Excerpt

Eric Fromer smiled as he looked at the LCD viewfinder on his digital SLR. What pleased him so was an image of the Chicago skyline from the end of Navy Pier. The sunrise behind him over Lake Michigan was making the reddish-yellow light dance on the skyscrapers in front of him. He smiled as he thought that this was going to be great, one of his better mornings. His plan was to take one photo, roughly every minute or so, and out of the dozens of pictures he would choose the best ones later in his office. The cable release was in his hand, the camera was mounted on a tripod, and he wasnt paying much attention to the camera. His eyes were on the scene in front of him. Being an experienced photographer Eric knew just how to read the scene and he could visualize the final image. Years of practice made this an instinctual, almost zen feeling of becoming one with the camera. So much so that the camera became an extension of his own mind and he could concentrate on the cityscape and simply watch the light perform its magic on the skyline.

He enjoyed getting paid to get up early and see such incredible beauty. He thought back to his previous life in New York where he was a wedding photographer out every Saturday and Sunday, and even the occasional Friday night, taking pictures at weddings and other events. He remembered that he loved the photography end of it, but hated the business end, hated dealing with the people. Well, not all the people. Just the ones who were always saying, I want to stand over here, or This picture makes me look fat. Buildings werent demanding, they allowed him to perform his art and he had become one of the nations foremost cityscape photographers. Eric Fromer was really starting to enjoy his life.

When he saw that the light was hitting one of his favorite buildings just right, he tripped the shutter. A jogger ran past him just as he did. The jogger heard the shutter and said, Oops, sorry, I hope I didnt ruin your picture as he passed. Eric didnt even take his eyes off the cityscape, he simply said, No problem, Ill just delete it. Thats whats great about digital. Have a good morning. The jogger didnt hear him since he was already too far away.

Ordinarily he would have waited until he returned to his apartment to see the results, but he was excited this morning and couldnt wait to see the results. He sat, poured a cup of coffee from his thermos and opened his laptop. Eric took the memory card from his camera and popped it into the card reader, sipped his coffee, and scanned the thumbnails as the images opened. He liked what he saw and he smiled. After all the images were in the computer, he looked at them closer and saw that there were indeed many good photos. There were also many that were not so good. He decided to delete a few images right on the spot. One in particular was the one the jogger had run across.

As he was about to delete the photo, he decided to take a closer look at it. He thought it may make an interesting shot, what with a jogger in the foreground of the city scape. With any luck the jogger might be silhouetted and not be recognizable. That would mean a good photo without having to get a model release which would be next to impossible to get since he didnt know where to find this guy anyway. The photo did look interesting at first, but not worth saving. As he was about to delete, he noticed something about the blond haired man. There was something about the face that intrigued him. He enlarged that portion of the image. Not enough . . . one more time. Something is familiar, he said softly. He wasnt quite certain. One more enlargement . . . wait . . . the eyes . . . those steel blue eyes. They look familiar, but from where? As he looked harder, he went cold. No, it cant be. It just cant be. The last time Eric saw those eyes they were on a man who was dead. Well, not dead yet but he would be the next day. He was certain he was looking at the face of a man he last saw on September tenth, two thousand and one. He was certain that he was looking at the face of Alan Flarke, his former neighbor who was killed in the World Trade Center.

No, he muttered, that cant be. I must be mistaken. He heard the voice of the jogger in his mind again and it sounded familiar. He sat and began to try to remember the face, the eyes, the event. He thought for a while and realized that it was indeed him. He wondered what he should do. Should he just leave it alone? Or should he tell someone. On the one hand he didnt know if Alan Flarke had done anything wrong, so why worry? On the other hand he thought about Flarkes widow. She probably deserved to know he was alive. Maybe he had amnesia. Maybe he needed help. He started thinking aloud, I know how to report a missing person, how do you report a found person? Probably the same way. He took his cell phone from his pocket and called the Chicago Police Department.