couldn't stay there. He had the uneasy feeling that this Cole Baker lurked somewhere nearby, waiting for a chance to pounce and maybe try to steal his soul away this time instead of just his driver's license and his car. He would not allow himself to think further than that, to puzzle out the link Cole Baker had with his life. He mingled so intricately with his memory, his madness, and his nightmares that finding Cole Baker might mean losing himself. And Nicholas did not want to chance that.
So he packed up and left that place, taking with him a roll of money found in a drawer -- probably Baker's but let him try to prove it. It wasn't much anyway, just enough to pay an installment on his hospital bill and tide him over until he found a job.
He also took the portfolio of photographs and the cameras. They were shared possessions, Baker's and his own, as difficult as that was for him to rationalize. There was nothing rational about it, so it was best not to think on it too long.
Nicholas had himself purchased two or three of the cameras, though it was impossible now to remember which ones. He used them all. And at least half the photos in the portfolio were his. He favored people as his subject matter, portraits and candids. Cole Baker seemed to prefer landscapes and still lifes. Nicholas admired his skill with the interplay of light and shadow, something he had never had the patience to master. Neither of them had lost his soul to Polaroid yet. But maybe it was just the lack of funds that saved them.
The portfolio was like a trophy between them, captured and possessed for a season or two, then returned to the new victor without malice. Baker never harmed the portions of the collection that were his, and Nicholas kept intact those that were Baker's. He took care when using it for a job interview to de-emphasize Baker's work, leaving the best of it behind. He didn't want to get a job on the strength of a talent he didn't have.
He worked his way to St. Louis this time before Baker's pull on him had diminished to the point where he felt safe. There had been a couple of meaningless jobs until this one, which, while not exciting, allowed him to use his knowledge of photography a bit. He looked forward to the customers who asked him to critique their photos and give suggestions on how they could improve them. But they were the exception. Most just plunked down their money and hurried off with their envelopes of prints and new rolls of film.
It was evidence of the emptiness of his existence that customers of any kind were the highlight. Nicholas craved love and human contact, and for all he told himself that avoiding them would also mean avoiding the heartache and torture that came after, he found the craving overwhelming at times.
It was this yearning that drew his attention to the girl he now knew was called Trissa. She transferred busses each afternoon on the corner outside the camera shop, one of a dozen or so college girls who did so.
Trissa was a standout from the first. She stood apart literally, mostly holding herself away from the other girls, her beauty wreathed in brittle loneliness. Like Cynthia's. Like Janey's. She needed him. He knew that from the very start.
It had quickly become a pattern for him to delay the dusting of the window display until three forty-five, about the time when the girls would arrive at the intersection on their first bus. Dusting was a duty that required little concentration yet could be drawn out limitlessly, depending on the punctuality of the second bus.
The few minutes he spent watching over Trissa each day provided the fuel for his imagination. He could save her from whatever sadness kept her so aloof from the others. He could make her smile.
Each evening after work, Nicholas boarded the bus that followed Trissa's route and rode it all the way to the end. He studied the schedule and map he had taken from the rack behind the driver's seat, and carefully walked the streets back to the camera shop. At each intersection, he turned and squinted at the map under the streetlights, looked up and down the cross streets and tried to listen for her with his mind.
Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her at a lighted window. Maybe