Until recently, Powell had only owned a small sampling of the photographer’s work. But thanks to persistence and a bit of luck, his entire library had been found in the possession of a private collector, whose family generously donated the work to Powell in 2007. The Web site now contained several of O’Keefe’s collections, recently brought online by the Powell Preservation Project.

O’Keefe had died at a fairly young age, twenty-six, in 1882. He’d fallen victim, some claimed, to…

— Anna felt another small kick to the stomach as she read this… a gypsy curse.

Place of death was Osijek, Slavonia.

Slavonia, Anna thought. Home of the now-defunct cigarettes.

That single kick turned into a flurry of punches that intensified when O’Keefe’s portrait finally loaded on the page. His face wasn’t familiar at all — but his eyes were. Anna would recognize those intense dark eyes anywhere.

They were Daniel Pope’s.

The collection she was looking for was called The Nomads of Osijek. It was O’Keefe’s last work.

Clicking the link, Anna waited the interminably long time it took for the thumbnails to load. The text accompanying them said that O’Keefe had become fascinated by the Zalas, a Croatian gypsy clan, and had traveled with them in their caravan as they moved from town to town, following a traveling carnival troupe. At every stop, the Zalas would pitch their tents and set up fortune-telling booths near the carnival.

It was unusual, it said, for an outsider, a gadje, to be allowed such access, but O’Keefe was known for his ability to get people to trust him.

When the thumbnails had loaded, over two hundred in all, Anna studied shot after shot of the gypsy family-an assortment of young and old, some posed, some candid. Standing by campfires, wagons, in front of battered tents, telling fortunes to the locals. There was a haunted quality to many of the photos, as if these people had been trodden upon, and had carried their pain for centuries.

Finding the one she wanted, Anna clicked the thumbnail and watched as a new window opened and a larger version of the photograph from Susan’s notebook slowly loaded.

Roma Vjestica.

Chavi.

To Anna’s surprise, the accompanying text explained that the word “Vjestica” was Croatian for witch or wizard. And, according to O’Keefe’s biographer, the Zalas were believed by many to be a magical family, with supernatural and psychic powers. This claim, however, was not all that unusual among the Roma people.

Roma Vjestica.

Gypsy Witch.

Closing the window, Anna searched the thumbnails and found another shot of the girl.

This one was a less formal pose, Chavi showing a hint of a smile. Subsequent shots found that smile widening, the body language loosening, as if Chavi had begun to trust her photographer, to feel comfortable with him — just as Anna had become comfortable with Pope.

If Anna was right, that this young girl was another of her past lives, and O’Keefe was one of Pope’s, then they had known each other for over a century. Which would explain why their mutual attraction had been so immediate. Why Pope’s kiss, his touch, seemed so familiar.

Chavi and O’Keefe had been lovers.

Anna went back to the thumbnails, clicking them at random, hoping for that sense of deja vu, that vague stirring of recognition from one of the faces-the faces of her past. But no memories came.

Then, without realizing it, she found one. She almost missed it at first, glancing at the thumbnail but not clicking it, about to move on, when she realized it was another shot of Chavi.

Opening the larger version, Anna stiffened involuntarily as the photo filled the page.

This one was labeled: Napasnica i raditi kao rob. Chavi was standing at the rear of a wagon, doing what, according to the text, was forbidden in gypsy culture. A precocious look on her face, she was lifting her long skirt, exposing her legs.

A scandal, by Roma standards, apparently. But this wasn’t the part of the photograph that had caught Anna’s attention. Her focus was instead drawn to the back of the wagon, where the face of a teenage boy could clearly be seen. He was crouched inside, his unhappy gaze on Chavi.

His face was lopsided. Severely deformed. A dark bandanna covered his misshapen skull.

It was Red Cap.

The bogeyman.

Something skittered through Anna, leaving an icy trail behind.

The accompanying text explained that the girl in the photograph was believed to be the Zala family’s youngest daughter.

The boy in the wagon, however, was unknown.

According to O’Keefe’s biographer, many believed-as Anna had suspected-that the girl and O’Keefe had been romantically involved, fueling rumors of a gypsy death curse against the photographer by one of her family members. These rumors had never been substantiated and the official cause of death was reported to be “bleeding of the brain.”

Anna shuddered, staring at the photograph.

Staring at Red Cap.

Translated into English, O’Keefe’s caption, Napasnica i raditi kao rob, read: Temptress and Slave.

A NNA’S NEXT STOP on the information superhighway-which was still plagued by speed bumps-was a people-finder Web site.

There were dozens of them on the Internet, all claiming to have the most up-to-date databases. It was unlikely, however, that any of them were as accurate as the bureau’s own case-support system, but without access Anna was out of luck. So-she chose one at random and hoped for the best.

Typing the name M Zala into the search field, she clicked the go button and waited.

A minute and a half later, the list appeared, showing full names and locations of over sixty people around the country. Marion Zala, Manuel Zala, Michael Zala, Michelle Zala, and dozens of variations. But she was relying on instinct here, and none of them felt right to her.

Anna decided to widen the search to include only the surname, and got back twice the number of entries. She carefully scanned the list, hoping one would pop out at her.

At entry number thirty-nine, she got her wish.

Name: Antonija Zala.

Location: Allenwood, California.

4 0

“ Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Pope groaned. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven. Come on.”

He groaned again. “Give me a break. This is the best sleep I’ve had in a decade.”

“So that’s how it is, huh? You have your way with me and now you want me to get lost?”

Pope stifled a laugh. Opened his eyes. If any other woman had asked him this during the last couple of years, he probably would have said yes. He’d been a walking zombie, thinking about nobody but himself.

Eat. Gamble. Get high. Fuck.

Oh, and make sure you spend as much time as possible letting everyone around you know how miserable you are.

This wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, but in one day-and one unbelievable night-McBride had changed all that.

Just the sight of her now, sitting on the edge of the bed, fresh from a shower, her hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around her, made Pope want to reach out just to make sure she was really there. That she wouldn’t

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