Taken (31 page)

Matthew chuckled at the image. “Send a lot of those type guys.”

“I want a smooth arrest,” Paul agreed. “I’d like George in handcuffs and talking, or saying ‘I want a lawyer’ and not talking, rather than dead. Shannon’s aware Flynn is certain to get arrested Sunday night?”

“She’s aware,” Matthew replied. “She’s not ready for it, but she’s accepted that it’s going to happen. Flynn will be the one person in the family you can pretty much trust to tell it straight, Paul. There’s enough in her journals to contradict him if he gives you a self-serving story. I’m not sure how many within the family he’ll be willing to testify against, but it sounds like
George and Peter are on the list he’d hand over on a silver platter if he can. If you can hold Flynn without charges for a while, keep him separate from the family, it’ll make this easier on Shannon. Just having some time pass will help. She’s going to ask you at some point if she can have a conversation with him—she hasn’t said that, but I can read how she’s thinking. She wants this over, but Flynn isn’t someone she’s seeing as only part of her past. I don’t think she’s put together a picture of the future, but she’s made an assumption she continues to see Flynn. My best guess is writing him letters, visiting him in prison is a possibility in her mind.”

“She’s holding on to him,” Paul remarked. “Interesting.”

“How much of that is a sense of closure—she’s put getting herself out and seeing him ‘get out’ as part of the same package to some degree—and how much of it is just their relationship flowing from the past and into the present is hard to figure. He’s important to her, I know that. She doesn’t move into her own future without knowing Flynn’s future has settled,” Matthew said.

“I’ll do what I can to make this unfold so Shannon doesn’t get surprised. Time is the one piece I can offer once he’s in custody. There are a lot of conversations we need to have, and I’m more than willing to start with Flynn as the linchpin on the eventual trial strategy. If nothing else, that can limit how much we need Shannon.” Paul shifted topics again. “Talk to me about Leah and Nella.”

Matthew gave Paul what Shannon had told him, along with what he’d picked up from the diaries. He sorted through his phone images and sent the one of Leah taken at some distance. “Shannon thinks a conversation with Leah next week is the right way to proceed. Leah is taking Shannon’s advice about writing a list of things to talk about with the police. Leah was mostly
West Coast and on the boat with Peter, never traveled the circuit with the family. Shannon is intentionally vague about dates, but the first journal entry mentioning a Leah is four years ago. I’m guessing that’s the time frame she represents.”

“I’ll send Rita out that way when Leah’s ready to talk,” Paul said. “How’s Shannon doing?”

Matthew thought about the expressions he had seen on Shannon’s face over the course of the day. “She’s lived a lifetime today, from extreme joy to grieving tears. It was as close to a normal day in emotions as I’ve witnessed with her.” He checked the time. He needed to get the grill started. “I’ll call you tomorrow once we’re back in Chicago. Would you mention to your wife I’ll have a conversation with Shannon about the Fourth of July? Ann’s suggestion for Shadow Lake and Rachel looks like it could work.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Paul said. “And I concur with Ann—our dog would love not to be in Chicago for the Fourth if you can make that happen.”

“I’m using it as a sweetener in my plan, as Shannon rather likes your dog,” Matthew replied. “Talk to you later, Paul.” He slid the phone into his pocket, relieved to have that call over. Paul had gone easy on him.

Dinner. A conversation about the Fourth, hopefully avoid their first serious disagreement. Matthew pushed himself out of the chair and headed into the house. “Shannon, hungry yet?”

“You were supposed to be annoyed with me for making Fourth of July plans for you without your input,” Matthew noted, sitting across from her with a cold drink.

They had eaten dinner at the dining room table, and he’d told Shannon about the arrangements he had worked out. She’d nodded, said, “Sounds good,” and asked him to pass the butter and basket of rolls. Now she was back to tabbing through images on the laptop while she ate the Dilly Bar he had brought from the freezer. “Becky called while you were talking to Paul,” Shannon told him around a bite, and didn’t elaborate.

Matthew hadn’t told his daughter about his concerns, so he wasn’t sure how to connect Shannon’s comment to his description of the Fourth.

Shannon must have seen his confusion. She smiled and explained, “Becky gave me a list of those coming with her to make sure I was okay with so many people being around. I don’t mind. She mentioned where her headphones were so I could suppress the noise from the fireworks, then came back around at the end of the conversation to warn me the cut glass vases and serving bowls in the china cupboard need to be set out on the dining room table before dark, because the percussions rattled the windows, and sometimes pictures fall off the walls and those glass items can shift to knock into each other and get chipped.” Shannon paused to finish the Dilly Bar and then pointed the stick at him. “You, being the super-conscientious
you
, would not let someone who had been through a recent shooting anywhere near that close to fireworks. So I already figured you’d have something in mind.” Shannon licked the stick clean. “Besides, I like Rachel and I love Black. And I enjoy Charlotte and Bryce’s company. It sounds like a fun weekend. And this way you won’t be hovering around me, worrying I’m getting stressed over the noise.”

Matthew laughed. “Thanks, Shannon.”

“For what?” she asked absently.

“Letting me plan things for you.”

“It’s what you do, Matthew, and do well. I kind of like it.” She tapped the stick on the table. “Would there be another Dilly Bar? These are really good. I want to work on the photos for a couple more hours, make sure I get a good range of images—different subjects, different years. Not only the best ones, but a good representative sample for Ellie to look over.”

“I like it. I’ll find you ice cream if we’re out of Dilly Bars. My daughter loves them too.”

“In case I haven’t mentioned it, Matthew, Becky is a delight. She sent pictures of her and her roommate all dressed up to go out tonight. Want to see them?”

“My little girl is growing up. Show me tomorrow. Otherwise I might be tempted to call her back and insist she not go out. Did she say if this is a double date?”

Shannon chuckled. “Didn’t have to. Based on their dresses, I’m sure it was a real double date, not just ‘hanging out.’ So . . . your daughter is going out tonight. I’m working on photographs. What are you doing tonight?”

“I thought I’d read more of your journals.”

Shannon’s smile disappeared. “Matthew—”

“My choice, unless you have decided you don’t want them read.”

She thought about it and shook her head. “It’s your decision. But I don’t like to think about all those details running through your memories. You live with Becky’s. That’s enough.”

He turned toward the kitchen, refusing to let this turn to serious. “I’ve room for your history too, Shannon. I’ll step on fewer land mines if I know.” He opened the freezer and called,
“A Dilly Bar and a refresh on that lemonade, I think. The sweet-and-sour clash will keep you awake while you work.”

“Now you’re just being cruel,” she called back from the dining room. “I’m drinking the pineapple-and-something-else juice, bottom shelf of the refrigerator door.”

T
he return trip to Chicago had gone smoother than their trip out to Boston. Matthew opened the drapes in the apartment’s living room to let in sunlight. “What would you like to do for the afternoon?” he asked Shannon. “Jeffery’s not expecting us until seven.”

“Let’s go get my photographs printed, then see if Ellie is busy, get the ‘What are they worth?’ question answered,” she suggested.

“That works for me.”

She carried her gym bag down the hall to the bedroom she was using.

Out of habit, Matthew turned on the television to hear the top of the midday newscast. He watched the summary of the political and sports news, then the lead story of a shooting at a convenience store. Finding nothing that captured his attention, Matthew shut off the television as Shannon rejoined him. “How many pictures did you load onto the laptop last night?”

“Thirteen thousand. I chose thirty-five that best represented the span of what’s there.”

“A useful sample. We can stop for a bite to eat after we see Ellie.”

It was nice to have a plan for the next forty-eight hours. They’d see Ellie this afternoon, meet up with Shannon’s parents tonight, attend early church services tomorrow, spend a few hours with Jeffery and his wife Sunday afternoon, then hunker down for the press conference on Monday.

Shannon picked up her canvas bag, changed her mind, left it on the couch, pushed her phone, cash, and ATM card into her pocket. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”

“Got the photos you want to print?”

She held up a flash drive. “Right here.”

He picked up his keys. “Then we’re off.”

They went to the camera shop first. The shop owner took the flash drive of selected photos to print out. Matthew watched Shannon walk the display cases, looking at camera models and accessories. “You want to put one of these in your hands while you’re here? Feel it out?” The one he had been discussing with the shop owner was center of the middle display case, bottom shelf.

She shook her head. “Cameras are something you carry around when you’ve got something to do with it. There’s barely a tree to be seen around here. I’m not a photographer of buildings or street scenes.”

“You’ve spent a lot of years avoiding taking photographs of people. You might enjoy it.” He stopped beside her. “Indulge me.” He pointed to the camera he had in mind. “Try the used one. If you’re not ready to graduate to people looking back at you, why don’t you practice being an animal photographer with Black? He’s got personality. I think you’d enjoy trying to capture his range of expressions.”

He picked up on the glimmer of interest he saw in her face. “You know you’re going to end up with a camera of your own soon—it’s going to be irresistible. This way you don’t have to make the decision. You can photograph some dog faces while you think about what new, fully featured camera you want to carry around with you for the next five years.” He smiled at her, lightly bumped her shoulder with his. “I know it’s a big decision, which is probably why you haven’t made it yet. So think of this one as a bridge to the one you really want.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said softly. The shop owner rang up the prints and got out the camera, added it to the purchase, located a box of blank memory cards for it. Shannon adjusted the fabric strap to the right length for her. The camera cradled in her hand comfortably.

Matthew signed the charge slip. “Ready?” He picked up the box of photographs and glanced at her. She had the camera aimed at his face, and he ducked away with a laugh. “I get a moratorium on my photo being taken.”

“I’ve got to practice some people shots—might as well be on you.”

She looked back at the owner before they walked out. “Thanks.”

“You take nice photographs,” he replied with a smile.

Shannon didn’t say anything as they walked to the car, but when he unlocked the car and held her door, she gave him a hug before she slid inside.

Shannon walked into the Dance and Covey Gallery with a purposeful stride, her face calm, her nerves under that careful control Matthew had seen in Atlanta and in critical times since.
She really was good at hiding what she was feeling when doing so was important to her.

A middle-aged woman with a pleasant smile came to greet them. “Good afternoon, I’m Christine. I work for the gallery. May I help you with something today or would you prefer to browse our collection?”

“I was hoping to speak with Ellie Dance if she is in today,” Shannon replied.

“She is. May I have your names?”

“Shannon, and this is Matthew Dane.”

“Please, look around the gallery while I let her know you’re here.”

The main room was filled with a stunning array of sculptures and watercolors dominating the walls. It looked as though two artists were featured this month.

“Ellie said Charlotte’s work is displayed in the north gallery.” Shannon spotted an archway and walked that direction. Matthew stepped with her into an adjoining, spacious room. Sketches hung at eye level in three rows circling the room—hundreds of them. “These are all Charlotte’s works? Oh my,” Shannon breathed. “They’re exquisite.”

“Bryce said she was a good sketch artist, a major understatement about his wife’s talent.” Matthew paused at one of a baseball game in progress, stunned by how much information was conveyed in what were only a few lines of colored pencil against a white background. It was a powerful image full of motion and humor and even pain captured on the runner’s face as he attempted a slide into third base before the outfielder threw him out.

They circled the room together, Shannon pausing occasionally to point out a new favorite drawing. “Charlotte has a wonderful
touch with people and places. You can see her walking through life capturing what has her attention. I so admire that.”

“It’s truly amazing the way she captures what she sees on the paper,” Matthew agreed.

Shannon stepped into the next gallery, a long narrow room showcasing six large oil paintings on the facing wall, sweeping landscapes all signed
Marie.
“This is Wyoming,” Shannon whispered, looking particularly enthralled by the one opposite the entrance. “I’ve been there many times. The artist is practically breathing Wyoming air, it’s so vivid.” She looked at the small accompanying title plate. “
Rolling Hills at Sunset.
A perfect title.”

“You’re looking at why you’re a true artist, Shannon. Charlotte sketches, Marie paints, you photograph, but you all capture the world around you in a unique way.”

Shannon glanced over with a smile. “Thank you.”

They returned to the room displaying Charlotte’s sketches. “Ellie’s skill is showcased too,” Matthew added, “in what she’s chosen to present together. This wall has a visually stunning impact all its own.”

Shannon stood back to view it in its totality. “I love it.”

Footsteps coming toward them had Shannon turning. “Ms. Dance.”

“Ellie, please,” the woman said with a smile. “Welcome to the gallery, Shannon. Hello, Matthew.”

“So good to see you again, Ellie,” Matthew replied.

“Charlotte’s work is fascinating, don’t you think?” Ellie mentioned. “She lives her life sketching things she enjoys, then hands me the sketches to decide how best to share them with the world.”

“It’s an impressive collection.”

“I enjoy representing her talent. She’s done thousands of drawings over the years, and it’s always a fresh delight to see what she brings me. Have you come today to browse or can I help you with something specific?”

“I was wondering if you could look at something . . . and give me your professional opinion,” Shannon said, sounding shy.

“Of course. I’d be glad to help.”

Shannon held out the box of thirty-five photographs. Ellie glanced inside, smiled, and nodded to her left. “Come this way, please.” Ellie led them through the gallery to an open counter behind the showrooms where items were professionally framed. She closed a laptop and moved aside business printouts, then spread the images across the long surface. “Your work, Shannon?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an excellent photographer.”

“Thank you. I hope to be an even better one with the right direction and representation.”

Ellie laughed. “I like artists who still have some humility. What are you hoping to learn today, Shannon?”

“Do you think they might be . . . well, would they sell?”

Ellie smiled. “Artists are always so uncertain about having something of worth. Yes, these will sell. Photographs have their own revenue formula. Between licensing of images and sales of the originals, there’s a good living to be made by someone who has an artistic view and technical experience. You have both.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

Ellie shook her head. “I never speak lightly on matters of business and art.” She tapped the third photograph. “This one in particular is wonderfully planned. It would sell quickly as an original work of art.” She slid forward another one of the
photographs. “This one would be popular under a licensing arrangement. Advertising companies could put this image behind nearly any product they were marketing—use it with print ads, television, posters, you name it. Then there are postcards, greeting cards, calendars, mugs. And on the electronic side of things, computer screen savers and wallpaper, music videos, gaming apps, album covers. The list is endless for where a good image can make an impact.

“There’s an entire industry built around searchable databases of images for license. Of course, it isn’t the revenue stream it was before digital cameras turned everyone into a photographer, so prices have dropped. Photos that used to license for two hundred dollars might now be more like forty. But the number of businesses using photographs in their marketing is now above seventy percent, and the audience willing to pay for very good photographs is increasing in size.” Ellie glanced over at Shannon. “Did I just confuse you more?”

“I think I actually understood that,” Shannon replied. “A license means I’m basically renting out my photographs to someone who wants to use them as part of something else—to put some text across them as an advertisement, have one in a calendar, maybe use one as the background on a song lyric sheet.”

“Exactly.”

“When I want to sell a photograph, what’s involved? Is that a straightforward process?”

“It’s a bit more complex than people realize,” Ellie said, then gestured to the seating in the office next door. “Bring your photographs, and let’s have a seat while I get us something to drink. I enjoy this, Shannon, talking about the business of selling art.” Ellie brought out soft drinks and bottled iced tea. They settled in comfortable chairs around a low, round table.

“To sell a photograph, you have two options,” Ellie began, picking up on Shannon’s question. “You can sell it as an original work of art—one print and one buyer. You agree to never print another copy of that digital file except in an official catalog of your sold works with the buyer’s name and reference number listed. The buyer enjoys the print while he or she owns it, and hopes to sell that photographic print to someone else in the future for a profit.”

Ellie picked up the first three of the photos Shannon had brought in. “Selling your photographs as original works of art is an option you should certainly consider. There’s a ‘voice,’ if you will, beginning to appear in your work that makes it
look
like your work. That’s a very good thing to see in an artist.”

“A voice?” Shannon said.

“Yes. Did you notice with Charlotte’s display, how the drawings each looked similar to the others, even though there are scores of different subjects on that wall? That’s her
voice
—the way she draws curves, adds in details, shows movement. In a similar way, you’ve got a voice showing up in these thirty-five photographs. What’s in focus and what is not, how intricate the object is that interests you.” She picked up the top photograph. “You like the wood grain in the driftwood, and how this other piece of driftwood rocks back and forth, half in and half out of the ocean.” She selected another. “See how these waves are propelling pieces of seaweed ashore? You liked this sand crab, and this flower growing up between the rocks. Those are the choices you bring to what you see and care about. You didn’t give me a photograph with everything in focus, but rather showed me the item you cared about—that’s your developing voice, like a signature in the image.”

“Oh.” Shannon sounded surprised. “So that’s good?”

Ellie smiled. “Your voice is unique to you. That’s good. What your voice is doesn’t matter nearly as much as the fact you have one. In your photos, you show what has your interest, rather than give me a scene and let me choose what might interest me. You make your photographs unique by caring about something. That’s why collectors who like your works will continue to buy more of them over time. What will attract them is what
you
bring to the photograph. Someone else in the same place and time would have taken a different photo.” Ellie picked up another one, a redbird on a tree limb captured in song. “I love this one.”

She looked over at Shannon. “I mentioned there are two ways of selling a photograph. Your other option is to sell it as an image. In doing so you’re selling not only the photograph but the digital file, releasing control of the copyright. You and the buyer agree on a price and what name will be listed as the photographer. The buyer now owns the image and may license the photograph or sell it as they wish. In an image sale, you’re selling both the artistic and commercial potential of the photograph. It’s more lucrative than simply selling the photograph as an original work of art. The drawback is that you lose control of what’s done with the image in the future.”