17

PULLING THE KEY FROM HIS JEANS, Coltrane approached the vault’s entrance. As he opened the outside door, exposing the blackness of the metal door, he set the shotgun against the wall and inserted the key into the metal door’s lock. For something so heavy, the door swung open smoothly, requiring almost no effort for him to push it.

He reached in to the left, brushed his hand against the wall, found the light switch, and flicked it, squinting from the harshness of the overhead lights. Again, the chill of the place overwhelmed him. The rows of gray metal library shelves had never seemed bleaker. The concrete walls and floor seemed to shrink. Overcoming the sensation of being squeezed, he picked up the shotgun and entered the vault.

His gaze never wavered from the left section of the opposite wall. But he couldn’t get there directly. He had to walk straight ahead until he reached the last row of shelves, then turn left and proceed to the area that held his attention. The wall was lined with shelves. Facing them, positioning himself in the middle, he glanced to the right. Behind those shelves and that section of the wall was the utility area. But what was behind the shelves and the section of the wall on the left?

Again he set down the shotgun. He leaned close to the shelves on the left section of the wall. The metal frame that supported them was bolted to the concrete behind them. He tugged at the shelves but had no effect; they remained firmly in place.

He ran his hands along the back edges of the shelves. Crouching, then stretching, he checked above and below them, also along the sides, wherever they met the concrete. It won’t be something difficult, he told himself. Packard was in a wheelchair. The old man didn’t have the strength for anything complicated or awkward. It would have to be…

At wheelchair height, Coltrane touched a slight projection of metal at the back of the right side of the shelves.

Something easy, he thought.

He pulled down on the wedge of metal, but it didn’t budge.

Something simple and…

He pulled up on the wedge of metal. It immediately responded.

Clever.

He heard the click of metal, of a latch being released.

Yes.

This time when he pulled at the shelves, they did budge. Not a lot. Not enough to move forward. But enough to indicate that they were no longer secured to the wall. What else do I have to…

He shifted to the left side of the shelves, crouched at wheelchair height, reached to the back where the side met the concrete, and touched a corresponding wedge of metal. When he pulled it upward, another latch snicked free, and now the shelves moved smoothly forward, seeming to float.

No matter how rapidly Coltrane breathed, he couldn’t seem to get enough air. He stepped to the right, out of the way, and continued to pull on the shelves, their outward movement so smooth that even an aged man in a wheelchair could have controlled them. Viewing that section of the wall from the side, he saw that what had appeared to be solid concrete was actually a concretelike stucco attached to a partition of oak. On the left, large foldout hinges at the top, bottom, and middle made the false wall capable of being moved in and out.

He stepped inside.

18

THE RADIANT WOMAN FACING HIM MADE HIS HEART STOP. Despite her alluring features, he almost recoiled in surprise at finding her, except that he couldn’t – his legs were powerless. Her hypnotic gaze paralyzed him. For a startling instant, he thought that she had been hiding behind the wall. But the face was too composed, showing no reaction at having been discovered.

Nerves quivering, he stepped into the chamber, so drawn that he overcame his fear of being enclosed. What he was looking at was an amazingly life-sized photograph of a woman’s face. It hung on the chamber’s back wall, exactly where the woman’s face would have been if she had actually been standing there. Indirect light from the vault dispelled many but not all of the shadows in the chamber, so that the area where the woman’s body would have been was partially obscured, creating the illusion that her body was in fact there. Although the photograph was in black and white, the absence of color seemed lifelike because of the woman’s extremely dark hair and dusky features.

Either she spent a lot of time in the sun, Coltrane thought, or there was an ethnic influence, possibly Hispanic. Certainly the white lace shawl she wore reminded Coltrane of similar garments he had seen in Mexico. Her dark eyes were riveted on where the camera would have been, on where Coltrane’s eyes now studied her, with the effect that he felt she was peering into him. Her lush hair hung thickly around her shoulders, with such a sheen that it gave off light regardless of how black it was. Her lips were full, their arousing curves parted in a smile, the glint from which seemed to shoot from the photograph. The combination of her features was typical of classic beauty – large eyes, high cheekbones, a smooth, broad forehead, an angular jawline, a narrow chin. She sparkled and smoldered.

But as captivated as he was by her image, he was equally captivated by the medium in which she was presented. He had seldom seen a black-and-white portrait that demonstrated such perfect control of its essential elements, of the juxtaposition of darkness and light. The technique required more than just a careful positioning of the subject and a precise calculation of light. Afterward, the real work was in the developing process, dodging and burning, underexposing some portions of the print while overexposing others, making the image rather than simply taking a picture. Coltrane knew of only one photographer who had absolute mastery of this technique. Even if he hadn’t found this photograph in this particular location, Coltrane would have known at once who had created it: Randolph Packard.

19

A NOISE MADE HIM SPIN. Startled, he grabbed the shotgun, about to raise it, then immediately checked himself when he saw Jennifer at the entrance to the vault.

“That’s one of the reasons I don’t like guns,” she said.

“You weren’t in danger. I would have looked before I aimed.”

“Glad to hear it.” Jennifer’s eyes were still puffy from sleep. “When I woke up and didn’t find you, I got worried. This is the last place I expected you to be.”

“Believe me, I’m surprised. But not as surprised as I am by this.” Coltrane pointed. “Our little mystery wasn’t as solved as we thought.”

As Jennifer approached, she ran a hand through her short, sleep-tousled hair.

“And maybe it’s not such a little mystery after all,” Coltrane said, then explained how he had found the chamber.

Fascinated, he watched her peer inside.

“My God,” she whispered. From the side, Coltrane could see that her eyelids came fully open. “She’s the most beautiful…”

“Yes.”

“Who? Why?”

“And a hundred other questions. The only thing I know for sure is, Packard took that photograph. The style is unmistakable.”

Jennifer appeared not to have heard. She raised a hand toward the photograph, held it an inch away from the woman’s face, then lowered it. “This is fabulous. I don’t understand why he hid it.”

“Not just it,” Coltrane said. “Look over here.” To the right, metal shelves rose to the ceiling. “Look at all the boxes.”

Each was about two inches deep. Grabbing one, Coltrane carried it from the shadows toward the lights in the vault. In a rush, he set the box on a shelf and opened the lid, inhaling audibly when he found the woman’s sultry face peering up at him in another pose.

“How many?” Coltrane flipped through the rest of the eight-by-ten-inch photographs in the box. “There must be at least a hundred. Every one of them shows her.”