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full-fledged itch at the base of my skull as I stared.
The brilliant glow of the strobe painted his form once again, and I
heard my wife call out another set of notes. This time, however, I
didn’t look away.
    Instead, I asked, “Are you going to do
close-ups of his chest?”
    “No,” she replied. “That will be in the
mid-range shots. You only do close-ups of wounds or anomalies.”
    “Okay, but look at his chest,” I told her,
pointing.
    The streaks of blood, which at first had
appeared to be merely a by-product of the head wound were beginning
to reveal much more. Upon close scrutiny, a few of the trickles
followed an opposing pattern to that which had dripped from above.
It wasn’t readily obvious, primarily due to the amount of
collateral spattering, but if you looked hard enough, you could see
it. On top of that, they looked as though they formed some kind of
pattern.
    Felicity cocked her head to the side and
concentrated on the area I indicated. Finally, she leaned in at the
threshold and peered through the viewfinder of the camera. That
didn’t surprise me, as the lens always seemed to act as an
amplifier for her. It was a focal point of sorts and one that often
caused her to transcend the physical, allowing second-sight to take
hold. And, through it she could see things even I could not.
    After a moment she snapped a series of
pictures then turned back to me. “I think they’re shallow cuts.
Like from a razor.”
    “Like maybe he was tortured?”
    “Maybe.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.
They aren’t very deep. In fact, there are several of them that are
almost completely superficial. They don’t even look as though they
actually bled. But, there might be a pattern there. I’m not
sure.”
    “Bizarre,” I mumbled.
    “Aye, that’s for sure. Either way, the
medical examiner will be able to get better pics once he’s cleaned
up.”
    Whether it was an effect of the flash,
prolonged staring, or just luck, I couldn’t say. At any rate the
equation suddenly changed. It wasn’t solved, but there was
definitely a new value to assign to one of the variables. Of
course, new values sometimes do nothing more than beget new
unknowns, and that didn’t always make solving the equation any
easier.
    I kept telling myself that we were just here
to take the crime scene photos, but in the back of my head I knew
better. There was a reason for the flu epidemic and rash of
no-answers from the other photographers on the list. I might not be
having one of my customary headaches or visions just yet, but they
were probably just around the corner. There was something ethereal
at work here, and it had brought us to this particular scene for a
purpose; of that I had no doubt.
    I could feel the muscles in the back of my
neck tighten as my hair prickled upward. A tired bromide that I’d
spouted to my wife only a few days before popped into my head, and
I suddenly realized just how foretelling it had been.
    The calm was over and a violent storm front
was fast approaching. What’s more, Felicity and I were standing
directly in its path.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 7:

     
    “I already told you I don’t work for you,”
Felicity spat angrily while remaining fully engaged in a “stare
down” confrontation with a young, overly groomed, FBI agent.
    The sun had been up for almost an hour now,
and we had only just finished shooting the exterior of the motel,
the parking lot, and Wentworth’s car when he had stopped us and
quickly displayed his badge.
    “That is not an issue,” he replied, his own
gaze not wavering from the face of the petite redhead in front of
him.
    “It is for me.”
    “Get over it.”
    “All right then, who’s going to pay for the
flash cards?”
    “You’ll get them back when we’re finished,”
he told her.
    “Yeah, right,” she snipped.
    Ben walked over to where we were standing,
coming within earshot just in time to catch my wife’s adamant
commentary. “What’s goin’ on here?” he