by D. L. EVANS
One day it would be entirely million dollar condos and apartments like the western section of the city waterfront overlooking the Lake. Maybe I should buy a dumpy garage now as an investment. Driving south along the east side of the harbour, I passed endless metal fences, topped with coils of nasty looking barb wire, guarding neatly stacked containers waited to be loaded aboard ships. They formed a long line in a huge open area on the right hand side of the road for at least quarter of a mile. Beyond them, I could just make out two skeleton cranes reaching for the horizon, thankfully silenced by distance. Uniformed security guards buzzed around in golf carts like water beetles on a pond surface. The Port Authority maintained their own police force and no one messed with them. I wondered what was in the containers? Could be hundreds of stolen cars. Thousands must pass through the system every day. How many could be inspected by customs? An army of inspectors couldn’t check half of them. No wonder we’re floating in illegal drugs.
Since I had my natural air conditioning (lowered top) working, I was rewarded with whiffs of the polluted water, oil, rotting fish and other indefinable aromas common to any busy waterfront anywhere in the world. Lovely. Maybe the garage investment could wait.
The road curved left and brought me to yet another anonymous square shoebox of a building. Attached to the façade was a weathered sign announcing the Stanford Warehouse in remnants of black and gold paint. It was probably one of the original buildings in the area and according to the cornerstone, over a hundred years old. There was a kind of ugly strength about it, no drooling graffiti for a change and a vague memory of paint around the barred windows. Yes, a definite prison-like quality. The faint wires in the heavy glass that encased all the openings and a camera mounted above arched double doors were enough to make anyone feel welcome. I pressed a brass button in need of polishing and the doors magically clicked open. I looked up. I was on TV.
I stood inside the fortress in a small foyer, confronted on my right by a monstrous solid metal door without handles and an open industrial elevator to the left. Annie’s voice, metallic and sounding like a command from Mount Olympus, told me to step on the elevator and it would open automatically on the second floor.
The elevator grating that closed behind me as I stepped on seemed initially to be the same age as the building but on closer inspection, I realized that it was modern technology, skilfully aged to fit with the style of the time. I barely felt myself moving before the grating again silently opened horizontally. As it disappeared into the floor and ceiling it exposed the entire top floor of the warehouse. The room had to be over six thousand square feet and about twenty feet high. There were full length frosted windows, barred on the inside, evenly spaced as far as I could see. The west side had the full effect of the setting sun, giving the area a kind of ‘over-exposed’ glow that reflected like giant puzzle chunks on the restored golden pine floor. Half the room was empty. The other half was some sort of studio-laboratory, neatly laid out with several isles of solid looking shelves. They were filled with countless containers of chemicals and enough art supplies to fill a store. To the far left was a workshop table adorned with some oddly shaped, intricate tools. Beneath the table, open slots were filled with frames in a vertical pillar down one side. Beyond the shelves, on the opposite side of the room was a comfortable living area laid out like an apartment, partitioned with elegantly carved screens and fitted with fine antiques. The floors were covered with Oriental rugs and a u-shaped chocolate leather sofa with embroidered pillows in complimentary colours.
Savannah would have loved the rich warm look but she always preferred floral patterns in the private spaces. These rooms would have been too ‘masculine’ for her taste. The setting sun reflecting off the magnificent old wooden floor bathed everything in a sepia tone reminiscent of an old photograph.
Classical guitar music subtly floated toward me from all directions, testament to a discrete and very expensive sound system. The speakers had to be hidden in the hand-hewn beams that crisscrossed the room in a grid pattern. She was perched at a tilted drafting table, lost in concentration. A large magnifying glass and a high intensity light on the end of a curved tube hovered in front of her face as she gently stroked a small oil painting with a brush. Her entire upper body leaned into the work that was only about six inches away from her face. I watched without moving for a minute, feeling her effort. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun but several tendrils had escaped confinement and floated at the side of her face. They glowed like spun gold with her movements. I suddenly felt the complex force of desire hitting me and I abruptly turned away.
Just beyond her desk, a bank of several small monitors were built into a wall over what might have been the dashboard from a 747 jet... obviously the control centre for all the cameras in and around the building. They were all turned off except one that showed the view from above the front door. She spoke into the painting, “Forgive me for not greeting you at the elevator Mr. Stone, but I can’t leave this for another few minutes or it will dry unevenly. Have a seat if you wish, or feel free to continue to look around.”
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I apologize for interrupting your work. I... I would like you to call me Adam, if we could forget our last meeting and start again? I think we got started off on the wrong foot.”
“There are some wines in a rack over the small fridge in the corner. Would you care to open one and pour us a glass? I’m almost finished.”
The enormous room was strongly imprinted with her personality. It didn’t have the intimidating effect one would expect of such a large space. I found myself once again struggling to put my thoughts into words around her. The brush continued it’s soft strokes almost mesmerizing me as I admired her face from the side, strong and sharp like a profile on a coin.
“This is quite a place.” I managed. “Not at all what it looks like from the outside, or is that the idea?” I forced myself to look away from her. I walked over to the compact, stand-up kitchen, complete with an island, full complement of cooking utensils, table and two chairs all of which contrasted with an exquisite wall of black and white etchings. Even from a distance, I could see they were worth a bundle. The wine rack was skilfully built into a brick partition at the edge of the cupboards. I opened the first bottle in the line and poured two glasses. Surely, the lady-of-obvious-means did not actually live here, in this fortress? It must be used for evenings when she worked late. Everything was neat and organized, for single living. In complete contrast to her office at the gallery, all the surfaces were clean. I thought women needed stacks of things and knick-knacks to feel at home. Where were all the potted plants, fighting for living space? No magazines or fresh cut flowers in sight. A shoulder-high Oriental screen partially hid a comfortable bed and matching dresser. A curio cabinet held the only concession to a collection that I could see. Tiny porcelain cherubs lounged in various positions, some suspended on clear wire that gave the impression that they were floating above the others. They were exquisite. Annie must have noticed me staring at them.
“They’re angels,” she said smiling. “I inherited the them from my mother who started the collection when she was a girl. I’ve added some over the years and occasionally one arrives as a gift. I’ve had half a dozen or so that came on birthdays without a card. I think my uncle sends them on behalf of my mother, who died when I was six. At least, I like to think that he sends them. No one else has taken credit. I’m actually not quite sure where they come from.”
“What a nice gesture. But I’ve noticed that you didn’t answer my question, can we start again?”
She placed the brush in a container of clear liquid, swung the bright snake light away from the work surface, switched it off and stood up. For the first time since I’d entered the room she finally looked at me. Something inside me shifted. I held a glass out to her like an offering, with a gallant little bow, but it was actually a reflex action to hide my unexpected nervous reaction to her stare.
“I don’t k
now if I can trust you... Adam. After all, your horoscope says you’re a Saturn personality with a moon in Scorpio... That’s about as bad as it gets.” She took the glass from my hand and I caught the merest glimpse of amusement in her soft amber-grey eyes.
I wanted to say something witty but all I managed to get out was, “Touché. Are we even yet?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Sorry, you asked for that, but seriously, you’re here about poor Morgan. I've already met Detective Mackenzie at the Gallery. What can I tell you?”
There was definitely something about her, some kind of natural force. Something that the scientists tell us exists at the centre of our galaxy, alive and powerful, that pulls in all light and matter. Something beyond gravity. I refocused my attention, once again struggling to control my tongue. “At the gallery, you mentioned Morgan and the feelings about being followed, could you explain what you meant?”
“You mean, now that she’s dead, you’ll listen?... Sorry. That’s a cheap shot.” She tightened a comb in her hair. A nervous gesture? “You really want to know why I didn’t know that she was dead, when I looked into my crystal ball? Please, don’t act so surprised. People half expect me to arrive on a broom when they know about my... talents. By the way, that’s why I live here for now, not that it’s any of your business.” I held my tongue hoping she would continue. “Alison sold the family home in Rosedale that our mother left to us to raise enough money to buy out Uncle Richard. It cost us a fortune to update the security in this place not to mention the renovations at the Gallery. The ground floor in this warehouse is where we store the collections that are in transit. Some of them are priceless so this is secure enough to please the various insurance companies that we deal with. Since the air quality, temperature and humidity are also strictly controlled and monitored by computer, it was convenient for me to take over the second floor for my work too. All the windows have UV filters because unfiltered daylight is harmful to the paintings. There are tiny cameras and motion detectors everywhere, which are constantly monitored by a private security company. They handle several buildings in the area, although their fee for this one is ridiculous. When I moved my studio in here I had them unhook the second floor cameras and all the other electric do-dahs in this section so I’m not under a microscope, but the rest of the place still is.”
The light around us was amazing. As the sun set outside in the real world, the effect through the windows bathed everything in a soft glow that reminded me of a cathedral. She reached for the wine glass and I saw that her eyes were actually mostly grey with amber specks. No make-up, perfect teeth and flawless skin. I realized that, although the natural light was dimming, the level had not diminished in the room. Was I staring? I looked up at the ceiling for hidden lights. I needed the wine. My throat was dry. “It was a good idea," I managed to say finally, "to leave the outside of the building natural and run down, so it looks like an old warehouse when it’s really Fort Knox. The smell of pollution outside sort of rounds out the effect... S’that why you live here? The security?”
“No, not the main reason,” she replied. She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and tucked it back into the loose knot in one graceful movement. Her fingers were long and the nails unpolished. I wondered if she played the piano or guitar. “And there are different kinds of pollution. Sit down and relax, you look a little jumpy. Guess your day was kind of tough.” I nodded and sat in an overstuffed two-seater and she refilled my glass from the bottle she’d brought to the couch with us. She sat opposite on a matching couch, tucking her feet up under her. She said, “Adam, it’s time to explain who I am. I hope my intuition is right and you have an open mind. You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
ADAM STONE:
She took a deep breath and stared off, into some internal space. “My mother, grandmother and great grandmother had a gift or curse, depending on your point of view.” She looked up at me. I waited and tried to keep my mind clear. “You see,” she continued in her rich voice, “They had a natural ability to detect lies, among other things. As a former policeman, you’d know that the human body is a lie detector itself so I’m sure you’d notice the small things that give away a person who’s lying. The body language, a little sweat on the top lip, a nervous motion around the eyes, the fluttering of hands... “ I nodded in agreement. “Well, with us, it went a little further. I can... um... tune myself into someone... um... to different levels and then I receive feelings or vibrations about their personality. It’s just much stronger with me for some reason than it was with my ancestors. Sometimes it’s a curse and I’d give anything to have it go away. One of the reasons that I like being here to work,” she gestured to the room, “instead of setting up at the Gallery is because there aren’t many people around to distract me with their thoughts. I can tune them out, of course, or I’d be insane, but it’s harder when there are lots of them around. Music helps a lot; any music.“
“Do you hear voices... what people are thinking?” I swallowed dryly hoping I was not being offensive.
“Sometimes, if the person is thinking in words, but that’s unusual. It’s more like unconnected visions. They usually don’t make any sense unless I clear my mind and try to follow the pattern. I know this is hard to understand, I mean, there isn’t a way to really describe it. Think of trying to explain the colour red to a blind person...” She sighed and I realized that she had probably tried to say these things to many other people in her past. “Parties are the worst. Sometimes it takes all my effort to shut out the most disgusting thoughts emanating from someone who appears to everyone else like he’s having a normal conversation with me.”
“Christ! That must be awful. Can you see everyone’s thoughts?” I carefully avoided looking down at her breasts.
“No, no. Just like everyone else, some people are easy to … what’s the word…empathize with, and some are completely shut or blocked behind emotions or conditioning, or illness. Most are in between somewhere. You for instance... behind your serious deep blue eyes... you have an aura of privacy that’s almost a force field. I must admit I have no idea what you’re thinking, … but I did sense a wave of relief as I said that.” We both laughed.
“Did you always have these... gifts?” I asked.
“I didn’t always know what was happening when I felt or saw things,” she replied. “When I was very young, my mother tried to prepare me, help me understand, but she was killed in a car accident with my father just before my sixth birthday. Alison is six years older than me and didn’t inherit the same ... gifts. It took me a long time to recover from their deaths. I owe everything to Alison. She practically raised me.” It explained why big sister seemed so guarded and phoney to me. She’d probably had to build some sort of privacy curtain or defensive wall as protection from a precocious and prying little sister.
“As I said,” she continued, “it’s difficult to explain. Let me give you an example. This work that I’m cleaning,” she stood and walked over to the table she was sitting at when I first entered the room. I followed. She turned the light on the small oil painting about a foot square. It was an exquisite country scene in velvet shades of brown and cream. “I can tell that it’s genuine because as I work on it, I can feel an echo or the shadow of the artist. The longer I work on it the stronger I can feel him, even though it’s faint with age and time. I know he started in the middle and worked down, putting the sky in last, I think. He made a mistake here and scraped off something and painted these lovely sheep over it. I’m familiar enough with these senses to know that this work was done several hundred years ago. He worked with candles, instead of natural light and had breathing difficulties. He imagined the scene in his mind, it did not exist in reality."
I tried to keep any expression off my face and continued to stare at the painting. Jesus. She thinks she’s emotionally intimate with a ghost, lost in an imaginary world. What kind of person is this?
"Those things, I feel sure of,” she stated
simply. “I also sense that he was remembering a pleasant time from his youth, but that’s just a guess. Since I know from the reference books that this information lines up with the known facts about this particular artist, I feel it’s genuine. Some feelings aren’t so clear... when more than one person has worked on the original or it’s been cleaned several times. I sense that person instead of the artist, but I can usually work back to the first feelings that were centred or placed on the canvas. It’s not so amazing, you know. I’m just more sensitive than most. The team of experts that restored the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel said that by the time they were in the final stages of the work, they could almost feel Michelangelo as he did the original. It took years to paint and years to restore. They were submerged in the work, starting where he started and following the same path, seeing the problems he had with angles and perspective and almost feeling how he solved them... how he improved."
"Yes, I actually did read that." God, I thought, what’s happening here? Is she starting to make sense or am I being hypnotized. Was something in the wine? Am I losing it? Feelings mixed with paint?