The Darkness hp-5 Read online

“Did you know,” Chester continued, “that over a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs in this city in the last two years? I mean, Christ, think about it. Think about how many of those hundred thousand used to work here,” he said, gesturing to the towering skyscrapers that housed floors and floors of seasoned pros. “Think how many of them used to walk these streets. And now think about how many of them are sitting at home right now, watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that probably won’t come.”

  Chester looked out the window as he said those last words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.

  Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.

  Didn’t want Chester to know what he was thinking.

  “Think how many of those people,” Chester continued,

  “would give anything for the chance to replace that income.” He stopped. Looked at Morgan. “And then some.

  What would you do for that chance?”

  Morgan’s eyes met Chester’s directly. Without hesitation, he said, “Anything.”

  “We’ll see.”

  13

  “I, uh…I think I’ll go check my mail,” Pam said.

  Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said,

  “That’s not a bad idea. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a few minutes.”

  “She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to,”

  Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.

  “No, she doesn’t. That’s why I’m asking. And,” Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a twenty-dollar bill, “I’ll pay for her next beer run.”

  “Classy, mom,” Abigail said. She sighed, looked at

  Pam. “This won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Half an hour,” Paulina said. Abigail looked at her mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.

  “Fine. Half an hour. And take the money.”

  “I really shouldn’t…” Pam said.

  Abigail continued, “Trust me. It doesn’t begin to cover what she owes me.”

  Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room, leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.

  “Can we talk inside?” Paulina said. She peeked into the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as

  Paulina’s ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.

  She didn’t have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose to, so be it.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Abigail said, checking her watch.

  “Then I want you out of here.”

  “I don’t like being here any more than you like me being here,” Paulina said. “Trust me, I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

  They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window slightly to let the smoke drift out.

  “When did you start smoking?” Paulina asked.

  “When did you start caring?” Abigail answered.

  “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

  “Is that what you want? You want me to make this easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish.” She said the last words with biting sarcasm. “Why are you here, Mom?”

  Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took a breath. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. Just promise me you’ll answer me, and be honest. I don’t care about the answers and I won’t judge you. I just need to know it for safety reasons.”

  “Safety reasons? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There’s a photo, of you. It was taken at the beach. I need to know how someone could have seen it?”

  “I go to Jones Beach every weekend during the summer,” Abigail said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “You’re wearing a pink bikini. Yellow sunflowers on it. You look like you dug some sort of big hole, and…you look happy. And you were still a blonde.”

  Abigail thought for a moment. Then she smiled, too.

  “Like two months ago,” she said. “I went to Jones Beach with some friends, and buried this guy named Ryan in the sand. He’s dating our friend Marcia. Good times.”

  “How could somebody else have gotten a hold of that photo?” Paulina asked.

  Abigail’s scornful look disappeared, and suddenly she became concerned. “Why are you asking that?

  What happened?”

  Paulina leaned back in the chair, the wood stiff and playing hell with her neck. “There’s some guy…he’s trying to get to me, to threaten me, and he said…well, and he found that photo of you somehow. I need to know where he could have gotten it.”

  Abigail’s fright took center stage now. She cupped her hands together, started breathing into them. Paulina was unsure of what to do at first, but the sight of her only daughter terrified was too much to bear. She stood up and went over to her daughter, placing her hands on

  Abigail’s shoulders.

  “Listen, Abby, I would never let anything in the world happen to you. You might hate me, and you might have reason to hate me. But I’d sooner let my body be ripped limb from limb than let anything happen to you.”

  Abigail choked back a laugh. “Can’t we just avoid both?”

  Paulina laughed. “Hopefully.”

  “I posted a set of those photos to Facebook,” she said.

  “Maybe a month ago. I’m not sure.”

  “So who could see the photos?”

  “Anyone I’m friends with online.”

  “How many friends do you have on Facebook?”

  “Hold on, I’ll check.”

  Abigail went over to the desk and sat in the stiff chair.

  She turned on the laptop, waited for it to boot, tapping her dark, polished fingernails on the desk. When the computer started, Abigail opened Internet Explorer and logged on to her Facebook account. Paulina saw that Abigail’s profile photo was a close-up of her face, specifically her left eye and cheek. It was so close you could see every individual pore. It looked faux artsy, the kind of thing you took with a webcam and thought it to be poignant.

  “A hundred and ninety-six,” she said.

  “Jesus,” Paulina said. “A hundred and ninety-six people have access to photos of you in a bikini.”

  “You want to judge me, Mom? I’ve heard some stories about you.”

  “This isn’t about me. Somebody used one of these photos. Is there any way to see who’s accessed the set?

  Or who’s printed them out?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Nope. Privacy issues.”

  “Privacy my ass. Listen, Abby, I need you to print out a list of all your friends on this thing, anyone who has access to those photos.”

  “No way, Mom. Other people have privacy, too.”

  “Trust me, these other people would prefer this than the alternative.”

  Abigail looked her mother in the eye, huffed and said,

  “Okay. Fine. But nobody else sees them besides you.”

  “You have my word. And if these ‘friends’ have e-mail addresses, that would be helpful. I’m not looking to pry,

  I just want to be sure. I promise once I’m done it’ll all be shredded.”

  “You gave your word,” Abby said.

  “One more question, then I’m done,” Paulina said.

  “Have you recently seen a man around campus-tall, blond hair, about ear length
? Late thirties or early forties and well built?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Sure he’s not one of ‘your’ friends?” she said pointedly.

  “No. He’s not.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone like that. Trust me, he’d stand out on this campus.”

  “All right then.”

  Paulina stood up. Abigail did not. Paulina waited to see if her daughter would, to see if there was any chance at a last embrace before she left. Abigail was already opening her page and scrolling through photos. Paulina leaned in closer. Abby was staring at one of her and Pam, standing in front of a gushing fountain, holding hands and smiling.

  When she noticed her mother was looking, Abigail covered the screen with her hand.

  “I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you,” Abigail said. “You’ll have it by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” Paulina said. “You know, Abby, I don’t even have your cell phone number.”

  Paulina laughed at this. Abby did not. It took a moment, but Paulina understood why that wasn’t quite so funny.

  “That’s not a surprise,” Abigail said, “considering I hear from you once a year. I figured either you didn’t have my number or you just couldn’t find more than five minutes every twelve months.”

  “I know I could have done a better job, could have been a better friend. Consider this my attempt to make it up to you.”

  Abigail considered this for a moment, then said, “Fine.”

  Paulina took out her cell phone, plugging in the numbers as her daughter spoke them.

  “That’s it?” Paulina said.

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, hon, I promise I’ll call soon.”

  “Mom?” Abigail said.

  “Yes, Abby?”

  Abigail’s face looked far more pale than it did when

  Paulina first entered. Eyes wider, more fearful. A pang of guilt ripped through Paulina, knowing her daughter wouldn’t have to deal with any of this if that blond bastard hadn’t needed her to promote his sick agenda. She knew many more lives were at stake than Abby’s…but this was her daughter.

  “That photos set I mentioned,” Abby said. “The picture you mentioned was in that set. It was Pam’s favorite picture. She told me she loved it, and she said she wanted to keep one just for us.”

  “Wait,” Paulina said. “What are you saying?”

  “I never posted that photo online. That guy you’re talking about…somebody else must have given it to him.”

  14

  “Nothing,” Jack said, slamming down the phone in disgust. “I’ve called his office, his cell phone, his secretary, his publicist, his wife, his alleged mistress, and nobody will connect me to Brett Kaiser. Please tell me you have something.”

  I shook my head, discouraged. “I’ve spent the entire morning trying to reach Marissa Hirschtritt and Joel Certilman. Nothing. They won’t talk to me, or refer me to anybody who will. And they said that if anything is printed about their firm, their official position is ‘no comment.’ At least until they sue us for whatever libel they seem certain we’re going to print. That firm is locked up like a vault. And the worst part is that they know we’re looking into them, so they can already start preparing.”

  “And knowing our good-hearted chairman, he’s not going to want to pay thousands of dollars in legal fees to fight a law firm over a story that we have no backing to go on yet.” Jack paused, thought for a moment. “When people aren’t responding to you, there’s only one way around it.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Jack stood up. Picked up his briefcase. “You walk right into the enemy’s camp, lay down your weapons and ask to speak to their leader.”

  “You learned this, where, reporting from the jungle?”

  “Vietnam, actually.”

  “No kidding. I never knew you reported from Vietnam.”

  “Spent most of my time in Laos,” Jack said. “Worked a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You enjoy photojournalism?”

  “A little. Back in Oregon,” I said. “Before I was old enough or smart enough to really understand history, I used to love flipping through old magazines just for the photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time or place that words could never fully describe.” Jack nodded, agreeing. “I used to really admire a photographer named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the ‘You

  Are Leaving’ sign that had just been removed from along the Berlin Wall.”

  “Great eye, Gustofson. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”

  “Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Badly.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Eddie Adams,” I said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Nguyen Ngoc Loan,” Jack said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “General Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Chief of the National

  Police of the Republic of Vietnam. You say you liked historical photographs, you might remember that one. Loan was the commanding officer during the arrest of a Viet

  Cong political operative. The national police mistakenly identified the prisoner as having plotted the assassination of numerous Viet Cong police officers. And so on February first, nineteen sixty-eight, in the middle of a des-110

  Jason Pinter olate street in Saigon in broad daylight, with the unarmed man’s arms tied behind his back, General Loan took out a pistol, put it to the prisoner’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Eddie Adams was the man who took that photograph.

  That one snapshot, taken right as the bullet entered the innocent man’s brain, was one of the catalysts that singlehandedly changed American perception of the war in

  Vietnam.”

  “I remember that picture,” I said, feeling a chill, remembering the first time I’d seen it in Time magazine. “I remember the prisoner was wearing this plaid shirt. And the look in the general’s eye…like the man he just killed was nothing. Had meant nothing.”

  Jack nodded. Then he said, “In the background of that picture, just over the general’s left shoulder, there’s a man. You can’t really make out his face or what he’s doing, but he’s there.”

  I looked at Jack. The lines in his face, veins in his hands, a body that had seen more than I might in two lifetimes.

  “That was you,” I said. “You were there that day.”

  “It was actually my wedding anniversary,” Jack said with a slight laugh. “When my first wife asked where I was that day, I showed her the picture. Suddenly she didn’t feel so bad about my not being able to spend it with her.”

  “Why do you still do it?” I said. “Once you’ve been a part of these…these…moments that change history. I mean, that’s what every reporter dreams of, right? Being there at the right time. Casting light on something that was covered in darkness. Once you’ve done that…how do you stay motivated?”

  “I was never looking for those moments,” Jack said.

  “If they came, they came. If not, I went right on working. But a real reporter doesn’t seek out those moments.

  We don’t judge what’s happening in front of our eyes.

  History creates those moments. All we can do is share the truth through our words. And if we’re honest, and there’s a story in that darkness, the moments come.

  But I never sought them out. I sought the truth. And if you keep digging for it, under every goddamn rock in this world…you’ll find a few of those moments.”

  “If I die having had just one of those moments,” I said,

  “I’d die a happy man.”

  “Maybe you already have, Henry,” Jack said. “You just don’t know it yet. Maybe this story is even it.”

  “Well, if it is, Brett Kaiser sure isn’t going to make it any easier.”

  “Well, let’s try the good old-fashioned ambush method.”

  “What do you suggest?” I said.

  “I’ll go to the firm’s office, buy myself a big old cup
of coffee, sit in the lobby and wait for Mr. Kaiser to leave.

  If security doesn’t want a fellow such as myself loitering, I’ll simply wait outside. And if they tell me to leave,

  I’ll tell them to kiss my wrinkly old ass.”

  “And my job?”

  “Why, you’re going to wait at Mr. Kaiser’s Park

  Avenue apartment building and do the exact same thing.

  You might even try sweet-talking his doorman. You have no idea how much information those guys have, and what they’re willing to tell you if you treat them like human beings. Unlike Park Avenue tenants who usually treat their doormen like they’re one step above pond scum.”

  “And what if Kaiser shows up?”

  “Simple,” Jack said. “You tell him what we have, and ask him to discuss it with you. Guys like this, these alpha male pricks, hate hiding behind publicists and lawyers, even if they are one. They don’t like being shown up by punks like you.”

  “Punks like me?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, arching his eyebrow. “Punks like you. At least that’s how he’ll see you. Actually, I’m kind of hoping he does see you first. Young guy, you’re less of a threat. Probably figures you write for the school newspaper. If you see Kaiser, you don’t walk away with less than something we can print that doesn’t rhyme with

  ‘Woe Bomment.’”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Good. Keep your cell on. I’ll call you if anything happens on my end.” I got up to leave. Jack put his hand on my shoulder, said, “Good luck, Henry. Get this.”

  I nodded, went over to my desk and packed my things.

  15

  I arrived at Brett Kaiser’s apartment at just after two o’clock. There was a Korean deli on the corner where I bought a cup of coffee and an energy bar.

  I walked over to the building, a bright Park Avenue complex that by my count was twenty stories high, with beautiful western views where you could see all the way down for miles. There was one doorman on duty, a man in his early forties wearing a blue uniform and the kind of top hat you only saw in movies about the 1920s. He was slightly heavyset, the beginnings of jowls on his face, a fresh razor burn under his chin.