The Seventh Victim (12 page)

“A stunning cherry chest and an ornate desk. Both students outdid themselves.”

“Great.”

“The president of the university plans to attend the opening reception, and he’s bringing board members. Rumors are again flying about budget cuts, so we’ve got to put on a show to hold on to what we have. You are going to submit a piece, aren’t you?”

A faint smile tugged at the edge of her lips. “Are you sure you want my work? Kinda dark.”

He laughed. “Maybe avoid the murder scenes and use the images of the Alamo. The Alamo is always a hit in these parts.”

In recent months, she hadn’t limited her work to just crime scenes but had also started shooting pictures of battlegrounds where death had also left its mark. Though the Alamo was a scene of great bloodshed, it was also a source of pride for Texans. “I’m not so lost in my art that I don’t understand the practical side of life. I’ll print and mount the Alamo series.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“Really?”

“In Seattle, you were all about career and goals and doing only what you thought was best.”

That was the first time he’d mentioned Seattle since she’d arrived in Austin. “A taste of real life tempered me.”

He frowned. “Lara, you’ve been back eight months, and we’ve not talked about Seattle.”

She stiffened. “I appreciate that you’ve not gone there.”

He dragged long fingers through his hair. “Maybe we should talk about it.”

She shoved her laptop in her backpack. “You were great to me while we were in Seattle. I wish I could have held my act together, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded. “Deal.”

Relief washed over her.

He kissed her on the cheek. “Friends?”

“Yes. And you’ll come to my opening this Friday?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It was past ten and his coffee sat cold and virtually untouched as he leafed through the pages of the newspaper one more time. He’d started with the crime section and found a small article.

Of course he understood why his first victim had gotten so little play. He’d left her too far off the road, so it had been over a month before she was discovered. There’d been little to find, thanks to the elements and animals. It made sense that no one would realize who had arrived in town.

But the second victim was different. He’d left her close to the road, and she’d been found quickly. He’d seen the cops and the crime scene roped off with yellow tape as he’d driven by on the interstate.

Didn’t the cops see that this murder was different from most? No crime of passion, it had been a cold, calculated staging to get their attention.

Frustration gnawed at his gut as he drummed his fingers over the newspaper. Where was the coverage?

How many bodies would it take for the cops to connect the dots? Two wasn’t enough? He shoved out a sigh and sat back in the chair.

In the Entertainment section there’d been an ad placed by the gallery featuring Lara’s show. It was a small ad, just two-by-two, but he reread the details a half dozen times. The opening would be a fun affair, and he looked forward to it.

Anticipation had the tips of his fingers burning as he reached for the red book embossed with the gold letters,
The Book of Blair
.

After Lincoln’s late-night walk, Lara locked up the house and moved into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her limbs ached with fatigue, and she was ready to sleep. After she rinsed her mouth and raised her head, she stared at her face, wondering for the millionth time what he’d seen in her all those years ago that made him want to kill her. She ran long fingers through her light brown hair and drew in a breath.

“He didn’t see you as a person.”
She repeated the words Seattle’s forensic psychologist had told her over and over again.
“You were just an object. A means to one of his sick ends. For him, it wasn’t personal.”

“Well, it felt pretty damn personal.” After brushing her hair she stripped off her clothes, hauled on an oversized T-shirt, and then climbed into bed. Lincoln jumped on the bed and curled up at the edge.

She shut off the light and closed her eyes, listening for any kind of sound that might make her jump. Outside a breeze blew, and the branches from a tree by the house scraped against the windows. She pulled her blankets up close to her chin.

She thought about the front door lock and wondered if she should recheck it. Damn. It had been years since she’d been hung up on locks and outdoor sounds. And she knew she worried tonight because of James Beck’s visit.

He was doing his best to drag her back into that old, dark world of shrinks and crime scene photos that had nearly driven her insane.

Lara had barely gotten out of that world with her sanity. It had taken nearly seven years in exile, but she was finally healthy and whole again, and she’d be damned if she’d go back. Beck would not take her back to hell.

Healthy and whole
.

Her laughter echoed in the dark room. Lincoln perked up his ears and grunted in response. “And what are you doing, Ms. Lara Church, at the crack of dawn in the morning?” She hesitated and then answered herself, “You’re taking pictures of a murder scene.”

She rolled on her side and curled her body around her pillow. “Yeah, that’s healthy.”

Chapter 8

Wednesday, May 22, 4:45
AM

Lincoln glanced up from the passenger seat of the truck, yawned, and laid his head back down as Lara climbed out of the front seat of her truck cab. Eyes heavy with sleep and joints stiff after a restless night’s sleep, she stretched her arms and glanced at the night sky perched on the edge of dawn.

When her alarm had sounded at three thirty she’d been so tempted to roll back over and go to sleep. She’d tossed and turned too much last night and had not gotten more than a full hour of sleep at any given time.

But as much as she craved the warmth and security of her bed, she needed to get up and photograph this spot. Her art wasn’t a job. It was a compulsion, a jealous mistress that required her attention and kept her from straying too long.

She’d exited the interstate onto the access road and then, spotting a flat stretch, drove off the side road onto the dry, cracked land. The truck bumped and rocked as she crossed to the murder scene. She’d parked as close as she could to the site, knowing she’d have to move quickly to prepare her negatives and catch the rising sun.

“Stay put, boy. See you in a bit.” As the dog relaxed against the seat, she shut the cab door, moved to the back, and opened the lid of the camper top.

Between the cobbled sections of clouds, stars winked clear and bright. The scent of rain hung in the air.

Switching on her flashlight she did one last inspection of her equipment and then studied the path ahead.

A hundred yards behind her, a truck blew past on the interstate, sending a rush of energy, air, and sound cutting through the quiet night.

She hefted her large bellows camera on her shoulder and, with her flashlight in hand, followed the matted path until she spotted the billow of the yellow crime scene tape. She set up the tripod facing east and checked her watch. It was 5
AM
and the sun would rise in about forty-five minutes. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She hurried back to her truck and from a wooden storage box retrieved a ten-by-eight glass plate that she’d precut and cleaned last night. After wiping down the plate one last time, she uncorked a glass bottle filled with the chemical collodion, poured the syrupy liquid on the glass, and gently tipped her wrist back and forth. The trick was to evenly coat the glass. The masters of this process, known as “flowing the plate,” strove for no streaks or runs, but she’d found the occasional imperfection added depth and interest to her final prints.

When she’d coated the plate to her satisfaction, she poured the excess collodion back into the bottle and opened what looked like a black, slim file box. She slid the glass negative into the box, which was filled with silver nitrate, and waited five minutes. Tenting her work area under a large black blanket that blocked out all light, she removed the tacky, light-sensitive glass negative and loaded it into a plate holder. She hurried back to her camera, knowing her negative needed to be used while still damp.

Under another black drape, she inserted the first negative into the camera just as the initial bits of light appeared on the horizon. Through the viewfinder the image appeared upside down, but when she processed the negative it would right itself.

The sun inched up to the edge of the horizon, and she reached around and pulled the cap off the lens. She counted to thirty and then replaced the cap. With the morning heat already rising, she hurried back to her truck with the exposed negative, ducked under her blanket again, and poured developer evenly over the glass plate. As she counted to fifteen she gently agitated the glass and watched for her image to appear.

More thunder rumbled in the distance and the rising winds whooshed over the tall, dry grass. When the image emerged, she poured water over it, halting the development process. She set the negative aside to dry and prepared a second.

With thunderclouds looming, she shot and developed two more negatives before the threat of rain forced her to load up her equipment.

By six thirty, as the morning traffic on the interstate built, she was angling her camera gently into the back of the truck.

The pleasure of her morning’s work ended abruptly when flashing blue police lights reflected in her side mirror. “Damn.”

She’d been through this before, cops spotting her at a crime scene and stopping to ask what she was doing. Logically it made sense. What person in their right mind would do this? But logic didn’t temper her irritation.

The officer, in his midforties, short with dark hair, got out of his car and approached her, one hand on his gun. “Ma’am, what are you doing out here?”

Turning, she kept her hands, palms open at her side. “I’m a photographer. I was taking pictures of the sunrise. In the back of my truck, you’ll see my camera and equipment.”

He moved to the back of the truck, touched her back tailgate with his palm, and glanced inside. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eyes narrowed, he pulled a flashlight from his belt and shined it inside. The light swept over the camera, the chemicals, and the box of negatives.

“My name is Lara Church. I teach at the university, and I have an art show opening this Friday in Austin.”

He glanced at her and then at the equipment. “What is there to photograph out here?”

“I’ve been known to pick some random places at odd times.”

“What kind of camera is that?”

“It’s a bellows camera. The kind photographers used during the Civil War. Ansel Adams took his pictures out west with a bellows camera.” She’d found the better she explained herself the less time she would be detained.

He stared at her as if he wasn’t sure if she was crazy or just stupid. She could have told him maybe a little of both.

“Can I see your driver’s license and registration?”

“Sure.” She moved toward the front of the truck and paused. “I have a dog in the front seat. He’s pretty big but harmless.”

The officer nodded and held back as she moved to the front of the cab and grabbed her purse. She fished her driver’s license out of her wallet and handed it to the officer.

He glanced at the license. “Texas.”

“I just changed it to Texas from Florida a couple of weeks ago.” She’d had the Florida license for two years but hadn’t lived in the state for over two years. After Florida there’d been Vermont and then Maine. Out-of-date identification was another red flag she was careful to avoid.

“I’ll be right back. And do me a favor. Get back in your truck.”

The order made her bristle. “Sure.”

She slid behind the wheel of the car, scratched a curious Lincoln on the head, and waited, irritated. If she’d been just a minute faster she’d have been gone and well on her way home. This delay meant she’d get caught in early-morning commuter traffic.

After a ten-minute wait the officer returned and handed her back her papers. “Looks like you’re clear.”

She swallowed a smart-ass response. “Right.”

“It’s not safe out here by yourself, Ms. Church. We’ve had trouble in this stretch of road.”

I know. A woman was murdered, and I just photographed the spot where they found her body. “I’ll be more careful.”

“It’s not about being careful, it’s about staying away from places that leave you vulnerable.”

Seven years of careful had landed her in a half-living kind of existence. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The drive back to her house took forty-five minutes, and by the time she arrived, she’d driven through a heavy but brief thunderstorm. She let Lincoln out of the car, reached over the backseat to grab her box of negatives. A barking Lincoln waited for her on the front porch.

“Okay, okay, I hear you. Breakfast. Pronto.”

She set her negatives down on the dining room table, moved into the kitchen, and pulled out his bag of food, which she dumped into a bowl. She filled his water bowl with fresh water and then placed a chew stick by his bowl.

Her stomach grumbled, but instead of taking the time to eat, she grabbed a piece of cheese from the refrigerator and her negatives. She’d eat a real meal later.

She closed the shed door and moved to the table where she had her chemical trays and light source set up.

As soon as Lara opened the box of glass negatives she lost track of time. When she worked with the negatives and the images, the outside world melted away, along with worries and fears.

When Lincoln started barking, she glanced at her wristwatch and realized that five hours had passed. Knowing she had to wrap for the day, she still took one last glance at the images she’d created. She was pleased. On one negative the chemicals had not reached the edges of the glass so when the image developed, her imperfect technique created a jagged frame that wrapped around thunderous clouds backlit by a rising sun and the strip of crime scene tape that flapped in the wind.