Joey like a knife. "You wouldn't do a crazy thing like that."

"Only two left. Should have burned them."

Panic seized Joey. He grabbed at the red-plush album. "I don't believe
you. Let me see."

Ewing held onto the book with the tenacity of an aged crab. "You
mustn't," he croaked. "You're destroying yourself. Don't."

But the old man's stubborn and futile resistance stoked the smouldering
fires of Joey's anger. He gripped one corner of the coveted trophy with
his left hand, and with his right, gave Ewing a vicious shove.

With a rattling cry, the old man staggered back and fell with a clatter
into the fireplace.

The book was in Joey's hand. He didn't look at Ewing. The clasp was not
locked. Feverishly, he opened the heavy cover. The truth took his breath
away. Ewing hadn't lied. The pages were empty. He had burned the
pictures. The crazy old fool!

But he had said there were two pictures left. Joey thumbed hastily
through the empty album till he reached the first of the remaining
pictures.

He cried out.

It was a self-portrait of Ewing. He lay sprawled on the floor before the
fireplace, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood smearing his
temple and one of the massive brass andirons.

Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed his
eyes. "Oh, God!" he whispered. "No! No!"

Like a sleep-walker, he moved to the silent figure, knelt, searched in
vain for pulse or heart-beat. There was none. Jason Ewing was dead.

Joey stared at the andiron with its tell-tale stain. He pulled himself
up to a half-crouch and looked wildly around the dark living-room. The
camera was an accusing eye. "It was an accident," he murmured. "His
heart. He was an old man."

The photo album still lay open on the table.

Ewing had saved two pictures. One of himself. The other....

There was a heavy knocking at the front door.

Joey went shakily to the album. Gripping the table's edge, he turned to
the second picture:

Joey Barrett sat in a chair. His trousers were slit. His head was shaved
and there were straps and electrodes.

It was the kind of picture that would sell a thousand extra copies.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Prophetic Camera, by John McGreevey

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