Sacrificial Ground fc-1

by Thomas H. Cook

  “This is what we call a gallery of the Alternative,” the man said quietly. “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  The man nodded slowly. “Then you are in for a treat.” He smiled thinly. “This is the front exhibition room,” he said, as he swept one arm out gracefully. “It’s not very large, as you can see, but we manage to use the space well.”

  Frank followed the swing of the man’s arm. The room was dimly lit by a scattering of freestanding lamps. Their orange shades turned the air faintly yellow, and yet oddly luminous.

  “Light is an atmosphere,” the man said. “Because ofthat, we at the Knife Point think of it differently than the more established galleries. We do not seek to illuminate. We seek to shade.” He nodded toward the opposite wall. “Our first exhibit.”

  The entire wall had been painted red, and a great black feather seemed to swirl out at its center. It created a strange, willowy maelstrom, and for an instant Frank felt himself drawn toward its center.

  “It is called The Fall of Satan,” the man explained, “and I think it captures a certain tragic grandeur.” He looked calmly at Frank. “But please, don’t think that the Knife Point is some sort of satanic enclave. We have nothing to do with that sort of idiocy. We are an alternative gallery, as I said. We are dedicated to nothing but alternatives.” He swung around slowly and faced the wall to his left. “And so, we have works like this.”

  It was a large canvas, painted white, then streaked with blue. Oval drops of blood fell from the strips of white, then gathered in scarlet pools at various places along the green base of the canvas.

  “Do you find this disturbing?” the man asked.

  Frank continued to look at the painting. “No.”

  “Some do,” the man said. “It’s called Lifeblood.”

  Frank felt himself quite unexpectedly moved by the image before him. It seemed to speak more deeply of the world he knew than anything he’d seen in Theodore’s gallery or Karen’s living room.

  “Who painted this?” he asked.

  “Derek Linton. Ever heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a local artist,” the man said. “Perhaps the best there is.” He watched as Frank returned his gaze to the picture. “We have a few more of his works in the other rooms.”

  Frank continued to look at the painting. The rain of blood seemed to fall silently and without melodrama, then gather in small lakes of quiet grief.

  “Who sent you here?” the man asked, after a moment.

  Frank turned to him. “Sent me?”

  “Well, you don’t exactly look like an art collector.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then how did you find out about the Knife Point? It’s hardly on the tourist itinerary.”

  “James Theodore told me about it.”

  The man looked surprised. “Theodore?”

  “Yes.”

  The man laughed derisively. “Then I’m surprised you came at all.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Theodore is hardly supportive of our work,” the man said. “Have you ever seen his gallery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paintings for the rich and oblivious,” the man said. “Works of art that are just placid enough so as not to disturb your guests while they sip their champagne.” He smiled proudly. “As you can see, we are not interested in such things.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Frank said.

  “So, Theodore sent you over here. Why? To scoff? To have a laugh?”

  “No,” Frank said. He pulled out his badge. “Frank Clemons.”

  The man glanced at the badge, then back up at Frank. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a member of the Gestapo.”

  Frank pocketed the badge. “What do you mean?”

  “A spy for Theodore and his crowd,” the man said. “Are they still looking for some way to close us down?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then what’s your connection with him?”

  “He owns his gallery with Karen Devereaux.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And Karen’s sister, Angelica, was murdered a few days ago.”

  “Ah, so you’re investigating her death?”

  “Yes. Could I ask you your name?”

  “It’s Leland Cartier,” the man said. “I own the Knife Point.” He looked at Frank closely. “Of course, that still doesn’t explain why Theodore sent you over here.” He laughed quietly. “I mean, does he think I killed his partner’s sister in order to get even?”

  “Get even for what, Mr. Cartier?”

  “For the way he’s been deriding everything we do here,” Cartier said. “It’s a campaign to destroy us. He hates what we do. He believes that art should be gentle. He’s even written that somewhere, that art should be ‘life-affirming.’” He smiled sarcastically. “An odd attitude, don’t you think, for an alcoholic?”

  Frank took out his picture of Angelica. “Have you ever seen her?”

  Cartier looked at the picture. “Is this Karen Devereaux’s sister?”

  “Yes.”

  Cartier continued to gaze at the photograph. “Yes, I’ve seen her,” he said slowly. “But I had no idea who she was.”

  “Did you know that she was dead?”

  Cartier handed the picture back to Frank. “No, I didn’t.”

  “This same photograph was in the paper only a few days ago,” Frank told him.

  “I don’t read the papers,” Cartier said. “I don’t find anything in them to be of use to me. I suppose you find that a strange attitude.”

  “A little.”

  “Life is short,” Cartier said. “That’s the only real law of life, that it very quickly comes to an end. Since that is so, it requires certain choices. One of them is to distinguish the things you can do something about from the things you can’t.” He shrugged. “The things in the paper are beyond my effort. I can’t do anything about them, so I don’t bother to learn about them.” He smiled coolly. “It makes a certain amount of sense, don’t you think?”

  Frank took out his notebook. “You said that Angelica had been in the gallery, that you’d seen her here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t know who she was?”

  “That’s right.”

  Frank wrote it down. “But you do recognize her from the photograph?”

  “It took me a moment but, yes, I recognize her.”

  “Why did it take you a while?”

  “Because she was dressed quite differently when she came in here.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  Cartier thought about it for a moment. “Some sort of black outfit,” he said. “I don’t notice clothing that much, but I notice the mood it gives off.”

  “Mood?”

  “Yes,” Cartier said, “and Angelica’s clothing gave off a sort of blackness. Of course, that’s not unusual for the people who come in here. They’re sometimes looking for anything but a work of art. They see the noose on the door, and something about it attracts them.”

  “Was Angelica looking for art?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know what anyone’s looking for, Mr. Clemons,” Cartier said. “Do you?”

  “When was she here?”

  “About three months ago, I’d say,” Cartier told him. “But come, you seem interested in some of the works we have. Let’s walk through the gallery while we talk.” He turned and headed into the adjoining room. He walked to the center of it, then stopped and looked back at Frank. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Frank looked around the room. It was even more dimly lit than the first, and the mood it gave off was more sinister. A pair of silver handcuffs hung from a gold tack, and a black whip had been coiled up tightly and then nailed to the wall with a silver stake.

  “Did Angelica come back here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Cartier said. “As I recall, she lingered in this particular room. This one, and the last one, in the very
back. Do you want to see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me.”

  The paintings in the back room of the Knife Point seemed to drip, rather than hang, from the walls. The bright red and yellow canvases looked like gashes in the plain white plaster, their three-dimensional insides spilling out onto the floor. A kind of thick, acrid smoke seemed to fill the room, and as Frank moved through it, it was as if he could feel his own fires burning within him.

  “I think she liked this room best,” Cartier said.

  Frank turned toward him. “Why?”

  “Perhaps because it seems so raw,” Cartier said. “So primitive.”

  “And Angelica seemed that way?”

  “She had a certain look,” Cartier said. “Like a creature stalking something.” He looked at Frank. “That’s the irony now, isn’t it? I mean, apparently she was the one being stalked.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What did she do while she was here?”

  “Not what you’d expect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she really didn’t look at paintings,” Cartier said. “It was like they were only there to serve as her own personal background.”

  “Background for what?”

  “I don’t know, whatever it was that she was trying to be.”

  “Which was?”

  Cartier smiled helplessly. “I’m afraid I can’t read minds, Mr. Clemons.”

  “Well, if she didn’t look at the paintings, what did she do?”

  “She would slink about the gallery,” Cartier said.

  “Slink?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank wrote it down. “Did she act as if she were trying to pick someone up?”

  “Not exactly,” Cartier said. “It was more like she wanted to be seen. Only seen. Not touched, or even approached, for that matter.”

  “Did anyone ever try to approach her?”

  “A few brave souls,” Cartier said, “but she gave them a look, and they left her alone.”

  “How many times was she here?” Frank asked.

  “Three or four,” Cartier said.

  “And she was always alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she never talked to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone ever follow her out?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Cartier said. “But that’s not surprising. She created a very distant sort of mood.” He smiled. “Derek called her The Queen of Ice.’”

  “Derek?”

  “Derek Linton,” Cartier said, “the painter I mentioned out front.”

  “He knew Angelica?”

  “Only slightly,” Cartier said. “They met here at the Knife Point.”

  “When?”

  “I think it was the last time I saw her,” Cartier said. “Yes, it was. They met the last time she came here.”

  “He talked to her?”

  “It was more as if she talked to him,” Cartier said. “Derek wouldn’t have been interested in Angelica.”

  “But she was interested in him?”

  “Yes,” Cartier said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she did something I’d never seen her do,” Cartier said. “She walked over to Derek and started to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “About his painting,” Cartier said. “Lifeblood. Derek was hanging it that day, and Angelica was in the front room. She looked at the painting for a long time, then she asked me who the artist was. I told her it was Derek, and then she went over and talked to him.”

  “How long did they talk?”

  “Just a few minutes,” Cartier said. “As I told you, Derek would not have been interested in Angelica.” He thought about it for a moment. “But Angelica was quite persistent,” he said. “She actually followed him out to his truck. I was quite surprised. As a matter of fact, I must have been quite taken with it, because I walked out on the porch and watched them for a while.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Just talked,” Cartier said. “Derek was in the cab of the truck and Angelica was standing beside it.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, as you can see, we don’t have much of a parking lot,” Cartier said. “So after a while, another car tried to get in, and Derek pulled out to give it his space.”

  “About how long did they talk?” Frank asked.

  “It couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes,” Cartier said. “At least that time.”

  “Did they meet again?”

  “Yes, they must have,” Cartier said. “I know because Derek complained about it.”

  “About Angelica?”

  “That she had come over to his house and imposed upon him a bit.”

  Frank quickly wrote it down. “What did he say exactly?”

  “That he had no time for this sort of thing,” Cartier said. “I remember his exact words. I started to joke with him about being chased by a beautiful young girl, and he said, ‘In my faded condition, I don’t need a Queen of Ice.’”

  Frank scratched the words into his notebook. He looked at Cartier. “Do you have this man’s address?”

  “Yes,” Cartier said. Then he gave it to him.

  “That’s in the Grant Park area, isn’t it?” Frank asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Cartier said. “Derek’s lived there almost all his life.”

  Frank continued to look at the address, 124 Bergen Street, staring at it so hard that his eyes seemed to bleach the blue ink into a blazing white.

  20

  Even over the phone, he realized suddenly, Karen’s voice drew him toward her like an invisible wire.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Karen, it’s Frank.”

  He waited for her to respond in some intimate way, with a sudden caught breath, a sigh, a whisper.

  “Frank Clemons,” he added.

  “Yes, I know, Frank,” Karen said with a small laugh. “You’re such a formal man.”

  He wanted to stop right there and ask her what she meant, but he knew he couldn’t.

  “Listen,” he said quickly. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Knife Point?”

  “A gallery?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Karen said. “James has mentioned it a couple of times.”

  “But you’ve never been there?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Not much,” Karen said. “James has always treated it as a joke, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s very rigid when it comes to art.”

  “So you don’t know anyone who is connected to the gallery?” Frank asked.

  “No.”

  “Did Angelica ever mention it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “How about Derek Linton? Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Yes,” Karen said. “He’s a painter. He’s very good.”

  “Did Angelica ever mention him?”

  “No,” Karen said. Her voice tightened. “What’s this all about, Frank?”

  “I’ve found out that Angelica sometimes hung around the Knife Point.”

  “Hung around? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Frank told her. “But I also found out that she knew Derek Linton.”

  “And they met at the Knife Point?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what would Angelica be doing at a place like that?”

  “She’s been there a few times,” Frank said. “The owner recognized her.”

  There was another silence, and in his mind, Frank could see Karen’s eyes as they grew softer and more somber.

  “Frank,” he heard her say finally. “Be careful.”

  There was a strange, insistent quality in her voic
e, and Frank could still hear it echoing faintly in his mind as he pulled the car up to 124 Bergen Street. It was a small woodframe house, but it was well-kept-up compared to the rest of the neighborhood. It had been recently painted a gently muted white, and the bright green shutters shone cheerfully in the hard afternoon light.

  But there was still something sad about the house, and as he got out of the car and headed up the cement walk, Frank could feel that sadness gathering around him. It was in the soft sway of the flowers that bordered the walkway, and the gentle, lonely tinkle of the stained-glass wind chimes that hung on the front porch. It was in the huge wall of shrubbery that all but blocked the end of the walkway, and which turned the porch into a lush green cavern, one whose moist leaves seemed already to be fading toward a crackling brown.

  The door opened not long after Frank knocked, and he saw a tall, very lean man staring at him from behind the screen.

  “If you’ve come to collect some bill or other,” he said, “you can forget it.”

  Frank pulled out his badge.

  The man squinted at the gold shield. “There’s no possible reason why the police would be interested in me.”

  “Are you Derek Linton?” Frank asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Frank Clemons. I’m investigating a murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “I understand you’re a painter, Mr. Linton.”

  “Is that a crime now?”

  Frank returned the badge to his pocket. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes. It’s important.”

  “You don’t mind a mess, do you?”

  “No.”

  “All right then,” Linton said. He swung open the door. “Come in.”

  The front room looked as if it had never been straightened, and yet, Frank noticed, it did not have the same sense of hopeless confusion which he found in his own apartment. There were spots of paint on the floor, walls and furniture. Stacks of frames leaned haphazardly against the walls, and assorted canvases were gathered together in jagged piles in all four corners of the room. A rickety, paint-splattered easel stood near a large open window as if it were the still-surviving testament of an undefeated heart.

  “I do love this place,” Linton said as he eased himself into a light blue overstuffed chair. He took a bottle of red wine from beside the chair and poured himself a glass. Then he lifted the bottle to Frank. “Would you like a drink?”