Edge

much difference.”
    “The one on the left? It’s tighter. The emphasis is on the men. But there’re no angles, no sense of composition. The one on the right is better stylistically. You see more of the Treasury Building. You see the sunlight, that band of light there, cutting into the stairs near them? It’s aesthetically better . . . So?” she asked.
    “Which one I like better?”
    “That’s the question, Mr. Tour Guide.”
    I felt suddenly awkward, like I was being tested on something I hadn’t studied for. I didn’t really know which one I liked more. The only photos I looked at regularly were surveillance and crime scene shots. Aesthetics didn’t count.
    Finally, I pointed to the picture on the left. “That one.”
    “Why?”
    I hadn’t known I had to show my work. “I don’t know; I just do.”
    “Uh-uh, commit.”
    “I really don’t know. They’re both nice.” I glanced up the hall. “I’ve got to talk to your brother-in-law.”
    “Come on, Corte. Humor me. You’ve screwed up my weekend pretty bad. You won’t even be my masseur. You owe me.”
    I banked my irritation again and looked at the pictures. Suddenly I had a thought. “I like it because you have to ask yourself, what’s your goal? You said it was to show conflict. The one on the left does that better. It’s more focused.”
    “Even though it’s less artistic.”
    “I’m not sure what artistic means, but yes.”
    She lifted her hand to give me a high five. Reluctantly I lifted mine and she slapped it. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
    Maree then touched the pad. The GSI software instantly shrank the pictures to thumbnails and she directed them back to a folder. She then started a slideshow and the pictures faded up to fill the screen, remained for a few moments then went to black and a new one was displayed.
    I have no artistic ability whatsoever but I can appreciate something that’s technically well executed. Her pictures were all in focus and seemed well composed. But it was the subjects that appealed to me. Had they been still lifes or abstracts I wouldn’t have been interested but Maree specialized in portraits and she seemed to be able to capture the spirit of her subjects perfectly, though I supposed since she used a fancy digital camera there were a hundred outtakes for every keeper. As the show continued I noted the controls and paused several of them. Maree was leaning close.
    Workers, mothers and children, businessmen, parents, policemen, athletes . . . There was no theme, but whoever they were, Maree had caught them in a moment of emotion. Anger, love, frustration, pride.
    “They’re good. You’re talented.”
    “You do something enough times, you’re going to get a few chops down. Hey, you want to see who you’re guarding?”
    I frowned.
    She typed and another folder appeared. It tookme a moment to realize what she meant—and what I was looking at. Family albums of Maree, Joanne and who I guessed were their parents and other relatives. Maree was calling out names and information.
    I heard Abe’s voice.
    Learn only what you need to learn to keep them alive. Don’t use their names, don’t look at their kids’ pictures, don’t ask ’em if they’re all right, unless you’ve been dodging bullets and you need to call a medic. . . .
    I said, “I really have to talk to Ryan.”
    “Don’t be scared of a few family pictures, Corte. They’re not even your family. I’m the one who should be scared.”
    A picture of a trim, crew-cut man in khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt faded in. Maree hit PAUSE . “The Colonel. Our father . . . and, yeah, people called him ‘the Colonel,’ capital C. Lieutenant colonel, a little bird, not a big bird.”
    Still, the man was imposing, no question.
    Maree’s voice dropped. “Don’t tell Freud but Jo thought she was marrying him. She got Ryan instead. Dad was career military, strong, quiet, distant, didn’t laugh. . . . Ha, like you, Corte. . . . Hey, you know I’m messing with you.”
    I ignored her comment and continued to look at her pictures. Many of them showed Maree by herself and Joanne with their father.
    “She was his darling, Jo was. The perfect athlete, the perfect student in school. Not a lot of fun, I have to say . . . Dad’d take her to her soccer matches and track events. He tried with me, I’m not saying he didn’t. But I sucked at sports and activities. I wasa total klutz . . . Dad never rubbed it in