Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  So far, Michael had been inclined to set aside his suspicion and give Bull the benefit of the doubt. Even now, there was nothing he wanted more than to go on trusting him. After all, his friend shouldn’t be judged by the same measuring stick as other people, should he? His mood swings, extravagant as they might be, served to fuel his inspiration. In his art, creative forces were tightly coupled with destructive ones.

  “The artist’s hand is really invisible,” Bull had told him.

  Michael remembered the bandage around his wrist. Was his the invisible hand?

  “Long time no see,” Bull had said. “When did you see me last?”

  To that, he had added, “I think you don’t care to remember. But sooner or later, it’ll come back to you.”

  Did he think that Michael had spotted some detail, some hint of the killer’s identity and might, one day, figure it out?

  There would be no urgency to answer any of these questions, if not for Ash, planning to head over to his studio.

  “My last model was beautiful, just like you, but she stopped coming,” Bull had told her. “I can always use a new one.”

  Michael groaned. Flipping his cellphone on the palm of his hand, he clicked her name. Would Ash disregard his concern, would she treat it as mere jealousy?

  There was a ring, a prolonged ring that died out in the end.

  He clicked her name a second time.

  No answer.

  And just as he was about to click one last time, there was a loud bang on outer side of the garage door. It rolled up as if of its own accord, revealing two figures standing there. They were practically indistinguishable from each other. Same height, same cropped haircut, same police uniforms.

  The first cop rubbed his hands together. “This time,” he boasted, baring his teeth in a smile, “we got ourselves a murderer.”

  Directing his gaze towards Michael, the other said, “Yes, if the shoe fits.”

  ❋

  Morning rays flooded the space, which should have made the simulation fade away, but no: it stayed visible. Somehow—even without wearing virtual reality headsets—the cops seemed to be aware of the landscape that had materialized here, across the blue floor.

  Michael had just enough time to say, under his breath, “Hide all characters,” which made Lace vanish, leaving behind a vapor of breath. Meanwhile, the wire figures lost their luster. In a matter of seconds, they too became transparent.

  Walking right through them, “Aha!” bellowed the first cop. “We came here for one thing, and now we find another!”

  And the other said, “Easy now. First things first.”

  “You!” The first one turned to Michael. “Were you at the crime scene in Laguna Beach on the night of the murder?”

  There was no point in denying what they seemed to know, so Michael admitted, “Yes. I was.”

  “And why didn’t you say so at once?”

  Michael considered replying with, “I wasn’t asked,” but decided against it. Instead, he just shrugged.

  The first cop narrowed his eyes. “You were withholding information. Weren’t you?”

  “Not exactly. I was waiting for the right time to share it.”

  “Oh you did, did you? And when would that be?”

  “When I fully understand what happened.”

  Both cops huffed in disgust, stomping all over the virtual landscape. “And you expect us to wait indefinitely for you? That’s not how things work in the real world, you know!”

  Michael shrugged.

  “Let’s move on,” said the first cop. “Remember the old man?”

  “Sure do.”

  “The shoes he was wearing, they were yours, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. They were.”

  “Again, let me ask you: why didn’t you say so?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Oh, but we do! Your traces are all over the murder scene. That’s been confirmed by police photographs.”

  “That I can explain—”

  “Really, you can?” The second cop raised a thick eyebrow. “Our security, our firewall around these photographs has been compromised. But you, you already know that, because look! Here they are, spread all over your floor! Why are we not surprised?”

  “I can explain that, too—”

  “Can you?”

  “I did hack into police data banks—”

  “You’re not only a criminal, but a thief, too!”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “But, I did it for a good reason!”

  “Which is what?”

  “To help you.” Michael tried to catch his breath, but it fluttered in his throat. “To help with the murder investigation—”

  “Oh, really?” said the first cop. “Show us one thing we don’t already know!”

  And the other cop pointed at a particular police photograph, one that was disjointed from the others. “Go ahead, use this one, show us what it is that you do with it.”

  This photograph had never been integrated into the surface of the landscape, and for good reason: up to now, Michael could not figure out where it belonged in the grand scheme of things.

  He tapped its corner, which made it slide around the hillside in search for some features that could be matched, which was next to impossible. The image had barely any texture, other than the marbling of white streaks on white rocks. Besides, there was no reasonable way to explain the odd, disquieting sense imparted by this view.

  The first cop paced impatiently to and fro, his arms crossed over his chest. The other one follows him, hands clasped tightly together behind his back.

  Meanwhile, Michael adjusted a few controls, and now the space was lit by two conflicting light sources: the rays of dawn, growing stronger by the minute, and the rays of dusk, dying away. Despite the conflict—or maybe because of it—the flat image, projected onto the three-dimensional model, became suddenly sharp. Then it affixed itself onto a particular niche in-between two cliffs.

  “There she is,” he whispered.

  Both cops demanded, “What? Who?”

  Michael raised his hand and without saying a word, pointed at her. Cut in long lines, there she rose, just under what seemed like a ledge: a larger-than-life stone sculpture, depicting something unreal: an angel emerging out of the rock, wings spread.

  There was Lace, immortal.

  Her curves were far from obvious to the eye in this make-believe world, which explained why he had failed to recognize them in the real one. You had to position yourself at a particular place, slightly off the trail and into the bushy area, to spot her. And even then, you might miss a suggestion of a shoulder here, a hint of a nipple there, and—covering it all—shrubs streaming down the slope every which way.

  The thing that drew a gasp out of him was the flaw, the crack at the base of the throat. Lit by a fleeting reflection, it made him remember how he had reached forward to Lace’s body, how he had felt for her carotid, where instead of a pulse, he had found open flesh.

  As long as he had known Bull, imbalance was the signature motif of his art. But here, even though this sculpture was perfectly centered, even though it was not twisted in the least, still, there was something about it, something intangible that identified it as his work.

  Michael could just imagine him cutting into the rock, shaping it one convoluted chisel mark after another. He could just hear his voice, grumbling. “My new piece? It’s outdoors. There’s no light out there now. And without light, you cannot begin to appreciate darkness.”

  Michael was transfixed by the piece, by the proof it provided that Lace had modeled for Bull. Meanwhile, the cops turned their backs on it. They had no interest in stone sculptures, fanciful angels, or immortality.

  “It’s pointless,” muttered one of them. “Nothing of value here.”

  And the other turned to Michael and clasped his arm with a firm grip. “Come with us. We have a number of questions to ask you.”

  Flanked by b
oth of them, Michael was led into their car.

  All through the ride he sat in the back, itching to get the interrogation over with, hoping not to be incarcerated. He had to be free, had to stop Ash in time. Modeling for Bull might cast her into an everlasting existence, but it might also put her life at risk.

  Chapter 17

  During the ride in the back seat of the police car, Michael kept checking his cellphone. Its display lit up, but there was no word from Ash. Instead, there was a CNN newsflash:

  Laguna Beach authorities asked the public to avoid the area of Forest Avenue and Second Street this afternoon, as firefighters are working there to knock down a fire. The area is expected to be blocked until approximately 6:00pm.

  The car braked to a stop next to the police station. One of the cops said, “Hand it over.”

  Michael pretended not to understand. “What?”

  “Your phone, dummy.”

  Once he gave it away, Michael had to stop thinking of calling his sweetheart. That, of course, was easier said than done. “When do I get it back?”

  The cops clapped their hands over his shoulders and led him inside. They plopped his cellphone carelessly next to a paper cup half-filled with Starbuck coffee, on top of some dusty file cabinet. “When we’re done with you.”

  “Shouldn’t take too long, right?”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  “Why not?”

  The cops exchanged looks. One of them pushed him into a room and pointed at a chair.

  “Enough,” he said. “Sit.”

  “But—”

  “In here, we ask the questions, not you.”

  “But, but—”

  “But nothing! We have two witnesses—divers, both of them—who claim to have seen you following the victim on the night of the murder.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Not now! When we’re ready for you. Meanwhile, sit tight, right in here. Want a free bit of advice? No? Well, we’re going to give it to you, anyway. Some patience would be a useful thing for you to have, and some humility, too.”

  With that, they closed the door, leaving him alone.

  Waiting to be interrogated, Michael knew he could not even go to the toilet without being escorted. Hours passed. He kicked his heels, expecting someone, anyone, to start questioning him already. No one came.

  Sirens started screaming outside, more and more of them. Meanwhile, he tapped his fingers at the metal tabletop, trying to find some comfort in the rhythmic sound. Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do, when they come for you?

  At first, Michael thought the two cops were milling about for no better reason than to put him under increased psychological strain. But after a while, he cracked the door open only to realize they were not even there.

  To his amazement, there were no other cops in sight, either. Faced with the fire emergency, all of them must have been sent to neighborhoods throughout the city to assist fire fighters in rescue and evacuation missions.

  No one remained in the station but the secretaries, who seemed to be too busy getting updates on the spread of the fire. Apparently, it had consumed not only land but also everyone’s attention, which explained their sloppiness: his cellphone was still in plain view, on the top of the file cabinet.

  Michael sneaked out of the interrogation room and snatched it. Retreating back in, he powered it up. This time, there were several messages from Ash.

  Michael, you there?

  I’ve been texting you all day!

  In the last message, sent just a couple of minutes ago, she wrote,

  Too late... Don’t contact me now. I’m at Bull’s studio, just outside his door.

  Michael gasped. He was just about to lose his mind or yell, “No,” at the top of his lungs, when she texted again, one last time.

  I’ll start streaming live video to you so you can watch me go in. This way, maybe you can watch over me, at least until he finds out and turns it off.

  Michael was astonished at the change—no, the complete reversal—in her. Since her incident, which was a veiled term, much better than rape, Ash had been jumpy, too jumpy to let any man get close to her. Even him. But now, for some reason, she became reckless enough to ignore his repeated warnings. Knowing Ash, there must have been some reason to her actions, but what was it? Was she doing it to spite him?

  With no apparent fear, she was prepared to put herself in the hands of a man who was, for lack of a better word, a weirdo. A man who, based on several clues, had killed a woman before.

  Was she simply exploring an opportunity for work? If so, why not find a job more fitting to her talents, education, and experience, one that would pay substantially more than modeling for an artist? No. Her need for money was merely an excuse for something else, something that for her, justified the risk she was willing to undertake.

  Live video started streaming on the cellphone. In a blink, Michael turned down its volume, afraid that the sound would alert someone to the fact that he had it back in his possession.

  But no, no one in the station heard the badly varnished studio door creaking open. No one but him heard her footfalls, as Ash crossed the cracked threshold and ventured inside.

  ❋

  There, streaming live, was the blurry top of her finger, as she filmed her path going around partitions and clay models, trying not to step over scattered sketches that were rustling underfoot. On the cellphone display, shadows stirred around her, yet when she turned to look back at them, they seemed to freeze.

  And there, in one corner, was a bronze piece twisting around itself. Michael had spotted it before, in his earlier visit—but this time, its horned head looked different, somehow. The eyes looked strange. What was it about them? Oh, they were no longer empty!

  Each eye-socket had a pearl, a slightly bruised pearl glued, somehow, to its inside. It glistened as she passed across, as if it could spot her, as if it could capture a flash of red from her scarf.

  “Oh,” Ash whispered, in a startled voice. “There you are!”

  Cropped out of the display, Bull was not visible, but his voice was close. “You look nervous.”

  “A little.” She dropped her purse to the floor and placed her cellphone slightly behind it, so it might be hidden from Bull. With a discreet movement, she used her foot to aim the thing at in the center of the space, at the small, wooden stage.

  Then, perhaps to draw attention away from the spot where the cellphone was left, Ash walked over with a sexy sway of her hips to the edge of the stage. Sitting down, she spread her skirt over it and loosened the scarf from her neck. Then she crossed her long legs. “Never done modeling before.”

  Was she out of her mind, trying to provoke him?

  There was the burble of some drink being poured into a glass. “Here,” said Bull. His voice was down to a hiss. “Take a sip, dear. Trust me, it’ll take the edge off.”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe later.”

  At that, Michael gave a small sigh of relief. Good girl, he thought. She must have been wary of what was in that drink, perhaps because both she and Lace have had the sorry experience of having been drugged and then, taken advantage of.

  Meanwhile, Bull slapped a new canvas onto an easel in front of him, which obstructed the view of half the stage. Then, his hand came alarmingly close to the eye of the camera, as he picked up a metal container. Having fumbled through the tools in it, he chose a flat blade knife. “Take off the shoes.”

  She did. “Shall I undress?”

  “Later.”

  Out of a paint tube, Bull squeezed a thick dollop of oil paint onto his palette. With his knife, he pulled a black mark across the canvas. Then he stopped, stepped forward, and came to a stand over her. “There.” He adjusted her pose. “Hold still.”

  “I’ll try.”

  At first he seems to work in earnest. One quick stroke of the knife after another, there was her little foot, fleshed out in high contrast on the canvas. It seemed to pop out of the oil sm
ears in such a way that you could imagine holding it, caressing its heel, even tickling its gentle arch.

  Then Bull took a swig out of his bottle.

  Ash stirred. “Your last model must have been great. I see the sketches you made of her—”

  Bull waved his hand in the gesture of dismissal. “Those are nothing. One day, I’m going to show her to you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Would you, really?”

  “You’re moving again.” He groaned. “Can’t you hold still?”

  Bull paced around the studio, kicked her high heels away from her and came back to attack the canvas. Within minutes, the foot disappeared under wild, violent splashes and smears of paint.

  He threw the canvas away and set another one in its place.

  “Now, take your clothes off,” he demanded. “And after that, don’t move.”

  “Can I speak?”

  “No. Don’t.”

  ❋

  Michael felt his heart hammering inside. Looking at live video being streamed would be far from enough to protect her, should Bull become aggressive.

  Michael peered out of the interrogation room. No one in the station seemed to pay any attention to him. No one cared that he had been so obedient, so mindful of the authorities as to stay put. Angry with himself for having waited that long, he walked with a slow, measured step towards the entrance door, flung it open, and bolted out.

  The outside air assaulted his nostrils with a bitter smell.

  Smoke.

  By the time he arrived at the crooked stairs leading down to Bull’s studio, the view around the city had started to darken. Plumes of black ash were billowing into the sky. In the distance, across a break in the cliffs, fire licked the bottoms of several tree trunks. It was playful at first, flickering, flaring, leaping into a shower of sparks. Then it wound itself around to the top of the trees, like a creepy serpent.