Double Image

by David Morrell

  “Yes.”

  “I asked Blaine if he knew why Packard had chosen me, but Blaine told me he hadn’t the faintest idea.”

  “From what Blaine told me, that seems to be the truth.”

  “I didn’t know who besides Blaine to ask,” Tash said, “and by then, I was deep in this mess with whoever . . .” She gestured toward a wall and whatever lurked beyond it. “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind. So when, out of nowhere, I heard you mention Packard and the estate in Mexico, you could have knocked me over.”

  “I have to be honest about something.”

  Tash’s dark eyes narrowed, as if she was afraid of what he was going to say.

  “I haven’t been entirely open with you,” Coltrane said.

  She looked more uneasy.

  “The reason I came here wasn’t just to find out if you’d be interested in selling the Mexican estate. I’ve never seen it. Who knows how it’ll strike me if I ever do see it? What I really came here for was to ask you the same question you asked me.”

  “Why Randolph Packard gave me the Mexican estate?”

  “Yes.”

  Tash shook her head in exhaustion. “Please. I have all the mysteries I can handle.”

  “But maybe the answer to mine will help solve one of yours. Have you ever heard of an up-and-coming movie actress in the thirties named Rebecca Chance?”

  Baffled, Tash considered the name. “No.”

  “I’m not surprised. She disappeared before she had the chance to become a star.”

  “But what does she have to do with—”

  “She was being stalked. The same pattern of letters, gifts, and phone calls. Then one day she vanished.”

  “If you’re trying to frighten me even more than I already am . . .”

  “No,” Coltrane said. “I’m trying to help you figure out why Randolph Packard put you in his will. Packard was desperately in love with her.”

  “Rebecca Chance.”

  “Yes.” Coltrane paused, struck anew by the alluring features of the woman across from him and the uncanny situation in which he found himself. “And Rebecca Chance looked so much like you . . . you look so much like her . . . you might as well be the same woman.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Coltrane hesitated.

  He told her everything.

  “Photographs?”

  “And movies that Rebecca Chance was featured in. But you’re right to zero in on the photographs. They’re what’s truly important. Because Packard took them. Because he hid them.”

  “And Rebecca Chance is identical to me?”

  “So much so that I thought I was hallucinating when I first saw you.”

  “This is . . . I can’t . . .” She stared at him. “Show them to me.”

  Coltrane blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “I want to see the photographs.”

  “But I don’t have them with me. I can come back tomorrow and bring—”

  “Now. I want to see them. Take me to them.”

  Tash’s emotion was so intense that for several moments Coltrane wasn’t able to move or speak. He found himself saying hesitantly, “All right . . . sure . . . if that’s what you . . .”

  “I’ll just need a second upstairs.”

  “We’ll be going into L.A.”

  “You don’t have to worry about driving me back. I’ll follow you.”

  “I wouldn’t mind driving you back. It’s just that . . .” A misgiving nagged at him. It had nothing to do with showing Tash the photographs. If anybody had the right to see them, it seemed to him that she did. His uneasiness came from another source, something to do with the parallel between Rebecca Chance’s stalker and Tash Adler’s stalker and . . .

  Mine. With a shudder, he realized that in order to help Tash, he had to be as cautious now as he had been when Ilkovic was hunting him. He had to put himself in her place, to imagine that he was the person in danger.

  “It’s better if I drive you,” Coltrane said.

  Tash paused on her way from the kitchen. She looked mystified.

  “If someone is watching your house, he’ll follow you when you follow me, and he wouldn’t have much trouble. A Porsche isn’t inconspicuous.”

  “That’s what Walt said.” Tash sounded disheartened. “Get rid of the Porsche, or at least rent something bland until this jerk is in prison. I’ve already reduced my movements until I’m practically living in a box.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not going to let that bastard take anything more away from me.”

  “But you don’t have to drive the Porsche.”

  “What am I going to do, run behind you and bark at your tires?”

  It sounded so unexpectedly humorous, they stared at each other and found themselves laughing.

  “God, it feels good to do that,” Tash said. “I can’t remember the last time I truly laughed.” It made her radiant.

  “Honestly,” Coltrane said, “I think I should drive you.”

  “But if he’s out there, he’ll still see the two of us in your car. He’ll still follow.”

  “Not if you get in my car while the garage door is down. You lie on the back floor until we’re a distance away. Since he won’t know you’re with me, he’ll stay and watch the house. Have you got any timers for the lights?”

  10

  A S THE GARAGE DOOR DESCENDED , Coltrane removed his hand from the remote control he had taken from the Porsche and continued backing onto the murky road. He turned on his headlights only after the door was sufficiently low that illumination into the garage wouldn’t reveal that Tash wasn’t in there and wasn’t pressing the control on the wall to lower the door.

  So far so good, Coltrane thought. But he knew that a couple of other tactics were required to make the ruse convincing. Pausing at the foot of the driveway, he turned on his car’s interior lights and consulted a map, as if figuring out how to get back to the highway. Anyone watching the house would see that he was alone. Next, he shut off the interior lights and tapped his horn twice, two short blasts, evidently saying good-bye. As he proceeded along the road, his headlights probing the darkness, he glanced at his rearview mirror and saw a lamp go off in a window.

  “The timer worked perfectly,” he said.

  “It looks like I’m still at home and turning off a few lights?” Tash asked from where she hid on the back floor.

  “Yep. And there goes the second one,” Coltrane said, watching his rearview mirror.

  “Inspired,” Tash’s voice came muffled from the back.

  “Not to be immodest, but I agree. Even so, stay down for a while. I want to watch for any headlights that start following us.”

  “Is this . . .”

  Coltrane waited, but Tash didn’t finish her question. “What?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “How can I know until you tell me?”

  “Is this what you had to do when you were running from Dragan Ilkovic?”

  The reference caught Coltrane unawares, blunting the satisfaction he had felt in getting Tash out of the house. “How did you know about me and Ilkovic?”

  “While you were in the bathroom waiting to get your clothes dried, Carl Nolan told me.”

  It felt odd to be having a conversation with someone Coltrane couldn’t see. He made an effort not to tilt his head in Tash’s direction and ruin the illusion that he was alone.

  “I knew about what had happened at that movie ranch,” Tash’s voice continued below and behind him. “At the time, there wasn’t much else in the newspapers or on the television news. But when I met you, your name didn’t register. I didn’t make the connection.”

  “That’s encouraging. I hate to think that every time I introduce myself to someone new, I’ll always be remembered as the man who shot Ilkovic. I prefer to be known for my photographs, not for killing someone—even if he did deserve it.”

  “I’m sorry for asking you to talk about it.�
�

  “No, it’s fine. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I used to check for headlights behind me all the time. I used to drive around the block and down narrow alleys and one-way streets—anyplace that would make it unusual for someone to stay behind me. But the timers on the lamps, all that business in the garage, they weren’t anything I’d tried before.”

  “It’s reassuring to know you’re inventive.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not something I’m overjoyed to find out I’m inventive at. Keep staying down.” Coltrane steered onto the Pacific Coast Highway and checked for any headlights that emerged onto the highway after him. “So far so good.”

  “Let’s hope,” Tash’s muffled voice said.

  “When you found out what I had done to Ilkovic, did it change the way you looked at me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “As you put it, he deserved to be killed.”

  “That he did.” Coltrane sighed bleakly. “That he did.”

  “People you know did change the way they related to you?”

  “One in particular.”

  “Powerful emotions can be frightening.” Coming from the darkness, Tash’s disembodied voice sounded more faint, almost childlike. “Do you have nightmares?”

  “Yes. I thought they’d go away, but they haven’t. I keep dreaming that Ilkovic isn’t dead, that he’s still coming for me. I imagine his hands . . .”

  “I have nightmares, too,” Tash said. “Someone’s reaching for me, but I can’t see his face. Since I don’t know what he looks like, it’s natural that he’d be faceless, I suppose, but it’s worse than that. It’s almost as if he doesn’t have a . . .”

  “Head.”

  “Then you understand.”

  “That’s in my nightmare also,” Coltrane said.

  “This’ll sound odd, but I’m glad.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to about what I’m feeling and know that you understand. Walt, Lyle, Carl, and the others—I try to explain how alone and afraid I feel, and they tell me they know what I mean. But they don’t know. How can they possibly? They’re big men with badges and guns. Their lives are in control. They’re not being stalked.”

  “We’re in a limited club.”

  “Not you. Not any longer. But it’s reassuring to know that you survived. I feel safe with you.”

  “I hope I don’t let you down.” Again, Coltrane checked his rearview mirror. “I didn’t see any cars pull onto the highway after us. I think it’s okay now for you to sit up.”

  “Since I’m feeling safe . . .”

  Coltrane wondered what she meant to say.

  “Why don’t I stay down out of sight until we get to your place?”

  “It’s a long drive,” Coltrane said.

  “It won’t be if we keep talking the way we are. Tell me about your photographs.”

  11

  A LL CLEAR ,” Coltrane said as his garage door rumbled shut.

  “Ouch,” Tash said. “I’m going to need a couple of aerobics classes to get my back into shape after this.” She rose, massaged her spine, and got out of the car. But it was obvious that she wasn’t that creaky. An upward stretch of her arms accentuated her trim body. She had changed from her loose-fitting sweatsuit to a pair of blue slacks, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a jacket whose color resembled the raspberry tint of what she had previously been wearing—obviously a favorite color; it added a depth to her dark eyes and hair. When she stretched, she turned modestly away, so as not to emphasize her breasts in front of him, Coltrane assumed. No matter, that upward stretch and a slight twist this way and then that were a pleasure to behold, her body assuming the dancer’s grace she had exhibited when he first saw her, although Coltrane continued to have the uncanny feeling that he had first seen her long before that.

  Watching in wonder, he suddenly found himself in darkness.

  “What happened?” Tash asked in surprise.

  “The garage opener’s overhead light is supposed to stay on for a minute after the door goes down, but it’s been cutting out much sooner. I’ll go over and turn on the switch.”

  Footsteps scraping on concrete, he inched through the darkness and approached where he estimated the door to the house was. Reaching blindly, he touched the door and groped toward the switch on the right, all at once flinching from a shock, seeing a spark as a hand brushed past his and reached for the same switch.

  “Oh my God,” Tash said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Whoa. You really do give off static electricity.”

  “I thought you were having trouble finding the switch. I was looking in that direction when the lights went off, so I figured it would be easier for me to . . . I really am sorry.”

  When Coltrane turned on the light, he discovered he was startlingly close to her. Again, her beauty amazed him. Her subtle perfume filled his nostrils. Trying not to look flustered, he unlocked the door to the house and opened it, guiding her in. “Can I get you something?” He hoped that she wouldn’t notice that his voice was slightly unsteady. “More wine? Coffee? Something to eat? It’s close to dinnertime. I could make some—”

  “The photographs.” Tash ignored the house and its unique furnishings, fixing her gaze on him.

  “Of course. They’re the reason you’re here, after all.” He led the way downstairs, unlocked the vault, and pushed open its metal door. Cool air cascaded over them.

  Tash hugged herself.

  “That’s the way I felt at first,” Coltrane said. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Will I?” Tash looked around at the austere shelves and blinked from the overhead glare.

  Crossing the vault with her, he had never felt so aware of being alone with a woman.

  En route, he had explained how he had happened to find the chamber. But she still wasn’t prepared when he freed the catches and pulled out the section of shelves, and she certainly wasn’t prepared when she entered the chamber and came face-to-face with her look-alike. It might have been the garish overhead lights that caused what happened next, but more likely, Coltrane thought, it was blood draining from Tash’s face that made her look abruptly pale.

  She wavered. Afraid that she was going to collapse, Coltrane reached to catch her, then stopped the impulse when she regained her composure, standing rigidly still. He could only imagine the turmoil she must be suffering. For his part, as he looked from Tash toward the wall before her and the life-sized features of Rebecca Chance, he suffered a sanity-threatening unbalance. The photograph was Tash. Tash was the photograph. But it wasn’t, and she wasn’t. The face in the photograph was almost two-thirds of a century old.

  “I . . .” Tash swallowed as if something blocked her throat. Her voice thickened. “How on earth is this possible?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  With palpable effort, she turned from the photograph. “And you say there are other photographs?”

  “Thousands of them. I was so absorbed by them that I never took the time to count them.”

  “Show me.”

  The distress in her eyes frightened him. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? This is more unsettling for you than I expected. Perhaps you should—”

  “I want to see them.”

  “Yes.” Coltrane felt powerless. “Whatever you want.”

  He picked up the top box, suddenly remembered what was in it, set it aside, and picked up the next one, carrying it out to one of the shelves. Tash followed, stepping so close that he felt her shoulder against him as he opened the lid.

  Rebecca Chance stepped out of waves onto a beach, just as Tash had stepped out of waves a few hours earlier.

  Coltrane felt the air that Tash’s forced breathing displaced. In her need to look at them, she would probably have pushed him aside if he hadn’t stepped out of the way. Then the echo of his sideways movement dwindled, and the only sound in the vault was the smooth slide o
f photographs being hurriedly turned, one after the other after the other.

  Totally preoccupied by them, Tash was equally oblivious to him. It gave him a chance to indulge his need to admire her.

  “What’s in the first box?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Tash had reached the last photograph in the box so quickly and pivoted toward him so unexpectedly that he had been caught staring at her.

  “You set a box aside before you picked up this one.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember. I—”

  “Why didn’t you want me to look inside it?”

  “No special reason. The photographs in this one are more interesting is all. I—”

  Tash reentered the vault. Before he could take a step to prevent her, she came determinedly back into view, carrying another box, and Coltrane had no doubt which box it was. The previous evening, after he had shown Jennifer the nudes of Rebecca Chance, he had put the box on top of the others rather than at the bottom, where he had found it.

  Tash narrowed her eyes, as if she suspected he had tried to betray her. Then she opened the lid and straightened at the sight of Rebecca Chance’s naked body, the glistening chromium beads draped over her. Tash didn’t seem able to move. Slowly, with a manifest effort of will, she turned to the next photograph and the next. Because there weren’t any clothes, the thirties style of which would have identified the period during which the photographs had been taken, these images could as easily have been taken now, and could as easily have been of Tash—if that was how Tash looked naked.

  Again she seemed paralyzed. But this time, when she finally moved, it was to look at Coltrane. “You were trying to protect my modesty?”

  “Something like that. I wasn’t sure how comfortable you’d feel with me in the room while you looked at photographs of a naked woman, especially when that woman looks just like you.”

  Tash studied him.

  “I thought it would be sort of like looking at . . .”

  “Myself?” she asked.

  “It’s an awfully personal situation.”

  “Thank you for respecting my feelings.”