The Photographer (11 page)

Suddenly before her there was a deep, dark hole. She walked to the edge and peered down. Way below was a bower of white flowers. Cynthia lay atop them. A pearly white light came from the hole. Slowly, magnetically, Megan was pulled into the hole. She tried to step back, to grab someone, Robert, anything. But she felt the cold, dampness. She reached out and touched the waxy petals of the lilies. She smelled the sickeningly sweet flowers close around her.

Chapter 14

“Megan, do you want to go to school today?”

Megan came awake with her mother gently shaking her. “What? How'd I get to bed?”

“You fainted, honey, remember? Robert helped your father get you up here. You came to, but you kept talking about Cynthia. We felt it was better to let you sleep. It's noon, though, and I needed to go to town. I didn't want you to wake up alone.”

“Cynthia. Mom, Cynthia is dead.”

“I know, baby, I know. Robert told us. Are you all right? You're not getting sick, are you?” Megan's mother sounded panicky. “What is this sickness that's hitting everyone?”

“Not everyone, Mom. Just a few girls.” Everything came in on Megan, and she lay back down. “No, I'm not sick. Can I ride into town with you?”

“Maybe you should stay home today.”

“No, I don't want to lie here and think about it.” Megan might discover another piece of this puzzle at school. And she didn't want to stay home alone. She wanted to see Robert, the school, the other kids, to reassure herself everything was still there. That there was some part of life still normal, if that was possible.

Her mother had brought her a croissant with butter and a pot of tea on a tray. She sat up and forced it down, then felt a little less wobbly. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a sweater, not caring how she looked.

Being at school wasn't much better than staying home alone would have been. Everyone was talking about Cynthia. They kept looking at Megan and would stop talking or whisper if she came close. Several of her friends came to her and expressed sympathy. Megan mumbled to them, not really aware of what she was saying. She didn't see Derrick or Robert until after school.

Derrick came up to her. “I'm sorry about Cynthia,” he said, staring at her as if he dared her to deny his statement, to accuse him of not being sorry at all. Was she wrong about all this, after all?

“Thanks, Derrick.” What else could she say?

“Isn't this yours, Megan?” Derrick held out a hair clip, an enameled butterfly. “Did you leave it … somewhere?”

Before she could stop herself, she reached up to where tendrils of her hair, too short to reach her braid, were pinned back by similar-style clips. “No, that's not mine, Derrick. Where did you find it?” She stared into his gray eyes, dared him to say. She had to look away, but not before a shiver ran the length of her spine. And not before the tiny smile came to Derrick's lips. He knew, she thought. He knew she'd been in his darkroom. But he couldn't prove it.

She turned and ran from Derrick when she saw Robert. He took her home, neither saying more than polite, necessary phrases. Even his question, “Are you all right, Megan?” seemed polite, as if he didn't expect an answer. “Yes,” she said, and ran to the house.

The rest of the week was just as bad. On Saturday she sat through the funeral service for Cynthia, hardly hearing what the minister said. The casket was closed. Megan was glad. She didn't want to see her friend lying there—no, the shell of her friend. Cynthia was gone. She'd remember the way she looked at Homecoming, all shimmering and happy on Gus's arm.

Gus sat two rows in front of Megan, uncomfortable and almost unrecognizable in a dark blue suit. His folks sat beside him. Gus's father was an older version of the football star. Gus would look just like him someday.

Megan's mom and dad sat with her and Robert. After the services Mrs. Davidson said, “Megan, I want you to go home with us. You look so peaked and tired. I can't help but worry.”

“Your mother and I are taking a week off, Megan. We're taking you up to Vail.” Mr. Davidson took Megan's arm and ushered her out of the church. “No arguments. It's all settled.”

“That's a good idea, Megan,” agreed Robert. “I'll cover all your jobs.” He smiled down at her. “And when you get back we'll go on our photo session in Denver. I'll have it arranged.”

Megan was operating from some kind of thick fog. She heard all that was said around her, but little registered. She let her parents take care of her, and before she knew it she found herself in a small cabin in the resort. Reality was pushed away for a week. On some level Megan knew this. On another she didn't care. It was only when she got back home that feelings returned.

At school on Monday Robert announced that he'd arranged their talked-about, but postponed, photographic trip for the next Saturday. She wanted more than anything to say she didn't want to go. But she had to go. She had to be with Derrick to find any more clues that might link him to this horror.

On Friday night, safe in her room, alone, she allowed herself to think. Megan had looked for Derrick at the church, but of course he hadn't been there. No murderer would go to the funeral of his victim.

Calling Derrick a murderer seemed a bit heavy now, more farfetched than it had when Cynthia died. She'd be with him tomorrow. Would she be able to tell by looking at him, being with him, if he was guilty? Would she have a flash of insight, one of her times of knowing something for sure? What if she just out and out accused him? “Derrick, did you kill Cynthia? Kill her by taking a lot of pictures of her?” The absurdity of the whole thing started to nag at her. Robert was right. How could she have believed such a thing? She'd built this big fantasy on a lot of perfectly normal facts, coincidence, and her imagination.

By Saturday Megan didn't really feel like running all over Denver's industrial and heavy downtown construction taking pictures. She didn't even want to get out of bed. Where was her enthusiasm? She mentioned it at breakfast.

“I suspect you're somewhat depressed, Megan, even if you don't realize it,” her mother said. “Depression causes a person to feel tired. I'm trying to stop worrying about your getting this illness. Today's paper says there are no new victims.”

There. Her mother had used the word. But, then, you could be the victim of a disease, the victim of an accident, as well as the victim of foul play. Megan needed to see Derrick to put her mind to rest that she had let her imagination get away from her. She knew she'd be able to tell if anything was really wrong with him. As strange as he acted, his behavior was consistent.

“I'm glad, Mom. I'd have hated for you to miss your trip.”

Mrs. Davidson had been looking forward for months to the Caribbean trip. She'd be modeling all the new spring clothes. Packed and ready to go, she was catching a noon flight from Denver.

Robert had arranged for Derrick to pick Megan up. That was only common sense, since it was more convenient. They'd meet Robert at the parking lot at school and take Robert's car. His car was more reliable than Derrick's van.

Derrick drove up and honked the horn at nine o'clock. Megan didn't exactly bounce out to the van, but she was ready. “Morning,” Derrick said.

“Good morning, Derrick.” Megan had made a plan the night before to keep Derrick talking as much as possible throughout the day. He might slip and say something, anything, that would give her a clue. “Well, according to the paper the Boulder High epidemic is over,” she said. “Doesn't it seem strange that no boys got sick?”

“Yeah. Too bad about Cynthia.” His voice held no emotion, just fact. Too bad it rained. Too bad your car broke down, you got a bad grade, your friend died.

Megan couldn't think of anything else to say, and suddenly her mind was bombarded with thoughts of Cynthia: slumber parties, the time Cynthia made them matching German peasant outfits for Halloween. What had suited Cynthia's personality looked ridiculous on Megan. Cynthia had to restyle them so that she wore the knickers and suspenders and Megan the full skirt and dirndl. Of course, everything looked good on Cynthia—had looked good on her. She could have been a model easily. Megan thought of the drawings Cynthia had been making for her spring wardrobe. Now the clothes would never be made. She rubbed a tear from her eye. She didn't want Derrick to see her crying.

Robert's presence helped. They switched to his car, Derrick in the backseat. Robert kept a running conversation going all the way to the city. He talked of black-and-white photography, a new camera he wanted, two new contests he'd heard about—shoptalk. Megan had never heard him chatter so.

They parked in an all-day-for-three-dollars lot on the edge of Denver, splitting the cost three ways. Walking to the area of cranes, steel girders and foundations, heaps of dirt, no one talked. The silence wasn't comfortable. This trip was a mistake, Megan realized.

They split up and looked for shots on their own, but Megan kept her eye on Derrick. He seemed totally absorbed in his work. She took a few halfhearted snaps and then worked her way closer to Derrick. He was carrying both of his cameras today. He'd set both cameras on a low, flattened heap of debris while he got out new film, rewound and loaded.

Megan wondered what kind of reaction she'd get from Derrick if she asked about the second camera, the one she suspected of … of. …

Quietly, she reached for the camera with no manufacturer's label. “Let me see your new camera, Derrick. I'm thinking of getting a second. What brand is this one?”

He grabbed her hand and thrust it back. Then he lifted the camera, throwing the strap around his neck. “You know I don't like anyone touching my equipment.” His eyes met Megan's. What she saw there was hard, cold anger, but it was well controlled. For a moment she held his eyes and experienced the intensity of his emotions. She read them as well as if she'd been in his body. So Derrick did have emotions. She felt herself being choked by his anger, as if Derrick had hold of her neck and was squeezing, squeezing.

“I forgot, Derrick. I'm sorry.” She looked away first, rubbing her neck. She felt as though he had struck her. He had never looked at her with such disgust, such hatred. It was so obvious that she could almost reach out and touch it, taste the bitter flavor.

Then he seemed to relax a bit. “It's just like my old one. I keep black and white in one, color in the other.”

From one other trip the Photography Club had made early in the year, Megan knew Derrick liked to be left alone to shoot. She'd never deliberately violated his space before. She wanted to press him for more information about the camera, but suddenly she was afraid to stay near him. Right here in broad daylight, with Robert in calling distance. She was disappointed in herself.

She moved away and tried to get interested in some good subject matter. Looking back, she found Derrick's eyes on her. Now she read nothing in the stare, which frustrated her. She moved farther away, then glanced around. Derrick had picked up his second camera. His picking up a gun couldn't have been more frightening. Where was Robert? Suddenly, she wanted to run, find him, to be near him, stay close to him. It was all she could do to keep from shouting his name.

Robert had been lying down. When she saw him stand up, she fled to where he peered through his viewfinder.

“What's wrong, Megan?”

“Oh, Derrick gives me the creeps.”

“He never won any popularity contests
before
you got that crazy idea about him. You were the only one who ever felt comfortable with him. Guess he's lost his only friend,” Robert said somewhat teasingly, perhaps testing Megan. He smiled at her, and hugged her with one arm for a minute.

“So now I've joined the world?” Megan fingered her camera lens cap, snapping it on and off.

“'Fraid so. The world here, Derrick over there. Makes me glad I'm in the norm as far as being brilliant—well, I am brilliant, but no genius. You know what they say about that fine line between genius and—”

Megan cut him off. “Insanity.” She pretended to laugh and sat on a pile of dirt to watch Robert. He took a couple more shots and then waved to Derrick to suggest moving to another site. Just as Derrick reached them, a voice called out.

“What do you kids think you're doing?” A policeman walked up from behind them.

“We're photographing for a contest. Black and white.” Robert started chattering about camera clubs and art photos until Megan stopped listening. She'd leave it to Robert to talk them out of any trouble they might be in. Then she looked at Derrick. He stood beside her as rigid as a statue in City Park. His hand was tensed on his 200-millimeter lens.

“There are no trespassing signs everywhere,” the policeman pointed out.

“We're staying mostly on the edge of the construction,” Robert argued.

“Doesn't matter. You shouldn't be here.”

Robert started to protest again. Megan put her hand on his arm. “It doesn't matter, Robert. Let's get some lunch and go to City Park. We might get some good geese and duck shots.”

Megan would have expected Derrick to protest more vigorously than Robert. Robert was usually calm about any problem. But Robert seemed nervous today. First his nonstop talking on the way down, now this protesting when they were clearly in the wrong. There
were
signs everywhere.

“Let's go to the zoo,” Megan suggested on the way back to the car. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, pure Indian summer. The day-after-Halloween snow was forgotten.

“I don't like being made to feel guilty when I've done nothing wrong.” Robert was still talking about the policeman.

“Let's go home,” said Derrick. “I have other work I can do.”

Megan watched, unable to say anything, as Derrick pointed his long-distance lens in the direction of the retreating policeman. Two, three, four shots clicked off before he stopped shooting.