The Keeper

by T F Allen

  “I have an idea. What do we know for sure? Both names have only one thing in common with Delacroix.”

  “You mean one place,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “SFAI.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We raced down the steps and climbed into Hannah’s SUV. When she reached for her seat belt, her phone sounded. Her ringtone played the psychedelic chorus of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” John Lennon’s crooning voice made Sister Mary Elizabeth jump in her seat.

  “This is Hannah.”

  “Sorry to call during your vacation,” her editor said, “but there’s been a break in that story you were working, the one with the crazy artist.”

  “Michael Delacroix. Yeah, I remember.”

  “Turns out the guy had a good reason for taking a knife to his painting. The insurance company investigating the claim just determined the painting in the museum was a fake.”

  Hannah nearly dropped her phone. She’d expected her editor to tell her what she and Sister Mary Elizabeth had already proven this morning. “How sure are they?”

  “One hundred percent. As you can imagine, this is a pretty big story. Any chance you could track down that artist for a follow-up interview?”

  “You mean put my vacation on hold, grab a flight to San Francisco, and hunt for that hermit of an artist?”

  “It doesn’t have to be that dramatic,” he said.

  Hannah smiled. When the Universe took care of her, it really took care of her. “Reset my vacation days, pay my expenses, and consider me on the job.”

  “That’s my Hannah. Good luck.”

  Her editor didn’t have a clue. She didn’t need to depend on luck. She was simply following the signs.

  “Who was that?” Sister Mary Elizabeth said.

  “Put on your seat belt. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  • • •

  There was no better follower for a leader like me than the exquisite mind of Hannah Klein. It was powered by her need to find the truth in any story she covered and turbocharged by her desire to be the first to find it. While the police were busy processing the abduction video, tracking down Michael’s car, and analyzing any evidence they might have found, she was following her instincts and the Universal signals she knew were guiding her way. She couldn’t afford to wait for the cops to catch up. And Sister Mary Elizabeth didn’t want to wait, either.

  When they both found something concrete—something that would convince those who couldn’t see the many forces at work in the Universe—they’d call the investigators and let them do the rest. Until then, it was up to her and Sister Mary Elizabeth.

  In less than thirty minutes, she’d landed herself and the nun in front of Professor Jacob Banks, the same professor she’d cornered on the terrace of SFAI’s main building earlier today. His office was small and suffocating, with barely enough room for the desk and two visitors’ chairs he’d wedged into the room. Each wall held a patchwork of paintings hung so closely together and on top of each other that she couldn’t even make out the wall color. Most of these paintings had to be gifts from his students. Like he’d been afraid of hurting someone’s feelings by taking one down over the years. The resulting collage proved distracting, but she continued her questions anyway. “I don’t care if it was a long time ago. We need you to remember. Did any of the other students ever express hostility toward Michael Delacroix?”

  The professor tilted his chair back. “This is one of the top schools for fine art instruction in the country. Despite our best efforts as instructors to create a comfortable environment for our students, it’s still a very competitive place.” He motioned toward the paintings on his walls. “My classrooms are filled with fragile egos. Students often try to project an air of confidence while secretly feeling intimidated by others. I can tell you this—everyone in his class saw how talented Michael Delacroix was. And everyone wished they could paint the same way. But I doubt anyone wished him harm.”

  “What about Jolene Anderson?” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “Was anyone jealous of her?”

  “I wouldn’t know that. And I don’t understand the reason for these questions.”

  Hannah pointed at the professor. “Seven years ago one of your students disappeared without a trace. And yesterday morning the same thing happened to Michael Delacroix.”

  The professor’s jaw dropped. He leaned forward. “Michael Delacroix is missing? Where did you hear that?”

  “We just found out today. The kidnapper was very efficient. No evidence, few leads. Just like when Jolene disappeared.”

  “Then how do you know he was kidnapped?”

  “There’s a video,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “It’s a man. That’s all we know for sure. But we’re looking into a name. Do you remember a student named Donnie Harkrider?”

  Professor Banks took off his glasses. “You think Mr. Harkrider is involved in this? He’s one of the richest alumni at this school.”

  “Did he know Delacroix and Jolene Anderson?” Hannah said.

  “You mean personally? I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to remember who had classes together.” He stood. “I don’t like where this is going.”

  Hannah slapped her hand on the professor’s desk. She liked slapping other people’s desks. “Your most famous student is missing. And another student might have been his abductor. You can either help us or—”

  “Wait,” Professor Banks said. “Maybe I could give you the rosters for the classes I taught back then. They should still be in the system.”

  “Bless you, Professor,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “That’s a great place to start.”

  Hannah crossed her arms while the professor sat and clicked on his keyboard. The sister was letting him off too easily. Hannah had planned to ask for the rosters eventually, but she wanted to make him sweat a little first. People often shared the most revealing information when they were either rattled or too comfortable. She’d put this professor on edge simply by showing up unannounced for the second time, so she needed to go at him hard.

  This whole interview was going nowhere anyway. Professor Banks would definitely disappoint the police investigators once they decided to visit SFAI. Despite how much she argued the point, there was no evidence anyone at this school had taken either Jolene or Delacroix. They were grasping at straws.

  She looked around the room. A few of the paintings were worthy of framing—full of color, contrast, and balance. But most were failed classroom experiments that wouldn’t have made the bulletin board at a day care center. Delacroix’s paintings must have intimidated every student on campus. Nothing she saw measured up to his work.

  I knew Hannah was frustrated, so she couldn’t see what I needed her to see. I recognized it as soon as they entered the room, but she’d been too focused on grilling the professor to notice. Now it rested just above her head. Without my help, she’d never find it. I took a mental picture and flashed it into her mind.

  She bolted upright in her chair and scanned the walls again. Where was it? She recognized the feeling this time—the Universe speaking to her again. She felt the electric charge in her bones. She knew the image, too. But she couldn’t find it. She stood. Her legs knocked the chair hard against the wall, making the paintings jiggle on their hooks. She turned around. There it was—a framed painting of an angel reclining on a tree branch. The same painting she’d seen in Thatcher’s office—only it wasn’t. The details and colors were slightly off, and no depth existed in the swirling background. She leaned in close, took a good look. Nope. It didn’t remind her of the Universe at all.

  “Who gave you this painting?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This one here—the angel in the tree.”

  Professor Banks clicked his mouse, and the printer behind him started humming. He walked around his desk and inspected the signature in the bottom right corner. “DHR. That’s Mr. Harkrider’s signature.”

  “I told you,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said.

  �
�What do you mean? I keep hundreds of paintings from my former students.”

  “Take a look,” Hannah said to Sister Mary Elizabeth. “Have you seen this painting before?”

  The nun stared at the canvas and wrung her hands. “That’s Michael’s angel.”

  The memory of her editor’s phone call set off alarm bells in her mind. She wanted to believe this was an important discovery, maybe even a piece of evidence. But she needed to make sure. “Was this a class exercise? Do you ever have students copy another artist’s work?”

  “This is a respected institute for fine art. All our students’ work is original.”

  “Sorry to break it to you, but this is a copy of a Delacroix. And not a good one, either. What else do you know about this Harkrider guy?”

  “He shared two classes with Jolene the semester before she disappeared,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. She stood by the printer, squinting through her reading glasses at the papers it had spit out. “And here’s another one—Advanced Night Painting. He shared that class with Michael.”

  “Wait a minute,” Professor Banks said. “You’re taking big leaps.”

  They were, but there was no stopping Hannah now. Her journalism professors had taught her to confirm facts with at least two sources. Even in today’s world, where most stories broke on Twitter and reporters couldn’t risk waiting for a second source, she always held herself to that standard. Of course, her unnamed second source was usually an element of the Universe at work—difficult to cite but always accurate. Before, she only had the word of a nun who swore she’d heard a voice and an internet link suggesting Harkrider had attended SFAI with Delacroix. Flimsy evidence at best, not near enough to take to the cops. But then the Universe had stepped in.

  What were the chances she and Sister Mary Elizabeth would run into a copy of a Delacroix painting less than an hour after learning the painting he destroyed in Chicago was also a fake? Was it dumb luck this angel painting was the same one the Universe had used to convince her to help Sister Mary Elizabeth back in Thatcher’s office? No, there were no coincidences. The Universe had spoken, both to Sister Mary Elizabeth in that church and to Hannah in this office.

  Delacroix destroyed a copy of his painting in Chicago two days before someone abducted him. He must have known it was a fake. And someone obviously wanted to keep him quiet. Harkrider tried to pass off a copy of a Delacroix as his own when he was in art school. That made him a person of interest, minimum. If the police couldn’t see that connection, they were blind.

  “We need to take this painting with us,” she said.

  Professor Banks stepped between Hannah and the wall. “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s worthless to you.” She stuck a finger in his face. “And it might be the work of a serial abductor. This is evidence. You know it’s a crime to impede an investigation?”

  “Yes, but I don’t remember seeing your badge. You are completely off base here. I only agreed to talk to you a second time because”—he glanced at Sister Mary Elizabeth—“because of my upbringing. I’d be happy to talk to the police, but you two have worn out your welcome. You need to leave.”

  CHAPTER 18

  No one could stop Hannah and the nun now. Even though their exit from the SFAI faculty building was less than triumphant—each with her own escort from campus security—I knew they wouldn’t rest until they figured out if Donnie had taken Michael.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d left him back in his cell, still in shock after seeing Jolene. I closed my eyes and pulled myself back to him.

  I found him sitting on his bed, but he hadn’t stayed there the whole time. The canvas and easel lay flat on the ground. Tubes of oil paint were scattered across the floor. The artist’s cabinet was on its side, all the drawers open and empty. His stare wasn’t blank anymore, and he wasn’t looking at the mess he’d made. Instead he stared at the painting that had made him famous. The painting he’d tried so hard to destroy. The painting Jolene had finally seen. I touched the back of his neck to let him know I was there.

  “She’s alive,” he said.

  I know.

  He kept his stare locked on the painting. “And she saw this. She saw what I did to her face.”

  You didn’t do anything to her. Donnie did that.

  “This is all my fault.”

  I knew that was coming. It was inevitable, but I tried to turn him in another direction. She could help you escape. Donnie doesn’t watch her that closely. Maybe later tonight—

  The hinges on the trapdoor squeaked. Michael turned his head but didn’t say a word. We listened as someone walked down the steps and approached the cell door.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice. Michael jumped off his bed and ran toward the gate. “Jolene?”

  Pale and trembling, she grabbed the bars like she needed them for support. Her left eye had nearly swollen shut and turned purple. He saw her scars more clearly now. They were wide, rough, and dark pink, in total contrast to her skin. Donnie had cut her and let her heal without stitches. “He wants me to check on you,” she said, “to see if you started painting yet.”

  Painting was the furthest thing from his mind. Only a few steel bars separated them, but he didn’t know how to approach her. She stared at the floor again, her face as expressionless as when he’d first seen her. I knew she was just hiding behind her defenses, but her lack of visible emotion only confused Michael.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded but wouldn’t look at him. “I remember you from SFAI. We had a class together.” She pointed past him, deeper into the cell. “Why did you make that painting of me?”

  Michael’s face burned. There weren’t enough words to answer that question.

  “Donnie said it’s the most powerful painting in the world. It represents everything he’s trying for.”

  “I never should have painted it,” he said. “This is all my fault.”

  Jolene touched her cheek, tracing one of her scars with her finger. “But how did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About these.” Jolene lifter her head and exposed her face to the overhead light. The dark pink scars were impossible to ignore. Her swollen left eye looked painful to the touch. And along her neckline was a faint pattern of dime-shaped scars, each spaced the same distance apart as the electrical contacts inside his shock collar.

  He couldn’t answer. All he could think about was what she must have gone through in the past seven years. While he was enjoying the fame that came with the art world’s reaction to her portrait, Donnie marked her with the same scars Michael had given her with a paintbrush. The burn marks on her neck told the full story. Donnie hadn’t drugged her because he didn’t need to. After seven years, he’d shocked away any resistance she might have ever shown.

  “You never said a word to me,” she said. “Never even looked in my direction. I didn’t think you knew I existed.”

  He pointed at the painting. “I made this before he took you. Those marks—they’re an accident that happened later. It didn’t look like this back then. I didn’t know that crazy asshole would do this to you.”

  “Careful.” Jolene glanced toward the ceiling. “You don’t want to make him upset.”

  “I’m done worrying about him.” Michael reached through the bars and cupped his hand against her cheek. Her skin was colder than he imagined. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away. “Now that I know you’re still alive, all I want is to get you away from him.”

  “You need to start painting, Michael.”

  “I’ll create a distraction, and then you can run.”

  Her blue eyes welled with tears. “You don’t get it. There’s nothing for me to run to. It’s pointless.”

  “He hit you in the face. Anywhere is better than here.” Michael could feel her trembling in his palm. Jolene kept denying it, but somewhere deep inside, the woman he fell in love with was trying to come out.

  She took a step back, pulling
away from his touch. “You’re so much more talented than me. Just do what he says, and maybe things will go better for you.”

  “Fuck. Him.”

  Electronic static crackled through the cell, clearing the way for Donnie’s voice: “She’s right. If you don’t start painting soon, I’ll have to do something to inspire you. Maybe I’ll use my knife on her again.”

  Michael glanced toward the ceiling where the sound had come from. When he looked back, Jolene was gone, running back toward the man who’d stolen so much from her. The bars of her prison were no longer visible but every bit as strong as the ones that kept him from chasing her.

  When Jolene left him, so did his self-control. I felt the rage burn through him, raising the temperature in the room. He ran to the center of his cell, grabbed a brush from the floor, and pointed it toward the ceiling. “You want to see me paint?” He reached down again and squeezed a paint tube as hard as he could. The oily, crimson pigment squirted through his fingers. “I’ll paint for you, Donnie. I’ll paint what I’ll do to you if I ever get the chance!”

  CHAPTER 19

  After Michael shouted at Donnie, I tried everything I could to calm him down, but none of it worked. My voice fell on deaf ears, my touch landed on deadened nerve endings, and the images I sent played on a screen he refused to watch. Instead he focused all his energy on the blank surface in front of him.

  I’d never seen him paint so quickly. After he picked up all the paint tubes and threw them back into the artist’s cabinet, he picked two colors and mixed them with the glazing agent on his palette. Then he slapped it on the canvas as violently as Donnie had struck Jolene’s face. The result was a chaotic first layer of glazing with no identifiable figures. The common pigment in every color he mixed was red. Anger and frustration spewed from his mind and splattered all over the canvas. His wild brushstrokes were as much a release of his pent-up emotions as they were a sign of how much he hated Donnie. Even though he worked in such extreme conditions and at such a hectic pace, the effect he created on the canvas was breathtaking.