The Photographer (8 page)

Good—maybe she'd be tied up in a telephone conversation for a long time. Up the carpeted stairway Megan ran, toward Derrick's room. She hoped he hadn't changed rooms since she'd been inside the house. He'd been really proud of his darkroom and had seemed to enjoy showing Megan around at the welcoming party, which seemed so long ago.

Abnormally neat was her first impression as she circled the room with her light. Old-fashioned furniture, a bed with posts, a rolltop desk. Smaller than her bedroom, since Derrick had partitioned off some of the room; added it to the bathroom for his darkroom. She tried the bathroom door. Locked. Now what? Where would he keep a key? On his key chain, with him? Hidden in his room? Quickly, she searched the tray on his dresser. Some small change, a tie clip. Pulling out each drawer quietly, she shined her light.

Where would I hide a key, she thought. None of the drawers looked promising, and she felt funny going through piles of Derrick's neatly stacked underwear and handkerchiefs.

On one wall was a bookshelf with some books, some knickknacks. Shells from trips, a ship model, old Tonka toys. Megan smiled. Had Derrick really been a normal little boy, playing with trucks and jeeps?

For a moment she stopped to listen. Mrs. Ames would know Derrick was gone, since his van wasn't in the drive, so she'd be suspicious if she heard noises from his room. Then, standing on his desk chair, she ran her hands along the top bookshelves. At the very end was a large conch shell. She picked it up and heard a rattle. Holding the light between her knees, she took both hands and turned the shell upside down to let a key slide into her hand. She smiled. It had to be!

Leaving the chair in place so she could return the key, she ran quickly to the bathroom door. Yes, it fit. Her flashlight showed her dark shades on the only window. She snapped on the room's light to get her bearings, then flicked it off again. Turning around to the solid wall formed by the partitioned-off bedroom door, she gasped. There, arranged in neat rows, were dozens of photos pinned to the corkboard. All of them were duplicates of the photos she'd held in her hands so recently. But there was one difference. Around each girl's body was a glow, as if something surrounded or emanated from each person.

Chapter 11

Megan studied the photos, running her light past row after row. Cynthia at Homecoming, many informal shots at the game and at the dance. Also Cynthia at the hospital with Bunny and Roxie. But there were more. With what had to be a telephoto lens, Derrick had caught Cynthia coming out of her house, in town, at school, informal shots, as if he'd followed her around. Photographs not assigned by either the annual or the newspaper. Photographs he'd taken on his own initiative.

Quickly, she glanced at the rest of the pictures on the bulletin board and the stack on the table in front of the display. All were of Bunny, Roxie, Candy, Marva, and Lora. All the girls who were ill. In one corner near the bottom of the groupings were four recent snapshots of Derrick's mother, obviously unposed, probably taken without her knowing. And his mom's face and body was surrounded by the same glowing light.

“I'll leave Sunday if I feel better.” Megan remembered Mrs. Ames's comment to the person on the phone. Feel better? Derrick's mom wasn't feeling well? How did she feel? Weak? Or did she have a cold? Maybe her drinking was making her sick.

There was no real answer here to what was going on. Derrick had taken all these pictures—many more than he needed. And all of his subjects were ill. That was fact. Megan
knew
it wasn't coincidence, but this was no real proof. How did the photos work? Why had Derrick done such a thing? Megan had the evidence that told her Derrick was behind this. But absolutely nothing that would stand up if she were to go to the police or even accuse Derrick to his face.

Megan was used to seeing a camera and photographs side by side, so it took her a moment to register that one of Derrick's cameras was also in the darkroom. How many cameras did Derrick have? Megan searched her memory. She remembered Robert commenting on Derrick carrying two cameras, but she couldn't remember if he'd always carried two. Was this.…

She picked up the camera and examined it, turned it over and over. It looked like a normal camera, except … except.… there was no label on it. What brand was it? Didn't all camera manufacturers label their cameras? The camera suddenly felt hot to her touch, and she set it down quickly, as if it could burn her fingers.

Again she looked at all the photographs. She stared at Cynthia's smiling face. Anger started deep inside and crawled up Megan's spine until it reached her throat, choking her.

She tried to swallow it, push it down. Anger wasn't going to help her right now. She tried to think, be logical. Logically.… Megan stopped. None of this was logical. That was the problem. But if the photos somehow made the girls ill, would destroying Derrick's work make them feel better? If it did, she would at least have more evidence in her mind—still not concrete evidence, but proof for her idea. Maybe then … But there wasn't time to formulate a further plan now.

Quickly, with no more time to speculate on the situation, Megan started pulling the photos off the wall. She dropped the pins to the floor as she grabbed each pasteboard face. Click, click, click. When her fist was full, she piled them up and started another row. So many—a larger number of Cynthia, and Cynthia was the sickest of them all. But there were at least ten or twelve of each girl. Megan wished she had a sack, her backpack, anything. For a second she hesitated as she knelt at the bottom row. Then she grabbed the four pictures of Derrick's mother.

Clutching the awkward pile of photos, most printed on slick paper, Megan piled them outside the darkroom door, snapped off the light, and turned the key. Jumping on the chair, she returned the key to the shell, placed the chair back under Derrick's desk, and prepared to leave the room. Silly—he would know someone had been there when he saw the photos were gone.

In the hall, she hesitated. It took both hands to clasp the pictures to her chest. Pulling up the bottom of her jacket, she made a kind of pouch to help hold them. She could scarcely see and couldn't believe a house could be so dark. One flip on and off of her flashlight showed her the stairs. She started down. Then her foot slipped and she had to grab for the bannister. Fortunately, she didn't drop her light, but all the pictures slid downward with a soft rustle.

Damn. For a moment she froze on the second stair and waited. Had Derrick's mother heard? Would she investigate? Megan could tell her the story quickly, but would she believe it? She would believe she hadn't felt well—but that her son was doing it? No.

Snapping on the light again, she started gathering up pictures as fast as possible. Turning, she flashed the light up and down the carpeted stairway. Did she have them all? Quickly she stripped off her jacket and wrapped the photos in it. She couldn't risk dropping them again. Her light showed one picture in the downstairs hall. Cynthia smiled up at her as she grabbed it and added it to the pile.

She tied her jacket arms over the package and pressed it to her. She listened again. There was a tinkle of ice and the murmur of Mrs. Ames's voice. She was still on the phone. Thank goodness. Hurrying out the door, Megan had reached Mrs. Ames's station wagon when the lights of an approaching car lit up the street. The rattle and clunk was familiar. Derrick was home! She shuddered as she imagined those steel gray eyes on her as she knelt on the stairs picking up his photos.

Huddling into as small a heap as possible, she leaned on the right front tire of the wagon as Derrick parked on the street. The cold of the hubcap seared through her sweater. Without her jacket, she started to shiver. The slam of the van door echoed across the dark streets. Then there was the soft thud and crunch of his shoes on the flagstone walks and the gravel in between the stones.

She heard Derrick swear as he found his mother's keys in the door. He would take them in, find his mother on the phone, show her how careless she was when she was drinking. And later he would realize how an intruder had found it so easy to get into his room. Megan didn't wait for that to happen. She ran.

Every thud of her tennis shoes on the walk echoed and made her imagine identical thuds behind her, following. She started to gasp for breath. After this was over, she'd need to lose the extra weight she'd never worried about. Maybe she'd need to take up running. But who could have known she'd need to escape from someone she'd thought was a friend?

Derrick might go straight to his room when he found his mother on the phone. He'd see the photos gone. Run to see if he could find out who'd been there. Would he immediately suspect her? He'd seen the photo she'd dropped from her notebook in the hall. Who else would he be apt to suspect? Had she left any evidence? He could easily run after her. He might have already started.

By the time she reached her house, she was gasping and crying and shivering. She leaned on the inside of the door until she caught her breath. Her dad sat in the family room before a cheery fire. Her mom hummed in the kitchen as she finished cleaning up after baking. Megan could smell the yeasty fragrance of bread and probably sweet rolls. When her mother didn't have a filming, she loved to stay up late. And she'd be baking things for them to eat while she was away on her trip.

Coming from her experience at Derrick's, Megan felt she'd entered another world. A safe one, she hoped.

“Home so early?” Dad looked up from his novel. “The boys are slipping.”

“It was a meeting, not a date,” Megan reminded him. Her voice sounded hollow and breathy. “Good night. I have homework.” She escaped before anyone could say, Why do you have your jacket wadded into your arms? Why do you look and sound as if you've run a race?

“Cocoa?” Mom called as Megan started upstairs.

“No, thanks.” Megan had more on her mind than cocoa.

In her room she fanned out the pictures and looked at them again. They were just shiny prints of photographs in the light of her room. Negatives. I should have looked for negatives, she thought, forgetting the close timing of Derrick's return. Scooping up the stack of faces, she dumped them into her armchair, covered them with an afghan, and spread books on the desk.

But while she made the pretense of studying, her mind went over and over the new facts she had at hand. Six girls were ill. Derrick had photographed the six girls over and over. Maybe others were ill that she didn't know about. There were students who could be absent and no one would miss them. She made a list. Check absentees for the last two weeks. Ask Jolene Peterson, student council president, how she feels tomorrow after being photographed by Derrick at the meeting. That might prove that one of Derrick's cameras was normal, and that the one he'd left at home was the one that … that.…

Then another thought hit her. She grabbed the school's prints from her desk drawer and snapped off her desk light. From each print came the same soft glow surrounding each face and body. She scooped up the pictures and added them to the pile in her armchair. She'd think of some excuse for not returning them to the annual staff.

The house got quiet. Megan had turned off her light at ten. She felt strange sitting in her room in the dark, waiting, waiting. Finally, flipping on her lamp, she gathered the photographs in her waste-basket and left the room. She stood in the hall for a moment. No noise except the water gurgling in the hot-water heating system. The temperature must have dipped again. The heat had come on.

Downstairs, red coals lay in the fireplace, remains of the evening's cheery fire. Dad had shut the glass doors to keep cool air from entering the room later. Carefully, Megan slid the doors aside. She picked one photo from the basket and turned the corner into the coals, blowing slightly to make it catch fire. After a moment, flames licked merrily around Bunny's smiling face. Sure it was going to burn, Megan dropped the picture on the grate and took out another. As soon as she had a small fire going, each picture feeding on the flames of the last, she speeded up the process. Even then, it took her over an hour to be sure every scrap was gray ash.

Fatigue took hold as she closed the fireplace and stood. She ached all over and her eyes burned from smoke and lack of sleep. She didn't lie awake with the problems of the evening for long, however. Her body demanded rest. Her mind conceded.

She had not slept for long when she woke herself up, screaming. Smoke, fire was all around her. She was trapped. Her arms and legs were tied. She tugged and pulled, but she couldn't escape. The flames licked greedily toward her. The heat was intense. There was no way for her to escape. Derrick sat watching her, the tiny smile on his face.

Chapter 12

“Megan, wake up!” This time it was her mother who shook her awake. Then she held Megan close while Megan sobbed. “Megan, oh, Megan, are you worried about Cynthia? You're—you're not getting sick, are you?”

“It—it was a dream, Mom.” Megan didn't dare mention the airplane crash again. Her parents seemed frustrated with her because she couldn't forget it. But what was Derrick doing in her airplane-crash dream? It was the fire, the photos burning that set her off. Her subconscious added Derrick because of her fear that he was somehow behind the girls' being sick.

Mrs. Davidson stayed with Megan until she slept. Megan didn't dream again, but she woke feeling heavy, tired, as if she could sleep all day. That frightened her, too. If Derrick had been photographing Cynthia without her knowing it, he could get all the pictures of Megan he wanted as well. But she hadn't found any. No, she was tired because of the dream, because of staying up until her parents had gone to sleep.

“Oh, Mom, I'm sorry.” At breakfast Megan took one look at her mother and knew she couldn't model that day. There were dark circles under her eyes and her lids were puffy.