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  Jennifer looked baffled. “I’ve never heard you talk this way before.”

  “Did the pictures make a difference? Was Ilkovic charged with war crimes and arrested?”

  “He disappeared. Nobody knows where to find him.”

  “Great.” The word sounded like a curse.

  “They’ll get him.”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t understand what’s happened to you,” Jennifer said. “You were always proud of scraping through tough spots.”

  “I had a lot of chances to think while I was trying to get through the night without freezing to death. I got to wondering if I’d ever taken any photographs that made people feel glad to be alive because they’d seen my work. Maybe it’s time I became a real photographer.”

  “But there isn’t anybody better.”

  “I’m not a photographer. Stieglitz, Steichen, Strand, Weston, Adams, Berenice Abbott, Randolph Packard—they were photographers. They knew what a camera was for.”

  A somber moment lengthened.

  Jennifer interrupted it. “I brought some Chinese food. Do you think you could eat it if I go downstairs and bring you a plate?”

  Instead of answering, Coltrane caught her by surprise. “How have you been, Jennifer?”

  “Fine. Working hard. The magazine’s doing well.”

  “But what about you? Are you doing well?”

  “It’s been lonely.”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed to hold her breath.

  “The same with me. I’ve missed you, Jennifer.”

  Her eyes misted. She walked slowly toward him and knelt, her face level with his, stroking his beard-stubbled cheek. “I’m sorry. I needed too much from you. I think I smothered you. I’ll never act that way again.”

  “It was my fault as much as yours.”

  “No. I’ve changed. I promise.”

  “We both have.” Ignoring the tightness in his side, Coltrane leaned forward and kissed her.

  3

  COMING EVENTS

  Legendary photographer Randolph Packard will have a rare showing of his prints at the Sunset Gallery in Laguna Beach, from 5:00 to 7:00 P . M . on Friday, November 2 1 . Packard, whose work documents the changes in Southern California, is generally considered to be one of the great innovators in modern photography. He was born in . . .

  4

  C OLTRANE COULDN ’ T GET OVER IT . If he hadn’t opened the copy of Southern California Jennifer had given him, happening to scan its calendar section, he wouldn’t have known about Packard’s opening until it was too late. Even then, he barely had enough time, suddenly realizing that today was the twenty-first and that it was almost three. Fortunately, he had already mustered the strength to get out of bed and clean himself up. His sneakers, jeans, and denim shirt weren’t exactly what he would have chosen for what sounded like a formal reception, but he didn’t have time to change, only to grab a sport coat, a camera, and a copy of one of Packard’s collections, then get to his car.

  The effort exhausted him, but he didn’t think twice about its worth. Leaving Los Angeles, driving south as fast as possible amid the smog-shrouded traffic on the San Diego Freeway, he felt as if he’d been told that someone had risen from the dead. Good God, how old would Packard be? In his nineties? The bulk of his work had been done in the twenties and the thirties. From then on, his output had dwindled, until, by the fifties, he had disappeared from public view. As the Southern California article had noted, paraphrasing a quotation from F. Scott Fitzgerald, “For Randolph Packard, there wasn’t a second act.” But his first act had certainly been remarkable. The rumors about drugs and orgies, about his frequent unexplained trips to Mexico, had rippled through California’s artistic community and generated publicity for his work.

  Not that Coltrane had needed the article to tell him any of this. When he had first been learning about photography, Randolph Packard had been one of his idols. He owned every Packard collection that had been published. His work had been deeply influenced by Packard’s theory that every effective photograph ought to tell the viewer something that merely looking at the subject of the photograph in its natural setting could not.

  Packard’s famous portraits of silent-screen movie stars, for example: Rudolph Valentino, Clara Bow, Ramon Novarro, a lot of others, many of whom nobody would remember if Packard hadn’t immortalized them. Each portrait presented its subject in a splendor of light. But the actors didn’t radiate the light. Instead, they absorbed it. The brilliance was so intense, Packard seemed to think of them as literally being stars, but of a special sort, sucking up energy until, because of their egos and their frantic lifestyles, they would either burst or collapse upon themselves and be consumed.

  Heading into the wall-to-wall cities that made up Orange County, Coltrane felt his anticipation swell. He was reminded of when the county had literally been covered with oranges, grove after grove of them, and how Packard’s classic sun-bright photograph of the area had depicted more oranges on the ground than in the trees, an abundance of ripeness on the verge of decay.

  Packard had also photographed Laguna Beach, not the town (which had been only a few cottages back in the twenties and thirties) but the curve of sand along the ocean. That area of the Pacific Coast Highway was still as winding as it had been in Packard’s day, but now it had been overbuilt, the same as everywhere else in Southern California—gas stations, gift shops, and restaurants jammed next to one another. The crowded four-lane road felt like the narrow two-lane it had replaced. At dusk, in late November, the beach itself was almost deserted, cold waves crashing onto the sand. When Packard had photographed the area, he had made it seem an unoccupied paradise. But if the viewer looked closely at Packard’s most reproduced depiction of the beach, Horizon, 1929, the telltale imperfection, the poignant regret for time passing that was typical of Packard’s work, became evident: distant smoke belching from a passing freighter.

  Coltrane managed to find a parking space on Forest Avenue across from the beach. He slung his Nikon single-lens reflex around his neck and took a deep breath, surveying the lights of art galleries along the tree-canopied street. When he reached back into his car to get his copy of Packard’s Reflections of the City of Angels, he suddenly felt light-headed and almost collapsed across the seat. His side in pain, he grabbed the steering wheel, took another deep breath, and straightened. Sweat chilled his face.

  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, he told himself. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint driving down here. I belong in bed, not getting crushed by strangers at a cocktail party.

  No, he thought, feeling much older than his thirty-five years. I need to start over.

  5

  T HE RECEPTION IN THE RUSTIC - LOOKING S UNSET G ALLERY had spilled out onto the street. Coltrane stepped past trendily dressed couples wearing expensive jewelry, their makeup and hair perfect, and ignored the looks they gave his sneakers. The gallery was crammed with people who spoke with pseudo-British accents. Many of them had lips so tight, they seemed to have lockjaw. They sipped from flutes of champagne, but Coltrane had no interest in finding the bar. He heard music playing from hidden speakers, a CD of a string quartet, it sounded like, but he couldn’t be sure—the conversations were too loud. All he cared about were Packard’s photographs, and even before he worked his way through the crowd, it was obvious that the sheer number of them was astonishing.

  Protecting his side, he struggled to the nearest wall of photographs and felt excitement build in him when he realized that he had never seen any of them before. Again and again, a card next to a photograph indicated that each was from Packard’s own collection. Their dates ranged from the fifties to the nineties, making clear that Packard hadn’t given up photography in his later years. He had simply chosen not to let the public see his work. Coltrane’s excitement changed to dismay when the force of the images hit him. This second act of Packard’s career emphasized the decay that he had only hinted at in his earlier work. Each photograph was
devoted to blight—a dead seagull trapped in an oil spill, an emaciated child eating garbage, a brush fire destroying a spindly multimillion-dollar house perched ridiculously on a Los Angeles hilltop.

  Repelled, Coltrane forced his way to another wall, oblivious to the annoyed looks people gave him as he shoved past. The next pictures were even more disturbing—policemen standing around a woman’s corpse in an alley, a caged pit bull snarling at children who taunted it with sticks, a man attacking another man during a riot. The black-and-white images had been printed to emphasize their shadows, the bleakness chilling. The only thing missing was a photograph of jumbled skeletons being clawed from the earth by a backhoe. Stumbling away, wanting nothing more than to leave, Coltrane felt the back of his legs bump against an upright metal circle with spindles and nearly toppled backward over it, catching his balance just in time, sensing with embarrassment that what he had struck was a wheelchair.

  He quickly turned. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t . . .” His apology froze in his throat when he recognized the chair’s occupant.

  Randolph Packard was wizened, but he still bore an uncanny resemblance to photographs that had been taken of him in his prime. Even in a wheelchair, he was tall, his thinness emphasizing his height. His trademark shock of hair over his forehead had receded, becoming wispy and white, but it was nonetheless recognizable. The hypnotic eyes were darker, the face narrower, the nose more bladelike. But despite being withered, with liver spots, his slack skin barely concealing his skull, he was unmistakably Packard.

  “This chair’s taken, thank you.” Packard coughed, as if he had sand caught in his throat.

  “I apologize. I should have looked where I was going,” Coltrane said. “Are you hurt?”

  “The truth never hurts. Tell me what you think of my photographs.”

  Coltrane was taken by surprise. “They’re, uh . . .”

  “Indescribable, evidently.”

  “. . . impressive.”

  “You don’t make it sound like a compliment.”

  Coltrane was determined to be tactful. “They’re technically perfect.”

  “Technically?” Packard coughed more forcefully, still unable to get the sand from his throat. “That camera around your neck—is that a fashion statement? Don’t tell me you’re a photographer.”

  “Yes.” Coltrane stiffened. “Yes, I’m a photographer.”

  “Oh, well, then. Since you’re a photographer. What don’t you like about these photographs?”

  Coltrane felt bile in his stomach. “They’re too bleak for my taste.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Actually, if you want to talk about facts, they’re ugly.”

  “Ugly?”

  “Coming here was important to me. I needed hope, not despair.”

  Packard didn’t say anything for a moment, only steadied his wrinkle-rimmed eyes on Coltrane, then nodded. “Well, good for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked for the truth. You’re the only person in this room who gave it to me. What are you holding there?”

  “One of your collections.”

  “You brought it for an autograph?”

  “That was my intention.”

  “But now you’re not sure.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re really a photographer?”

  Coltrane nodded.

  “Then tell me something else that’s true. Why did you become a photographer?”

  Coltrane turned to leave. “I won’t bother you any longer.”

  “I asked you a question. Quick now. Don’t think about it. Answer me. Why did you—”

  “To stop time.”

  “Indeed?” Packard’s sunken eyes assessed him. “What’s your name?”

  “Mitchell Coltrane.”

  “Mitchell . . .” Packard’s gaze went inward, then focused on him more tightly. “Yes, I know your work.”

  Coltrane couldn’t tell if that meant the same as stepping in dog shit.

  “Tell me why you want to stop time,” Packard demanded.

  “Things fall apart.”

  “And the center cannot hold? I didn’t know anybody read Yeats anymore.”

  “And people die.”

  “How very true.” Packard coughed again, painfully.

  At once, an effusive, colorfully dressed man burst from the crowd. “There you are, Randolph. I’ve been looking everywhere.” He was in his forties, overweight, with a flushed face, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and several thousand dollars’ worth of designer labels. “Some people came in you absolutely have to meet.” The man gripped the back of Packard’s wheelchair. “Excuse us. Coming through, everyone.”

  “Just a moment.” Packard’s frail whisper carried amazing force. He motioned for Coltrane to step close. “This is my card. I’d like you to come for lunch tomorrow. One o’clock sharp. Bring the book. I’ll sign it then.”

  And Packard was gone.

  6

  W ELL , WHAT DID I EXPECT ? Coltrane asked himself, struggling through the crowd to get out of the reception. There were many mysteries about Randolph Packard, but everything Coltrane had read about him was clear about one thing: his personality. Even to his most sympathetic biographer, Packard was haughty. His overbearing attitude was variously explained as the consequence of having been spoiled by wealthy parents whose fortune he had inherited at the age of sixteen after the parents died in a boating accident, or as the imperious manner of a genius whose sensibility was constantly being assaulted by those around him.

  Whatever its cause, Coltrane had definitely had a taste of it. Angry, he escaped from the art gallery, so distracted by his emotions that he didn’t notice the change in the weather until he got to where he’d parked his Chevy Blazer near the intersection of Forest and the South Coast Highway. At almost six o’clock in late November, darkness was natural. But not this much darkness. A remnant of the sunset ought to have been visible on the ocean’s horizon; despite the glow from streetlights, stars should have started to glitter. But now the sky was absolutely black, and the horizon was indistinguishable from the ink that had become the ocean. A wind stung his cheeks, flinging sand from the beach. The first drops of rain pelted his windshield as he hurried to unlock his car and get in.

  For about twenty minutes, as he headed north along the slippery, glistening 405 back to Los Angeles, the storm matched his mood. Then it seemed to cleanse him. Although the rain-slowed traffic would normally have made him impatient, he felt oddly content just to gaze past his flapping windshield wipers. He put on one of his favorite tapes and listened to Bobby Darin sing heartbreakingly “The Gal That Got Away.” As he admired Darin’s perfect phrasing, it occurred to him that almost no one had ever spoken favorably about Bobby Darin as a human being. Because of a heart condition, Darin had known that the odds were he wouldn’t live past his thirties. Feeling the pressure of limited time, he had so devoted himself to his career that no one else had mattered. Self-centered didn’t begin to describe him. Nor did cruel. Talent, it seemed, wasn’t any guarantee of noble character. Mulling over these issues, Coltrane made the obvious application to Randolph Packard: Maybe it’s not a good idea to meet one of your idols.

  7

  T HROUGH THE STORM , Coltrane’s headlights revealed Jennifer’s red BMW parked at the curb in front of his town house. It troubled him. He had left a message at Jennifer’s office, telling her he wouldn’t be home. Why had she come over, regardless? Worried that their problems might be starting again, he pressed his remote-control garage opener, steered into the single stall, and shut off the engine. After hours of listening to the cacophony of rain drumming on his roof, he sat motionless, wearily enjoying the comparative silence. Then he pressed the remote control again and got out of the car. Despite the rumble of the descending garage door, he heard another door, the one at the top of the stairs. Kitchen light spilled down.

  “Mitch?”

  As Jennifer appeared above him, he saw her
through an imaginary camera, its lens intensifying her. Nimbuslike, her blond hair seemed to radiate the light behind her. She wore gray slacks and a crewneck navy sweater. Her lips had a touch of pale orange lipstick.

  “Are you all right?” She took several steps down toward him.

  “Didn’t your assistant give you my message?”

  “Message?” Jennifer looked confused. “No. I was away from the office all afternoon. By the time I had a chance to call in, my assistant was gone.”

  Coltrane’s shoulders relaxed. It had just been a simple misunderstanding. It wasn’t going to be like before. He gripped the railing and climbed to her.

  “I got worried when you weren’t here,” Jennifer said. “Then I finally noticed the open magazine on your kitchen table. When I saw the article in the calendar section, the time and date for the Packard exhibit, I figured out where you’d gone.”

  “If you ever decide to get out of the magazine business, you’d make an awfully good detective.” Coltrane shut the kitchen door. “You wanted to know if I’m all right. No.” He stroked her hair and kissed her; her lipstick tasted of apricots. “I was a fool. I should have stayed home. With you.”

  The compliment made Jennifer’s blue eyes seem as clear as the Caribbean when the sun emerges from behind a cloud. Then something else he had said registered on her, making her frown. “Why did you call yourself a fool?”

  “Let’s just say meeting Randolph Packard wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be.”

  “You have awfully high standards.”

  Her remark puzzled him. “I’ve admired his work since I was old enough to tell a good photograph from a bad one.”

  “Then I don’t know what more you could want. From everything I hear, things couldn’t have gone better.”

  “Everything you hear?” Coltrane creased his brow.