The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

A hundred yards behind her, a truck blew past on the interstate, sending a rush of energy, air, and sound cutting through the quiet night.

She hefted her large bellows camera on her shoulder and, with her flashlight in hand, followed the matted path until she spotted the billow of the yellow crime scene tape. She set up the tripod facing east and checked her watch. It was 5 AM and the sun would rise in about forty-five minutes. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She hurried back to her truck and from a wooden storage box retrieved a ten-by-eight glass plate that she’d precut and cleaned last night. After wiping down the plate one last time, she uncorked a glass bottle filled with the chemical collodion, poured the syrupy liquid on the glass, and gently tipped her wrist back and forth. The trick was to evenly coat the glass. The masters of this process, known as “flowing the plate,” strove for no streaks or runs, but she’d found the occasional imperfection added depth and interest to her final prints.

When she’d coated the plate to her satisfaction, she poured the excess collodion back into the bottle and opened what looked like a black, slim file box. She slid the glass negative into the box, which was filled with silver nitrate, and waited five minutes. Tenting her work area under a large black blanket that blocked out all light, she removed the tacky, light-sensitive glass negative and loaded it into a plate holder. She hurried back to her camera, knowing her negative needed to be used while still damp.

Under another black drape, she inserted the first negative into the camera just as the initial bits of light appeared on the horizon. Through the viewfinder the image appeared upside down, but when she processed the negative it would right itself.

The sun inched up to the edge of the horizon, and she reached around and pulled the cap off the lens. She counted to thirty and then replaced the cap. With the morning heat already rising, she hurried back to her truck with the exposed negative, ducked under her blanket again, and poured developer evenly over the glass plate. As she counted to fifteen she gently agitated the glass and watched for her image to appear.

More thunder rumbled in the distance and the rising winds whooshed over the tall, dry grass. When the image emerged, she poured water over it, halting the development process. She set the negative aside to dry and prepared a second.

With thunderclouds looming, she shot and developed two more negatives before the threat of rain forced her to load up her equipment.

By six thirty, as the morning traffic on the interstate built, she was angling her camera gently into the back of the truck.

The pleasure of her morning’s work ended abruptly when flashing blue police lights reflected in her side mirror. “Damn.”

She’d been through this before, cops spotting her at a crime scene and stopping to ask what she was doing. Logically it made sense. What person in their right mind would do this? But logic didn’t temper her irritation.

The officer, in his midforties, short with dark hair, got out of his car and approached her, one hand on his gun. “Ma’am, what are you doing out here?”

Turning, she kept her hands, palms open at her side. “I’m a photographer. I was taking pictures of the sunrise. In the back of my truck, you’ll see my camera and equipment.”

He moved to the back of the truck, touched her back tailgate with his palm, and glanced inside. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eyes narrowed, he pulled a flashlight from his belt and shined it inside. The light swept over the camera, the chemicals, and the box of negatives.

“My name is Lara Church. I teach at the university, and I have an art show opening this Friday in Austin.”

He glanced at her and then at the equipment. “What is there to photograph out here?”

“I’ve been known to pick some random places at odd times.”

“What kind of camera is that?”

“It’s a bellows camera. The kind photographers used during the Civil War. Ansel Adams took his pictures out west with a bellows camera.” She’d found the better she explained herself the less time she would be detained.

He stared at her as if he wasn’t sure if she was crazy or just stupid. She could have told him maybe a little of both.

“Can I see your driver’s license and registration?”

“Sure.” She moved toward the front of the truck and paused. “I have a dog in the front seat. He’s pretty big but harmless.”

The officer nodded and held back as she moved to the front of the cab and grabbed her purse. She fished her driver’s license out of her wallet and handed it to the officer.

He glanced at the license. “Texas.”

“I just changed it to Texas from Florida a couple of weeks ago.” She’d had the Florida license for two years but hadn’t lived in the state for over two years. After Florida there’d been Vermont and then Maine. Out-of-date identification was another red flag she was careful to avoid.

“I’ll be right back. And do me a favor. Get back in your truck.”

The order made her bristle. “Sure.”

She slid behind the wheel of the car, scratched a curious Lincoln on the head, and waited, irritated. If she’d been just a minute faster she’d have been gone and well on her way home. This delay meant she’d get caught in early-morning commuter traffic.

After a ten-minute wait the officer returned and handed her back her papers. “Looks like you’re clear.”

She swallowed a smart-ass response. “Right.”

“It’s not safe out here by yourself, Ms. Church. We’ve had trouble in this stretch of road.”

I know. A woman was murdered, and I just photographed the spot where they found her body. “I’ll be more careful.”

“It’s not about being careful, it’s about staying away from places that leave you vulnerable.”

Seven years of careful had landed her in a half-living kind of existence. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The drive back to her house took forty-five minutes, and by the time she arrived, she’d driven through a heavy but brief thunderstorm. She let Lincoln out of the car, reached over the backseat to grab her box of negatives. A barking Lincoln waited for her on the front porch.

“Okay, okay, I hear you. Breakfast. Pronto.”

She set her negatives down on the dining room table, moved into the kitchen, and pulled out his bag of food, which she dumped into a bowl. She filled his water bowl with fresh water and then placed a chew stick by his bowl.

Her stomach grumbled, but instead of taking the time to eat, she grabbed a piece of cheese from the refrigerator and her negatives. She’d eat a real meal later.

She closed the shed door and moved to the table where she had her chemical trays and light source set up.

As soon as Lara opened the box of glass negatives she lost track of time. When she worked with the negatives and the images, the outside world melted away, along with worries and fears.

When Lincoln started barking, she glanced at her wristwatch and realized that five hours had passed. Knowing she had to wrap for the day, she still took one last glance at the images she’d created. She was pleased. On one negative the chemicals had not reached the edges of the glass so when the image developed, her imperfect technique created a jagged frame that wrapped around thunderous clouds backlit by a rising sun and the strip of crime scene tape that flapped in the wind.

She held the image up. At first she stared at it with an artist’s critical eye, but as the seconds ticked, she found herself searching beyond the physical elements to the dark mind of the killer. Why did you kill her?

Lincoln barked louder, dragging her from her unanswered questions. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I didn’t mean to lose track of the time.”

She opened the shed door and found herself face-to-face with Sergeant James Beck. Lincoln barked from the kitchen window, clearly frustrated that he wasn’t free.

As the dog barked, she took a step back. “What are you doing here?”

He glared at her

and then back at the dog. “Your dog needs to be let out.”

Torn between arguing and Lincoln’s needs, she brushed past him as she dug the key from her pocket. Seconds after she opened the door, the dog bounded up to Beck, who stared at the animal until it lowered its gaze.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated.

His gaze held the darkness of an angry man. “What were you doing at my crime scene this morning?”

She teetered between flustered and annoyed. “How did you know where I was this morning?”

“The DPS trooper who took your identification called my office and mentioned your name.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Big state, small world.”

He raised his brow. “I put the word out that if your name came up I wanted to hear about it.”

Annoyance snapped. “You’ve had people spying on me?”

“Not spying, just on the lookout.” He towered over her by nearly a foot. “Why were you there?”

His commanding tone had her muscles bristling. “I wasn’t aware that it belonged to you.”

His jaw tightened. “What were you doing there?”

She danced with the devil. “I didn’t see any ‘No Trespassing’ signs.”

He leaned so close she smelled hints of his soap. “Do you really want to get into a pissing match with me, Ms. Church? Do you?”

Anger pushed aside the fear pounding in her throat. “Sure, why not? I haven’t had a good workout this morning.”

His gaze narrowed. “You can tell me what you were doing this morning now or downtown in my office. I’ve got time to kill and it would give me great pleasure to drag you into headquarters and waste your day.”

Beck didn’t make idle threats, of that she was certain. She could dig in her heels and win a trip into Austin. Or she could talk, and get on with her day. “Detective Raines was like you. He didn’t think twice about screwing with my day if he didn’t like the answers I gave him.”

Beck’s brows knotted. “What were you doing at my crime scene?”

She folded her arms over her chest, wondering why he drove her to be so childish. “I was taking pictures. I am a photographer.”

“What’s out there worth photographing? It’s the side of the interstate.”

“It’s a crime scene. That’s what I photograph.”

He shook his head, his disapproval evident. “Does the world need to see more violence?”