Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  Madeline was there, beaming brighter than ever and smiling at him in recognition as he entered. "Mr. Greve," she called out, "Good to see you back. I think Hiram is expecting you. Would you have a seat for just a moment?"

  He nodded, trying to keep his excitement under control. She was happy to see him. That had to be a good sign. He'd thought that throwing in the picture of Lindy at the last second might have been a mistake, and that she might have guessed too much or misinterpreted what she saw.

  There had been several poor likenesses of the girl in the paper and on the evening news. There was always the chance Madeline would make the connection. Apparently his worries had been ungrounded.

  "I was wondering," she said quickly, and her face colored a bit, "about one of your pictures. The one of the young girl with the exotic makeup?"

  He nodded, his throat suddenly dry and his heart hammering. She continued.

  "I was wondering who did the makeup. Did she come to you like that?"

  "No," he said, allowing himself to breathe and smile at the same instant. "I do all my own makeup, when possible. I learned it from my mother."

  Gates came to his doorway, and they broke off their conversation hurriedly. Christian rose, and Gates ushered him into his office and closed the door firmly behind them. Christian would have cheerfully sat for a few more moments, framing mental poses for Madeline, painting the makeup that would draw the most from the lines of her face, the deep-set pools of her eyes.

  It was an almost physical break when he was snapped free of her by the closing of the office door. He'd wanted to explain more to her, to tell her how he saw the makeup before he did it – how the images formed without conscious thought and he just captured them. He'd wanted her to understand.

  "We've got to talk, Christian," Gates said immediately, not wading through any of his usual pleasantries. "Some things have got to be put straight, here and now. It is not going as well as I'd hoped, not at all."

  Christian blinked at him, not sure what the man was getting at, but certain that the tone of his voice was not what he'd expected, what he'd wanted. "What is it?" he asked, voice quavering slightly. "What's wrong?"

  "You know God damned good and well what's wrong, Greve, and I want you to put an end to it, or we're through. What was the idea coming back here, involving Madeline in all this without permission? You didn't even tell me you were coming! We can't be seen together much these days. You know why that is. Your end of this and mine are very separate things.

  "She knows nothing about what we are doing. I want to keep it that way. Nobody but you and I and our clientele have the slightest clue your work exists. Don't you understand the importance of that? Don't you know what a fucking chance you took giving her that picture of the girl? She might have shown it to someone, left it out on her desk . . . any number of things could go wrong."

  "But I was trying to help," Christian explained, walking closer and leaning forward onto Gates' desk to look the man in the eyes. "I have the answer, the model I've been looking for. I know she's perfect. I wanted to do what I could to help you set things up."

  "And how would bringing my assistant your photographs accomplish that, Christian, could you explain that to me? And bringing in one of the photos, one she might have lain out on her desk, that those two detectives might have come back to pick up a forgotten hat or dropped wallet and seen, how was that going to fucking help anything? Does this model you're talking about live in prison?"

  Christian backed away a bit, his mind whirling. He hadn't thought of that. He hadn't known for sure that the two were police, in fact. Now that he did, the memory of the men staring at him, the way they'd sized him up instantly and driven their questioning eyes into his back for more information than he was willing to give flashed into focus.

  "I . . . I didn't think, I just..."

  "You didn't think," Gates said, "and I'm beginning to wonder what I was thinking, signing on with this business in the first place. I've half a mind to put an end to it now, before the cops and half the city come down around our ears. Do you know what they do to rapists and murderers, Greve? Do you know where they would put you, what they would do to you?"

  "No," Christian cried out, almost choking in his effort to spit the words more quickly from his throat, "you can't, you mustn't. Not now, not when it's in my grasp.

  "The woman, Madeline, she’s perfect. You must set it up, prepare things. She is the vision from my dream, I know that now, and . . ."

  Gates' already stormy countenance exploded. His neck, then his face, then every inch of exposed skin on his beefy body flushed bright crimson. His eyes blazed, and his jaw worked as if trying to force a word too large and violent across his tongue, physically assaulting Christian with the sound.

  "You - will - leave - her - alone." he grated. "You will not talk to her, you will not see her, and you will keep your clammy, filthy, perverted little killer hands off her. If you do not, I will make certain that you are arrested, thrown away for the rest of your life in a room where men will do things to you like you do to these women. You will not have Madeline. Is - that - clear?"

  Christian backed up with each word, each syllable, feeling the force of the other man's anger beat against him, chasing his thoughts and his confidence into tiny hidden crevasses deep inside. He cowered against the windowsill, leaned back and only just stopped himself from pressing so tightly against the window that the glass gave way.

  "I...” He could not speak. This was not what he'd anticipated, not what he'd planned. He had to have those photos, had to make Gates see. It wasn't important who she was, just that she was perfect. No other image would be her equal, no other work he might produce, regardless of his level of talent, his level of concentration, could fulfill the dream.

  "She's only a receptionist," he managed, gulping in air and glaring back at Gates, angered by the sudden violence of the man's attitude, by his defiance. "We are in this together, Gates, and I'm telling you, she's the one. She is perfect. What the hell is your problem?"

  Gates began to move toward him again, his eyes cold and hard, and Christian scrabbled across the wall away from him. There were no more words, and with a sudden lunge, Gates had him by the collar, pulling him close. Christian hadn't realized just how big, how powerful the man was until he felt himself physically lifted, raised in the air and pressed against the wall so that only his toes brushed against the floor.

  "You will leave her alone, and you will leave here now," Gates grated. "If you do not, I will be forced to take the only action remaining that will rid me of your filth and kill you. Do I make myself clear? You will get another model; there are always more models. Madeline is far more than a receptionist, and she is not for you."

  Christian tried to stare the man down, but there was no give in those eyes, no conceded ground. He slumped, nodded his head and gulped for air. Gates let him slide toward the floor. Christian caught himself before he lost his footing and pressed his hands into the wall. He watched his "partner" with all the wariness of a cornered animal. Christian hadn't felt so physically cowed since he'd been a child on the playground; fencing with the bullies every recess and avoiding them on the short walk home.

  The thought angered him. He'd seen the look he now saw in Gates' eyes before, small-minded, narrow. He'd seen it and it had brought pain, time and again. He'd seen it in the eyes of a few of the men his mother had brought home, the ones who hadn't been afraid to raise their hands to her, or to him, the ones that had made her cry out into the dark hours of the night, not always in pleasure, that had made him watch and even hold her down on occasion, had made her hold him down. Gates had no right to treat him this way. None.

  "This is not over," he said, turning on his heel before the man could react, before he could be attacked again. "You'll be hearing from me again, Hiram, and we'll be coming to some agreements.

  "You remember this. I'm not the only one involved. I'm not the only name that could be turned over, either. How would Madeline
feel if she knew what we did together, hmm? How would those big boys in the prison like the idea that you turned women over to someone like me? I'm betting you'd be just as popular in the shower as I would."

  That hit a nerve, because he saw Gates lunge forward again. Having anticipated this, Christian moved to the side, avoided the larger man and reached the door, which he pulled open suddenly. With a smile of triumph, he slipped out into the lobby, turned away from Gates and headed for the street.

  Madeline waved to him as he passed, and Christian hesitated, taking in the beauty of her smile, framing it in his mind, molding it. Momentarily he considered stopping, finishing the discussion they'd begun earlier, but he did not. There was plenty of time, and he still needed Gates. He waved back, smiling as brightly as he could, then left, the image of her smile strobing through his mind.

  Still breathing heavily, the color in his face not yet drained from his emotional outburst, Gates watched Christian go. Hiram’s hands were at his sides, clenching and unclenching, his knuckles white, and he was gulping in air. He must have made quite a sight, because Madeline took one look at him and let out a little cry, hurrying around the desk to his side.

  "What is it, Hi? What's wrong? You look like you're ready to kill someone!"

  "Nothing," he grated, fighting for control, unable to believe the exchange that had just taken place, the level to which things had sunk so quickly. "Nothing at all. We just had a little, business dispute." In short explanation, he added, "Mr. Greve seems to think his services are a bit more valuable than I do, that's all."

  "He is very good," she said timidly. Hiram swung toward her, ready to let loose with another volley, but the sight of her deflated his anger, leaving him with a lost, empty feeling. Somehow, when love of her had caused the anger in the first place, he couldn't bring himself to vent any of it in her presence.

  "I have some work to finish," he said shortly. "I don't want to be disturbed for a while, okay?"

  She nodded, looking a little put off, but mollified for the moment. He spun on his heel and re-entered his office, closing the door tightly and snapping the dead bolt in place.

  Hiram poured a large glass of scotch, not one of the crystal tumblers, but the kind he kept for mixed drinks, and he took a long pull on it before sitting down. His hands strayed to the key and to the locked drawer almost of their own volition. Before he knew it, he was fingering the photos again, wondering at their perfection, their beauty, longing to possess the woman, not Cherie, but the woman Greve had discovered within her.

  Damn the man, he thought to himself, How did I let him drag me into this? He knew. The girl in the photo knew. She smiled the answer back at him, eternally licking moisture that never was from pliant lips, making Hiram’s groin and his head throb in unison. Damn him.

  * * *

  Christian drove home in a fury. Without the oppressing weight of Gates' eyes on his, without the man's imposing presence, he could think straight again and plan. Gates was a fool, an idiot. He had the vision of a mole! There was no compromise in this. It was not a game, not a silly business proposition that he could put down in a ledger and speak of over cocktails.

  The days when Christian bowed to the decisions of others were over. The vision was his, and only the business end belonged to Gates, the dispensable end. Christian needed to find a way to drill that home and make the man understand.

  He reached his house and slammed inside. He poured a drink and paced the length of the small apartment, letting his eyes run over years of work, years of falling short. He studied the new work again, defined the flaws carefully in his mind and worked over each detail. Each failure. He knew he was obsessing, that there was nothing more to be found, nothing he hadn't labored and cursed over already, but still he looked.

  Something began to nag at him. Perhaps he could do it. Perhaps some other model could be found. If he made no mistakes, if he didn't let her seduce him and implant her foul impressions in the perfection of his vision, it might be possible.

  He knew now that had been the problem with Cherie. Too much of her had soaked into him. He had seen how she would move, how she would hold her head or twist her face, and he had emulated it too closely, not being true to his own vision. His fluids had soaked into her, but she had shared hers as well – cracking the mold of perfection.

  Christian had taken subliminally perfect pictures of Cherie. They could not have been more perfect, had that been what he was after. Despite the shortcomings of the work, he had found images in her form, in her features, that no other would have found. He had photographed her and brought out the essence of another, a slick and porcelain goddess. Just not the goddess he'd sought.

  He had fallen short of the art he craved, the masterpieces he could have sculpted from her in his mind. He had let her influence him, even as he believed himself in total control. The memory of her flesh and her desire had been too fresh and overpowering. Christian had no defense against it, and it had conquered him, slinking in behind his sight and twisting things, just enough to ruin them, not enough to hide the beauty.

  He now knew what it was that the Christians talked about so often, the temptations of the flesh. The power of touch and sensation to befuddle, even cloud his vision was extreme and indefensible.

  He stopped short as his eyes fell on the newspaper clipping of the girl in the ad for Gates' establishment. Her image returned to him, the one he'd worked on, dreamed of, chiseled into his memory from the first moment he saw the photo. It was a good photo, even bordering on a great photo. The girl was a natural to the lens, very camera-friendly, and his images were still fresh and potent.

  She might do it. She might transcend the mundane bonds that had held back his other models and move to that next level. She might be the one. The image of Madeline fought to surface, but he batted it away, suppressing it roughly. It was more important to try again, more important to keep working, than it was to fight with Gates. Christian could accomplish nothing without the other's aid, had neither time nor patience to find another partner.

  He looked at the phone, turned from it, looked again. He would not call yet. When he did call, he would not back down. Gates needed to know who was really calling the shots.

  In the beginning, Christian himself had not known, or had not had the confidence to see it, but since the photos had begun to emerge, he was growing a keen awareness of his power. It was a mutual need, but the larger part of that need fell in Gates' court, not Christian's. Gates needed the photos, and he lusted after the money. Christian sought only the art.

  He could manipulate the emotions of others through that art. Even in its flawed state, his work could do that. If he could produce work that had such an effect on a man like Gates who’d seen about everything there was to see, then he already had more power than he would have dreamed possible.

  The question was, could he figure out how to use it to his own advantage, or would he continue to back down and be another man's stooge. He certainly thought he knew the answer to that one, but there would be time enough to worry about that the next day. Now there was work to be done, true work – art.

  Christian poured another drink and pulled the picture of the model free of the wall, carrying it to the table. He sat long into the night, placing it next to Cherie's likeness, and then Lindy's, comparing the features, the contours of skin.

  Yes, he thought, he would have this one, and she would be good. There was time, later, for Madeline, or whomever he wanted. For now it was enough. This girl had sparked the initial contact with Gates, had led him to the actions that were going to assure his fame. It was only fitting that she take her place among the honored ones, the immortalized images he would preserve for the world.

  He drank, and he thought, and he worked, taking time out to stare at the images he'd created, working and re-working the girl's face in his mind. He nodded off at the table, waking only when his head fell against the wood surface, and then he rose and went to his bed. He took the photos with him, proppin
g them beside his head on his nightstand.

  They eyes were upon him as he slept, and he felt their beauty surrounding him. They were his, and the next would be divine.

  ELEVEN

  Christian called Gates’ office at exactly ten o'clock the next morning, and Madeline answered the phone. He exchanged greetings with her, willing himself to wait and do as Gates had asked. He asked her to put him through to the "big boss," but not, of course, before he asked how her day was going, and if she'd looked at his pictures.

  "Oh yes, Mr. Greve," she almost gushed. "It is amazing work.” She hesitated for a second, and then went on. “You keep at him. He isn't an easy man to work with, especially on the money end of a deal, but I'm sure Hiram will come around. A talent like yours shouldn't be wasted . . ."

  "Thank you," he replied.

  He knew he could have pressed the issue then and there. The idea was already planted in her mind; he could have asked her to model, as a surprise for 'Hiram' and all, but something made him hold back. He didn't feel any deference to the other man's wishes, it was just that Christian had managed to shift his focus to the other girl and had willed himself to wait. It wasn't yet time for confrontation. He might have the answer already, and he still needed Gates. He needed to work, and the fat man made it possible. The session with Madeline would be even better if he'd perfected his work before he shot her.

  "I'll do that," he said, finally, "keep after him, I mean. I think we'll come to an agreement."

  He heard the whirr and click that meant his line was being transferred to Gates' desk and he steeled himself for the moments to come. He wanted to be as firm as possible. The phone rang twice, and he could picture the big man staring at it, wondering if he should pick it up. The thought that he was the center of such a controversy, and that he knew its inevitable outcome, was a heady one.

  "What do you want, Greve," Gates' voice crackled at him at last. "What the hell do you want? I told you I would take care of things in my time."