Sanctuary(22)

"I came in on the morning ferry," she said, knowing the information was unnecessary.

For a difficult moment they stood there, more awkward than strangers. Sam shifted his feet. "You in trouble?"

"I'm just taking some time off

"You look peaked."

"I've been working too hard."

Frowning, he looked deliberately at the camera hanging from a strap around her neck. "Doesn't look like you're taking time off to me."

In an absent gesture, she cupped a hand under the camera. "Old habits are hard to break."

"They are that." He huffed out a breath. "There's a pretty light on the water today, and the waves are up. Guess it'd make a nice picture."

"I'll check it out. Thanks."

"Take a hat next time. You'll likely burn."

"Yes, you're right. I'll remember."

He could think of nothing else, so he nodded and started up the path, moving past her. "Mind the sun."

"I will." she turned away quickly, walking blindly now because she had smelled the island on him, the rich, dark scent of it, and it broke her heart.

Miles away in the hot red glow of the darkroom light, he slipped paper, emulsion side up, into a tray of developing fluid. It pleased him to re-create the moment from so many years before, to watch it form on the paper, shadow by shadow and line by line.

He was nearly done with this phase and wanted to linger, to draw out all the pleasure before he moved on.

He had driven her back to Sanctuary. The idea made him chuckle and preen. Nothing could have been more perfect. It was there that he wanted her. Otherwise he would have taken her before, half a dozen times before.

But it had to be perfect. He knew the beauty of perfection and the ki fu Iy toward creating it.

satisfaction of wor ng care I Not Annabelle, but Annabelle's daughter. A perfect circle closing. she would be his triumph, his masterpiece.

Claiming her, taking her, killing her.

And every stage of it would be captured on film. Oh, how Jo would appreciate that. He could barely wait to explain it all to her, the one person he was certain would understand his ambition and his art.

Her work drew him, and his understanding of it made him feel intimate with her already. And they would become more intimate yet.

Smiling, he shifted the print from the developing tray to the stop bath, swishing it through before lifting it into the fixer. Carefully, he checked the temperature of the wash, waiting patiently until the timer rang and he could switch on the white light and examine the print.

Beautiful, just beautiful. Lovely composition. Dramatic lighting such a perfect halo over the hair, such lovely shadows to outline the body and highlight skin tones. And the subject, he thought. Perfection.

When the print was fully fixed, he lifted it out of the tray and into the running water of the wash. Now he could allow himself to dream of what was to come.

He was closer to her than ever, linked to her through the photographs that reflected each of their lives. He could barely wait to send her the next. But he knew he must choose the time with great care.

On the worktable beside him a battered journal lay open, its precisely written words faded from time.

The decisive moment is the ultimate goal in my work. Capturing that short, passing event where all the elements, all the dynamics of a subject reach a peak. %%at more decisive moment can there be than death? And how much more control can the photographer have over the's moment, over the capturing of it on film, than to plan and stage and cause that deatb?

Yhat single act)'Or'ns subject and artist, makes him part of the art, and the image created.

Since I will kill only one woman, manipulate only one deet'si've moment, I have chosen her with great care.

Her name is Annabelle.

With a quiet sigh, he hung the print to dry and turned on the white light to better study it.

"Annabelle," he murmured. "So beautiful. And your daughter is the image of you."

He left Annabelle there, staring, staring, and went out to complete his plans for his stay on Desire.

The ferry steamed across Pelican Sound, heading east to lost Desire. Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had done before as a ten-year-old boy. It wasn't the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy, but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.

It was cool with the breeze off the water, and the scent of it was raw and mysterious. It had been warmer before, but then it had been late May rather than mid-April.

Close enough, he thought, remembering how he and his parents and his young brother had all crowded together at the starboard rail of another ferry, eager for their first glimpse of Desire and the start of their island summer.

He could see little difference. Spearing up from the land were the majestic live oaks with their lacy moss, cabbage palms, and glossyleaved magnolias not yet in bloom.