoculars to the paved road. Sequoia Blain’s silver pickup truck came along it toward the dirt access road. Clay was at the wheel with Sequoia beside him, both looking intently up the rise to where the house stood. She pointed and said something and Clay drove past the dirt road, around the hill, and out of sight.

  Five minutes later they were back. This time Clay slowed, swung onto the dirt road, and accelerated toward the gate. I took the remote off the barbecue and hit the button. The gate shuddered, and even at this distance I heard the faint clank of the chain as it rolled open. After a long pause the truck started up the drive. I felt a fragile, uncertain happiness that Clay Hickman was now on my property and the gate was about to close behind him. I’d finally bagged him.

  I walked down the road and around the bend to wave them into the barnyard.

  42

  Getting out of the truck, Clay looked somehow larger than he had in the cramped Harbor Palms Motel room. Jeans and a black T-shirt, same camo boots, a fresh haircut. No bulge of a weapon. He looked at me, then took a nylon laptop case from the cab and went around to the other side. Sequoia got out. One look and I saw that she’d made me. I waited for her reaction. She took Clay’s free arm in one hand and together they came toward me.

  “Hello, Mr. Wills,” he said, stopping six feet away.

  “Hello, Clay. My name is Roland Ford and I’m the investigator hired to locate you.”

  His body tensed and he looked sharply at the girl. “Sequoia?”

  “I didn’t know, Clay,” she said. “But this is the guy I told you about and I think we can trust him.”

  “Is Nell here?” he asked.

  “Under the palapa over there,” I said. “With Dr. Hulet and the videographers.”

  “And Dr. Spencer, too?”

  “He’s on his way. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  Burt came down from the patio, introduced himself as Nell’s security. “I’ll have to check that case and pat you down, Clay.”

  “I said I wouldn’t bring the gun.”

  “Then this’ll be a snap.”

  Clay handed him the laptop case. Burt opened, inspected, and zipped it back shut and handed it to me. Clay spread his legs and raised his arms and Burt searched him. When he was finished, Burt stood back and looked at Sequoia, then to me. Her jeans and T-shirt were too tight
to hide a gun.

  “She’s okay,” I said to Burt.

  “Sorry for all this,” he said. He took the laptop and handed it back to Clay. “Welcome to the Ranch of the Oaks.”

  —

  Burt led us across the barnyard, up the drive, and around the bend. I brought up the rear. Sequoia turned and gave me a hard look, then Clay did likewise. Gravel under our shoes, warm breeze. Climbing the railroad-tie steps to the patio, I felt the excitement rippling toward me from the people gathered under the palapa. Like high voltage in the air. I also sensed the jagged suspicion coming from Clay and Sequoia as they followed Burt up the last steps and onto the level ground of the patio. I was the last one up, ready to stop Clay if he panicked at the sight of his parents and tried to run back to the truck.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  “We’re here to take you home,” said Patricia.

  I waved them over. Patricia threw herself into Clay’s arms. Rex set a hand on his son’s shoulder and waited his turn. Clay looked past them to me, his face a mask of stunned confusion. Then the three of them clenched like teammates, Sequoia still hanging on to Clay’s arm, and Paige Hulet pressing into the pack.

  A murmur of voices, soft and comforting. The pack swayed. Slowly and with collective resolve, it shuffled, many-footed and cumbersome, toward the big table, where finally Clay was deposited onto a wooden bench. Rex, Patricia, and Paige untangled themselves and stood close, hands still on him. Sequoia squeezed in by his side.

  With the noontime sunlight hitting his face I saw that Clay’s confusion was being beaten back by other forces. Curiosity? Surprise? His eyes—hazel and blue—looked up at the people around him, and I realized he was seeing them for the first time in years from outside the drug-induced cage in which Briggs Spencer had locked him. Wonder and doubt. Hope and fear. He flattened his palms on the table as if to rise, but the hands remained heavy on his shoulders, and Sequoia held fast to his arm.

  I followed Clay’s gaze to Wesley’s video camera, waiting on its tripod nearby. Then to Lindsey’s pink laptop, loaded with her editing software, and to Lindsey herself, who gave him a calm and welcoming look. “I hear you’ve got some video for us to see,” she said. “And a story to tell.”

  “But where’s Nell Flanagan? And all the TV cameras?”

  “I’m Lindsey. I was a Reaper sensor ball operator for three years of my life. I’ve been in war, and I know video and what to do with it.”

  He looked at me, implosion on his face.

  “She’s not coming, Clay,” I said.

  “Where’s Dr. Spencer?”

  I sat down across from him, and looked him hard in the eyes. “He’s not coming, either. His book is out next week. He wrote almost nothing about Aaban and Roshaan. It’s up to you to do that.”

  “You betrayed me.”

  “I’m giving you a chance to tell your story to the world.”

  He looked at me with cold resentment but said nothing.

  “Listen,” I said. “You run your video and explain what happened at White Fire. Wesley will tape you. When you’re done, Lindsey will cut your story down and edit it over ten minutes of your video. Then upload it to YouTube. Ten minutes is what they give you, Clay. To tell your story to the world.”

  I watched the emotions come to his face. Rolling beneath its surface like swells. Anger. Disbelief. Disappointment. Determination. Anger again. Then a long, indecipherable gaze at the pond. Clay Hickman’s thousand-yard stare. His former selves seemed to parade across his face: the newborn not expected to live, the pained infant, the struggling boy, the determined adolescent, the healing teenager discovering the power of his own will, the young man gaining strength and trying to please, the scholar and the champion athlete who watched the planes hit the towers on TV again and again and joined the Air Force to fight back.

  “Clay,” I said. “You’ve got an hour of video and we’ve got an hour to make this happen. I know you wanted Nell and Spencer here, but your bottle is half full, young man.”

  “Come home,” said Paige Hulet. “We want you back, Clay.”

  “Please,” said Patricia.

  “Bring the white fire to Deimos,” said Sequoia. “Right now.”

  “Son?” asked Rex. “You can do this. You always did whatever you put your mind to.”

  Clay closed his eyes and lifted his chin. Like a bird dog into the wind. His face was peaceful now and he looked asleep. The breeze shivered his white hair. “I got to the prison in March. It was cold. My first thought when I saw the old building was You’re not going to be the same when you leave here. If you ever do.”

  43

  Clay’s introduction to White Fire brought silence from his audience. The forbidding stone exterior. The naked trees and fretful sky and the blackening piles of snow against the courtyard walls. Clay climbing out of a Romanian government truck, puffs of condensation from his nostrils. Shuffling across the stones, raising a hand to the camera, an uncertain smile. Nineteen by then. Just a boy.

  Soft exclamations.

  Then a montage of interior shots: the “lobby” entrance and the mess and the small dark rooms where the Americans lived, then the cells and interrogation rooms with the ceiling chains and shackles, the plastic screens for walling, the isolation boxes and restraint chairs, the waterboards.

  Murmurs and grunts. “Oh, Clay,” his mother said softly. “You were never that.”

  Wesley wedged himself in closer to record Clay in response. “I was part of the team, Mom.”

  “He did what he had to do, Pat,” said Rex.

  Then Aaban arriving in the White Fire courtyard, glaring at the camera with hatred in his eyes. Next a blast of death metal music and Aaban writhing on his toes, dangling by ceiling chains as Briggs Spencer interrogated him. Then Aaban with the Plague of Insects being lowered over his head. Aaban in a wooden collar, walled, and walled again. Spencer’s questions, patient and monotonous. Compliance blows, legs pulped. Aaban convulsing on the waterboard, Clay’s arms locked around his towel-smothered head, torquing his body for breath as Dr. Briggs Spencer aimed the next rush of water. Gargled agony and Spencer’s relentless interrogation.

  Silence under the palapa.

  A smash cut to the courtyard of White Fire and the arrival of a young boy. “Roshaan,” said Clay. “Aaban’s son. Eleven years old. Dr. Spencer thought we could exploit the boy to get to the father.”

  “Good god,” said Paige.

  “No,” said Rex.

  “You didn’t,” said Patricia.

  My burner phone vibrated. I stepped away from the show and checked my watch.

  Dick: “I got pulled over for speeding outside El Centro. Eighty-five in the seventy. Exactly thirty-eight minutes ago. Couldn’t talk my way out of it so I stood there in the sun while the son of a bitch wrote me up. Kept an eye on the cars that passed me. So guess what? A black Charger and a white Range Rover went by. Blacked out windows, just like you said. Kind of close together, too, like a team. It took the cop forever to cite me, like he was just learning how to print or something. When he finally handed me the ticket to sign I saw the same black Charger and white Range Rover coming back in the other direction. Moving right along, this time. Back toward San Diego.”

  “Turn the transmitter off and keep going.”

  “Sorry, Roland. They had to have made me. I had your lucky hat on and everything.”

  “You did well. Keep going.”

  I rang off. My ruse had worked so far: by the time DeMaris and Tice had discovered that I was not the truck driver in the white hat, they were well on their way to Yuma. Now that they knew something was up, they would have to figure Rancho de los Robles, but they were over an hour away. Time enough. And more good news: Bodart, tracking the phone GPS in my truck, had the high-tech luxury of following from a much greater distance. Miles, in fact. So it was possible that he had missed the s
peeding stop altogether and was still headed west for Arizona. Possible.

  I had my hour.

  Back to the patio. Groans of disgust as Briggs Spencer aimed another flood into Aaban’s anguished face. Young Roshaan stood in the background, plainly terrified.

  The next minutes played out with all of the nightmare choreography I remembered. Roshaan’s rush for his chained father, Clay’s takedown and choke hold on the boy, the Malinois growling midair, the frantic scramble to revive Roshaan, and the staggering, unbelieving realization that he was dead.

  For a long while I heard nothing but the hiss of the April breeze in the palm fronds of the palapa.

  Then came the scenes that Clay wouldn’t show me in the Oceanside motel. As they played out, I understood why. First, Roshaan’s body, lying curled up and wrapped in blankets in what appeared to be a very old steamer trunk. Someone had combed his hair and placed bricks around him. The room was dark but Roshaan rested pale in a beam of icy light. Then a cut to Clay and John Vazquez. They were bulkily dressed against the cold—gloves, watch caps pulled down snug—and push-pulling the heavy trunk across a river walk caked in dirty snow. The trunk was wrapped in chains and padlocks and it scraped loudly. The Dambovita flowed just beyond them, high, black, and sullen. The two men grunted and their breath hung in the cold air, and Donald Tice’s hands shook as he held the camera. Clay and Vazz grunted and muscled the trunk up onto the stone wall and rested for a moment, looking at each other. Clay glanced at Tice. Then the rasp of trunk and chain on icy stone, and the sudden dive. Roshaan made a neat, small splash and vanished.

  Silence again from the living. I looked from face to face, their expressions so varied and strong.

  Clay emptied.

  Paige stunned.

  Rex in grim shame.

  Patricia in disbelief.

  Sequoia in dull acceptance.

  Lindsey nodding sadly, as if she’d somehow foreseen all of this.

  Wesley still shooting video, and the two security men staring stoically at the screen.