by T F Allen
Everything about Donnie told me he meant business this time. His tone sounded forceful, but the way he carried himself spoke even louder. The muscles in his jaw flexed even when he wasn’t talking. He couldn’t seem to stay still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he pushed the key into the lock. Donnie definitely wanted something. And he wanted it right now.
Michael picked up on the same signs. He stood when Donnie entered the cell, remembering the sting he’d felt from the electrical contacts pressed against his throat. Every muscle in his body tensed. And his stomach twisted itself into a knot. He pulled his right hand into a fist. If Donnie attacked, he’d fight back, but he didn’t know how long he would last.
“I have a theory about the creative process.” Donnie came so close Michael could smell him—a mixture of body odor, paint thinner, and burned metal. He folded his arms across his broad chest. “We do our best work when we’re in a deep emotional state. When fully immersed in rage or love, or whatever we’re experiencing, emotions supercharge our abilities and bleed into our work. Remember what you felt when you painted Jolene?”
Michael never talked about his feelings. Emotions weren’t his favorite topic. And those that involved Jolene were his least favorite of all. But Donnie’s intimidating presence commanded an answer. “I was upset.”
“Bullshit. You were in love with her. And obsessed. And angry—all at the same time. Pull that mattress away, and I’ll show you how I can tell.”
I didn’t need to read Michael’s mind to know how much he hated following Donnie’s orders. Michael hated following anyone’s orders, especially those from a man who’d drugged and kidnapped him. Mostly he hated knowing he’d have to look at his painting again. If given a choice between gaining his freedom or the right to destroy Jolene for good, Michael would gladly stay here the rest of his life—as long as he never had to look at it again.
“Move the fucking mattress, Delacroix.”
Donnie said it like he was ordering a steak, but we both knew he wouldn’t ask again. Rage simmered under the surface of his skin. It showed in the redness of his cheeks.
Michael tugged at the mattress and dragged it back into place on top of the box spring. He didn’t turn and look at the painting. Instead he stared at the floor.
Donnie walked in front of the mirror and turned his back to Michael. He placed his hands on the frame and stared at the painting. He sucked in a breath like he was savoring its aura. “Yeah, I can feel it even with my eyes closed. It’s so powerful.”
Michael didn’t see them, but Donnie’s hands trembled like he was losing his grip on the mirror’s frame. I needed to stay with Michael to protect him, but I wondered what storm of thoughts swirled through Donnie’s mind.
He spun around. “Nothing else you’ve ever done compares to this. Every pang of desire, each moment of obsession, each streak of anger you felt when you slashed at her face—I can feel them all just by standing in front of this. Do you know how special that makes you?”
Michael didn’t. And Michael never had, even though Sister Mary Elizabeth and I had told him a million times. His filter wouldn’t allow him to see it. He only saw the negatives in himself, and in anything he ever tried to do.
“You have the ability to transfer your emotions into other people, using your paintings as the media. By doing that you create a power that transcends this world.” He pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand. “And I need to learn how you do it.”
“How I do what?”
The blade flashed in front of Michael’s face so quickly neither of us had time to react. Donnie pushed the knife tip against Michael’s chin until it pierced his skin. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re going to show me. Right here. Right now. Or this blade will be the last thing you see.”
I couldn’t move, couldn’t even think about what Donnie said. Not until he took his knife away from Michael’s face. I’d seen what he’d done to Jolene’s, and I knew he had the will to do the same or worse to Michael. Only one thing was stopping him.
“Just say you’ll do it, Delacroix. I don’t want to clean up any more blood than I need to.”
Michael felt the pressure on his chin. “How does this work?”
“You paint. I watch. It’s that simple.”
“But how will you know it’s working?”
“Don’t worry. I have a plan.” Donnie pulled his knife away from Michael’s chin. A tiny drop of blood clung to the tip. He stared at it, then wiped the blade on Michael’s shirt. “You ready?”
Michael nodded. He was finally too scared to speak.
Donnie placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Turn around.”
Michael did like he was told. I watched Donnie carefully. I wasn’t sure what he was up to. If he took out his knife again, I’d shout as loud as I could.
Donnie reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of handcuffs. He clicked them around Michael’s wrists, locking them behind his back.
“I won’t try anything,” Michael said.
“You don’t know that.” Donnie grabbed Michael’s shoulders and spun him around. “Take a seat. You need to see something.”
Michael sat on the edge of the mattress. The only lights turned on in the cell were behind the mirror and above the entry. He still didn’t want to look through the mirror. He’d sit through another lecture about how great his painting was, but Donnie needed to tape his eyes open if he expected him to look at it again.
Donnie walked toward the entry but stayed inside the cell. He leaned through the doorway and spoke in a clear, calm voice: “Bring it in now.”
Another person walked into the cell—a woman wearing a thin blue dress and carrying a wooden easel. As soon as she stepped into the light and Michael saw her, all hell broke loose in his mind.
His thoughts rushed past me so quickly I could barely see them. He recognized her, then didn’t believe it, tried to remember what she looked like, glanced at the painting, and then, horrified, looked back at Jolene, noticed the scars on her face—those scars!—thought about the marks he’d painted on her image, and wondered how she could possibly be alive and in this room.
He pulled at his handcuffs and tried to stand up. Donnie reached into his pocket and pulled out the remote. “Sit, Delacroix.”
Michael sat and watched as Jolene carried the easel through the cell. He struggled to keep still. She was the last person he’d expected to walk into this room. She was the last person he’d expected to see anywhere. When she stepped through that doorway, she brought with her every emotion he’d ever felt for her. They were too much for him to take. None of this made any sense. So he just sat and watched.
Her face stayed emotionless as she set the easel into place. She never even looked at him. He wondered if Donnie had drugged her. After securing the easel supports, she turned and left, leaving nothing but the scent of her hair.
“She’s not as pretty as you remember,” Donnie said. “Time does that to all beautiful things.”
Donnie was a monster. There was no other way to describe him after seeing what he’d done to Jolene. Standing next to the gate with his arms folded, smiling as he watched Michael’s reaction, he didn’t seem to hold an ounce of humanity in his body. I had to get Michael out of here and away from this man.
Jolene returned, carrying a portable artist’s cabinet stocked with oil paint tubes, brushes, palettes, rags, and other supplies. She set it next to the easel and left the cell again.
“When I took her, I thought she was more talented than you, but I was wrong. She’s almost useless now, but I’ve found a way she can help.”
Jolene appeared again as if on cue, this time carrying a blank white canvas the same size as the one Michael had used to paint her image years ago. When she balanced it on the easel, she froze, like her hands were stuck to the sides of the frame. Michael noticed the two-way mirror positioned in her line of sight. She stared past the easel, through the mirror, directly toward his painting.
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“That’s good,” Donnie said.
This wasn’t the way Michael had planned it. It was anything but ideal, and seven years too late, but finally it happened before his eyes. Jolene Anderson was not dead or missing. She was very much alive and standing in front of the painting he’d created just for her. Everything he’d painted on that canvas—the layers of glazing that captured the glow of her skin, the swirls representing love and hope that encircled her image—all of it was still there for her to see. He only hoped she could look past those last angry brushstrokes he added when he thought she was gone forever.
Jolene let go of the canvas and walked around the easel. She stopped inches from the surface of the mirror and put her hands on the glass. Michael held his breath while she stared at her own image. She stared for one long, glorious moment, until Donnie stormed across the room.
“I said that’s good.” He grabbed Jolene’s arm and pulled her out of the cell.
Michael hopped off the bed and ran after them, his wrists still cuffed behind his back. “Don’t hurt her!”
Donnie slammed the gate in Michael’s face and locked it. He moved in close and pressed his face between the bars. His eyes looked like silver dollars. “You still care for her. That’s good.” He rattled the gate against the lock. “Yeah. You want to fight for her, don’t you?”
Michael wanted to fight, stab, kick, bite, bleed—whatever it took to pry Jolene away from Donnie. He saw her standing just behind him. She looked so helplessly frozen, either unwilling or unable to run away, and he couldn’t understand why.
“You don’t have to fight, Michael. But you can do something to save her. You could save yourself, too. Turn around.”
“You better not hurt her,” Michael said.
Donnie shook his head. “Now you sound like…like someone I can’t stand. Just turn around.”
Michael turned and faced the inside of his cell. He looked at the easel and the art supplies just sitting there like all of this was normal.
The handcuffs released with a click. As soon as they fell away, he spun around and looked for Jolene. She hadn’t moved, but her face was no longer blank. Her eyes—those painfully deep Winsor blue eyes—shimmered with welled-up tears. They told him she’d seen exactly what he wanted her to see. The woman he once loved was still in there somewhere. Donnie wasn’t able to destroy the parts of her that Michael’s paintbrush had captured years ago.
“Now listen to me. This is important,” Donnie said. “Take everything you’re feeling right now, take it and ball it up tight. Hold it as long as you can. It’s so powerful.”
Donnie couldn’t have known, but Michael had been following those directions his whole life. I spent most of my energy over the years trying to convince him to let go of emotions that did nothing but feed his negative self-image, but he held on to them like they were vital organs. And now, knowing what really happened to Jolene would only add to the list of things he hated himself for. No one could blame him because Donnie had kidnapped Jolene, but Michael would find a way to argue it was somehow all his fault.
“Let it flow through you. Channel it. Send it through your fingertips, down the length of the paintbrush, onto the canvas, into the image only you can create.”
Michael stepped back from the gate. He’d focused on Jolene for so long that he hadn’t noticed how disturbing Donnie’s glare had become. “All I have to do is paint?”
“You have until midnight tomorrow. And you can’t just paint anything.” Donnie turned and struck Jolene’s face with an overhand right, knocking her to the ground.
“I want you to paint what you’re feeling right now.”
CHAPTER 16
After Donnie knocked Jolene out, he picked her up and carried her back to the mansion, like any gentleman would. I wanted to stay with Michael until I knew they were gone. I wanted to talk about what just happened. But he wasn’t in the mood. Seeing Jolene had overloaded his thoughts, so he decided not to process any of them. He sat on the bed and stared at the art supplies Jolene had left in his cell, his mind as blank as the canvas.
I needed to get back to San Francisco. Time was short, and things were happening faster than before. I knew the reporter and the nun were probably on their way to the cops, and that’s where I found them, trekking across the city at forty-five miles per hour. I decided to ride shotgun in Sister Mary Elizabeth’s head this time, because she seemed more anxious than ever.
The battle inside her mind was of biblical proportions. She couldn’t understand why someone wanted to take Michael away, and in that blind spot her mind created demons of worry that roared through every chamber in her consciousness. They battered their ugly heads against the shield of faith she clung to. It was her only defense, the only reason she’d been able to leave behind the embarrassment of her own childhood and choose a life focused on serving others instead of chasing her own desires.
Sister Mary Elizabeth wasn’t born a Mary or an Elizabeth, though her parents might have given her those names because they considered her their little princess. They settled on the name Portia (sounds like the car, she told her teachers). Growing up in Great Neck on Long Island, she’d been guaranteed at birth to never go without anything money could buy. Even as a young girl, Portia knew she was different from her classmates, but that difference had nothing to do with her rich parents. The yucky, smelly boys in her class stayed yucky, smelly, and annoying all the way through high school. She simply preferred the company of other girls. The way they smelled, the way they talked, even the way they wore their hair intoxicated her. She found a comfort in their presence she couldn’t explain to her parents or even her closest friends. So when she accepted a dare at a party to kiss another girl on the mouth, she not only made the first move but also held the girl close long after everyone had stopped laughing. Something inside had taken over in that moment, and she’d gone with it, but that one kiss changed the course of her life.
Everyone at the party saw what happened. They assumed it was more than the natural curiosity many girls her age shared. With no more evidence than a kiss, they branded her with a title they whispered in school hallways—the Lesbian. Eventually those whispers reached her parents’ ears.
They reacted like Portia had been diagnosed with a treatable disease. They forced her to attend mass three times a week, and the local priest became a regular at the dinner table. The only cure her parents could think of was a heavy dose of religion. She took her punishment humbly and quietly, but at her core she didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She believed in Christ, the Holy Mother, and all the saints and their teachings, but she couldn’t understand how something that was such an intimate part of her, something that didn’t have anything to do with the people it bothered most, would be condemned by her religion. She asked God to heal her when her parents demanded it, but her heart was never in those prayers.
Her time with the church led to the best decision she’d ever make. She grew closer to Christ and the Holy Mother in the next few years, and they filled her with an enduring sense of love and acceptance she’d never felt from her family or schoolmates. By then her faith had become so personal and intimate she no longer felt any shame. She’d made her peace with God, and nobody else’s opinion mattered.
After her high school graduation, she announced her plans to join the sisterhood. Her parents rejoiced, having been given the best cover story they could’ve hoped for. But she didn’t make her decision for them. She knew she’d been called by her faith to become a bride of Christ.
Choosing a life without sex proved no harder for Sister Mary Elizabeth than it was for her sisters. Giving up her possessions was even easier. She never wanted them anyway. And if she had to marry a man (even in the figurative sense), there was no better choice than the Son of God. Life in the convent allowed her to spend most of her days with women who shared her same devotion. And she could finally focus on doing the two things she loved most: strengthening her faith and helping others.
&n
bsp; She knew it was no accident she was the one who looked into the dumpster on that cold February morning. The scene was still too painful to remember—she refused to let the image enter her mind—but it left her convinced Michael was a boy with a special destiny. And even though his artwork had already affected millions, she was sure his biggest contribution to the world was still to come.
It also was no accident when she’d heard that voice the night before, that singular whisper she knew could come only from a messenger of God. The whisperer knew what she had only suspected, that Michael was in trouble and not because of what he’d done in Chicago. She wouldn’t have jumped on that plane unless she’d heard those whispers. And she never would have met this young reporter who seemed just as dedicated to finding Michael as she was.
She liked Hannah from the moment she heard her speak. Assertive, self-assured, and overflowing with a sense of purpose, Hannah impressed her with her drive for answers. Most importantly, Hannah had taken her hand and believed her when she insisted Michael was in trouble. The reporter’s motivation was easy to see. This was all about getting access to an artist who never gave interviews. She wasn’t naïve enough to think Hannah was truly concerned for Michael’s safety. But she needed someone like Hannah to help her keep pushing. She needed someone younger, someone forceful and relentless. Someone with a rented SUV who could drive her where she needed to go.
Surely God was working through this girl. She doubted Hannah was even aware, but it was impossible to deny. Hannah wore a large crystal charm on a chain around her neck. Sister Mary Elizabeth didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she knew the crystal wasn’t in the shape of a cross. It probably didn’t matter anyway. People had been wearing useless charms around their necks for thousands of years.
“So when are you going to tell me about the whispers?” Hannah said.
“The what—which whispers, dear?”
