Double Image (17 page)

His hand cramping on the shotgun, Coltrane stepped back from the wall of windows and the glass-paneled door. About to turn to go upstairs to Jennifer, he paused as the thought that had struggled to surface made another attempt.

Something about the utility area.

Yes, it was deep enough to account for the five-foot difference between the inside and the outside of the vault. But what about . . .

How wide was . . .

The thought broke free. The utility area doesn’t stretch all the way along that section of the house, he realized. When I looked inside, it was only about eight feet from left to right.

But the vault’s fifteen feet wide. If the utility area takes up eight feet of that, what’s in the remaining seven feet of the strip along that side?

Coltrane’s cheeks became cold, blood draining from them. There wasn’t another door on the outside wall. That meant if there was a seven-by-five-foot area farther along, the only way to get into it would have to be . . .

Jesus.

It was the first time Coltrane had ever wanted to enter the vault.

PULLING THE KEY FROM HIS JEANS, Coltrane approached the vault’s entrance. As he opened the outside door, exposing the blackness of the metal door, he set the shotgun against the wall and inserted the key into the metal door’s lock. For something so heavy, the door swung open smoothly, requiring almost no effort for him to push it.

He reached in to the left, brushed his hand against the wall, found the light switch, and flicked it, squinting from the harshness of the overhead lights. Again, the chill of the place overwhelmed him. The rows of gray metal library shelves had never seemed bleaker. The concrete walls and floor seemed to shrink. Overcoming the sensation of being squeezed, he picked up the shotgun and entered the vault.

His gaze never wavered from the left section of the opposite wall. But he couldn’t get there directly. He had to walk straight ahead until he reached the last row of shelves, then turn left and proceed to the area that held his attention. The wall was lined with shelves. Facing them, positioning himself in the middle, he glanced to the right. Behind those shelves and that section of the wall was the utility area. But what was behind the shelves and the section of the wall on the
left
?

Again he set down the shotgun. He leaned close to the shelves on the left section of the wall. The metal frame that supported them was bolted to the concrete behind them. He tugged at the shelves but had no effect; they remained firmly in place.

He ran his hands along the back edges of the shelves. Crouching, then stretching, he checked above and below them, also along the sides, wherever they met the concrete. It won’t be something difficult, he told himself. Packard was in a wheelchair. The old man didn’t have the strength for anything complicated or awkward. It would have to be . . .

At wheelchair height, Coltrane touched a slight projection of metal at the back of the right side of the shelves.

Something easy, he thought.

He pulled down on the wedge of metal, but it didn’t budge.

Something simple and . . .

He pulled
up
on the wedge of metal. It immediately responded.

Clever.

He heard the click of metal, of a latch being released.

Yes.

This time when he pulled at the shelves, they
did
budge. Not a lot. Not enough to move forward. But enough to indicate that they were no longer secured to the wall. What else do I have to . . .

He shifted to the left side of the shelves, crouched at wheelchair height, reached to the back where the side met the concrete, and touched a corresponding wedge of metal. When he pulled it upward, another latch snicked free, and now the shelves moved smoothly forward, seeming to float.

No matter how rapidly Coltrane breathed, he couldn’t seem to get enough air. He stepped to the right, out of the way, and continued to pull on the shelves, their outward movement so smooth that even an aged man in a wheelchair could have controlled them. Viewing that section of the wall from the side, he saw that what had appeared to be solid concrete was actually a concretelike stucco attached to a partition of oak. On the left, large foldout hinges at the top, bottom, and middle made the false wall capable of being moved in and out.

He stepped inside.

THE RADIANT WOMAN FACING HIM MADE HIS HEART STOP. Despite her alluring features, he almost recoiled in surprise at finding her, except that he couldn’t — his legs were powerless. Her hypnotic gaze paralyzed him. For a startling instant, he thought that she had been hiding behind the wall. But the face was too composed, showing no reaction at having been discovered.

Nerves quivering, he stepped into the chamber, so drawn that he overcame his fear of being enclosed. What he was looking at was an amazingly life-sized photograph of a woman’s face. It hung on the chamber’s back wall, exactly where the woman’s face would have been if she had actually been standing there. Indirect light from the vault dispelled many but not all of the shadows in the chamber, so that the area where the woman’s body would have been was partially obscured, creating the illusion that her body was in fact there. Although the photograph was in black and white, the absence of color seemed lifelike because of the woman’s extremely dark hair and dusky features.

Either she spent a lot of time in the sun, Coltrane thought, or there was an ethnic influence, possibly Hispanic. Certainly the white lace shawl she wore reminded Coltrane of similar garments he had seen in Mexico. Her dark eyes were riveted on where the camera would have been, on where Coltrane’s eyes now studied her, with the effect that he felt she was peering into him. Her lush hair hung thickly around her shoulders, with such a sheen that it gave off light regardless of how black it was. Her lips were full, their arousing curves parted in a smile, the glint from which seemed to shoot from the photograph. The combination of her features was typical of classic beauty — large eyes, high cheekbones, a smooth, broad forehead, an angular jawline, a narrow chin. She sparkled and smoldered.

But as captivated as he was by her image, he was equally captivated by the medium in which she was presented. He had seldom seen a black-and-white portrait that demonstrated such perfect control of its essential elements, of the juxtaposition of darkness and light. The technique required more than just a careful positioning of the subject and a precise calculation of light. Afterward, the real work was in the developing process, dodging and burning, underexposing some portions of the print while overexposing others,
making
the image rather than simply
taking
a picture. Coltrane knew of only one photographer who had absolute mastery of this technique. Even if he hadn’t found this photograph in this particular location, Coltrane would have known at once who had created it: Randolph Packard.

A NOISE MADE HIM SPIN. Startled, he grabbed the shotgun, about to raise it, then immediately checked himself when he saw Jennifer at the entrance to the vault.

“That’s one of the reasons I don’t like guns,” she said.

“You weren’t in danger. I would have looked before I aimed.”

“Glad to hear it.” Jennifer’s eyes were still puffy from sleep. “When I woke up and didn’t find you, I got worried. This is the last place I expected you to be.”

“Believe me,
I’m
surprised. But not as surprised as I am by
this
.” Coltrane pointed. “Our little mystery wasn’t as solved as we thought.”

As Jennifer approached, she ran a hand through her short, sleep-tousled hair.

“And maybe it’s not such a little mystery after all,” Coltrane said, then explained how he had found the chamber.

Fascinated, he watched her peer inside.

“My God,” she whispered. From the side, Coltrane could see that her eyelids came fully open. “She’s the most beautiful . . .”

“Yes.”

“Who? Why?”

“And a hundred other questions. The only thing I know for sure is, Packard took that photograph. The style is unmistakable.”

Jennifer appeared not to have heard. She raised a hand toward the photograph, held it an inch away from the woman’s face, then lowered it. “This is fabulous. I don’t understand why he hid it.”

“Not just
it
,” Coltrane said. “Look over here.” To the right, metal shelves rose to the ceiling. “Look at all the boxes.”

Each was about two inches deep. Grabbing one, Coltrane carried it from the shadows toward the lights in the vault. In a rush, he set the box on a shelf and opened the lid, inhaling audibly when he found the woman’s sultry face peering up at him in another pose.

“How many?” Coltrane flipped through the rest of the eight-by-ten-inch photographs in the box. “There must be at least a hundred. Every one of them shows her.”

Jennifer brought out another box. “This one holds sixteen-by-twenties.” She set it on a shelf next to him, tugged the lid open, and lifted a hand to her chest, overwhelmed. “Mitch, get over here. You’ve got to see this.”

Coltrane quickly joined her. The top image, twice as large as the ones he had flipped through in the first box, gave him his first full-body view of the woman. She was on a deserted beach, stepping out of the ocean, so that the water came just below her knees, one leg ahead of the other, her movement languid even though it was fixed in time. Her bathing suit was dazzlingly white against her tan skin, a one-piece costume that was modest by contemporary standards, its bottom line level with the top of her thighs, its upper line almost to her collarbone, inch-wide straps hitched over her shoulders. But for all its modesty, the suit had an arousing effect, clinging to her supple body, the smooth, wet material emphasizing the curves of her hips, waist, and breasts. Those curves seemed an extension of the undulation of the waves from which she emerged. Water glistened on her silken face, arms, and legs. She didn’t wear a bathing cap. Her midnight-colored hair, drenched by the ocean, was pulled back close to her scalp, the contrast with the lush appearance of her hair in the other photographs reinforcing the classical beauty of her high cheeks. But what most attracted Coltrane’s attention, what mesmerized him in this photograph, as in the others, was the woman’s soul-invading gaze.

Jennifer sorted through the other photographs in the box, showing Coltrane additional images of the woman on the beach. The scene changed; the woman was on the rim of a cliff with the ocean below her. Sunlight was full on her face, but the other details of the photograph suggested an oncoming storm. The waves in the background were tempestuous. Wind gusted at her hair, sweeping it back. It also gusted at the white cotton dress she wore, blowing it against her body, molding the soft, pliant fabric to her legs, stomach, and breasts. The scene changed yet again; the woman was in a luxuriant garden, oblivious to the flowers around her, gazing pensively toward something on the right while a fountain bubbled behind her.

In wonder, Coltrane glanced back into the chamber, toward the numerous boxes. “There must be—” his calculations filled him with an emotion that was almost like fear — “
thousands
of photographs.”

“And every one so far is a masterpiece,” Jennifer said. “Prints of this quality don’t just get churned out. They take meticulous care. Sometimes a day for each one.”

Coltrane knew that she wasn’t exaggerating. Packard had been legendary for insisting that photographers who didn’t develop their own prints were contemptible. He had been known to spend a day on one print alone, and if the result had even the slightest blemish, some faint imperfection that only he would have realized was there, he tore the print to shreds and started over.

“Everybody thought his output dwindled,” Coltrane said. “But if anything, it increased unimaginably.”

“All of the same amazingly beautiful woman.”

“Packard certainly didn’t lack ego,” Coltrane said. “He went out of his way to let everybody know how great he was. When he had a photograph that satisfied even
his
standards, he bragged about it. These are among the best images he ever produced. Instead of showering them upon the world, why the hell did he build a secret room and hide them?”

“Did Packard ever use this model in any of the photographs he made public?” Jennifer asked.

“No. I have no idea who on earth she is.”

“Was,” Jennifer corrected. “Take another look at that bathing suit. That style hasn’t been in fashion since . . . My guess is the forties. More probably the thirties. How old does she seem to you?”

“About twenty-five.”

“Let’s split the difference between decades and say the photograph was taken in 1940. Do the math. She’d be in her eighties now. Assuming she’s still alive, which the odds are against. Even if she
is
still alive, she won’t be the woman in that photograph.
That
woman exists only in these prints.”

“Immortality,” Coltrane said. The irony wasn’t lost on him. “I’m not sure I’ll be alive beyond Wednesday, and here I am wondering about a woman in photographs taken a lifetime ago.” He steadied his gaze on the woman’s. “Whoever you are, thank you. For a little while, I forgot about Ilkovic.”

I HAVE TO PUT MYSELF IN ILKOVIC’S PLACE, Coltrane thought. If I’m going to get through this alive, I have to imagine what I’d do in his situation.

In the dark, lying next to Jennifer, he couldn’t get his mind to shut off. He strained to fix his imagination on the woman’s haunting face, but it melted into a fleshless skull, which swiftly became Ilkovic’s big-boned features. Terror overcame him. He kept worrying about his grandparents. He kept wondering how he was going to survive on Wednesday.

Maybe Nolan’s right. Maybe it’s foolish to offer myself as bait.

At once a part of him said, But the cemetery’s one of the few places where Ilkovic is likely to show up. He won’t be able to resist the pleasure of watching Daniel’s mourners. He’ll be hoping to see
one
mourner in particular: me. The police and the FBI will have a chance to catch him.