Finally he answered her question. “I guess so. But I’ve never heard of it. The transients stay on the streets to pick up spare change and sleep in the park or occasionally the homeless shelter if they can get out there. Most of the tunnels are locked since they have outlets into the buildings and the buildings are locked.”
“Johnny Blair and I are going to the early movie.” She jumped up and completely changed the subject so her father wouldn’t think about her question for too long. “I’d better get some popcorn made.”
“I heard about a guy who got arrested for taking his own popcorn to the movies.”
“We’re sneaky. We can barely afford the movie, much less the refreshments.”
“You need some money?” Her father reached in the pocket of his overalls.
“No, Dad, really. I’m working now, remember?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go up on the campus for awhile.” If he hadn’t remembered before, he did now.
“I’ll be all right. I’m careful.” She ran back to her room to unbraid her hair and brush it. She didn’t need another lecture.
There were four movies showing at the dollar seventy-five theater, the only one she ever went to. Six or seven dollars for a movie just wasn’t in her budget, and she never expected Johnny to buy her ticket. When they went someplace together, it was never like a date. Until now, she had never considered they were any more than friends. She wasn’t sure she liked thinking anything else. It might ruin their friendship.
They chose the scary movie, of course. And they weren’t disappointed. This woman kept running around inside and out of a big apartment building in New York City. And she just happened to have rented the apartment where another woman had killed herself—jumped out the window. But you knew she didn’t jump. If she had, there wouldn’t have been a story.
Some weirdo was watching her all the time, since he’d put a hidden camera in her apartment. How come he hadn’t seen the former tenant jump out the window? Or be pushed? Unless he was the murderer, too.
“Da-da, da-da. Da-da, da-da.” Johnny hummed the Jaws theme as they left the movie. “Want to live in New York City some day?” He laughed.
“I don’t think so. Fortunately artists can live anyplace.”
“So can pianists. But I’ll have to travel a lot. So I guess it won’t matter where I live. I’ll just have one room and a piano.”
“With a cheap, cozy little restaurant down the block so you don’t have to cook. Can you cook?”
“Is this a proposal?” Johnny teased.
“Well, I can’t cook. Someone has to.”
“There are always TV dinners.”
LaDonna remembered her father’s dinner. And sometimes you eat them when neither you or your daughter wants to cook.
“Did you hear about that girl being attacked when you came across campus last night, Johnny?” LaDonna moved back to the subject uppermost on her mind. Maybe they should have seen a light comedy at the theater.
“Is that a subtle way of asking me if I was up there?”
“You’re really sensitive about that, aren’t you?”
“You would be too if the police kept asking you questions. Why would I kill Katherine?”
LaDonna made an attempt at black humor. “She was a better pianist than you?”
Johnny sighed. He hadn’t told a dark, tasteless joke for weeks. “That’s not funny.”
“I know. I’m sorry. We’ll talk about something else.”
They got very quiet for three blocks. Three dark blocks along Broadway and onto The Hill.
LaDonna laughed a little. “We’re brilliant conversationalists, aren’t we?”
“Your new art says a lot. Want to tell me why you’re painting with that new style?”
“No. Did you notice that one of them is you? And that another is how I felt after I listened to your music the other day.”
“When you slipped out quietly.”
“You heard me.”
“No. But when I finished playing, I asked you if you were bored. You weren’t. You were gone. I was playing for you.”
“I’m sorry. I appreciated it. But suddenly—well, it’s hard to explain. I was so filled with emotion from listening, I thought I was going to burst. I just had to paint. I’m painting in the basement, on the job. But I don’t charge off those hours.”
“I suspected you were. What’s there that makes you able to paint when you can’t paint in class? Or at home?”
“Have you forgotten that I told you someone was there with me?” If he had forgotten, she’d remind him. She needed to talk about Mr. Sable again.
“You still believe that? To tell the truth, LaDonna, I didn’t pay much attention to you when you told me that the first time. That’s your imagination.”
“No!” Wow, she didn’t mean to be that adamant. In a quieter voice she said, “No, it’s not my imagination. He’s helping me paint. My style’s a lot like his, but I’ve stopped worrying about that. I can’t explain it, Johnny. It’s like he—he gets inside my mind and guides my hand.”
“Then it’s his painting.”
“No, I refuse to believe that. My emotion is reflected in the work.”
They walked a ways farther. “Should I worry about you, LaDonna? Are you losing your mind? Why don’t you talk to the counselor at the school? She’s pretty good. I went to see her last year when I had trouble with my scheduling.”
“I don’t need a psychiatrist or a psychologist. I do need a friend, Johnny. Believe what I’m telling you.”
“It’s hard.” He draped his arm around her loosely. “You’re telling me you believe in ghosts. I don’t. So we don’t have a meeting of minds. Like—like you say you do with this—this person in your basement room. You were awfully stressed, LaDonna, when—”
“Why did I tell you?” LaDonna felt slightly hurt that Johnny couldn’t understand what she was telling him. But if she thought about it for long, she could see his point. If he told her he was playing music that someone else put in his head, not off a page in a book, but coming to him through the air, would she believe him? Or would she say, you’ve lost your mind, Johnny.
“Because we’ve always shared everything.” He hugged her. “Don’t stop sharing just because I think you’re weird.” He pushed her and ran ahead. She chased him to the corner. Then they both had to stop for a traffic light.
After a couple more blocks they were passing the north end of the campus. “Want to go practice, Johnny?” she asked. “I can walk on home by myself.”
“Your dad and my mother would kill me.”
“They would never know. But I guess I’ll try to paint at home tonight. That’s the worst of this situation, Johnny, whatever it is. I’m starting to feel as if I can’t paint any place except in that musty basement. If that’s the case, I’m in trouble.”
“I heard that’s called functional fixedness. A big word for being rigid. Only being able to do whatever it is you do in one place. I’ll practice at home tonight. You paint in your room. Willing to try?”
“Deal.” LaDonna stuck out her hand and shook Johnny’s. And when they reached her house, she knew their evening had ended with that handshake. She would rather have had a kiss.
thirteen
AFTER TWO NIGHTS of unsuccessfully trying to paint at home, LaDonna slipped out after her father left for work and hurried to the campus. Her father had not forbidden her to go to her job, but he had strongly suggested that it wasn’t a good idea. Roddy had said the same thing. Johnny hadn’t bothered. He knew she’d do as she pleased.
She figured she could always catch up on sorting the donated paintings, but now that she was working well, she hated to let her painting go. Facing a blank canvas was scary enough. Facing one, knowing you were blocked was hell.
She didn’t know what it was like to be pregnant, but she could imagine how frustrating it must be to want to have your baby and not be able to. When she wanted to paint and couldn’t, it was as if she had this hug
e living thing inside her trying to get out. The more it pushed and kicked, the more miserable she felt. And the less she wanted to live through the pain.
Spring had returned after the snow squall and the night was damp, smelling of hyacinths, and buds were bursting from all the trees.
But the night was also moonless. As she entered the campus from College Avenue, she realized that the lights on either side of Varsity Pond were either burned out or had been broken.
Her feet thudded on the walk as she walked faster and faster. All the warnings from adults around her had made her nervous. She hated the feeling. She hated being afraid.
“LaDonna, wait.” A low whisper escaped the grove of pines to her left. “LaDonna, what’s your hurry?”
She stopped, glanced around, but could see nothing but dark, straight tree trunks against an even darker background.
For a couple of seconds she thought the voice belonged to Mr. Sable, but what would he be doing out here?
“Who’s there?” she said, angry because her voice was tentative.
She stepped onto the bridge, grasped the cold wall to the left of the walk, leaned slightly over. A light on the other side of the pond reflected in the shiny water as if that was where the moon had tried to hide.
Trip-trap, trip-trap. She continued to walk, remembering the story now. The troll was at the other end.
Why had the fairy tale come to mind? Because in third grade she had played the Biggest Billy Goat Gruff, the one who was supposed to deal with the troll. She had been as fearless in third grade as she had until—until just a few weeks ago. The other kids had known that when they chose her for the part.
Trip-trap. She hurried on. Trip-trap. She ran.
His laughter followed her. She wanted to go back and fight. He had deliberately tried to frighten her. And he had succeeded.
Who? Someone who knew her. Someone who had followed her all this way from home? Or someone who knew she wouldn’t be able to stay home and work for long?
That could be half a dozen people. Johnny, Luis Rodriguez, Eric Hunter, her father, Mr. Sable.
Or even her boss, Glen Walker. She didn’t see much of him, but when she did, he waved. And he knew she liked to work at night. Maybe he wasn’t the nice guy Roddy thought he was. Something could have happened to push him over the edge. Many people today, due to stress and unhappiness or anger, walked a fine line between being a nice person and one out of control, taking their anger out on society.
Was this person’s scaring her tonight separate from what was happening on campus, or—or was he …
She couldn’t think of any reason for anyone she knew to be attacking women at night. But suddenly she knew some very strange people. Why had Mr. Sable selected her to appear to in the basement gallery? He could be in her imagination, she realized, but she didn’t think so. Someone speaking to her on the bridge wasn’t made up, was it?
Her life had certainly taken a strange turn.
Artists, very creative people, walked a narrow line between sanity and a disturbed personality. Maybe … Wow, now she was thinking she was going crazy.
She had to use her key to get into the art building. The lock was stubborn. Twice she glanced around while she jiggled and twisted it. This outside light burned brightly. She saw no one, and there were no close bushes for anyone to hide.
Hurrying through the dimly lighted hall, she reached the stairway door. She stopped, listened. She had never come into the building this late at night, alone, she realized. She usually came in by day, when people were having classes in the building. Often she left at night, but entering the place at night felt strange. Sometimes there were night classes. Not tonight.
She thought she’d feel safe when she reached her room. She didn’t. Her hands shook as she got out her brushes and paints. As she squeezed color on her palette.
Paint from your emotion. She would. She had plenty tonight. She would paint from her fear.
She piled blue and gray in layers at the bottom left of the canvas like icebergs, waiting, watching. A night sky of ebony. A lopsided, waning moon, as cold as the ice below.
From a navy-colored ocean, a killer whale breached, his body slick with trailing drops of water, the surface breaking into teardrops of clear crystal. The whale’s body, black patterned with white, matched the landscape, but his energy, his powerful leap from the ocean depths suggested a contrast.
He would glow, glow with phosphorescence. She searched for cad yellow light, squeezed out a worm of paint, drew it lightly around the whale’s body. A hint of green. A dry brush dragged still another cool color across the yellow.
“What are you afraid of?” the smooth voice said, drifting from the shadowed corner behind her.
“Oh!” She jumped and dropped her paint brush. She bent to pick it up and felt foolish. “I didn’t know you were here.” She wiped paint from the floor.
“Your concentration, your focus was excellent. Perhaps I shouldn’t have disturbed you. Frightened you.”
“I’m almost finished. I guess I’m still jumpy from someone following me on the way over here.” She’d tell him. See what he said.
“You’re alone in the building.”
Thanks—I guess, she thought.
“You’re welcome.”
He could read her mind.
“That surprises you?”
“Hey, stop it.” She tried to smile and turned back to the painting.
The moon radiates with the same colors, the same green and yellow glow.
“Echoing the algae on the whale,” she whispered.
Perhaps the wall of ice on the left
“would reflect the glow.” She dragged some yellow and a touch of green paint along the iceberg.
And below, under the water, in the ocean depths
“a hint of blue,”
and gray,
“just like the ice, as if he burst from ice way down, from the depths of icy darkness, the unknown.”
Silence surrounded them. She studied the picture. Decided it was finished and that she liked it. The style was a bit more realistic than her others, but the mix of colors set it apart, kept it from being just another nature picture.
She remembered the title of a book she’d seen while passing a bookstore window. The Moon by Whale Light. Maybe that idea stayed in her mind. Could she call her painting by the same name? The idea, the image fit perfectly.
She didn’t know how long she had sat there, pulled into the cold, arctic glow, but at about the same time she started to shiver, a sharp sound startled her.
Even through the thick brick walls of the old building, she heard the siren shriek through the night. The wail seemed to stop very close to where she worked.
fourteen
QUICKLY SHE CLEANED up, but found then she was afraid to leave the building. Funny that she felt more comfortable—safer—in this musty basement room with someone—a ghost she’d have to call him—here with her, than she did out in the real world.
But knowing what had been happening on campus combined with the siren so close caused an apprehension that froze her blood and numbed her legs.
Finally she stood. She climbed the stairs, walked down the empty hall, leaned on the front door to open it. As soon as she turned right and rounded the corner of the art building, she raised her hand to shield her eyes. The area around Varsity Pond was lit up as if a fraternity was holding a rock concert there.
There was no concert.
A crowd had gathered. Slowly she walked up behind some students. “Do you know what’s happening?”
The story had circulated fast. “They’re dragging the pond.”
“It takes two days to drain it.”
“Who—what are they looking for?” La Donna asked.
“Someone reported a scream, some cries, and a splash.”
“They’re afraid another girl has been killed.”
Several people helped tell the story. La Donna didn’t add her share. She didn’t say, that could
be me they’re looking for. I think he followed me earlier.
Should she find a policeman and tell him she thought someone was looking for a victim around eight o’clock? She didn’t know that. She didn’t see him. No, she wouldn’t talk to the police. She had no real evidence.
She walked back to the sidewalk just west of the art building and cut downhill to College Avenue, watching as policemen searched the woods with their spotlights.
Under a street lamp she glanced at her watch. It was eleven. The streets were almost empty, except for an occasional car. No one was walking.
Hurrying from light to light, she stayed alert, ready to run at any noise. He has already killed tonight. He has no need to kill again.
Where did that idea come from? She didn’t know. It seemed logical. For the first time in a long time, she wished she had a close girl friend. Someone she could call when she got home to an empty house and needed to talk. Just to share ideas. Maybe someone to share the idea that it had almost been her tonight, that she was playing with fire to keep going onto campus alone after dark.
Lights were still on at Johnny’s house. She knew his mother liked to stay up late. Mrs. Blair had trouble sleeping. Did La Donna dare ring the bell?
She did. She pushed it, hoping Johnny would answer. He stayed up late, too.
Mrs. Blair peeked out, then opened the door. “LaDonna, what are you doing out here so late?”
“Is Johnny home? Or asleep. I just needed to talk to him.”
“He’s in the shower. He hasn’t been home long, but he came right in and headed for the bathroom. I expect he’ll come back downstairs before he goes to bed. He usually stops and talks to me for a minute. It’s the only time we have together most days.”
What Mrs. Blair was really saying was, go home, LaDonna. Johnny is mine now. I don’t want to share him.
“Well, okay, I’d better go. Tell him I said hi and that I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that, LaDonna. Now you hurry home, you hear? You shouldn’t be out here so late by yourself. You didn’t come off the campus, did you? I just watched the news. I don’t even like for Johnny to be up there.”
The Gallery Page 8
