By the time the trance ended, Ellie was on the floor with a blanket covering her body. She opened her eyes to the dark art room and listened to the low hum of the ceiling fan. Ellie blinked. She didn’t feel a headache this time, or the hunger that usually came over her. What she felt was a heavy calm. She forgot about the pain in her palms and in the other parts of her body. It was like she was floating. She glanced around the room and jumped when she saw Peaches seated on a stool.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“How long was I out?” Ellie asked as she noticed that there were only a few lights on the inside of the apartment.
Peaches checked his watch. “Four hours.”
Ellie groaned and let her head fall back to the floor. “Where’s Skinner?”
“He went to look for Troy.”
Ellie gave him a sidelong glance. “Why didn’t you go?”
Peaches pointed to his head bandage. “I’m still benched. I thought I’d stay with you. And, I have to say, Ellie, that was something else.”
Ellie had purposefully kept herself from looking at the mural. It now covered all three walls. Troy’s image was still at the center, but around was the interior of some concrete room, like a basement or garage. Dozens of hooded figures lined either side of the walls. Their faces were covered in black cloth. Their arms were flush at their sides. They all had the same attire: black hoodie, black cargo pants, black boots, and black gloves. Troy’s image had been updated. There was now visible rope binding his wrists. The blood on Troy’s chest had a fresher quality to it. With Peaches’s assistance, Ellie rose to her feet. She approached the wound of her husband. The paint was still wet and glossy. She eyed the crimson flow. Part of it was scarlet paint and the other part was crow blood.
“Magnifying glass,” Ellie requested.
The detective shuffled around behind her. Ellie ignored him, putting her full attention on what could be a hidden clue masked in the dark blood. She was learning from the portraits. Blood seemed to be a reoccurring theme. Ellie saw Peaches approaching with a magnifying glass in her peripheral. She reached back with her paint-soaked hands and took the magnifying tool. The lens was cracked but still functional.
Ellie studied the crude wound that was identical to that crack on the tree from Willoughby Drive. Within the wound there was a gathering of tiny people, almost like stick figures. They formed a semi-circle. Ellie recognized some of their features from Kenny’s photograph. Andrew, Kimberly, Pamela, Kenny, and Mike. Mike was the one that seemed to stand out from all the rest. He didn’t have any notable physical features; still, Ellie felt the need to find him.
Peaches paced around the desolate art room that stank of fresh paint and other strong chemicals. “I wonder if it’s a cult.”
Ellie looked at the dozens of hooded men that were identical in appearance, and though Ellie couldn’t see their eyes, it seemed like they watched her. She shuddered. What if each of the hooded men she had encountered was a different person? What would that mean for the case? For Troy? She had to believe that they hadn’t killed her husband yet, otherwise, what was the point?
“Phone,” she commanded.
“What’s the plan?” Peaches asked.
Ellie glared at him and didn’t give an explanation. Slightly hesitant, Peaches pulled out his smartphone and surrendered it to Ellie. She took it with her paint-soaked hands, realized it was touch screen. Peaches opened his mouth to say something, but Ellie was already getting her painted fingertips on the screen. She dialed Andrew Maneau and put the phone on speaker.
Walking back and forth, she waited for her mentor to answer. He finally did.
“Detective Peaches?”
“No, it’s me,” said Ellie.
“Oh, Ellie. Has something happened to the detective?” Andrew asked.
“I’m the one asking questions,” Ellie said forcefully. “And I don’t want some BS answer.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ellie boiled. “Troy’s been taken, Andrew. There’s a good chance he’s dead.”
“Ellie... I,” Andrew took a breath. “I’m sure the police will figure something out.”
“If they could, I wouldn’t be calling you,” Ellie replied. “I need you to tell me what happened with Kimberly, Pamela, Kenny, and Mike when you were teenagers.”
It seemed like all the air was sucked out of Andrew’s side of the phone line. Ellie waited for him to reply. She waited to him to confess the truth with his own lips. Her own speech would only disrupt the answers she was looking for.
“Whatever happened back then, it doesn’t matter now,” Andrew declared.
Ellie’s blood pressure spiked. “I saved your life, Andrew. You can at least help me save my husband’s.”
“So you’re going to guilt trip me after all I’ve done to help you out?” Andrew asked rhetorically.
Ellie wanted to wring his neck. “This is so much bigger than all of that. Please, Andrew. I won’t tell a soul, but we don’t have much time. Troy will die.”
“You’re calling me with a cop’s phone. How do I know this isn’t a sting?”
“We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Ellie replied. “Give me something. Anything. I’m on my knees here.”
Andrew was quiet for a few seconds. He struggled to say the words, but did so anyway. “We were young, the others and I. We were going off the college soon and wanted something to… I don’t know, solidify our relationship.”
Ellie recalled the displays in the hooded man’s barn. “Tell me what happened.”
Andrew was quiet again. After the moment passed, he said. “We were trying to... initiate someone into our clique, and we hurt him.”
Ellie looked at the dozens of hooded figures dripping wet paint on her floor. “Were you part of some sort of club?”
“No. We were just... The point is that something went wrong when we were at Willoughby that night. The boy we were trying to scare got hurt. Really bad.”
“Who was he?” Ellie asked.
“I’m not going to say.” Andrew replied.
Ellie wanted to pull her hair out. “For the love of Pete. This is serious.”
“I know. That’s why I can’t say anything more,” Andrew replied. There was sternness in his tone. He was also speaking very cautiously, like one slip of the tongue would be fatal. It drove Ellie nuts. This was only wasting more time. “However,” Andrew continued. “There is someone who might be able to help.”
“Who?” Ellie asked, sick of the runaround but willing to take whatever lead she could get.
“Michael Dillinger. He was with us that night,” Andrew said. “He’ll know more. Remember more, too. I was intoxicated, frankly.”
Ellie bounced her eyes between Peaches and the legal pad, making sure he wrote down that name. Peaches gave her a thumb’s up. Ellie spoke to Andrew. “Tell me about Michael?”
“He was a drifter, so to say. He’d keep to himself and didn’t spend much time with us.”
“Why was that?”
“I honestly don’t know, Ellie. It was just the type of person he was.”
Peaches gestured for Ellie to keep asking questions. She did so. “Is there any reason he’d want to hurt you and the others?”
“I…” Andrew stammered. “I never thought… no, not Michael. We were not close, but he would never want to hurt us, let alone kill.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” Ellie said and waited for a reply.
“Look, I can’t say. I haven’t seen him since Kenny’s funeral. He was distant then. Didn’t say much.” Andrew sounded more and more unsure. “Do you really believe that he’s the one doing this?”
Ellie was tempted to pinch the bridge of her nose but kept herself from doing so. The paint on her hands was not yet dry. “I don’t know, Andrew. You tell me.”
“If there’s no one else…”
“What about the person you hurt?” Ellie asked.
“It can’t be him,” Andrew replied.
“He never recovered from his injuries.”
Ellie remembered the barn and the stall with a disassembled female mannequin. “Was there also a woman that was attacked or killed when you were young?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” Andrew replied.
“A woman. Someone else who got hurt,” Ellie said. She was still trying to wrap her head around the case information but felt like an idiot. Andrew wasn’t providing enough information to help her understand.
“There was no one else,” Andrew said seriously. “We made a mistake with that boy, and we all paid the price for it. No one else got hurt. You’ve got to believe me. Please, Ellie. I’m innocent.”
“I believe you,” Ellie lied. “Now give me Michael’s address.”
Andrew did so. He said again that he was innocent and hung up. Ellie handed the phone back to Peaches. He wiped off the wet paint from the phone onto his slacks and instantly regretted doing so when he noticed the brush marks on his suit pants. He put the address into the GPS. It was a forty-five-minute drive out of town. Of course, Ellie thought. The man had to live on the outskirts of society. While Peaches told Skinner about the lead, Ellie headed to the kitchen.
She stepped over the mess of liquids and lunchmeats on the tile floor and washed her hands in the sink. Her clothes were stiff and crusty from the well water, and Ellie stank like swamp muck. She might not have time for a shower, but she could at least wash her hair and get a fresh change of clothes. She went upstairs and washed her blonde bob cut in the sink. She scrubbed the shampoo harshly against her scalp with her newly cleaned hands. When she finished, she opened the mirror cupboard, grabbed some painkillers, and downed them with handfuls of water. Though she didn’t hurt from the mural creation, which was odd, the throbbing pain in her neck and on her cheek reminded her of her beating heart and the man who tried to cease it multiple times.
She put on a pearl-colored long-sleeve shirt, black fleece, running sweats, and tennis shoes that could breathe easily. Hair in a stubby ponytail, she put on a black ball cap and returned downstairs. Peaches was waiting at the front door for her. He was fixing his head bandage in the mirror on the wall near the entrance. A mirror that the hooded man had somehow failed to destroy.
Ellie grabbed the house key. “You got a gun?”
Peaches lifted his blazer to reveal his Beretta. “Always.”
“This time, don’t miss.” Ellie said.
“If Michael is the guy, he’s done,” Peaches replied as they stepped into the apartment complex’s hallway.
Ellie locked the door. Not that it mattered. Everything she had was already destroyed. Heck, it might actually be good if someone broke in. They could clear out all of the junk.
Ellie arrived and saw her rent-a-car parked in the lot. Paul must’ve dropped it off during the time of the blackout. Ellie decided to drive, not trusting Peaches’s concussion. Then again, putting someone who had frequent blackouts behind the wheel also seemed like a recipe for disaster. Oh well. Ellie peeled off onto the Northampton streets just as the sun started to sink. It cast its brilliant orange and red rays across the horizon of the indigo sky. Stars speckled the night. The moon was already visible despite the fact that the sun had not fully set.
“What do you see?” Ellie finally asked with nervousness and embarrassment.
“Hmm?” Peach made a noise, unsure what she was talking about, or at least playing ignorant.
“When I blacked out,” Ellie elaborated.
Peaches smiled at her like he had some sort of secret.
“Don’t be cheeky,” Ellie commanded.
“You’ve gotten feisty since your time in the well,” Peaches pointed out, avoiding her question.
“I’ve always been feisty,” Ellie replied.
Peaches shook his head and smiled teasingly. “I don’t think so.”
“Just answer my question,” Ellie replied. “The blackout. What happened?”
“Well, for starters, your eyes rolled into the back of your head. That was pretty gnarly, and then you started paint with amazing precision. First with one brush and then with two.”
“Did I say anything?” Ellie asked, trying to process the information.
“Nope,” Peaches replied. “You were dead silent the whole time. But, Ellie, it was mind-blowing to watch you work. There was no flaw. All of it was perfect, like you’d painted it a million times.”
Ellie thought that should be a compliment, but it only horrified her.
They neared their next destination.
8
THE FIFTH WHEEL
It was a small New England house, square in design, and two-stories tall with white walls. It was the type of place that looked gloomy even in the spring. Dirt hung on the walls and turned the paint the color of dirty snow. The grass stood ankle high. The mailbox door hung open. Bills, discount papers, and other junk mail was shoved inside so tight, it seemed like the whole mailbox would burst. There was a taxicab in the driveway. Its tires sank to the driveway like pancakes. Like blisters, the yellow checkered paint bubbled, and rust marked the places where the bubbles had broken away. There were a few trees in the yard. None of them had been trimmed for a long while. The birch nearest the house had its branches pressed against the second floor on the home’s left side.
Ellie and Peaches arrived after Detective Skinner and another squad car with a different officer. They weren’t sure if Michael Dillinger was their killer. His police record had a history of domestic abuse. The charges were pressed by two different women; both were his ex-wives. That was promising. If Ellie would describe the hooded man, it was a man of violence. On the police database, Michael’s mug had hollow eyes with dark sleep circles, a receding hairline, and a flat nose. A quick web search of his infrequent use of social media profiles revealed that his craft was welding. Using scrap metal, he’d make little robots--non-functional but covered in gears--and other day-to-day objects recreated with crude, industrial charm. Another artist, Ellie thought. It was no wonder that Andrew, Kimberly, Pamela, Mike, and Kenny were drawn together.
Skinner walked ahead of Ellie, Peaches, and Officer Gable. They moved in an arrow point formation. Skinner glanced back at Ellie before they reached the front door. He gave her an angry scowl with his bulldog face.
“Back,” he commanded.
Peaches gave Ellie a pitying smile. “Sorry. Official police business.”
“So I just wait?” Ellie replied with hostility.
Skinner gnashed his teeth. “Yeah. That’s what citizens do.” He turned to Peaches. “We’re going to have a long chat after this.”
Peaches grinned at him, not taking the threat seriously. “She’s my guide. Concussion, remember?”
Skinner shook his head. “Well aren't we a motley crew. Gable, guard my six. Detective Peaches has brain issues.” Skinner smiled at his own wit as Officer Gable moved up behind him. They kept their weapons secure in the holsters as they pounded on the door.
Ellie leaned against the car, her arms crossed and her face red. She felt like a knot on the log. With a heavy frown, she watched the officers pound on the front door.
No response. That didn’t surprise Ellie. The place looked abandoned. If Michael was the hooded man, he could’ve been living in apartment 42A or the barn with the mannequins. Both of those places were low maintenance. Ellie was sure that anyone with a middle-class salary could afford the monthly rental prices at such places without much financial stress. Especially if the utility cost was kept to a minimum.
Officer Gable cupped his hands around his face on the window nearby. Ellie imagined the hooded man shooting him from inside the house. Envisioning such things became easier the more she painted the death portraits and saw real gore. There was a part of her that was grateful for her newfound cautions, but she also missed thinking about positive things, like sunsets over a lake or a horse running in a prairie. Those were things she missed painting. In her attempts to complete artist commissions after the first blacko
ut, she found herself adding dark shading and deep red accents to the calming picturesque scenes; it turned them into something disturbing.
Gable stayed at the front door. Peaches and Skinner headed around the back of the house, peeking into every window they passed.
Ellie reached for her cellphone, but remembered it was at home and broken. What if Troy had tried to call her? She could’ve missed his final “I love you.”
Ellie’s gut twisted. The stress was making her sick. Ellie shut her eyes and envisioned the art room. She’d always had a sharp mind, even as a kid. It was how she was able to create such true-to-life paintings. She saw the dozens of hooded men standing around Troy. However, their faces were on Ellie and their bodies were stiff. They were all the same size with the same rigid posture: stiff shoulders and arms at their sides. It made them seem less than human. Either that, or they were so unified in the kill that even their outwardly appearance reflected one another. Their appearance could be purely symbolic. The paintings had interruptive components despite their realism. It was possible that the appearance of many hooded men could infer a network of unseen killers, or the reflection of the killer’s all-watching eyes on Ellie. They were looking at her and not her husband they had strung up. Ellie didn’t realize that she was chewing her fingernail until she tasted some paint residue on her tongue. She kept her eyes closed, recalling the mural. She looked into her husband’s horrifying wound. No more clues apart from the five people. The more she remembered it, the stronger the memory became. She could almost smell the paint thinner.
She “walked” around the art room and spent the time to study each of the men’s faces. The well was foreshadowed in Troy’s eyes, so perhaps there was a foreshadowing element in these men’s expressions. She stared at the black fabric shrouding their features. She noticed one in the second row of the men had a thumbprint of blood brushed down his nose. Ellie didn’t remember seeing it when she was first in the room and was unsure if this was memory or a conjuration of her mind. She knew that the blood used was authentic. It probably came from the dead crow she had casually removed from the wall during her episode. She noticed more blood droplets on the same man. In her vision, Ellie imagined herself kneeling down and examining the man’s right boot visible behind another one of the hooded figure’s feet. There was a blood smear on the boot as well, and across the two was an address. Ellie couldn’t make out the fine print, but it appeared to have been carved into the wall of the art room.
Stolen Secrets: A Collection Of Riveting Mysteries Page 20
