This cut through the man's fog and brought him around a little. "Good," he said. "Good. Maddy is okay. Thank God."
Tommy lurched forward, losing control, and grabbed the man by his collar. "Where the fuck is he, Gates? Where? Didn't you fucking hear me? He's. Still. Out. There. We have to get him. Now you talk, or so help me God . . ."
"I don't know," the man sputtered, trying to back away. "I…”
His mouth dropped and his face went ashen. Tommy spun, cursing when he saw what the man had seen. They'd brought in the girl, Madeline. She stared at Gates, her eyes full of tears, and he stood as if caught in a trance. In that instant his nightmares came to life as if they had walked into the room, held out ghostly hands and said "Hiram, come out and pla-ay..."
"How could you do it, Hi?" she asked, her voice eerily calm. "How could you be involved in something like that, after all these years? Those girls, those poor girls."
Gates wasn't listening. His gaze was focused on Madeline’s face. He saw the images he'd built, the wrenching beauty of the photos facing him down, and it was too much. "I . . . I . . ." he never got any words out.
With a stricken gurgle, he rose from his seat, turned to stare right through Tommy, who reached out to steady him. Gates twisted away, took a half step forward and fell. He didn't trip, didn't stumble, he just fell. His hands did not break the fall, nor did he make a move to roll or lessen the impact.
Before anyone could move to catch him he crashed head first into the corner of the table. He bounced off with a wet, crunching smack and crashing to the floor.
The woman broke free of the two officers who held her then and rushed to his side. She knelt, grabbed his head and lifted it to her lap. She stayed that way, sobbing, shaking her head back and forth incoherently. Even after all this, even after what had nearly claimed her own life, she cared. It was crazy, and it was no use. He was gone. The blood seeped from the cut in his head, staining her dress, but Tommy knew it didn't matter.
The man had died when his heart stopped, probably before he even fell, probably without a second thought. The asshole had died, and he had taken the fucking freak with him, and it was more than Tommy could stand.
He staggered from the room and headed down the hall to his office. Officers and clerks bustled out of his path, clearing the way as he stumbled through, watching him as they might a crazed bear loose in a zoo. Mac followed, slowly, knowing nothing he could say would help, knowing better than to get too close.
Tommy made it to his desk and laid his head on it gently, feeling the throbbing pain that pulsed through it, the headache that threatened to blank his thoughts and remove him from the picture altogether. He fought it, gripped the edges of his desk with both fists and squeezed until his joints popped and the wood creaked, until the tendons in his arms stood out like taut wire.
It was probably no more than a couple of minutes that he sat there, but it flowed through his mind like an eternity. He saw his father's face, and his cousin, Patrick. There were so many of them, so many people, gone. He saw the women's photographs, one after the other; saw the perfection of the makeup, the dull, lifeless glint of their eyes. Each seemed different now, though, each accused him and called out to him for help, and for vengeance.
A hand fell gently on his shoulder, and he knew it was Mac. Raising his head slightly, he crashed it back down, slammed it into his blotter, then again. The pain helped. It focused him and shook away some of the clouds. It did nothing for the headache, but it was just a headache again. It could be dealt with.
Tommy sat up, opened his drawer calmly, and pulled out a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol. His thoughts were crystallizing, returning to coherency. Next he pulled out the roll of Rolaids and popped four.
Mac was already brewing the coffee, and Tommy almost smiled. They would get through this; they had to. Nobody else could pull it off. Nobody else understood. Besides, after that last escapade at the hotel, it was personal. After he'd seen the terror in that woman's eyes, the grateful tears as she was set free, and the taint of the psycho's creation on her features, there was no other way out but through.
"I know I'm going to regret this," he said at last, breaking the silence as Mac handed him a cup of strong, black coffee, "but let's try logic one more time. The freak went somewhere, and he went there quickly. Either he made one hell of a split second decision, or he'd still as crazy as a loony-bird, and he went where he knows. We need to know where that would be. Is there any word on that cab?"
"They found it," Mac said, motioning for one of the officers outside to come in.
The boy hesitated. It was the freckled kid, Alderson was his name; Tommy remembered that now. With an effort, the boy screwed up his courage, squared his shoulders and stepped into the office.
"The guy that got stabbed, sir?" he said quickly, lowering his head, "He's going to be okay. They had to pump out some poison. He almost didn't make it, but he's okay. You saved his life."
There was fear in the boy's eyes, but there was also admiration, and a determination to be helpful, to do something, that would one day blossom into the right attitude – the only attitude. Maybe he'd make a cop despite the freckles.
"You did okay yourself, kid," Tommy grumbled. "Now get me what they've found on this freak, files, anything. Where could he be?"
"I already went through them, sir," the boy said, again hesitant. "He had a studio further downtown. It's in the business district, just across the tracks. The place he left the cab? He could have made it from there on foot."
"Well, then what the hell are we doing here?" Tommy asked, rising. "Let's get the fuck down there!"
Mac followed, a slight shrug his only comment as Alderson raised his eyebrows questioningly. They were out the front door a few moments later, almost pulling away before the kid could rush out and hand Mac the address.
"We'll be right behind you, Detective," Alderson promised.
"Keep your fucking sirens off this time," Tommy answered, and he was gone, screeching away from the curb and into the night.
Officer Alderson stood and stared after them, shaking his head in admiration. Doyle had seemed half dead only moments before, and now he was off again, no sleep, no food. He was almost like a fucking psycho himself.
As Alderson turned back to the station house, quickening his steps, he reflected that maybe that was the reason Doyle was still alive. Maybe that was the key. If so, he hoped he never made homicide.
EIGHTEEN
As Christian screeched to a halt and staggered from the abandoned cab, feeling his way down the alley with his hands and fleeing the madness behind him, there was only one thought in his mind. Completion. Nothing mattered if he could achieve that. Nothing was important beyond the art, the images. He would own this night, and this vision. He would not fail, would not be sent to prison, without finishing what he had set out to do.
He cursed himself for a fool, cursed Gates for a weak idiot, cursed the woman, Madeline, for sucking him in yet again, pushing him further than he'd meant to go, holding him with her eyes. It had become a game. He had fallen into his mother's old habit of explaining each new pain and each new. Sentence fragment
He should have finished quickly, should have been an artist and not a rutting animal. He'd gloated before he'd reached completion like some kind of cartoon villain. He had fallen prey to pride over something he'd yet to accomplish, and the woman had led him into it, just as his mother would have so many years in the past.
She'd held him with the elusive perfection he'd sought and he'd failed. Instead of reaching out to grasp it and pull it to himself in triumph, he'd watched as it was yanked away, and he'd done nothing.
Christian staggered across the street. He swept his gaze warily from side to side. He heard no sirens, and he saw no headlights. So far he was okay. So far they hadn't seen the cab or figured out where he was heading.
It wasn’t a popular hour to be out in this part of town, not a time when these particular streets shared their world wi
th men. He moved across a silent landscape, an empty shell void of life. It was like a chiaroscuro photograph, and he blended with it as well as he could.
He slipped back into the alley on the far side of the street and saw his goal ahead, standing out like an oasis in a desert. There was still hope. Where he had vision, he had hope, and the vision was returning to him, sure, strong and intensified.
He staggered down the alley, bouncing off the walls, and crashed through a line of trashcans. They toppled and spilled, but he paid no attention. He fished in his pocket, praying that in the scuffle, in all the writhing and moaning while the bitch had owned his flesh, that he'd not lost his keys.
At first his groping fingers came up empty, and a dry whimper escaped his lips, but then he felt them. They were there, and he would make it. He had to. He had the vision, the keys, and the equipment. Nothing was lost if he kept his cool and moved quickly.
He half lurched, half fell against the solid wood surface of the back door to his studio, leaned heavily on the wall and fumbled in the shadows for the keyhole. He found it, inserted the key, turned it and he was in.
It was just as dark inside, but it was warmer and more comfortable. The familiarity of the place washed over him, welcoming him home and back to work.
He wasn't fooling himself. They would find him. They would be there, probably very soon. He had no time to think or prepare. He had to work quickly and on pure instinct; that was better. It would sweeten his victory. It was himself against time, against the critics, against the image of his mother and the cruel, painful twist of her lips as she laughed at him.
His arms ached where he'd crashed through the window, his knee felt as if it were on fire, and he knew there must be blood all over him. It didn't matter. Not as long as enough flowed through his veins to keep him upright, and not as long as he could work. He could use the pain as a focus, could use it to help him concentrate on the vision.
He locked the door carefully and pulled a small worktable and a chair standing nearby to cover it. He didn't believe it would slow anyone for long, but it was something. It made him feel more secure. Every second might mean the difference between success and eternal loss.
He did the same thing in the front office, sliding the couch across the floor to the door and piling the various chairs and end tables that were scattered around the small lobby in front of the entrance. He couldn't really lift them on top of the couch, but he could make a mess of it. It would take a few moments to get through.
This done, he hurried into his studio and closed that door as well. Moving mechanically, he sorted quickly through his supplies and inventoried what he would need. He piled it all on the counter. He cursed himself for not maintaining the studio as he always had, for not having it in meticulous, perfect condition. It was another sign of the insidious traps he'd fallen into.
He concentrated, shutting out everything else. He didn't listen for the sirens to wail down the street outside, though he knew they would come, and he knew what would happen when they did.
He would not be denied this moment. Not by that bitch Madeline, not by that idiot Gates, not by his own weakness or inability to focus. He was destined for immortality.
Luckily things were pretty much set up from previous shoots, from thousands of meaningless portraits of empty faces and nameless families. They were his past, dead to him. The world was dead to him. He was transcending, reaching out to his dream and embracing it. Only one image remained.
The cuts and bruises covering his arms and legs ached, but he used the pain to help mold the image and focus it in his mind's eye. What he needed was pure, unblemished, and had to be beyond reproach
Sweat broke out on his brow and soaked his hair. He set up the drop cloth, bright, forest green, draping it over the divan in the corner of the studio. The table was out, the chair not compliant with the image. He saw these things as he worked, each time making the correct choice. Each piece of the puzzle fell into place with practiced ease.
These were the mechanics of his art. If mechanics had been all there were, if they were all that mattered, he would have been famous long ago. With the lights, the lenses, the filters and backdrops, he was a genius. He had never doubted his technical ability, even throughout college and his later years in this studio.
His lack had been vision. Then, when the vision had begun to blossom and the images had begun to imprint themselves, itching at his mind to bring them to life and immortalize them, they’d been beyond his reach. For years they had remained beyond his groping mind’s focus.
He had them now. Every one of them. There was something in each, something he needed and had to recover, something that would make it all work out. Other models were for the prodigies, it seemed. The artists were chosen at a young age, chosen from the rich elite. Only a rare few made a name for themselves by their talent. He didn't need a super model to create. Only a lesser artist needed that. Christian was complete unto himself.
He'd already been trapped in a world of grinning four year olds and cocky teenagers, family portraits and senior pictures. He'd seen flashes in those years, visions that would have set him free, but he'd always been denied. Always, when the images seemed within his reach, they'd been snatched free.
He'd never had the chance to grow with his art, to learn the things he'd needed most to be complete. His vision was true, but his humanity was flawed. His mother had warped and deranged his childhood, had put the glitches into place that stained his work for years to come.
Christian saw art only where it was unattainable; saw perfect images through flawed lenses. It had been a learning experience, a growing experience. It had made him stronger and more intense. It had brought him to this, his greatest moment, and his final challenge. It had brought him back to the source of the problem, and the solution. It had brought him back to her.
He searched quickly through the cabinets for the only camera he'd left behind. It was buried deep in behind a carton of film, and he tossed the film aside, dragging the case free and unsnapping it with a wistful smile. It was the camera he'd owned when he opened the shop, the only one he'd been able to afford. He'd used it in college. It was a simple model, professional, but with few features. Everything needed to be done manually.
That was as it should be, he knew. Every switch setting, every meter reading and nuance of balance between light and shadow had to come from him. There could be no outside influence. The women had proven it. The bitch had solidified it. He could not work with a model. There was nothing there for him, no control, and no way to keep his weak flesh from succumbing when his mind wanted only to be released to create.
He snapped a tripod together quickly, screwed the camera onto it and fastening it in place, digging through the old case until he came up with the flash attachment and connecting it to the camera body.
There was a small sink in one corner of the room, and it was here that he went next. He sat on the stool in front of the sink, catching his reflection in the mirror above it, and laid his hands on the hard, cold porcelain surface gently. Here he would need a moment, a bit of time to think. Here the images would solidify for the final time and transmit from mind to hands to film. Here was the key to art.
Blanking all thoughts from his mind, losing himself in the images and gazing into his own, worn eyes, framed with sweat and dried blood, he sat. If it took all night, it took all night, but he knew it would be quick. The vision was pure and immediate. It would urge him onward, would finish itself with his body, his mind, only the vessels through which it would flow. He lost himself in his work.
Her eyes floated before him, her lips moved, singing to him and telling him what to do with his hands. He gave over the control one last time, gave it to his vision, to his memories, to this purest of them all.
* * *
Mac read the address aloud, and Tommy winced. It was across town, further than he'd expected, and they'd already lost a lot of time. Would the freak still be there? Would he sit, injured and lickin
g his wounds, or would he pounce, playing the part of the cornered beast? There was no fucking way to know, nothing to do but to dive in and see how the water felt.
Tommy was running on pure adrenalin now, the blood pumping so fiercely through his veins that he had to hold his mind in check to keep it concentrated on the road. It wanted to wander, to charge, to be anywhere but waiting behind that fucking wheel as the miles unraveled far too slowly beneath him.
Tommy drifted back as he drove. His father's face flickered through his mind, and he heard the gravelly voice and saw the clear, piercing blue of the man's eyes.
"You watch your back, Tommy boy, and you never let them out of your sights. You may think you know another man, may even think you can see through to his soul, but don't you ever believe it. No matter how dark, no matter how sick the bastard may be, there is more. Never underestimate a man. There's no monster on television or in the movies to match him. You watch your back."
Those words had meant so little to him then. They'd seemed the meanderings of a father too caught up in the trials of life, too blind to see the wonder, the flash and glitter of his own world.
Tommy had bought into the act, had seen the guns, the flashy cars, had watched the movies and read the books, "Serpico," "The Supercops," and he'd heard his father, his uncle, his cousin, even, through letters not meant for his eyes.
None of it had sunk in. Only reality could do that. Only the kind of sickness in a man that can bring the entire contents of your stomach up to lodge in your throat, sending you hacking and coughing into a corner, reduced to a quivering mass of flesh, could brand the truth into place. Tommy knew, now, and it was that knowledge that fed his fear, pounding it through him.
His father was gone. Dead. He'd watched his back – he'd never underestimated a man, and the fuckers had gotten him anyway. Nothing was enough. Nothing could truly stop the madness.
His Uncle, Max Doyle, cousin? Patrick's father. Years and years on the force, putting away hundreds, maybe thousands of criminals, taking it all in and shoveling it all away. He'd watched his back, hadn't once slipped in the line of fire. He'd been shot in a convenience store robbery while off duty. No chance to watch his back then, and seemingly no reason to fear.
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