Sanctuary by Nora Roberts Page B

and into the running water of the wash. Now he could allow himself to dream of what was to come.
    He was closer to her than ever, linked to her through the photographs that reflected each of their lives. He could barely wait to send her the next. But he knew he must choose the time with great care.
    On the worktable beside him a battered journal lay open, its precisely written words faded from time.
    The decisive moment is the ultimate goal in my work. Capturing that short, passing event where all the elements, all the dynamics of a subject reach a peak. What more decisive moment can there be than death? And how much more control can the photographer have over this moment, over the capturing of it on film, than to plan and stage and cause that death? That single act joins subject and artist, makes him part of the art, and the image created.
    Since I will kill only one woman, manipulate only one decisive moment, I have chosen her with great care.
    Her name is Annabelle.
    With a quiet sigh, he hung the print to dry and turned on the white light to better study it.
    â€œAnnabelle,” he murmured. “So beautiful. And your daughter is the image of you.”
    He left Annabelle there, staring, staring, and went out to complete his plans for his stay on Desire.

FIVE
    T HE ferry steamed across Pelican Sound, heading east to Lost Desire. Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had once before as a ten-year-old boy. It wasn’t the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy, but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.
    It was cool with the breeze off the water, and the scent of it was raw and mysterious. It had been warmer before, but then it had been late May rather than mid-April.
    Close enough, he thought, remembering how he and his parents and his young brother had all crowded together at the starboard rail of another ferry, eager for their first glimpse of Desire and the start of their island summer.
    He could see little difference. Spearing up from the land were the majestic live oaks with their lacy moss, cabbage palms, and glossyleaved magnolias not yet in bloom.
    Had they been blooming then? A young boy eager for adventure paid little attention to flowers.
    He lifted the binoculars that hung around his neck. His father had helped him aim and focus on that long-ago morning so that he could catch the quick dart of a woodpecker. The expected tussle had followed because Kyle had demanded the binoculars and Nathan hadn’t wanted to give them up.
    He remembered his mother laughing at them, and his father bending down to tickle Kyle to distract him. In his mind, Nathan could see the picture they had made. The pretty woman with her hair blowing, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. The two young boys, sturdy and scrubbed, squabbling. And the man, tall and dark, long of leg and rangy of build.
    Now, Nathan thought, he was the only one left. Somehow he had grown up into his father’s body, had gone from sturdy boy to a man with long legs and narrow hips. He could look in a mirror and see reflections of his father’s face in the hollow cheeks and dark gray eyes. But he had his mother’s mouth, firmly ridged, and her deep brown hair with hints of gold and red. His father had said it was like aged mahogany.
    Nathan wondered if children were really just montages of their parents. And he shuddered.
    Without the binoculars he watched the island take shape. He could see the wash of color from wildflowers—pinks and violets from lupine and wood sorrel. A scatter of houses was visible, a few straight or winding roads, the flash of a creek that disappeared into the trees. Mystery was added by the dark shadows of the forest where feral pigs and horses had once lived, the gleam of the marshes and the blades of waving grasses gold and green in the streaming morning sunlight.
    It was all hazed with distance, like a dream.
    Then he saw the gleam of white on a rise, the quick wink