You've Been Warned

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.

  As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.

  But I won’t let him do that. None of it.

  It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you—Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff—but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.

  I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today—yeah!—I’m seeing them.

  A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.

  It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.

  Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.

  I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!

  So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.

  Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.

  That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.

  So why aren’t my feet moving?

  All I have to do is turn around and head up and over to Fifth Avenue. Easy as pumpkin pie.

  And yet I don’t. It’s as if that powerful undertow has taken hold of me again, fighting my urge to walk away.

  What, are you nuts, Kristin?

  No, I’m not. I’m one of the sanest people I know. That’s what makes all of this so strange.

  Inexplicably, I feel drawn to the Fálcon and what happened there this morning.

  What did happen there?

  I don’t know, do I? Not really.

  I need to watch the news. I need to develop the pictures too. But first I need to do something else.

  Walk away.

  Quickly, I do just that.

  See? I’m back in control.

  Chapter 11

  I RUSH THROUGH the door of my apartment at a few minutes after five that night.

  I should be exhausted. Penley had me polish every piece of silverware for sixteen place settings, including not one, not two, but three different-sized salad forks. Three, for crying out loud!

  And as she occasionally peered over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t miss a spot, I fantasized about stabbing her with all of them.

  On the bright side—always on the bright side—were Dakota and Sean. After I picked up my little sweethearts from school in the afternoon, we walked to Central Park and played tag and “nanny in the middle” in the Sheep Meadow for over an hour.

  Like I said, I should be exhausted.

  But I’m not. I’m too anxious to be tired, too tense. I’m dying to find out what happened at the Fálcon Hotel this morning. I need to have this strange mystery solved.

  I put down my bag, kick off my flats, and grab a Vitamin Water from the fridge—the peach-mango flavor, a personal favorite. Then I head straight for the TV and the start of the first “Live at Five” news program I can find.

  “Good afternoon, here’s what’s happening...,” begins the perfectly coiffed male anchor. Seriously, it looks as if he’s wearing a hair helmet.

  He and his female cohort take turns reading “the top stories of the day.” A water main break in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. Yet another fatal stabbing in Queens. A taxi that jumped the curb down on Wall Street and collided with the cart of one very angry hot-dog vendor.

  But nothing about the Fálcon.

  How could that be?

  If a runaway cab taking out a bunch of hot dogs is considered newsworthy, certainly the death of four people at a hotel in Midtown is as well.

  Or is it already old news? Maybe what I saw this morning was the lead story for the noontime broadcast and now they’ve moved on to other tales of woe. It is a big city, after all. Plenty of mayhem and misery to go around.

  I flip the channel.

  Another anchor duo appears, but it’s the same result, nothing about any “tragedy” at the Fálcon. Maybe they had it as one of their top stories and I missed it.

  Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing. This is getting really creepy.

  The dream was a real dream, but what I saw on the way to work was a figment of my imagination? A physical manifestation of my emotional distress, as my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey, might say. Yeah, and in my spare time I’m Gwyneth Paltrow!

  I know what I saw and I know it happened on my way to work this morning. I was there! And should there be any doubt, I know just one thing to do.

  I get up from the TV and head over to my shoulder bag. Reaching in, I grab my camera and the rolls of film I shot this morning.

  It’s time to hit the darkroom.

  PART 3

  Chapter 12

  I THINK OF IT as my home away from home—never mind that it happens to be inside my apartment. A converted walk-in closet, to be exact. Basically a shoe box.

  I step in, close the door behind me, and take a long, deep, stress-releasing breath. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

  After the creepy day I’ve had, it’s strange that a narrow, claustrophobic room with black corkboard walls, no windows, and a mere seven watts of light makes me feel at peace.

  But that’s why I built this thing in the first place.

  My darkroom.

  My safe house.

  Beyond the joy I derive from developing my own pictures—Call me old-fashioned; no, call me a purist—there’s that wonderful feeling in the darkroom of being able to shut out the rest of the world and all the problems that go with it. Problems—outside! Out!

  Inside here, it’s strictly my photography and me.

  Okay, let’s do this. Let’s get it over with. Let’s see what’s what.

  I turn off my safelight and, in complete darkness, load the rolls of film onto developing reels. Everything is by touch, but I’ve done this so many times I don’t even have to think about it.

  With each reel secured in a small processing tank, I’m able to turn the safelight back on. A faint red glow fills the room immediately.

  Time for the soup.

  One by one, the magic ingredients get added to each tank. Chemical developer followed by water mixed with a pinch of acetic acid followed by a fixer.

  If only I could cook like I develop film.

  Now comes my usual moment of trepidation, when my heart flutters for a beat or two. It happens with every roll, and it’s certainly happening with these.

  As the negatives begin to harden, this is my first chance to see what I’ve got.

  If anything, right?

  I lean forward a bit and try to harness all seven watts of visibility in the room. The thought of having to relive that terrible scene at the hotel frame by frame makes me more than a little uneasy. But it’s nothing compared to the thought of the shots’ not being there at all.

  In this case, I’ll gladly take the lesser of two evils. Scary reality beats no reality.

  Through my squinting eyes, the images begin to appear. Shot after shot of the scene, just as I saw it. Just as it happened!

  I straighten up and exhale. I didn’t expect to feel this crazily relieved and yet I do. So much so
, I almost don’t see it.

  There’s something strange about these pictures.

  The day’s mystery continues, only it’s getting worse.

  And I think that burning smell is back too.

  Chapter 13

  I IMMEDIATELY PLUNGE the negatives into a holding bath of cold water. My nose practically takes a dip as I lean in for a closer look.

  It’s hard to tell exactly what’s wrong with the shots, but something is. That burning smell has definitely returned. I look at my hands... no hives yet.

  Amid the stark whites and recessed blacks of the film, there’s something going on—some type of effect taking place.

  What, though?

  I yank the negatives from the water and grab my magnifying loupe, pressing my eye tight against it.

  I study one shot and then slide the loupe to the next. I do this quickly, anxiously, over and over. Study... slide... study... slide.

  Finally, I think I see what’s happening. Or at least where it’s happening.

  It’s the four body bags.

  They look almost... transparent. Is that possible? It’s like I can both see the bags and almost see through them—not to what’s inside, but to what’s beyond.

  Of course, the film itself is transparent, but this is different. Each body bag has this kind of lucent quality, not quite see-through while at the same time not entirely filled in.

  Somewhere in between.

  Weird.

  Though explainable, right? My mind spins with the possible causes. Double exposure, sun glare off the metal frames of the gurneys, the body bag material itself. Within seconds, I have a host of somewhat logical explanations for what I see.

  But no definitive answer, nothing that makes me feel the least bit better.

  So, when in doubt, go big. That’s what I’m thinking as I dispense with a contact sheet and delve right into making an enlargement.

  Scanning the shots again, I pull the one with the tightest angle for the most detail.

  It takes a few seconds before I realize which one I’ve chosen. Figures!

  It’s the last body bag that was wheeled out of the hotel, the one with the moving zipper and the—I don’t even want to think about it.

  Besides, that was only in the dream. This is real. This is happening right now, before my eyes.

  I fumble with the negative carrier before putting it in the enlarger. I make sure the emulsion side is facing down so as not to get a mirror image. The last thing I need is another glitch!

  I work fast. Impatience is such a great motivator. So is fear. Before long I’m staring at an eight-by-ten enlargement of that last body bag. Everything’s bigger, all right.

  The problem is, I’m no closer to figuring out what in God’s name is happening. The effect—the transparency—is unlike anything I’ve seen, and I’ve developed a whole lot of photographs in my life.

  From the moment I awoke this morning until now, it’s been one big weirdness-palooza. And I hate paloozas!

  I glance at my watch. Almost 7:30. Where did the time go?

  I decide to make more enlargements. Maybe another shot will reveal something. What I’m really doing, though, is trying to keep my mind off, well, everything that’s happened so far today.

  For a while it works. Then, after another hour, it gets the better of me. I leave the darkroom and begin pacing in my living room.

  It’s too early for bed. Besides, I’m too wired to sleep. I need to get out of here!

  And I know just where to go.

  Chapter 14

  I STEP OUT OF THE CAB in front of the Old Homestead Steak House in the heart of the meatpacking district. As if the location alone isn’t enough to scare off vegetarians, there’s a humongous cow over the entrance. Very subtle.

  Who am I to talk?

  If there’s a list of what never to do when you’re having an affair, I’m pretty sure crashing your lover’s business dinner is right up there at the top.

  I walk into the restaurant and breeze by the maître d’ as if I know where I’m going. I don’t.

  In front me there’s a crowded bar and an equally crowded lounge area, beyond which begins the crowded dining room. The way it’s laid out, I can see only the first few tables.

  As I make my way to a better view, one thing becomes clear. With its dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and portions that could choke the Lincoln Tunnel, this is definitely a place for guys. In fact, there are very few gals to be seen.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice startles me. I turn around to see the maître d’. So much for blowing right by him.

  “I’m just looking for someone,” I say.

  “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  He glances down at what I’m wearing—a black Elie Tahari waistcoat over jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater. Stylish, perhaps, but not exactly “female executive” attire.

  “Really, I insist,” he says.

  I more than catch his drift. He’s not asking if he can help me, he’s telling me.

  “In that case, his name is Michael Turnbull,” I say. “He comes here fairly often.”

  “Yes, of course. Come this way; Mr. Turnbull’s seated in the back with his guests.”

  I hesitate. “Actually, would you mind telling him that I’m here?”

  “I see. And you are?”

  Clearly not his wife.

  “Kristin,” I say.

  There’s an awkward silence between us.

  “I’m his assistant,” I tack on. Immediately I regret it.

  The maître d’ smiles—a little too knowingly—and disappears into the dining room.

  Good one, Kris! Why not just grab a bullhorn and scream out, MISTRESS ALERT! MISTRESS ALERT!

  I continue berating myself while I wait for Michael. All I can hope is that he’ll be more surprised than angry and not the other way around.

  But it’s not Michael who appears from the dining room a few moments later.

  It’s the maître d’ again.

  Chapter 15

  “HE WHAT?”

  “Mr. Turnbull asked that you join him at his table,” repeats the maître d’.

  I look at the guy so sideways I nearly lose my balance. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Very.”

  The next thing I know I’m being led to the back of the dining room. It dawns on me. This is sooo Michael.

  So confident. So in control.

  So much why I love him.

  It’s no surprise he runs such a successful hedge fund. He never met a risk he couldn’t minimize.

  “Ah, there she is!” he says.

  It’s a large round table and yet there’s little doubt as to who’s sitting at the head. Michael stands up from his chair, flashing his killer smile. As he walks over to me, wineglass in hand, he throws the maître d’ a quick wink as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

  He certainly does.

  “Kristin, come meet my friends from the Royal Queen Bank of Sweden.” Michael turns to the table and actually puts his arm around me. “Gentlemen!” he announces. “Jag vill att ni alla möter min sekreterare, Kristin.”

  I blush slightly as the entire group—all men and each blonder than the next—proceeds to raise wineglasses and smile. They don’t look like bankers; they look like a rowing team.

  An inebriated one at that.

  I wait for the guys to resume their revelry before leaning toward Michael and whispering, “What did you say to them?”

  “I told them you were my love slave.”

  “Ouch. A little too close to the truth, don’t you think?”

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “I introduced you as my secretary. It is what you told the maître d’, after all.”

  “Sorry about that. Not too believable, huh? I said ‘assistant,’ by the way.”

  “Better than claiming to be my niece, I suppose.”

  “Funny, the thought did cross my mind.”
<
br />   Michael shakes his head, amused. “Hey, kiddo, I’m forty-two, not sixty-two.”

  “Thank God for that,” I say.

  I watch him calmly take a sip of his red wine, his hand steady as a rock. Amazing. Not only doesn’t he flinch when I unexpectedly appear at his business dinner, he invites me back and introduces me to his clients, all nine of them.

  That’s balls.

  That’s Michael.

  “So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Madame Secretary?” he asks.

  “I needed to see you,” I say. I don’t elaborate, of course. I can’t get into it right here. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  “You know I was going to call you later, right?”

  “Yes.” I half smile. “I guess I couldn’t wait.” I pant a little against his ear.

  “Ooh, I like the sound of that. Check, please.”

  Before I can say anything more, Michael turns back to the table and shows off some more of his Swedish. Again, I have no idea what he’s saying.

  But when he finishes, everyone reaches for a pen.

  Chapter 16

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY to them this time?” I ask.

  I’m following Michael out of the dining room. He answers over his shoulder, “I’ll tell you in the limo.”

  We bolt from the restaurant and Michael takes my hand. Then he lets go right away—and starts to yell.

  Not at me, though. He’s screaming at a street person urinating against the side of the building. “You piece of shit, you moron, you walking obscenity!”

  He pushes the man, and his face hits the brick wall. I look away. This is the thing about Michael that I don’t like at all—his temper. It doesn’t show itself often, but when it does, look out.

  I walk on ahead and he catches up, takes my hand again. “Sorry, Kris, sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  A little way down the street, his driver, Vincent, is already out of the company limousine and he opens the rear door for us. I didn’t even notice he was parked there when I arrived.