David Morrell - Double Image

The reference caught Coltrane unawares, blunting the satisfaction he had felt in getting Tash out of the house. “How did you know about me and Ilkovic?”

“While you were in the bathroom waiting to get your clothes dried, Carl Nolan told me.”

It felt odd to be having a conversation with someone Coltrane couldn’t see. He made an effort not to tilt his head in Tash’s direction and ruin the illusion that he was alone.

“I knew about what had happened at that movie ranch,” Tash’s voice continued below and behind him. “At the time, there wasn’t much else in the newspapers or on the television news. But when I met you, your name didn’t register. I didn’t make the connection.”

“That’s encouraging. I hate to think that every time I introduce myself to someone new, I’ll always be remembered as the man who shot Ilkovic. I prefer to be known for my photographs, not for killing someone – even if he did deserve it.”

“I’m sorry for asking you to talk about it.”

“No, it’s fine. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I used to check for headlights behind me all the time. I used to drive around the block and down narrow alleys and one-way streets – anyplace that would make it unusual for someone to stay behind me. But the timers on the lamps, all that business in the garage, they weren’t anything I’d tried before.”

“It’s reassuring to know you’re inventive.”

“Yeah, but it’s not something I’m overjoyed to find out I’m inventive at. Keep staying down.” Coltrane steered onto the Pacific Coast Highway and checked for any headlights that emerged onto the highway after him. “So far so good.”

“Let’s hope,” Tash’s muffled voice said.

“When you found out what I had done to Ilkovic, did it change the way you looked at me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“As you put it, he deserved to be killed.”

“That he did.” Coltrane sighed bleakly. “That he did.”

“People you know did change the way they related to you?”

“One in particular.”

“Powerful emotions can be frightening.” Coming from the darkness, Tash’s disembodied voice sounded more faint, almost childlike. “Do you have nightmares?”

“Yes. I thought they’d go away, but they haven’t. I keep dreaming that Ilkovic isn’t dead, that he’s still coming for me. I imagine his hands…”

“I have nightmares, too,” Tash said. “Someone’s reaching for me, but I can’t see his face. Since I don’t know what he looks like, it’s natural that he’d be faceless, I suppose, but it’s worse than that. It’s almost as if he doesn’t have a…”

“Head.”

“Then you understand.”

“That’s in my nightmare also,” Coltrane said.

“This’ll sound odd, but I’m glad.”

“What?”

“You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to about what I’m feeling and know that you understand. Walt, Lyle, Carl, and the others – I try to explain how alone and afraid I feel, and they tell me they know what I mean. But they don’t know. How can they possibly? They’re big men with badges and guns. Their lives are in control. They’re not being stalked.”

“We’re in a limited club.”

“Not you. Not any longer. But it’s reassuring to know that you survived. I feel safe with you.”

“I hope I don’t let you down.” Again, Coltrane checked his rearview mirror. “I didn’t see any cars pull onto the highway after us. I think it’s okay now for you to sit up.”

“Since I’m feeling safe…”

Coltrane wondered what she meant to say.

“Why don’t I stay down out of sight until we get to your place?”

“It’s a long drive,” Coltrane said.

“It won’t be if we keep talking the way we are. Tell me about your photographs.”

“ALL CLEAR,” Coltrane said as his garage door rumbled shut.

“Ouch,” Tash said. “I’m going to need a couple of aerobics classes to get my back into shape after this.” She rose, massaged her spine, and got out of the car. But it was obvious that she wasn’t that creaky. An upward stretch of her arms accentuated her trim body. She had changed from her loose-fitting sweatsuit to a pair of blue slacks, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a jacket whose color resembled the raspberry tint of what she had previously been wearing – obviously a favorite color; it added a depth to her dark eyes and hair. When she stretched, she turned modestly away, so as not to emphasize her breasts in front of him, Coltrane assumed. No matter, that upward stretch and a slight twist this way and then that were a pleasure to behold, her body assuming the dancer’s grace she had exhibited when he first saw her, although Coltrane continued to have the uncanny feeling that he had first seen her long before that.

Watching in wonder, he suddenly found himself in darkness.

“What happened?” Tash asked in surprise.

“The garage opener’s overhead light is supposed to stay on for a minute after the door goes down, but it’s been cutting out much sooner. I’ll go over and turn on the switch.”

Footsteps scraping on concrete, he inched through the darkness and approached where he estimated the door to the house was. Reaching blindly, he touched the door and groped toward the switch on the right, all at once flinching from a shock, seeing a spark as a hand brushed past his and reached for the same switch.

“Oh my God,” Tash said, “I’m sorry.”

“Whoa. You really do give off static electricity.”

“I thought you were having trouble finding the switch. I was looking in that direction when the lights went off, so I figured it would be easier for me to… I really am sorry.”

When Coltrane turned on the light, he discovered he was startlingly close to her. Again, her beauty amazed him. Her subtle perfume filled his nostrils. Trying not to look flustered, he unlocked the door to the house and opened it, guiding her in. “Can I get you something?” He hoped that she wouldn’t notice that his voice was slightly unsteady. “More wine? Coffee? Something to eat? It’s close to dinnertime. I could make some-”

“The photographs.” Tash ignored the house and its unique furnishings, fixing her gaze on him.

“Of course. They’re the reason you’re here, after all.” He led the way downstairs, unlocked the vault, and pushed open its metal door. Cool air cascaded over them.

Tash hugged herself.

“That’s the way I felt at first,” Coltrane said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Tash looked around at the austere shelves and blinked from the overhead glare.

Crossing the vault with her, he had never felt so aware of being alone with a woman.

En route, he had explained how he had happened to find the chamber. But she still wasn’t prepared when he freed the catches and pulled out the section of shelves, and she certainly wasn’t prepared when she entered the chamber and came face-to-face with her look-alike. It might have been the garish overhead lights that caused what happened next, but more likely, Coltrane thought, it was blood draining from Tash’s face that made her look abruptly pale.

She wavered. Afraid that she was going to collapse, Coltrane reached to catch her, then stopped the impulse when she regained her composure, standing rigidly still. He could only imagine the turmoil she must be suffering. For his part, as he looked from Tash toward the wall before her and the life-sized features of Rebecca Chance, he suffered a sanity-threatening unbalance. The photograph was Tash. Tash was the photograph. But it wasn’t , and she wasn’t. The face in the photograph was almost two-thirds of a century old.