Oh, the photos you took are shocking enough to get Ilkovic convicted, all right. But what if the politicians become involved and declare an amnesty for the sake of peace in the region? What if nothing changes? Are your pictures worth getting killed for?

Coltrane didn’t have an answer. Again, he groped for the reassuring touch of a camera. A homicide detective friend of his had once joked that Coltrane felt about cameras the way police officers did about backup guns – naked without one. “Come to think of it,” the detective had continued joking, “cameras and guns both shoot people, don’t they?” But it wasn’t the same at all, Coltrane insisted. His kind of shooting didn’t kill people. It was supposed to make them immortal. That was the reason he had become a photographer. When he had been twelve, he had found a trove of photographs of his dead mother and had fantasized that they kept her alive.

Those pictures of his mother had been beautiful.

As shivers seized him and his consciousness faded into a place that was despairingly even darker, he managed one last lucid thought.

Then why have I been taking ugly pictures for such a long time?

HEARING A RUMBLE, he woke in alarm. His first panicked thought warned him he was about to be smothered by an avalanche. But the moment he raised his head, trying to move, the pain that radiated from his left side almost made him pass out. The rumble increased. As his consciousness fought to clear itself, he understood that he had to be wrong, that the ridges here weren’t steep enough for avalanches. Besides, the rumble seemed to come from below him rather than from above. It didn’t make sense. What was causing the noise?

Find out. Spots swirled in front of his eyes as he placed his hands on the ground, barely aware of the fir needles under his knees. He crawled from beneath the snow-covered boughs, the glare of sunlight off drifts nearly blinding him. The air was shockingly cold, pinching his nostrils.

When he squinted below him, he feared he was hallucinating, unable to make himself believe that he was on a hill above a road, that the rumble came from a convoy of tanks that had NATO markings. He wobbled like a tightrope walker, struggling for balance as he waved his arms and waded as fast as he could down through snowdrifts, which wasn’t fast at all, but it didn’t matter, because the lead tank’s driver had seen him and was stopping, soldiers jumping out as he fell and tumbled to the bottom, the soldiers blurting German as they rushed to help him.

Three days later, against a UN doctor’s orders, he was on a plane home. From hell to the City of Angels.

AS COLTRANE TWITCHED FROM A NIGHTMARE that was indistinguishable from the trauma of his wide-awake memories, he seemed to have been running forever. He fell from the impact of the bullet that shattered his camera, rolled desperately to avoid Ilkovic’s line of fire, and flinched as hands grabbed his shoulders, pushing him.

A moan escaped him. His eyes jerked open in a panic, the hands continuing to press him down, a gentle voice whispering, “Ssshh, it’s only me. It’s Jennifer.”

“Uh.” Sweat slicked him. His chest heaved.

“You’re home. You’re safe.”

“… Uh.”

“You were having a nightmare. I had to grab you before you rolled out of bed.”

Coltrane’s heart hammered so fast that he feared it would burst against his ribs. His tongue felt dry and thick. “… Jennifer?” In the shadows of what he now recognized was his bedroom, he peered up at her. Still disoriented, he seemed to see her through an imaginary viewfinder, framing her lovely oval face, her light blue eyes, and the dark worry behind them. His gaze lingered on her appealing curved lips, her smooth tan cheeks, and her short blond hair that resembled corn silk.

His heartbeat no longer made his chest feel swollen. At last, he seemed to be getting enough air. He eased back onto his pillow.

“Here.” Jennifer reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. Adjusting a straw, she placed it against his parched mouth. He took several deep swallows, luxuriating in the wonderful coolness, ignoring the drops that rolled down his chin.

“Guess I’m the last person you expected to see, huh?” Jennifer asked.

Coltrane didn’t know what to say. The last time he had seen her was six months ago when they had broken up.

“Daniel sent for me,” she said.

Coltrane nodded, the motion aggravating a headache. Daniel was a friend who lived in the town house next door.

“When you showed up at his place this morning, you really spooked him. He took care of you during the day, but he’s working nights at the hospital, and he needed somebody to watch you.” Jennifer smiled awkwardly. “He phoned me at the magazine.” She hesitated, then made a mock salute. “Nurse Nightingale reporting. Unless you can find somebody better, I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I can’t think of anybody better.”

Jennifer’s smile was now filled with pleasure. “Can I get you anything? Daniel said I should give you Tylenol for your fever. And this antibiotic. Your wound’s a little infected.”

“Whatever the doctor ordered.” Coltrane swallowed the pills, then took several more sips of water. His body seemed to absorb the fluid instantly.

“How do you feel?” Jennifer asked.

Coltrane tilted his right hand from side to side, as if to say, Not so good.

“Daniel told me what you told him. There are a couple of blank parts. You can fill them in later. When you get your strength back. That’s all I want you to concentrate on – getting better.”

“Need…”

“Tell me.”

“The bathroom.”

“Put your arm around my shoulder. I’ll help you stand.”

When Jennifer pulled off the covers, Coltrane realized that he was wearing only boxer shorts and a T-shirt. His shirt hiked up, making him conscious of the bulk of the new bandage that Daniel had taped over the stitches on his side. There was dried blood below the bandage, scrapes on his stomach, and bruises on his legs.

Coltrane leaned on her.

“Can you manage by yourself?” Jennifer asked as they entered the bathroom. “Should I stay here with you?”

“I’m fine.” But Coltrane lost his footing, and Jennifer had to grab him.

He sank to the seat. “Not my best profile, I’m afraid.”

“Just do what you have to.”

“I’m okay. You can wait outside.”

“You’re sure?” Jennifer asked.

“Thanks.”

“As long as you’re certain you won’t fall on the floor.”

Coltrane nodded, watching her start to leave the bathroom. He whispered her name.

She looked back.

“I mean it,” he said. “Thanks.”

“I’VE BROUGHT TWO PRESENTS FOR YOU,” Jennifer said the next evening, “but the first one doesn’t count.”

Curious, Coltrane watched her bring her left hand from behind her back. She set down a copy of Southern California Magazine, a photograph of the windmill electrical generators outside Palm Springs on the cover. “The latest issue. I’ve made a lot of improvements. I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with it since…”

“I haven’t missed an issue.”

Her light blue eyes glittered.

“Even when I’ve been out of the country, I had it forwarded. It kept my memories warm on a lot of cold nights. If this is the gift that doesn’t matter, I can’t imagine what you’ve got behind your back in your other hand.”

Jennifer showed him a flat, stiff object, about eight by ten inches, gift-wrapped. She watched intently as he shook it.

“Doesn’t rattle. Feels like glass. I wonder what…”

She watched him pull open the wrapping. But the discomfort on Coltrane’s face at what he saw caused her anticipation to change to confusion. “Your third Newsweek cover,” she said. “It came out yesterday. I thought you’d like it framed.”