Darkroom
Joshua Graham
YOU SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH, AND THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE …
After scattering her mother’s ashes in Vietnam, photojournalist Xandra Carrick comes home to New York to rebuild her life and career. When she experiences, in her darkroom, supernatural visions that reveal atrocities perpetrated by American soldiers during the Vietnam War, she finds herself entangled in a forty-year-old conspiracy that could bring the nation into political turmoil.
Launching headlong into a quest to learn the truth from her father, Peter Carrick, a Pulitzer Prize laureate who served as an embedded photographer during the war, she confronts him about a dark secret he has kept—a secret that has devastated their family.
Her investigations lead her to her departed mother’s journal, which tells of love, spiritual awakening, and surviving the fall of Saigon.
Pursued across the continent, Xandra comes face-to-face with powerful forces that will stop at nothing to prevent her from revealing the truth. But not before government agencies arrest her for murder, domestic terrorism, and an assassination attempt on the newly elected president of the United States.
Darkroom is a riveting tale of suspense that tears the cover off the human struggle for truth in a world imprisoned by lies.
Within weeks of its release, bestselling author JOSHUA GRAHAM’S debut novel, Beyond Justice, rose to the top of the Barnes & Noble ebook lists in the Legal Thriller and Christian Thriller categories. He was featured on Suspense Magazine’s Best of 2010 list alongside Scott Turow, Brad Thor, Ted Dekker, and Steven James. He lives with his family on the West Coast.
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Praise for Darkroom
“Darkroom comes complete with a great mystery, unearthed secrets, and beguiling adventure. Joshua Graham mines an emotional landscape through an entourage of fascinating characters. Read this one—and take a walk on the perilous side.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Jefferson Key
“Mixing the end of the Vietnam War with a young woman’s paranormal visions of a murder in today’s New York, Graham has created a modern political thriller wrapped in a historical puzzle inside a tale of redemption. The short chapters, told from the point of view of the various characters, give it a cinematic feel and a breakneck pace.”
—Author Magazine
“Bravo! Graham takes characters and puts them inside each other’s lives in such a way that it’s impossible to put his book down until the last word is read…. [His] power with words is absolutely incredible and paints one of the most powerful pictures I’ve ever seen, anywhere.”
—Suspense Magazine
“A vivid retelling of historic events [that] bring the Vietnam War to life in alarming detail. If you like thrillers … then grab this book when it’s released. You’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
—Rhodes Review
“A spellbinding and riveting tale of suspense with international flavor … Wrapped in authentic history, but woven into a tale of mystery and intrigue … full of twists and turns … this riveting tale will keep readers on edge. A book that I highly recommend.”
—East County Magazine
“Graham takes us on a ride full of twists and turns in this emotionally charged quest to find the truth…. I actually found myself holding my breath at times and sympathizing with the characters, feeling outrage when they were wronged, hating the villains or even forgiving them. When it was all said and done, I didn’t feel like I had finished a book; I felt like I had been on a journey.”
—The Top Shelf Book Reviews
“Darkroom is a twisted tale of conspiracies [that] moves at a frantic and suspenseful pace…. Mr. Graham immediately grabs hold of the reader with the tenacity of a pit bull and will not let go until you have read every last page and emerge exhausted and happily satiated from this astonishing ride…. I would not hesitate to recommend Darkroom.… You won’t be disappointed.”
—PsychoticState.net Book Reviews
“The intensity and heart-pounding thrills you’ll feel as you read each page [of Darkroom] will leave you breathless. Blending history with current events, Mr. Graham is a talented author who can wrap the reader in a cocoon of emotions, from bitterness to redemption, and leave the reader feeling as if they were in the story, as if they were the ones plotted against. A fantastic job!”
—Partners in Crime Book Reviews
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Howard Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Joshua Graham
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Howard Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Howard Books trade paperback edition May 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Graham, Joshua.
Darkroom / Joshua Graham.
p. cm.
1. Photojournalists—Fiction. 2. Women journalists—Fiction. 3. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Fiction. 4. War crimes—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.R3385D37 2012
813'.6—dc22
2011020222
ISBN 978-1-4516-5469-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-5477-6 (ebook)
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible, public domain; the New King James Version, Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved; and THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica US, Inc.®. Used by permission.
For Katie, my bride, my muse, the mother of my children, and my best friend. On countless levels, this book would not exist without you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30<
br />
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
The general killed the Viet Cong; I killed the general with my camera. Still photographs are the most powerful weapon in the world. People believe them, but photographs do lie, even without manipulation. They are only half-truths …
—Eddie Adams, Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer of General Nguyễn Ngọc Loan executing Nguyễn Văn Lém, a Vietcong officer, with a pistol to the head
Prologue
IAN MORTIMER
Making people disappear isn’t quite as easy as I remember. Of course, I’m not as young as I used to be. Rigor mortis will soon set in, and I’ve got to dispose of this poor lass’s body straightaway. How can I possibly be doing this again?
Thankfully, no one’s around this time of night. And with her limbs properly weighed down, she’ll stay under until … Bugger! Only three bags in the trunk. I shall have to improvise.
Right. Everything is ready. I cross myself and pull her ever-stiffening body from the trunk. She’s slight—just shy of forty-five kilos, I’d venture—but quite muscular in the limbs.
A heavy duvet of clouds obscures the moon. It’s beastly cold out. Here on the remote side of the pond, far off the path, the rowboat is hidden behind the thicket of reeds, exactly where I left it last night. My headlights are off and I’m parked close enough to lower the body into the boat and row out.
As I lower her into the inky water, I’m careful not to splash. Her sweatshirt balloons, and bubbles surround her. A mane of flaxen hair spreads on the water’s surface.
Bollocks, she’s not sinking!
With my oar, I nudge her down. Even though her hands and feet have submerged, her hair still floats. A halo around the back of her head.
In the distance, a pair of headlights looms. It’s a blooming patrol car. No choice, I’ve got to row back and get away from here. But look at her—the back of her sweatshirt and her head are still bobbing at the surface.
Back in my car now. Slowly making my way back to the main road, I steal another glimpse. She’s still just beneath the surface, her blond hair a clear marker.
The patrol car’s headlights vanish behind a bunch of trees. If they turn left, they’ll be here in less than a minute.
I’m about to crawl clear out of my skin.
And then it happens.
Two large bubbles pop out from under the sweatshirt, just at the nape of her neck, and the weights do their trick. The lass’s body sinks to the bottom of the pond.
That was too close.
With all lights off, I drive off. A minute later, I can see in my rearview mirror that the squad car has just passed the pond. Didn’t even slow down. I’m well on my way home now. Into the warmth of Nicole’s embrace, and to kiss Bobby as he dreams of ponies and puppies.
Good Lord, what have I done?
1
XANDRA CARRICK
Binh Son, Vietnam: October 2008
This was her wish. Dad kept saying that from the moment we boarded our flight at JFK to our first step onto the fertile soil of Bình Sơn, which in English means “peaceful mountain.”
En route to our penultimate destination, Tran, our middle-aged guide, tells us all about the scenery through lively gesticulations and nasal broken English.
“This place all rice field now.” He lifts both hands and spreads them wide. Enthralled by the verdant fronds and the sound of exotic fauna, I hardly notice the weight of my backpack. “But during war, Việt Nam Cộng Sản come here in Bình Sơn.”
Perhaps it’s because I appear more Vietnamese than American that he breaks into the native tongue. Ironically, Dad, an American, knows more about this country than I do. He’s quiet and has been holding the urn under his arm, staring out at the hills.
Out in the lush green paddy fields, a boy prods his water buffalo with a bamboo stick, distracting me from Tran’s narrative. “Viet … what?” I’ve had enough years in weekend Vietnamese language classes to read and write. But this term escapes me.
“Việt Nam Cộng Sản. V.C.” Tran laughs. “You know, Vietcong? Charlie?”
I glance over to Dad, to whom this would hold more meaning.
He shrugs.
That same emptiness in his eyes, which have grown darker and more profound since I was a child, evokes a blunt pang. It's been over a year. Rather than drawing closer, he's grown more distant.
Of course, Tran has no idea that he’s hiking with Peter Carrick, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist who earned coveted accolades for his on-the-spot photos of the massacre at Huế. Nor does Tran realize that his daughter, Xandra Carrick, is a respected photojournalist in her own right. I may not have won a Pulitzer—not yet, anyway—but at twenty-seven, working for the New York Times is not too shabby.
“Vietcong fight American soldier here,” Tran explains, stopping to catch his breath.
I can take some pictures, which I do more out of responsibility to my craft than anything. “Now just rice farm family and water buffalo. Even water buffalo part of family. You know, Chống cảy, vở cấy, con trâu đi bừa.” Which means, The husband plows, the wife sows, water buffalos draw the rake. A proverb Mom taught me years ago, but it’s lost on Dad, who keeps staring at the hills.
“You okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine.”
The boy driving the long-horned beast is at most twelve years old. His loose pants are rolled up past his calves and his feet are submerged in ankle-deep water.
Narrow, peaked hills stand over the horizon, Titans guarding this remote village nestled in the manifold waterways of the Mekong. Palms sway in the earthy breeze blowing through the window and brushing through my now unruly hair.
I reach for Dad’s hand. One can only speculate on the reason for his reluctance to make this trip. As for me, this is my first time in Vietnam and I’m taken by its overwhelming beauty. “Was it like this when—?”
“Xandra, please. Don’t.”
“But there’s so much I want to know about this place, about you and Mom.”
“You know my answer.” The same for years, from the moment I first developed
an interest in his career and experiences during the war.
“Even now?”
“Your mother would understand.” Dad’s gaze returns to the hills. “She knew how I felt about coming back here, but …” His gaze wanders off, draws him away to a time, a place, far off and forbidden. I know that look.
“Never mind, then.” I kiss his hand, lean into his chest.
For the next fifteen minutes, we continue quietly along the trail. Finally, Tran turns around and smiles, a gold tooth glinting in the setting sun. “Okay, we here.”
Still in awe of the breathtaking landscape, I set my pack down, and stretch. The ground is soft and moist, but at the same time it’s as solid as the sidewalk outside my apartment on Central Park West.
Beyond the hilltops, the sun falls to rest in a poignant wash of amber. The chrink-chrink of Rain Quails rings out invisibly behind an emerald veil of bamboo in the distance. Every thought arrested, every word, no one speaks.
The light is perfect, though it won’t last much longer. And despite the somber occasion, I simply cannot forsake the scenery. These shots will help me to remember.
The shutter sounds from my Nikon ripple the silence like a stone tossed into a glassy pond. Still transfixed on that same spot up in the hills, Dad lets out a pointed breath. “Probably not the best time.”
“Just a couple more. For Mom.” A twinge works its way up and lodges in my throat. As Charles Kuralt so aptly put it: “There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass.”
“Make it quick, will you?” He pads over to Tran and hands him a roll of greenbacks. “Cám ỏn nhiêu ľ âm.”
With both hands, Tran receives his payment and bows. He waves and returns to the trail from whence we came.
All is tranquil as the sun passes her mantle to the rising moon. We are serenaded not only by the Rain Quails’ ditty but by a chorus of frogs and crickets as well. Farmers and their water buffalo slosh back to their huts about half a mile downstream of us. Yet they can be heard as though a mere stone’s throw away.
