Read Online A Fierce Radiance by Lauren Belfer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Belfer
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buses and trucks. She turned left onto York and walked several blocks south. Diagonally across the street, a gigantic gas tank glinted in the sun. It filled the entire block. If New York City were bombed and the gas tank were hit…she shook off a vision of horror.
At Sixty-third Street, Claire turned left, toward the river. Here the cliff dissipated, creating the effect of a mountain pass. The East Sixty-third Street entrance to the highway curved beside her. Instead of taking the pedestrian footbridge that crossed the highway and ledto the promenade along the water, Claire climbed over a low fence and walked along the base of the cliff. The highway was about thirty feet from her. The stark cliff was punctured by wide doorways cut through the stone, most likely used to receive shipping from the river before the highway was built. Now the doorways were closed up, grass and weeds growing against them, creating an eerie, disturbing image: abandoned doorways cut into a cliff at the edge of a river. The Institute’s buildings, spread across the top of the bluff, appeared monumental and strange, like a series of castles along the cliffs of the Rhine.
She stopped beneath Founder’s Hall. From her camera bag, she removed the towel she used to cushion the cameras and spread it upon the garbage and newspapers at the bottom of the cliff. She knew the shot she needed, and she didn’t examine the garbage too closely. A quick glance revealed chicken bones and apple cores.
About a hundred yards upriver, four drifters had built a fire in a barrel. They passed around a bottle in a brown paper bag. So far, they hadn’t noticed her. This would be a secluded landing spot for boats carrying contraband, or a safe refuge for ne’er-do-wells hiding from the police. A gang probably controlled the area and required payment from anyone seeking shelter. In places like this, the Depression lingered, hopelessness endured. Her equipment was valuable, a lure for any thief. She owned it, not the magazine. On the other hand, Mack would replace it without question. If someone really wants it, he’d told her more than once, hand it over. Never fight for it.
Even so, best to get on with things before the men spotted her. To accentuate the drifting clouds, she put the K-2, the yellow filter, on the Leica. She stretched out on her back. Through the camera, the Institute looked ancient and isolated, an appropriate place for medical experiments with green mold. As she lost herself in her work, a joy flowed through her. She’d solved the problem, and the results would be precisely what she wanted.
“Are you quite all right? Do you need help?”
Startled, she gripped the Leica to her chest. A man stood beside her. He’d spoken with a British accent. He wore a dark overcoat and a gray muffler. Thin and long-faced, he’d taken off his hat in the gusting wind. His hair was white. She read his appearance and manner as unthreatening. Next to the cliff, however, they were in shadow. With the sky brilliant behind him, his face was unreadable.
Even while preparing to defend herself, she thought, best to behave as if everything was normal. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good.” He didn’t move. “May I be so bold as to ask why you’re lying down on garbage?”
“The view upward is very dramatic.” Then she recognized him: David, the man who’d come to the lab with Tia the evening before.
“Is it?” He looked up. “Yes, I see what you mean. Castles.”
“Exactly.”
“Forgive me for prying,” he said. “We haven’t been introduced. David Hoskins, mycologist.” He bowed slightly. “Gainfully, or not so gainfully, depending on one’s perspective, employed up above. Partner in research to Dr. Lucretia Stanton. And I know who you are, the famous photographer in our midst. The talk of the town. Of course not much happens in our little town, so being the talk of it is easier than elsewhere.”
“I photographed you last night.”
“I
At Sixty-third Street, Claire turned left, toward the river. Here the cliff dissipated, creating the effect of a mountain pass. The East Sixty-third Street entrance to the highway curved beside her. Instead of taking the pedestrian footbridge that crossed the highway and ledto the promenade along the water, Claire climbed over a low fence and walked along the base of the cliff. The highway was about thirty feet from her. The stark cliff was punctured by wide doorways cut through the stone, most likely used to receive shipping from the river before the highway was built. Now the doorways were closed up, grass and weeds growing against them, creating an eerie, disturbing image: abandoned doorways cut into a cliff at the edge of a river. The Institute’s buildings, spread across the top of the bluff, appeared monumental and strange, like a series of castles along the cliffs of the Rhine.
She stopped beneath Founder’s Hall. From her camera bag, she removed the towel she used to cushion the cameras and spread it upon the garbage and newspapers at the bottom of the cliff. She knew the shot she needed, and she didn’t examine the garbage too closely. A quick glance revealed chicken bones and apple cores.
About a hundred yards upriver, four drifters had built a fire in a barrel. They passed around a bottle in a brown paper bag. So far, they hadn’t noticed her. This would be a secluded landing spot for boats carrying contraband, or a safe refuge for ne’er-do-wells hiding from the police. A gang probably controlled the area and required payment from anyone seeking shelter. In places like this, the Depression lingered, hopelessness endured. Her equipment was valuable, a lure for any thief. She owned it, not the magazine. On the other hand, Mack would replace it without question. If someone really wants it, he’d told her more than once, hand it over. Never fight for it.
Even so, best to get on with things before the men spotted her. To accentuate the drifting clouds, she put the K-2, the yellow filter, on the Leica. She stretched out on her back. Through the camera, the Institute looked ancient and isolated, an appropriate place for medical experiments with green mold. As she lost herself in her work, a joy flowed through her. She’d solved the problem, and the results would be precisely what she wanted.
“Are you quite all right? Do you need help?”
Startled, she gripped the Leica to her chest. A man stood beside her. He’d spoken with a British accent. He wore a dark overcoat and a gray muffler. Thin and long-faced, he’d taken off his hat in the gusting wind. His hair was white. She read his appearance and manner as unthreatening. Next to the cliff, however, they were in shadow. With the sky brilliant behind him, his face was unreadable.
Even while preparing to defend herself, she thought, best to behave as if everything was normal. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good.” He didn’t move. “May I be so bold as to ask why you’re lying down on garbage?”
“The view upward is very dramatic.” Then she recognized him: David, the man who’d come to the lab with Tia the evening before.
“Is it?” He looked up. “Yes, I see what you mean. Castles.”
“Exactly.”
“Forgive me for prying,” he said. “We haven’t been introduced. David Hoskins, mycologist.” He bowed slightly. “Gainfully, or not so gainfully, depending on one’s perspective, employed up above. Partner in research to Dr. Lucretia Stanton. And I know who you are, the famous photographer in our midst. The talk of the town. Of course not much happens in our little town, so being the talk of it is easier than elsewhere.”
“I photographed you last night.”
“I
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