by Polly Iyer
Given his tentative position, Luke teetered on the fringe of authority in his own city. How could he extract information from a police department unwilling to buck the local throne of power? And Carlotta Gentry certainly wore the crown.
Digging deeper into the city’s politics, and almost by accident, he found articles in the Charleston Post and Courier written by a reporter named Matt Devon. He’d investigated accusations that Synthetec, a boutique pharmaceutical company in which the Gentry family owned a controlling interest, manipulated the test results on their new anti-psychotic drug to speed approval by the FDA. Their fake findings also caused a bounce in the stock price.
Luke accessed Devon’s email address off the op-ed page of the paper’s website and asked the reporter for help with information about the Gentrys. If Devon agreed, Luke continued, correspondence would have to be through email or an intermediary because of Luke’s inability to hear over the phone.
* * * * *
Matt read Luke McCallister’s email and wondered what the cop wanted. He wrote him back.
My series about Synthetec exposed the lengths to which the Gentry family would go to protect their investments, and they didn’t like it. Coincidentally or not, the gas stove in my home exploded, almost relegating me to the obituary column in my own newspaper. The arson inspector suspected tampering but couldn’t prove it. If someone rigged the stove, whoever did it was a pro. Then, not surprisingly, my inside source retracted his story. I publicly charged that the Gentrys were responsible, but again, with no proof, even my own paper warned me to drop the allegation. I was pissed then. I’m still pissed.
Through back and forth emails, Matt understood that McCallister’s interest centered more on Carlotta Gentry’s motives for keeping her son incommunicado for the last eight years, but he didn’t mind going deeper into her business if reason existed. Devon assured McCallister he had plenty of reason, and much had to do with Stewart Gentry.
Anything we put together has to be dead on solid. No mistakes, either on my end or yours, Matt wrote. I almost lost my life after the first go-round, and I have little or nothing to show for it except a new kitchen. The police cleared the Gentry Corporation of any wrongdoing. I had to apologize (an act that almost made me puke), and my boss considered firing me for sloppy reporting. I can’t afford another screw-up.
But I’m in.
They agreed on a time to instant message, and Matt closed the email. He worried how much help he’d get from a deaf cop. Typing back and forth was slower than talking on the phone. But the cop seemed determined. Determination defined Matt’s life. Must define the cop’s life, too, if he was deaf and still a cop.
“I’m going to get that bitch yet,” Matt said aloud.
Chapter Seventeen
The Artist’s Artist
With Daisy at her feet, Abby sat in a straight-backed chair, chilled from the cabin’s damp interior. Her unlined linen suit jacket offered little protection, and she rubbed her arms to warm up. Stewart wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to quell her shivers. He stood behind her, his hands like weights on her shoulders, pushing her down into the earth.
She shrugged him off. “Where have you been all these years, Stewart?” When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Where?”
“In a hospital,” he said. “But I’m better now.”
“They let you out?”
His hand crawled across the back of her neck, but he didn’t answer. She raised her shoulders and scrunched her head back, forcing his hand off.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do that.” He withdrew his hand. “Did they let you out?” she asked again.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Because I’m well.”
She heard the lie in his voice like she’d heard it so many times before. Which Stewart had kidnapped her? There had been so many that last year. The delusional man who heard voices, the contrite husband who begged forgiveness, or the paranoid who monitored every breath she took? How could they release him? He murdered my child.
Lucy knew Stewart was alive. Did she know he had escaped? Would she have kept that from me, too? Abby didn’t know what to think anymore. She’d been kept in even greater darkness than the world she inhabited.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “How about a hamburger?”
“I don’t want anything to eat. I want you to say what you have to say, then take me home.”
“I told you I’ll take you home after we talk.”
His hand grazed her cheek and she cringed. She knew better, but she couldn’t control her reflexes any more than she could control a sneeze or an eye tic.
“I’m better now, Abby. The doctors figured out which medications keep me under control. We can live a normal life. You can learn to forgive me.”
She had her answer. Maybe he didn’t hear voices any more, but he was still delusional. “You can’t expect me to go back in time, Stewart. I have a different life. Very different. We’re not the same people we were when we met.” She wrapped the blanket around her more tightly. “What do you plan to do? You must have thought this through. You’ve kidnapped me. The police will be searching, and when they find me, they’ll find you too.”
“They won’t find you until I’m ready.”
Abby’s heart rate spiked at the ominous words. “Will…they find me alive?”
“I promise I won’t hurt you.” He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Daisy grunted. “When I learned what I’d done, I refused to believe it. For years I’ve lived in a private hell, floating like some supernatural apparition outside myself, looking in. How could I have murdered the daughter I adored and put you in a dark world, never to see the sun again? Me, an artist, whose sight meant life. Whatever clarity remained convinced me that someone else had committed those monstrous acts. Someone I didn’t know. I have to believe that, Abby, or I’d end my life right now. I want you to believe it too.”
His words brought everything flooding back into that part of her consciousness she had buried to keep her sanity. Visuals to her were only flashbacks—remembrances—and when Stewart’s face broke through her darkness, she saw him as he appeared the day they met.
* * * * *
Abby’s friend pushed her into the gallery. “I don’t know why you dragged me here, Lainie. I don’t know a thing about art.”
“You don’t have to know anything. Besides, the exhibit hasn’t even opened. I thought it would be fun to see them hang it. Sandra Orr is on the committee and she said the artist is hot. Kind of crazy but really cute. And he’s on the fast track to becoming famous.”
Abby pulled her hand away to make her point. “I’m dressed like a homeless person, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow, and I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, hush,” Lainie said, pulling her deeper inside the gallery. “We won’t stay long. You’ll get an A anyway, so what’s to worry?”
Abby wondered how she and Lainie Simms had remained friends for so long. Lainie’s English major took a back seat to her real major—partying. If anything was going on at Emory or in Atlanta, Lainie knew about it. She constantly tried to pry Abby from her studies to join her excursions, but Abby refused to be distracted. Today Lainie wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here Abby stood at the installation of Stewart Gentry’s latest exhibit.
“Look at these paintings,” Lainie said. “They’re fantastic. Have you ever seen anything like them?”
Abby scanned the large gallery. Polished wood floors, white walls, and halogen lighting were the perfect setting to highlight the large acrylics and watercolors. Some sat stacked against the wall waiting to be hung; others already graced the walls. Stewart Gentry’s paintings mesmerized her. Most were figuratives with a few moody landscapes to show versatility. They were like nothing she’d ever seen—vibrant and full of energy. Even the quiet landscapes drew her in. She stood in front of a marsh scene and felt as if her feet were wet from wading in the water, felt the gentle breeze moving through the grasses. No wonder critics touted him
as the next major American artist.
“There he is,” Lainie whispered, pulling Abby back to solid ground.
“Where?” Abby searched but didn’t see anyone who looked like a successful artist. In fact, everyone appeared grungier than she did.
“The one with the turtle neck sweater and scruffy jeans. You know he’s from one of the richest families in the South. They practically own Charleston.”
“How would I know that?”
“Well, if you paid attention to the eligible men in the area, you’d probably have more dates. You won’t meet them holed up in your room studying.”
“Gee, Lainie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but my scholarship doesn’t pay for everything. I didn’t take out loans that will tie me up for years so I could come here to party.”
“Shhh, here he comes, and is he ever fixed on you.”
Abby inspected the reed of a man heading in her direction, but her scrutiny couldn’t compare with the vibes emanating from him as he approached. He undressed her with his piercing blue eyes, and his smile curled the corners of his mouth as if he knew her darkest secret. For some inexplicable reason, the thumping in her chest shot skyward, through the roof, and into the stratosphere.
“Hi, I’m Stewart Gentry. Come with me.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her along.
“Huh? Wait a minute,” Abby objected as he deposited her in front of a large window where the afternoon sun poured through in dusty rays.
“Don’t move.” He backed off, framing Abby’s face in the squared-off fingers of his raised hands. Long hair obscured his right eye, and he kept pushing it aside as soon as it fell back into position. “You’re perfect. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“This is crazy,” she scoffed, moving away from the window. “What have you been smoking?”
He chased after her. “No, seriously. I have to paint you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Abby’s laugh caused people to turn their heads and stare. Embarrassed, she whispered to avoid any more attention. “Now I know you’re crazy. I’ve got to go.” She headed for the door, but Stewart took her hand and held her in place.
“No, wait. I don’t even know your name. I have to know the name of the woman I’m going to marry.”
“I take it back. You’re not crazy. You’re insane. Out there. Way out there.” She completed a full circle of the room to find Lainie so she could get the hell out of there and away from the nut following her like a needy puppy.
Stewart ran after her. “Sorry,” he said, darting in front of her. “Let me start over. My name is Stewart Gentry and I’m in love. Oops, not much better, was it?”
Abby couldn’t resist. She giggled involuntarily. No one had ever approached her like that before. She studied this tall, rangy man, all angles, sweater two sizes too big, and saw no tinge of mockery in his earnest face.
“Look, I’m sure you’re very nice, but you’re coming on too strong. You’re a little scary, Stewart Gentry.”
“You’re right. This time I will start over.” He rolled up his sleeves, tucked in the shirt hanging below his sweater, fingered his long sandy-brown hair back off his face, and made a slight bow from the waist. “Rhett Butler here, ma’am. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now if you’ll tell me your name, I’d like to ask you out to the nearest café for a cup of coffee and a sweet cake.”
Abby broke up. Lainie was right. Stewart Gentry was damn cute. Irresistibly cute. His eyes were the bluest blue she’d ever seen, and his smile lassoed her heart. And it stayed that way until almost the very end.
“Scarlett O’Hara, sir. De-lighted.”
* * * * *
“You remember how good things were, Abby? How all the galleries were after me? How my work was sought by collectors? Those were great times, weren’t they?”
“Yes, I remember.” Stewart had swept her off her feet. He was handsome and funny, intelligent and filled with promise.
“You were my favorite model. I couldn’t paint you enough.”
She remembered that too, and thinking about those days brought a lump to her throat. How could it have all gone so bad?
“I didn’t believe how lucky I was when you said you’d marry me.”
God, she was happy. She gave no thought to stability or the uninhibited lifestyle he practiced and remembered thinking that maybe a hint of Lucy existed in her after all. Stewart’s power-brokering family frowned on their marriage, but she and Stewart didn’t care. They were in love and nothing else mattered. When Macy came along, things settled down. He loved that beautiful child as much as she, enchanted by her every gurgle, captivated by her toothless grin and sapphire eyes. His eyes. Gentry eyes. Life was beautiful.
Then everything started to slip away. Stewart’s slow downhill slide became a rapid descent into a dark and terrifying abyss that turned a beautiful man into a monster.
The memories of another life impaired her normally keen senses, so when Stewart placed her hand under his chin and moved it along the left side where his jaw used to be and up to the nub of his ear, goose bumps rose on her arms. She said nothing, hoping her face didn’t show the physical pain that twisted her insides.
“So many times I wished I had died that day,” he said. “I should have, you know. I look in the mirror and see someone else. Maybe that’s God’s punishment for what I’ve done—a constant reminder.”
Stewart was right. The man who robbed her of her child and sight wasn’t the loving man she married. Somewhere along the way, that person had become possessed by a genetic malfunction, a glitch in his DNA. She heard her voice shriek inside her head. How could they release him?
“Why have you been tormenting me the last two months?” she asked. “Emails, phone calls, ransacking my house, and hurting Daisy. Why?”
“I told you it wasn’t me, but I was there that night, watching. Someone came out the front door. Then the police came and took the dog.”
She didn’t believe him but played along. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I was too far away.”
“Did he run to a car?”
“No, around the side of your house, toward the back. He didn’t run. He walked, like he had all the time in the world.”
“Why were you watching?”
“I watched you often, always waiting for a time when I could think straight. When voices didn’t clutter my mind. That night I decided to talk to you, but I lost my nerve. The man came out, then the police came.”
Oh, yes, he’s well. With voices cluttering his mind.
“All these years,” he said, “painting saved my life. Do you know how many times I painted you, Abby? Hundreds. You and Macy. You were my catharsis.”
She wondered how he saw them. How did he paint the daughter he murdered? How did he paint her? When he became sick, the art world ate up his offerings like a gourmet meal. Was that the case now? If so, how did she miss all the sensational aspects? Had her life been so insulated?
She marveled at Lucy’s ingenuity in protecting her with such a massive cover-up, enlisting everyone to go along. Would she have been better off knowing, or did her ignorance provide mental healing she might not have benefited from otherwise? She’d give the question serious thought. Still, she couldn’t shrug off the knife-in-the-back shiver whenever she thought of her mother.
Abby rubbed Daisy’s neck. Her dog was an anchor in the unsteady present. “Please take me home, Stewart.”
“I will. Tomorrow.” He paused. “Do you love him?”
“What? Who?”
“The cop.”
At the mention of Luke, butterflies attacked her insides. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Do you?”
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, deny the relationship existed, if it still did. Stewart obviously knew about Luke. But she wouldn’t talk about him. “This is none of your business.” Silence commandeered the room. She had mastered the art of interpreting silence. A paucity of words a
nswered many questions lately.
His breathing seemed controlled, as if he were purposely calming himself. In. Out. In. Out. He started to say something, then changed his mind. After a few false starts, he spoke. “I still love you, Abby.”
He brushed the side of her face, his hand cool and quivering. She closed her eyes.
“The delusions, the suspicions, I couldn’t help it. I loved Macy more than the stars and the moon and the sun. She encompassed all of those, this bright light in the middle of all the darkness, all my confusion. I try not to think about her, because when I do, I want to die. There must be a reason my heart keeps beating. Something I have left to do. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something.”
Tears rimmed Abby’s eyes. She felt them being gently wiped away. Why did she feel this ache in her heart?
“You’ve succeeded in spite of what I took from you. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been. I’m so sorry,” he said, with a guttural catch. He got up and walked the room. “This cop, is he good to you?”
How could she talk about the man she loved now with the man she once loved? “I can’t talk about this, Stewart.”
He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “You deserve someone good. I only wish…”
She felt like a child of divorce pulled in two different directions, without knowing what each side had in store.
He took her hand and led her to another room. “I have everything you need. You can’t see the things I bought for you, but they’re beautiful. You always looked beautiful in everything you wore.”
The chilly cabin turned scalding hot, generating a fine mist of perspiration over the surface of her skin. She threw off the blanket, feeling dizzy and faint, waffling and almost falling as her legs buckled. Stewart put his hand around her back and guided her to a chair before she collapsed.
“Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right. You promised to take me home after we talked. We talked, and now you’re showing me to a room for the night. How long do you intend to keep me?”
