Read an Excerpt
In the cabin Robert Kincaid took a knapsack from its place on the closet shelf and grabbed a scarred Gitzo tripod leaning against the back closet wall, behind the four shirts hanging there. Scrounging around on the closet floor, he found a black wool turtleneck sweater he had bought in Ireland years ago and draped the sweater over the Gitzo. His photographer's vest swung from a hanger. He took it down and slipped into it. From the kitchen cupboard, he loaded cameras and accessories into the knapsack, neatly packing each in its place. He still had forty-three rolls of Tri-X black-and-white film in a drawer, the rolls scattered over the face of a plaque from a prestigious photography magazine: TO ROBERT L. KINCAID
IN RECOGNITION
OF A LIFETIME OF EXCELLENCE
IN THE PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTS
Animus non integritatem sed facinus cupit The heart wills not purity but adventure
He scooped the film into a plastic grocery bag, looked around, slung the tripod and sweater over one shoulder and the knapsack over the other. Locking the cabin, he was careful not to let the screen door slam as he closed it. Back in the truck. "Ready, dog?" he asked and started the engine. "Let's go see what we might have missed along the way."
