The Photographer II

by Barbara Steiner

  There was a totally different feel to it. It was light, airy, freshly painted, clean. A quick look around showed Vicki nothing different from the other night. Lights, tripods for cameras, places to sit or stand for photos. A curtain led to a small dressing room, bathroom, and at the end of the hall a closed door. This might be David’s darkroom. Please let it be unlocked. Would he keep it secure for any reason?

  No, the door swung inward. She stepped in, noticed that the room was small with no window, but it had a sink, pans for solution, lines for drying, shelves of supplies. And a cork bulletin board. She stared at it and felt her insides tighten. Her breathing stopped, one hand flew to her lips.

  Dozens of prints—eight and a half by elevens, five by sevens—were pinned up side by side, five rows. One row for SueAnne, one for Belle, one for Goldie, one for Davita. Davita? Was he planning on taking her next? And one—one—for her. Except that the photos of Vicki were different, unposed. Here was one of her back, standing beside Davita, now several of her helping Davita up when she fainted. The two of them sitting on the dais, Vicki talking to Davita. Altman had continued taking photos all the time Vicki was helping Davita. Why? Why have photos of Vicki’s back?

  That night came back. So hot, so close in the studio, so little air, Davita’s gardenia perfume, the chemical smell of developing solutions. Like now. The darkroom seemed to close in, grow darker. Vicki realized she still wasn’t breathing. She gasped, sucked in air, tried to breathe normally. But there was something—something.

  She stepped back, closed the door behind her, throwing the room into total darkness. It was a darkness that had nothing to do with the lack of light, but swirled around her as if it were alive and feeding on her fear. Her fingers searched, located two light switches. Guessing, she threw on the dim work light, giving the room a red bath of blood.

  A part of her wanted to scream, run. A part of her felt that David Altman was standing behind her, smiling his tiny smile. And a third part was fascinated. With the door closed, with scarlet darkness in the room, something was evident. There was a strange glow around all the photos on this bulletin board, including those of Vicki. She would have compared the glow to a halo except that it was all around her body, like an aura.

  Was it possible to photograph a person’s aura? Did Altman have a camera with that capability? Did all his photos—

  She stepped back to the door, switched on the white light. Then she gathered up several more photos of children, older people, and one of a dog. Switching off the light, she held one at a time at arm’s length. No glow, nothing different about these. Just the photos of the murdered or missing girls and those of her shone with the strange light.

  Her mind raced, flicked through all sorts of ideas, brainstormed possibilities. The only thing that came of cataloging her thoughts was that Altman used two cameras when he was photographing Davita. He hadn’t done that earlier with Vicki. Could there be something special about that second camera? What? That it photographed those auras?

  Suddenly she knew she had to leave the small, closed-in space. She switched on the light, tried to place the other photos back about where she’d found them, then hurried out to the studio. Both of Altman’s cameras were still perched on tripods, aimed at the dais where he posed most of his subjects.

  There was no difference in the two of them as far as Vicki could tell. Looking without touching, Vicki saw no extra knobs, switches, except—there was no brand name on the second camera. Do all manufacturers put a brand name on the body of the camera itself? She thought they did, but she wasn’t sure. And if this was a special camera, how did it work? What kind of power did it have? Could it hurt them, make them sick? And where would Altman get such a camera? Too many questions and too few answers. And the whole idea of a camera with some special power was too bizarre to be believable.

  Okay, were the strange photos evidence? Should she gather them up and take them to Mrs. Lawrence? Vicki could imagine the conversation. “Here,” she’d say, “these photos are strange.” “What does that mean?” logical Mrs. Lawrence would ask. “I have no idea,” Vicki would have to answer. “How did you get them? Did you break into Altman’s studio? Surely he didn’t just let you come in, take them, and walk out.” “No, I broke in,” Vicki would have to admit. “Then you’re the one who’s guilty. It’s a crime to break into someone’s home or office.”

  At a loss as to what to do now, Vicki sighed, then started for the back door.

  “Hello, who’s here?” a voice called out.

  My God, Altman’s voice! He had come in without Vicki hearing. What would he do if he caught her in his studio, or knew she’d been in the darkroom? If he was the murderer, he had her captive. If he wasn’t, he could have her arrested for coming in here while he was gone. She looked around for a place to hide.

  She was able to get into the hall and slip into the dressing room before she heard his footsteps coming into the area. Shaking all over, she ducked into a tiny closet with a curtain for a door. There were dresses hanging there. She slid in behind them. Two hung almost to the floor. Making herself as thin as possible, she stood behind them. Her knees trembled. Her heart pounded so loud, she felt it must echo all through the old house.

  Her hearing was so fine-tuned, she could trace his slow progress by the soft brush of his shoes on the hall runner. He walked to his darkroom, pulled open the door, she imagined.

  “Is someone in here?” His voice was low, husky. Did he expect someone to say, yes, I’m hiding in here from you.

  He turned, started back toward the big studio room. Did he stop outside the dressing room door? Vicki wasn’t sure. The door had been open, so Vicki had to leave it open. He might be the sort of person who remembered how everything was. The only reason someone would shut the door was if she was dressing.

  Again Vicki held her breath. Her stomach tumbled and churned. Closing her eyes, she tried to think. If he comes in here, I’ll shove him aside and run.

  The faint click of what might have been the back door caught her attention. Had he gone back outside? Given up on looking for a burglar? Did she dare step out and look around? And was he home for good? Could she get out now?

  Finally, she stepped carefully from behind the dresses, the curtain, and seeing no one, she peeked into the hall. There was a click, a chink, and a rustle in the kitchen. Was he unloading groceries?

  She tiptoed closer, heard him go out the back door again. If she went into the garage—But how would she get out? He’d hear her raising the door, or he might raise the door himself and put the van inside.

  That was the next sound she heard. The garage door rattling upward. She could slip out the back door in the kitchen. Ready to run, she pushed open a narrow slot, turned sideways, and slid through it. Immediately, she crouched behind some bushes by the door.

  She could see Altman’s feet. He wore black boots, the dressy kind called half Wellingtons. They had leather soles. That was why she’d been able to hear his footsteps so well.

  It would seem he was loading things into the car. She dared lean around just in time to see him with a camera on a tripod. He folded the legs and laid it carefully in the back of the van.

  Was he going away again? Where? Why was he taking one of the cameras with him? He could be taking it to a repair shop. But would he leave it on the tripod? No, he’d take it off and put it into a case. As it was, it was ready to take out and use, photograph immediately. Maybe he did landscapes. He’d lift the camera in and out, focusing it on distant mountains, what little was left of fall foliage, or maybe he’d shoot some arty scenes. He might do other types of photography for a hobby or to sell to magazines.

  Landscapes? She laughed at such a homey idea. Something in her knew he was taking the camera to wherever—

  Had he taken another girl captive? He had returned Goldie. Had he taken Davita? He had a row of photos of her. Yes, Vicki thought, he was going to wherever he held another of her friends. She had never felt so sure about anything before i
n her life.

  He locked up the house, walked around on the gravel, footsteps crunching now, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

  It was the first time she had ever desperately wished for a car. She’d give anything to know where he was going with that camera, no matter which one it was. Photographers didn’t usually make house calls, did they?

  When the van was halfway down the drive, it stopped, pulled forward again. He had forgotten something. Leaving the engine running, Altman jumped out, ran back to the door, and let himself in.

  Vicki had this one chance to do something rash, something stupid. On the back of the van was a ladder, for helping load the top, she guessed.

  This was the only way possible to follow David Altman, to see where he was going with a camera.

  If he turned on the highway to Little Rock, she could jump off and roll into a ditch. She might get bruised, but she’d never be able to hold on at high speeds.

  If he was going to the same place that he went the night of the storm, she could at least find out where that was. Her idea was foolish, the dumbest thing she’d ever done. She had no real reason for doing this. She had no evidence that said follow David Altman. Find out where he’s going, what he’s doing when he’s out of the studio.

  But something in her said, you have to do this. I don’t know why, but do it and worry about why later. With that thought, she dashed out from her hiding place and grabbed hold of the ladder. Pulling herself up one rung, she crouched low. There wasn’t any window in the back. The driver had to rely on the two side mirrors. So there was no way he could see her.

  He slammed the back door. The lock gave an audible click, echoing across the quiet yard. The driver’s door slammed, the engine roared, and, if nothing else, Vicki was committed to a wild ride.

  Chapter 18

  In no time at all, Vicki knew she was crazy, just plain certified insane. Although the van wasn’t traveling very fast, holding on to the ladder became more and more difficult. The steel rungs became icy and started to burn her hands. She hadn’t even thought of wearing gloves, since it wasn’t cold when she left home, but the rush of cool air around her lowered the temperature quickly. Her legs began to cramp, her arms ache.

  She could let go, jump off and roll into a ditch beside the road. But the same insane impulse that had made her grab hold of the van kept her clinging to the back.

  The sky had taken on the color of pewter, and darkness was spreading across the sky earlier than usual. Another storm was brewing, churning clouds into a frothy mass, like foam on a dirty lake. She willed the rain to hold off until they reached some destination.

  He hadn’t turned on the highway to Little Rock, but kept heading steadily north, just as he had the other night when Vicki’s and Scott’s detective work had been thwarted by the storm. This was the same way Vicki and her mother had driven this morning. Was it just this morning?

  Luckily, two cars passed them going south, but none came up behind the van. There was no one to wonder why she was desperately hanging on to the back or to pull ahead and signal Altman that she was there.

  When Altman slowed almost to a stop and turned off the highway onto a dirt road, Vicki should have jumped off. Immediately the van slid and skidded in muddy ruts, bumped up and down small hills, and bounced over rocks and off grassy hillocks.

  She had to turn loose, otherwise she was going to be thrown off. She waited until he slowed almost to a stop for a bigger and muddier ditch that the storm runoff had cut into the soft dirt of the road bed. Hitting the ground and rolling, she froze, facedown in the grassy verge alongside the road. She had to pray that her motion hadn’t caught Altman’s eye in his side mirror.

  As soon as the van disappeared around a bend, Vicki, bruised and muddy, struggled to her feet and followed. She shook her arms and stomped her legs to get the cramps out, to get circulation started again. The exertion had taken most of her strength. Only determination kept her from finding some half-dry spot under a tree or shrub and curling up to rest.

  Just around the road’s curve, the dirt lane divided into two choices of route. Quickly Vicki examined both lanes and decided the car tracks were freshest heading right. She hurried on, hoping she hadn’t lost the van. Surely this road had only one destination since it had narrowed to little more than a path.

  Around the next corner, her heart leapt and started to beat double time. The old mansion would be almost hidden in summer, but with foliage nearly gone, it loomed up, an imposing structure behind the grove of bare trees standing guard.

  There was no van parked in the driveway, however. Had she taken the wrong fork? Closer inspection showed a barnlike structure leaning against huge oaks behind the house. A van could have pulled in there. He could have closed the doors on it, so it would still appear that the house was abandoned.

  The tracks looked fresh, the mud cut into narrow rows of rickrack. Leaving the cover of the last trees, Vicki ran on tiptoe through the gray remnants of daylight. Wisps of fog started to float up around the house, as if it were smoldering and would break into flames at any moment.

  Flashes of light streaked the west, like a photographer’s bulb going off with predictable rhythm. A growling rumble followed, placing the storm several minutes away. But the whole world had become black, gray, and white, like an old black-and-white photo.

  She reached the front door as large drops of rain splattered off her jacket. Quietly she twisted the knob, feeling it turn and release the door to creak inward. There was no way to stop the sound, a screech in the silence within.

  Leaning against the closed door, she let her eyes adjust and waited to see if anyone heard her. There was no sound except for hail bouncing off the roof and pinging at the windows. She was grateful for that much noise to cover her entry and footsteps across the bare wood floor.

  Quickly and carefully, she searched the main floor. She saw no clues that the house was occupied. She didn’t feel that she was alone, however. Often she swung around, peering into the dim corridors. The rooms were dusty. Cobwebs edged the ceilings like spun lace dadoes. Wind-driven rain caused tree fingers to scratch on windows, requesting entry.

  One room in particular made her catch her breath. It was a huge living room, still decorated as it had been since the house was occupied. Burgundy-colored velvet draperies scalloped the tall windows. Furniture ghosts crouched around the room, covered against the dust, waiting for the next party. The wallpaper had been expensive, that kind she thought of as embossed with velvet, dark red trumpet flowers twined with three shades of green leaves.

  For a moment music from a past dance haunted her, filled her head with whirling dancers, waltzing till dawn. Glasses chinked, voices murmured pleasantries. A simultaneous crack and boom of thunder chased away the party.

  Shaking off the spell of the room, she slipped back into the hall and ran back to the front staircase. If she took it to the upstairs, there would be no place to hide for the time it took to climb it. Weren’t there back stairs in these old houses? Back down the hall she tiptoed quickly, searching for another way up, one that was more hidden. She found it off the kitchen, the servants’ stairs, dark, narrow, twisting to the next floor.

  She froze in the shadows at the top. Altman was just coming out of one room, closing the door softly. Vicki didn’t move. Altman twisted a key in the lock and entered the next door in line, staying only seconds in the hallway. Then he came out, repeated the soft closing, entered the next room.

  When she had huddled in the darkness for fully five minutes and he hadn’t reappeared, she decided he was staying in that room. Trying not to feel that a thousand eyes were following her, keeping track of where she was at all times, she slipped off her shoes and tiptoed on sock feet to the door nearest the stairway.

  She paused only long enough to see the hand-lettered sign on the door. THE YELLOW ROOM. A border of yellow roses surrounded the words. She twisted the knob, warm in her palm, as though his hand was still on it. Opening t
he door, she stepped inside, then turned immediately and with both hands pulled the door closed, the latch clicking with the faintest metal sound. No one could possibly hear it from inside another room.

  As she swung around, she caught her breath, at the same time jamming her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out.

  Soft yellow candle flames glowed from all around the room. The dancing light skipped and bounced off the walls, the furniture. On every wall, candlelit like a shrine, was a huge portrait of SueAnne. She smiled at Vicki every way she turned, her lovely face surrounded by a froth of light brown hair. In her hair for one photo was a wreath of yellow roses. Each pose was different. A couple were duplicates of SueAnne’s senior photo. In another, SueAnne leaned on her hand, studying Vicki, her tiny smile reminding Vicki of times that SueAnne would say, “I have a secret, want to hear it?”

  When she could finally move, Vicki walked around the room, almost reverently. The furniture was new, white with gold touches, French provencial in style. The bed, covered with a chiffon spread with tiers of ruffles cascading to the floor, was topped with a canopy with the same yellow ruffles. On top of the spread, as if she were there, a full-length portrait of SueAnne was laid out. Dried yellow roses twined around the picture. A vase of the same flowers rested on a side table.

  Vicki’s mind, numb until now, started to show her pictures of SueAnne living here. Sitting at the small desk, sleeping in the high bed. Was this where she had been for the month after she disappeared? Kept here, locked in, certainly, by David Altman? A panic that swept over her body made Vicki want to flee outside, scream for help, scream for someone to come and see this.

  Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, getting control of her wits, she knew she had to get out of the house and go for help. But first—

  Opening the door slowly and quietly, she glanced up and down the dim hallway. Then she slipped out, ran to the next room. Just as she thought. The sign on the door told her what she had guessed. THE BLUE ROOM.