The Photographer (13 page)

She planned to approach cautiously, but Derrick's van was not in sight. Mrs. Ames's car sat as if it had been parked all night. It was dry underneath, and icy snow was piled up across the windshield and between the bars on the luggage rack. Her plan to say that Derrick had sent her seemed sound. Mrs. Ames knew her. She rang the doorbell. Then, pulling off her glove, she punched the button again in case it hadn't functioned with her padded finger. No answer. She tried the knob. To her surprise, the door opened. Was Mrs. Ames drunk so early in the day? Was she always so careless? No one in the suburbs, or even in town, left doors open in this day and age.

Quietly, she stepped inside, pushing the door shut behind her. She stood there, breathing in the warm, stuffy air, resting for a moment and making sure the house was empty. Then she heard a soft moan.

A weak voice called out. “Derrick, is that you? Please, Derrick, help me.”

Megan froze, as if the winter blast had penetrated the solid oak behind her. Something in the voice sent chills over her. She felt faint and nauseous. Get hold of yourself, Megan. You have a plan. Was Mrs. Ames sick or drunk? Megan would find out and then tell her story.

Mrs. Ames was lying on the brick-colored sofa, one hand dangling onto the soft cream carpet. She clutched an afghan to her chin, her fist tight over it, skin translucent so that the bones stood up in parallel rows, contrasted with blue veining.

Her hair was matted. Her makeup looked garish on her thin face, which was contorted into a grimace. Her eyes settled on Megan, the same steel gray eyes of Derrick, but missing the look of arrogance. What they held instead was fear. Mrs. Ames was afraid, and her fear transferred to Megan immediately.

Whether she was drunk or ill was not an issue. At that moment, Mrs. Ames was terrified.

Chapter 16

“Megan, Megan, help me. Derrick … Derrick.… Why, Megan? Why does Derrick hate me so much? What have I done to make him hate me? I wasn't responsible for his father leaving me, if that's what he thinks. I've done the best I could. Why does he hate me?”

Whatever Megan had expected Mrs. Ames to say, it was not this speech. Having no answer, Megan took precious minutes to try to help the frightened woman.

“What's wrong, Mrs. Ames? Are you ill? Can I call a doctor? An ambulance?” While it was coming Megan could search the upstairs. Then maybe she could ride along with Mrs. Ames to the hospital. She'd be safe in the hospital. But Cynthia hadn't been safe in the hospital. Megan could call Robert, or her father. Show them the evidence she knew she would find upstairs.

“I'm so weak. I can't get up. And Derrick … He keeps laughing and taking those nasty pictures of me. Why would he want a picture of me when I'm ill? I must look a mess.” Mrs. Ames pushed her hair back with one thin hand.

“How long have you been sick, Mrs. Ames? Were you sick before Derrick took the pictures?”

“I don't know. Does it matter? I can't get up, and Derrick won't help me. He hates me. Why does he hate me, Megan?”

“I'll call an ambulance, Mrs. Ames.” Megan started for the kitchen, where she knew she'd find the phone. Hurry, she needed to hurry. This was taking too much time.

“No, no, that's not necessary. Just help me. I'm sure I'll be fine if I can get up. I need to wash my hair and fix my face. I couldn't possibly go anywhere looking like this. And Megan, if you could pour me a little of that sherry. Over there in the cabinet. I'm sure that's all I need to get me on my feet.”

Megan hesitated. Should she call the ambulance anyway? Help Mrs. Ames up? Get her a drink?

“Please, Megan. Just get me a drink.” Mrs. Ames pleaded with Megan. Maybe she was only drunk. Megan would look foolish calling an ambulance.

Leaning over the woman, Megan pulled her to a sitting position on the couch. She smelled of expensive perfume and liquor. The exertion made Megan aware of her own weakness. She stopped to catch her breath. Then she ran to the liquor cabinet that Mrs. Ames pointed out and returned with a bottle of sherry and a glass. Mrs. Ames grabbed both, and although her hand shook as she poured, she didn't spill a drop.

“Derrick sent me here to get some photos for the newspaper.” Megan remembered her planned speech. But suddenly the explanation seemed full of holes. She had no car. Derrick did. Why didn't he come back for the photos?

Mrs. Ames neither noticed nor seemed to care. She nodded and poured another drink. Megan left her and headed for Derrick's room. Twice she had to stop on the stairs to rest. Her mind urged her to hurry. Her body refused. Outside, snow pelted the window on the staircase landing as the storm grew worse and the wind picked up.

Inside Derrick's room, Megan noticed that the darkroom door stood ajar. She was relieved that she didn't have to climb for the key. So tired. She was so very tired. She felt like the saggy baggy elephant of her childhood reading days. All her weight pulled heavy skin, which sagged to the floor.

Fumbling for the light, she snapped it on. She turned to the cork-covered wall where Derrick displayed developed prints. Pinned to the wall like insects on display were a dozen snapshots of herself. Sitting on the rubble heap at the construction sight, getting into Robert's car, earlier photos at the hospital the night Cynthia died, one in the coffee shop, another coming out of her house. She ran to the light switch, flicked it off. All the images of herself were surrounded by that glowing light.

She was right. My God, she was right! By some process with his camera, Derrick was causing the mystery disease. He was responsible. He
was
Cynthia's murderer!

No more time to think, Megan. You have to get out of here. Get the pictures. Get out! Quickly she snatched the pins that held up the photos, dropping them to the floor with a slight snicking sound. There were three photos of Derrick's mother, lying on the couch, crying and waving at Derrick to stop. Megan grabbed those, too. When she got home she'd call the police, no matter how silly they'd think she was. There were the photos and the illness, the weakness. Surely someone would believe her.

She whirled, headed for the darkroom door. The surge of adrenaline caused by her discovery would get her home. But at the bedroom door, her hopes were dashed.

Derrick leaned on the frame. He smiled the funny little smile.

“Hello, Megan. I've been expecting you. In fact, I thought you might come yesterday. You've kept me waiting.”

He waited? All day yesterday and today, knowing she'd come? The open door, the ease with which she'd gotten into the house and the darkroom was a trap. He wanted her to come in. For a moment Megan couldn't speak. She felt drained and faint again. She held on to a desk chair to keep from passing out.

Derrick wore the camera around his neck. Atop it was a flash attachment. Now he raised the viewfinder to his eye and snapped a photo of Megan leaning on his desk chair, holding the evidence she needed.

Megan blinked her eyes. “Stop, Derrick! Stop that! Why are you doing this?”

Leaning far over on the desk chair as if she couldn't stand, surreptitiously she reached her hand into her shirt pocket and snapped on the tape recorder. How sensitive was it? Would it pick up Derrick's speech from across the room?

Derrick didn't speak. He raised the camera again.

“Don't!” Megan screamed, covering her face. What good would it do to hide her face? The camera still photographed her body, her image, placing it on the negative, doing the damage that Derrick had designed it to do.

“Leave me alone, Derrick. You killed Cynthia. I don't know how, but I know you're responsible for this disease. Only it's not really a disease, it's you—somehow, it's you. I've guessed it for a long time, and now I know.”

“I realized that, Megan. That's why I've waited for you. I knew you were suspicious of me. You came here before, didn't you? Bunny and Roxie said you warned them. ‘Stay away from Derrick,' you said. You're interfering with my plan, Megan.”

“What plan, Derrick? Why are you doing this? How far do you think you can go with it?”

No answer. The tiny smile. Then he said, “As far as I want to go, Megan. I'm in control now. You thought I was a nerd, didn't you? You and Cynthia and all the girls. Now what do you think?”

“I never once thought you were a nerd, Derrick.” On the contrary, Derrick was a genius. Some kind of warped genius. He had thought all this out. He had been in the hospital again, or had he found Bunny and Roxie at home? Somehow he had photographed them again. Maybe they were right now dead or dying. How did the camera work?

Megan had to get Derrick to talk some more. “How does the camera work, Derrick? You were really smart to figure out something like that. Tell me how it works.”

No answer. Again Derrick lifted the camera. Megan stumbled toward him, feeling totally without strength, but reaching out toward the deadly invention. Derrick grabbed her hands, and the photographs spilled to the floor.

“You must be a great admirer of my work, Megan, to keep taking samples home for your personal enjoyment.” His fingers tightened on her wrists, cutting into her flesh. “Trespassing is a crime, Megan. I'm surprised at your breaking the law so blatantly.”

The tiny smile. It was a cat-and-mouse situation. Megan felt the mesmerizing fear that a mouse must feel staring into a cat's whiskers. Held down by a furry paw. She tried to buy some time, time to think, work out another plan. She'd keep talking.

“Your mother is ill, Derrick. She needs your help.”

Derrick laughed out loud. The sound echoed through the quiet house, cocooned now by a softer-falling snow. “My mother needs help, all right, but not mine.”

He pushed Megan back to the desk chair. Then, as if he had this all planned, he reached into a desk drawer for a length of rope.

“Derrick, please don't do this. You'll never get away with it.
You
need help.”

He tied her arms together in front of her, then her feet. “Shut up, Megan, or I'll have to gag you. You wouldn't like that.”

“I don't like
this
. You're crazy, Derrick. Crazy!” Megan caught herself. She must not panic. Her only hope was to talk Derrick out of whatever he had planned. And she wanted to get as much conversation as possible on tape.

“Why did you kill Cynthia, Derrick? What had she ever done to you?”

Instead of answering, Derrick went into the darkroom, taking the spilled photos with him. He liked the place neat. Megan marveled at his cleaning up, just as she imagined he always did. He came back with two lights and placed them beside Megan's chair. Then he rolled the chair a bit as if he didn't like the background. Adjusting the lights, he turned them on. The glare made Megan blink. He was preparing her for more photographs, as if this were a portrait studio and she were a client. Oh, Derrick, you really are sick, she thought. She could see no way out.

He moved the lights inch by inch and then carefully adjusted the heads so they lit up Megan's face the way he wanted. He worked without speaking, but with a professional touch, as if she were a fashion model. He could have been preparing a spread for a magazine. Taking the camera from around his neck, he placed it on a tripod and pointed it toward her.

Fascinated, horrified, Megan had forgotten to argue with him. She had forgotten that her only chance was talking him out of this. She forced herself to speak.

“Derrick, haven't you done enough damage? Surely—”

“You're not the kind of model I like, Megan. But you'll have to do. You're not very pretty. Do you know that? I usually photograph only beautiful women.”

“You took pictures of your mother.” Keep him talking, now that he'd started.

“My mother was once beautiful. I remember how beautiful she was when I was little. But she's no good now, always drinking, going out with any man who'll have her. You're right, Megan. Having brains is better than being beautiful. What good is a woman who is only physically beautiful? Look at Bunny. What good was Bunny to the world?” He moved a light another inch and then peered through the viewfinder.

Was?
The past tense. My God, was Bunny dead?

Megan spoke again, her brain trying to think, to focus. “Cynthia wasn't dumb, Derrick. She was smart and talented. She was more than beautiful.”

“But she didn't like me, Megan. She hated me. She embarrassed me. I don't like people embarrassing me.”

“She didn't hate you. She was in love with Gus. She couldn't go out with anyone else.”

“I think she hated me. You should smile now, Megan. You're much prettier when you smile.” Derrick clicked the shutter closed. Megan started to struggle. All she could do was move her head.

“Be still. You must be still. I think you ruined that shot, Megan. I'll have to take some more.” Over and over he moved and snapped pictures of Megan. All the while he gave her directions.

“Move your chin to the right, Megan. Just a little. Now look at me. How about a profile? Oh, not a very pretty nose. Too bad. Turn the other way. That's better.”

On and on he fussed and babbled, more than Megan had ever heard him talk. He seemed totally absorbed in the process. He gave her directions, but he didn't care that she didn't follow them. He changed to a 135 portrait lens and stayed hard at work, as if this were a serious session.

Megan's eyes felt heavy; her chin kept dipping toward her chest. Twice she perked up, trying to stay conscious, trying to think, to fight. “Fight this,” voices reminded her. She had no fight left. Then, distinctly, she heard Derrick say, “Out of film, Megan. Would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

So polite. He continued to be so polite, so professional.

She forced her eyes open to watch him leave the room. Megan still wore her down coat. The lights were hot, and again she fought to keep her eyes open. If she went to sleep it was over. But she was sleepy, so sleepy. She dozed, jerked awake, dozed again.