by T F Allen
It would be a tragedy—and probably a really big sin—if I accidentally damaged her faith with something I said, but I was willing to risk it for Michael. I wasn’t as worried about affecting Hannah’s belief system. I closed my eyes and pulled myself toward her.
When I opened my eyes, I stood on the outdoor terrace of the San Francisco Art Institute’s main building. This spot on Russian Hill offered a 360-degree view of the city and San Francisco Bay. The closest landmark was Coit Tower. To the south were the buildings of downtown. To the northwest, somewhere behind a dense wall of fog, hid the two biggest landmarks in the city: Alcatraz Island and the Golden Gate Bridge. Along the terrace a group of students sat on stools in front of their easels, readying their canvases for a session of what looked like a course in landscape painting.
It didn’t shock me to end up here. It made sense, knowing as little as I did about Hannah. I scanned the terrace and spotted her in the far corner, on the opposite end from where the students were setting up. She spoke low and fast with a man who looked twenty years older than the rest of the students. He shifted his body weight left then right, like he was trying to get away, but Hannah was having none of it. I rushed across the terrace and dove into her mind while she pointed a finger in the man’s face.
“I’m asking about the two most famous students you’ve taught in the last ten years, Professor Banks,” she said. “How hard is it to remember any details?”
“No, it’s just—there’s not much to tell.”
She took a step forward, invading his personal space. “You were the Advanced Figurative Painting instructor when Jolene Anderson disappeared, right?”
“I’ve taught that class since the late nineties,” he said.
“So tell me what you—” She paused as a light breeze blew some of her hair into her face. Maybe the Universe was trying to tell her something. She waited a moment. Nothing. Probably just the wind after all. “Tell me any details you remember. Who her friends were.”
“Jolene was usually friendly and upbeat. Most people were fond of her. She liked to paint with bright colors, whether we wanted her to or not. Her paintings were always cheerful. And yes, she had lots of friends.”
“Was Michael Delacroix one of them?”
The professor took a step back, regaining some breathing room. “Mr. Delacroix was less social than Ms. Anderson. I don’t remember the two of them ever talking in class.”
“Not ever?”
“It wasn’t just her. He hardly spoke to anyone all semester. You know the brooding, silent type.” He nodded. “Michael always let his paintings speak for him.”
“But the portrait he made of her. That was part of his final grade, right? She must have seen him working on it in class.”
“That painting was a surprise to us all. Michael never brought it to class until finals week. He must have painted it from memory or used his imagination.”
Hannah tapped on her smartphone, and a picture of Michael’s painting appeared. She held it up to the man’s face. “Did it look like this?”
The professor squinted at the image. “No, it didn’t. Not then. She didn’t have any scars. But it was still a unique and beautiful representation of the human form—a magnificent painting. I wasn’t sure of the technique he used, but her figure seemed to glow from within. I gave him the highest grade in the class.”
“But he didn’t care, did he?”
“None of us did after hearing the news about Jolene.”
• • •
“That was a big help,” Hannah said to no one as she paced down the hill toward her rental SUV. She stomped down the sidewalk, punishing her heels for leading her to that dead end. She knew Jolene was the key to discovering why Delacroix destroyed his painting, but she hadn’t found any evidence they’d been in a relationship before she disappeared. She’d assumed that was a no-brainer—Michael probably had a string of women after him based on his looks and talent—but it didn’t sound like that was the case. The painting proved Michael had a crush on Jolene, but apparently that was as far as it went. The only part of Hannah’s theory the professor confirmed was that Michael had created his famous painting during two different stages of his career—and those two stages were separated by the disappearance of Jolene Anderson.
Delacroix told her in the taxi that he wanted to destroy other paintings he’d created, but she didn’t believe him. Hannah had spent the last two days researching every painting of his she could find online. Each was exceptionally beautiful, and a few brought back memories of when she was either happy or in love. But none carried the emotional impact of Jolene. Something must be special about that painting—something about his connection to Jolene—that pushed him to bring a knife into the Art Institute of Chicago.
Jolene’s image flashed into Hannah’s mind. She could picture the figure of the striking young woman who now wore the dark scars from Michael’s paintbrush. He hadn’t been mad at Jolene. He didn’t hate her. Instead he hated that he never got a chance to show her his painting. Hated that she’d vanished before he was able to tell her in his own beautiful way that he loved her.
That explained why Delacroix altered the painting after the class was over, but it didn’t explain why he’d talked his way into the museum with a knife. To get to that truth, she needed to confront the artist in person. Armed with these insights and with a little help from the Universe, she knew their conversation would go much better this time.
Hannah’s mind was unique because she thought more visually than most people. Each thought produced an image inside her head. When she considered a day of the week, she saw an actual calendar. When she heard a song, she imagined how it looked as sheet music. During her interview with Professor Banks, she created a mental reenactment of each scene depicted in his responses. And when she thought of Michael, she always saw his face as it looked when they talked in the back of the taxi in Chicago, not as it did in the police mug shot that ran with her story.
All of this convinced me I should use pictures instead of words with her.
Hannah plotted her next move as she started the SUV. She didn’t want to confront Delacroix until she covered all other possible sources. That way she’d be armed with more background information and ask better questions. Jolene Anderson’s family lived in Minnesota. And since Jolene never knew about the painting, Hannah doubted the woman’s family would know why Michael wanted to destroy it. The story she was hunting hid here in this city, waiting to be discovered. She just knew it. And the Universe would help her find it as long as she stayed open to its signals.
I searched my memory for an image I knew she’d recognize and flashed it into her mind: a picture of a hairy-chested man in a bathing suit, holding Michael’s famous painting above his head like a trophy.
Hannah grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, shocked at how quickly the picture shot into her vision. She recognized it from her research on Delacroix. The hairy-chested man was the art dealer who discovered Michael while he was still a student at SFAI. According to her sources, this man—Grant Thatcher, she quickly remembered—had placed over a dozen of Michael’s paintings in major museums around the world. He also owned more than 90 percent of the artist’s work, including the now-ruined Jolene. She bowed her head and silently thanked the Universe. If anyone wanted to know why Michael destroyed that painting more than she did, it was this guy. After a three-minute search on her smartphone, she typed the address into her GPS and shoved the SUV into gear.
Fifteen minutes later Hannah pulled into the long driveway that led to Thatcher’s house. She knew this section of San Francisco by reputation only. Apparently Thatcher shared this hideaway neighborhood near the Pacific Ocean with marginally famous actors, artists, and musicians. But none of that impressed or intimidated Hannah. They were all equal members of the Universe, none more important or entitled to special treatment than she was.
Thatcher met her at the door. “Can I help you?”
For a moment Hannah
couldn’t speak. The man had an insane amount of hair on his arms, legs, and chest. Dressed only in a Speedo bathing suit, he didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious. She didn’t find it intimidating, just strange.
“I’m Hannah Klein from the Sun-Times in Chicago. I’m doing an in-depth follow-up on Michael Delacroix that will probably generate a lot of interest in his work. Do you have a few minutes?”
It should have surprised me how easily she talked her way into his office, but it didn’t. Hannah was everything Thatcher wanted in a reporter: attractive, complimentary, to the point, and eager to publish a page one article about Michael guaranteed to bump the prices of his collection. He pointed her toward his office, then excused himself to put on some clothes.
Now she was alone in a room where everything was white except the artwork. It was a tacky design scheme at best, but she forgave it only because of how excited she was to see Delacroix’s paintings up close. These originals proved much more intoxicating than the online versions she’d seen, the colors more intense and layered than any computer screen could show.
The painting on the wall to her right struck a deep chord inside her. It depicted a redheaded Eve in the Garden of Eden reaching for a golden apple while a rainbow-colored serpent hissed temptations into her ear. The image was a riot of fleshy curves. It made her wonder how Michael had learned so much about the female form. And the background colors—the swirling reds and blues and purples—reminded her how turbulent the Universe might have been during biblical times. Of course those stories were all made up. Still, seeing such an amazing painting in person gave her goose bumps and confirmed her theory as to why so many people in the art world felt such a strong connection to his work.
She brushed those thoughts aside when Grant Thatcher walked through the door. He wore a pair of slacks and a linen sports coat but still hadn’t put on a shirt. Apparently he was as proud of his body as the list of paintings he’d sold. “I hope you had a chance to look around.” He threw himself into his chair and motioned toward a slender young woman who’d followed him in. “Tiff needs to take a picture before we start. Please take a seat.”
Hannah looked around. The only furniture pieces she could sit on were a pair of white beanbag chairs someone had flung into the corner. “I think I’ll stand.”
“Ready? In three, two, one.” Tiff tapped the smartphone screen, then handed it to Thatcher. “You know where I’ll be, sweetie.”
“I’m right behind you.” Thatcher winked, then watched her saunter out of the room.
Hannah realized her time with this man might be short. She needed to get to the point. “I want to get your thoughts on what happened in Chicago—specifically, why you think he did it.”
Thatcher didn’t look at her. He typed with his thumbs on the smartphone the woman had given him. “What’s the name of your paper again?”
“I’m with the Sun-Times. We’re the largest daily news publication in Chicago.”
Thatcher read out loud as he finished typing, “‘Meeting with major media reporter from Chicago.’ There it goes.” He nodded at his smartphone like it was his best friend. “Are you on Instagram? I can tag you if you want.”
“I’d rather talk about Delacroix.” Hannah turned on her digital recorder and set it on Thatcher’s desk.
He stared at the device like it was a golden microphone, then leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat. “First, I want to thank you for coming all this way to cover such an important story. Michael Delacroix is the most talented artist of the post-internet age. I knew he would be when I discovered him at SFAI years ago. He was—”
“My readers already know how the two of you met. They’re more interested in what made him march into the Art Institute of Chicago and attack his painting.”
Thatcher’s face hardened. She could tell he wasn’t used to being interrupted. But she didn’t want to spend all morning listening to this guy tell her how great he was at discovering talent. She suspected there was a line of reporters willing to take that garbage and package it into a story, but she wasn’t one of them.
He threw up his hands. “He’s an artist. What can I say?”
“Tell me about his mood in the days leading up to the incident. Was he agitated? Depressed? Did something happen that reminded him of Jolene Anderson?”
“It’s no secret Michael likes to keep to himself. I hadn’t seen him in weeks before he called me from jail. But we talked it all out once he got back to San Francisco. He’s fine now. I promise. In fact, he’s starting a whole new series of paintings.”
“What did he tell you?”
“About the new series?”
“About why he brought a knife into a museum and destroyed his most famous painting.”
Thatcher leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms wide, exposing the full hairiness of his chest. “Why did Van Gogh cut off his ear? Why does Koons destroy projects he’s worked on for years?”
“So you have no idea. He wouldn’t tell you?”
“I’m saying no one knows what goes on inside the mind of an artist.”
“I have a few theories.” She pulled out her crystal charm and held it between her fingers. “Mind if I run one by you?”
“Please do.”
Hannah noticed the unusual background in the painting above Thatcher’s head. This was one of Delacroix’s early works showing an angel reclining on a tree branch. In the distance, where most artists might paint billowing clouds against a clear blue sky, Delacroix had chosen dueling whirls of color—depicting the mystical currents of the Universe again. They looked exactly like she imagined. Maybe he really could see them.
“Ms. Klein?” Thatcher said.
“I think he hated his painting, and he was trying to finish the job he started before the art critics fell in love with it.” Hannah swallowed hard, trying to stay focused. “We both know Jolene didn’t look like the museum version when he first painted it. After Jolene Anderson disappeared, Delacroix grew depressed. She’d never see his painting, and he knew it. So he tried to make sure no one else would ever see it, either.”
Thatcher smirked while rocking in his chair. “I didn’t peg you as a romantic.”
“But he was so angry, so emotional, that he didn’t complete the job. He only managed a few desperate strokes, creating an unintended effect.”
“That ‘unintended effect,’ as you call it, changed the path of his career,” Thatcher said. “Are you suggesting Michael’s fame was an accident?”
“I’m sure it was his destiny.” She touched her finger to the pointed tip of her crystal. “It doesn’t take five seconds in front of one of his paintings to see how talented he is. But this painting of Jolene was different.” In a flash she saw the woman’s image in her mind again, this time hanging in place at the Art Institute of Chicago. She imagined Delacroix running up to the painting, watched him raise his knife and rip into the canvas. The look he must have had on his face, the anger, the desperation. An idea came to her out of nowhere, so she gave it a voice: “Maybe he couldn’t stand knowing her scarred image had made him famous.”
Thatcher’s eyes grew larger as he stared at her digital recorder. “That would make a good story. But the trick is getting someone to confirm it.”
“I was hoping you might—”
The door to Thatcher’s office swung open and banged against the doorstop. Hannah and Thatcher turned in unison. Standing in the doorway, with beads of sweat dotting her forehead, was a Catholic nun. “Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Thatcher, but I didn’t know where else to look.”
Thatcher looked as shocked as Hannah that a nun had entered the room. I couldn’t have been more relieved. Getting Hannah in front of Thatcher wasn’t enough. She was still focused on all the wrong things. But with Sister Mary Elizabeth’s stunning entrance, I knew everything would change.
Of course Hannah had no idea who she was. But Thatcher seemed to recognize her. “You certainly found me,” he said. “Sister Mary, is
n’t it?”
“Mary Elizabeth. I know it’s been a long time, but thank you for seeing me.”
Thatcher motioned toward the beanbag chairs. Hannah wondered if anyone ever took him up on his offer. “Yes, we met at Michael’s homecoming show in Houma three years ago. What are you doing this far from Louisiana?”
“You know Delacroix?” Hannah said.
Sister Mary Elizabeth sidestepped the reporter on her way toward Thatcher. “It’s Michael. He’s in trouble. I just know it.”
“No. I promise he’s fine.” Thatcher looked at Hannah. “Would you excuse us?”
Hannah shook her head. She should have known an opportunity like this would literally blow into the room. Delacroix’s paintings had all but predicted it. The Universe wanted her to meet this woman so she could share information about Delacroix that Hannah would never learn otherwise. The signs were always there. She just needed to get better at recognizing them.
She rushed to the nun’s side and grabbed the woman’s arm, pretending she was trying to steady her. “I’m worried about Michael, too. Maybe I can help.”
“I think he’s gone missing,” the sister said.
“Nonsense. I saw him here in my office twenty-four hours ago,” Thatcher said.
“Twenty-four hours is a long time.” Hannah could feel the energy radiating from this woman. Though the nun was a generation older, she instantly felt connected to her. “What makes you think he’s missing?”
Sister Mary Elizabeth grabbed Hannah’s hand. “After I read about what he did in Chicago, I got worried. When I couldn’t reach him on the phone last night, I felt an overwhelming sense that something was wrong. So I decided to come here to check on him. But when I arrived this morning, he was gone.”
“You flew all the way to San Francisco because Michael wouldn’t answer his phone?” Thatcher said.
“It was much more than that. But I can’t explain it.”
