by Dana Marton
So she’d been trying lately, sporadically, to create great art—without letting the darkness claim her. Sometimes she succeeded, and sometimes she went to hell.
“I’m flying to Philadelphia in a couple of weeks to meet the owner of a new gallery on South Street,” Isabelle said. “I have to go to Baltimore to see a client after that. I could stop in to catch up. It’s been a long time since you came up to New York.”
Ashley hesitated as long as she could without being impolite, possibly longer. “Okay.” She could give no other answer, really.
“Jeez, don’t be so enthusiastic.” Isabelle laughed on the other end. “It might go to my head.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“I get it. Artists are introverts. If you were out there socializing all the time, you wouldn’t have time to contemplate and create. I have artists who are social butterflies. I’m not making a lot of money off them.” She paused.
She was probably reflecting on the fact that she hadn’t made much money on Ashley lately either.
“Graham called again,” she said after another second. “He keeps trying to convince me he’d be the perfect person to give you the right start. I’ll give up agenting before I let you hang anything in his two-bit gallery. You don’t need a start. You already made it. You just have to keep on producing.”
“I’m working on it,” she said, appreciating the vote of confidence. “Graham called me too, by the way. A couple of weeks ago.”
Graham Lanius was one of the local gallery owners. He fancied himself the godfather of local talent, a Maecenas, but had trouble with boundaries. You worked with him and sooner or later he would try to tell you what and how to paint, which rubbed a lot of artists the wrong way.
Still, he had plenty who went to him, the insecure who fed on his direction and grudgingly doled-out approval, and those who were happy to have their paintings in a gallery, period, and weren’t too choosy what they had to put up with.
“Just keep telling him your agent schedules all your shows,” Isabelle said.
“Exactly what I did.”
“Is this about Andre?”
“Probably.”
Andre Milton, descendant of famous Pennsylvania artist Franklin Milton was the big local talent. He had a good eye, and his famous last name didn’t hurt either. He sold exclusively at a local gallery that was Graham’s biggest competition. Which was why Graham wanted Ashley.
“Listen, somebody just walked in. I’ll give you a call when I know what day I’ll be down your way,” Isabelle said. “I can’t wait to see what you have.” She sounded warm and cheerful as always. If she felt concerned about Ashley’s recent lull in production, she didn’t show it.
Ashley fidgeted around for a few seconds after they hung up, then walked back to her easel. She had to work now. The paintings were already promised. The money would be wired, and Isabelle would be here soon, wanting to see how far along the projects had progressed.
Ashley picked up the brush again and lifted it to the canvas, except now the colors seemed all wrong. The light had changed too. She looked through the row of oversized windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up the whole north end of the loft. Moody snow clouds had drifted in, casting a fatigued gray tint on everything.
Her hand jerked, leaving an angry slash in the middle of the canvas.
A headache drummed to life in the back of her skull.
It’s not going to happen today.
She ignored the shiver that skipped down her spine.
This is a normal day. I’m painting a normal composition.
But it was too late. It was happening already. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images flooding her brain, but no resistance would help now. She couldn’t escape.
This time, the body—a man, midthirties—lay in a shallow grave surrounded by low brush. A distinct rock loomed nearby, blocking the view of a creek beyond.
The image stirred faint memories that refused to come into focus.
Her headache intensified.
She could walk away, had done so in the past. But if she did, neither the pain nor the image would go away; they would pound at her mercilessly. The only way to be rid of the pain was to get the image out of her head, put it on a canvas that she could pick up and hide later.
So she gritted her teeth and remixed her colors. Then she grabbed a brush.
Background first. She went as fast as she could, needed to be done so she could curl up in her lumpy armchair in the corner of the loft and find some numb place inside to escape to. Darkening sky in blue and gray, big, sweeping brushstrokes. The rock cast a wreathing shadow in the clearing. She picked and discarded brushes without conscious thought, mixed colors on instinct.
She delayed painting the body for as long as possible, pressing her lips together as she finally drew the shape. When she had that right, she used a fan brush to complete the see-through, drape-like material he’d been wrapped in—shower curtain?—before reaching for a soft sable brush for the face. She’d always hated this part the most, even before she’d realized that the bodies were real.
She drew the main outline, keeping her fingers on the ferrule—the metal piece that clamped the bristles to the handle—and created a nose, mouth, and eyelids. For a moment, she wondered what color his eyes might be, then shoved aside the macabre thought. He had a strong, square jaw, his hair pushed back, looking sticky from the dirt that had been thrown directly onto his face.
She shadowed the man’s skin and added smudges of dirt to his cheeks and closed eyelids. Her real art, the paintings she sold, had a completely different feel from this monster. This looked as if the artist had X-ray vision, portraying the landscape along with what lay hidden beneath the ground. She hurried but had enough skill to have the face done well even with those few strokes.
Then the gruesome image stood completed, her headache ebbing. She could draw her lungs full for the first time in the past two hours. Her pulse slowed. The room came back into focus, seemed lighter all of a sudden.
But still that terrible sense of emptiness lingered inside her, and she knew it would stay with her for days.
It’s over.
Breathe.
The brushes needed to be cleaned, so she did that, careful to avoid looking at the picture as she moved around. After the paint dried, she would wrap the canvas up and stack it in the garage with the others. And if she were lucky, she would have a long reprieve before the next dark compulsion to paint another vignette of horror.
Her muscles that had been clenched the whole time went weak with relief, and she walked away from the sink on wobbly legs. But as she passed the easel, the odd rock that sat in the middle of the painting drew her eyes and the vague memory took shape at last in her mind.
Cold, disbelieving shock sucker punched her.
She knew that rock, had painted it before, albeit from another angle, from the creek side. The creek that ran at the far end of her hundred-acre property, land she had bought after her first major art show.
Before she had time to consider the implications, her gaze slid lower. She broke out in cold sweat as her eyes zeroed in on the face of the man who occupied the lower right quadrant of the canvas.
He stared at her.
She blinked. She could swear she’d painted his eyes closed. She had meant to. But she had thought about the color…
Goose bumps prickled her skin. His face had less gray than the other victims she’d painted in the past. His body too lay differently—limp but not frozen in death with the stiff angles of a corpse.
As her breath hitched and her heart slammed against her rib cage, terrible thoughts clamored in her mind. This one was on her land. And he was still alive.
Fear pushed full force against the thought that she should help. She was all alone. Twilight was falling. Her land was impassable—back when she’d bought the property, there had been some tractor trails through it, but she’d left them to be overgrown long ago.
She could drive down Hadley Road until she reached the right spot, then walk in.
Would have to drive by the reservoir.
She didn’t drive that road anymore.
But even if she could, she wasn’t going to chase some imaginary dead man, or almost dead man, around the countryside.
Feel normal. Act normal. If she couldn’t do that, she would never get Maddie back. Normalcy had become her holy grail, the thing she ceaselessly sought, fought for, dreamed about. Going off like some madwoman would be the very opposite of that.
She watched the man watching her from the painting. Just more of her craziness. She was always imagining stuff—noises in the night, things moving behind the house in the woods. Which always turned out to be deer, or teens sneaking around for a smoke.
Yet she whispered, “He’s alive,” to the empty room without meaning to.
No. She turned her back to the easel.
But the next moment, she was running down the stairs, not just away from the painting but toward the door.
Because what if saving a life would make up for the one she’d lost? Maybe then the dead would finally leave her alone. What if this single act could end the nightmare she was living?
She swept up her keys and coat. And ran into the mailman on her front stoop.
He smiled his usual, cheerful smile, a man without a care. He was so profoundly…normal, it was like looking into a parallel universe.
“Brought the mail up. Last delivery for the day. You got a package.”
Pete Kentner was in his midforties, wearing regulation hat and coat with hunting boots. More often than not, he brought her mail to the door when the temperature dropped to below freezing, so she wouldn’t have to walk to the mailbox. He was a nice guy, helpful to everyone, took care of his mother.
“Thanks. Hope you had a nice break.” She tried for normal conversation, her mind spinning. She rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering. “Wow, it’s cold. What was it this time?”
Could she ask him for help? And say what? He’d think she was crazy.
“Good hunting weather. One fox, a half-dozen woodchucks, a couple of raccoons. Didn’t get a bobcat permit this year. Didn’t see any, anyway. That’s all the excitement until deer season next year.” Disappointment crept into his tone, but he perked up as he gestured at the package she held. “Late Christmas present?”
She glanced at the return address. “Samples from one of the online art-supply stores, I think.” They sent those from time to time to frequent customers, nudging artists to give new brands a try. A treasure on any other day, but right now, she was jumping with impatience.
She gave Pete a strained smile, willing him to leave.
But he chatted on instead. “Been ice skating yet? Saw a bunch of folks down by the reservoir earlier—” He snapped his mouth shut. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Don’t know where my brain is today.” He adjusted his hat. “Better get going.”
He gave a cheerful wave, shuffled back to his mail truck, and backed out of her driveway.
She put the box on the hall table just inside the door, then locked up behind her and hurried to her own car.
His bringing up the reservoir and skating didn’t help. She sat behind the wheel for a moment, fighting the urge to go back inside. But those cerulean eyes were burned into her brain and drew her forward.
Turn the key in the ignition. Put the car in drive. Step on the gas.
Pete had turned left onto the main road, toward town. Broslin sat just a few miles from the Maryland border in one direction and about the same distance from Delaware in the other, a quaint little town with a history of art, a large Amish population, mushroom farmers, a lot of mom-and-pop stores still, nice, regular people. It had been paradise to her when she’d moved out here, a place to live in peace and create.
Then everything had fallen apart. But she was about to fix that, even if panic bubbled in her stomach as she reached the end of her driveway. Deep breath. She yanked the steering wheel right, away from town and toward the reservoir, not allowing herself to hesitate.
Her gaze skimmed the abandoned Miller farm at the corner. Hadley Road came too fast, another right. Blood rushed loudly in her ears as she turned. She stared straight ahead. Don’t look at the reservoir. She hadn’t been out this way in a year.
She focused on the two cars a few hundred yards ahead on the side of the road: a pickup in the front, a police cruiser in the back.
Her heart beat a mad rhythm.
In her mind, she saw another evening like this with police at the reservoir, cops and other emergency personnel. All the more strange because she couldn’t possibly have seen anything at the time. She shivered as she felt the bone-splitting cold of that day all over again. She let go of her death grip on the steering wheel long enough to crank up the heat.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The police officer looked at Ashley through the side window of her SUV.
Of course, it had to be Bing.
She bit her lip. She’d gotten distracted by her memories to the point of forgetting to keep her foot on the gas pedal. She hadn’t realized that she’d slowed to a stop.
The police made her uneasy. God, so many things made her uneasy these days. No, uneasy didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Half the time, she was scared to death.
The captain watched her. She knew most of the local police, had been interrogated over and over about Dylan’s death. She swallowed, not wanting to sink into those memories.
She cracked the window an inch. “I’m okay. Thank you, Captain.”
She shivered again as cold air swept into the car. She rolled the window up and stepped on the gas, watching in her rearview mirror as Bing turned after her.
She drew her gaze from him and focused back on the road, glancing at her land on the right. Her hundred acres stood unused: some trees, some brush, some abandoned fields. A lot of farms lay fallow these days. Closer to Philadelphia or Wilmington, developers were buying up land to put in cookie-cutter housing for freshly minted yuppies who couldn’t afford the existing, expensive suburbs. This far out, commuting would be a major drag, so developers left the area alone.
Farming as a lifestyle was no longer economically feasible for most, and the new generation didn’t have the same dreams as their grandfathers anyway. A hundred-acre farm could still be bought here for a reasonable price.
Not many people were thrilled at the prospect of a hundred neglected acres, but she’d bought the place specifically for untouched nature. She loved painting that, loved the views she had of the woods from her studio window, had once loved the proximity of the reservoir she had painted a hundred times.
She didn’t even look at the frozen water now, grateful when the pine forest started on her left and blocked the view. She drove slowly, not wanting to miss her spot. In her mind, she could see the man in the shallow grave, those cerulean eyes.
She pulled over when she thought she was in the right place and dashed forward into the waist-high brush. Her feet sank into the snow, frozen branches tugging at her midcalf-length wool skirt. The police cruiser drove by, slowed, and stopped.
“You need any help, Miss Price?”
“I, uh, I’m looking for a place to paint.”
“It’s cold out here.”
Right. She had no hat or gloves on. “Just ran out on a sudden idea. I won’t be long.” She glanced down at her bare feet in her house slippers, nearly swallowed by the snow. At least, the captain couldn’t see that.
He watched her. “It’s going to turn dark soon.”
She should have brought a flashlight. “Just the dusk I’ve been looking for.” She attempted a smile and stood on the spot until the captain drove away.
Then she ran toward the creek, a couple of hundred yards from the road. I can’t be late. I have to save him. If I save him, everything is going to be all right. She needed that hope, because she wasn’t sure how much longer she could live the life she had lived this past year or so since t
he accident.
She trudged around a clump of larger bushes and finally spotted the small clearing in the twilight. She circled the rock, judging the distance as it had been on the painting, looking at the creek to orient herself to the correct angle. Dead weeds and low brush grabbed after her with every step, getting tangled in her long skirt, scraping her legs.
“Where are you?” Frustration had her yelling out loud.
She searched in a random pattern, then finally saw the patch of disturbed soil and fell to her knees, attacking the loose dirt with her bare hands.
Small stones scraped her skin, frozen dirt packed under her nails. She dug harder, her fingers becoming stiff with cold within seconds.
“I’m here,” she whispered as she clawed at the ground. But along with the urgency in her mind, on a parallel plane loomed the doubt that none of this was real, that she had finally gone truly and irrevocably mad.
Snow began to fall, the only sounds her fingers scraping the frozen ground and the way she gasped for air from the effort. But she uncovered absolutely nothing. Anger had her slapping her hands into the dirt.
She shrieked when she touched russet strands of hair caked with bloody mud.
~~~***~~~
Chapter Two
Jack Sullivan stared at the bright light at the end of the tunnel. He looked straight into the damn light, walked toward it, and was so glad to be rid of the pain, he couldn’t have cared less that he was dying.
Time stood like seawater trapped in a tidal pool, disconnected and unmoving. But after a while, he realized he wasn’t alone in the void.
Shannon?
No, not his sister. But someone definitely there. And the fact that he wasn’t alone brought him some peace.
Until he was yanked back—by the cold and the pain and his unfinished business—and realized that he wasn’t dead yet after all, but close to it. He couldn’t lift his hands. He tried to blink and got an eyeful of dirt.
