He sensed fluidity of Lindy’s movements and how he had played upon them. It had been his grasp of her essence that had allowed it, his instinctual vision of her most inviting positions, most attractive revelations and discretions.
As he moved from photo to photo, though, he began to notice things, nagging little problems. His heart raced, thundering louder and louder through his chest, through his head, and a voice imbedded deep in his mind screamed negations at him, following the pulsing rhythm.
He couldn't understand it, couldn't fathom it, but it was true, too true. There had been subtle shifts. In one shot the girl's shoulder had dipped a fraction of an inch below where he'd placed it. In another a single strand of hair had fallen, or been blown by her breath, from in front of her face, marring the perfection of the image.
Christian shook, gripping each photograph in turn, scanning it quickly, and then going to the next, yanking them down and tossing them aside, picking them back up and spinning about madly.
It was too much. His eyes snapped wildly from side to side, from one increasingly obvious fault to another, each one a failure.
Damn her! He thought, slamming his fist so forcefully into the table beside him that his hand numbed from the impact, then began throbbing painfully. He ignored it.
Even unconscious, he thought wildly, even without the use of her mind, she found a way to ruin me, to mock me. The little bitch seduced me, and then ruined my masterpieces. She was probably laughing at me when I killed her . . .
Lindy’s face came back to him, and suddenly he saw what he had missed. There were traces of laughter running through the sparks of fear in her eyes, a hint of ridicule in the twist of her lips. The lingering disdain shattered him.
He saw Lindy’s face, but it was his mother's laughter he heard in his mind, his mother's voice he heard whispering in his ears, always whispering, telling him what he should do, how he should do it, how good it was going to feel.
His thoughts grew incoherent, and he knew he had to get out of that room, away from those pictures. He reeled from exhaustion, and barely hesitated as he rushed through the kitchen and on to his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him and falling across the bed.
His thoughts were a screaming maelstrom of silent sound, insults repeating over and over, "Scarecrow," "Buzzard," "Loser", "Momma's little angel".
He never noticed when darkness finally overcame him and his wildly churning memories slipped from the lonely, hopeless anger of his failure into the darker, deeper realm of his subconscious. Christian slept, and as he slept he dreamed. He was unconscious for a long time.
* * *
When he awakened, he looked about himself, remembered, and smiled, his brain already going back to work. Sleep had given him the answer. The little bitch had beaten him, but she was not the only model he could work with. He was a genius. It had just taken another mistake to show him the way and to iron out the last detail in his plan.
He fixed himself a quick breakfast and cleaned up hurriedly, ridding the apartment of any trace of the previous night's activities. He scoured the kitchen, polished the wood of the dresser and nightstand in his room, changed the sheets and washed the old ones with extra bleach. The tumblers were dried, polished, and placed in even rows in his cupboard, and the trash was carried to the curb and dumped without a bag into the large bin he shared with his neighbors. Their garbage would sift over and through his, and by the afternoon it would be part of a greater whole, no longer associated with Christian at all.
When he finished he returned to the darkroom and un-clipped the photos. They were not perfect, but they were good. They were very good, and they would be close enough for the moment. These would not be the photos to make him famous, but all they had to do was convince Gates to help him; they were more than good enough for that.
He packed the prints carefully into an envelope. Next he pulled out a stick of polymer clay and broke off half of it, placing the rest carefully back on its shelf. He held the cool, stiff clay in his hand, working his fingers over the squared edges, pressing and kneading it. He rolled the clay between both of his palms, pressed it into an oval and then rolled it again. After a few moments it became more pliable, and with a satisfied smile, he slipped the ball into his pocket. The familiar warm lump against his thigh was comforting.
Next he worked his way through the house, locking up methodically and checking all the windows and blinds. With his ritual complete, he slipped out into the growing light of morning. He was ten minutes late leaving home, and it brought a frown to his face. He would have to hurry to make his first appointment.
The day went better than he'd expected. Although he'd had to deal with no less than twelve irate customers who'd missed appointments the previous day, he got all but two of them to make a second appointment. He had a full schedule for the day, as well, and sales were brisk. The pictures in the envelope in his cash-box called out to him and brought an uncommon cheerfulness to his voice.
These people, these plodding morons that filed in and out with their standard photo packages that would be dutifully distributed to the proper relatives, and tucked away in boring, $5.98 K-mart photo albums, had no idea the genius they were in the company of. He wondered what their reactions would have been had he pinned up a couple of shots of Lindy beside the bright smiles and toothy grins of the toddler portraits lining his entrance hall.
Normally the dense, disinterested glares of his customers annoyed Christian, but this day was different. He had a secret, tucked safely away in the next room, and buried in the bowels of a junkyard, and he wasn't sharing. He knew the parents would be standing behind him, grinning foolishly at their "little angels," but they would not see what he saw.
He saw the girl, Lindy. He saw each and every one of the faces he photographed that day, surrounded by multi-colored hair and painted with an artist's touch. Silent. Unmoving. Pliant and easy to mold, diamonds in the rough.
He still felt the heady sensation of power flooding through him. True, the only two he'd controlled in his entire life were now dead and beyond him, that could not be helped. Those fleeting moments had changed him. The photos had also changed him. A layman would never notice the flaws. Gates would never notice, either.
Christian knew that when he was able to offer more photos, darker and full of erotic power, Gates would come around. His eyes would flash dollar signs, and he would dive in wholeheartedly.
Christian was well aware of the power that lust could wield through art and movies. His own past was a kaleidoscope of such images, images his mother had force-fed him, had "shared" with him. Now that he held that control, he was trained well enough in its use.
He knew what his mistake had been, and he would not repeat it. He would, in fact, not even mention it to Gates. No sense belittling himself in front of someone who couldn't appreciate the difference. No sense taking a chance that the man would share his anger at the blemishes in his latest work. Better to assume the pose of perfection and play it out until what he wanted fell into his hands. What was that saying about casting pearls before swine?
The final customer filed out, a small, dark-haired girl draped over her shoulder who was smiling vacantly back at Christian, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Coolly and efficiently he developed the day's film, packaged up the orders from two days past and readied them for mailing or pickup, bustling about with an energy he hadn't felt in years.
Gates usually stayed at his business until the later hours of the evening, sometimes on into the night, if business was either good enough or interesting enough to hold him there. It was 4:30 when Christian closed. He had all the time in the world. He set the photos on the passenger seat of the Dart, smiled down at them and patted the package gently as he nosed the old Dodge into traffic.
* * *
Christian watched and waited as Gates stared down at the photos in his hand, shuffling through them once, twice, a third time. He was silent, but Christian saw the sweat beading on the man's
forehead and sensed the sexual tension in the air. He hadn't been certain how a jaded veteran of this sort of thing would react to his work, but now he smiled quietly.
"These are . . . interesting," the man said finally, dragging his gaze from the photos and snapping it up to meet Christian's. "Who is the model? Why have you brought them to me?"
"Consider them a sample, Mr. Gates," Christian's smile widened. "I believe they are a bit more than interesting, actually. They are magnificent, and they are my proof. You remember our last conversation? You must have some idea where the model might be found?"
Gates trembled, and his eyes returned to the photos. Christian’s words confirmed what he’d already known. "She's dead?"
"Not in the photos, no," Christian admitted. "I found ways to make her cooperative. I could do much more, though, Mr. Gates, with what I have requested. Are you certain there is no business we can do?"
Gates sweated openly, and he still thumbed from picture to picture. "I can keep these?" he asked finally. "I may be able to find some, uh, interested parties for work of this sort. If so I believe we can work something out."
Now was the moment Christian had dreaded, the money. He had a considerable amount saved, but would it be enough? He was about to start bargaining, even willing to plead if the need arose, but Gates had his mouth open and working again, and Christian waited.
"I can get a good price for these, Greve," Gates said, finding his voice again at last. "If the others you get are as good as you claim they will be I can get more. Some collectors enjoy their models with a little less blood running through their veins, if you know what I mean. I've met that type. Others like them in various states of decomposition. These, though, these make what I've seen look amateurish and sick. This girl is beautiful."
"So," Christian asked carefully, "the money we would make would be more than enough to compensate for the modeling fees?"
Gates broke into sudden, barking laughter. He was still nervous, but a there was a gleam in his eyes that Christian had never seen before. "More than enough, Christian old boy; we just need to be selective in our clientele – that's my line of work. Supply and demand.
"You didn't suppose I'd agree to something this insane if it weren't worth my while, did you? Never make that mistake, Christian. Never. The risk in this is far too great to take for just the modeling fees."
"Then . . ." Christian felt himself reddening as his eagerness showed through, "when can we start . . . I . . ."
"There's time, Greve, don't hurry me on this." Gates leaned back and stared at some point above Christian's head. "This is a big step – a totally new thing. Let me do what I can with these – we'll talk on, what's today, Wednesday? We'll talk on Friday. You call me."
"I . . ." Christian clamped his mouth shut and rose unsteadily to his feet. Two days. It was a long time, but it was not forever. For art, for that feeling of control to return, he would wait. "I'll call you Friday," he repeated woodenly.
He stumbled out of the office, his heart hammering with the warmth of success. He had done it. He had gotten the man to agree to support him, to provide another chance. This time there would be no blemishes, no faults. This time he would maintain control, would force the photos to perfection. Nothing could stop him.
As he stepped out of Gates’ office, he stopped and stared openly at the woman behind the counter in the lobby. She was remarkably beautiful, and she returned his smile in a friendly, more open manner that than he was unaccustomed to. Christian blushed suddenly, realizing how rude he was being, and hurried out the door with a quick wave. Damn.
As he wandered back to his car, he noticed that the evening paper was out. Christian never read the paper, but he often glanced at the covers to see what was happening in the world. None of it affected him, but sometimes he was curious. Right then he wanted something to distract him. The woman in the lobby had robbed him of a bit of his good humor, softened the delicious impact of the deal he'd made. She'd taken control of their chance meeting with a single smile and made him feel clumsy. He hated that, especially from a woman.
The headline nearly dropped him to his knees in shock.
"Psychos 'R' Us Cop on Trail of Another Killer"
Beneath the words was a photograph, a crude, mechanically precise photograph with absolutely no artistic value; it was a photo of the City Dump. He saw the freezer, its lid pushed aside, and the huge suitcase beside it, torn and shredded, a mass of something that could only be hair dangling from its side. All about the scene were police, reporters, chalk lines and taped-off sectors.
Christian's mind went numb. He staggered to the machine and fumbled around in his pocket until he found a quarter, dropped it in the slot and grabbed the top paper. He let the door to the machine slam back shut and walked to his car with the paper held directly in front of his nose. The photograph stared back at him in grainy, black and white clarity.
Somehow, he managed to swerve his car through traffic without causing an accident and to pull up to his apartment. He sat in silence there for a long, long time, not moving and trying not to think. Would they find him? Could they trace him that easily, that quickly? He looked up and down the street, glancing at his windows and doors to see if anyone had tampered with them, checking his neighbors’ windows and doors for pulled curtains or unfamiliar faces.
He had never been arrested, never been in the service, so there would be no record of his fingerprints. That was in his favor. Nobody had seen him – except the garbage man. His heart slammed into his chest, hard. The man had helped him lift the suitcase, and there it was on the front cover of the paper. Would he remember? Did garbage men read the newspaper?
Christian scrambled from the car and into the house, locked the door and headed directly for the refrigerator. He still had five of the beers he'd bought the previous day. He popped one open and poured its contents straight down his throat; then he opened another.
He hurried to the darkroom, grabbed more photo paper and began began work on another set of prints, anything to take his mind off the newspaper on his kitchen table and the incriminating, lousy, talent-less photograph that centered its front page. He needed something to focus on, something tangible that would drag him back from the abyss he felt himself dangling above.
He clipped the prints up to dry and left the darkroom, carefully slipping through the double set of curtains that allowed him to get in and out without ruining the prints. There were three more beers, and he planned to do away with all of them. He had to do something with his hands.
By the time he'd finished the fifth beer, his mind was calming somewhat, though his heart had barely slowed. He managed to get up the courage to walk to the corner market, return with a liter bottle of burgundy and lock himself back in.
During the entire trip he'd felt eyes focused on his shoulders. He’d sensed that people were staring and wondering, and that everyone would recognize him. He'd thought he saw shadowy figures leaning on the lamppost where the two had been the day before, eyes watching him from the shadows. A bird had cried, high up in a tree across the street; the sound had transformed to a voice in his mind, crying "Buzzard."
Despite his fear, he saw no one. Even the little man in the store had only glanced up as he made his purchase. Several hours and half a dozen glasses of wine later he'd finally begun to relax. It had been close, but apparently he’d escaped their notice. It was obvious that, master photographer or not, he had a lot to learn about this business he was embarking in, a lot of questions he would have to ask Gates.
That was another thing he hated. He didn't want to rely on the man for so many bits and pieces of his plan. Being controlled was Christian’s biggest fear, his most lingering nightmare. The reason his art had failed him thus far in life was that he had not been the one manipulating every piece in the puzzle.
Christian sat at his table a little longer, then went to the dark room and pulled down the photos. He stared at them long into the night, traced the girl's curves with his fingers
and mentally calculated how to prevent the problems she had caused.
His memories of her were vivid. He was able to recreate each photo, each masterpiece that would never be, in all its perfection within the confines of his mind. The perfection had been there. He had underestimated his enemy, had not truly seen the answer in her eyes.
The soft, warm lump of clay in his pocket teased his thigh, and he slipped it out. Still staring at Lindy’s photo, he worked the soft, pliant material with quick, dexterous motions, flicking bits of the clay free with his nail, pressing first on one side, then the other, forcing the image on the print to match that in his mind more closely. He was careful to avoid each of the tiny flaws, smoothing the skin, working tiny strands of the polymer into strips to mold her hair. He knew he would not paint it until the following day, or until some later point when his schedule allowed it, but he could have the pose – the form – perfected. When he was finished, he placed the small clay face onto tinfoil and baked it. He was tired, but he focused on the work, not returning to the table, and his wine, until the porcelain-smooth mask was safely out of the oven and cooling on the counter.
Christian fell asleep at the table, slumped in his chair. The empty wine glass slipped from his hand to roll across the prints on the table. Two tiny droplets of the dark red liquid splashed across one of the photos, the first one of the girl's face and torso. They dribbled over her lips like blood.
* * *
Hiram Gates sat alone, drinking and thinking, wondering just what the hell he was doing getting caught up in something like this at this juncture of his life. He had money. He had women, success, and he had power. What was it that he saw in those pictures that drew him so?
He glanced down again. The prints were smeared along their edges by his fingers, smudged from an almost constant shuffling over the last four hours. He had stared at each one, had imagined the soft flesh beyond the film, the slow breathing, the unconscious surrender of the subject.
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