Dundas Lane is sound asleep when we pull into a parking lot next to a tilt-up with channeled gray siding. The mercury-vapor lamps mounted on the eaves paint the space with a warm orange glow it doesn’t earn.
“Cameras?” I ask.
“Other end,” she says. “Pointing back, not out. Come on.”
We close our doors as quietly as we can. Carson and I match: black everything, neck to toes. All I need is a katana and I’ll feel like a grown-up ninja.
It’s almost time for the guard-on-wheels to show up. We jog a block down the sidewalk to the big blue warehouse next to the Mainwaring’s property, then stash ourselves in the shadows behind a white Prius plastered with company logos. Carson pulls on her black hood, then scuttles across the asphalt to the Mainwaring’s fence.
While I slip on my hood (it’s weird how good I’m getting at that) and put on nitrile gloves under my leather ones, I wonder for the umpteenth time about Boutelle. He’s still gone. As far as Carson can tell, he’s not on a slab. Is he ever coming back? Is he still alive?
I can’t think about that now. I hope I don’t have to think about it later.
Less than fifteen minutes after we take cover, a silver minivan rolls up to the Mainwaring’s gate and toots once. The gate rattles open. Carson waves me over to her as the van pulls up to the front door. She whispers, “We go inside when they do. Takes ‘em a couple minutes to close the gate.”
A few moments later, Carson says “Go.”
We scramble around the corner and through the gate, bent double, trying to avoid making noise. The parking lot’s like the inside of a stadium with all the lights on. Carson points to me, then to the ground: stay here. She dashes across the driveway, disappearing behind the van. I have a good idea where she went—she’s going to listen at the security office’s window until she hears the sounds of love, sweet love.
Carson reappears after a few minutes, sprints around the van to approach the front door from slightly behind the camera. She slams her back against the brick next to the alcove, pulls a dark spray bottle out of her pocket, pumps it three or four times at the camera lens, then flings some powder out of a baggie at the camera’s nose. She waves me over.
My heart leaps from running-a-six-minute-mile to jumping-out-of-an-airplane speed in an instant. This is worse than in the gallery this morning. This shit’s getting serious.
I hit the wall next to Carson. There’s gunk on the camera lens, but you have to look really close to see it. I point up at the camera and whisper, “What was that?”
“Hairspray and dirt. Blurs out the picture.”
We slip blue hospital booties over our shoes so we don’t leave identifiable shoeprints. Carson holds her hand out toward me. “Fob.” I fork it over. She palms it onto the black plastic pad next to the reinforced glass door. The light turns from red to green with a peep.
We’re inside.
We pad toward the lab. I hear the two guards when we pass the security office door. They’re not coming out anytime soon.
The lab door’s electric bolt sounds like a hammer hitting a steel box when it throws. We stand frozen for a moment, surprised. The guards must’ve heard that… right?
Nobody comes out to look.
The lab’s pitch dark inside. Once I ease the door closed, Carson shines her flashlight on the floor. I stuff rolled hotel towels against the threshold to block any light leaks. Only when Carson snaps on the lights for the far end of the room do I stop to take a full breath.
Dorotea’s on the metal easel next to Aurora’s worktable. Her frame lies flat on the table on a layer of white cotton towels. There’s no trace of dye on either piece. Yes!
Carson says, “We can take it now. In and out, ten minutes.”
“And do what with her?”
She glares at me. “Get to work. Clock’s ticking.”
Carson said Lover Boy usually stays about forty minutes. We have to be out in thirty.
My leather gloves go in my backpack. I mark the canvas’ position on the easel rail with two dabs of blue painter’s tape. I get everything turned on at the copy stand, take a couple quick measurements of the canvas, then haul Dorotea to the stage. I’ve never carried an artwork worth this much in my whole life, so I take very careful steps. Dropping her isn’t part of the program.
The floodlights take their time to warm up. I notice Carson standing next to the door’s latch edge with her metal baton in her hand. We don’t want to bust heads—we don’t want to leave any sign we’ve been here—but it’s better to tap a guard on the bean than it is for us to get Tasered to the floor.
I was okay when I was busy, but my yips come back while I’m waiting. I try deep, cleansing breaths, like the therapist taught me while I was dealing with Janine; I try walking in a tight circle. My hands flutter as fast as my heart. Come on, come on, we’re on the clock…
The floods stabilize after a long few minutes. I click “live view” on the CaptureOne camera menu so I can see what the lens sees.
Nothing happens.
Don’t panic. It’s something easy.
Then I notice the camera information is greyed out on the menu. I run back through the checklist and realize I skipped a step. I switch on the camera back. Nothing happens. Shit. I check the cables. The ones going into the camera are fine.
Carson says, “Twenty minutes.”
The data cable going into the computer snagged on the copy stand’s edge and pulled partway out when I raised the camera. I plug it back in, hoping I didn’t break the damn thing.
The software recognizes the camera. I start breathing again.
Using live-view mode, I raise the camera until the whole canvas appears on the computer screen. Then I go through the checklist I put together based on the National Archives job aid, make sure all the software settings are correct, note the couple I need to change. There’s no gray card, so I drop a piece of notepaper on the portrait’s center and set the white balance.
Autofocus, manual focus. Sweat’s rolling down my back, into my waistband. Set up the session folder on the computer so I can find the pictures once they’re shot.
Carson says, “Fifteen.”
I shake out my hands, step back to the computer, switch off live view. “Turn off the overheads,” I stage-whisper to Carson. The room lights click off so only the photo floods light the place. I click on “capture.”
In an instant, a high-res picture fills the monitor. It’s a huge version of the postcard back in my room. Eighty megapixels worth of detail in one frame. Try that with your iPhone.
I zoom in on a one-inch patch of the image to check the focus. The brush strokes look like a satellite photo. Zoom out, crop, de-skew, adjust the color and luminosity curves. The only reason I know how to do all this is by reading the manuals and watching YouTube videos; I hope I’m not screwing things up. There’d be 99% fewer selfies on the internet if everyone had to go through all this to take a picture.
I shoot an insurance image using these settings. “Halfway there.”
I turn Dorotea on her face like I’m handling Roman glass. This is the first time I’ve seen the back of an actual Sargent in person, though I’ve seen a couple pictures. This one’s got all the yellowing and wear-and-tear I’d expect for a ninety-year-old painting. The mid-gray priming reaches to the canvas’ edges, typical for Sargent. There’s six labels—three in German, three in Cyrillic—and a label-sized rough patch. Future homework.
The next two images go faster since I don’t need to monkey with the settings.
Carson says, “Ten.”
Shit! I get the software churning out TIFs of the four photos. Then I whip out my phone, sit next to the stage and start shooting the painting’s edges. Boutelle needs pictures of the edges so he can reproduce the paint runs and wear. After each shot, I slide on my butt across the linoleum to line up the next one.
I have to turn the painting around to get the fourth edge, so while I’m up, I check the computer. Its disk light is still solid white. Windows Explorer shows me that the RAW files are eighty megabytes plus or minus, but the TIFs are at least four hundred megabytes each. What? That’ll take forever to copy, and forever’s something we ain’t got. I plug in the thumb drive I brought, wait what seems like hours for the computer to recognize it, then start the copy.
It’s not going to finish on time.
I trot over to Carson and tell her the good news. She snaps, “Why’s this a surprise?”
“Nothing I saw online said they’d get so big.”
She winces, like this physically hurts. “How long?”
“Can’t tell. It should speed up once the new files are done. I still have to put the canvas back and clean up. Ten minutes?”
“Pushing it. Better hope they don’t check out the camera before he leaves.” She sounds more resigned than irritated. “Get it done.”
The file conversions are finally finished by the time I get back to the computer. I shoot the last edge, then carry Dorotea back to her easel. It doesn’t take too long to clean up after myself, but I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something. Now I wish I’d taken a picture of the workstation so I could tell if I’ve moved anything. Too late now.
I finally get to start the second half of the copy. My nerves are back now that I literally can’t do a thing. My hands feel clammy and thick in the nitrile gloves, my back is soaked, I can’t stand still. Tick tick tick tick tick…
Carson flips on the lights at this end of the room. “Five.”
I shut down the rest of the camera equipment and check the file copy progress: 64% and getting slower. A glance at the system tray shows me why—the computer’s antivirus software started a disk scan a couple minutes ago. A reasonable thing to do at two in the morning, but now? Seriously?
“Voices!” Carson hisses at me. “Footsteps!”
I switch off the computer monitor, then dash to the end of Aurora’s table farthest from the door. The room lights click off before I can get on the floor. Carson’s hospital booties make a sandpaper noise ending in the thump of her back hitting the far worktable. My breathing’s so fast I’m starting to see static.
The electric bolt clacks. The door swings open. The lights snap on, blinding me.
A woman’s voice says, “See that?” She’s in the room.
See what? What? I pry open one eye just enough to glance up at Dorotea. I didn’t leave her upside-down, thank God, but the painter’s tape is still on the easel rail. Will they notice?
A guy’s voice says, “Another one of your pictures?”
“Hush, you. You know I love these things. C’mon.”
Two pairs of footsteps clomp down the aisle. They’re coming to see Dorotea.
The woman says, “Some wanker threw paint on it today.”
“Why?”
“Christ knows. Charlie told me. It’s pretty, innit?”
“Yeah, she’s right fit.” The guy’s voice goes flirty. “Looks like you.”
“She does not. Don’t be daft.” But she sounds a little pleased.
The easel is maybe four feet to my left, between Aurora’s table and the wall. No matter which way they get here, I’m going to have to move twice. But which way?
The footsteps cross behind me. I get down on all fours and crawl very carefully around the corner of the table so I don’t make a sound.
The guards are almost to the easel.
“How much is it worth?” the guy asks.
“An arse load, I reckon.”
I squat against the table’s aisle side just as the guards’ shoes clump to a stop by the easel.
“She’s a cracker,” the guy says. “I’d put this on my wall.”
“Yeah, your wall in Mayfair. You want me to compete with that?”
“No competition, luv. She’s dead, yeah? You’re not.”
“Glad you noticed.” She giggles. “Stop! Haven’t had enough already?”
“I never get enough of you.”
Get a room, for chrissake!
Their feet scrape. “C’mon, you,” the woman says, “while I’ve still got me knickers.”
It sounds like they’re going back the way they came. I slink around the corner to the far end of Aurora’s table. With any luck, the guards are too busy molesting each other to notice.
Footsteps leave. Lights out. Door closes.
All my bones have turned to Jell-O.
After a minute of silence, my skeleton solidifies and I can crawl my way upright. Everything’s inside-a-whale black except the pulsing white disk light on the front of the computer. I fumble my Mini-Maglite out of my backpack, use it to work my way past Aurora’s table, then creep to the computer as silently as I can.
When I turn it on, the monitor’s glow turns the whole back half of the room blue. The “copying files” dialog box is gone—everything’s on the thumb drive. I delete the files from the hard drive, pocket the thumb drive, then shut down the computer.
Carson grabs my arm. “Gotta go now.”
I get Dorotea settled and pull the tape off the easel. “Towels?”
“Backpack.”
Great—I can use them to dry off.
Carson listens at the door for a while, then waves me into the hallway. We creep along the west wall. The security office door is open.
“She goes around that side first.” Carson thumbs toward the building’s other side. “We got five minutes. Let’s go.”