TWELVE

Christian's shopping trip took longer than he'd anticipated.  He got caught up in the spell of it, the "difference" of it, and in the end he barely made it home in time to dress and to make his appointment at Sid's. 

As he rushed along, he cursed himself for a fool for chancing a missed opportunity, but at the same time he was thrilling to the changes he’d begun.  He'd worn some of the clothes home from the men's store, not wanting to put back on his jeans and disturb the image he'd seen in that store's mirror.  Part of that image, he knew, was due to the deft descriptions and salesmanship of the clerk who'd sold it to him, but it was an image, no less, for all that.  A good image.

He wore a grey, double-breasted suit coat with a soft pink shirt beneath it and a grey and salmon striped tie.  The tie was held in place by a single gold ornament, a tie clasp in the shape of a camera.  It had been an extra he couldn't resist.  He’d seen it in the center of a display of literally hundreds of other clips, some silver, others with stones, plain and gaudy; his eyes had latched onto this one immediately.

"I'm a photographer," he'd explained to the smiling clerk as he pulled it free of the case, "an artist."

Every inch of his appearance had changed, and he felt it wash through him, effecting his movements and his thoughts.  He was still the same man inside the clothing, and yet at the same time he was not.  It was like his photos.  This Christian was an adaptation of the old, an improvement. 

He felt more confident.  When he passed a group of people, they looked and they noticed him.  Not only did they notice, but more than once someone had spoken to him, or waved.  There were no sneers, no names.  Christian walked as if on a cloud.  The fact that the changes in his appearance were responsible did not change things.  It didn't matter that they didn't know or respect him; they would know him soon enough.

He had other things, magazines, a book or two, cigars; he'd been in several different shops, picking up whatever touched his fancy.  There were a great number of things he'd wanted to have over the years, things he'd wondered about, but had never bothered to really consider in any serious way. 

Now, somehow, it seemed that he needed to be worldlier; needed to grow into the new image that was presenting itself to him.  It occurred to him that as long as he continued to dress and act like the loser his mother had dubbed him, the longer that image was likely to impose itself onto his reality.  It was a blow struck for independence and control.

The most conspicuous moment of the afternoon had been when he'd crawled back behind the wheel of the old Dart.  In all the years he'd owned that car, he'd never once considered trading it in, or buying another one.  It got him to work and back, and that was its function.  There had never seemed any need to have something without it being a necessity.

Now he wanted something that would make people look the way his new clothes did, something that would not be laughed at.  He was very tired of being laughed at.  He thought it might be nice, for once, to flash by a car filled with young people and have them whistle in appreciation at his own vehicle, and at the image of the man behind the wheel, rather than jeering and laughing.

Christian dropped his things off at the house and rushed back out, looking both ways to be sure nobody noticed him getting into the old Dodge as he left.  He felt silly worrying about it, but couldn't help himself.  There was no time to do anything about the car that night. 

It was 6:45, and he pushed the accelerator a bit harder than he normally would have, thrilling to the thought that he might get a ticket, that they might walk right up to the window of his car and not realize that they were taking the driver's license of the "Kodak Zodiac." 

The evening's shadows were just beginning to slink from the cracks and to fill in the spaces the sun was vacating.

Christian parked in a deserted lot across the alley behind Sid's.  It was dark, not a good place to be alone at night, but it was early still, and it would be the next morning before he came back for the car.  He didn't want to leave it in the bar's own lot.  He didn't want to be associated with it.  He'd be leaving in a much more impressive fashion, and the image was important.  So was the anonymity.

When he'd made certain that the coast was clear, he slipped out and retrieved his camera bag and the satchel with his makeup kit out of the trunk.  Then he locked the car and crossed the alley.  Christian couldn't help wondering if he should have changed the bag as well, maybe gotten a newer case for the rest of the equipment.  Nothing to do about it now.

The lights were just coming on on Broadway, the night-life swarming out to engulf the streets and the regular citizens closing in on themselves like shell-fish, or mice, burrowing in to wait out the storm.  Christian took a deep breath, stepped onto the sidewalk and looked about, seeing things through new eyes and with new perspective. 

It didn't feel as threatening as it usually had in the past.  He was a part of it now, he knew.  The city didn't know it yet, but he and they had become one.  He was home. 

He almost strutted as he walked toward the door to Sid's, watching to see what kind of reaction his "new look" might bring, and being disappointed by the result.  A lot of important people of one sort or another frequented Sid's.  Here he was nothing special again, though he noticed that the girl inside the door, the pretty one with the bright smile that had always ignored him in the past, came right forward to take his jacket. He almost wished he'd bought a hat.

"I'm expecting a car to be waiting,” he said, trying to make his voice sound forceful, authoritative.  He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded, but the girl nodded, reaching for a clipboard behind her desk.  At least she was taking him seriously.  That was something.

"Your name?" she asked, smiling at him.

"Chri . . . Art," he corrected, "Artemis McLean."

"Okay, Mr. McLean, I have your name here.  Your driver tonight is Ralph, and he'll be on call from this station at all times.  If you need him for anything, just send one of the waitresses back here, and we'll let him know.  Enjoy your evening."

He thanked her and stepped into the club, his mind sinking back into the reality of the moment.  There weren't many people there yet, but it was important that he avoid as many as possible, all the same.  It was, as Gates had mentioned, no game they were playing.  If he did something stupid, he'd end up taking pictures of the inside of a prison cell for the rest of his life.

Christian bypassed the bar and the empty dance floor and walked straight to the booths in back.  He picked the same booth that he and Gates had sat in a few nights back, for luck, he told himself.  He didn't have to wait long before the same young girl who'd waited on him that night strutted over to the table.  Christian watched her eyes, but there wasn't even a flicker of recognition in them.  The clothes, the way he'd combed his hair straight back instead of to the side, it was so much of a change that she didn't even know who he was.  That was good, he supposed.  If she couldn't place him in the bar, then she wasn't a danger.

"Can I help you, sir?"  Her eyes asked more questions than 'do you want a drink,' and Christian's heart took a quick flutter.  Another first, a girl who thought his favor was worth cultivating.

"Scotch," he said softly.  "Just a glass of your best scotch, please."

"Would Glenlivet do, sir?" She asked, pausing with the pen above the pad, waiting for his approval.

He smiled and nodded, and she returned the smile, twisting quickly so that her hair bounced up in the air behind her and spun away.  He watched her go, realizing that she was exaggerating the already provocative swing of her hips that she was glancing over her shoulder at him every few steps, sizing him up and wondering if he were worth a lot in tips, or even more.

If clothes and hair could make this much difference, how much more would a nice car, a bigger apartment, and a larger bankroll mean?  All things to consider, to mull over and give plenty of thought to.

He saw the girl pick up his drink from a tall, dark-haired woman behind the bar.  The woman was strikingly attractive, and she exuded an aura, a presence, that he sensed, even from clear across the room. 

Christian gazed at her, and suddenly her eyes met his, capturing them.  They locked like that for a long moment, and then she turned away, moving gracefully down the bar.  The contact had been strong, electric. 

"Your scotch, sir?" Christian glanced up sheepishly at the waitress who'd returned while he was busy staring.  He reached for his wallet, but she stopped him.

"I'm afraid you caught me wool-gathering," he babbled. 

She just smiled at him and waved his money away."I'll just keep track, you can pay on your way out, if you like, sir."

He shook his head, fishing the bills out quickly.  "I may be in a hurry later," he explained, giving her enough for the drink and a good bit more, waving it all away with a quick smile.  "I'm meeting someone here.  Work.”

He liked the way the tip made her eyes light up.  This was a lesson, he reflected, that his mother had actually taught him, but he'd not paid enough attention.  She'd always been particularly easy to get along with after one of her "boyfriends" gave her a present.  It was also a lesson that Gates might have taught him, if they were on better terms.

That was going to have to be addressed soon, he knew.  One way or the other, his work would go on.  If he had to go on without Gates, he'd have to find a way to get rid of the man altogether.  Gates been very helpful, invaluable, even, but Christian was learning every day, and things were not as they had been.  He didn't need that much help anymore.  If Gates didn't come around, Christian would have to replace him.

It was invigorating to think in these terms.  All his life things had stood in his way and threatened his happiness.  He'd avoided them, run from them, and withstood the humiliation of them.  Now he knew there was another choice.  He could remove them.  No way could he let Gates know as much as he did, exert so much control, if the man was not involved himself.

Christian noticed a small commotion, and he turned his head, following the eyes all the others in the room.  When he turned toward the dance floor, looking beyond it to the edge of the bar, he saw that a tall, striking blonde had walked in and was talking to the dark haired woman, who pointed almost immediately in his direction.

Damn Gates, anyway, he thought, even as his mind was re-sculpting the woman's perfect lines, molding the smile that floated across the room toward him atop five-inch heels and endless legs.  She was supposed to know what seat he'd be in.  It was supposed to be discreet.

It was that moment that it hit home that he had been pretty indiscreet himself.  He'd flirted with the waitress, stared at the bartender, and now the most beautiful woman likely to walk through the club's doors that night was headed for his table.  Great. 

For one quick, crazy instant he contemplated calling it off.  He knew it would be foolish to be seen with her, and then kill her.  He knew he was taking a chance that Gates would shoot him for it personally if he knew, although the man had helped set the whole thing up, and yet he couldn't help himself.  The closer she came, the lovelier she became.  If this were his last day on earth, Christian would have this vision, this image, captured.  It would not join the myriad others, languishing in the museum-like halls of his mind.

Christian rose on shaky legs, fighting with every bit of his will not to just gape at her, and extended one hand to take hers as she arrived. 

"Veronica?" he asked, somehow keeping the tremble out of his voice for the length of the single word.

"You must be Mr. McLean," she said, and the spell of her entrance was shattered.  Her voice, high and nasal, wholly out of character with the subliminal quality of her beauty, gave Christian the foothold he needed to regain his balance, his own voice.

"I am.  Please, have a seat.  Would you like a drink?"

"I'll have some wine, if you don't mind," she said, seating herself gracefully.  The contrast between her voice and her face was jarring and unnerving.  Why hadn't Gates warned him?  He knew the answer to that, or guessed it.  It was a sort of payback, a quick dig in the side to say, "You don't know everything yet, pal."

She looked excited, as though she could barely contain herself, and she started talking almost immediately.  "Mr. Gates," she said, "he says you're a photographer, like for magazines?  He says this could be my big break.  He's a smart man; he helped me get into modeling in the first place.  I mean, I always knew I had the looks, but . . .”

She went on, barely pausing while Christian ordered her wine from a very amused waitress, and Christian slowly phased her out.  His mind was working, removing her tight fitting gown and sliding over her flesh, prodding and twisting.  He nodded occasionally to show his interest, but he did not let on what that interest actually was. 

It was like reaching into the freezer and deciding what you wanted to thaw out, or into a book of designs where you had to choose which variation suited you best.  He could picture any number of makeup combinations, ones that would set off her eyes, others that would play to her hair and emphasize her breasts, letting the eyes fade to a background, smoky aloofness.

"Are you even listening to me?" she asked, smiling almost playfully.  "I mean, you were staring, and I feel like I've been babbling for a long time.  I do that, sometimes, you know?  I just talk and talk, go on and on..."

"To be truthful," Christian answered, still not really paying attention, "I was watching the muscles of your throat as you spoke.  You have a very delicate throat, Veronica; it sets off your hair perfectly.  I'm sorry if I seemed inattentive . . . I was entranced."

She beamed at him, preening slightly, and he knew he'd found yet another weakness – her vanity.  He didn't know where those words he'd spoken had come from, probably from his mother and her endless romance novels.

"I work with light," he said, feeling a sudden urge to let her in on some of the secret, just enough that he'd have someone to share with.  "I work with light and color.  Your hair, for instance, catches light very well.  It reflects a lot and the light that I use to photograph you will have to take that into account. 

"Your skin is a very pretty shade of gold," he went on.  "And the symmetry of the tan is perfect.  It will blend well with the hair if set off by the proper makeup combinations, the proper use of shadows and background."

"You are an artist," she breathed, clearly impressed.  "I mean, Mr. Gates, he told me you wouldn't be like the other photographers I've worked with, that you were special, but, I don't know, I guess I just didn't get it, you know?  I thought a camera was a camera, and all that really mattered was, like, who the man behind it knew."

"Oh, I think I know the right people, as well," Christian smiled, downing the last of his scotch and feeling the comforting fire burn through his throat, "I really think I do.  Shall we go?  We have work to do, and I am anxious to get to it."

She nodded quickly, gulped her wine and rose in one motion, another reminder that the grace and beauty were a veneer, a very thin coating that shielded her inner self from the world.  Without someone like Gates to do her business for her, Christian realized, even the beauty might not have been enough.  She might have ended up on the street, or as a high-priced call girl, but not as a model.  It was so convenient, so perfectly suited to his unique talents and needs.  Personality, it had seemed so far, was more a hindrance than help in his models.

They moved through the bar quickly, Christian using every obstacle between them and the door to shield them from probing eyes, knowing at the same time how useless it was.  The other men in the bar had not heard her speak.  They were watching her tight legs ripple beneath her dress, watching her arm casually lower itself into his, watching her ass as it swayed back and forth invitingly. 

They were watching him, as well.  The good-looking men were wondering what he had that they lacked, wondering what it would be like to have money.  The ugly rich men were leering and wishing they'd found her first.  All of them watched, though, and the weight of their eyes was immense.

It was tempting to play up the moment, but his senses screamed for him to get out and to do it quickly.  He reached the coat-check girl and she was waiting with his jacket.  Someone must have signaled her when he rose from his seat.

A swarthy, dark-eyed man in a chauffeur's uniform stood just inside the door, staring at him with emotionless eyes.  Ralph, he knew instantly, and he nodded to the man as he held the door open for Veronica.

Ralph was out the door on their heels and somehow materialized at the curb, opening the door of a long, silver limousine and holding it for them, still no expression on his face.  The man made Christian nervous, but he ignored this.  He might look like a hit man, but Gates knew what he was doing.  Whoever the man was, Gates trusted him with his own future – that was good enough for Christian.

He slid in behind Veronica, watching her carefully as she leaned down to relax into the leather seat.  Her eyes were wide, and it was obvious that she was falling for the entire act, not missing a beat.  She was convinced, and the evening was likely to progress rapidly.  That was good.

"Wow," she was saying as he seated himself beside her, appreciating the comfort himself but not letting his emotions show.  There would be plenty of time to get used to a better life if he managed to keep his concentration stable.

"This is something.  I never even got a cab ride to a shoot before, you know?  I mean, I did that poster for that beer, what is it, Surf?  It's just a local brewery, but they sell it all over. 

"Anyway, I had to get my own ride, they pushed me around, and all I got was a lousy five hundred dollars for the whole thing."

She turned toward him expectantly, and he picked up on her cue.  "Well," he said with a smile, "no fear of that kind of treatment here, my dear.  Only the best for the best.  I'll take such pictures of you that the world won't be ready for the beauty, and the evening is on me.  It's the way I work, the only way to work." 

Looking carefully about the limousine, seeing the solid, unchanging posture of the driver through the smoky window, watching the people on the sidewalks turn to stare after him, he could believe his own words.  It was the way he intended to work from then on.  First class.

The ride was too short for Christian, and he could tell that Veronica felt the same.  Even her steady stream of banter was subdued.  They pulled down into the parking garage of a very ritzy hotel, and Ralph looped through the tunnels until they halted at the entrance to the elevators.

Some signal must have passed from the driver to the bellhops, but Christian missed it.  They were at the side of the car, grabbing his two small bags from him and ushering both Christian and his "escort" toward the elevators solicitously.  The treatment was strange - like the scotch, a new taste to be acquired.

The elevator was lushly carpeted and cool, but not chilly.  Perfect.  There was an art-deco pattern on the walls and a uniformed attendant to run the thing, like something out of the movies.  The man must have been well paid, because he managed to get them from the garage to their floor without a single glance at Veronica's breasts, which were only inches away from his shoulder.  Gates had really gone all out.  It was pure class.

They arrived on their floor, not a single room, or a suite, but an entire floor, and entered the foyer.  He used the key he’d been given to unlock the door that separated the elevators and service stairs from their rooms inside. 

Christian walked in as if he knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, taking in the room and familiarizing himself with it as he went.  It was an image, one he memorized quickly and efficiently. 

He laid his jacket across the back of the low slung leather couch in the room's center and turned back to offer a ten-dollar bill to the boy who dropped his bags just inside the door.  He didn't know if the tip were too big or too small, but neither, apparently, did Veronica, so it didn't matter.  He had a lot to learn.

She had removed her wrap, a soft, knit sweater that clung to her shoulders and hips, and laid it beside his, turning back to him with a girlish grin.  Her gown, he now saw, was very, very low cut, showing off more flesh than some bathing suits he'd seen.  With her mouth shut and silent, she was stunning, and he caught his breath.

She seemed not to notice his stare, or not to care. Probably the stares of men were so common to her that she took them for granted.  She moved slowly about the room, touching things and pushing buttons and watching the lights, moving to the stereo and selecting a CD, which she promptly spun back and questioned him about with her eyes. 

He nodded to her, not caring what she did as long as it occupied her while he watched and regained his composure.  He couldn't let her get to him.  He had to get the wine open, and he had to get some scotch for his own nerves.  If he let her infect him too soon, if she were still controlling his eyes and his crotch when her flesh overcame his will power, it would be another failure.  Memorable, but a failure still.

Christian moved to the little kitchenette and pulled open the refrigerator.  On the first shelf, just as Gates had promised, was a bottle of wine, already open and chilled.  He pulled it free, grabbed a glass from above the bar that separated kitchen and living room, and poured for her. 

Before she could suggest that he have some too, he poured a shot from the bottle of scotch on the counter, another nice surprise.  He wondered if Gates himself used this place, at times.  He couldn't imagine the man buying him drinks after the day’s exchange, not unless they were poisoned, and something had to account for the Scotch.

The thought stopped him for a moment, and he stared long and hard at the bottle, but then he shrugged.  Gates was not that stupid.  He wanted the money, and he wanted the pictures.  He wouldn't stoop to something so extravagant if he wanted Christian out of the picture. 

Besides, if he'd wanted to get to Christian, all he'd have had to do was to send the limo to Christian's apartment first, pick him up and take him off to be shot.  No, Gates wanted the photos.  His mind must have been working over Veronica's form as well and making its own improvements.

He rounded the bar and handed Veronica her glass, raising his own in a quick toast.  "To beauty," he said, "and to its capture."

She, of course, took this incorrectly, but that was fine.  Gates had said that the drugs in the wine would work quickly, all he had to do was keep his hands off her, and hers off him, for a couple of drinks and it would be over.  She would be his. It had seemed simple at the time, but now the task appeared formidable indeed.

She seemed to have read his mind.  Either she was a heavy drinker, or the evening's elegance was just beginning to get to her, but she downed the glass in two quick gulps, after which he reached for the bottle and poured her a second, smiling.

"We should get to work, soon, shouldn't we?" she asked.  There was just the hint of suspicion in her eyes, but it was fading fast, fading to a dull, empty shade of blue.  It was very likely that no photographer had ever worked with her that had not come on to her first.  Perhaps she was expecting that, too.  She didn't seem opposed to it. 

Christian poured her a third glass and set the bottle on the sink.  He moved toward the door to the next room.  She watched him through dull eyes, fascinated by everything.

He took his satchel and camera bag with him, pulled out tripods and cameras, loaded the latter with film slowly and carefully, taking his time.  He heard her pour a fourth glass, and then heard her uneven steps follow him into the room.  She swayed against the doorway, keeping herself upright by a combination of wall-support and dumb luck, and watched him as he worked.

"I . . . I don't feel so great," she said at last.  The glass tipped and spilled its contents onto the deep shag of the carpet.  Then she dropped the goblet, as well.  It made no sound when it hit.

Christian moved quickly to her side, supported her by one shoulder and led her to the bed.  It was huge, round, and covered by red-satin sheets, already pulled down.  A dream bed, the kind you always saw women in movie posters lying across.

"Go ahead and lie down here for a minute," he said, pushing her back so her head was resting on one of the huge pillows, framed by the golden mass of her hair.  She looked like a drunken angel, and he felt a lurch in his loins that was a sure sign of danger and imminent failure.  He backed off a bit, still staring at her.

She didn't move.  Her eyes grew leaden, and he saw the last of her consciousness deserting her.  She twisted her head once, let it fall over to one side, and she was out.  Only the soft rise and fall of her breasts showed that she still lived, and he watched them in fascination, captivated by their perfect curves, the nipples that poked through the sheer material of her gown, which was falling off one shoulder and showing more than a little flesh.

Christian turned away quickly, knowing that his resolve was fading fast.  He went to his satchel and retrieved the syringe. Gates had offered to provide one, but he'd wanted to use the one from the first two deaths, for luck. 

It was yellowed, still bearing the signs of the Cocaine and the developing fluid.  For an instant he felt guilty, as though he should have at least washed it off, but he pushed the thought aside.  She was not going to complain, not now, not ever.

He went into the small bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.  Inside was a single, small, unmarked bottle.  The poison, just as he'd been promised. 

He took it out and returned to the other room.  He inserted the syringe in the top and drew out a large quantity of the fluid.  Gates had said a little would do it, but he wanted to be sure.  He wouldn't need it after this.  There was always something else.  His specialized talent, it seemed, was finding the varieties in death.

Christian sat on the bed at Cherie’s side, lifted her eyelid once to peer beneath it and finding no one at home.  She was gone.  As surely as if she were already dead, she had departed her body and left it in his care.  He swept his gaze down the length of her, lingered on her thighs, the delicate curves of her calves, and then swept back up over her breasts. 

He reached out and pulled the gown the rest of the way off of her shoulder, letting her left breast fall free.  Her nipple was large and round, darker than he'd thought it would be.  Instantly his mind started to work again, changing images, playing off the color of her skin.  His head swam with her nearness, and he turned away and took a deep breath.  It would have to be now.

He turned back, grabbing her arm quickly, and plunged the needle home.  He depressed the plunger, watching the liquid bubbling out and into her skin, watching the small lump that formed there.  When it was empty, he pulled the needle free. 

Something had already changed, he realized.  Her breathing had stopped, and with it the brittle, annoying qualities that had been the focal points of her personality had disappeared.  The traces of her that lingered, even in unconscious stupor, had evaporated.  All that was left was cold, haughty beauty.  Dark beauty.  Unattainable beauty. 

Christian took the syringe to his satchel and placed it in the small baggie, then returned the bottle to where he'd found it in the bathroom.  Time was on his side.  There would be no lengthy distractions.  He was in control.  It had all been so easy, so simple.

He returned to the bed and sat down again, this time reaching immediately for the other shoulder strap of her gown and pulling it down.  Both of her breasts were freed, perfect twins, and he slid the silky material lower, revealing a flat belly and dark, dark pubic hair.  She wore nothing beneath the gown.

Slipping from his pants, Christian let his erection free from the painful restrictions and grabbed it in one hand, still staring at Veronica's long, lithe body.  He moved closer and ran fingers over her thighs, moving them between her legs. 

Seating himself on the bed, he leaned in and slid his mouth over her skin, reveling in the ability to caress her at will, to use her as he wanted, not as she wanted, the absence of any restrictions.  He took one of her breasts in his mouth and sucked softly on the nipple.  It did not grow hard, but he continued to roll it across his tongue.  He gripped it in his teeth and pulled on it. It tasted of salt and the bitterness of perfume.  He savored it, drinking it in.

He pressed himself against her and felt the cool silk of her skin.  He shivered, and his erection throbbed.  Rocking gently, he brushed himself against her, up and back, his breath growing hot and dry. He wanted to know every contour, to be certain he understood the angles of her, the surfaces, and the curves. 

He slid between her legs and forced them wider, bending them at the knees, then rolled forward and slid into her. She must have been ready for this, even before, because he entered her easily.  He watched her face, watched the dead eyes, staring at nothing, watched the complete submission of her flesh to his pounding and lost himself in her image.

He shot off into her, trembling, drained away and all thought went blank.  He saw red, then nothing, and then the room shimmered back into focus. 

Christian pulled back and stared down at her, almost expecting her to move.  His pants were in a heap at his feet, and he picked them up, pulling them back on and reaching for his shirt.

The smooth, starched feel of the shirt was jarring against the sensual backdrop of the moment's experience.  He felt uplifted, as though he'd reached a plateau of pleasure that had once been only a dream.  He buttoned his shirt carefully, turned to the mirror and fixed his hair. 

When he was convinced that everything was right, that he looked as good as possible, under the circumstances, he went to his camera bag and continued his setup, moving as if in a daze.

His concentration was incredible.  He found that the makeup flowed onto her features, that the decisions he'd faced less than an hour earlier of shading and hue were gone and all but forgotten.  He knew instinctively which was the perfect mix, which would bring out the masterpiece beneath her skin.

It was the lack of distraction.  He had all his concentration to spare for the moment's task.  She wasn't asking for his attention, wasn't moving annoyingly or giggling inanely.  She wasn't at all, in fact, would not be until his work was finished.

He wove a yellow, silken scarf about her, twining it like a serpent, and let it fall between her breasts.  He used golden mascara, as well.  She was a golden woman now, like an ornament.  His ornament. 

He pulled her hair back, braided it behind her ears so that none of the perfection of the lines of her face would be lost or wasted.  She could have been bald and heightened the effect; such was the beauty he saw, the image his mind had created.

For a long instant he considered shaving her head and acting on the impulse, but in the end he cast it aside.  He could work with the hair and it would be perfect.  He began the shooting from very close-up.  No flesh in these shots, just her face.  He arranged and rearranged her, her eyes, her tongue, and the angle of her pout.  Everything was his to change, modify and improve.

Then he moved back, shooting from the side, from directly at her feet, not missing an inch of her, molding every combination of limbs that his imagination could yield up.  He felt detached and clinical.  The act of spilling his seed into her had emptied his mind, as if she'd taken his spirit into her and he was working with himself, shaping on the outside and complying from within.

It was a partnership with his mind, a blending of images, the mental and the physical.  He felt uplifted and transcendent. The room didn't exist.  The police didn't exist.  Even Gates was a faded, tarnished image.  The instant was everything.

Christian shot every available inch of film in the camera, and still he stared at her, still his mind whirled with possibilities.  He knew it was getting late, knew that he should be gone, but the final pose he'd put her in, leaning forward with her legs crossed and her arms propping her head to stare at him – soft gold makeup surreal and hazy in the dimmer light he'd arranged, was too much for him.  He wanted her again.

Veronica had been beautiful.  In death, she had become sublime.  Neither of those Veronicas could hold a candle to the cold, arrogant flame of this beauty he had created from the ashes, this phoenix goddess.

This time her lips were enough, and he did not hold out for long.  He moved slowly, then more quickly, working himself to a frenzy, seeing the lipstick staining his skin, feeling the soft length of her hair where he gripped it, holding her in her pose, not wanting to disturb any more of the image than was necessary.

When he was done, he left her, semen dripping down her silent, still features unnoticed and unimportant to her wherever her soul had gone.  He zipped his pants, grabbed his bags and his jacket, and slipped quietly from the room.  It was nearly morning.  The sun was rising outside, and he needed to get away fast.

He found the back way open, just as Gates had promised him, the servant’s entrance, and he slipped out onto the street, his tie loose and his suit-coat draped leisurely over his arm.  He felt free and powerful.  He heard the sirens in the background again, but he knew they were not for him.  Not now, not ever.  They did not send him into fits of fear.  He actually smiled.

He found the Dart right where he'd left it and tossed his bags and jacket inside quickly. The desire to see the photos, to finish the creation, was becoming intense, overpowering.  His mind was focusing again, and he had a hard time concentrating on the road.  Even the thought of people seeing him in the dilapidated old Dodge didn't change things.

On the corner of Broadway and fifteenth, he nearly plowed into the side of a city bus, drawing a round of curses and a finger from the irate driver.  It shocked him, but only for a second.  Christian slipped around the bus and down the street, making it as quickly and safely to his apartment as possible. 

He tossed the jacket on a chair and took his camera bag to the darkroom, removing the film as he went.  His armpits were coated in sweat, and his hair was matted to his forehead, his breathing was growing shallow.  This was the moment.  The creation would be final in a few short seconds.  He would hold his future in his hands, his bid for immortality.

As he reached for the door to the darkroom, though, the phone rang, clamoring for attention and jangling through his nerves.  He dropped the bag, startled, and turned all the way around to stare at it.  It rang again, and again, and still he stared.  Nobody but Gates had ever called him, and certainly not at such an inappropriate time.

He turned to the dark room, looking into the doorway longingly, then sighed and rushed to the phone.  He lifted it quickly.  Nobody had his number, it had to be important.

"Hello?" the voice was feminine, uncertain, but familiar.

"Hello," he breathed, trying to control his screaming emotions.  "Who is this?"

"Mr. Greve?  Oh, I'm so glad I caught you.  This is Madeline, you know, from Mr. Gates' office?  I was wondering if we might get together and . . . talk.  I want to get a surprise together for Hi, some photos.  I was wondering . . ."

His head was swimming now.  He held the phone away from his mouth and breathed deeply several times, closing his eyes hard and pushing the images that flooded in away.  Madeline – Veronica – Madeline . . .

"I . . . I can't right now," he said finally, finding his breath.  "Let me call you . . . after lunch?"

She hesitated, then he felt the tension slip away from her voice, and she said, "That would be fine.  I'll be at this number, though, not at the office.  I don't want Hi to find out about this."

Believe me, Christian told her silently, concentrating on writing down the number she gave him, he won't hear it from me. When he had it, he gasped a quick farewell and turned back to the dark room, almost running. 

Christian closed the door and the red light flickered around him, closing him in.  In the semi-darkness, he worked, feverishly, and the day wore on about him.  It was a day for fate.  Somehow, he could feel it.  It was his day, and once he was done with the prints, he'd top it off right. 

As the last art and testament of Veronica appeared before his watchful eyes, images of Madeline were already insinuating themselves, already rearranging and flitting about seductively. Already his.