Double Image

by David Morrell

  He stepped inside.

  18

  T HE RADIANT WOMAN FACING HIM MADE HIS HEART STOP . Despite her alluring features, he almost recoiled in surprise at finding her, except that he couldn’t—his legs were powerless. Her hypnotic gaze paralyzed him. For a startling instant, he thought that she had been hiding behind the wall. But the face was too composed, showing no reaction at having been discovered.

  Nerves quivering, he stepped into the chamber, so drawn that he overcame his fear of being enclosed. What he was looking at was an amazingly life-sized photograph of a woman’s face. It hung on the chamber’s back wall, exactly where the woman’s face would have been if she had actually been standing there. Indirect light from the vault dispelled many but not all of the shadows in the chamber, so that the area where the woman’s body would have been was partially obscured, creating the illusion that her body was in fact there. Although the photograph was in black and white, the absence of color seemed lifelike because of the woman’s extremely dark hair and dusky features.

  Either she spent a lot of time in the sun, Coltrane thought, or there was an ethnic influence, possibly Hispanic. Certainly the white lace shawl she wore reminded Coltrane of similar garments he had seen in Mexico. Her dark eyes were riveted on where the camera would have been, on where Coltrane’s eyes now studied her, with the effect that he felt she was peering into him. Her lush hair hung thickly around her shoulders, with such a sheen that it gave off light regardless of how black it was. Her lips were full, their arousing curves parted in a smile, the glint from which seemed to shoot from the photograph. The combination of her features was typical of classic beauty—large eyes, high cheekbones, a smooth, broad forehead, an angular jawline, a narrow chin. She sparkled and smoldered.

  But as captivated as he was by her image, he was equally captivated by the medium in which she was presented. He had seldom seen a black-and-white portrait that demonstrated such perfect control of its essential elements, of the juxtaposition of darkness and light. The technique required more than just a careful positioning of the subject and a precise calculation of light. Afterward, the real work was in the developing process, dodging and burning, underexposing some portions of the print while overexposing others, making the image rather than simply taking a picture. Coltrane knew of only one photographer who had absolute mastery of this technique. Even if he hadn’t found this photograph in this particular location, Coltrane would have known at once who had created it: Randolph Packard.

  19

  A NOISE MADE HIM SPIN . Startled, he grabbed the shotgun, about to raise it, then immediately checked himself when he saw Jennifer at the entrance to the vault.

  “That’s one of the reasons I don’t like guns,” she said.

  “You weren’t in danger. I would have looked before I aimed.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Jennifer’s eyes were still puffy from sleep. “When I woke up and didn’t find you, I got worried. This is the last place I expected you to be.”

  “Believe me, I’m surprised. But not as surprised as I am by this.” Coltrane pointed. “Our little mystery wasn’t as solved as we thought.”

  As Jennifer approached, she ran a hand through her short, sleep-tousled hair.

  “And maybe it’s not such a little mystery after all,” Coltrane said, then explained how he had found the chamber.

  Fascinated, he watched her peer inside.

  “My God,” she whispered. From the side, Coltrane could see that her eyelids came fully open. “She’s the most beautiful . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “And a hundred other questions. The only thing I know for sure is, Packard took that photograph. The style is unmistakable.”

  Jennifer appeared not to have heard. She raised a hand toward the photograph, held it an inch away from the woman’s face, then lowered it. “This is fabulous. I don’t understand why he hid it.”

  “Not just it,” Coltrane said. “Look over here.” To the right, metal shelves rose to the ceiling. “Look at all the boxes.”

  Each was about two inches deep. Grabbing one, Coltrane carried it from the shadows toward the lights in the vault. In a rush, he set the box on a shelf and opened the lid, inhaling audibly when he found the woman’s sultry face peering up at him in another pose.

  “How many?” Coltrane flipped through the rest of the eight-by-ten-inch photographs in the box. “There must be at least a hundred. Every one of them shows her.”

  Jennifer brought out another box. “This one holds sixteen-by-twenties.” She set it on a shelf next to him, tugged the lid open, and lifted a hand to her chest, overwhelmed. “Mitch, get over here. You’ve got to see this.”

  Coltrane quickly joined her. The top image, twice as large as the ones he had flipped through in the first box, gave him his first full-body view of the woman. She was on a deserted beach, stepping out of the ocean, so that the water came just below her knees, one leg ahead of the other, her movement languid even though it was fixed in time. Her bathing suit was dazzlingly white against her tan skin, a one-piece costume that was modest by contemporary standards, its bottom line level with the top of her thighs, its upper line almost to her collarbone, inch-wide straps hitched over her shoulders. But for all its modesty, the suit had an arousing effect, clinging to her supple body, the smooth, wet material emphasizing the curves of her hips, waist, and breasts. Those curves seemed an extension of the undulation of the waves from which she emerged. Water glistened on her silken face, arms, and legs. She didn’t wear a bathing cap. Her midnight-colored hair, drenched by the ocean, was pulled back close to her scalp, the contrast with the lush appearance of her hair in the other photographs reinforcing the classical beauty of her high cheeks. But what most attracted Coltrane’s attention, what mesmerized him in this photograph, as in the others, was the woman’s soul-invading gaze.

  Jennifer sorted through the other photographs in the box, showing Coltrane additional images of the woman on the beach. The scene changed; the woman was on the rim of a cliff with the ocean below her. Sunlight was full on her face, but the other details of the photograph suggested an oncoming storm. The waves in the background were tempestuous. Wind gusted at her hair, sweeping it back. It also gusted at the white cotton dress she wore, blowing it against her body, molding the soft, pliant fabric to her legs, stomach, and breasts. The scene changed yet again; the woman was in a luxuriant garden, oblivious to the flowers around her, gazing pensively toward something on the right while a fountain bubbled behind her.

  In wonder, Coltrane glanced back into the chamber, toward the numerous boxes. “There must be—” his calculations filled him with an emotion that was almost like fear—“thousands of photographs.”

  “And every one so far is a masterpiece,” Jennifer said. “Prints of this quality don’t just get churned out. They take meticulous care. Sometimes a day for each one.”

  Coltrane knew that she wasn’t exaggerating. Packard had been legendary for insisting that photographers who didn’t develop their own prints were contemptible. He had been known to spend a day on one print alone, and if the result had even the slightest blemish, some faint imperfection that only he would have realized was there, he tore the print to shreds and started over.

  “Everybody thought his output dwindled,” Coltrane said. “But if anything, it increased unimaginably.”

  “All of the same amazingly beautiful woman.”

  “Packard certainly didn’t lack ego,” Coltrane said. “He went out of his way to let everybody know how great he was. When he had a photograph that satisfied even his standards, he bragged about it. These are among the best images he ever produced. Instead of showering them upon the world, why the hell did he build a secret room and hide them?”

  “Did Packard ever use this model in any of the photographs he made public?” Jennifer asked.

  “No. I have no idea who on earth she is.”

  “Was,” Jennifer corrected. “Take another look at that
bathing suit. That style hasn’t been in fashion since . . . My guess is the forties. More probably the thirties. How old does she seem to you?”

  “About twenty-five.”

  “Let’s split the difference between decades and say the photograph was taken in 1940. Do the math. She’d be in her eighties now. Assuming she’s still alive, which the odds are against. Even if she is still alive, she won’t be the woman in that photograph. That woman exists only in these prints.”

  “Immortality,” Coltrane said. The irony wasn’t lost on him. “I’m not sure I’ll be alive beyond Wednesday, and here I am wondering about a woman in photographs taken a lifetime ago.” He steadied his gaze on the woman’s. “Whoever you are, thank you. For a little while, I forgot about Ilkovic.”

  SIX

  1

  I HAVE TO PUT MYSELF IN I LKOVIC ’ S PLACE , Coltrane thought. If I’m going to get through this alive, I have to imagine what I’d do in his situation.

  In the dark, lying next to Jennifer, he couldn’t get his mind to shut off. He strained to fix his imagination on the woman’s haunting face, but it melted into a fleshless skull, which swiftly became Ilkovic’s big-boned features. Terror overcame him. He kept worrying about his grandparents. He kept wondering how he was going to survive on Wednesday.

  Maybe Nolan’s right. Maybe it’s foolish to offer myself as bait.

  At once a part of him said, But the cemetery’s one of the few places where Ilkovic is likely to show up. He won’t be able to resist the pleasure of watching Daniel’s mourners. He’ll be hoping to see one mourner in particular: me. The police and the FBI will have a chance to catch him.

  But what if they fail?

  I have to think like Ilkovic. Is he just going to show up on Wednesday and wander around?

  Of course not. He’ll assume the police are there. He’ll change his appearance or hide or watch from a distance.

  And what’s the safest way for him to figure out where to hide?

  The answer felt like an electrical jolt. In a rush, Coltrane sat up. My God, he’ll want to get to the cemetery a day ahead of time so he can scope it out and make sure he protects himself.

  A day ahead of time meant . . .

  Today.

  2

  T HREAT M ANAGEMENT U NIT ,” a crisp voice said.

  “Give me Sergeant Nolan. It’s urgent.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Coltrane quickly gave his name. He and Jennifer were at a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Well, well. Just the man I want to talk to.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is FBI Special Agent James McCoy.” The voice became crisper. “I want you and your friend to report here at once.”

  “Why? What’s the—”

  “We’re taking you into protective custody.”

  “But I already told Sergeant Nolan I think we’re safer on our own.”

  “When he offered protection, he was making a suggestion. In my case, I’m giving you an order.”

  “You remind me of my father. He liked to give me orders.”

  The special agent seemed not to have heard. “We’re going to guard you around the clock.”

  “Sure, right. And how long is that going to last?”

  “Until we catch Ilkovic.”

  “Three months? Six months? A year?”

  “I certainly hope we’ll have caught him in a matter of days.”

  “Is that a fact? And how many leads do you have?”

  The special agent didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got one lead—you’re hoping he’ll show up at the cemetery on Wednesday.”

  The special agent still didn’t respond.

  “And if I’m not there,” Coltrane said, “he’ll never tip his hand. He’ll go to ground and wait until the bureau runs out of money and patience guarding us and puts us back on the street.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment.”

  “Well, since it’s not your life at risk, I don’t much care what you agree with.”

  “In that case, you leave me no choice. There’s been a new development you need to know about.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s better if I inform you about it in person rather than on the phone.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “It would be more humane if we discussed this in person.”

  “Humane?”

  “It’s about your grandparents.”

  3

  T HE T HREAT M ANAGEMENT OFFICE HADN ’ T CHANGED MUCH since Coltrane had last been there two years earlier—an additional desk, a couple of new computers—but it could have been painted scarlet instead of white and have had a pool table instead of filing cabinets for all he noticed when he stormed into the room. Two detectives, their jackets draped over the back of their chairs, peered up from monitors they were studying. A third man, his blue suit coat neatly buttoned, crossed the room.

  “Mr. Coltrane?”

  “I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

  The rigidly postured man was slender, with thin lips and narrow eyes. He held out his hand. “I’m Special Agent McCoy.” He glanced toward Jennifer, who was standing behind Coltrane.

  Coltrane didn’t shake hands. “I said I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

  McCoy reached for his shoulder. “Why don’t we go over to the Federal Building and—”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “Mr. Coltrane, I realize you’re under a lot of stress, but—”

  “Get your hand off me, or I’ll break it.”

  The room became still. The two detectives braced themselves to stand. McCoy’s mouth hung open in surprise. As Coltrane’s face reddened, Jennifer stepped between them.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Nolan appeared at the entrance to the office, his tan blazer slightly oversize to compensate for his weight lifter’s shoulders. “Getting acquainted?”

  McCoy stood straighter. “More like threatening a federal officer.”

  “You implied something terrible had happened to my grandparents. You refused to tell me over the phone. You forced me to risk my life by coming here.”

  “I hardly think coming to the police qualifies as risking your life,” McCoy said.

  “If it was just a ploy to get me here, if there’s nothing wrong with my grandparents—”

  “Time out, gentlemen.”

  “Did something happen to my grandparents?”

  “Yes.” Nolan glanced toward the floor. “I keep giving you bad news. I’m sorry.”

  Coltrane felt as if a cold knife had pierced his heart.

  “Did you phone the New Haven Police Department yesterday evening?” McCoy asked.

  Coltrane directed his answer toward Nolan. “I called my grandparents several times, but I kept getting their answering machine. So I got worried and asked the New Haven police to send a patrol car over to their house to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Your call was logged just after eight P . M . eastern time,” McCoy continued.

  “Not you. Him.” Coltrane pointed toward Nolan. “If I’m going to hear something terrible about my grandparents, I want it to be from somebody I know.”

  “There was a major freeway accident in New Haven shortly after your call,” Nolan said. “Most patrol cars were called in to sort out the confusion. By the time a car was free to go to your grandparents’ house, it was after eleven at night.”

  “Quit stalling and tell me.”

  “They found newspapers for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday on the front porch. The mail hadn’t been picked up, either.” Nolan paused, uncomfortable. “They broke in and searched the house. . . . Your grandparents were in the basement.”

  Coltrane could barely ask the next question. “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Nolan clearly didn’t want to say it. “Ilkovic hanged them.”

  Coltrane wanted to scream.

  “
The reason we’re sure it was Ilkovic,” Nolan said, “is that Federal Express tried to deliver a package to your town house yesterday. When there was nobody to receive it, the driver delivered it to a secondary address that the sender had specified.”

  “Secondary?”

  “Here. It arrived at the station in midafternoon, but because it was addressed to you, it went from office to office, after an all clear from the bomb squad, until someone in the Threat Management Unit recognized your name.”

  Coltrane sounded hoarse. “What’s in the package?”

  “A videotape.”

  4

  T HE ROOM BECAME SMALLER . Coltrane glanced from Nolan to McCoy to Jennifer to Nolan. He felt as if he was spinning. “Videotape?”

  “Like the audiotape of . . .” Jennifer’s voice trailed off.

  “I want to see it,” Coltrane said.

  “No,” Jennifer said. “Take their word for what happened.”

  “I have to see it.”

  “What will that accomplish?” Jennifer asked. “You know how devastated you felt when you heard Daniel on the audiotape. That’s exactly what Ilkovic wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “She’s right,” McCoy said.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Nolan said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or—”

  “Let me understand this,” Coltrane said. “Are you telling me you refuse to show me the tape?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then where is it?”

  The group exchanged glances.

  McCoy shrugged fatalistically. “A man ought to know what he wants.”