Free Intimate Portraits by Cheryl B. Dale Page A

his van.
    At the back of the strip mall
shops, a shiny new deadbolt protected the studio door, but the alarm system
hadn’t been rewired. Twenty seconds found Sam inside with his five-gallon jug
of gasoline.
    He shone a penlight on the
counter. There it was, the message pad the receptionist had looked at when she
talked about Autumn Merriwell going to Helen. He ripped off the top page with
its name and phone number, then pocketed it.
    A few heavy filing cabinets in a
back room screamed “fireproof” but weren’t locked. He emptied thousands of CD-ROMs
into a pile in the middle of the floor before pulling out the drawers of
regular office file cabinets filled with negatives.
    Old negatives, but no sense taking
chances. He dumped them, too, then added the cameras in case one had Sarita’s
images.
    After soaking the stack with
gasoline, he threw a lighted match. That would take care of stuff here. Bernie’s
computer guy would deal with the backup at AllSet if he hadn’t already.
    “Sayonara, Sarita,” he muttered
as the flames jumped up with an ominous hiss. “Too bad they won’t have those
pictures to remember you by. You sure did have something.”
    This job sucked. He was going to
have to get out of the business soon. Maybe in a few more years he could.
    As alarms trilled, he quit the
building and parked back at the crowded restaurant across the street where he could
watch.
    Six minutes brought out the sirens.
Eight minutes later, flashing red lights and trucks squealed into the strip
mall. Men jumped out to start unwinding hoses.
    By then, the fire had caught hold
and a crowd had gathered.
    Flames broke through the studio
roof and licked at the night sky before streams of water began to feed into
their midst. Smoke swirled and eddied. Flickering orange tongues spewed out
tiny particles of ash caught and driven by the wind to taint clothes and skin
and lungs.
    The smell infiltrated his van. Sam
reached for his pack of gum.
    Okay, that worked out great. The
photography studio was gone, but looked like the blaze was contained, in no
danger of spreading to the lounge or drug store at the far end.
    Good. He’d hate to be responsible
for destroying somebody’s livelihood or getting innocent bystanders killed.
    Sam was pretty softhearted.
    He put the new stick of gum in
his mouth and grimaced. No substitute for tobacco. He’d been thinking about
quitting for a while, but his wife’s bitching was what did the trick. That and
her cough every time they went to bed. He’d figured he better go cold turkey
and get it over with.
    Ten months now, but he still
wanted a cigarette.
    The same way he wanted to be at
home, curled up in bed against his wife’s butt and looking forward to his kid’s
hockey game tomorrow.
    Tough. Ain’t gonna happen .
He pulled his jacket tighter.
    You had to take life as it came.
    He’d call in the morning and get
directions to this Helen restaurant, but there was no rush. Nobody’d find Sarita
till her mother and stepfather got back from their trip to the islands on
Monday. Plenty of time to finish the job.
    Things were coming together. He
knew where the photographer would be at tomorrow night. He’d find her, take her
out by Sunday at the latest, be long gone by Monday. If he headed straight home
from Helen, he wouldn’t have to go through grimy Hotlanta.
    Enough of this shit. His whole
head was clogged up from the ash. He cranked the van.
    The next thing was to find a
motel for what was left of the night. Preferably one that offered movies on
demand. A nice comedy or relationship movie.
    All those action films had way
too much violence to suit him.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 7
    After a restless night focused on
Rennie in his room a few feet across from hers, Autumn was the first one up
Saturday morning. The coffeemaker, once readied and turned on, began to deliver
its inviting aroma. She filled a cup from the hot stream, and then took it to
the living room.
    The draperies were closed