The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

  “Luckily,” Jeffers said brightly, “I’ve got park service authorization. Most professional photographers do. Hang on, ladies, while I deal with this chain.”

  Jeffers jumped from the car, leaving the two women laughing in the back seat and Anne Hampton staring out blankly at the forest colors from the front. He felt a twinge of concern. She seems to be lost, he thought. Though his back was to the car, his mind pictured her sitting there, fastened to her seat by the layered fears of knowing what was happening and being unable to say or do anything, caught by the event just as surely as if he’d tied her with rope. He wondered for an instant whether she would be able to control herself. I want her to make it to the end. I don’t want to have to leave her here with the others. He considered whether she recognized the danger she was in and thought that she must, for she seemed to have entered a detached state, like a mannequin in a store window or a marionette dancing on the end of a set of strings.

  This, he realized, was exactly as it should be.

  My strings, he thought. Dance, Boswell, dance. When I jerk the strands holding you, jump.

  He smiled.

  Keep things in order, he told himself. Boswell represents time and effort and investment.

  He heard more laughter from the car.

  They don’t.

  The chain was just as it had been when he visited the park a month earlier. He reached down and grasped the links a few inches above the spot where it was fastened to a small brown post. With his free hand he flaked wood chips off the post. It had rotted with age. He gave the chain a sharp tug and it came free. Then he walked the chain across the road, clearing it out of the way.

  He shuffled his feet in the dusty road surface as he walked back to the car. No sense in leaving an impression of his shoe.

  “All set,” he said to the three in the car. “Just up the road.”

  He goosed the car ahead gingerly and they bumped for some two hundred yards until they pulled around a corner. Anne Hampton recognized then that they could not be seen from the main roadway.

  “All right, pile out,” Jeffers said with a brisk enthusiasm. “We don’t want to take up too much time, and everybody wants to get back to see that last race, so let’s do it.”

  Anne Hampton saw that he had thrown his brown photographer’s bag over his shoulder. She hesitated for an instant, watching the two young women follow Jeffers into the forest. They are blind, she thought. How can they rush after him so? Then she felt her own feet hurrying her forward, and she ran to keep up with him.

  “Boy,” said Vicki or Sandi—she had gotten them confused—“this sure is exciting.”

  “It always is,” replied Douglas Jeffers. “In more ways than one.” The two women giggled again.

  Anne Hampton thought she would be sick if she stopped. Her breath came in short bursts and she felt her head spin. The heat rested on her body like a wool blanket, prickly, uncomfortable, and she felt dizzy. Vicki or Sandi heard her laboring and turned to her.

  “Do you smoke? No? Good. But you sound out of shape. A little walk in the woods shouldn’t get to you . . .”

  “I’ve been a little sick,” Anne Hampton replied. She heard the words quiver weakly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You should take vitamins like I do. Every day. And regular exercise. Have you ever tried aerobic dancing? That’s what I like to do. Or maybe do some running to build up that wind. I’d like to quit my job at the bank and get a job teaching dancing at the health club. I think that would be neat. Are you okay?”

  Anne Hampton nodded. She didn’t trust her voice any further.

  “Try doing some running,” the young woman continued. “Start out slowly, maybe just a mile or so a day. And then gradually build up. It’ll make the world of difference.”

  Douglas Jeffers suddenly stopped.

  “So how do you like it? Pretty, huh?”

  He stood under a pine tree at the edge of a small open clearing. Even Anne Hampton, in the midst of her growing terror, thought it a pretty spot. That made her feel worse.

  There was a large boulder cropped up in the midst of the clearing. Sunlight spread around it, making the small patch of green grass glow. The entire area was encircled by forbidding pine trees that seemed to stand against the blue sky like so many silent sentinels. When she stepped into the clearing, Anne Hampton had the sensation of striding into a quiet room, the door closing shut behind her.

  “All right, ladies, over to the rock if you please. Boswell, next to me.”

  She walked over to Jeffers’ side and they both watched the two young women take up positions on the boulder. Each was affecting what she thought was the freshest come-hither appearance possible. Jeffers stepped out into the sunlight and glanced up at the high sky. “Bright,” he said. “Harmless, bright sunshiny day.” He quickly approached the two young women and held up a light meter beside them. Anne Hampton saw him adjust his camera, then start clicking off shots. He kept up a steady, hypnotic stream of encouragement: “That’s it, now smile, now pout a little, now throw that head back, good, good, great. Now twist about a bit, keep moving, good again, good . . .”

  She watched the performance before her, wondering: Where does he have the gun? Or will it be a knife? It must be in the photo bag. How is it going to happen? Quickly? Is he going to drag it out? What is he going to do to them? He will take his time. We are alone and it is quiet and he will not be hurried. The heat from the sun caused her to grow dizzy and she feared she would faint. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. I remain me, she said to herself. I am alone and apart and I am myself and I will be strong and I will make it. Make it. Make it. Make it. She repeated this over and over, mantralike.

  She looked up and saw that Vicki and Sandi were trying to look seductive. “That’s good,” she heard Jeffers say. “But I think it’s a little, I don’t know, restrained, maybe . . .”

  She saw the two women look at each other and she heard their mingled laughter. They were having a good time. She hated this. It filled her with guilt. She closed her eyes again.

  “Now, that’s better!” she heard Jeffers exclaim. “Wait until those editors get a load of this!”

  She opened her eyes and saw that both women had stepped out of their clothes. They seemed sleek, animal-like. They were both deeply tanned and she stared at the white skin that brought their breasts and crotches into relief. She watched as they stretched, and, within seconds, lost whatever residual modesty they might have had. They offered their breasts to the camera; they spread their legs when the lens pivoted toward them. Jeffers bounced about before them, bending and twisting, caressing them with the camera. She could hear the motordrive whirring.

  She thought it seemed like some hideous ballet.

  Jeffers maneuvered around the two women, bringing them closer, until finally they were slapped together, entwined, all legs, arms, buttocks, and breasts on the rock before him. Anne Hampton stared at their bodies, which seemed to her to be strong and full and terribly, horribly, filled with life. She could not continue to look and turned away.

  “Hey, Boswell, come here!”

  She hesitated one instant, then trotted to his side. She could see that both women were flush and excited.

  “Stand there so I can get a shot of the three of you.”

  She stepped between the two naked women.

  “Boy! I’ve never felt so free,” said Vicki or Sandi. “It makes me feel beautiful.”

  “It’s got me hot,” said the other, a little under her breath. “I wish my boyfriend were here.”

  “I bet,” whispered her friend, “that Mr. Corona gets a lot of extra surprises when he takes pictures.”

  Anne Hampton felt an elbow nudging her. She understood suddenly that this last statement was a question.

  “He does okay,” she said. “He l
ikes taking pictures.”

  “Fine, Boswell. Step out. Now, Vicki, just put your hand on Sandi’s breast, good, good, continue stroking it, right, and now reach down toward her thigh, good, good, that’s right, put your hand right there, perfect! Great, great. Exciting, huh?”

  Anne Hampton heard both women exclaim in agreement. She stood next to Jeffers and saw that they continued to stroke each other despite the pause in the sound from the motordrive. She could see sweat glisten on their bodies and she knew they were aroused.

  “Well,” he said, “it’ll be more exciting in just a second. Let me change film . . .”

  She saw his hand reach down into the photo bag.

  It’s now, she thought. Oh, God, it’s now.

  She wanted to race away, to somehow jump high into the sky and flee like a startled bird.

  She was frozen in her spot. Rigid under the sun.

  Oh, God, she thought. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I were someplace else, suddenly, magically, anywhere, just not here right now, at this moment. Oh, God, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.

  She saw that Jeffers had put his camera into the bag and she could see his hand on the butt of a pistol.

  I wish I could do something, she thought. I’m sorry, Vicki and Sandi, whoever you are. I’m so sorry.

  She shut her eyes.

  She could hear the two women giggling and the sound of their bodies slapping together. She could hear a pair of birds calling out in the darkness of the forest, raucous and harsh. She could hear Douglas Jeffers’ breathing beside her. It was even, rapid, but she thought it ice cold, and she believed behind her closed eyes that she would be able to see the vapors of his breath. Then every sound seemed to fade from her and she was enveloped by silence. She awaited the first noise of confusion and panic from the two women. She wondered: Will they gasp? Scream? Cry? Time seemed empty and she waited for the first moment of recognition and terror. But it did not come.

  Instead she heard a distant blare.

  The sound seemed foreign, unconnected to the clearing. Alien. She could not at first place it. It sounded again.

  She opened her eyes.

  Jeffers stood beside her. He was listening.

  A moment passed.

  “Everybody stay right here,” he said. Command had taken over his voice. Anne Hampton saw the two women look up, surprised. “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “But I need to check.” He looked at Anne Hampton. He spoke quietly to her. “Get them into their clothes. Act as if nothing is happening. Wait right here for me. Say nothing. Do nothing.”

  Jeffers lifted the photo bag and, after giving the two women a smile and a wave, stepped into the pine forest. Anne Hampton thought it was as if he had suddenly been swallowed by the shadows.

  She turned to the women. They were looking into the hole in the woods that Jeffers had disappeared into. They were still wrapped together, their arms in casual connection, draped across each other.

  Run! thought Anne Hampton. Get away! Can’t you see what is happening?

  But instead she said, “Why don’t you two get dressed? I think we’re just about finished.”

  “Oh,” said one, frowning, “I could do this all day.”

  Anne Hampton could say nothing. She sat, enveloped by fear, waiting for Douglas Jeffers to return. She glanced down at her hands and told herself: Make them do something.

  But she was unable.

  Douglas Jeffers felt the coolness of the forest dry the sweat on the back of his neck as he stepped away from the clearing. He walked slowly for ten feet. When he knew that he couldn’t be seen by any of the three women behind him, he picked up his pace. He jogged first, then ran, cutting between the shadows, leaping like a hurdler over the occasional rock or limb in his path. He kept one hand on the bag, to prevent it from bouncing about wildly, the other clearing branches from his eyes. His footsteps made a crunching sound against the pine needles of the forest. He raced the last few yards and emerged from the mottled forest light into the brightness of the road where he’d parked.

  A dark-green park service jeep was pulled up next to the car.

  A ranger wearing a Smokey the Bear hat sat on the hood.

  He’s unarmed and alone, Jeffers thought.

  Jeffers commanded himself: Be quick. He swiftly searched the scene. There was no one else around. His eyes scanned the jeep. He saw no shortwave radio antenna on the car, no telltale shotgun fastened to a holder on the dashboard. He glanced at the ranger and saw that the man did not have a hand-held radio strapped to his waist. He’s isolated and unsuspecting, Jeffers thought. He took a few steps closer and saw that the man was really a boy. A college student, working for the summer. His hand went into the bag and he felt the solid metal barrel of the automatic. You could do it. You could do it and no one would be the wiser.

  Inwardly, then, he screamed at himself: Control! What are you? Some punk killer in a convenience store?

  He slid his hand from the bag, bringing out his Nikon.

  He waved and the ranger waved at him.

  “Hi,” Jeffers said. “I heard your horn. You screwed up my shot good.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said the ranger. Jeffers saw that he was an unprepossessing type, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He was slightly built and Jeffers knew the young man would be no match for him. Not physically or mentally. “But this is supposed to be a restricted area. You’re not allowed to bring a car up here. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “Yes, but Ranger Wilkerson told me it was okay after I found the owl’s nest.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Ranger Wilkerson. He’s at central headquarters in the state capital. He’s the guy all the nature photographers talk to when they want to get into the restricted areas. It’s no big deal, really. Did you know I found an eagle’s nest last year?”

  “In here?”

  “Yeah, well, not exactly here, but over that way.” Jeffers gestured widely with his arm, pointing off into nowhere. “Took me by surprise, too. I got the pictures into Wildlife magazine, too, and the Audubon Society came out en masse, almost a little parade through the woods, you know. It was a pretty big show, you know. Weren’t you here then?”

  “No, this is my first year.”

  “Well,” said Jeffers, “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. I think they put up one of the pictures at your headquarters.”

  “Did, uh, you get some kind of pass or something?”

  “Sure,” said Jeffers. “It should be in your photography file back at your office. Probably right under the picture of the eagle.”

  “I’ll have to check,” said the ranger. “I didn’t know we had a file.”

  “No problem. Check under my name: that’s Jeff Douglas.”

  “Are you a professional?”

  “No,” replied Jeffers. “I wish. I mean, I’ve sold some shots. Even sold one to National Geographic, but they never used it. But it’s just a hobby, really. I sell insurance.”

  “Well,” said the ranger, “I’ll still have to check.”

  “Sure. And what’s your name, so I can call Ranger Wilkerson if there’s some mixup?”

  “Oh, I’m Ted Andrews. Ranger Ted Andrews.” He smiled. “By the time I get used to saying that, it will be time to head back to school.”

  Jeffers smiled. “Look, I was just about finished for the day, anyway. I want to just go back and make sure I didn’t leave any film boxes or anything laying around. I don’t like to make a mess.”

  “We appreciate that. You wouldn’t believe what some folks just toss away. And I end up cleaning it up.”

  “Low man on the totem pole?”

  The ranger laughed. “Right.”

  “You don’t have to wait for me,” Jeffers said. “Go check your file, and next time I’ll stop by the office
and you’ll see it’s all arranged.”

  “That’d be okay,” said the young man. He started back to his jeep and Jeffers looked hard at the man’s back. I could do it now, and it would be easy. He measured the distance. A single shot, no one would hear a thing. No one would know. His hand closed on the pistol butt, but then he dropped it back into the bag. He waved instead, watching the jeep pull out past his car, bouncing up the secondary road.

  “Damn,” said Jeffers coldly to himself. “Dammit to hell.”

  For a moment he felt flushed with fury and he had an overwhelming urge to crush something with his hands. He took a deep breath. Then another. He spat on the ground, clearing his mouth of a bilious, evil taste. Someone’s going to pay for this, he thought.

  Out loud, though, he said to no one: “They get to live.”

  XI

  ONE TRIP TO

  NEW HAMPSHIRE

  16. Detective Mercedes Barren drove hard through the glowing vapors of gray-green highway lights that beat back the early-morning darkness. It was nearly three a.m. and she was almost alone on the turnpike. An occasional tractor-trailer careened past in the distance, wailing like some great heartbroken beast into the edge of roadway lights and night blackness. She pushed the accelerator down, as if she could transform the engine’s surge into energy for her own body. She was exhausted, yet powerless to seek sleep. She knew the burning images she carried vividly in her head and sloppily thrust into a paper bag on the seat next to her would preclude sleep for some time.

  The car droned around her and she tried to force the sound to fill her and take away the terrors of the past hours. She refused to think of Douglas Jeffers’ apartment, though a final vision was imposed on her memory: She could see shattered glass and dozens of broken or twisted picture frames littering the floor. In her panic and horror, she had finally simply torn the pictures apart, seeking the hidden images. The detritus of Jeffers’ art lay in piles strewn haphazardly about the apartment’s living room, ripped faces and severed moments, staring out at her in violation. She’d taken the bag of groceries that had been part of her ruse dedicated to the inquisitive doorman and dumped them out on the floor. Then she’d refilled the paper sack, stuffing it with the hidden pictures, creased, folded, mangled by her impatience and anxiety. When she closed and locked the door to the apartment, leaving it behind, it had been like pitching from a nightmare into a waking fear; like arising from an uneasy dream at the midnight sound of an entering burglar breaking glass, or the tiny crackle of fire from another room.