Chapter 1

New York City loomed in shades of grey.
Across the street, shadow forms hidden under dark coats hustled along the sidewalk, back and forth, like phantoms in a carnival shooting gallery. Sometimes a colorful scarf or hat caught Jacoby Preston's eye, breaking the monochromatic display. But only for a moment. He kept his focus on their eyes, searched for a look of recognition just in case one of them had finally come for him.

It was time.
Trudging toward his favorite Chinese restaurant, he hid behind the coarse black wool of his turned-up collar. A bitter wind flashed down the street, scattered discarded handbills and empty cigarette packs. Jake tightened his grip on the envelope of photographs tucked under his arm.

A taxi rocketed around the corner, forcing a crescent of dirty water from a puddle. It lashed Jake's legs and coat, leaving behind a sooty trail. He frowned, kept his head down, and continued toward his meeting with Fred.

The neon glow from the sign above the China Flower Restaurant crept into Jake's line of vision and lured him into a haven of red and black. A blood-red smile painted across the ashen face of an Asian waitress greeted him. She bowed and led him to a black-lacquered table in a far corner of the dining room. Fred waited for him behind an undulating whisper of steam that snaked out of a pot of green tea.

"Jake, been playing in the street?" Fred forced a stilted laugh and poured two cups of tea.

Jake placed the envelope on the table and removed his coat. He shook some of the splatters of soot from his coat, then carefully draped it over the back of his chair and sat. The two parallel lines between Fred's olive green eyes drew together as he pulled at his wiry mustache. Something was wrong. Jake held the hot cup of tea in his hands and savored its warmth.

"So, what's up, Fred? What do you have for me?" He tasted his tea.

"The job in Louisiana—the wildlife assignment. They still want you. Big bucks."

"The answer is still no."

"But they upped the ante again."

"Forget it. Just the thought of it gives me the creeps." He shuddered, finished his tea, and poured himself another cup. "Mud and swamps and snakes. I'd probably end up as alligator bait."

He heard a whisper of silk behind him. The waitress appeared, a long scarlet tassel hanging from her raven hair gently teased the side of her face and trickled down her neck. Meandering with every subtle movement of her head, the red silken streams mesmerized Jake.

"Jake!" Fred tore Jake's attention from the animated slash of red. "Let's order."

As they waited for their food, Fred examined the photos. "Great vision. Your work is better than ever."

"Thanks. So why the hell are we here on a day like this, anyway? I could have had the photos delivered."

Fred fussed with his silverware, scattering tinkling, metallic notes into the half-lit atmosphere.

"Okay. Spit it out," Jake said.

"What the hell is going on with you, Jake? The way you have been acting lately. No, since you came back from that trip upstate."

It was all Jake could do to draw a breath. Relax. Fred has no idea what happened upstate. Relax.

"Hey. I've been working my ass off," Jake said. "Are you trying to tell me I'm losing my edge or something?"

"Don't get me wrong, Jake. It's not your work. It's your attitude. You've become so remote. You're missing deadlines. You don't even answer your messages."

"I told you. I've been working my ass off. Isn't that good enough anymore?"

"I spend half my time doing damage control for your screw-ups. Damn it, Jake." Fred slammed his palm on the table, evoking jingle-jangle sounds from the silverware and glasses. He cast furtive glances at couples dining nearby. Two women at the next table stared at him. His face reddened. With a lowered voice he said, "You wouldn't even leave your darkroom to speak with me when I brought a client over last week. What's wrong?"

"Don't worry about it."

"What the hell do you mean? Your career is on the line here!"

Jake rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm acting like a jerk. But there is nothing you can do. He fingered the envelope of photos. It's personal."

A waiter brought their orders. Jake tried to avoid conversation by focusing on his plate.

"Rachel?" Fred's voice softened. "Is it Rachel? I figured you had it made when she moved in. I thought, this time, you two would be able to make it. Is she—?"

"No. She's perfect. We never argue. She's always there for me, but . . . it's like there's something missing."


Jake rubbed his forehead in despair. "Didn't you ever wake in the night, hungry, not to fill your stomach, but to feed your heart, or your brain . . . no, your soul?"

Fred stopped blotting his lips with his napkin and shrugged.

"There's more."

"More? More what?" Fred threw down his napkin. "This is bullshit. You're forty years old. Did you ever stop to think that's all there is? That maybe it just doesn't get any better?"

"After what happened upstate, I know. It's—"

"How can I understand when you won't tell me what happened?"

How could he tell Fred about something he wanted to forget? He had to get Fred off that subject.

"It's my photography too." Jake leaned forward and lowered his voice. "When I'm in the darkroom developing a print, I stand there and watch the images appear. I wait for something more than trees, birds, or people." Jake knew it was useless, but he would try to explain, one more time. "It's like the camera should be able to capture some sort of magic I can't quite see, something—"

"Everyone who sees your photography sees magic. Why can't you?" Fred sighed and shook his head.

"I don't know. It was always this way." He shrugged. "But it, the magic, is calling to me." Jake's voice went hoarse. "Right now. I can almost hear the whispers. I have to be free to go after the secret."

"It? Secret?" Fred stared at Jake as if he were trying to read his mind. "What are you going to do?"

"New York isn't cutting it for me anymore." He forced himself to sound firm, so Fred would know he was serious. "Maybe I'll go back to Alaska. I felt something there."

"Did you tell Rachel?"

Jake looked down at his empty cup. "I don't have to. She already knows. I can see it in her eyes."

"You're not thinking of leaving Rachel behind. Not again."

"I love her to death. But I have to figure this out alone. Besides, she deserves better than me. I'm only hurting her."

"You need to talk to her about all this. She loves you."

"There is nothing left to talk about."

The diminutive waitress placed a bowl of fortune cookies on the table. Fred reached for one, cracked it open. "I'm going to meet a mysterious stranger. That's a pretty safe bet." He tossed the strip of paper in an ashtray. "What's yours say?"

"I'll pass. I already know what has to happen tonight. I have to get things straight with Rachel."

They rose and grabbed their coats.

Fred placed his hand on Jake's shoulder. "I'm really sorry. Call if you need me."

Jake felt a tickling at the back of his neck. He looked over his shoulder to see the waitress smiling at him from across the room. Her tiny hand slowly waved good-by, fingers fanned wide apart and punctuated by long, red-lacquered nails. Jake turned away and pushed himself through the door.

Fred looked up at the sky, swore, and hurried down the street. Jake watched him fade into the darkness.

Falling snow sparkled in the air like scattered shards of broken mirrors. They looked alive. Trembling, they fell gently to the ground and left a clean, white shroud. The neon lights above Jake's head cast mottled patterns on the glimmering flakes that tumbled down from the sky. He reached to grab a few of the kaleidoscopic bits, but when he examined what he had captured, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. Instead of multicolored segments of broken butterflies, he held only melting winter.

He had to get it over with.

The walk home was long, but Jake did not mind. He was not ready to see Rachel yet. He sat on a bench at the bus stop across the street from his building and stared at the weathered brick structures that flanked his home. They grew straight up out of the sidewalk, dull, gray, like the winter sky had been that day, every day. His feet tingled with cold. His hair was wet. Pale flakes littered his lap.

It was time.

Jake rose from the bench and slowly wove his way across the street. He fumbled with the lock on the iron gate between the pavement and his private world. The key would not turn. He struggled until his fingers were numb, but the lock was jammed. He grabbed the black bars, rattled them. The gate squealed open and hit his chest. Jake stumbled backward.

It was not locked.

He turned the knob on the inner door. The second barrier opened effortlessly. He would have to warn Rachel again about locking up.

Jake climbed the flight of stairs to the landing, his soaked shoes exuding squishing sounds, his sodden coat slapping against his trembling legs. He turned the corner and continued up the last of the stairs to his loft, then stopped outside his office. A frail keening sound called to him through the space under the door. He strained to hear it. What could make that sound?

He pushed on the door. It was not locked. It should have been. It swung slowly open into his office, the hinges imitating the wailing sound that trailed from within. His heart hitched between beats.

Why was it so dark?

Even if Rachel had gone to bed, she would have left a light on for him. Jake reached for the wall switch, hesitated, and let his hand fall, deciding on darkness, on silence. He was good in the dark. He could find his way past his darkrooms without bumping into anything. He was used to operating in the dark. Color printing had taught him that, but this was somehow different. He held his breath and shuffled down the ebony hall to the bedroom.

A screech escaped from under his right foot. He gasped and jerked. A damn dog toy. When his heart stopped jumping, he swore silently and resumed his furtive journey, following the muffled, hollow wailing until he could tell it was coming from the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. A jagged slit of light crawled out from under the bathroom door along with the pathetic lamentation. He could put it off no longer. Sliding his hand along the wall, Jake searched for the light switch.


An automatic reflex slammed his eyes shut. On his inner lids he saw a repeating image, like a red Jackson Pollock fan. He blinked. There it was, on the wall over the headboard of his disheveled bed. The fan painting. No canvas. No frame. Just a red splatter design. The lustrous red paint trickled down the wall.

Jake hurled himself into the white-tiled bathroom. More scarlet fans adorned the walls. Nikki, Rachel's little Yorkshire Terrier huddled next to a crumpled form on the red and white floor. Her golden head thrown back, Nikki howled to the ceiling light.

Jake dropped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his lover. No heartbeat answered his as he held her against his chest.


Jaker Preston is a New York City photographer who always let his camera see for him. When he is lured upstate for a funeral, a pair of malevolent body snatchers, Claude and Madeleine Devereux, convince him that he is more than flesh and bone, blurring the line of demarcation that separates reality from the dream world. A bloody message in Cajun French scrawled on a mirror sends him on a quest for revenge. Jake travels to Louisiana where on Mardi Gras eve he ultimately achieves not only revenge, but the spiritual transformation he has been searching for all his life.