Double Image by David Morrell Page B

said. “The photographer has to imagine the way the image would look normally. Not only that — the camera’s heavy. It uses negatives protected by a lightproof holder, two negatives to a holder, so if you want to take a hundred exposures, you need fifty holders, and
they’re
heavy. And then, of course, you need various filters and lenses, which you have to carry with you, and which, I assume, are in the other box. Taking a view camera on a photo assignment can be like going on a safari.”
    “You’re sure it’s worth it?”
    “Right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Coltrane stared reverentially at the camera. “Look at the scratches on it. Old.” He studied the manufacturer’s name imprinted on the metal rim at the back. “Korona. I’m not sure that company’s still in business.”
    Numbed, Coltrane sank onto the sofa, struck by the implications. This must be the same camera that Packard used to photograph his famous series of L.A. houses, he thought. In a way he had never imagined, this assignment to recreate that series was going to be an education. He had known that he would be literally following Packard’s footsteps: doing his best to find where Packard had placed his camera, trying to reproduce the same camera angles. But Coltrane had assumed that he would use contemporary cameras. Now he understood that modern equipment would skew the experiment, drawing more attention to how
photography
had changed than to how the
city
had changed since the twenties. The further implication was that by wanting Coltrane to use the same camera
he
had, Packard was telling him to do everything possible to try to identify with Packard, to pretend to
be
Packard. Only then would Coltrane understand the decisions Packard had made when photographing those houses.
    The phone rang.
    Maybe it’s the old man, Coltrane thought. “Hello?”
    “You’ll never guess what a messenger just delivered,” Jennifer said excitedly. “The prints and the signed permission forms. This is very definitely a done deal.”
    “And
you’ll
never guess what a messenger just delivered to me. The view camera Packard used.”
    “What?”
    “Get over here. You’ve got to see this camera.”
     
18
     
    “HELLO.” Duncan’s voice sounded thick, as if he’d been drinking.
    “It’s Mitch Coltrane.”
    No response. Coltrane pressed the phone harder to his ear, wondering if there was something wrong with the connection. “Duncan?”
    “This is about the camera?”
    “I can’t get over how generous he’s being. Is this a good time to talk to him? I’d like to thank him and swear he’ll get everything back in perfect condition.”
    “No, I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.”
    “Then I’ll call back. When do you think he might be feeling—”
    “Randolph died two hours ago.”
    A chill started at Coltrane’s feet and went all the way to his scalp. “No. How . . . Yesterday . . .”
    “He put up a good front. His breathing got worse around three this morning. Even with the oxygen at its highest setting, he still had to fight for air.”
    “Jesus.”
    “I phoned for his doctor, but Randolph left strict instructions that he didn’t want to go to a hospital. All we could do was make him comfortable. By early afternoon, he was finally at peace.”
    “The camera.” Coltrane had difficulty getting his voice to work. “When did . . .”
    “We discussed it last evening. That’s also when he signed the photo-permission forms, which I assume your editor has by now, along with the prints. The project can go forward as planned. For some reason, Randolph thought it important that someone retrace his steps.”
    “I won’t let him down.”
    “He didn’t think you would. You’d be surprised how close he was beginning to feel toward you. ‘A fellow orphan’ is how he described you. I want to be sure you understand. Randolph found it almost impossible to speak near the end, but he managed an amazing effort to make me