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voice.” One that, whatever potential abuse lay behind that door, made him determined to see its owner.
    “I’m here about the photographer’s job,” he called.
    “So don’t just stand there. Come in!”
    He pushed through into a small, cluttered room. A huge weekly calendar scrawled with notations covered the far wall. Tearsheets and lists and photographs were tacked haphazardly to the others. The floor was mounded with books and papers; in its center sat a large, equally mounded metal desk. And in
its
center a woman in black jeans and a T-shirt sat cross-legged, glaring at him.
    Carly McGuire was around forty, slender and long-limbed, with honey-colored hair that fell straight to her shoulders. Her skin glowed with what looked to be a year-round tan, and her oval face framed rather severe features. Or maybe they only appeared to be severe because of the horn-rimmed half-glasses that perched on the tip of her nose, and the frown lines etched between her eyebrows.
    “Well?” she said.
    “I saw your ad—”
    “Of course you did. Get to the point.”
    “I want the job.”
    “And why do you think I should hire you?”
    “Small-paper experience—eighteen years. A reference—from my editor and publisher. And I’m a damned good photographer.”
    She seemed to like his response. At least her scowl didn’t deepen, and she took off the glasses, twirling them around as she studied him.
    “Name?” she asked.
    “John Crowe.”
    “From?”
    “Port Regis, British Columbia.”
    “Here for?”
    “A change of scene.”
    “Reason? Fired? Divorced?”
    “Neither. Leave of absence for now, but it could become permanent.”
    She nodded. “Okay, none of my business and rightly so.”
    “I’m glad you realize that.”
    She compressed her lips and studied him some more. Then she unfolded her long legs and scooted over to the edge of the desk, knocking several files to the floor but sliding off gracefully. “Let’s have you fill out an application, and then I’ll put you to the test.”
    “What test?”
    “You’ll see.”
    Carly McGuire seated Matt with an application form at the still unmanned reception desk and disappeared into her office. Before he could get started, Severin Quill expelled a dramatic sigh and swiveled away from his workstation. “The piece is finished, and so am I,” he announced. “Lunchtime—a long, liquid one. Sorry to leave you here to fend on your own, Mr. Crowe.”
    “If you hear screams, come running.”
    Matt waited till Quill had left the building, then scanned the desk where he sat. A Rolodex, fat with cards, stood on one corner. Quickly he turned it to the
C
’s, located Ardis Coleman’s name, and copied the address and phone number onto a piece of scratch paper.
    Easy, but things are if you think them through.
    He then turned his attention to the job application.
    Former employer: the—fictional—
Port Regis Register.
Contact: Millie Bertram, editor and publisher.
    Position: chief photographer.
    Employed: 1984–2002.
    Education: BA, English and prelaw, Northwestern University. McGuire wouldn’t check with the college, given the passage of time.
    Address and phone number—
    Damn! He’d registered at the motel under his own name. But…
    He reached for his wallet, took out the slip of paper that Sam—last name D’Angelo—had written her phone number and address on when he’d delivered her there the night before. He’d phone, ask her to field his calls. If necessary, he’d take her to dinner as payment for the favor. No, he’d do it anyway; the kid could use a good meal.
    He was signing the application with Johnny Crowe’s name when Carly McGuire emerged from her office, smiling fiendishly.
    “What’s this?” Matt asked, staring at the red Ford pickup with the white camper shell on its bed and a Save the Redwoods sticker on its bumper. It was pulled up against the wall in the alley behind the building.
    “The test,” she said.
    “You want me to take pictures