Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

MZALA KNOWS ALL

MZala. Was this a source that Susan had found but had never bothered to follow up on?

If so, what did he or she know?

Something about Chavi?

Red Cap?

Feeling energized, Anna got to her feet and started pulling on her clothes.

She needed to find a computer.

It took an eternity for the motel manager to come out of his office, which wasn’t a surprise at four-thirty in the morning.

Anna stood at the front desk, ringing the bell, when the door behind it finally blew open and a kid who looked as if he were still in high school stepped out, bleary-eyed. His T-shirt read: P2P RULES.

“ What?” he barked.

She showed him her creds. “I need your help.”

He squinted at her ID, then looked up at her with surprise. “You gotta be kidding me. You’re a fed?”

“That’s the rumor,” Anna said.

“Holy shit.”

Anna moved around the counter. “I don’t see a computer out here. Do you have one inside?”

“Huh?”

“A computer,” she said. “You know that little box with a keyboard and a screen?”

“Yeah, we got one, but what’s this about? We ain’t doing nothing illegal.”

“I need to use it for a while.”

“Why? You working for the RIAA or something? Think I’m downloading music?”

“I don’t care if you’re downloading Warner Brothers’ entire catalog. Just let me in.”

He eyed her defiantly. “You got a warrant?”

Anna had reached the end of her patience. “ Move,” she said, shoving him aside. She stepped through the office doorway into a cramped, untidy room with a desk, a chair, and an old, beige desktop computer that was about the size of a small car.

Christ.

A fucking dinosaur.

The kid crowded in behind her. “You got no right,” he said. “You need a warrant before you can-”

“Call your congressman,” Anna told him, then took a seat behind the computer. “Does this thing have an Internet connection?”

“Yeah, but it’s dial-up.”

“Wonderful.”

When she touched the mouse, the screen saver disappeared and the monitor came to life, showing a Web page with two drunken college girls exposing their breasts to the camera.

“Nice,” Anna said.

The kid eyed her sheepishly. “That’s the day man’s computer, not mine.”

She gestured. “Do me a favor and close the door on your way out.”

“Huh?”

“Get out,” Anna said.

The kid just stood there, staring at her until his brain finally caught up to the command. Then he turned on his heels and left, closing the door behind him.

She went to Sentinel first, the bureau’s Web interface for its automatic case-support system. But when she tried to log in to her personal work box, she discovered she’d been locked out.

Royer.

He’d probably spent the day convincing the brass that she was mentally unstable and couldn’t be trusted. The lockout would be temporary, pending an INSD investigation, but that didn’t help Anna much right now.

Next she went to the Powell University Historical Archives Web site and found their search page. Checking the caption on the back of the photograph, she typed in the name Jonathan O’Keefe.

The search engine began churning the information, then transferred her to O’Keefe’s bio page, which loaded so slowly that Anna could have taken a couple of bathroom breaks before the page filled the screen.

She hadn’t used dial-up in years and remembered why she hated it. She started reading before the page had fully loaded.

Jonathan O’Keefe was an adventurer and photography pioneer, a young genius, fluent in several languages, who had started traveling the world when he was only sixteen, camera in tow. His collection of photographs was voluminous, much of which was believed to have been lost.

Until recently, Powell had only owned a small sampling of the photographer’s work. But thanks to persistence and a bit of luck, his entire library had been found in the possession of a private collector, whose family generously donated the work to Powell in 2007. The Web site now contained several of O’Keefe’s collections, recently brought online by the Powell Preservation Project.

O’Keefe had died at a fairly young age, twenty-six, in 1882. He’d fallen victim, some claimed, to…

— Anna felt another small kick to the stomach as she read this… a gypsy curse.

Place of death was Osijek, Slavonia.

Slavonia, Anna thought. Home of the now-defunct cigarettes.

That single kick turned into a flurry of punches that intensified when O’Keefe’s portrait finally loaded on the page. His face wasn’t familiar at all — but his eyes were. Anna would recognize those intense dark eyes anywhere.

They were Daniel Pope’s.

The collection she was looking for was called The Nomads of Osijek. It was O’Keefe’s last work.

Clicking the link, Anna waited the interminably long time it took for the thumbnails to load. The text accompanying them said that O’Keefe had become fascinated by the Zalas, a Croatian gypsy clan, and had traveled with them in their caravan as they moved from town to town, following a traveling carnival troupe. At every stop, the Zalas would pitch their tents and set up fortune-telling booths near the carnival.

It was unusual, it said, for an outsider, a gadje, to be allowed such access, but O’Keefe was known for his ability to get people to trust him.

When the thumbnails had loaded, over two hundred in all, Anna studied shot after shot of the gypsy family-an assortment of young and old, some posed, some candid. Standing by campfires, wagons, in front of battered tents, telling fortunes to the locals. There was a haunted quality to many of the photos, as if these people had been trodden upon, and had carried their pain for centuries.

Finding the one she wanted, Anna clicked the thumbnail and watched as a new window opened and a larger version of the photograph from Susan’s notebook slowly loaded.

Roma Vjestica.

Chavi.

To Anna’s surprise, the accompanying text explained that the word “Vjestica” was Croatian for witch or wizard. And, according to O’Keefe’s biographer, the Zalas were believed by many to be a magical family, with supernatural and psychic powers. This claim, however, was not all that unusual among the Roma people.

Roma Vjestica.

Gypsy Witch.

Closing the window, Anna searched the thumbnails and found another shot of the girl.

This one was a less formal pose, Chavi showing a hint of a smile. Subsequent shots found that smile widening, the body language loosening, as if Chavi had begun to trust her photographer, to feel comfortable with him — just as Anna had become comfortable with Pope.

If Anna was right, that this young girl was another of her past lives, and O’Keefe was one of Pope’s, then they had known each other for over a century. Which would explain why their mutual attraction had been so immediate. Why Pope’s kiss, his touch, seemed so familiar.

Chavi and O’Keefe had been lovers.

Anna went back to the thumbnails, clicking them at random, hoping for that sense of deja vu, that vague stirring of recognition from one of the faces-the faces of her past. But no memories came.

Then, without realizing it, she found one. She almost missed it at first, glancing at the thumbnail but not clicking it, about to move on, when she realized it was another shot of Chavi.

Opening the larger version, Anna stiffened involuntarily as the photo filled the page.

This one was labeled: Napasnica i raditi kao rob. Chavi was standing at the rear of a wagon, doing what, according to the text, was forbidden in gypsy culture. A precocious look on her face, she was lifting her long skirt, exposing her legs.