“It’s something. At least we know that such and such”—Brown stabbed a finger at the map—“is a sewage dump. He wouldn’t be there.”
“Come on,” said Kate. “We’ll take your Pinto.”
“The cars from Patrol will be taking off any minute,” said Mead. He shouted after them: “You find anything—anything—you call for backup. You hear me?”
44
Across the river, the reflected lights of Hoboken rippled over the Hudson’s surface like silvery eels. Willie stopped a moment to watch a tugboat push lazily through the water.
Just ahead, that great hulking warehouse, the old docking building, hovered, a black cube against a pewter sky. He checked his watch. Eight P.M. He was exactly on time.
Could this possibly be the place? The door, thick wood and steel-edged, was slightly ajar. Willie leaned into it with his shoulder. It groaned open.
Inside, it was damp and cold; enormous, like a gymnasium. Thirty-foot-high ceilings with a few patches of sky streaking through cracks; four or five metal spotlights clipped onto thick wooden beams provided a minimum of light. Across the room, drawings and photos were pinned to the wall; in the center was a large metal worktable strewn with cut-up images, scissors, X-Acto knives, glue.
“How do you like it?” The words came from behind him, echoed in every direction.
Willie spun around. “Oh, you’re here. Good. I was beginning to wonder what this place was.”
“A great studio, no? During the day the light is pure gold.”
Willie took a few steps forward. “But it’s fucking cold, man. What does he do for heat?”
“Artists have worked under poor conditions for centuries. It’s only recently—your generation—that’s so spoiled.”
“Me? Like the projects where I grew up had swimming pools and tennis courts?” Willie laughed.
“Boo-hoo. Everyone’s always whining about their sad childhood.” He can feel the separation beginning, the fugue state that comes over him when he makes his work. But he’s excited, too. He’s never had a living artist in his studio.
A clamoring from above. Willie looked up. A small flock of pigeons, batting their wings.
“A bunch of them have made a nest up there. Sweet, isn’t it?”
“Reminds me of Venice,” said Willie. He took a few steps in. The drawings on the wall were still fuzzy, indistinct. But when he moved in for a closer look, he stopped short. “What the—” Willie’s eyes scanned the pitted wall, the hideous photographs—Ethan Stein, Amanda Lowe, snapshots of Elena.
He gasped.
Brown moved the Pinto so slowly that traffic was backing up behind them, horns blaring. They could put the beacon on the roof, but didn’t want to announce themselves in the event that they actually found the place.
Kate had both the housing map of the riverfront and the death artist’s collage in her lap. She had tried calling Willie four or five times, but without luck. Please, God. Just let him be out somewhere—anywhere but here. But she had that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach—the one she got when she knew something had gone wrong.
The radio crackled to life. “Brown. McKinnon.”
Kate snatched up the receiver. It was Mead.
“Where are you?”
“We just started,” she said. “Down around South Ferry. I can’t talk now, Randy. We’ve got to start looking.”
“Patrol cars will be cruising into action any minute,” he said. “And the Bureau has decided to add a few cars of their own.”
“Fine,” said Kate. She clicked off, her frustration mounting even before they’d actually started their search. “Jesus, we could be doing this all night, Floyd. What do we look for?”
“Check the map,” said Brown.
“Right.” Kate took a breath, tried to calm herself, dragged the map closer. “According to this, there are a few old buildings just below the Holland Tunnel that could be habitable—slightly. Then, some warehouses, and a couple of old docking houses slated for demolition from the West Village up to where the Chelsea Piers start. A few more in the West Thirties.” She stared out the window, at the waterfront going dark, a thought taking shape. “Lights,” she said. “We should be looking for lights. If the buildings are supposed to be abandoned, they’d be dark.”
“Right,” said Brown.
Even the Statue of Liberty looked ominous to Kate, as if the old gal were hiding a secret, her arm up to halt visitors rather than welcome them. Kate peered across the river at the venerable icon, torch glowing in the dusky sky, then spotted a building on the side of the highway that looked suspicious. But when they pulled off they could see it was a construction site—a string of naked bulbs hanging on wires illuminated what wasn’t much more than a large brick shell.
Brown inched the Pinto along the highway that traced the river, as near to the shoulder as possible.
He was out here. Somewhere. Waiting for her. Kate could feel it.
She checked the map again, then looked at the collage—the cutout black man against the Hudson River scene.
The next group of buildings were totally boarded up.
Kate and Brown made it to up to Greenwich Village without much else to distract them, neither one of them speaking, the tension in the car thick.
In front of Westbeth, the artists’ residence building, the Pinto was forced to a full stop. Fire trucks completely blocked the highway, sirens blared, beacons painted red-orange shafts of light onto the building. About a hundred car horns were competing with the fire sirens, blasting out a symphony of frustration. Brown tried to back up, but was completely wedged in. For a minute, he joined the horn blowers, but it was no use. Kate was out of the car fast.
“Probably a false alarm, but we gotta keep checking,” said a beefy fireman. “Give us ten minutes.”
“We don’t have one minute. We’re NYPD,” said Kate. “And it’s an emergency.”
Minutes later, the fireman was directing traffic, getting one driver to pull this way, another that, until the Pinto was free, Brown backing up the wrong way on a one-way street, then screeching around a corner, until they found their way back onto the highway.
“According to the map, there should be a couple of old warehouses coming up,” said Kate.
“There they are, just ahead,” said Brown.
“Is that light inside one of the buildings?” said Kate.
Brown steered the Pinto onto the dirt shoulder, the two of them out of the car fast.
The building was big, dilapidated. Kate hesitated a minute, heard something—voices?—from inside. Glock in hand, she dropped back, then leveled a solid kick against the old wooden door. It splintered, fell away like a bunch of Pick Up sticks.
Six or seven homeless men were huddled together around a small fire, toasting hot dogs on sticks. They looked up, unimpressed. There was garbage everywhere. The smell—awful. Kate and Brown backed up. Smallish black creatures—mice, rats—scurried for shelter.
“Great art. It’s always a shock. At first. Until you get used to it.”
Willie was inching backward. Should he make a dash for it? He wasn’t sure. His mind was all over the place. How can this be? Schuyler Mills? The man who had nurtured his work?
But the curator had read Willie’s thoughts, took a quick step forward, his fingers tightening around Willie’s arm, a small revolver now pointed at Willie’s temple. “Come,” he urged gently. “I need to show you something.”
Willie’s heart was beating about as fast as his mind was racing. No way. Sky the death artist? He just couldn’t believe it. Should he attack? Should he risk getting shot?
“In here.” Schuyler led Willie through another doorway into a connecting room.
The room was smaller, long and narrow, like a bowling alley. The only light, streaks of neon from advertising signs across the Hudson, peeked through holes in the walls. Willie couldn’t see much, but felt water bubbling up through the rotting floor, soaking his shoes.
“Wait.�
� Mills relaxed his grip on Willie’s arm to reach for a spotlight clipped to a pillar.
Willie thought, This is it—his time to break away; but then the barrel of the cold metal revolver grazed his ear.
“Steady,” said Mills. He squeezed a switch. A beam of light shot out, illuminating the scene in high contrast. “Don’t judge it too harshly. Please. It’s only a work in progress.”
It took Willie a moment to figure it out. He could see it was a figure leaning against a wall, or what was left of it, and—Jesus Christ!—was that a head, in a dish, on the floor?
“Artemisia Gentileschi,” said Mills. “The one truly great woman painter of the Italian Renaissance. I was certain Ms. Kent would be happy to star in it.”
Willie saw it now. Too clearly. The head. Charlie’s head. On the plate. Floating in an inch of congealed blood, like aspic. Her headless body was propped against the wall. It was just like the vision he’d had. He felt he would be sick. But then his mind produced another flash—himself in waist-high water—and with it, the full realization that he was surely about to die.
“It’s Judith beheading the Assyrian general. But what makes it truly great is that Ms. Kent plays both parts—Judith and the general. It’s a very conceptual piece. Maybe not as clear as your friend Kate would like, but . . .” He seemed to go off for a moment, and Willie sensed it. He pivoted, fast, whacked Mills in the throat, hard. The gun flew, skidded across the floor. Willie made a dive for it. But just as his fingers were reaching for the handle, he felt the needle prick his thigh. Toxins coursed through muscle, speeding into his bloodstream, the burning almost intolerable. Willie groaned. By the time he had the revolver in his hand, he could no longer grasp it.
Shit. He had been saving that hypodermic for Kate. He rubbed at his tender throat. “You didn’t have to go and hit me. That hurt, you know.”
Willie could barely feel his legs or arms. He tried dragging himself to safety—but where? His body scraped against the concrete floor; a rusty nail slashed his hand, then through his pant leg. Blood gushed from his palm, up through his pants. But Willie felt nothing.
“Relax. It won’t kill you. Temporary paralysis, that’s all.” Mills lowered himself so that their eyes were only inches apart. “I’d never intentionally harm you. You know that, don’t you?” He stroked Willie’s forehead. “You’re like a son to me.”
Willie tried to speak, but could not.
“All of your muscles will be paralyzed, throat included.” He got Willie around the ankles, dragged him to a corner of the room. Willie’s head bumped across the hard, damp floor. But the pain was nothing compared with the fear.
“I didn’t have a lot of time to make this. You must forgive me.”
Willie stared at him, helpless, his arms a deadweight, legs totally numb.
Drawn across the wall was a crude sketch—a river scene.
“Hudson River school. Frederic Church,” said Mills. “But it’s just an impression.” He pushed Willie against it, arranged his body just so. “Do you think you can stand?” he asked. “No, of course not.” He had one of those thick oil sticks that artists use in his fist. He clutched Willie’s jaw. “Hold still,” he said. “I’ve got to make you look like the Basquiat Self-portrait.” He outlined Willie’s eyes with the white oil stick, then made crisscrossing marks around Willie’s mouth.
He stood back.
“Not bad. But I’ve really got to get you to stand up.” He sidled back, ferreted around on his worktable. “I know I’ve got a hammer and nails here somewhere.”
Kate was having that feeling, the one she’d had when she was on her way to save Ruby Pringle: that it was too late. Please, God, no. She referred to the riverfront map. “This isn’t helping, Floyd. We’re going to be too late!”
“Hang on, McKinnon.”
Kate looked back at the map. There was sweat beading up on her forehead.
Brown lifted the receiver, called in to the station. “Any of the cars find anything?”
“No. Nothing yet.” Mead’s voice crackled over the radio. “You?”
“Still looking.” Brown clicked off, swerved the Pinto around a slow-moving car. The map and collage slid onto the floor.
Kate lifted the map, then the death artist’s collage, her fingers sliding over the surface. “What’s this?” She pulled the collage closer, rubbed her finger lightly over the image again. “There’s something painted on this that I missed before.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I can’t make it out.” She held the collage beside the dashboard’s light, drew her fingers over it again, felt something she could not feel when she’d had the plastic gloves on her fingers. Now she saw it, too—three tiny water towers hand-painted over Frederic Church’s little cabin beside the Hudson. She hadn’t noticed it before, the larger, more obvious clues had taken up her attention.
“Water towers,” she said. “We’re looking for three large water towers.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“I think we just passed them.”
Brown waited for a break in the traffic, swerved the Pinto into a U-turn, bumped over the divider. They were heading south again.
“It’s an old docking station,” said Kate, referring to the map. Her mouth had gone dry; adrenaline was coursing through her veins.
“There it is.” The dark monolith slid into view, taking the moon with it. “Three water towers.” Kate drew a breath.
Brown bumped the Pinto up onto the gravel path.
They were out of the car fast, doors left open—no way they’d announce their arrival by slamming one.
“I think there are lights on inside,” said Kate, barely whispering.
Brown’s tone was equally hushed. “We gotta call for backup.”
“Not yet. Not until we’re absolutely sure. I don’t want to pull those patrol cars off the search if we’re wrong.” She had her Glock in hand.
The big wooden door was half-open. Kate peered into the dark. She heard something—a scraping sound? She couldn’t be sure with the hum of highway traffic just behind her. She and Brown took a few steps in, both dropped to a crouch, guns straight out in front of them. They hovered there a minute, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Slowly now, practically creeping, they edged forward. Kate’s nerve endings were tingling.
A rat zipped across her path. She stifled a gasp. A fluttering above. She spun the Glock overhead. Pigeons. She let out a small breath.
Then those pictures on the wall zoomed into focus before Kate’s eyes. Oh my God. This is the place. She elbowed Brown, nodded at the images.
They both stood stock-still, almost not breathing, scanning the room for any sign of life. Kate saw nothing, but could sense it—movement, a vibration of life, somewhere close by.
“I’m calling for backup,” Brown whispered, pulling his radio from his pocket.
Schuyler Mills had the nail poised above Willie’s wrist, the hammer about to strike a blow—but his hands were twitching. “I just can’t do it,” he said. “Not to you. My son.” Then he thought of Abraham. “What?” He spun away from Willie as though acknowledging someone in the room. Willie’s eyes, the only part of him able to move, searched the room. But there was no one, nothing there. He stared at Charlie Kent’s head, the small bullet hole in her temple almost black, crusted over with dried blood.
Mills’s eyes were half-closed.
“I can’t. Don’t you see? I love him.”
Do it.
“What?” he said. “No.”
Were those tears in the curator’s eyes? Willie could not be sure, but he thought so.
“Leave me alone!” Mills swung the hammer wildly at some unseen phantom. That seemed to do it. A moment later, he was calm. “Sorry. Where was I?” He focused on Willie. “Oh. Right. I want to show you something.” He plucked the small altarpiece from the floor. “Exquisite, isn’t it?”
Willie stared at the tiny Madonna and Child.
&nb
sp; “Here. Take a closer look. As they say, it’s all in the details.” But then he looked away, toward the outer room, cocked his head, listening. “Oh.” He smiled. “I believe our guests are here.” He moved swiftly now, grabbed a large dart gun off a small table where he’d laid out another two hypodermics. He held a finger to his lips, nodded at Willie. “Shhh . . .” Then he handed him Pruitt’s small altarpiece. It crashed to the floor with a loud thunk. “Oh, right,” he said. “You can’t hold anything, can you?”
Kate and Brown pivoted toward the sound, saw the other doorway, the thin shaft of light.
They were both moving in slow motion. To Kate, it felt like an eternity before she crossed the room.
Brown was a couple of feet in front of her. He had both hands on his gun. He spun through the doorway.
There was the slightest sound—a sort of zipping whoosh, then a soft thump.
Floyd Brown reeled back, dropped his gun, clutched his shoulder. But there was no blood. He’s okay, thought Kate. But then he stumbled backward, fell to the floor, right at her feet, eyes open, mouth, too, but no words, only a grunt.
Kate tightened her grasp on the Glock, laid her other hand on Brown’s chest. Yes, his heart was beating. He was alive. Thank God.
She aimed her gun straight out in front of her, dared a peek through the open doorway and saw Willie slumped against a wall.
Willie’s eyes shifted and blinked, desperate to telegraph a warning to Kate. But she already knew the death artist was there, waiting for her. She could practically taste him. She inched forward, the Glock ready, but sensed the shadow too late. The arm came down, hard, on her wrist. The Glock vaulted from her hand, skittered across the wet floor.
And he had it.
“Finally,” he said, aiming the weapon directly at Kate’s chest. “I have been waiting for you—for so long.”
Schuyler Mills came into focus. Kate gasped.
“I knew you wouldn’t come alone. But don’t worry, your friend will live.” He nodded at Floyd Brown’s immobile body. “For a while. He’s paralyzed, that’s all. But later, well, I’m afraid his condition will worsen.”
The Death Artist Page 37
