Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  Time away from the Stacy Dellafina case has helped clear my mind. I’m ready to go back into the darkroom now. One of two things will happen. One: I will see nothing unusual and know that everything I saw had just been a random coincidence. Strange as it was, things like that do happen.

  Or two: I will see more mysterious images. If that happens, I will definitely call Kyle Matthews. Either way, I’m ready.

  Everything’s in place. I’m just about to shut the darkroom door when my cell phone on the coffee table outside buzzes like a nest of angry hornets. “It would ring now.”

  I’m going to let it roll over to voice mail.

  Lights out.

  Under the protection of the safelight, I begin my work. Today’s shots might actually yield a Marbury winner. A minute into the process, my landline rings.

  “Oh, come on. Not now.” Let it ring. I’m busy getting my life back on track. It’s about time for me to make a contact sheet when my answering machine starts taking a message. It’s pretty loud and I can hear it through the door.

  “Xandra. It’s Kyle Matthews. We need to talk.”

  24

  “Hello? You there, Xandra? If you are, please pick up.”

  Muttering things that Mom wouldn’t be proud to hear me say, I reach for the cordless I keep in the darkroom. “Kyle?”

  “Screening your calls?”

  “I’m a little busy.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Not really.”

  Does he expect me to drop everything just to talk to him? “Give me a sec, okay? I’m in the darkroom right now.”

  “In your apartment?”

  “Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that?”

  “I just didn’t think anyone … never mind.”

  This contact sheet isn’t going to turn out anyway. I wipe my hands, step out into my living room, and exhale. “Okay, what did you want to talk about?”

  “I’d rather do this in person.”

  “Sure, that’d be really convenient for you. But I have things to do today and—”

  “I’m not far.”

  “Where are you?” The answer comes with a knock on the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I think you’re going to want to hear this.”

  I open the door, and there he is standing there. Tall, confident, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. “May I?”

  I remove the security chain and let him in. “You’re impossible.”

  “That’s what Momma always says.”

  “Says?”

  “I still am.”

  “Apparently.” I motion to the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No lattes, thanks.”

  Returning with two cans of Diet Coke, I take a seat across from him and offer him one.

  He gives it a queer look. “Diet?”

  “Do you know how much sugar there is in regular Coke?”

  “Keeps me going.”

  “That’s the caffeine, mostly.”

  He takes a sip, grimaces, then smiles and tilts his can toward me. “Gotta maintain that figure of yours, I suppose.”

  “Not sure how that’s relevant.”

  “It’s not. But this is.” From his raincoat lying across the sofa, he pulls a stack of paper and places it on the table. “Turns out you were right.”

  Even after two or three glances at the numbers and cryptic language on the paper, I still don’t know what I’m staring at. I look up and shrug. “What is all this?”

  “Stacy did have another blog.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s no longer up on the internet. When you try to go to the web address, you get ‘Page could not be found.’ It’s been gone almost three weeks now, and the hosting service has since expunged its cache. No backups either, which is odd because—”

  “Hold on! I was right?”

  “You’ve led us to another key to this case.”

  “But you said the blog was taken down.”

  After a final sip, Kyle licks his lips in distaste and puts the can down on the table. “Google has a feature that caches defunct websites. I found it under a different DNS name and made copies of the entries.”

  At this point, I’m starting to lose that confidence that took two days to build. I’m going to have to talk about the darkroom.

  “Xandra, level with me, okay? Did you know Stacy?”

  “I told you before, no.” Now I’m up pacing before my window looking down at Central Park. My arms are folded, and I’m twirling a lock of hair between my fingers. “I’ve never met her. Why do you keep asking me?”

  “In her last few entries, she mentioned your name.”

  “She what?”

  “That’s right, she names you.”

  “Well, people know me through my work. Maybe she’s into photography or something.”

  “Read the highlighted sentences in this entry dated October 25, 2008.” He flips through the printouts and pins a finger down on one of the sheets. “And quit pacing, will you? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Hmph.” I step over and take the pages. The blog reads:

  I’ve always felt there was something missing in my life since I was a child. With my parents’ divorce when I was only four, I barely remember my father. Then he died when I was eight. Never had the chance to see him—wonder if that’s because he didn’t want to see me, or if Mom wouldn’t let him, or whatever. I’ve been wanting to learn as much about him as possible. Mom’s impossibly tight-lipped, so I did some research on my own.

  Turns out, there was this photographer in the 1970s who went with my father’s platoon during the Vietnam War. His name is Peter Carrick. Did a Google on the name but got little info besides his website. But check it—his daughter, Xandra (cool name!), lives pretty close to the dorms. I’m going to see if I can meet her. Maybe she can introduce me to her dad. He could probably tell me things about my father. Just gotta be careful not to let Mom find out.

  I’m trying to keep my hands from shaking, but it’s a bit too much. “Was she stalking me?”

  “Sure you never met?”

  My fist comes to rest on my hips. “Never.”

  “Then I really have to ask.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  25

  His eyes are lasers, boring with pinpoint precision into my mind.

  “How could you possibly have known all about Stacy? Her body in the pond, her blog?”

  “Whatever happens, you have to believe me. I’m not lying.”

  Kyle gets up and walks over and stands next to me. He’s looking out the window and with all seriousness says, “I can tell when people lie. And if you were going to lie, you’d have done so already.”

  “Right.” He reads me like a book. It makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable around him. “And you’re not going to laugh.”

  “Trust me.”

  “I don’t trust people who say that.”

  “All right, then. Sometime this decade would be nice.”

  “It’s not that easy. I mean, I wouldn’t have given this any credence if it hadn’t happened twice. And you know, there has to be a logical explanation for this. No matter how bizarre, how coincidental—”

  “Do you always ramble on like this?”

  “Only when I’m nervous or excited.”

  “Which are you now?”

  “You tell me, you’re the profiler.”

  “Both. Now get on with it, will you?”

  “If you’d just stop interrupting me, I might be able to.” I cross my arms. An awkward silence ensues. If he’s annoyed, it’s not showing. I, on the other hand, feel as if my left breast has popped out of my shirt at the Super Bowl on national television. “Anyway … It happened in the darkroom.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I saw an image of Stacy lying face down in the pond, before I called the police.”

  “So you have a photo of th
at.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I saw the image, but it wasn’t really there. I mean, when I turned on the light, the photo of the pond was there, the way I shot it. But the image was gone.”

  He rubs the whiskers on his chin, and it makes an abrasive sound that I find strangely irritating and comforting. “Interesting.”

  “You think I’m lying.”

  “Or crazy?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Neither. You’re sincere. Now, was it the same with the blog? Another vision?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m sure it’s real. And you confirmed it by finding the deleted blog entry. Kyle, what’s going on? Am I having some kind of memory lapse? Could it be that I really did meet her and have forgotten everything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He doesn’t answer for a while. The question sinks in deep, and I can tell he’s very careful about what he says in situations like these. Finally, he turns to face me. “Can you do it again?”

  26

  “Do it again? You mean, reproduce the experience?” I can’t believe he’s asking this.

  “Can you make those images appear again?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Can we both fit in your darkroom?”

  “It’ll be tight, but yes.” Actually, it would be great to have him see this. I can’t bear it alone much longer.

  In the narrow confines of my darkroom, Kyle has to squeeze past me to get in place. My cheeks burn as his firm musculature presses against my arm and back. But his demeanor, as far as I can tell in the dimness of the safelight, is strictly professional.

  After four or five tries on the same duck-pond photo, nothing turns up. I let out a frustrated breath and try some other shots. “Oh, come on.” Still nothing.

  “When exactly does the special image appear?”

  “After the real image comes up, like a reflection in the solution, but more real.”

  I try a few more negatives, but to no avail. “It’s not happening.”

  “Maybe it’s me.”

  “All right.” I reach for the doorknob and let him out. “Give me a few.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I swear, I’m not making this up.”

  As the door shuts, he says in a calm voice, “I keep telling you I believe you. When are you going to believe me?”

  Without much hope for a different outcome, I slide another negative into the enlarger, expose the print. This time I try a higher contrast filter, though there’s no particular reason it should make a difference. Developer, stop bath, fix.

  Kyle is right outside the door. “Anything?”

  “Don’t nag.”

  The print’s image in the tray is coming up now. This one is from Bình Sơn. The remains of an abandoned hut, the open dirt area in the center of the village. To my surprise, something appears on the ground that I know hadn’t been there when I took this picture. “Oh … Oh my—”

  “Xandra?”

  “Not yet! Do not come in!”

  I know how this will go—the moment I turn on the lights, the image will disappear. I’ve got to remember what I see, though. There’s an old notebook in the drawer under the enlarger that I used to use as a work journal. At least I can write it down, maybe even draw some of it.

  Except there’s no pen or pencil to write with! “Never one around when you need one!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You got a pen, Kyle?”

  He does, and slides it under the door. Then I record what I see. To my utter amazement, just about every subsequent print I develop has some kind of foreign visual artifact floating about it. And they only appear once. If I try to expose another copy of that same picture, nothing.

  Kyle knocks on the door. “At least tell me if you’re getting anything.”

  I’ve seen about four images now. “You would not believe …”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Afraid not. Give me a few more minutes.”

  “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes.”

  My mouth fills with imaginary cotton as I continue to write and describe these visions. The same horrific dread I felt the first time this happened encroaches upon my mind. My scalp, spine, hands, and feet are cold and numb, as if they all fell asleep at once, but it almost hurts.

  The spectral reflections have stopped. I’m not imagining it. To the best of my abilities, I’ve written down what I saw. When I turn the lights on, all the prints appear normal without the ghost images. I can’t say the same for my mental state.

  It’s not much, as far as Kyle can tell, but the notebook in my hand is all I can provide. And if the visions I’ve just seen are anything like the previous two, there’s a good chance they will have far-reaching implications.

  “You okay?”

  “I think so.” I hand him the book. His concern is genuine, not a bit patronizing. “You’re shaking.”

  Before his fingers even touch the notebook, a heavy knock comes on my door. A black déjà vu enshrouds my heart. Clutching the notebook to my chest, I walk to the door and peer through the eyehole.

  “Lieutenant Nuñez?”

  “Open the door, Ms. Carrick.”

  Confused and more than a little afraid, I comply. “Kyle, what’s—”

  “Xandra Carrick,” Detective Nuñez says, a male plainclothes cop at her side. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Stacy Dellafina.”

  27

  “No, wait. This is a mistake!” I turn to Kyle, but he’s equally confused. Nuñez continues to read me my rights as her partner pulls my hands behind my back and cuffs me. “Kyle, tell them! I didn’t do anything.”

  He steps forward and protests. But Nuñez just ignores him and continues to tell me that I have a right to an attorney; if I can’t afford one, the court will appoint one for me … all the words blur.

  “This is insane!” Kyle is right in her face now. “Where’s your probable cause?”

  Finally, the detective snaps a cold glare at him. “You ought to know, Matthews. You handed it to me.”

  “He what?” I’m more addled than ever.

  Kyle motions for me to keep quiet. “I’m going to take this up with your chief, the commissioner—”

  “You were the one who told me to check Dellafina’s missing blog entries.”

  The toxic sting of betrayal rises into my throat. “Kyle, how could you?”

  “It’s not like that!” He continues speaking to Nuñez. “That information wasn’t meant to implicate her—”

  “Dammit, Kyle!”

  He’s facing me but can’t quite look me straight in the eye. “I didn’t mean for—”

  “I asked you not to tell anyone!”

  The detective’s partner urges me through the door. “This way, ma’am.”

  “You might want to remind your frie—the suspect—that anything she says can and will be held against her in a court of law.”

  28

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Saigon: April 21, 1975

  I cannot believe it. President Thieu has resigned. Whatever happened during the Paris Peace Accords two years ago seems to have failed. The Americans have withdrawn their troops and all other support. Both the North Vietnamese and the Provisional Revolutionary Government here in the South have been trying to overthrow Thieu and remove whatever is left of the government supported by the United States.

  Kissinger and Nixon have abandoned us. They had promised resources to help our military hold off the North Vietnamese forces, which are now approaching and getting in position to take Saigon. I am glad Nixon has been removed. It’s only fair. Look what he’s done to our president and country.

  I have been avoiding Peter since he proposed marriage. I could not give him a better answer than, “May I please consider your request and let you know my answer in a few days?” It has been two weeks.

  He is a good man, but it is not simply the
commitment that frightens me. If I marry Peter, I must leave my home for a foreign country of which I know very little, where I know nobody. It is an entirely new world, and I am uncertain.

  Yet, while I deliberate, my own world unravels before me. The land of my parents is no more, I have no living relatives in Vietnam, and any day now, the Communists will overthrow the government.

  At the very least, Peter offers me security and safe passage. What is the matter with me? Why is this so difficult? He is a handsome and kind man. More than capable of taking care of me. Father and Mother would approve of him, as long as he doesn’t force me to relinquish my heritage. Most of all, he loves me. Which is more than my parents had in a time when marriages were arranged at a very young age, like an exchange of commodities.

  What shall I do? Is it too late anyway? I only hope he has not taken my silence as a rejection and left Saigon.

  Saigon: April 22, 1975

  I cannot find Peter. Every time I go to the Caravelle Hotel, they say he is not there. He has not yet checked out, though. I am very concerned. I heard today that the town of Xuân Lộc has fallen to the Communists. This means they have control of the key roads to the capital. I have no doubt Saigon will come under attack. It is just a matter of time.

  Saigon: April 25, 1975

  There is a tension in the city that is difficult to describe. Many of our troops that fought to defend Xuân Lộc have entered Saigon. While passing through Lam Son Square, I spoke with one who could not help shouting in frustration, with embittered tears. “They have abandoned us. They have all abandoned us!”

  “Who, the Americans?”

  “Our leaders, our commander-in-chief!”

  “President Thieu?” I was still accustomed to referring to him as president.

  “General Thieu. Have you not heard?”

  “Yes, a few days ago. He resigned.”

  “No, I am talking of the news today.”

  “What has happened?”

  “Thieu has fled to Taiwan, and they’re saying he’s taken all the gold reserves of South Vietnam with him.” I stood dumbfounded as the soldier spat and trudged away, cursing Thieu for inviting the Communists to help themselves to our country.