minutes she set it back beside a book of black and white photographs made with a large format view camera. Instead of the career she dreamed of, perhaps as a free lance photographer or a professional employed by an important studio or publication, she was supposed to be content with the bird sanctuary, the art gallery, and waitress and cleaning jobs at the hotel. Yet she did not want to hurt her foster mother, not ever.
At a window she knelt and peered into a dark sky lit by the full moon, enough light for her task. She picked up her canvas backpack, took the tripod, and fastened it to the metal frame. Next came her 35 mm. camera, already loaded with fast panchromatic film. She checked. Two exposures left. Her cramped darkroom in the kitchen pantry was not equipped to develop color film, and Cedar Key had no place to leave it. But later tonight she could drive to Chiefland and drop the roll at an all night drug store. It would only take an extra hour. That is, if she got a picture.
Better not risk a flash. If she caught illegal hunters, they would see the light. With the fast film she could take a long exposure from a distance of perhaps forty feet. She wanted to be as far from her subject as possible. She grinned at the thought of exposing the so-called specter, but as long as she was alone and unarmed, she’d better be careful.
Behind the bamboo fence the reporter’s dog woofed, probably at a possum. Perhaps the O’Bannon woman would help her. A reporter would have useful contacts. In the pockets of her backpack Cara placed a short telephoto lens, a zoom lens, and the cable release, then made sure she had an extra roll of film, batteries, and a small flashlight.
Her lips were set, her eyes bright. If she could get a picture of the intruder, it would be in every newspaper in Central Florida. Just for making the attempt, she would be interviewed by the reporter, might even escape Cedar Key, might even get a job offer Marcia couldn’t ask her to refuse. She had studied every book on photography she could find. Now was the time to prove her ability, to earn the money for the Communication and Arts program at the University in Gainesville.
For a moment Cara’s face clouded. Of course, she owed a greater debt to her foster parent than most daughters did to their true mothers. She could never forget that, but here was a chance to accomplish something on her own, something no one else had tried. She might catch in her lens the Ghost of Shell Mound. And if it was a hunter with a miner’s light on his cap or a ball of gas, so much the better. Marcia would then be proud of her.
Cara had read fishermen’s accounts of the phantom for years—unsatisfactory descriptions of a white light that bounced among the trees, skittered across whole islands in a matter of minutes, and disappeared; of the school children frightened away from Shell Mound by a perfectly round light on a willowy body that vanished into the hole on Shell Mound. But she never saw any real evidence.
Things were buried at Shell Mound, of course. That’s what such a midden was for. Once pottery shards, shell necklaces, perhaps the bones of early native Americans had lain there, but they were plundered long ago. Now it was illegal to dig at the site.
She felt in the pockets of her jeans for her car keys. She would take the old station wagon and leave the panel truck. Marcia needed it for hauling injured birds and large pictures. She had thought of telling Truck about her plan after they stopped at the café on Second Street for coffee. But he seemed agitated about something he had heard in the lounge, something he would not discuss. Anyway, Truck’s main concern tonight was protecting his oyster beds from thieves. He would’ve made fun of her for trying to photograph a phantom. And he would certainly not help her escape Cedar Key.
When she and Marcia worked the Shell Mound area at night, they had permission to leave their car in the safety of the
At a window she knelt and peered into a dark sky lit by the full moon, enough light for her task. She picked up her canvas backpack, took the tripod, and fastened it to the metal frame. Next came her 35 mm. camera, already loaded with fast panchromatic film. She checked. Two exposures left. Her cramped darkroom in the kitchen pantry was not equipped to develop color film, and Cedar Key had no place to leave it. But later tonight she could drive to Chiefland and drop the roll at an all night drug store. It would only take an extra hour. That is, if she got a picture.
Better not risk a flash. If she caught illegal hunters, they would see the light. With the fast film she could take a long exposure from a distance of perhaps forty feet. She wanted to be as far from her subject as possible. She grinned at the thought of exposing the so-called specter, but as long as she was alone and unarmed, she’d better be careful.
Behind the bamboo fence the reporter’s dog woofed, probably at a possum. Perhaps the O’Bannon woman would help her. A reporter would have useful contacts. In the pockets of her backpack Cara placed a short telephoto lens, a zoom lens, and the cable release, then made sure she had an extra roll of film, batteries, and a small flashlight.
Her lips were set, her eyes bright. If she could get a picture of the intruder, it would be in every newspaper in Central Florida. Just for making the attempt, she would be interviewed by the reporter, might even escape Cedar Key, might even get a job offer Marcia couldn’t ask her to refuse. She had studied every book on photography she could find. Now was the time to prove her ability, to earn the money for the Communication and Arts program at the University in Gainesville.
For a moment Cara’s face clouded. Of course, she owed a greater debt to her foster parent than most daughters did to their true mothers. She could never forget that, but here was a chance to accomplish something on her own, something no one else had tried. She might catch in her lens the Ghost of Shell Mound. And if it was a hunter with a miner’s light on his cap or a ball of gas, so much the better. Marcia would then be proud of her.
Cara had read fishermen’s accounts of the phantom for years—unsatisfactory descriptions of a white light that bounced among the trees, skittered across whole islands in a matter of minutes, and disappeared; of the school children frightened away from Shell Mound by a perfectly round light on a willowy body that vanished into the hole on Shell Mound. But she never saw any real evidence.
Things were buried at Shell Mound, of course. That’s what such a midden was for. Once pottery shards, shell necklaces, perhaps the bones of early native Americans had lain there, but they were plundered long ago. Now it was illegal to dig at the site.
She felt in the pockets of her jeans for her car keys. She would take the old station wagon and leave the panel truck. Marcia needed it for hauling injured birds and large pictures. She had thought of telling Truck about her plan after they stopped at the café on Second Street for coffee. But he seemed agitated about something he had heard in the lounge, something he would not discuss. Anyway, Truck’s main concern tonight was protecting his oyster beds from thieves. He would’ve made fun of her for trying to photograph a phantom. And he would certainly not help her escape Cedar Key.
When she and Marcia worked the Shell Mound area at night, they had permission to leave their car in the safety of the
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