The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [84]
“Don’t look,” he shouted at Vail as she neared.
“What, this is a surprise?”
“I would think so,” he said.
She glanced around the room. She had only been in the back room once, about three years ago. They’d added some equipment since then, but it was nevertheless the same: a techie’s dream. Floor to ceiling electronics were mounted in steel racks that resembled bookshelves. Wires and cables snaked up and down, side to side, feeding one device and sucking from another. Reel-to-reel tape decks stood beside TV screens, VCRs, DVD players and burners; stacks of VHS tapes and jewel cases, labeled with case numbers and dates, littered the Formica desk that sat like an audience inside a three-sided stage, facing the digital and analog devices . . . the performers who put on the show.
Vail remained ten feet behind Meadows, who had angled his body to block the screen. Her eye caught an LED clock that hung on the wall above Meadows’s head: it was 10:40 P.M. but she felt wide awake, as if she had just gotten out of the shower.
“I really appreciate you doing this, Tim. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do. How ’bout dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s?”
“Whoa, that’ll place a strain on the wallet. This photo that good?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He struck a couple keys, then said, “Okay, come on over.” Onscreen was the original photo Vail had sent to Meadows. Seeing it again—seeing Emma—sent a pang of emotion coursing through her gut. In that split second, she felt sympathy, anger, frustration, love. And distance.
“Okee dokie. That’s the original. Now, you didn’t give me any parameters to work from, that being what year the photo was taken, so I had to do a little extra work.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem. Consider it the appetizer. How about clams on the half-shell?”
“How about I’ve got a kid to clothe and feed?”
Meadows winked at her. “But they’re soooo good.”
“How would you know?”
“Read a review.” He indicated the screen, zoomed in on the photo. “I determined, through a little chemical analysis of the paper and the approximate age of the automobile fender in the background, that this was taken around 1959 or ’60.”
Vail looked up at the ceiling and did the math. “That’s probably about right.”
“Thought so.” A self-satisfied smile thinned his lips. “So, working on that assumption, I first enlarged your mother’s face to this,” he said, then clicked the mouse. “Then I began aging it. Here’s about age twenty.” The computer morphed the facial features and a mature woman stared back at her. “Then, if I keep going, we can see her age through the years.” He struck another series of keys and the image subtly shifted, changed, evolved.
“What a horrible thing to see. Bad enough watching the aging process in the mirror. At least it happens gradually. This thing makes it happen in a matter of seconds.”
He looked at her. “Happens to all of us. Wrinkle here, sagging there, some age spots thrown in for flavor.”
She frowned. “See this one?” Her finger found the exact spot on her cheek without having to look in a mirror. “This isn’t flavor, Tim. It’s aggravation.”
The computer beeped and they turned to look at the screen. “Ah, very good. There she is. That’s your mother, aged to about sixty.”
Vail stared at the screen. She immediately recognized the face. “Holy shit. . . .” She pried her eyes away and rested them on Meadows, who was smiling at her.
She swallowed hard. Her eyes were pulled back to the image as if drawn by an unseen force. “Can you make a print of that?”
“You betcha.” He clicked with his mouse. “It’ll take a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Thought you might.”
“How accurate is this thing?”
“You questioning my work?”
She didn’t answer.
“Pretty accurate. But not a hundred percent. Things happen to people, stress and other environmental factors come into play that influence the result. I’d use it as a guide.”
But Vail knew the answer before he’d responded. It was a very accurate result.
“By the way you’re looking at the screen, I take it you recognize her. Shit, I recognize her.”
Vail nodded, but couldn