The Photographer (15 page)

While her dad made the call, Robert and Megan moved into the family room and started a fire. Just looking at it, though, hearing the snap and crackle, made Megan shiver. Fire no longer had the friendly warmth it had earlier today.

“Megan, when this is over, will you promise me you'll go back to reporting the news, not acting it out?” Robert kissed Megan's cheek, pulled her close to him. She leaned into the warmth and safety of his shoulder.

“I'll try, Robert. Believe me, I'm more comfortable in that role. I won't relax until they find Derrick, though. And I may never feel the same way about having my picture taken. Or even of taking photographs myself.”

Megan's dad reported back that Bunny and Roxie were much improved. They were planning to go home from the hospital tomorrow. Megan felt glad, but it only reinforced her belief in the part of the story that would go untold. Was she right in withholding all the facts—the evidence, circumstantial as it was? She couldn't help but feel that some harm would come by her keeping quiet.

Epilogue

A few days later, some miles away—a little over a thousand, to be exact—a yellow van pulled into a real estate office. Warren Groober was delighted to see a customer, any customer, even one so young. Times were hard, and he hadn't had a sale for months. He was disappointed that the young man wanted only a rental property, but perked up when he saw three months' rent in advance.

“Yes, sir. That's a fine location you've picked out, young man. What business did you say you were in? Altman, you said your name was?” Beat-up van, but at least he wasn't dressed like the vagrants that usually drove those things. His curly hair was cut short and his glasses made him look serious.

“Yes, sir. David Altman. I'm a photographer.”

Funny little smile. Quiet feller, but polite. “Well, you've come to the right state. We have some of the most beautiful women in the South right here.”

“Yes, sir. I saw the sign. Miss America.”

“Sign? Oh, yeah. I remember seeing on the TV that they put that billboard up last year. Home of Miss America. We're right proud of that. Yes sirree, if you want to photograph Southern beauties, you've come to the right place. My daughter's a cheerleader. She's as pretty as a picture, if I do say so myself.”

“I'm sure she is.”

“She'll be needing a picture for the annual soon. Lots of the best-looking girls last year went clear to Little Rock to get a good photograph. If you're any good, they won't have to do that this year, Mr. Altman.”

“My photos are very professional, Mr. Groober. I'm sure they'll be happy with them. And as a favor to you, I'll give your daughter a free sitting.”

“Well, that's right nice of you. I'm sure SueAnne will be plumb tickled. She does love getting her picture taken. You know how pretty girls are.” Warren Groober laughed and winked at the young man.

“Yes, I know, Mr. Groober. I know. Makes my work easy. Tell her I'll be open by Saturday and to bring her friends.”

“I'll do that. Now you take care, you hear?” Warren Groober watched the young man leave. Young feller, but serious. Not at all smart-alecky like some his age. He looked at the flier announcing the new business and thought of the free picture-taking session. SueAnne would be plumb tickled all right. Warren knew she would. Ever since she was little she had dearly loved having her picture taken.

Turn the page to start reading from the follow-up to
The Photographer

Chapter 1

Scott smiled the minute he laid eyes on her, hurrying down the hall away from him. It was because of her T-shirt that said
A WOMAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOUSE. AND IN THE SENATE.
So—she was a liberated female. He could handle that. He hoped. He was a liberated male.

Numero uno on his list of girls he'd flirt with was one who knew her own mind and had a sense of humor. He was a sucker for a female who smiled on a regular basis. One who could laugh at herself.
And
, most important, one who could make him laugh at himself. He knew one of his major failings was taking himself too seriously. He'd had one honest male amigo and a record number of blunt females tell him so to his face.

When she turned around, he was hooked, dead meat. Honey-colored hair tumbled wildly around her face, saying I don't spend hours with a blow dryer and a curling iron. Startling green eyes stared right at him. A smile started slowly, ending up almost too large for her small features.

“Are you following me?” The smile disappeared into eyes that teased.

“I didn't think so at first,” he said. “But now I've decided I will.”

He was grateful the words slipped out before he could think about what to say, since small talk, especially with a girl, didn't come naturally to him. Uppermost in his mind this morning was entering a new school and now, finding the chem lab. He'd never even dreamed about meeting or talking to a new girl, one that got an
A
-plus for stirring up his own chemistry.

She laughed and shifted a stack of books to her other hip. He had time for one more thought. He liked the small firm breasts that filled out her shirt. Big-busted girls intimidated him.

“Come walk beside me then. You're obviously the new guy in town and could use a girl guide. You a senior?”

“Yeah.” He reverted to monosyllables.

“Got a schedule?”

He handed her a card that he'd only had time to glance at.

“God, why do they give new people the leftovers? You're stuck with all the toughest subjects and the workaholic teachers.” One blunt-cut, unpolished nail followed the printout of his day. “Look at this. Second-year algebra, trig, chemistry, advanced physics, and advanced journalism. What do you do for fun?”

“I blew up the lab in my last school.” It was his only claim to fame as a regular guy.

“No kidding? Do you do cafeterias?” Setting down her books, digging into a denim tote over her shoulder, she pulled out a pair of huge glasses. When she'd put them on, she wrinkled her forehead into a serious frown. “Better? Do you like intellectual girls? Or do you prefer girls who have nothing in common with you? I'm ultimately flexible.”

He grinned, liking her better by the minute.

She pulled off the glasses, put one earpiece into her mouth, and studied him. “Think it over. You have all day. This is the chem lab—I think. It smells like chemistry, but it may be physics. I'm sure not going in there. Not my thing. I'll see you in journalism, though, and it's your last class.” Her smile suggested that an invitation to continue their conversation after school wouldn't be rejected. With that promise, she bounced away.

“Wait,” he whispered. “What's your name?” He realized he hadn't asked and she hadn't volunteered. Rooted, he stared after her.

Behind him, a male voice broke the spell. “Vicki Valentine. Yes, it's her real name, and she's everybody's fantasy woman. But she refuses to go with only one guy, so there's always hope. Incidentally, there's a huge purse waiting for the guy who changes her mind. If no one wins by June first, the money goes into the fund for the senior project. Interested?”

Scott still couldn't speak and it made him feel incredibly foolish.

“Alan Berkman—friends call me Berk.” Tall and gangly thin, with zits scarring his face, the guy who spoke to Scott looked like a misplaced seventh grader. “You're new here, aren't you? Going into the chem lab?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Scott gained his senses. “Scott Lawrence. Don't call me Scottie, and no, I'm not going to be an engineer in a star fleet. I'm headed for science writing.”

“Newspaper can probably use your help.” Berk pushed wire-rimmed glasses back onto his nose. “Where you from?”

“New York City.”

“Godzilla, what are you doing in this burg?”

“My dad's new head of the reactor in Russelville.”

“Keep it a secret. It's not a popular subject.”

“I figured that, but you'll have to admit, nuclear power is the only answer for a future fuel source.” Scott had strong opinions on science subjects.

“Okay, don't keep it secret. You look like a guy who can take a strong stand and defend it. It just so happens I agree with you. I'll help you write your first article.”

Scott liked Berk. They chose seats side by side, agreed to be lab partners, and exchanged groans when the teacher outlined the class expectations.

The rest of the day he settled into the familiar routine of classes feeling he'd made two friends—well, one, Berk, with Vicki a maybe. To his surprise, since Sparksville High certainly wasn't a New York City school, he had all good teachers except one, and that in a subject that didn't matter as much. He could learn it on his own if he had to.

He was able to keep his mind firmly on the subject matter most of the day. But an occasional vision of Vicki surfaced when he least expected it. She had definitely made an impression on him. Maybe he could change his image, become a ladies' man, by moving. Dream on, old man, dream on. What if cats could fly and spiders weave magic spells on nerds?

She waved at him in journalism class, but sat across the room, talking to a guy with an obvious triple major in sports.

After class, in the hall, she turned around, seemed to be looking for someone. He followed her, hoping. But two girls and a teacher got to her first.

He had never experienced anyone else's pain so incredibly from a distance. His stomach clinched as if someone had used it for a punching bag. Bile rose in his throat, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

At first her face registered shock. Then her smile faded to a grimace as her features contorted with pain. Crumpling into the arms of the two girls, she bent double with sobs. The teacher reached out her hand helplessly and touched Vicki's shoulder with empathy.

Students drifted into small islands of curiosity and dismay like clumps of grease on the surface of cold soup. Whispers circulated Vicki's news.

Berk dropped his hand on Scott's shoulder, but Scott took no offense from the gesture from an almost stranger.

“What? What is it, Berk? What happened?” Scott whispered, too, as he would at a funeral.

“SueAnne Groober, Vicki's best friend. She disappeared a month ago. They found her this morning.”

“She's—she's—”

“Very dead. But her body wasn't even cold. Apparently, she had just died, so where has she been for a month? And the strange thing is that she wasn't dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt she was wearing the last time anyone saw her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had on a yellow prom dress, the one she wore to the junior-senior prom last spring. Yellow roses were woven into her hair—fresh roses—and there was a smile on her face.”

Being from New York City, Scott was familiar with a certain level of violence. But he'd never known anyone who'd been a victim of it. It had stayed a comfortable distance from him and his circle of friends.

He hadn't known SueAnne, but the picture that Berk had painted for him was as real as his sister's recent wedding photos, as real as today's front page from the small-town newspaper. As real as the pain he'd experienced, reflected from Vicki Valentine's face.

Too real.

Chapter 2

She woke to the pain starting all over again. SueAnne was dead. Her best friend—gone.

Vicki had worried a lot, but she had never believed that something bad had happened to SueAnne. Had she? Had she just lied to herself, not wanting to think otherwise? She had told herself over and over that SueAnne had finally made her move. She had finally run away as she'd threatened time after time for the last year.

“I'm almost eighteen—almost legal. I'll leave here and get a job. I look eighteen. I can lie about my age until my birthday, then I can come back and get my things and leave for good. My daddy can't have any say about it then. He won't be able to tell me what to do. Even though he'll try. He thinks he can run my life forever. Why, I'll bet if I was forty years old, he'd try to tell me I couldn't go out with Billy Ray Wiser. He'd still think he knew what and who was best for me.”

Vicki smiled through her tears. SueAnne's voice was imprinted on her mind so deeply that she could almost imitate it perfectly. She had tried over and over, keeping SueAnne laughing for hours. Or coaching. After a few tries, SueAnne had given her pointers. “Stretch out the
A
's and the
O
's more, make them two syllables. Co-oke. Now leave off all the
G
's on
ing
words. Like this, comin', thinkin', doin'.” Vicki would laugh and try again. Her favorite word was
fixing
, or, more correctly,
fixin
'. “I'm fixin' to go shoppin', Vicki. Want to go with me?”

There would be no more shopping trips with SueAnne, looking for the funky clothes that Vicki wore to be different, or the ruffles that SueAnne said suited her feminine style. SueAnne would never have worn a T-shirt, and knits made up half of Vicki's wardrobe. Especially T-shirts with funny messages. SueAnne had given her one for Christmas last year that said I
KNOW I'M EFFICIENT. TELL ME I'M BEAUTIFUL.
It suited Vicki so well because she knew she could do homework and term papers in record time; she knew she made all
A
's, but she had never felt pretty. Not like SueAnne. SueAnne was—had been—the most beautiful girl that Vicki had ever known. And the sweetest.