David Morrell - Double Image

“The only time I laugh is when you make me. Maybe in Mexico I’ll do more of it.”

“Delta. Nine-fifteen. I’ll bring the photographs I developed. I think I found something.”

“What?” Tash asked quickly.

“I’m still not sure what it means. A face. I’m curious if you’ll recognize it.”

“ You think you found him ?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s the best news.”

“I might be mistaken.”

“No. I’ve got a good feeling.”

COLTRANE TURNED OFF ALL THE LIGHTS IN THE HOUSE. Taking care that he couldn’t be seen, he peered past the blinds in his living room and surveyed the darkness outside. On the hill, a streetlight cast a glow, illuminating the upper part of the slope. The car was gone.

He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or more troubled.

THE MOMENT THE DELTA AIRLINES 757 LIFTED OFF, its engines roaring, Tash said, “Let me see the photographs.”

But when Coltrane tried to lean forward to pick up the carrying case in the storage compartment under his feet, his seat belt prevented him. He started to unbuckle it, then thought better as the jet continued its steep climb. From his right-hand window seat, he noticed that they were passing above the yachts and sailboats at Marina del Rey. He had a painful mental image of Jennifer’s condominium down there. Saturday morning, she might be sitting on her balcony, drinking coffee, perhaps looking up at the jet flying over.

“I’d better wait until we level off,” he said.

“I could barely sleep for worrying that I wouldn’t be able to identify the face you’re suspicious about.”

“Identifying the face isn’t the problem. I already know who he is. The question is, will he look familiar to you?”

“ You know who he is ?”

“It came as a big surprise. In the photographs, there’s a man taking photographs of you. Randolph Packard’s assistant, Duncan Reynolds. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No.” Confused, Tash searched her memory. “I don’t understand. What does Packard’s assistant have to do with me? Why would he single me out if I don’t know him?”

“Maybe you’ll soon have an answer.”

Glancing out the window again, Coltrane saw the gleam of sails on the wave-scudded ocean. Then the jet banked inland, heading south over the smog-shrouded L.A. basin. To the right, in the distance, he saw the tiny outline of Santa Catalina Island and was reminded that Packard’s mother and father had died in a sailing accident near there. Packard, then sixteen, had been the only survivor. According to his biographies, the family had just returned from a voyage to Mexico. Had they been to Acapulco, just as he and Tash were going there?

“The pilot isn’t climbing so steeply now,” Tash said.

His thoughts interrupted, Coltrane turned from the window and looked at her. Again, he was struck by her beauty. She had dressed casually: deck shoes, khaki pants, a yellow cotton pullover, and a linen jacket, it too khaki, the cuffs folded up. A turquoise necklace. Hardly any makeup, only subtle eyeliner that echoed something in the turquoise, and a touch of peach lipstick. But for all her casual appearance, she looked stunning.

“Yes.” He unbuckled his seat belt, leaned forward, and picked up the black case. When he opened it and handed her some of the photographs, he had never seen a more intense expression on anyone’s face.

“Which one?” Tash asked.

“I don’t want to prejudice you. I’m going to start with the first exposure I made. We’ll go through the locations in the order you visited them, starting with the Beverly Center.”

As Tash examined each one, she pursed her lips in concentration. “I don’t see anybody I recognize.”

“Here’s the next set.”

Again, Tash concentrated. “Nobody I recognize here, either.”

“No repeated faces?”

“None.”

She went through the third set with the same result. “There’s too much to pay attention to. I’m worried that I’m missing something.”

“Keep trying. Here’s the fourth set. We’re almost finished.”

Coltrane had put the photographs that troubled him into the middle, where they wouldn’t be conspicuous.

“Nope. Nothing on this one, either. And not on this one. And…” Words catching in her throat, Tash raised the next photograph, then went back to the three previous ones. Tensing, she looked at several of the next ones. “Him. The one with the camera.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned the camera. It prejudiced you.”

“No. In fact, I went right by it. Your eyes for this are better than mine. But this man…” She tapped a face. “This man I recognize. He was with the attorney who came to my house and told me that Randolph Packard had included me in his will.”

Coltrane stared.

“But the name he used wasn’t Duncan Reynolds. It was William Butler. He said he worked for the attorney. What’s going on? Why did he lie to me?”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to know his connection with Packard. Obviously, if you knew who he was, you’d have asked him all kinds of questions about why Packard included you in his will.”

“Questions he didn’t want to answer.”

“It’s a reasonable guess.”

“But why wouldn’t he have wanted to answer my questions?” Tash’s voice had become so strong with anxiety that an expensively dressed couple in the adjacent row frowned at her. She leaned close to Coltrane and lowered her voice. “ Why is he doing this to me ?”

“I told you I did a photo assignment for the LAPD Threat Management Unit,” Coltrane said.

“Yes.”

“It taught me a lot. People think that stalkers are either rejected husbands and boyfriends, or fans obsessed with celebrities and politicians. But there are other categories. I found out some stalkers have only a casual relationship with their victims. A checkout kid at a supermarket becomes obsessed with a beautiful woman who shops there. He stands close to her while she pays by check, and he gets a look at her name and address. He starts driving by her house. When that doesn’t satisfy him, he watches the house at night. Then that’s not enough, and he follows her. He phones the house, hoping to hear her voice. He sends her flowers and notes. He takes surreptitious photographs of her. He wants desperately to have a relationship with her, but he knows that’s impossible, and as his frustration mounts, he gets angry. Finally he decides to punish her for being too good for him, so he gets a can of gasoline or a knife or a gun and…”

Tash shuddered. “You’re suggesting Duncan Reynolds fits that profile?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it without the evidence. To tell you the truth, I kind of like him. He doesn’t seem the type,” Coltrane said. “But then, what is the type? When neighbors find out the man living next door to them just went to where he works and shot five people, they always say, ‘But he was so quiet. I never would have expected him to do anything like that.’ Who knows what anybody’s capable of?”

Tash shuddered again. “What you said about the knife is a little too vivid.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Coltrane touched her hand to reassure her. A crackle of static electricity jumped from her.

They both stared at where it had happened.

“Maybe what I’m really giving off is fear.” Tash reached for the telephone attached to the seat back in front of her.

“What are you doing?” Coltrane asked.

“I’m phoning Walt. Now that we finally know who’s been threatening me, the police can arrest him. They can make the bastard admit he’s been stalking me.”