Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

  Returning to the hotel, he would pass reporters asking what he had found. He developed stock answers to their questions, suppressing his tense anger over the flickering, endless films which would not save Carson. After the first night, he ordered from room service.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Lord found the film.

  A nineteen-year-old boy, his movements jerky from drugs and fear, his eyes unmistakably Carson’s.

  Alone in the witness room, the same eyes watched Lord, much older. “You look tired,” Carson said.

  Lord tried to conceal his tension. “It’s a long flight home.”

  Tapping a cigarette, Carson still watched him.

  “There’s a film, Harry.”

  A change in the eyes, like dilation—fear, perhaps hope. “Does it show what happened?”

  “Some.” Lord lit Carson’s cigarette. “Can you remember anything?”

  “Capwell.…” Carson’s fingers twitched. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, watching the smoke as it vanished. “He’s bleeding.…”

  “And then?”

  His eyes flickered. “I’m landing in Oakland.”

  The cigarette burned in Carson’s hand. “I want you to see this,” Lord said finally.

  A quick, shallow puff. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.” Lord hesitated. “On the witness stand.”

  Carson’s eyes flew open. “In front of them?”

  “Yes.”

  A tremor of one hand, covered with the other. “Why then?”

  “To help you testify.”

  The cigarette kept burning. “I don’t want that,” Carson murmured.

  “Want what?”

  A flush appeared on his neck. “To know what went down.”

  “Why?”

  “The stuff I remember—what John said. It’s bad, still.”

  Lord watched him—cornered, fearful-looking. “Is there something else you didn’t tell me?” An ash fell on the table. “Maybe something you told Damone.”

  Staring at the ashes, Carson shook his head. “Why, man?” he murmured finally. “Why do you want me to talk?”

  “Because I can’t prove you didn’t plan to shoot Kilcannon.” Lord leaned forward. “You’re our only chance, Harry.…”

  “Then show me the film. Before.”

  “DiPalma’s waiting for you.” Lord paused. “If you watch now, then he’ll say we put together a story to go with it. I’d rather you try to remember in court—whatever comes out.”

  Carson opened his mouth, but could say nothing.

  Lord clasped his arm. “You said you wanted to see Cathy someday, away from this. However it goes tomorrow, I’ll do my best to make that happen.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Carson nodded.

  Lord waited for his own tension to ease; it wouldn’t.

  “Let’s get ready, then.” He took the cigarette from Carson’s fingers, before it burned them. “I’ll be DiPalma.”

  There was something wrong.

  Finishing the milk shake, Lord stared at the ceiling of his motel room. In the role of DiPalma, he had done too well. Except that DiPalma might falter on motive.

  If Carson had no rational motive, what had made him mention politics the night he shot Kilcannon? To cover his own confusion?

  Who had called Marcia?

  He looked at the stuffed bear, hastily purchased at National Airport, still in its bag. His wristwatch read 12:01—too late to call Christopher.

  In nine hours, the trial would resume, and he would gamble everything. Now he waited, in a motel room near the courthouse. Registered under his father’s surname, the Polish one, before his father had changed it.

  Another cubicle, he thought. Another television. He crumpled the empty milk shake carton.

  He had to win. There was no margin in his life for losing.

  2

  EXCEPT for Lord, the courtroom was still.

  The bailiff’s finger rested on the light switch. The gallery had stood, including Shriver, pressed to the glass. Inside, the jury faced a blank screen. Kleist had put away his notepad; DiPalma and his assistants formed a silent row. Behind the partition, Lord saw Rachel with Hart Taylor, watching Carson.

  He had borrowed Lord’s red silk tie; jittery on the witness stand, he kept checking the knot.

  “Harry,” Lord said, “I’d like you to watch the screen.”

  In a seeming reflex, Rainey nodded for him, and then Carson’s eyes moved, head following.

  Lord saw the TV camera turning with him. A hall of mirrors, he thought, then realized he had forgotten to signal. He glanced at the film technician, then the bailiff.

  The room went dark. On the screen, numbers flashed downward.

  A picture—the burnt stalks of trees, silvery black and white. As the camera swept them, a figure appeared.

  Carson was dressed as a Vietnamese.

  He walked bent, disguising his height, sandy hair concealed by a conical hat. It might have been more comic than frightening, except for the trees and the look of his eyes, like burn holes.

  The focus widened.

  Dressed like Carson, two other men moved with him in what had once been forest—on a hillside, sloping downward, its trees seared with an eerie uniformity. That there was no sound made it surreal; the midday sun looked like the moon.

  They stopped together—Carson, a radioman, a third man with a beaked nose and white, sudden grin, pointing forward. Capwell, Lord was certain.

  The camera followed where he pointed.

  At the bottom slope, the burnt forest became lush jungle, so thick its treetops merged in a canopy. Perhaps a mile farther was a clearing, with thatched huts that looked like toys. Four inches of film from Capwell’s finger.

  Facing him, Carson nodded.

  The film was crisp, astonishingly professional. As the camera recorded them, the three men started down the hillside with knives, machetes, M-16s. The village disappeared from view, and then they reached the jungle.

  In front of them, odd-shaped leaves and shrubbery came from every angle. Swinging his machete at the wall of foliage, Carson hacked his way inside, toward the village.

  Suddenly, it was dark.

  A flash of white sun on a machete blade—an adjustment in the lens, admitting light. The three men reappeared as shadows, swinging machetes between shafts of sunlight, filtered by trees. The effect was claustrophobic; dense, shapeless leaves, a few feet of vision, the drugged, frenzied rhythm of blades hacking darkness. A figure knelt—Carson, then the others, to rest.

  As Capwell wiped his forehead, the camera zoomed in on Carson’s foot. It was bare; the leech became a stain when Carson slapped it. His eyes fixed on the camera, hostile.

  Capwell pulled him up.

  Their blades beat forward again, feet at a time. The light gave off a kind of steam.

  Lord tensed, waiting.

  Suddenly the radioman dived; what looked like a grenade rolled between his legs. Carson jerked up his rifle. It recoiled; something fell from above; someone in the courtroom gasped.

  The camera veered.

  On the ground, near the radioman, was the headless body of the monkey Carson had shot. Capwell reached, grasped the grenade, and held it to the camera. His smile was fixed, unnatural. The grenade was a coconut.

  He turned to Carson; as if synchronized, their heads tilted. Lord imagined them listening to the echo of the bullet, wondering how far the sound had carried.

  The radioman rose, fumbling with his equipment. His fingers did not seem to work. When Capwell lobbed the coconut, it bounced off his chest.

  The three men stood in a semicircle, staring at each other, surrounded by dark. Deciding.

  Capwell’s neck twitched toward the village.

  Carson turned, facing the same direction. Slowly, he nodded.

  Across the courtroom, Lord looked toward Carson. The beam of the projector was between them; in its light Carson’s face was yellow, older, as he watched the boy he had been start c
utting toward the village again.

  They seemed even tenser now; every few feet, they stopped to listen.

  All at once, the men sheathed their machetes. As they crept forward, there was a change in the quality of light—the leaves were sharper, the darkness at their feet became damp ground and brush.

  Over Carson’s shoulder, framed by leaves, was the clearing.

  For minutes, the camera was still. Pieces of life moved past—a chicken, a covey of children, a woman bearing water. Normal, even banal, except that there were no men.

  Carson and Capwell turned to each other. Capwell’s lips opened; somehow Lord knew this had been silent, a warning. Carson’s eyes were hollow.

  Together, they looked at his watch. From the angle of light before them, Lord guessed it was late afternoon.

  Jerkily moving on the balls of their feet, the three men broke from the jungle.

  The village was nine or ten hooches, surrounding a center courtyard. The women and children there were already still, backs to the camera. Loping toward them were three other men in pajamas, too tall for Vietnamese, their rifles unslung.

  They began raiding hooches.

  Turning from them, the camera followed Carson.

  Necks turning from side to side, he and his team entered a hooch with their M-16s pointed.

  The hooch was dim, cramped, with three cushioned chairs and a thatched table. On the wall was a wooden carving of Ho Chi Minh; beneath that was a washbasin, half-filled with filmy water, scissors, and a straight razor balanced on its edge. A primitive barber shop, Lord guessed.

  Carson was staring at the table.

  There was a bamboo cup, next to a bottle that looked like rice wine. The bottle seemed empty. Carson grasped the cup; wine sloshed when he slapped it down.

  The camera kept moving, to an indentation in the cushion of one chair.

  Carson reached out, touching it, turned to the others. Lord mouthed it with him: “Warm.”

  Capwell spun as if startled. Suddenly they were running past the camera, Carson holding a grenade.

  Swinging wildly, the camera stopped in the doorway.

  Outside, the women and children were gone. Five men were running with rifles; behind them the taller men sprawled dead at various angles. As Carson and his team appeared, they opened fire.

  The radioman’s head snapped backward; Capwell crumpled; Carson threw his grenade.

  The camera caught its parabola—a perfect arc, spreading the Viet Cong as it fell among them.

  The ground rose first. Then a second grenade hit, wafting dead or dying VC to various heights. The camera followed one. He seemed to rise in slow motion, arms flailing like a rag doll, then snapped in midair, falling in a precipitous heap.

  Except for bodies, there was no one in the courtyard.

  Slowly, the camera panned the village.

  The radioman had fallen on his back. There was a hole in his eye socket; only his lower body moved at all. The camera kept circling.

  Carson held Capwell, hands clamped across a stain in his chest. As he tried to lift him, Capwell’s hat tumbled off, exposing curly hair.

  Staring up at the camera, Carson’s eyes seemed disbelieving. His mouth opened—it might have been a curse or plea for help—and then he reached out for the dead man’s radio. Grasped it, finally, to sling on one shoulder.

  Capwell’s eyes moved, trying to follow.

  Cradling his head, Carson rose with him. Capwell’s legs stretched limp but straight in front of him, resting on their heels. From the two men’s shadows, Lord could see it was dusk.

  Carson began dragging Capwell toward the jungle.

  The two men moved backward, Capwell’s head on Carson’s shoulder, gazing up at him, tears running down Carson’s face as he staggered, blood on his fingers now, trickling from one corner of Capwell’s mouth. They reached the edge of the jungle; first Carson vanished, then Capwell, the bare heels of his feet leaving trails as they disappeared, and then the film went black.

  When the lights came on, Carson was blinking at the screen. The rest of him didn’t move.

  “After that,” Lord asked softly, “what do you remember?”

  He didn’t react; the jurors’ looks held nervous empathy.

  “Harry?”

  Mechanically, Carson’s head turned to Lord.

  “The first thing that comes to you.”

  Carson’s face twisted. “Uh …”

  There was dull pain in the sound. “VC?” Lord prodded.

  Carson looked up at the ceiling. “There were more.”

  “Where?”

  “In the jungle.” His mouth stayed open. “At night.”

  Lord put both hands in his pockets. “What happened?”

  “I shot them.” Carson touched his forehead. “We made it to the paddies. You could hear rice, moving in the wind.…” The odd, poetic detail seemed to widen his eyes.

  “Was it still night?” Lord asked.

  “Uh—yeah.”

  “How long did that take you?”

  A strange, surprising smile. “A long time.”

  Lord watched him. “Where was the cameraman?”

  The smile vanished. “With us.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  Silence. “No.”

  Lord watched him. “Was Capwell alive?”

  “I bandaged him.” Carson’s tone was wondering. “The water was at our necks. I couldn’t tell if he was bleeding.…”

  “Could he walk?”

  “I carried him.” Carson’s gaze fell. “There was blood on his face.”

  Lord moved closer. “The VC,” he began. “Did they …”

  “He was moaning.” Carson angled his head. “They heard him.”

  Gripping his notepad, Kleist did not write. “Who?” Lord asked.

  “A VC. In the rice.…” The voice trailed off.

  Lord leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “I dragged Capwell out.…”

  Please, Lord thought, remember. “Where?”

  “Up on the mud.” Carson hesitated. “He kept moaning.…”

  Lord nodded encouragement. “What did you do?”

  “I …” A hesitance, then sudden clarity. “I covered his mouth and shot him full of morphine.”

  “They gave you morphine?”

  “If you got captured, see, you couldn’t tell them shit for a while … couldn’t remember.…”

  Lord’s stomach felt empty. “Did he stop moaning?”

  “Yeah.” The strange smile again. “He started asking for beer.…”

  “Beer?”

  “Schlitz.” The rueful tone became frightened. “In the middle of the fucking delta, with Charlie hunting us.…”

  “Did you try something else?”

  Carson’s eyes shut. “I left him there with the camera guy, calling for Schlitz.”

  Rainey’s mouth was a tight, thin line. “Did they capture him?” Lord asked.

  A long pause. “No.…”

  Pain again, reluctance. Lord moved next to him. “What happened?”

  Carson shut his eyes. “I hid till Charlie found them. He aimed his rifle …”

  The sentence died. Gently, Lord said, “The VC killed them?”

  Carson’s mouth opened; there was no sound, and then he answered, “I cut the VC’s throat.”

  There was utter silence.

  Breaking it, Carson’s voice held quiet amazement. “First time.…”

  His eyes opened. Lord moved in front of him, to help. “Were there others …?”

  “I dragged the dead VC to the water and ripped his head back, so the water would go through the slit.” Carson’s eyes didn’t move. “See, when their lungs fill up with water, they sink.…”

  “You didn’t want him found.…”

  “His lungs were filling up, and Capwell’s still calling for beer.”

  Lord’s throat was dry. Jurors stared down, one with hands to her face, and the gallery was a stunned, silent f
rieze. Lord realized that he was searching them, for Damone.

  Turning to Carson, he saw a new focus in his eyes. “Capwell,” Lord said. “What did you do about him?”

  Carson seemed to recall something. “He’d have choked if we’d covered his mouth anymore.” A short pause. “I told the camera asshole to not touch him or he’d die.”

  The last had an unnerving lucidity. “Could you move him?”

  Carson stared at the floor. “I radioed Glennon.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That we had his film and the prisoner he’d wanted us to get—to send out a patrol boat.” A sly, sheepish smile. “I said to bring beer.”

  “Was Capwell still asking for it?”

  “For a while.” Carson’s voice was gentle. “I held him, then he was quiet.”

  Lord studied him. “Did Glennon come?” he finally asked.

  “With three others.” Carson’s speech was becoming trancelike. “In a patrol boat, before dawn.”

  It sounded final, somehow. “What happened?”

  “I took a beer from Glennon and poured some in Capwell’s mouth.” Carson paused in disbelief. “It just came back out.”

  Someone coughed, once.

  Softly, Lord asked, “What did Glennon do?”

  Carson’s mouth worked. “‘You lying asshole,’ he tells me. ‘He’s stiff. You dragged me out here for a fucking corpse.’”

  Distractedly, Lord touched the bridge of his nose. “Did you answer?”

  A small headshake. Raising one arm in front of him, Carson answered, “I took out the Mauser to kill him.”

  “Did you fire?”

  Carson stared at his arm. “They grabbed me.”

  “And then?”

  “Glennon shot me full of morphine.”

  There was a tightness in Lord’s chest. “After that,” he ventured, “what do you remember?”

  Carson lowered his arm. It hung loosely, like his head. “I’m home. My mother’s pissed at me for swearing.…”

  His voice stopped. He didn’t speak or move, nor did anyone.

  “And what do you remember,” Lord asked finally, “about the night you killed the senator?”

  Carson’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, man.…”

  “Anything at all.”

  Carson hunched, as if from a blow. “There was shouting, over and over, in my head.…”

  “What was it like.”