NINE
Hiram Gates sat at his desk for a very long time after Detectives Doyle and Markum departed, staring out the window at the streets below and pondering the oddities of life. They had learned nothing of any use to their investigation from him that he could see, and yet there was something in the air that unnerved him, a certain electricity surrounding the events of the day that put him on the edge of his seat and made him wonder just what the fuck he was doing. This was not his ocean he was dipping his feet into, not at all.
He did know what he was doing, though, knew it only too well. In the drawer in front of him, locked securely, but only for the moment, was a sealed manila envelope. Beneath that envelope was another, the first set of prints Greve had brought him. They were soiled now, dog-eared and worn from being fingered and fondled, sorted and ogled. He had done his share of that ogling, others, those with the money that made this a reality, had had their turns.
Over eighty prints of various size and price had circulated of that first set of photos. Even Gates had been shocked at the value placed on them. His efforts had included everything from businessmen with photo-fetishes to a few "legitimate" collectors in the field, if anything remotely connected to what he had in that drawer could be considered legitimate.
Of course, the secrecy had to be complete. Each and every prospective buyer had known a) that the photos were of a dead woman, and b) that confidentiality was a must. It was a code they understood and lived by. Hiram was only just becoming aware of the depths to which such an enterprise could sink. Along with that, he was becoming aware of the depths to which he himself could sink, and it bothered him on levels deeper than he usually visited.
Then there was Greve. The weird, gangly photographer was changing too. In a way he was maturing, or “growing up”. He was more confident, even arrogant at times, and there was a gleam in his eye that was just not right. It sparked at the oddest times, causing the man's entire face to change. Something was bothering the freak, something he would never tell a soul, least of all a man like Gates, partner or no partner. It was eating away at Greve, though, and it was eating away at their time together, as well. What kind of a past could have brought forth such a man?
There was money to be made, but there was a point after which it would have to end and their bond would be severed. "The more rickety the foot-bridge," his father had always said, "the quicker you'd better hotfoot it on across."
Hiram only hoped he was wise enough to see that point coming. He had no intention of going down the tubes with a psycho. Jail was not in his future if he had a say in the matter; and of course he did. He could end this any time he wanted, and part of him knew he should have done that before it began.
He reached for the key hanging around his neck and opened the desk drawer slowly. He pressed the button on his intercom and buzzed the front desk. He told Madeline to hold all calls and visitors for at least an hour. He hadn't looked over the new prints yet, and he didn't want the moment to be wasted. It bothered him that he was savoring the experience so completely, that it was of such personal importance, but it didn’t bother him enough to stop his shaking fingers from reaching into the drawer.
He pulled out the envelope and placed it in the center of his desk, directly under the light. His eyes were hazy from sweat, and he reached up quickly to brush it away, clearing his sight. He wanted to see everything.
Hiram kept a special bottle of scotch in the lower right hand drawer of his desk, expensive, even by his own standards, and he reached down to pull this out as well, adding a crystal tumbler. Might as well make the occasion memorable in at least one way he was familiar and comfortable with.
He slit the envelope's seal with one long, manicured nail and tipped it up, letting the contents slide slowly into the pool of light from the fluorescent lamp. He drew in a sharp breath, his gaze caught instantly by the top print. He picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes.
It was Cherie, there was no doubt of that, but it was not the Cherie who had sat on his lap and giggled those short nights before – not even close. The eyes were just as empty, but the emptiness was different, ethereal, captivating, not the dull, mindless product of white powder and alcohol he remembered. She was breathtaking. Hiram felt a dryness beginning in the far reaches of the back of his throat, and he swallowed quickly.
She was naked, her skin was creamy and white, so smooth that it glimmered and shone as if coated in oil. Her head was tilted at a provocative angle, her tongue rested just against the tip of her thumb. He imagined her taking it into her mouth, sucking it softly, doing undreamed things to it. He imagined her doing the same with other things, and his erection pressed tightly against the material of his pants, making him even less comfortable.
Her hair hung around her shoulders like a blonde shroud. Not a strand was out of place, not a shadow was wasted. It blended perfectly with the subtle tints of her makeup, which were overpoweringly exotic and natural at the same time. She had the unearthly beauty of a vampiress, the allure of the unattainable. She had the beauty of death, a concept Hiram had never considered, and was not at all comfortable with.
He flipped the photo over and was caught up in the next, and the next. Sweat coated his fingers, smearing the sides of the prints and running down his neck to soak his collar. He remembered his drink, reached out and grabbed it and tossed back the contents without a thought to the smoothness of the liquor or the warmth it brought. He was lost in a fascination that was sucking him in, and he was fighting to regain his control.
Christ, he said, shuddering. He slammed the photos face-down on the desk and stared pointedly at the wall across the room from him, searching for something to distract his mind. What the hell is it with these damned pictures, anyway?
He knew, though, even as his mind asked the question, he knew the answer. It was all about power and control. These were things that were integral to his own life, to his own needs and dreams. It was about a cheap little tramp model transformed into eternal beauty, controlled totally, and about a portion of that control resting in his hands, the results of that control. The ultimate control. The control of life.
Even her shortcomings had been stripped from her. She had given up her life so totally that her flesh had been transformed into a different thing, a work of art. It was the ultimate rape, the ultimate shame, to not exist, and to exist, at the same time, in such perfection.
Hiram slipped the pictures back into the envelope, wanting them out of his sight and fully aware he would be back to them later, that he would almost undoubtedly take them to bed with him that night and stare at them late into the hours of morning if he didn't do something to get them off his mind.
The night he'd first taken home the original pictures, the young girl with the colored hair, he'd masturbated for the first time in nearly five years. There were any number of women he could have called, any number of ways to satisfy his lusts. His mind had cried out in negation, but his body had opted for the photos and the promise of dead eyes.
There would be time enough for business the next day, he decided suddenly. It was time, after all these years that the Gates Entertainment Brokers took a night off with pay. He slipped the envelope back into the drawer, locked it carefully, and placed the key on its gold chain around his neck. Out of sight, out of mind. Right.
"Madeline," he called, pressing the buzzer softly, "come in here, please."
Madeline was more than Hiram's assistant. Over the years they'd formed a bond of friendship that went deeper, though not a love in the traditional sense. He was comfortable with her, could share things with her he could entrust to nobody else, and she never asked for more than he gave willingly. Under those terms, he had been very generous.
At least that was the way Hiram saw it. Sometimes he thought he saw things in her eyes that were asking for more. Sometimes he even thought she was serious about him, but he didn't see how that could be. They were business partners, lovers at times, and friends at others; she knew everything about him. The women, the scotch, everything except the current nightmare he was embarked on. How could she have any real feelings for someone like himself?
They’d had had their moments, though, and watching her slide softly through the door, barely cracking it open and rustling the silk of her dress provocatively against the wood, Hiram believed they were about to have another. He thanked whatever god still looked after him that there were distractions in the world.
"How would you like to just say fuck it all and go out with me tonight?" he asked without preliminaries – no games. He swept his eyes over her appreciatively. "I feel like a change of scenery, and I wouldn't miss your company, even without work, for anything."
She smiled at him, moved around the edge of the desk and slipped onto his lap, where she fit snugly. Wrapping him in her arms and leaning in so that he could breathe her perfume, so that her eyes captured his completely, she brushed his lips softly with a kiss. "I'd like that very much," she breathed.
Hiram felt his already painful erection leap instantly against her thigh, his shorts still damp from the bout with the photographs, and she giggled, spinning free. He knew she'd felt it too, and he grinned at her.
"Oh, no," she said, shaking a finger at him. "You said 'out', and you are taking me out before anything else, do you understand me?"
Her eyes twinkled, and she was adorable. He could no more have refused her at that point than he could have put a gun to his own head. Rising, feeling a little foolish at the erection pressing his pants outward, he reached for his jacket and followed her toward the door.
"A deal is a deal," he answered grudgingly, mock hurt on his face.
"And no place cheap, either," she was saying, her ass swinging back and forth before him like a beacon. "I want to party."
The lights flickered out behind them, and the doors were closed. On the answering machine, hooked to the three outside lines, the indicators were already flashing, but the entertainment central of San Valencez was shut down. Out to lunch.
As they walked away, arm in arm, Hiram smiled and closed his eyes. It was a mistake. The image of Cherie, nude and quite dead, staring in timeless beauty from Kodak's finest grade of paper snapped into focus, drawing at him and calling him back. He clutched Madeline to him, and somehow she sensed his need to be close. The image faded again, slowly. The night was very, very dark.
* * *
This time Christian had made himself a second set of prints right off the bat, not taking all he had to Gates. He was, after all, creating them for himself. The money was secondary to the art.
He'd enlarged them, and then enlarged the enlargements, searching for flaws, digging into the depths of them for any sign of failure. He was a man obsessed. It was there, he was sure, it had to be. There had to be more, something he'd missed.
He could remember watching his mother as a child, foolishly clucking and puttering over her clothing, or her makeup, brushing her hair first one way, then another, changing shades of both mascara and lipstick, looking for that perfect image, that erotic, seductive perfection that would drive her men wild.
He could remember setting up the huge old flash camera she'd bought on a whim, snapping print after print of her, capturing what age, drugs, and oceans of lovers would steal and stashing it away for posterity. He'd seen the flaws in her image only too well, but at the time he hadn't understood her obsession with it.
He hadn't understood then. He hadn't felt that need for perfection, for the image beyond what you saw, the perfect photo. It had been beyond him the same way he was now beyond his competitors, the way he'd transcended the mechanics and launched himself into new realms of creativity.
Photography had many levels. It could be perfect technically, which was to say it brought forth exactly the image those present remembered. It could be bad, bringing out true images, still, but not the exact ones the subjects wanted remembered. Then it could be art. He had experienced all three levels, and one other – the level of failed vision. His mother's level. She hadn't had the vision to reach the image she wanted, hadn't been able to even picture it in her mind, but she had tried. She had tried, and tried, and failed, and tried again.
Christian knew that the last level was the one he feared the most. The third, the creative, artistic level was the one form that could truly release the soul, that could transcend reality and improve upon it. It was this level he sought, and he could feel it, just beyond his groping fingers, smiling out of the darkness where the shadows were one grade too deep for his film, where the lights couldn't seem to penetrate.
The pictures in front of him were good, great even. He had never come so close, so near to his goal. He could taste perfection, could feel it tingling along the skin of his arms and down his spine. If he had been his mother, sitting in front of her mirror, he'd have been salivating, running his tongue over rouged lips and reaching for the brushes, the sponges, anything to put him over that edge.
The photos were tainted, though. There was something in the way the woman had leaned into the camera, in the way he himself had placed her, that was off kilter. There was something beyond, and at the same time, beneath his vision that came through in each print and emanated from each pose. They were natural, beautiful, exotic, even artistic, but they were not exactly what he had envisioned. Not even though he'd believed them perfect as he set them up, as he pressed the button and set off flash after flash.
It was her, the model coming through, but it was not possible. She was gone, beyond any cooperation or lack thereof, beyond any chance of ruining his moment of triumph, and yet she had. Then it came to him. In a flash it rushed through his psyche, causing him to tremble in disbelief.
She had done it through him, leaking herself into him, soaking him in her perspiration, her saliva, drawing him inside her and invading his senses with her flesh. She had known he would betray her, somehow, and she had found a way to fight back, to survive beyond death.
Christian had been weak, and once again, he had failed. The woman had changed his vision, warped it to blend with her own aura, his memory of her face, her actions, super-imposing her personality onto his vision insidiously, from beyond death. He’d been intimate with her actions, her reactions, had seen how she reacted in too many situations. He knew how her form should react in perfection. He had allowed her form in reality to blend in.
The photos were erotic. They brought out sensations in Christian, even now, that were undeniably carnal. He could look into those lifeless eyes and sift his sight back through the shots, to Lindy, and drink again the terror that had filled her eyes. He could even flash on images of Tony, the boy, bound and raging, fighting a hopeless battle against impossible odds that had been in Christian's favor.
None of it was enough. It was powerful, but it was not what he sought, not what he'd worked for. He needed the release of total perfection, the completion of vision.
He felt himself burning with the desire to work again, to brush aside the walls that separated him from his dreams. There were other aches eating at him, other desires, and these he repressed, fighting with all that meant anything to him. They were lustful and carnal. They were the bonds that held him from immortality. They were his mothers mother’s groping talons, clawing at him from wherever she'd run off to, reaching for him and stroking him in places he could not defend, ways he could not resist.
He wondered, thinking back, if that was what his mother had been trying to do through him, if she had seen those fires, only small embers at the time, and squelched them, seeing them for the pitfalls they were. He had been a release for her, an assurance of control, and she had been very careful with him – very sheltering.
At school, in public, he was on his own, vulnerable, even molested, at times, by those around him. Other children had laughed. His nose, his clothing, his thick glasses, all of them had marked him as different. They had laughed because they could not see beyond the surface. They had hurt him because, deep down, he believed they had seen the greatness within him, and they had yearned to possess it for themselves.
He had never been able to reach out to them, either. He had too much to hide. His mother had seen to that. How could he have explained her to a friend, a girl? Don't worry. Mom taught me all about sex . . . you'll really like it . . .
His solitude had continued through college, through endless exams and studies and photo sessions that always went just a little wrong. He'd done well enough, graduating in the top half of his class and gaining the credentials that had netted him the loan that secured his studio. It had never been enough, though. Christian had known, even then, that there was more inside him, that there was great talent in his fingers, in the subtle talent of his eyes to pick just the right image.
His mind was a wonderland of perfect images, stolen snapshots that never made it to film. He had the outlet of his masks, his "friends," but he knew they were only poor substitutes for his dreams. Teasing flashes of brilliance were his curse; now he had the opportunity to chase those flashes, drawing them into himself and making them a part of his reality. He must not fail.
Gates had, of course, been fascinated by the photos. Perfect or not, they were well beyond the man's scope of experience. Christian knew this was an arrogant attitude, but he also knew it was the truth. He'd detected the shift in the other man's bearing, the lessening of the haughty, bullying way he was treated. The reins of the situation had taken a subtle shift that was beyond anything he ever could have imagined in their relationship.
He'd also noted the beads of sweat that had popped up on the other man's brown brow when he handed over the latest set of prints. There had been something in Gates' eyes, something covetous and dark, that had made Christian's heart flutter. The man needed those photos. Marred and imperfect as they were, the first set had drawn Gates in and captured a part of the man. The second set would enslave him.
It all added to the exotic rush of the moment. It all helped to fuel the fires that were burning incessantly now in Christian's heart. He had closed his studio for the week, probably the month, and maybe forever. He worked solely from his back room now, and he scarcely ever left his apartment. It made him feel more professional, more like the artist he was. No more school photos, no more family portraits.
He'd had a phone installed at Gates' insistence, a way for the man to make orders, request prints. No other business was discussed on that line. Gates had also insisted on this, but it was there, just the same, a lifeline to his work, an anchor against the pressures that were building inside. Christian was also drinking a lot of scotch. It was a part of the subtle changes that were taking place in his mind, a "growing up" thing.
He knew he couldn't wait much longer before he would have to ask Gates to set up another shoot. He saw images now all around him. Nearly every female face he came in contact with faded to the mask he would create of it, given the chance; he had been caught staring on more than one occasion.
Gate's receptionist, for instance. Now there was a lovely woman. She wasn't young, like the others, but she had qualities about her that even an inept photographer could not have missed. They gleamed from her eyes, glittered on the pearly white surfaces of her teeth when she smiled. Her skin tone could not have been more perfectly matched to the light, auburn red of her hair. A sculptor could not have bonded her shoulders to such a delicate throat more carefully, nor proportioned her breasts more perfectly.
He had caught himself staring at her, and he had been caught staring at her. He didn't know who those men in Gates' office had been, nor did he really care, but they had made him instantly nervous, robbing him of his new-found confidence in an instant's eye-contact. They had also robbed him of the chance to study the woman further. He had been having a truly insightful vision, a creative flood.
Christian’s mind lingered for a moment more on the two men, worrying, and then pushed the worry aside. They were Gate's business, not his. Perhaps, he thought, they'd been there to view his work. Perhaps he'd gain his control in another way, more subtly. Anything was possible.
He found his mind returning again and again to the woman, Madeline? He envisioned her clothed, unlike the others, but somehow even more evocative. He caressed her image with his mind, re-built her makeup with agonizing care. He would have to talk to Gates. Yes, this was something he could not ignore. This was important.
He decided to take matters into his own hands, to grease the slides, so to speak. He went to the darkroom and worked quickly, gathering some of the best of the pictures he'd done over the years, purposely picking more wholesome shots, families, school portraits. He sealed them loosely in a clasp envelope, and headed back out, barely remembering to lock the door after himself. He wasn't used to acting on impulse, and it felt good – very good.
Gates was nowhere in sight when Christian returned to the office, and that suited Christian just fine. He walked boldly up to Madeline's desk, the envelope held tentatively in his hands. "Excuse me?" he said softly, watching her face light up as that magical smile slipped across it.
"Yes, may I help you?" she asked. Her voice was musical, calling out to him. It was another bit of perfection added to the pot, another plus. She was very nearly the perfect model without his vision, a rare and timeless beauty.
"I . . . I was supposed to leave these for Mr. Gates," he stuttered, holding the envelope out quickly. "I'm a photographer, of sorts. I'm hoping we'll be able to work together."
"Would you like me to let him know you're here?" she asked, taking the envelope from his hands.
"No, that's fine," he said. "No need to disturb him. I'm just passing through, and I wanted him to get these. Look through them yourself, if you like. I can always use another opinion."
He smiled, gave her a quick wave, and scurried back out the door, wondering at his own daring. If only she took the bait! Gates would no doubt thank him for taking the initiative, making things even easier. There were plenty of receptionists, but only one perfect model. Christian’s heart hammered as he thought of her sifting through the photos, thought of the way her features would light up when the one, special surprise beamed out at her. Somehow he knew that this was the one.
He returned home, a fresh bottle of scotch and an evening paper in his hand, feeling very proud of himself. Before he'd begun his great work, he'd read nothing at all, seen no need for it. Now he followed the morning paper religiously. Among the cluttered photos on his wall, beside the masks, all of which seemed so insignificant now, so callous and uninspired, were new clippings. Not all of them included photographs.
The ladies and gentlemen of the press were having a field day now that the news of the two killings and their relationship with one another had been revealed. They were calling him odd names, like the Kodak Zodiac, and the Flasher. It was invigorating the way he was playing them all for fools, sending them in inane circles. He had no idea what the names meant. The media was a blind spot for him in his seclusion, but it was all very exciting, nonetheless.
Gates had explained it to him at length, soothing his worries. That night, the flashing police lights, the endless drive home and the hell of the morning after, lying naked on his bed and clutching his legs to his stomach to fight away the cramps. He remembered it too well, could still taste the terror, the certainty of discovery. He'd gone to Gates as soon as he'd been able to force himself out of the house, taking the prints and his fears and laying both on the table.
Gates must have seen it in his eyes, because he'd immediately poured them both a scotch and had begun to talk, not waiting for any answers, just talking, telling Christian things. The man had made a lot of sense. It was also easy to see why he was such a success, because though Christian could remember almost nothing of what Gates had first said, it had soothed him. The man had a way of putting things, and eloquence with words, that was powerful and impressive.
"They are looking for a nut, Christian," he'd said. "We are providing them with that nut. They will go from door to door, from street-corner to street corner, hauling in all the same old people that they know aren't guilty, waiting for that nut to crack.
"They know they can't catch you in the act. There is no motive behind the actions of the killer they seek. The method is different in both cases, and I'd bet that's driving them crazy as well. They are running in circles, pissed off and pissing up a rope, and you, my friend, are the god damned furthest thing from the truth as they see it that you could be.
"I mean, look at you. You are quiet, pay your taxes, take pictures of sweet little school girls and only drink at home. You have no enemies, few if any friends. You don't exist to them, and your art would not be art to them, either. They lack the vision to see you, therefore they can't catch you."
It had been a very calming speech, very informative. Christian liked the idea of being a shadowy figure, a man beyond the law's sight and insight. He also liked the idea of controlling their actions, sending them scurrying in the wrong direction with their cranks in their hands, ready to shoot. He liked the idea of being the one who held the puppet strings, and he intended to watch them dance at every opportunity.
The fear he'd felt had slowly leaked from him over the past few days, and his confidence, again, was soaring. He'd had three sets of orders for prints of the first shoot, two large orders for the second, and he'd gotten his first cut of the money it was all bringing in, his first idea of how important his work really was, to Gates, and to himself.
The money meant little to him, though even his sensitized mind was shocked at the amount of it. He had already made a comfortable enough living, and he had few expensive habits, though the scotch was fast becoming one. It was the prestige, the thought that people would part with such amounts of their hard earned cash to share in a bit of his talent, to own a piece of his creativity, that made his heart race. It was like the sensation the women brought, only less intense, more comfortable. It was a control over a group, not a one on one confrontation.
It was an intimate feeling. Christian could almost feel their eyes tracing the lines of the photos, could feel that the images he'd brought forth drew more attention, and touched more nerves, than the beauty of the models had during their lives. It was his genius that drew them, his vision. He knew that most people would attribute such feelings to the models, but the models were beyond them now. The only "model" left was the image in Christian's own mind, even the flesh left behind could never equal it again.
He could lay back and imagine them, his new army of followers, his "flock," coming to him, caressing him, running their eyes and their hands wonderingly over his skin. They would want to touch him, want to bask in his brilliance. They would want to earn his favor.
The image of Gate's receptionist popped back into his head, forcing his mind back to that gaze, to that moment in time. To hell with Gates' rules. Christian picked up the phone and dialed the agency. He would get to work on setting up his next shoot now, while the vision was wild in his head, while the possibilities played themselves out in his mind.
The phone rang once, twice, and then clicked oddly. A whirring noise assaulted his ears, and then a voice, the woman's voice, caressed his ears seductively. It was an answering machine. He listened to the mechanical, artificial tones of the voice, dwelling on how sensuous the detached anonymity of the machine made her sound, comparing it to what he could do with his camera. It was a similar thing. It was her, but not her, her voice, and yet again, not. Stolen and changed, stripped from her.
He barely heard the words, and when the beep sounded at the end of the message, he let the receiver drop to its cradle without speaking. Not there. That was odd, but not impossible. Gates was a busy man. Christian reached for his bottle of scotch and one of the larger prints of Cherie. He lay back with a sigh.
Christian sipped the scotch, then placed it on the nightstand and grabbed himself with his other hand, stroking, remembering the silken feel of her flesh. He could still feel her lips on his own, brushing lightly across his skin, could feel the unbelievable heat she'd drawn forth, stolen. The bitch. That was it. He should have waited, should have killed her first.
It was a revelation, a blast of brilliance. He could have them, could have them without sacrifice. He could control them to photograph them, and he could control them for his own pleasure. They were his, once they were gone, once the spark in their eyes was replaced by the spark of his genius, he could do with them what he willed. Let the bitches try and steal from him then.
He imagined the hot, damp curves of Cherie's body, now cool and porcelain smooth, yielding but compliant. He imagined moving between those legs, running his tongue possessively over her, tasting the object that was his, not the woman that had belonged only to herself. He imagined sliding up her torso, positioning her head just right and sliding himself between those lips – watching the perfectly made-up face, the serene beauty he'd created, moving to his own rhythm, drawing forth his own pleasure, at his own pace.
As his pulse raced and his seed splashed out, coating the print in his hand and dribbling over his legs in a warm, sticky flood, he closed his eyes, arched his back, and cried out softly. So much better, and so much more perfect. Another level. He felt his mother's eyes on him, but they were not accusing, not lusting. They watched in approval, and Christian passed into a silent void, calling out to her, reaching for her hand, trying to drag her image into the world he now controlled. The darkness found him first.
The photo slid from his grasp and lay, smeared and glistening with pearlescent droplets on the sheet beside him. Vacant and emotionless, Cherie stared out through the filmy veil. The droplets shone like tears.