Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah. But it’s not the same. Not with him here, too.” His lips twitched, as if he were tasting something sour. “I checked into the guy since the first time you brought here. He’s got some prints here and there, but not that much of a reputation among the gallery owners except Prudhomme. Hell, I’ve had half a dozen more shows than he has, and he’s gotta have ten years on me. And he’s married.”

  “He’s separated.”

  “Yeah, since you’ve shown up he’s separated,” Morris scoffed.

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about this,” Camille said. “And I don’t want you to be upset with me, either, Morris. You’re my friend; I want to stay your friend.”

  “That’s exactly what I want, too.”

  She gave him a smile. “Then we’re good, aren’t we?”

  She started to brush past him to return to the table. His hand reached out and grabbed at her arm. “I’m worrying that you’ve made a mistake, Camille,” Morris told her. “You gotta know that.”

  “Then it’s my mistake to make, isn’t it?” she answered. “Isn’t that part of the artistic process—learning from your mistakes?” She looked down at his hand. Slowly, he released his grip. He nodded, and at least he tried to match her smile.

  But she felt his gaze on her and David the rest of the evening, and she asked David to leave long before the bar closed.

  *

  She went to the bank that morning as soon as they opened; David left the apartment at the same time, saying he was heading back to his own place to catch up on neglected work. On the way to Walter’s office, she stopped to visit Morris at his studio.

  Morris rented third-floor studio space at an ancient warehouse near the East River that had been taken over by an artists’ cooperative. Most of the artists there created crafty, easily accessible work that sold at various festivals throughout the east coast. Camille could sense their presences in the building: faint green sparks glimmering in the darkness behind her eyes, most of them barely perceptible. As she climbed the worn, bowed wooden steps of the warehouse toward Morris’ studio, she felt him easily overpowering the others, an emerald glow that seemed strangely darkened to her, with an unusual feel that made her tilt her head in puzzlement. He was working, all his attention on whatever he was doing. At other times, she would have let herself be absorbed into the warm sauna of his creativity, would have allowed herself to absorb it and return it to him enhanced. Had she done that, he might have felt her in that disturbance, might have turned to see her as she approached the open door.

  Not this time.

  His studio was a large, high open space, dotted with several of his sculpture pieces: spindly figures twisting around each other, as if captured in the midst of a dance or an erotic encounter. His prints were on an unpainted wallboard back wall: lithographs whose style echoed the sculptures. She recognized her face and figure among them; she had posed as a model for Morris several times in the last few years.

  He was standing before an armature a few feet taller than him, welded from wrought iron in the vague shape of two figures who looked to be locked in a struggle. A large tub of green-brown clay was placed next to the armature, in front of Morris. The lower portion of the sculpture was already slathered with clay with the marks of shaping tools on it, the feet and lower legs already recognizable. As Camille, watched, Morris reached down and took a double handful of the clay, slapping it around the skeletons of the armature, pressing it into position.

  She watched the throbbing of his green heart within him: strong, but not as vital and nowhere near as brilliant as David’s. It could never be like David’s. It could never feed her the same way.

  “A new commission?” she asked from the doorway.

  She couldn’t quite decipher the look he gave her; somewhere between pleasure and irritation. “Hey, Camille,” he said. “Where’s David?”

  “At his studio,” she told him. “Working, like you. What’s this piece?”

  “It’s called ‘Vengeance.’”

  The title and his slow, pleased pronunciation raised the hairs on her arms. “A dish best served cold?” she asked, and he smiled momentarily.

  “You’d never make it in a trivia contest. That’s ‘revenge,’ not vengeance,” he told her. “Besides, the title’s not my idea. The man who commissioned it wanted that to be the title, though he said he was leaving the conception up to me; all he wanted was a piece that fit the theme.”

  “So you’ve a new patron—congratulations. Who is he?”

  He nodded. “Name’s Timothy Pierce. Lives uptown, and has more money than he knows what to do with, so he’s dabbling in the arts. Actually, Prudhomme put me in touch with him; said that the guy had decent taste—he likes me, after all—is thinking he might start collecting, and was looking for a modern sculpture for his condo: somebody up-and-coming, but not too terrifically expensive yet. Somebody whose work is likely to increase in value. Prudhomme sent him my way.” She could hear the pride in his voice. “What brings you here, Camille?”

  Guilt, mostly. But she wasn’t going to admit that to him. “We didn’t leave things in a good place between us the other night,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about it, just to make sure we’re fine.”

  He shrugged, wiping his hands on his jeans but not stepping away from the sculpture. “Not much to talk about, the way I see it. You’ve made your preferences plain enough. You know how I feel about you, Camille. I think I’ve made that clear. But if that’s not what you want, well, as you said, it’s your life and your choice.”

  “Being with David doesn’t change how I feel about you, Morris. I wish you could understand that.”

  He shook his head with a wry smile. “C’mon, Camille. That’s bullshit, and you know it. Things have changed. They’ve changed a lot.” He reached down and picked up a double handful of the clay. Slap! Slap! He slammed the clay onto the armature hard enough that the whole structure shuddered. His long fingers pressed the clay into shape.

  “You never cared before that I slept with the other people in the group.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m not a jealous or possessive guy; I was willing to share if what you wanted was an open relationship. That worked for me. It just doesn’t seem that David feels the same way.”

  But you are possessive, she wanted to tell him. That’s what all this is really about. “It’s not David who’s making that decision,” she told him.

  “Ah.” He stepped back and looked at the clay-draped armature, not at her. “Then I guess none of what I think really matters, does it?”

  “Morris …” She sighed. “I care a lot for you. I don’t want this to pull us apart so we can’t stay friends.”

  Morris exhaled loudly. His hands fell to his side like stones, the clay on his fingers staining his jeans. “Friends,” he said. “Yeah. And if I still want more than that?”

  “I’m sorry, then,” she told him. “Right now, friendship is all I have to offer. Who knows—that might change again later on. I’m just playing this by ear. You can understand that, can’t you?” She lifted her hands.

  “Yeah. I guess I can. I’ll grant that you’ve done a lot for me and I’ve enjoyed you being around.” He glanced at the prints, at the lithos for which she’d posed. “My new patron? He liked the lithos I did of you, too. In fact, he bought one of them from me—supposedly your face reminded him of his ex-wife. He told me, ‘You really captured the self-absorption in her face. It makes you hate her and love her at the same time.’ ”

  Camille drew in her breath with that, the words stinging her so that her cheeks flushed. “Are those his words or yours, Morris?”

  “His.” Morris glanced back at the armature. The heavy clay thickened his fingers. He gave a second shrug and bent down to the clay bin once more. “I just drew what I saw,” he answered. “I wasn’t making any judgments about you. But I can see what he was saying. Look, I don’t want to sound mean or petty, but you asked.
You always do what most pleases you, Camille. Isn’t that the definition of someone who’s self-absorbed?”

  She didn’t know how to answer that. The silence stretched on for too long. She could hear Morris’ hands working the wet clay in the bin. “Look, we’re as okay we’re going to be right now,” he said finally. “I don’t hate you, but I’ll admit that I’m hurting a little. Give me a little time, and I’ll get over it. I promise. Is that fair enough?”

  “Yeah,” she said. It came out breathy and uncertain. He still hadn’t looked at her. He lifted a double handful of clay. “Good,” he said. “And now, I got work to do. So if you’ll forgive me …”

  “Sure,” she said. “I have another appointment anyway.” She walked toward the studio doors, the sound of clay being slapped onto the armature following her.

  *

  “Here it is,” she told Walters. “Ten thousand. A cashier’s check, so you don’t have to wait for it to clear my account.”

  The investigator pressed his lips together. He picked up the check and stared at it contemplatively, then let it drop back to the papers that littered his desk like bleached autumn leaves. “You know, I think we’d figure out exactly who Helen Treadway’s seeing without this. It’ll just take a little longer.”

  “I’m in a hurry,” she told him. She was still feeling irritation from the conversation with Morris. “Deposit it today, and tell your friend to do whatever it is he does.”

  She didn’t tell Walters that the Tarot array that she’d set out for herself the night before had shown the Magus—the card she had associated with Nicolas since she called herself Perenelle—close to her, with threatening swords close by. The Princess of Pentacles, who she thought might be Helen, was beset and hemmed in by them, and the cards of the Major Arcana that entered the array colored the reading with ominous warnings. Yes, Camille was hunting Nicolas, but now he was hunting her at the same time, and he had his own resources—none of which cared much for legalities, and many of which were beyond her own capabilities.

  She had to hurry, or he would find her first. If that happened … No, you won’t think about that now.

  Walters folded his hands on top of the check. His craggy face looked up at her. “You know, you’re about my granddaughter Beth’s age. Maybe that makes me sentimental.”

  “Mr. Walters, y’know, I’ve already had about as much condescension this morning as I can take …”

  His slab of a hand lifted; he shook his gray-fringed head and leaned back in his chair, which creaked dangerously and threatened to overbalance. “No. Hear me out. This is a lot of money for someone your age. I don’t care where or how you got it, but …” Gray-blue eyes regarded her. She could imagine those eyes on the other side of an interrogation table, cold and unblinking. “Camille Kenny. That’s an unusual name,” he said. “Y’know, I get curious about my clients, especially the ones who give me interesting jobs or interesting requests. Sometimes I check them out a bit, just to know them better. What’s strange is that Camille Kenny doesn’t have much of a paper trail prior to five years ago. None at all, as a matter of fact. No schools attended, no jobs, no residences, no licenses, no nothing. In fact, I found a birth certificate for Camille Kenny, born in Cincinnati—you were born in Cincinnati, right, to Ted and Elizabeth Kenny?—born the same day you were born and with the same social security number. Only trouble is that according to a death certificate I ran across, that Camille Kenny died two years after she was born.”

  Camille flushed. A slow panic began to build in her stomach. She started to turn, to leave. “Wait, young lady,” Walters said loudly. He hadn’t moved from his reclined position. “I ain’t a cop. Not anymore. I don’t give a damn if you’re who you say you are or not. Camille Kenny, at least for as long as I can find out anything about her, seems to be a decent enough person. Maybe better than most I run into or have worked for. I’m just pointing out that there’s a lot that’s strange about this quest of yours—and it’s not just this mysterious guy you’re trying to track down. I don’t need the whole story; I’ll do the job you paid me for and shut up. However, I think you got a wild hare up your ass with the Treadway woman. For all you know, the guy she’s seeing ain’t your guy. In fact, from what you’ve told me, that would be a huge coincidence. It’s probably some poor schmuck who works where she works: a rebound lover. Why toss all this green at a wild card?”

  “If I tell you that I have my reasons, will that be enough?” she asked him.

  It was hard to tell whether he shrugged or not; the chair creaked, but he might have just been adjusting his position. “This guy—he’s a danger to you?”

  “To me, and to anyone he’s around. Trust me on that.”

  “You said a while ago that he goes through a lot of aliases. Same reason as you?”

  She hesitated before answering, then decided there was no reason to try to pretend. “Yes. And no.” She hesitated a moment. “And I have another name for you to check: Timothy Pierce. Supposedly lives uptown somewhere. Likes to collect art.”

  “You think he’s your guy?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe. Why don’t you find out?”

  After a moment, Walters leaned forward again, the chair’s springs protesting against the abuse. “Fair enough,” he said. “You’re my client; I’ll trust you know what you’re doing. I’ll cash the check and get my guy started on things, and I’ll check out Pierce. Should only take a couple days. In the meantime, if this guy’s such a danger to you, if you’re worried about him getting too close, you got anything to protect yourself?”

  She nodded. The purse, with the Ladysmith and a few vials of chemicals snuggled inside, lay heavy at her side, and there were the spells she memorized each morning burning in her head. “I can take care of myself. And, Mr. Walters, if you do find him, please don’t let him see you or think that you’re on to him. I’m telling you, if he believes you represent a threat to him, he’ll do something drastic about it. I know him; you don’t. He’s capable of anything. Anything. I want you to be very careful.”

  He grunted. That was all the answer she received.

  *

  From Walters’ office, she went back to her own apartment. David was still gone. She fed Verdette, stroking the cat absently as she pondered the meeting with Morris and her conversation with Walters. “I don’t know,” she said to Verdette. “Maybe I’m making a mistake staying around here. Maybe I should just pack up and leave the city before David gets back, just drop everything. I could start the hunt again later, when I know he’s not expecting me. Maybe we could go back to Europe for a bit. To Paris. Would you like that?—though you know it would mean a few months in a cage for you again.”

  Verdette only purred mysteriously in answer.

  She opened her laptop on the small kitchen table and googled Timothy Pierce Manhattan, then checked the various images that came up. None of them looked to be Nicolas. She frowned and closed the laptop again.

  She went to her bedroom. The katana she used for iado and aikido practice stood on its stand on top of her dresser, but she ignored that—one couldn’t walk around the streets of the city carrying a sword. Instead, she opened the drawer of her nightstand, burrowing through her panties until her hand touched a box at the back. She pulled out the wooden case and opened it: the velvet nest for the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith .38 was there. She took the Ladysmith from her purse and plucked the cleaning rag from the box to wipe the burnished and blued steel and polished wood. She’d bought the revolver several years ago, before she’d taken the name she now used.

  She hefted the weapon in her hand and put it back in her purse. Yes, Nicolas is somewhere here in the city, but he hasn’t found you again. You’re misreading the cards and the signs. You’re still the hunter, not the prey …

  But inside, the doubts were growing louder. Helen’s boyfriend, Morris’ patron—they could be the same. That could be Nicolas. And if that’s true, then he knows who you are. He knows to look for artists, to look for th
ose whose talent is suddenly blossoming. And you know that the longer you let him live, the more people will suffer and die for his pleasure …

  She gave Verdette a final rub around the ears and left the apartment; she didn’t expect David back until evening, and the refrigerator was looking exceedingly forlorn. If nothing else, grocery shopping might take her mind away from the paranoia.

  She found David back at her apartment when she returned, watching television. She put the canvas grocery bags down at the door, set her purse on the couch and went to him, straddling him in the chair. She hugged David fiercely, kissing him with an urgency and passion that surprised even her. “Hey,” he said, pushing her away from him slightly. In this light, his eyes were nearly blue, and quizzical. “It’s only been half a day. Did you miss me that much?”

  “Yes,” she told him, her arms still firmly around his shoulders. “Do you mind?”

  He laughed. “Do I look stupid?”

  “Good. You can help me put groceries away, and then we can go do whatever you’d like.”

  She led him toward the door and the bags there. As they passed the couch, she felt David’s hand pull against hers. “What’s that?” She glanced back to see him staring at her purse; it had sagged open and the handle of the Ladysmith was visible, nestled between her wallet and cell phone, the handle displaying the polish of having been handled many times. “You carry a gun?”

  “Yes,” she told him, “and I also have a permit. I have a sword, too, remember?”

  “You study a martial art—that explains the sword. Why do you have a gun?” He was still staring at the handle.

  She knew he wouldn’t believe the truth. Couldn’t believe it. I have the gun because it would stop Nicolas. For a little bit. But not forever. Shooting him will never stop him forever, no matter how many bullets I put in him. But I do know a way, and I’ll use that after I shoot the bastard. “There’s this guy … a stalker,” she said.