James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

Now what?

It may be a beautiful day, but I don’t feel like being outside anymore. Nor do I want to go back to my apartment. So I hop a cab downtown to the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a director’s cut playing of Flirting with Disaster. How appropriate.

All I want is light and funny, and thanks to Ben Stiller, I get it. In fact, as advertised in the lobby poster, I get an additional “six never-before-seen minutes” of it. I’m curious, though. Has a “director’s cut” ever been shorter than the original?

After the movie I try to do some clothes shopping in SoHo, where most of my favorite stores are. But as I flip through the racks at Jenne Maag, Kirna Zabête, and French Corner – where I once saw Gwen Stefani trying on a pair of jeans – I’m just not in the mood. I keep regretting my very stupid trip out to Westport.

Even if Dakota hadn’t spotted us, I really goofed. Michael had every right to be angry. Well, maybe notthat angry?

What was I thinking?

For about the tenth time, I reach for my cell phone to call him. I want to apologize again.

And for about the tenth time, I put the phone away without dialing. Don’t push it, I warn myself. I know how he is. If I let him be for a day or two, he’ll be fine.

We’ll be fine.

WITH THE AFTERNOON sun waning, I stop on the corner of Prince Street and Greene, waiting for the “Walk” sign. I gaze around. A little paranoid. Not too bad, though. It’s all relative.

If there’s a better place to people watch than the heart of SoHo, I’d sure like to know about it. Maybe Paris? Maybe not. Society types, punkers, artists, a few cross-dressers, you name it, they’re all out here sharing the sidewalk.

Including the nutcase on the corner directly across the street from me.

He’s an old man wearing sunglasses and a long gray beard practically down to his belt. He’s pacing back and forth, carrying a sign like in the classic cartoons. Only instead of “The End Is Near,” his reads, “The End Is Just the Beginning.” His take on the Resurrection, I guess.

Yeah, I get it -I’ve been warned.

As I cross the street and pass him, I can’t help shaking my head. How does a person become so disconnected from the rest of the world?

“Be afraid, Kristin.”

Huh?

I stop dead in my tracks, turning back toward the man. “How do you know my name?”

“I just know it.”

I take a few steps closer. I’m about a foot from his face. He’s definitely there. He’s real. “I said, How do you know my name? ”

“It’s not too late, Kristin,” he says. His voice is raspy, raw, a little scary on its own.

He tries to turn away, and I grab his shoulder. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

Silence from him now. What – have I offended Mr. ZZ Top?

“Tell me!” I insist.

He smiles, flashing a mouth of the most rotted, brown teeth I’ve ever seen. But I don’t back away.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

Reaching up, he removes his sunglasses, and I gasp. Now I back up a step. One of his eyes is missing. There’s nothing there but a dark hole that seems to disappear into his head. Is that possible? I almost expect worms or slimy white maggots to crawl out.

“Not yet,” he answers. “But soon you will. When you figure out your life.”

He puts his shades back on, nods, and then turns away.

I’M TREMBLING AS the bearded, one-eyed joker walks off down the street. It’s officially a toss-up now. Where is it more surreal? Inside my apartment or out here?

Hailing a cab, I decide being in my apartment might not be so bad anymore. Perhaps a nice, quiet evening at home will help calm the nerves. Then maybe I can figure this out, though I seriously doubt it.

In fifteen minutes, I’m there.

I begin with a superhot bath, the kind you need to ease your body into an inch at a time. I even add some herbal salts that Connie gave me for my birthday last year. “Soothing Citrus,” says the label.

After lingering in the tub until I’m “Wrinkled Prune,” I towel off, climb into my comfy terry cloth robe, and force myself to dial up some Chinese – sesame chicken and vegetable fried rice, my standard order. No MSG, please. I am trying my very best to have a normal night at home, which is ridiculous, I know, but it’s the only idea I have at the moment.

On a full stomach, after the day I’ve had, I should be dead tired. Instead, I’m wide-awake. Restless. Wired.

I try not to think of the one-eyed man on the corner -How did he know my name? – but if it’s not his face I’m seeing in my mind, it’s another’s. Dakota’s.

“Miss Kristin?”

Her sweet voice echoing in my ears, I remember that I’ve got an entire roll of her and Sean in my camera, the two of them swimming and playing by the pool.

At last, something that might put me at ease.

My darkroom.

I literally roll up the sleeves of my robe and get busy. Almost immediately, I can feel my mind and body relaxing. I even crack a smile as I think of a great name for an exhibit. “Stakeout.” It would be strictly pictures I’ve taken while parked somewhere, hiding.

No, wait, I’ve got an even better name. “Bob and Me.”

This is more like it. Moving the negatives to the holding bath, I catch a glimpse of the first few shots from the roll.

“Oh, how cute!”

I actually say the words out loud. My two favorite kids in the world, splashing around and having so much fun. Even in the negative I can see their beautiful smiles.

It’s a little weird, though. I always make a point of showing Dakota and Sean every picture I take of them. But these they’ll never see.

Eventually, I get to the shot I snapped with Penley in it. So typical, her pointing and barking orders at the kids. She looks more like a warden than a mom.

I’m about to shift to the next picture when something makes me do a double take, and my stomach just about drops to the basement of the building. I grab the magnifying loupe, pulling the image of Penley right up to my face.

I stare in amazement.

Utter. Freakin’. Amazement.

I QUICKLY CHECK the previous shots, the ones of only Dakota and Sean. Is it happening with them too?

No. No, it isn’t.

Everything looks fine. Better than fine, in fact.

I grab the shot of Penley again, staring, squinting hard, running my finger over it. The negative seems fine to me.

Her image, though. Not fine. Not good. Not possible.

It’s that same effect as with the body bags outside the Fálcon, subtle yet definitely there. Or, should I say, not there.

Transparent. Like I can see through her. Like she’s there but isn’t.

Penley’s thin, but she’s not that thin! How is this happening again? Why?

I flip on the light, spinning around to face the black corkboard behind me. The other shots, my father – I never checked to see if the effect was happening with the photos of him. Did I just not notice?

My eyes race along every picture pinned to the wall, and not a single one has the effect.No problem with these shots – just a man who’s been dead for twelve years!

So it isn’t the lens after all. The new one did the same thing the old one did. Must be the camera, then. At least I hope it’s the camera.

I remember a business card that Javier at Gotham Photo once gave me. On the back he wrote his cell phone number. I think maybe he was fishing for a date. Nonetheless, he said I should call him anytime I have a problem with my pictures.

I think this qualifies.

The only question now is where I put that card. I start with my wallet, shuffling through ATM receipts, my AmEx, Visa, Discover, driver’s license, a frequent-coffee-drinker card from the Java Joint.