But Lang had an alibi for both murders.Airtight, witnessed, documented.
"He's not doing this himself," Isla said slowly, thinking out loud."But he might still be connected.Someone who knows him, knows his world, knows which photographers to target."
"Or someone who's targeting that world specifically."James moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his heavy parka."The photography community.The people who make their living capturing beautiful images of this region."
"Why?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
Isla turned back to the body, to Jennifer Hayes sitting frozen behind her camera, her final photograph a landscape she would never see.The staging was identical to Paulson's—the positioning, the angle of the head, the hands arranged just so.But there was a difference too, something she'd been struggling to articulate since she'd first seen Derek Paulson's body at Hawk Ridge.
It came to her now, with the sudden clarity of a puzzle piece clicking into place.
"They're part of it," she said.
James frowned."Part of what?"
"The landscape.The scene."Isla gestured at the overlook, the meadow, the forest stretching toward the horizon."Paulson was positioned to capture the sunrise over Lake Superior.Hayes was positioned to capture wildlife in the meadow.The killer isn't just murdering photographers—they're incorporating them into the photographs.Turning them into subjects instead of artists."
"Living postcards."
The phrase sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature."Exactly.The photographers become part of the scenery they were trying to capture.Frozen in place, permanent fixtures in the landscape they loved."
"That's..."James shook his head, searching for words."That's insane."
"That's vision."Isla's voice came out harder than she intended."Twisted, psychotic vision—but vision nonetheless.Whoever's doing this isn't killing randomly.They're creating something.Some kind of statement about photography, about art, about the relationship between the observer and the observed."
"And they've done it twice in less than twenty-four hours."
The weight of that fact settled on her shoulders like a physical burden.Two victims.Two perfectly staged crime scenes.Two photographs taken with the victims' own cameras, capturing moments of beauty that would be forever tainted by the horror of how they'd been created.
And the killer was still out there, probably already planning the next one.
"We need to warn them," Isla said."The photography community.Anyone who fits the victim profile—professional, award-winning, works in outdoor landscapes.They need to know they might be targets."
"That's going to cause a panic."
"Good.Panic might keep people alive."She turned to face him fully, meeting his eyes with an intensity that bordered on desperation."James, we've got someone killing photographers at scenic overlooks.Two in one day.That's not a pattern anymore—that's a spree.And spree killers don't stop until they're caught or killed."
"Or until they've accomplished whatever they're trying to accomplish."
"Do you want to wait around to find out what that is?"
James held her gaze for a long moment, and she could see the same calculations running through his head that had been running through hers.The risks of going public, the potential backlash, the possibility of sending the killer underground.Versus the near-certainty that more people would die if they didn't act.
"I'll call Kate," he said finally."We'll need to coordinate with local PD, get a statement out to the media."
"And I want every photographer in this region contacted directly.Professional associations, gallery networks, anyone who might know potential targets.The killer is choosing victims based on some criteria we don't fully understand yet, but success seems to be part of it.Award winners.People with public profiles."
"That's going to be a long list."
"Then we'd better start making calls."
CHAPTER NINE
The photographs told the truth.They always had.
He spread them across the kitchen table with the reverence they deserved—thirty-seven prints in total, their edges softened by decades of careful handling, their colors still vibrant despite the years.Kodachrome had a way of holding onto light that modern digital could never replicate.