New York

Mac Adams

John Gibson Gallery

Step off the elevator into a darkened hall. Turn left into the gallery and you’re immediately blinded by a searchlight aimed straight at you out of the darkness. What’s going on here? Something’s wrong. You walk toward the light—cautiously, because it’s blinding you and you can’t see where you’re going. Once inside the gallery you move outside the beam of light and discover that it’s coming from a motorcycle parked on a patch of dirt. There’s an orange nylon backpack beside the bike, and there are a woman’s clothes and half a dozen color snapshots spilling out of it. You study the backpack, the snapshots, the clothes, the bike, and you get the feeling that Something Happened. But what? A crime, certainly. Murder, probably. But can you be certain? Is there any proof? Then you notice something you had overlooked before: the corner of a blanket—the same blanket on which the woman was sitting

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