Darkness Bound

22

Having survived the dreaded annual birthday pilgrimage to her father’s house, Jack returned to her apartment in the city. Exhausted and in dire need of a shower, she greeted the stark stillness of her empty apartment with the same level of enthusiasm one approaches a trip to the gynecologist.

Standing in the dark foyer—the overhead light had burned out again—she looked around, weighing the silence.

High ceilings. Tall, uncovered windows across the length of two walls. Yawning space, devoid of furniture or even rugs to muffle the walnut floors that echoed with every step. Hoping a home of her own would help fill the gaping hole inside her chest that seemed to grow larger with every passing year, Jack had purchased the loft three years ago with the idea of putting down roots, of making a welcoming space she could return to from her travels, a spot uniquely her own.

The roots she hoped to grow had failed to flourish. She’d never had the time—more honestly the inclination—to decorate beyond the mere basics. Bed. Desk. Chest of drawers. She didn’t even have a dining room table. After three years the place was almost as bare as the day she’d moved in.

It fits though, Jack thought wryly. Unembellished and unwelcoming, the space was undoubtedly hers.

She dropped her duffel bag on the floor just inside the door, and stripped off her jacket and T-shirt. She left them both atop the bag, kicked off her shoes, and headed to the kitchen in her bra and jeans. The fridge revealed its usual array of barren shelves and empty drawers, with the exception of a single bottle of Stella Artois.

“Hello, beautiful,” Jack said, reaching for the beer. She made quick work of popping the top, and leaned against the counter to drink it, swallowing in long, greedy gulps.

Thank you, God, for getting me through today. The bickering of car horns in traffic drifted up from the street twenty stories below, and Jack enjoyed a moment’s peace.

Until the phone rang.

“Not home,” she said aloud, hearing her voice echo through the loft as if through the walls of a canyon. “Leave a message.”

When the machine on the kitchen counter clicked on—she still kept the bulky answering machine she’d had since her freshman year in college—Nola’s voice broke the silence.

“Your cell is off. Just checking to make sure you didn’t get shot in Brazil. Because, you know, with you that’s always a possibility.”

Smiling, Jack picked up the phone.

“Shot with a s*x pistol,” she drawled, her smile growing wider. Hearing her friend’s voice, and thinking about the handsome stranger named Hawk, both managed to lift Jack’s spirits.

“Hey! You’re home! When did you get in?”

“Literally right this second.” Jack looked at the half-empty bottle in her hand. “I was just getting something to eat.”

“Let me guess. Beer and veggie pizza.”

Jack laughed. “Minus the pizza. You know me too well, lady. How are you?”

“Just making sure you’re not dead in some jungle somewhere, like I said. And calling to wish you a happy belated birthday. Did you think I forgot?”

“Oh, you obviously didn’t forget! I gotta hand it to you, No, that was one hell of a birthday present. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you. The guy was like some supermodel assassin rock-star s*x god. Unbelievable. I won’t ask you how much you had to shell out for that kind of quality, but whatever you paid, he was worth it. I think I’ll be sore for a week.”

A beat of silence. The siren from a police car several blocks over screamed loud in pursuit, then faded away. Then Nola asked, “What are you talking about?”

Hearing those words, spoken in the flat, interrogating lawyerly tone Nola used when she wasn’t kidding around, Jack’s stomach dove toward her feet.

“You didn’t buy me a guy for my birthday.”

It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a tone to match her friend’s. A movie began to play in Jack’s mind. Images flashed by with lightning speed, and unforgiving clarity.

Sweat soaked sheets, naked bodies, tangled limbs, hunger.

Camera flashes.

Pictures.

“Buy you a guy for your birthday?” Nola echoed with a snort. Then she gasped. “Oh God, Jack, don’t tell me you hooked up with some guy you . . . you thought I . . .”

At Jack’s answering silence, Nola began to laugh. “You did! You so did! I need details, right now!”

Do you want something to remember me by? Hawk, beautiful and coy, holding up the camera. Jack’s camera.

Her gaze flashed to the duffel bag, discarded by the front door. “No, I’ve gotta call you back.”

Jack hung up before Nola could reply. She launched herself across the room, fell to her knees, and ripped open the bag, panting with panic.

The Canon was there, in its hard leather case.

The memory card, however, wasn’t.

As she stared down the empty slot in the side of the camera, horror—cold, slimy, and total, like being submerged in a tank of eels—washed over Jack. She broke out in a sweat. Her hands began to shake. Her heart started to race as if she’d been injected with adrenaline.

Set up. Jesus Christ, I’ve been set up!

But by who? And why? She sagged against the wall, hardly feeling the cold plaster against her bare shoulders, and stared down at the Canon in her hands.

She knew she’d made enemies over the years; she’d never shied away from controversy in her career. It could be a politician, angry about one of her scathing op-ed pieces, or one of the many military leaders she’d met during an assignment, and pissed off with her attitude or refusal to listen to orders. It could be a colleague; she knew she wasn’t particularly liked among her peers, for a whole host of reasons, which mainly boiled down to her inability to trust anyone.