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  "I’ll observe your family first. Is it just the two of you, then?" Glenn asked.

  "And my husband, upstairs." Mrs. Duncan fidgeted with her towel. "These pictures are for a magazine article about Bobby?"

  "About all the Marines who died, that's right," Glenn said.

  Mrs. Duncan said, "They said you were a friend, that you were with him when... it happened. I still can't believe anybody would hurt him. Uh, my husband and I are going away for the holiday, but you're welcome to stay with Geoffy and look through photo albums, if that helps."

  "Nobody told us you were planning a trip. How nice. When are you leaving?" Glenn asked.

  "Flight is tomorrow morning."

  Glenn stood. "Then I'll be back early tomorrow."

  "Oh, no. You’ll stay with us," Mrs. Duncan said. "It's the only thing that makes sense. We want to be at Dulles by 9:00 AM."

  "But, I have reservations at," Glenn scanned her memory, "The Ramada."

  "Cancel them. Geoff, take her bags to the guest room," Mrs. Duncan said. "I've already made up the bed."

  She took Glenn's hands, and squeezed them, then left the room.

  "What's the matter with you?" Geoff said. "You're not staying. We had an agreement."

  "Read the fine print. I didn't agree to anything."

  His eyes narrowed, then he led her to a wooden door, flung it open, and went in. Glenn lifted her camera bag and overnight case, and followed him down a stairway to the guestroom. Geoff sat on the end of the sofa, and stared at her.

  "Look, my Mom sees the best in everyone. But, don't think you're putting anything over on me. She's doing this for her poor murdered son. It gives her the illusion she has some control over what happened. If that helps her." Geoff shrugged.

  His gaze was steady and strong, and eerily familiar. Even though his eyes weren’t sparkling blue like Bobby’s, they had the same penetrating quality.

  "But," he said, "I'm keeping an eye on you."

  She looked away. "Good luck."

  "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul," Geoff said. "And, yours have little shutters on them."

  "Not that this isn't fun, but I have work to do," Glenn said. "Who knows? I could get lucky and get what I need tonight, and be out of your hair."

  "Well, in that case, let me carry your bag." He grabbed the strap, and stood in one motion. "Jeez. What have you got in here?"

  "Sledgehammer, crow bar... the usual," Glenn said. "If it's too heavy for you—"

  "It just took me by surprise." Geoff started up the stairs. "It's funny. You see photographers zooming around, and it seems like their equipment doesn't weigh anything."

  "What about the e.n.g. guys? Hauling video cameras, following the action. Electronic news. They're the ones I admire," Glenn said.

  "I have a friend who works for the TV news, but I never thought about it."

  "Course not. That’s the whole point."

  They entered the family room where Mr. and Mrs. Duncan were watching some cable news station. Mr. Duncan said, "Hello," when Geoff introduced him.

  Mrs. Duncan offered a seat beside her on the couch. Glenn placed her bag on the sofa between herself and Mrs. Duncan. Light from the TV illuminated Robert Duncan, Sr.’s face, and the front of his shirt. There was an expression on his face of sadness and fatigue, and interest and boredom. Glenn got up and stood in front of the west window pretending to take readings. It was something she did to distract the subject, like a magician at a child’s party. Heaven help the photojournalist who had to stop to take light readings while running for her life. Presto, chango . She exchanged the light meter for the camera, and pointed it at Mr. Duncan. They heard the shutter, and looked at her. She advanced, locked, and shot again.

  "Light readings," she said.

  Mr. Duncan began to say something, but Mrs. Duncan cleared her throat, and a look passed between them. He set his lips in a hard line. News of the Middle East came on, and Glenn was invisible once more. Stepping into the dining room, she panned a shot of the husband and wife awaiting the anchorman’s pronouncements. Who lived? Who died? Were they ‘theirs’ or ‘ours’? The couple strained toward the television, their faces taut, putting their trust in the network news.

  No human being should have so much control over others, Glenn thought, and she captured them on film. Two, three frames. Next, she turned to Geoff who was slumped down in a chair with his arms crossed over his chest, and took two pictures of him. Then, she retreated downstairs to the guestroom. Geoff followed her.

  "I got it. I wasn't sure until tonight, but I've got a good feeling about this. It's going to be all right. You'll see."

  "Who are you trying to convince?" Geoff pressed his lips together like his father had done. "You coming up?"

  "Let me put my gear away."

  Glenn watched Geoff climb the steps, then moved around the basement with her camera. The ceiling was low, painted white. Angling the flash toward it, she wound the strap around her wrist. Starting at the laundry room, she rotated counterclockwise, clicking the shutter every four to five feet.

  Several hours later, when everyone was tucked in for the night, Glenn retrieved her luggage, and let herself out the side door. She slipped into a sleepy city. Down the block, the light of a tavern sign flashed a golden invitation. She shivered. Calm down. Everything is under control . She wrapped her coat around her slender body and clung to the suitcase handle as she waited for her ride. A pair of headlights flashed. She crossed the street, opened the passenger side door of the cab, and got in the front seat.

  About the last person she expected to see behind the wheel was Philip Bleetz. He was a legendary photojournalist, and the only man she had ever loved. They hadn’t crossed paths since she was 19, not since things had gotten ugly between them. And, now unbelievably, here he was, insinuating himself into her private life. How was it he was always able to sense when she was at her most vulnerable? He could sniff out her desperation with the unerring precision of a shark from a hundred miles away.

  Phil looked sideways at her, and smiled. "Hey, baby doll."

  One thing that had changed about him was his appearance. His hair was all one length now, bobbed above the collar, and swept straight back from his widow's peak, like Eddie Munster. Appropriate , she thought,dark and slick . The sinister look suited him much better than the clean-cut, choirboy image he’d had when she first met him.

  "I don’t suppose this is just a freaking coincidence?"

  "Of course, it is."

  He put the cab into gear, and steered down Cleveland Avenue, turning left onto Dual Highway.

  "Then, how come you don’t look surprised to see me?"

  "You’re surprised enough for both of us." Phil curled the right side of his hair behind his ear. "So, did you do the job?"

  "You're just the driver, so drive."

  Phil oozed that insufferably superior smile of his. "Not true, little one. Let's go to my place, and see what develops."

  He slowed down for a red light, then grinned at her, and accelerated through it. She clutched her camera bag to her chest.

  "These go to Shane." She gazed out the side window.

  "What's the matter, sweet thing?" Phil squeezed her leg above the knee. She pulled his index finger back. "Ow! Hm, so you're into pain games now."

  "Pig."

  "Aw, I'm just playing wit'cha. Ease up girl."

  "Stop the car," she said.

  "We're just getting on the freeway."

  She grabbed hold of the door handle. "Stop the damn car, and let me out."

  "Stop shrieking, or I'll wrap the damn car around a damn telephone pole."

  "Well, that oughta stop you."

  "What do you wanna do? Walk home?"

  She paused. "Just stop long enough for me to get in the back. You want to play chauffeur, so chauf, already."

  "You want in back, you can climb over."

  "Do you always have to be such a bastard? You'd like that wouldn't you? Me, heels over head." />
  "What am I gonna do? I'm driving. I’ll keep both hands on the wheel."

  Glenn scowled. "Either hand leaves the wheel, I break your wrist."

  "Swear to God," Phil said. "Wouldn’t want it any other way."

  First, Glenn’s bags went in the back. As her hands touched the rear seat, she felt Phil’s teeth on the fleshy part of her hip. She squirmed, but he bit again. She jerked her leg across the seat, and kneed him in the jaw. The cab jumped across two lanes, spraying gravel under the wheel well, and dumping her on the floorboards in back. She sprang at him, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head back over the seat.

  "Hey! I'm trying to drive here," he said, laughing.

  Glenn untangled her fingers from his hair. "What did I ever see in you?"

  Phil adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see her. She wouldn't have been able to tell how gray his eyes were if she wasn't so familiar with them. From there, they just looked pale. She remembered what Geoff Duncan had said about the eyes being the windows of the soul, and she had no desire to look into the soul of Phil Bleetz.

  "Eyes front," she said, and leaned into the corner. "I can't believe my luck. What are the odds?"

  "Either speak up, or shut up," Phil said.

  "I'm not talking to you, moron."

  "Aw, come back up here. It's a long drive. I could use the company."

  "You could use Electro-shock treatments."

  Phil chuckled. "We got a lot of catching up to do. What're you afraid of? I don't bite." He laughed again. "Come on, babe, holding a grudge'll make you old before your time. Forgive and forget."

  "Easy for you to say. I didn't do anything to you," Glenn said.

  "Okay, I'm sorry I bit you. But, you always had such a tasty ass."

  "Eat worms, and die."

  "Gosh, I’ve missed your fire. Admit it, nobody ever fought harder than us, or made up harder. You know, in this light, you look like a boy. What'd you do to your beautiful hair?"

  "Cut it."

  "Cut? Scalped is more like it," he said.

  "As if it's any of your business."

  "Well, I did used to wash it. Remember? We'd sit in the bath tub together, you between my knees, your head on my chest…"

  "Please! Don't speak to me any more. Not about that. Not about anything."

  "Just reminiscing. Doesn't hurt to remember the good times," Phil said.

  "That's a convenient memory you've got. What about the bad times? Did you forget all the lying, and cheating you did?"

  "Man, you sure have gotten to be one bitter little bitch. What's wrong with you? Oh, I know. You ain't had a real man since I left ya, huh?"

  "You left me?" she said. "Interesting revision of history."

  "Come on up here with old Phil. I'll take the kinks out for you."

  Glenn clenched both fists. "What do I have to do to make you shut up? Say I forgive you? No. I don't forgive you. You're a despicable human being, and I'll hate you as long as you live."

  She kicked the back of his seat. He threw her a kiss, and readjusted the mirror so she was out of his line of sight. But, he kept laughing, and she had no choice but to put up with it for the next sixty minutes. All she could do was wriggle down in her seat, chew on her lip, and listen to Phil Bleetz's evil insane cackle.

  4

  Shane Singleton’s townhouse never looked more inviting. Even before the cab came to a full stop, Glenn was out and running.

  "Hey," Phil yelled. "Wait for me."

  Glenn clutched her camera bag, and overnight case, and took the front steps two at a time. The doorbell shone shell pink. She crooked her arm, and jabbed it with her elbow. Then, she kicked the bottom of the aluminum storm door with her toe. It swung open, and she slipped inside. Phil tried to follow, but Shane blocked his way.

  "No way," Phil said. "I’m sticking to her until I get the photos."

  "This is my house," Shane said. "I say who's welcome, and who's not. Glenny is always welcome." Shane beamed at her, then his eyes grew cold. "You are not."

  Phil tried to wedge his shoulder inside the door. "I have to make sure she does it right."

  "Glenn Prentiss doesn't need your help. Never did, never will," Shane said.

  "How do I know she won't try to hold back on me?" Phil asked.

  Shane looked at Glenn. "How many exposures on that roll?"

  "Huh? Thirty-six, of course."

  "Thirty-six," Shane said to Phil. "She'll surrender 36 exposures, okay? You'll count them. You can count, can't you? Now go sit on the curb with the rest of the trash."

  Shane's hand sprawled across Phil's chest. A vein in Phil's neck bulged, and his face reddened. Then, he was on the other side of the door.

  Shane shook his head. "Some guys are really pushy." He put his arm around Glenn’s shoulder. "I was afraid something awful had happened to you."

  "Something worse than Bleetz? No, I'm fine. I'll be even better when this is over." She put her bags down on the blue brocade sofa, and let Shane help her out of her coat.

  "Still," Shane said. "I would've loved to see your face when you saw Phil."

  "Oh, yeah, it was a real riot."

  "What did you do, scream and faint? No, I know, you punched him in the nose."

  "I wish. No, I skulked off to the back seat." She glanced at him. "Not before he bit me, though."

  "You're kidding? Really?"

  "As I was crawling over the seat, he bit me on the butt."

  "What is it about you that brings out the animal in that guy? Nope, don't answer that, I don't want to know. Lizbeth is sleeping. Said to give you a kiss." He put a hand on each shoulder, and put his cheeks against hers, European style. "Ready to get to work?"

  Glenn picked up her camera. She cradled it on her forearm, and removed the film from the back. Shane lifted the overnight case, and looked at it.

  "Is this yours?" he asked.

  "The government’s. Isn't it ugly?"

  "So, you’re done? The Duncan family is wired for sound?"

  "They get any more bugs, they're gonna need an exterminator." Glenn yawned, and rubbed her eyes. "I'd love some coffee... Irish. Coffee to stay awake, and Irish…"

  "Irish for your nerves, I know. Is instant okay?"

  "The instanter the better," she said.

  Glenn went into the closet-sized darkroom. A small developing tank sat on the counter. She pried off the lid, and removed the stainless steel take-up reel. With the cartridge of film in her left hand, she switched out the light with her little finger, then rapped the bottom spindle on the counter's surface, forcing the exposed film through the top of the cassette. She hooked the film to the clip in the center of the reel, and bowed the film between her thumb and index finger. Slick as a whistle. She could do it with her eyes closed. She rotated the spool, wound the film out, and fed it onto the reel. When it was finished, she lowered the spool into it, pressed the lid in place, and turned on the light.

  Shane arrived with a see-through, glass mug filled with a dark liquid. The white etching on the side saidPhillips Crab House, Harbourplace . The coffee was lukewarm, and she swallowed half of it before handing the cup to Shane.

  "You only had the developer at 68 degrees," she said. "I could've shaved a couple minutes if you’d raise the temperature."

  "Two minutes one way or the other never hurt anybody."

  "Tell that to the bomb squad." She smiled at him.

  "So, I suppose you'll be wanting a hair dryer? You young people, always in a hurry. Your chemistry is mixed, and prepared."

  "I noticed. Thanks." She leaned against Shane’s broad shoulder. "Better cook me up another coffee. I'm dead."

  "Poor baby." He kissed the top of her head.

  "Man, I don't want to be doing this tonight."

  Shane squeezed her shoulder. "Come on, suck it up. I'll put the kettle on for when you're ready for a refill, 'kay?"

  "'Kay. Don't forget the hair dryer."

  Shane returned in ten minutes. The film had been in
the stop bath, the fixer, the hypo clear, and was rinsing when he tapped on the door. Glenn grunted, "Uh-huh," and added a few drops of wetting agent to the tank.

  "Any way you'd consider letting these air dry, and get back to it in the morning?" he asked.

  "Don't I wish," Glenn said.

  "Just do a contact sheet."

  "If I do that I've got to give them the negatives."

  "They're getting them anyway," he said.

  "Only the shots of the house. The others are mine."

  "You have to give them 36 negatives."

  "That's right, 36." Glenn looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

  He studied her. "I see. You're still bulk-loading your film."

  "You know me, I never change."

  He pursed his lips. "So you got 40 exposures in the film cartridge?"

  "Actually," she said, taking the coffee cup, and draining it. "I squeezed in 41. Like bullets in a beretta—40 in the clip, and one in the pipe." She made a gun with her finger and thumb. The hammer dropped, and she said, "Pew, pew."

  "And, Phil doesn't know this about you, as intimate as you were?"

  "He never cared to find out. To him, there's no such thing as real career women, just sluts with day jobs."

  "His loss." Shane hitched his arm around Glenn’s neck, and she put the cup in his hand. "Isn't this cozy?"

  "Cozy as a coffin. Everybody move back, they're done." She freed an inch of film from the reel, and attached it to a clip. She attached another clip to the bottom, and suspended the film on a wire. "Now, for the dryer."

  "Come out, and have your coffee. We have to plan before you print."

  "There isn't time," she said.

  "This will save time, you know that. Come on, let's think this through before we go any further."

  "How about, the second I finish the contact sheet, I bring it out, and we study it."

  He made an OK sign with his fingers, and left. She sliced the first five shots off the roll, and printed the rest, in six rows of six. These, she brought to Shane, who studied each of the 1 inch by 1 and 1/2 inch squares with a magnifying glass, and jotted notations on a pad.

  Glenn closed her eyes, sipped the hot beverage, and listened to Shane cluck, and grumble, and hum. If there was anyone who loved the job more than Glenn, it was Shane. He was always warning her, "Don’t make the same mistakes I did. If it weren't for my dear wife I'd still be rinsing my socks out on the wet bench. What kind of life is that?"