Holy crap! Ellie thought, not quite sure how she managed to pull it off, but taking not a millisecond to revel in her victory. She put the toe of her shoe into the place where the man was weakest. She would’ve hit harder if not for the stolen dress’s limited flexibility. The man grunted and staggered back. His hand slipped out of his glove, abandoning it in Ellie’s hand. Even under the mask, Ellie saw his eyes dart to the knife. Ellie kicked it aside. It skidded under a wooden pedestal holding a severed mannequin hand with fingernails painted the colors of the rainbow. No one would be getting the knife now.
Ellie smiled boastfully, blood trickling down her wounded cheek.
The hooded man whipped out his baton.
Ellie’s cockiness quickly faded to dread. “When will this end? You’re killing people over an art deal. Get over it.”
For the first time, the Hooded Man spoke. His tone had the calmness of man content in his torment. “You’re wrong, Ellie Batter. So, so wrong.”
He readied the baton for the killing blow.
“Then help me understand,” Ellie pleaded, backing up farther into the sculpture of the nine-foot slender man. “The paintings, the murders, any of it.”
One of Ellie’s words caused the man to pause. Either that, or it was the groaning of the gallery’s door followed by hasty footfalls and hushed voices.
Without a warning, the hooded man sprinted into the back of the gallery. Ellie turned her head, once to the sound of footfalls and the other to the killer vanishing from view. Flee or pursue? Moments like these defined a person. Feeling the hot, pulsating pain of her cut cheek, she sprinted deeper into the gallery.
“I’m not done talking!” Ellie yelled as she rounded the bend to the final exhibit hall.
The hooded man was hunched over Peaches’s body and raising the downed detective’s pistol.
He didn’t say a word or even hesitate before shooting Ellie.
Something stung her neck. The world went sideways. The floor came up to hit her.
Gun in hand, the hooded man took off into a mad dash toward the history exhibit.
The roar of gunfire ricocheted through the gallery. A door flung open. Screams followed a few more gunshots. The door closed and the noise vanished with it.
Ellie lay on her side, the red dress drooping over the curves of her body and pooling on the floor. Her heart raced in her chest and quick breaths escaped her parted lips. Her finger touched the tenderness on her neck. She winced in pain at the leaking flesh.
Nearby, Detective Peaches twitched. His eyes opened slowly. He touched the bleeding knot on his forehead. He gnashed his teeth and let his hand fall to his side. With watering eyes, he glanced at Ellie. “Is he gone?”
Ellie opened her mouth to say “yeah,” but only scarcely a groan left her lips. Her neck wound must’ve not been that bad if Peaches hadn’t made mention of it.
Peaches grunted. He reached for his gun, and, realizing it was not there, quickly sat up. By the sickened look on his face, the quick motion didn’t sit well with his concussed state. He crawled to Ellie and looked over her neck.
“Just a graze,” he said with relief.
“Lucky me,” Ellie replied.
The distant door opened again. Hurried footsteps and worried speaking followed. Andrew and a few of his tuxedo-wearing house guards speedily entered Ellie’s view.
“Heavens,” Andrew gasped, his face stark white, and rushed to Ellie’s aid.
Ellie accepted her friend’s assistance in sitting up. “Where is he?”
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t know. He went out of the gallery shooting. Glen and Casey--two of the help I hired this evening, they… I’ve never seen a dead body before.”
Peaches tried to stand but slowly sank back to the floor. “Focus, Andrew.”
“The killer, right,” Andrew said, still trying to collect his thoughts. “The police are in pursuit of him, or they will be soon. I didn’t want to come up here until I knew he was out of the house. One of the patrons saw him vanish into the woods out back. There are not many places for him to go out there.”
Ellie blistered with pain. Her cheek was sore and her neck stung like the dickens. She closed her eyes, thinking it would ease the agony. It didn’t.
Andrew put his hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“I wasn’t going to let you die.” Ellie winced.
Andrew smiled sadly at her. “I should go check on the others. Get your cut look at. We’ll talk soon.” Andrew hurried away, taking his helpers with him.
As Andrew had declared, the police and EMTs arrived minutes later. They took Peaches to the hospital, stating that he had a pretty serious concussion. Ellie was ushered into a different ambulance and transported after the police asked their questions. Thankfully, the blonde whom she stole the dress from didn’t see her go. That was a bullet dodged. The doctors gave her some funny pills, stitched up her neck and cheek, and had her waiting in the hospital lobby for Troy to arrive.
He was dressed in a nice plaid yellow and black button up with khaki pants and modern-day moccasins. Ellie couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. She’d be thinking long and hard about what she was going to tell him about the investigation and her obsession with the paintings but was coming up short of good excuses. It seemed like one of the times where it was better to keep her mouth shut and ride out the storm.
Troy slowed his hasty walk when he was a few yards from her. Ellie mentally braced herself for the dreaded I told you so. Troy squeezed her tightly and affectionately instead.
He spoke softly. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
The voice of the soft-spoken news anchor filled the Jeep’s cabby. “...Three dead at Northampton estate this evening. The police have yet to apprehend the man responsible...”
Ellie rested her head on the passenger window and watched the city nightlife blur by. College students packed outdoor bars and lined outside clubs. Drunks laughed. Homeless panhandled. The world was completely unaffected.
Troy glanced over at Ellie every few seconds, to seemingly ask her a question, but never voiced it.
Their apartment complex appeared in view. It wasn’t until they unlocked the car when Troy finally spoke. “Is it over?”
“What?” Ellie replied.
“Everything you’ve been doing,” Troy elaborated.
“The guy got away, Troy. Again.” Speaking made Ellie’s neck hurt.
“But Andrew’s okay,” Troy said as he locked the car and the two of them walked into the apartment. “I looked at the painting in the art room. You prevented his death.”
“I hope so,” Ellie replied, not so sure.
“You did,” Troy said firmly. “I called Andrew on the way to the hospital. He’s leaving Northampton tomorrow. He didn’t say where he was going, but that’s for the best, I suppose.”
They climbed into the elevator. The doors closed.
Troy went on. “I get you don’t want to talk about it. Neither do I, but I want this to be behind us now.”
Questions swirled in Ellie’s mind. Who was the hooded man? What was his motive behind killing the women and attacking Andrew if it wasn’t the art deal? Did he spare Ellie by grazing her in the neck, or did the high stakes situation simply cause him to misfire? How did any of this tie into the paintings, or was that just a cosmic coincidence?
“Ellie,” Troy said, tearing her away from her thoughts.
She looked into the eyes of the man she had pledged her life to. “It’s over. Troy. I’m finished.”
Troy studied her with suspicion. He took a deep breath. “If you say it is, I believe you. Maybe I’m the stupidest man in the world for doing so, but I just want my wife back and out of harm’s way.”
The elevator door opened with a ding, but neither of them moved. The wounds on Ellie’s cheek and neck stung. They’d scar over, she knew.
They walked down the hall and unlocked the apartment. The two of them stood in the dark threshold of the twelfth-f
loor flat.
Troy flipped on the light switch and stepped inside. Ellie hesitated. She scanned the place, watching every shadow for movement. It seemed clear of any adversary. She shut the door behind her and locked it tight.
Troy tossed his shoes and slugged his way up the spiraling staircase. “I’ll see you up there.”
When he had disappeared into the loft, Ellie walked about the room and checked the various doors and corners for any intruder. He’s gone, Ellie. She forced herself to believe it. She walked to the art room.
The portrait of Andrew grabbed her attention. She left it on the easel and shut the French doors. She hiked into the loft, took a shower, and joined her husband in bed. Troy snuggled up next to her. Ellie tensed up. She could sense his anger but guessed it was one of those times where they would fake the affection until it was genuine again.
“I’m proud of you,” Troy whispered in Ellie’s ear.
“You don’t have to lie about it,” Ellie replied.
“I’m not lying,” Troy replied. “I sure as hell don’t agree with anything you did, but you saved a man’s life.”
A frown sank Ellie’s face. “At the cost of three more people the killer shot to escape. If I hadn’t intervened, then--”
Troy interrupted. “You’re not responsible for his actions, only your own.”
“He knew my name, Troy,” Ellie replied.
Her husband lifted up a little bit. “How?”
Ellie shrugged, still not turning back to him.
Troy pulled away from her and lay on his back. He was quiet for a long moment. “What do you think about a second honeymoon?”
Ellie rolled over to face him.
Troy looked back at her with a tired smile. “We leave all this behind, go back to the beach, and come back when the police have the guy in custody. Better yet, we can move into a cabin far out in the mountains. I can get a new job. You can take some time off from painting. Everyone lives happily ever after.”
“That does sound nice,” Ellie replied. Her mind went to her old portraits, the ones of meadows, rustic barns, blue skies, and wild horses. All it would cost was the answers to the million questions racing through her head.
“So it’s a plan?” Troy asked with small, cute grin.
Ellie forced herself to grin in the same way Troy faked his affection this long night. “It’s a plan.”
The couple kissed.
The pain pills put Ellie into a deep slumber where she dreamed of an inky black void. She felt her body twisting and turning. The cold of this dark place made her fingers cramp and her eyes hurt.
She awoke with her knees planted on the art room floor. Her head throbbed. Her body was weak. Everything had been cleared from the room, even her easel and canvas. From floor to ceiling, wet black paint smeared all the walls. Inky tears slid down the damp wall’s surfaces and hardened around Ellie’s knees. She was up to her elbow in crusty black paint, with a stack of empty paints cans beside her. Ellie looked at the subject at the center of the mural. It was Troy: the hooded man’s next victim.
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THE PAINTING MURDERS: BOOK 1
1
BROTHER’S KEEPER
An engine roared into the night. Headlights sliced through the darkness of the Pennsylvanian country road. Eyes bloodshot and heart raging, Angela Barksdale, a twenty-one-year-old bombshell, squeezed the steering wheel of her rinky-dink Toyota truck and stomped the accelerator pedal.
Her dead father’s Louisville slugger rumbled in the passenger seat foot well. The truck had had the shakes for a while. Angela regretted not taking it to the shop before making her hundred-mile journey to Lancaster, but time was of the essence.
Every second mattered now.
It was April 21, 1995, and someone was going to die tonight.
Angela turned her head to and fro, watching the trees blur under the star-speckled sky. Light shined within the distant woods. Angela stomped on the brakes. Her tires screeched, streaking the cracked asphalt with parallel black lines. She clenched the 8-ball shifter. Her fingernails were venom green. She pulled the truck into reverse and off to the shoulder of the road. She scanned the light, unable to make out its source or distance. Leaving the truck running, Angela grabbed her baseball bat and moved out onto the road, too focused to shut the door behind her.
“Cory!” She yelled out her brother’s name.
An owl screeched nearby.
Angela started into the woods. Her hands tightened around the weathered grip of the wooden bat. Branches slapped against her suede jacket and rosy cheeks. She stepped over a felled tree dressed in green-and-white moss. Her vision adjusted to the darkness. She didn’t bother grabbing a flashlight. The glow grew larger in the distance. There were multiple light sources, though Angela’s nearsightedness prevented her from counting the exact number. To her, they looked like diamond-shaped blooms that breached branches, bushes, and other natural foliage in Angela’s way.
As she was about to shout Cory’s name again, Angela heard voices. She slowed her trek, trying to make sense of the distant murmurs. Twigs snapped under her boots as she sought cover behind a nearby tree.
Down a small hill stood an ancient white oak with sprawling branches, some dead and some living. A hideous crack opened the center of its trunk, exposing its dry wooden insides to the world. A dozen lanterns hung from its lower limbs. Their illumination spilled across the clearing at the base of the tree where the strangers gathered. Backs to Angela, the figures formed a semicircle around the tree’s base. Three men and two women. They were dressed in hoodies with casual pants and dirty tennis shoes. Angela had questions for them, a lot of questions, but her priority was her brother, wherever the he was.
The strangers spoke with urgency and shock. From her hiding place, Angela only picked up fragments of the conversation.
“...Not breathing...”
“...We need to hide it...”
“...No one can know...”
Though obscured by the strangers, Angela saw a shirtless body curled up at their feet. Cory!
Angela’s breath quickened with her heart rate. The baseball bat trembled in her hands. She was half-terrified, half-angry. Taking the slugger in both hands, she marched out of the woods and stormed down the small incline that led into the clearing.
Hearing Angela’s footfalls, the strangers twisted around. They were around Cory’s age, eighteen to twenty, with stark white faces glistening with sweat. A brush stroke of crimson was on the face of the guy with a square jaw, buzz cut, and gray hoodie. The others had light blood spatter on their clothes. She recognized only one of them, but her attention was on Cory.
Her brother was curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the tree. Fresh lacerations and deep cuts painted his bare chest and bruised face that was so swollen and purple it appeared to have been turned inside out.
Angela’s blood pressure spiked. She screamed at the five. “What the hell did you do?”
The others looked at her in shocked silence, like they didn’t understand her words.
Angela shoved the two in the middle aside, clearing the way
to her brother. She dropped to her knees and shook his shoulder. “Cory, Cory, wake up. We need to go.”
Her brother didn’t reply. He didn’t breathe.
Angela kept shaking him. “Come on, Cory. Get up.”
The strangers watched her. They were completely still. Completely quiet. Their expressions were numb and horrified.
Angela tightened her fingers around the bat. I’ll kill them all, she promised. Every last one of them. That’s when she felt it. A sharp pain in her back echoed through her body. A cry escaped her lips. She twisted back, swinging the slugger at the strangers. They scurried just out of reach and watched her with horrified eyes. Angela peered over her shoulder, seeing the black hilt of the knife jutting from her jacket.
“Who...?” she asked as the dirt came up to hit her jaw.
The bat rolled from her fingers as the woods and the strangers’ faces began to swirl around her. She commanded herself to sit up. To fight back. Her body didn’t listen. The sharp pain grew stronger. She rolled over to face Cory. Blood poured from his wounds and slender torso, watering the earth with dark crimson. Angela reached a hand out, but it fell to the dirt before she could touch her little brother’s cheek.
Cory’s eyes were nearly swollen shut. His body was motionless. As the shadows of the strangers fell over them, Angela saw Cory blink. That was when the darkness closed in.
2
ALONE
Blackness. That was all Ellie saw when she lifted the paintbrush. Her eyes rolled back into her skull. Her muscles tensed up. Her heart rate fluttered between a slow thump and jackhammer speed. She wore her sleeping clothes: a loose-fitted white T-shirt and panties. Troy was still in bed upstairs, snoring softly and completely unaware of the severity of his wife’s condition.
Ellie painted, first with single, simple strokes, and then gradually worked her way up to a brush in both hands. She slathered the walls of her personal art room with the black paint. Within hours, she wouldn’t remember any of this. Not the way she tossed her art supplies, unfinished canvases, and paint cart out of the room’s French doors, or how she painted a mural of her husband, Troy, on the back wall.
Stolen Secrets: A Collection Of Riveting Mysteries Page 13
