Oct 10, 2013 - [9:30 pm]
Prescott Barn
South of Arcadia Bay, Oregon

I'm not supposed to be here.

I have an utterly asinine award that I should be presenting right now. Instead, I'm forced to ensure that my increasingly unstable apprentice hasn't committed some catastrophically stupid act, even though I'm very much afraid that he has.

Glancing down at my phone, I re-read the trio of rapid-fire texts I received about twenty minutes ago.

Nathan: Something happened.

Nathan: I handled it, but I need help.

Nathan: Please come.

To say I'm concerned by Nathan's short, vague string of messages is a massive understatement. In fact, they're unsettlingly reminiscent of the night he accidentally killed Rachel Amber. A situation I'd managed to salvage and had made clear I was not interested in repeating. Ever.

By the time I noticed his messages, his phone was already turned off. And as irritating as that is, it's probably the one thing I can't fault him for. It's one of the absolute rules we observe when we go to the Dark Room; phones get turned off. I exit the highway, I glance down to confirm that my phone is off, as well. Not that I think anyone would be tracking it, but a little paranoia never hurt anyone.

My headlights fall on Nathan's bright red pickup truck as I pull up to the dilapidated barn, and I can clearly discern the obvious drag marks in the dirt. They run from the truck's passenger side to the barn entrance and do absolutely nothing to put my mind at ease.

Nathan has a way of responding aggressively when challenged, and this wouldn't be the first time he mistook impulsivity for decisiveness. He might not have been the most stable individual to begin with, but since Rachel's death this kind of erratic behavior has become increasingly common.

God knows I've tried to set him straight. Any photographer worth the title should know that it doesn't matter whether you're fast or slow, shooting action or still, in a studio or out in the world. Above all else, you take every shot with forethought. You need to know what you're looking at before you can capture it.

Impulsivity is the antithesis of forethought. It's born out of stupidity. It not only welcomes failure, but practically invites it. It leads to disappointment. Above all, it creates complications, and complications are unacceptable; particularly from someone who'd call themselves my protégé.

Stepping inside the barn, I immediately spot Nathan sitting on a bale of hay, fidgeting nervously. He jumps to his feet. "Okay, so don't be angry."

Those are the first words he chooses? If there are any words in the English language more fundamentally opposed to keeping someone calm, I've never heard them. "Then don't give me a reason to be."

"I just...I didn't have a choice," he stresses, leading the way down the steps and through the open bunker door. "We were talking and she was saying all this stuff and it was like she knew. About everything. But it's okay, because she said she understood."

Before I can muster a response to his asinine rambling, I step around the corner to discover the full scope of the problem. Victoria Chase is laying on the floor, bound and gagged. And although she's clearly been drugged, that isn't stopping her from looking me directly in the eye. From recognizing me.

"What have you done?"

"M-Mr. Jefferson?" Nathan stammers.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I..."

"Why is she here?"

"I told you, she..."

"Seemed like she knew something, yes. That's not what I asked, though. I want you to explain why she's here. I want to know what the hell you were thinking when you brought her here."

"But...you were going to bring her here anyway." He seems genuinely baffled. "And she said she'd..."

"I was going to bring her after she accepted her award, Nathan. After. So that whatever happened to her tonight could be blamed on her celebrating too hard. So that she'd be too afraid of missing her trip to San Francisco to go to the police. So that I'd have three days to make sure she decides to forget about it." It pains me that I have to explain all of this to him, of all people. "She's not supposed to be here right now. She was supposed to be present when her win was announced five fucking minutes ago."

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Jefferson. I just..."

"Was anyone else around when you took her?"

"No, no one." He hesitates because he's lying to me. And he knows I know that. "I mean, basically no one."

"They have a word for 'basically no one', Nathan, and that word is someone."

"I think I heard her talking to Taylor Christensen before she ran into me, but Taylor never saw us together, I swear!"

"She wouldn't have to, Nathan. When someone notices Victoria is gone, she just has to tell them Victoria was in the dorms."

"So?"

"The same dorms you're supposed to be confined to, following your suspension. And that you're recently missing from."

"If anyone asks, I'll say I went home. My dad owns this town, so no one will say shit."

"And what about the other witness?"

"I...what other witness?"

I wordlessly point to the bound girl on the floor.

"She's drugged."

"And yet she's awake," I point out.

"No! I...I mean, barely. She won't get loose or anything."

I honestly believed that Nathan was smarter than this. "Do you really think that's what I care about?"

"But she...she said she'd forgive me afterward," he insists. "She said she understood."

"What in the hell are you on about?"

"We were talking about Rachel..." he hesitates. "I mean, not about her exactly, and I asked Victoria what she'd do if I'd been the one who did it and she said that she'd understand and forgive me."

That's absurd. "And you believed her."

"Of course," he responds, immediately, like the ignorant child he is. "We've known each other forever."

"She won't understand, Nathan. And she most certainly won't forgive you."

"But she's an artist, too! She'd recognize what we're going here! She'd understand!"

The way he keeps repeating that word is wearing on my already thin patience.

"First of all, Victoria Chase is not an artist. Victoria Chase exemplifies the fact that taking photos doesn't make someone a photographer, and that money can't buy talent." Having to choose Victoria's entry as the contest winner had legitimately pained me. Of all the entries, hers was simply the least disappointing. "Second of all, even if she were, she'd never be able to grasp the truth of what we're trying to find here. Her kind isn't capable of it. Understood?"

"...yes," he murmurs, staring at his shoes and looking properly chastised.

"Good. Unfortunately, the fact that you've once again failed to properly measure a dosage means that she's going to remember this."

"I...I didn't want to..." He swallows. "A-after Rachel...I didn't want to use too much."

"She's going to talk, Nathan," I say, ignoring his sniveling tone. "You know what that means."

"B-but I...I promised her." He swallows. "She's my friend. I don't want to..."

"What you want doesn't matter anymore." I step forward, looming over him. "Or do we have a problem?"

His mouth works silently for a moment. "N-no. No problem."

"Good. In the meantime, there's no sense being wasteful. We should try and get the most out of our time with Ms. Chase, don't you think?"

He nods, cautiously.

"I'd have thought you'd show a little more enthusiasm, Nathan. This could be an opportunity for you to redeem yourself."

"It could?" he asks, hopefully. It's pitiful, like a dog perking up at the promise of a scrap.

"If you're willing to take advantage of it." I glance at Victoria. "And if you're ready to do what's necessary."

He glances between Victoria and I for a moment, then nods eagerly. "Whatever it takes."

However much the drugs may be affecting her, Victoria is sober enough to understand that. The betrayal in her eyes is beautiful.

"Glad to hear it. Now, go set up the H4D."

"R-really?"

I suppose I can't blame him for his surprise. The Hasselblad H4D-200MS is a $45,000 camera. Before now, I've barely even allowed him to touch it, let alone actually use it. "Yes, Nathan. Really."

I don't bother watching him go through his preparations. If Nathan can't set up a photoshoot unsupervised after this long, then I don't feel like watching him fail.

Moving to the shining steel medical cart I keep to one side; I begin to prepare a syringe. I've always enjoyed the proper application of drugs. It's such an elegant technique of controlling others, because although I'm not particularly repulsed by the sight of blood, I prefer to leave it where it is.

My early work relied on much cruder methods, particularly since I lacked the means to ensure my subjects had no memory of our time together. Thankfully, New York is a dangerous city. There are a hundred possible explanations for a missing girl.

Drugs are so much cleaner, though.

After so many years, I've developed a knack for guessing dosages. How much it takes to leave someone in a half-conscious, unremembered stupor. How much is needed to put them out cold. How much is necessary to ensure they never wake up.

To be fair, that last one isn't much of a challenge; a full syringe, emptied directly into the carotid artery, never fails to bring someone to a swift and silent end. Something Nathan likely won't have time to reflect on as I step up behind him.

His only response to the needle piercing his neck is a small, sharp gasp. His knees buckle almost immediately, and I wonder about the look on his face right now. Shock? Betrayal? I'll never know, because his features have gone slack by the time he falls backward, his glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. In truth, his heart had probably stopped before he hit the floor, and I'm a little disappointed at not having the opportunity to capture that.

There's something elegant about the way a lifeless body falls, crumpling to the ground with no effort to stop itself. Nathan himself had once called it 'ragdoll physics'. Such a brilliant way to phrase it. The marriage of two ideas, one so innocent and childish, the other so inherently complex. He'd always had a keen mind for that kind of thing, but in that moment I was genuinely impressed.

If only he'd possessed a little more self-control. Very disappointing.

I usually go to great lengths to avoid unnecessary deaths, if only so I don't have to deal with the nuisance of hiding the evidence. Disposing of Arcadia Bay's prodigal son will prove especially challenging. I can't imagine that Sean Prescott will simply accept the disappearance of his sole heir.

Between this and Rachel Amber, I think it may be time for me to move on. Arcadia Bay has gotten boring, anyway. I think it's time to go back to San Francisco or New York. Perhaps I could spend some time working abroad.

A soft keening sound distracts me from my thoughts, pulling my attention back to Victoria. She's on her knees, tears streaming down her face, gazing at Nathan's body with a profound blend of grief and misery. Now that's really something. He betrayed her, brought her here, even agreed to kill her, and she's still mourning him.

I should kill her, too. Sedate her, at the very least. But her eyes are utterly captivating. I've never seen eyes filled with so much anguish. It's beautiful. Such purity of loss. I'm barely aware of anything else as I pick up the Hasselblad, lean forward, and caress the shutter release to capture that all-important first shot. I've always found the smooth click of the shutter to be soothing, but Victoria seems to feel otherwise. She lurches to her feet, still unsteady from the drugs in her system, and manages to stagger a full step toward the door. I'd have been impressed if she hadn't ruined my framing in the process, but a sharp backhand quickly gets her back under control.

She falls backward, her eyebrow split, a thin trickle of blood standing out boldly against her pale skin, eyes downcast as she tries to make herself as small as possible. Pitiful. I can't believe I was forced to settle for her. I'd set my sights so much higher than another self-important teenage slut willing to fuck a teacher to win a contest.

But even with a damaged face, the hit did nothing to dampen the despair in those eyes of hers. Grief is enduring that way. We've got time, though, there will be plenty of opportunities to discover who she really is. Peel back the layers of anger and self-importance to expose the fragile thing beneath. And I imagine that Victoria Chase has no shortage of layers.

Not like dear, sweet Kate. She wore her heart on her sleeve, making it easy to find and pierce. She'd been superb to work with; so fundamentally naïve that even when the drugs faded enough for her to flirt with lucidity, she still hadn't been able to find comprehension. But while photographing her had been satisfying enough, the real art had been in what came after.

Her own refusal to acknowledge that she'd been asking for it, that being so pure is akin to begging the world to strike you down, left her so traumatized that it took nothing more than a few harsh words and a blurry online video to push her over the edge. I got to enjoy a front row seat to her entire breakdown. It was breathtaking to watch her come apart at the seams as her friends and family turned on her.

I'd even had the opportunity to give her that final push, so to speak. I'd have been disappointed that I hadn't been able to see her come to an end, but for the poetry of Max Caulfield's timely intervention.

Ah, Maxine. That face. Those eyes. All I've wanted, from the moment I first seen her, was to immortalize the moment the light of hope in them died.

But in her absence, I suppose I'll have to make do with what's available.

I capture a few more shots of Victoria, then a couple more. I've always loved this part, no matter the subject, and I can't help but feel my excitement mounting. She moves again, but rather than correct her I decide to see where the action leads. I move with her, stepping to the left as her shadow melts from one shape to another, until my foot lands on something uneven and I nearly trip.

"What the...?"

Oh, yes. Nathan. I suppose I ought to deal with that.

For better or worse, my work has given me plenty of experience with heavy lifting. After taking a moment to make sure Victoria doesn't get up to anything while I'm outside, I lift Nathan's body (which is hardly a challenge, considering he's supposed to be an athlete) and carry it up to the barn. I'll need to dispose of it somewhere, and I'm not going to risk burying another body at the junk yard. Repetition like that is an excellent way to get caught.

I could simply take it up to the lighthouse and throw it off the edge. Given Nathan's reputation, I don't imagine anyone would have trouble believing he'd commit suicide. And that's assuming the body was ever found. Thinking it over as I reach the barn's door and step outside, I find that it's probably the easiest solu-

"Police! Freeze!"

A police cruiser parked right next to my car.

Two officers, guns drawn, slowly advancing on me.

"Oh, fuck," one of them mutters. "Is that the Prescott kid?"

"Put him down, Jefferson," the other says, his eyes fixed on me. "Nice and gentle. And keep those hands where I can see them."

A lifetime of carefully honed reflexes drives my next action. I've already let go of the body by the time he finishes his sentence and, predictably, both officers look down to watch it fall. Their distraction only offers me a narrow sliver of time in which to act, but I've built my career in fractions of a second. I've got a hand on my gun before Nathan even hits the dirt.

Drawing as quickly as I can, I manage to fire off a few wild shots as I duck back into the open door. They respond - too slowly - with shots of their own, missing me entirely as I sprint back to the bunker entrance. Although they aren't stupid enough to immediately follow me inside, I waste no time scrambling down the stairs and locking the heavy steel door behind me.

Damn it.

Damn it!

How could this happen? I've always been careful. Precise. All photography is a matter of precision and timing. What had I done wrong? As much as I'd love to blame Nathan for this, he wasn't so stupid as to lead the police here. And even if someone had seen him take Victoria, they couldn't have known about the bunker. No one does.

No one did.

"Shit!" I hiss, my mind whirling as I try to think of a way to escape, even though I know there isn't any. There's only one way in or out of my Dark Room, and right now it's all that stands between me and the Arcadia Bay Police Department. I can already hear them thumping on the other side, yelling something angry and indistinct.

Taking a step back from the door, I force myself to calm down and think rationally.

That's five inches of solid steel. They can't get through.

I have time.

I have all the time in the world.

Calmer now, I return to the bunker's main room to find Victoria struggling against her bonds. She's even trying to shout through the tape covering her filthy mouth, as though anyone outside could possibly hear her. It's pathetic, and for a second I'm tempted to just empty an entire syringe into that smooth little neck of hers and be done with it.

Still, I can't bear to let a good opportunity go to waste. She's here and I'm here and I suspect this is going to be my last shoot, at least for some time. I may as well make the most of it. Strolling over to my cabinets, I take a moment to queue up some music. There's no way in hell I'm going to stand here and listen to those idiots pounding on the door.

Finding an album that suits my mood, I retrieve my camera from the coffee table and walk over to Victoria. She's crying again, and I find myself struggling to find the same sense of inspiration at the sight as I felt before. No matter - I'm sure it'll return soon enough.

"Now then, Victoria." I can't help but smile as she lets out another muted wail. "Where were we?"