Memory Whispers

by Angel Smits

  He wasn’t the only one with work to do. Something tore inside, something she ignored and buried in anger. He was leaving, and he hadn’t made any plans to come back.

  “It’s time to move on, Faith.” Cord threw the duffel over his shoulder.

  “There are too many questions. I need to know what . . . what happened.”

  “You and me both, babe. Look, last night was great. Maybe even necessary for us both, but I’m not the settling down kind. One night doesn’t make a relationship.”

  “I didn’t ask for one.” She glared at him, hiding the growing love she’d discovered earlier.

  “Didn’t you?” He lifted his arm, taking in the whole room with one sweeping gesture. He reached out and snagged the picture of her in the pinafore off the wall. “This is you. Your world. It’s permanent. Quaint little house. Your family all neatly lined up there on the wall, watching and taking care of you.”

  She grabbed the frame from his hand. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Yes, I am.” He glared at her for a long minute, then stepped past her and through the door. The screen smacked against the wall, loud and harsh in the morning air. “I never had a family like that. My father was a drunk, and my mother never had time for anyone but herself. I don’t know how to fit into your world. I doubt they would accept me.”

  He stalked to the jeep and jerked the car door open, throwing the bag into the passenger seat.

  She watched him, feeling lost, adrift, cast aside and angry. “So, you won’t even try?” He was putting up walls between them. She saw it in his eyes and felt it in her heart.

  “I know who you are,” she said. She reached out and touched his arm, needing to feel he was still here. He jerked away and climbed into the car. He’d barely slammed the door when he shoved the car into gear and backed away.

  Frustrated, she flung the picture frame she still held toward him. It hit the bumper and bounced to the cement. The tinkle of breaking glass seemed loud until he gunned the engine.

  “Rafe,” a soft voice called through the trees.

  “No!” Faith screamed as he glared through the mud-splattered windshield at her. She realized he’d heard the voice, too. “Wait.” She hurried after him, but tires squealed as he roared away.

  Delta was here. Had he thought Faith had called out to him? No. “Damn you, Delta.” Anger clouded her senses. “Why are you doing this?”

  Nothing but that damned laughter answered her . . . that and the squeal of Cord’s tires as he disappeared around the corner.

  CORD’S MIND remained blissfully, angrily blank for about half a mile. His knuckles white on the steering wheel, he squealed tires around nearly every corner he took. The sooner he got out of this damned town the better.

  Rafe. The name echoed through Cord’s brain like a mantra. She hadn’t even bothered to hide her mistake. Despite her claim that she knew who he was, he didn’t believe her.

  Rafe the murderer. He tried to shut it out, but found it permanently recorded there. With each mile it repeated itself. He wasn’t sure where it came from, and he didn’t really want to know. Someplace dark was all he knew.

  He had no experience to draw on to deal with . . . this . . . this . . . Hell, he didn’t even know what to call it. Faith was a preacher’s daughter. She had her background to draw on, an upbringing that surely held long-entrenched beliefs in an afterlife, in her family.

  Her family. He wanted to growl.

  He shivered instead.

  As he drove through Denver, he thought about stopping to see his mother. He almost laughed out loud. Yeah, right. From the frying pan into the fire.

  She’d never had time for him when he was a kid. That hadn’t changed any now that he was an adult. That was part of why he’d chosen to live with his dad after the divorce. At least the old man needed him.

  Cord seldom believed in anyone, or anything—sometimes not even himself. Buying the casino had been the first thing he’d let himself believe in, had been the first time he’d hoped for something better. Last night with Faith had been the second. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration.

  He’d faced knives, gun barrels and men’s fists in his years of chasing his father from bar to bar. Later, working in those same bars, he’d faced worse. He’d survived in only one way—by trusting no one. He’d just been reminded of those lessons once again.

  Taking life day-to-day was all he believed in. Things like his work. His ambitions. His saloon.

  The world Faith lived in, the family, the forevers were as foreign to him as the dream of the Cumberland family. Family and fantasy were too close in his dictionary.

  She wanted him to be Rafe? He was not Rafe Cumberland. Rafe had murdered Delta Delange. Why should he, Cord Burke, feel responsible a hundred years later? The urge to right old wrongs sounded too pat, too clichéd, even to him. Rafe could rot in hell for all he cared.

  Cool, mountain air filtered into the open window, and the harsh edge of his anger dimmed but didn’t fade as he shed the city. The turmoil quieted, and all he heard was the sound of his tires on the pavement and the loud thud of his pulse in his ears.

  He’d come so close—too close—to trusting Faith. To giving her a piece of himself.

  Luckily, he’d come to his senses. Now he just had to stay that way.

  As he drove the winding two-lane road up the mountain, he concentrated on clearing his mind, on looking ahead not back. The one thing he couldn’t seem to do was dull the ache deep in his chest that seemed to intensify with each beat of his heart.

  Thirteen

  FAITH’S ANGER BOILED and nearly bubbled over. She stared down at the broken picture frame. The shattered glass spider-webbed across the face.

  “Damn you, Delta,” she yelled to the bright blue sky. “If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you.” When there was no answer, she wondered if she’d even heard the voice. Was she going crazy?

  She bent down and picked up the frame, then stalked inside. She tossed it into the trash with a loud thud. Her childhood face stared up at her from the trash. She had the negative, but she didn’t have time right now to process another print. The photo was one of her father’s favorites, and he’d notice it missing the next time he came over. She still hadn’t called him, and she certainly wasn’t up to doing it now.

  He taught repentance, but he also taught responsibility for one’s actions. She’d always agreed with the last half, if not the means by which he taught it.

  She tried not to think about what he’d say about the last few days.

  Singe walked by, rubbing her ankles with a warm, fluffy tail. She picked him up and stroked his fur. “Maybe he did us both a favor,” she whispered. The cat gave her a blank stare and swished his tail as if in agreement. “Besides, he and Dad would never have gotten along.” The cat merely blinked and purred. She hugged him tighter, blinking away the emotional tears.

  Suddenly, the house felt very empty and quiet.

  And lonely.

  Enough of this. She had work to do. Grabbing a slice of cold pizza and a diet soda from the fridge, she headed to her darkroom. As she worked, she found solace in the process. The angry words still hung in the air, but they’d lost their power to hurt. No more laughter or whispers interrupted her. Maybe she had imagined hearing it after all.

  The overhead light was bright, but in a few minutes, she turned it off in favor of a red lamp, which protected her film. She set out the chemicals and opened a film case. She must have over a hundred shots. It’d be a long day, possibly stretching into the night. It didn’t matter. She doubted she’d get much sleep anyway. Especially not in the bed she’d shared so satisfyingly with Cord last night.

  No more of those thoughts.

  She’d numbered each roll as she removed them from their cases, and she followed th
e same sequence in developing them. It helped keep her focused on the project. It also showed her how close she was to her goal. Excitement stirred inside her.

  Other photographers initially used contact sheets. Faith often did, but this time she wanted to see the full-size effect of her work. The first set of pictures came out clear and dried on the line as she opened the next roll.

  The second roll started with the first interior shots of the brothel, those of the parlor and front room. She planned to use them to illustrate day-to-day life.

  Faith reached into the tray with her clamp, moving the first print around a bit, dampening each inch of the paper. Even after years of doing this work, the process by which the photograph appeared on the paper amazed her. The grainy figures grew into recognizable shapes. The carved chair. The Victrola.

  Suddenly, the shapes shifted. They continued to grow beyond what she remembered seeing through the viewfinder. Faith stared at the picture. Several young girls stood in the room, each touching and apparently talking to a gentleman.

  One young girl caught her eye. The girl’s gaze met hers, as if she had been staring into the lens of the camera. She recognized her as the face in the newspaper and the mirror.

  Delta.

  Faith dropped the clamp. The loud clatter it made startled her. Taking several calming breaths, she reached for the clamp again. She lifted the picture and stared at it, wondering if the chemicals were getting to her.

  The image remained.

  Faith tried to hang the print on the line with the others and only succeeded in dropping it. Finally, three tries later she succeeded, then she ran to the kitchen phone. Her fingers shook, and she dialed Clarissa’s number twice before getting it right. The answering machine picked up, and she slammed the receiver down.

  Now what? She leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. On a hunch, Faith reached for the phone again and called the coffee shop. Clarissa answered.

  “Thank goodness.” Relief flooded through her. Faith smiled, though her voice shook. “It’s me. Can you come over?”

  “Why? Another dream?”

  “No. I need your help.” Faith glanced at the darkroom door. “I’m developing the film. There are images appearing on the prints that weren’t there originally.”

  “Really?” Silence filled the phone line for several long seconds.

  Faith’s uncertainty grew and she took a deep breath. “Clarissa, I’m scared. Cord left this morning. We . . . we had a fight.”

  Clarissa was silent for a moment, as if pondering Faith’s words. She hoped Clarissa wouldn’t ask what they’d fought about. She didn’t know how to explain what she didn’t really understand herself.

  “I can get out of here in about five minutes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  After she’d hung up, Faith went back to the dark room. What if she kept going? Curiosity urged her on.

  The next few photos were normal, no surprises. The last photo on the roll was of the upstairs hallway. Faith remembered snapping a shot of the wall hanging covering the observation window.

  The picture developed, the hallway formed, then the observation window—without its concealing covering. Two dark figures materialized inside the observation room. Once again it was Delta. She stared directly at the camera lens.

  This time Rafe Cumberland stood beside her. He held Delta tight in his embrace as he ardently kissed the side of her neck. His were eyes closed as they made love . . . just the way Cord had with her last night.

  Anger boiled in Faith’s blood. Green, jealous anger. She sent the photo flying across the room. How dare he!

  As quickly as the anger formed, it faded. She picked up the photo. The doorbell rang—Clarissa. Relieved, Faith covered the chemicals then hurried to the door, blinking several times in the bright daylight. Clarissa stood on the front step, her arms loaded with books.

  “What are those?” Faith took part of the stack, and together they walked into the living room. The books thudded to the floor where Clarissa dropped them.

  “Research. I’ve never had anything to do with images appearing on film, although I’ve heard a great deal about it. I brought these few books from my collection to see if we can learn something. If we need more, we can go to the library. Where are the pictures?”

  “I’ve only finished the first two rolls. They’re in the dark room.”

  “Let me see.”

  Faith dreaded seeing the pictures again, but she led the way down the hall. Opening the door, she found the darkroom still shrouded in shadows. She flipped on the overhead light, confident she had taken the precautions to protect her chemicals from the light.

  The photographs hung on the line. Now that they were dry, she took them down. She reached for the two with the extra images. She gasped. They were exactly as she had seen them through the viewfinder. The images had vanished.

  Frantically, she pulled the pictures down from the line. “They’re gone,” she whispered over and over again as she tore at the photographs.

  “Hey, hey. Slow down.” Clarissa gently touched Faith’s arm. She took the photographs from Faith’s fingers. They were bent and cracked from the grip she had on them.

  “I’m not crazy. There were people in those pictures. In this.” Her finger angrily stabbed at the photograph on top of the battered pile. “Cord was kissing that woman in the paper.” She glared at the picture. “Delta.”

  “Remember, Cord is not Rafe.” Clarissa looked at the pictures on the table.

  “I know. I know,” Faith whispered, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re absolutely sure you saw the images?” Clarissa pinned her with a demanding stare.

  “I am not imagining things. I know what I saw. I looked right into her eyes.”

  Clarissa moved around the table, spreading out the pictures to see them more clearly. Several times she held one in her hands and closed her eyes. Occasionally, she shook her head and put that picture in a separate pile. When she finished there were two piles of pictures. One held the majority of the pictures. The other had three photographs in it. “I feel something in these.” She handed them to Faith.

  They were the photographs Faith had seen the images on earlier, plus one that was foggier than the others. She remembered Cord had been with her, breaking her concentration.

  “That’s them.” Faith sank down onto a stool and wished everything away. When she opened her eyes, the photographs and Clarissa were still very much there.

  “Let’s redevelop them,” Clarissa suggested.

  Faith hesitated. “What have we got to lose?” She stood and turned off the overhead light. The red glow created an eerie feeling. The room, small anyway, had become cramped with Clarissa joining her. She had difficulty setting up her chemicals. Her fingers shook, and like an opening night performer, she trembled. What would—or wouldn’t—develop on the pictures?

  “Relax, Faith. It’s okay.”

  Under Clarissa’s watchful eye, Faith repeated the familiar process. Images formed on the paper that had seconds earlier been blank. Clarissa leaned over the trays, watching the progression of the print with fascination.

  “There.” Faith’s cry interrupted the silence, and Clarissa leaned closer to see. The image of a woman formed on the picture of the parlor. She smiled into the camera lens.

  “It’s her.” Both women stared at the print.

  Then suddenly, as if the chemicals went bad, the development of the picture stopped. In the next second, the picture completely faded away, leaving the page blank and white.

  Faith looked up at Clarissa. “It was there, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I saw it. Delta sent a message, but I’m not sure why. And I’m not sure why she wants only you to see it.” Clarissa moved from the
table to a stool in the corner. “This is very puzzling.”

  Faith flipped the light switch, unmindful of the chemicals. The close, quiet darkness of the room she had always loved suddenly wore on her nerves. Both of the other pictures had developed completely blank, and Faith knew she had followed the routine as usual. She’d been doing this work so long, she could do it in her sleep.

  “So.” Faith sagged against the wall. “Now what?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. I think it’s time to do a little research.”

  Together, they left the dark room. Time stretched out as they sat on the living room floor, poring over Clarissa’s books. While they learned many important facts, there were no answers to their particular questions.

  “I give up.” Faith shoved the book across the floor and rubbed her tired eyes.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you develop the prints—alone. I’ll wait out here, if anything shows, I’ll come in.”

  “What will that prove?”

  “Nothing. But we’ll finish getting the message. I doubt you’ve seen all the pieces she wants you to see. How many more rolls do you have?”

  “At least four.”

  “Well, get started. Once we’ve got the whole message, we can start analyzing.”

  Faith gulped back her fear. It was difficult enough facing the prospect of seeing those images with Clarissa’s company. Alone, it was daunting. Still, she knew she had no choice.

  “Okay.” She stood, running her suddenly damp hands down the sides of her jeans. Her heart pounded as she gazed down the hall at the closed darkroom door. “Might as well get to it.”

  Once again, she prepared the chemicals, opened film cases and set to work. Several times she caught herself looking over her shoulder.

  With each developing image, she expected to see new, unknown images, but there was nothing. The photographs were exactly the work she’d been hoping to achieve, and she couldn’t resist smiling. The love for her work soothed her fears. The publisher would be pleased when she delivered them.