Dr. Putnam spent the first hour giving an introduction to the course, talking about "slow-sync modes" and "built-in slaves," "hard shadows" and the "afterglow of filaments." Sometimes Novalee knew what she was talking about, but sometimes she didn't.

"Now," Dr. Putnam said, checking her watch. "Our bus should be out front. Let's get going."

Novalee had no idea where they were going, but she fell in behind the others as the teacher led them outside and onto a university bus.

From the conversation around her, Novalee learned they were going to an outdoor lab, whatever that might be.

The man who sat beside Novalee was friendly and they made small talk a couple of times, but mostly Novalee's mind was on a conversation she and Moses had had a few nights earlier.

"You go on and take that cla.s.s," he said, "and don't you be scared."

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"But I might be getting in over my head."

"You'll be fine, honey. Just fine."

"Moses, I'm not sure about that."

"Listen. They're going to teach you some things I can't. There's lots of technical stuff I don't know. But you remember this. You know something that no one can teach."

"What's that?"

"You know about taking pictures with your heart."

The bus trip, which took nearly twenty minutes, ended on a gravel road a hundred yards from the Illinois River. From there, they walked to a wooded area where Dr. Putnam stopped, the students fanning out around her.

"We're going to make our way upriver for a mile or so. You'll find plenty to shoot out there, but remember, the best part of a good picture takes place in the darkroom. That's where we'll be heading when we're finished. Any questions?"

Two hours later, when they crawled back on the bus to return to the campus, Novalee had a blister on her heel, c.o.c.kleburs in her hose and tree bark in her hair, but she was no longer worried about how she looked.

She had taken three rolls of film along the river and somewhere in those seventy-two shots of dragonflies and honeybees and h.o.r.n.y toads, she might have one that would tell her a secret. And her adrenaline was pumping with the odd excitement she always felt in knowing she was about to find out.

"Remember this," Jean Putnam said, "bleaching is a process that can't be learned from books. No one can tell you how to do it or show you how to do it. Oh, they can demonstrate. They can suggest and they can advise, but bleaching is learned by doing. Learned by touch."

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The campus darkroom was large enough that every student in the cla.s.s had a separate work station at a counter with a sink. Jean Putnam strolled around those counters as she talked.

"Now you can use a Q-tip selectively to lighten portions of the print, spots with too much shade or small dark areas threatening black."

Novalee had slipped off her stiff new shoes and her shredded stockings and was working barefooted, the tiles of the darkroom floor cool against her feet.

"Or you can use a sponge if you're working with a large area," Dr.

Putnam said. She stopped then beside the man who shared Novalee's seat on the bus and bent close to the print he was working on.

"You've probably gotten that a little too light, but it's hard to tell."

When she resumed her pace, she said, "Remember, the bleaching process doesn't stop when the application does. Pota.s.sium ferrocyanide is like that rabbit on television. It just keeps on going."

Novalee was working on one of the lizard prints, the first one she had shot.

She had been stumbling down a dry rocky gully in pursuit of a monarch b.u.t.terfly when she saw the h.o.r.n.y toad and when it saw her.

The lizard lifted hooded eyes in startled response, but it did not race away. As Novalee bent and swung the camera around, the creature backed up, but still it did not run, instead held its ground just at the edge of an outcropping of rock.

When Novalee pressed closer, the h.o.r.n.y toad puffed itself up in a show of boldness, the spiked horns at its neck menacing and dangerous. Novalee cut her eyes to the viewfinder just as the h.o.r.n.y toad hissed, a fierce little dragon in an ageless ritual of courage and dread.

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Now Novalee was remembering what Dr. Putnam had said earlier in the day. "The best part of a good picture takes place in the darkroom."

Novalee dipped a Q-tip into the mixture of pota.s.sium ferrocyanide, then began to move it in small, tight circles on a darkened area of the print, a shaded area in front of the h.o.r.n.y toad's eyes.

Suddenly, without Novalee realizing she was there, Dr. Putnam was at her shoulder. "You'll know when it's right," she said softly.

"Your fingers will tell you."

"But how . . . "

"Some kind of magic that tells you it's enough, just exactly enough to find what you're looking for."

"I don't really know what I'm looking for."

When Novalee wiped the Q-tip once more over the print, her fingers began to tingle and she pulled the swab away.

"You felt it, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

As they watched, the shaded area continued to lighten and Novalee saw what she was looking for, a tiny arc of blood spurting from the eyes of the mighty horned lizard, Phrynosoma platyrhinos, Phrynosoma platyrhinos, and Novalee knew she had begun learning the secret of seeing into shadows. and Novalee knew she had begun learning the secret of seeing into shadows.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

W ILLY JACK dropped another quarter in the jukebox, punched B7, then slid back onto the stool at the end of the bar. He settled an invisible guitar on his lap, then strummed a few warm-up chords while he waited for his song to begin. When it did, he closed his eyes, played along with the melody and sang harmony with Wayne Deane to "The Beat of a Heart," which had climbed to number three on the charts. ILLY JACK dropped another quarter in the jukebox, punched B7, then slid back onto the stool at the end of the bar. He settled an invisible guitar on his lap, then strummed a few warm-up chords while he waited for his song to begin. When it did, he closed his eyes, played along with the melody and sang harmony with Wayne Deane to "The Beat of a Heart," which had climbed to number three on the charts.

"When you are without a friend And got no company The bartender, beefy and black, cut his eyes at w.i.l.l.y Jack. "Jesus Christ, man, don't you know another song?"

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"World has kicked you over and over You're crying 'Woe is me' You're crying 'Woe is me'

"You got something against Whitney Houston or Tina Turner?"

"Well, you're not the Lone Ranger This I know for sure "I'm about sick of listening to that cowboy s.h.i.t."

"I wrote this G.o.d-d.a.m.ned song." w.i.l.l.y Jack swung around to point at the jukebox, then had to fight to regain his balance.

"Yeah, I know! You told me already," the bartender said, clearly as sick of the story as he was of the song. "You wrote it and someone named Freeny stole it and-"

"Finny! I told you it was Finny! But he didn't steal it. h.e.l.l, he was dead. It was his mama. It was Claire Hudson."

"Right. The mama did it."

"You d.a.m.ned right, she did. And now, I ain't got s.h.i.t!"

The bartender nodded his head. "That's about the way I see it."

"Now Claire Hudson's rich. Shorty Wayne's rich. Wayne Deane's rich. And Billy Shadow ain't got s.h.i.t."

A woman with a nervous face leaned over to w.i.l.l.y Jack and said, "Honey, let's get outta here." But when she tried to take his hand, the one holding the neck of his make-believe guitar, he shook her off.

"If you're one who has lost everybody You may find just one more You may find just one more Her name was Delphia, but w.i.l.l.y Jack couldn't remember it. Sometimes he called her Della; sometimes it was Delilah. But mostly, he didn't call her anything.

300.

"No matter how lonely you are There's someone in this world who loves you When w.i.l.l.y Jack made it to the chorus, he let his head fall forward the way he had on stage so that his hair swung across his eyes. When w.i.l.l.y Jack made it to the chorus, he let his head fall forward the way he had on stage so that his hair swung across his eyes.

"No matter how lonely you are There's someone in this world who loves you But he hadn't spent much time on stage in the past two years. Not since Ruth Meyers had cut his throat. But he hadn't spent much time on stage in the past two years. Not since Ruth Meyers had cut his throat.

After she'd called her Night River musicians back to Nashville, she'd canceled w.i.l.l.y Jack's credit cards, she'd canceled his bookings-and she'd canceled his career. He couldn't get a gig in a choir.

He'd made the round of lawyers, glad-handed men in dark suits who couldn't wait to see justice prevail. They'd verified that "The Beat of a Heart" was a posthumous copyright filed by Claire Hudson while w.i.l.l.y Jack was in prison-the same prison where she worked as a librarian. And the lawyers verified that an Indian named John Turtle had been w.i.l.l.y Jack's cellmate and a witness to the creation of the song. But the Indian had died, the librarian had disappeared and w.i.l.l.y Jack had run out of money.

So much for justice.

"When you're tired of fighting Feel like saying 'I give'

w.i.l.l.y Jack had made his way back to Dallas, but Johnny Desoto wouldn't touch him by then. Ruth Meyers had already poisoned that well.

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So w.i.l.l.y Jack picked up a half-a.s.sed drummer in Oklahoma City and a fair piano player in Abilene, musicians as down and desperate as he was, and they'd headed west.

Billy Shadow and Sunset. A scruffy trio of dopers and drunks living out of a rusty VW van, picking up work in pistol-whipping bars that even Ruth Meyers wouldn't bother to mess with. They never got paid much more than their bar tabs, just enough to score some meth or a gram of c.o.ke whenever they could.

"And if G.o.d really loves you He's not the only one They were together for nearly a year before the drummer got busted up in a fight in Greasewood, Arizona, and lost the use of his left arm.

Then in Prescott, the piano player took off with a redhead named Rita, so by the time w.i.l.l.y Jack drifted into California, Billy Shadow was a solo act.

Two days after he crossed the state line, he went to jail in Barstow on a charge of public intoxication. He was there for nearly a week before he reached J. Paul, his cousin in Bakersfield, who wasn't thrilled to hear from him, but sent the two hundred dollars for bail.

"You'll discover a family you never had Before your life is done Before your life is done Billy Shadow had spent the next year picking up gigs in the border towns . . . dives in Potrero and Plaster City where the owners charged him double for wh.o.r.e's whiskey . . . bars in Jac.u.mba and Campo where pushers sold him bad dope.

302.

But he could still find a stage now and then. He could still draw an audience. He could still please a crowd. And if Billy Shadow knew anything about show business, it was that an artist had to have fans to make it to the top.

But that was going to be hard to do now because yesterday w.i.l.l.y Jack had made a big mistake. Yesterday, he had p.a.w.ned Finny's guitar, the Martin.

"When you think you can't remember what it felt like what it felt like when you had a friend You'll have one again"

"Come on, w.i.l.l.y Jack. Let's go," Delphia said. "He's not gonna show."

"He's gonna show! And the son of a b.i.t.c.h better have my money or I'll stomp his a.s.s."

w.i.l.l.y Jack narrowed his eyes and tried for his Clint Eastwood glare. But he didn't feel nearly as tough as he looked. He was beginning to get worried.

He'd hocked the Martin because a street hustler named Pink had offered him a deal he couldn't pa.s.s up, a deal that would net w.i.l.l.y Jack nine hundred bucks.

what it felt like when you had a friend Pink had a friend who had to turn two pounds of smoke fast, but he couldn't get out on the street to do business because someone Where the Heart Is 303.

was after him. If he showed his face, he was liable to get it blown away, so he had to get out of town quick and he needed money.

Pink said his friend would sell the reefer to him for two hundred dollars if he could get the money now. And Pink had already lined up a buyer-a guy who'd pay two thousand dollars when he had the stuff in his hands.

But Pink was a hundred shy of what he needed and that's where w.i.l.l.y Jack came in. For a hundred bucks, w.i.l.l.y Jack would get a return of a thousand, half the purchase price.

Of course, w.i.l.l.y Jack didn't have a hundred and the only thing he had to raise the money on was the Martin.

"Well, how long are we gonna wait?" Delphia asked. "I'm getting hungry."

When the song ended, w.i.l.l.y Jack motioned the bartender for another drink, picked up a quarter from a stack of change in front of him and turned toward the jukebox.

"Dammit!" w.i.l.l.y Jack kicked the dash of Delphia's Pinto. "G.o.ddammit!" He threw his head back against the seat and rubbed his eyes.

He had driven all night to get to Bakersfield, five hours on the highway and another two to find J. Paul's house, and he'd been popping bennies for two days.

"Want me to talk to him?" Delphia asked.

"Now that'd be real smart, wouldn't it. If he won't give me the money, why the h.e.l.l would he give it to you?"

"I just thought that . . . "

"I'm the f.u.c.ker's cousin. I'm family, for G.o.d's sake."

"Well, maybe he told you the truth. Maybe he don't have a hundred bucks."

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"Oh, he has it all right. d.a.m.ned railroad paid him a fortune 'cause he got his thumb cut off. Just look at that place he's living in."