Stroke of Death

by Dale Mayer

  Stroke of Death

  A Psychic Visions Novel

  Book #17

  Dale Mayer

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About This Book

  Complimentary Download

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About Ice Maiden

  Author’s Note

  Complimentary Download

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  About This Book

  Cayce’s art is well-known and respected among her peers, and, as such, has spawned forgers, copycats … and enemies. But when her favorite model and best friend is murdered—the masterpiece painted on her skin cut off her body—Cayce knows she’s up against a collector of a very different sort.

  Detective Richard Henderson doesn’t know much about art, but he knows what he likes. Of all the art mixed up in this case, it is the artist, Cayce, who fascinates him the most. While he understands her work contains an element of something extraordinary, he just doesn’t know what that is exactly or how she embodies it in her creative works of art.

  But, when other models show up dead, with more souvenirs taken from their bodies, both the artist and the detective realize much more is involved in this than just Cayce’s art … It’s all about Cayce’s soul.

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  KILL OR BE KILLED

  Part of an elite SEAL team, Mason takes on the dangerous jobs no one else wants to do – or can do. When he’s on a mission, he’s focused and dedicated. When he’s not, he plays as hard as he fights.

  Until he meets a woman he can’t have but can’t forget. Software developer, Tesla lost her brother in combat and has no intention of getting close to someone else in the military. Determined to save other US soldiers from a similar fate, she’s created a program that could save lives. But other countries know about the program, and they won’t stop until they get it – and get her.

  Time is running out … For her … For him … For them …

  DOWNLOAD a complimentary copy of MASON? Just tell me where to send it!

  Chapter 1

  Cayce Cormont didn’t want to rush her work today. She didn’t want to rush any day but definitely not today. This was the fifth day she had put into this commissioned art piece, her static part of her art. She had finished the backdrop. Today was all about getting the presentation of the model incorporated in just right, merging perfectly with Cayce’s background art. That she’d been feeling unwell the last two days only made her job harder.

  To add to her pain and frustration, the “perfect model” whom the set director wanted was the worst model for the job. Cayce had only found out about the change in the model yesterday. She’d been putting the final touches on the backdrop, when the company brought in the new model to show her. Cayce’s normal approach was not to let others dictate her models to her, not even the client who had commissioned the piece. But this time the client’s representatives had pulled a fast one on Cayce at the very last moment.

  To top off that insult, Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the new model, Naomi. Something about the sly curl to her lips and that look in her eyes combined to say that she knew exactly what the world wanted, and she was prepared to give it up—for a price. Cayce had really struggled to find anything good about her. And, in Cayce’s work, that bonding and blending was everything.

  But Cayce was a professional and did what she needed to do. Today was no exception. Besides, the sooner she was done, the sooner she could move on. She walked from her vehicle to the art installation, putting down her large cases and turning to study the work she’d completed the night before.

  Finally, after a few moments, she stepped back and nodded. “It looks good.”

  “Looks darn good.”

  At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see her replacement model saunter in, dressed in a bikini and not much else. Cayce nodded in acknowledgment of Naomi’s comment, then said, “Okay, so right back to the same position we set up last night,” she said, motioning to the wall—Cayce’s artwork—where the model herself would disappear into the actual painted background.

  “And good morning to you too,” Naomi said in a snide voice.

  Cayce shrugged it off. She was short on time as it was and couldn’t afford to waste more by slinging words with Naomi when Cayce needed to be slinging paint. It was hard to be creative if she had adverse feelings for the whole scenario. She wished she had her regular model because Elena would have been absolutely perfect for this job.

  Cayce had worked with Elena just two days ago on another art show, highlighting different masterpieces, and it had worked out stunningly, but that had been for a fancy house party, where Elena had been the artsy centerpiece of the ballroom. She had done a phenomenal job, and, when Cayce had told her best model to go home and rest, Elena had laughed at her and said, “Now that I’m off duty, I want to enjoy the party and mingle with the guests.” She had given Cayce a gentle hug, then turned and walked away.

  Elena’s happy energy was so very different than the critical scowl Naomi wore, as Cayce tried to sort out what she needed to do next, other than deflecting Naomi’s negative energy.

  “You can start anytime now,” Naomi said in a bored voice. “At this rate we’ll be here all day.”

  “I won’t be,” Cayce said. She bent down, opened up her cases, brought out her palettes and paints, mixing the first color she wanted. When she was ready, she pulled on the energies around her, looking for that creative light, that rainbow, which she wrapped around her, almost like a blanket of good luck, spreading out into all the different colors. She was a firm believer in the colors of sound and the colors of nature.

  When she reached for a certain color, Cayce always called out to Mother Nature to help her make a true representation.

  Finally she stood up with her palette and walked over to Naomi and got to work. Cayce started with Naomi’s left shoulder and arm, working down her elbow; Cayce’s strokes were sure, fast, and accurate.

  Naomi watched her in surprise. “Wow, when you get going, you get going.”

  Cayce didn’t say a word. What could she say? It was beyond her to talk at this point because all the possible colors of the spectrum surged through her heart, through her mind, wrapping around her body and soul. She needed the same energy to wrap around Naomi, to help her model attract and pull in, to blend with the same colors, to blend with the same energy. Only there was no blending with Naomi. Her energy was impatient, irritated—edgy.

  Yet Cayce’s work entailed a magical element, and she firmly believed it was due to the energy that she utilized. Something she’d accidentally discovered after practicing her healing lessons with Dr. Maddy, a physician well renowned for her energy work in the healing arts.

  When the magic happened naturally, it was great, easy, wonderful. Sometimes Cayce could also make it happen; she was a pro at that. That would desperately be needed here with Naomi. Because otherwise, th
e art would look flat and feel … off.

  Cayce worked relentlessly for two hours, before she finally took a step back. She had the preliminary body-painting on the top half of Naomi, the background blending beautifully into the foreground. Although Cayce still had the other layers to work on, Naomi’s hair was pulled back into a tight braid down her back, and Cayce had to blend Naomi’s face and that hairline yet. She walked closer to the model. “Do you need a bathroom break or some water?”

  Naomi nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good.” She walked toward the hallway, disappearing around a corner.

  Cayce took a deep breath and let it out, gently twisting and stretching her spine and neck. Then shook off Naomi’s negative energy she’d been working to bypass. When she heard hard footsteps behind her, she stiffened. She hated on-site visitors when she worked. She just wished they’d wait to see the finished piece at the opening event. Not to mention that the energy preceding her visitor had a dark, disruptive influence attached. She pulled in her aura, then turned to face the coming threat.

  When she saw a man in a suit walking toward her, her eyes opened wide. His chiseled face was his most striking feature—but a model in a suit with a crisp hard attitude seemed incongruous here.

  “May I help you?” She studied his aura, seeing it snugged tightly against his body. A barely visible white line of energy surrounded him. Except it resonated with anger—lots of anger. Yet controlled. She raised her eyebrows slightly.

  “Why would you think I need your help?” he asked in a tight, hard voice.

  Although he might not be aware of what his aura was doing, he clearly didn’t want her aware of it either. Because now his energy had thinned even more. “It’s just that you look angry,” she said. She waved her hand at the installation. “I’m kind of busy.”

  “You are Cayce Matlock?” At her nod, he continued, “And you worked with Elena Campbell?”

  “Yes, all the time. We did a piece together two nights ago,” she said, her face softening at the reminder. “She’s a really good friend of mine.”

  Just then Naomi returned, instantly shifting the energy in the room. She took her position against the backdrop wall, as she eyed the new arrival with a pretty smile on her face. “Oh, perfect. Somebody to come and watch me,” she said, as she bounced her bare boobs a bit.

  It was all Cayce could do to hold back her sigh of frustration.

  The man looked at her, then looked at Naomi. “So do you know Elena too?”

  “Sure,” Naomi said. “Models in this business usually know each other. She’s pretty decent. I’m better.” She indicated her sleek body. “That’s why I’m here, and she’s not,” she said smugly. “I’m Naomi Star.”

  The stranger’s gaze narrowed.

  On the side, biting back her caustic response, Cayce watched Naomi’s energy. The deceptive fluffy lights flitting off in a million different directions hid something dark inside, but everybody had something dark inside. Because Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the woman, Cayce had put up barriers, so she wouldn’t have to deal with Naomi’s energy on a firsthand basis, but that also made her painting process go a bit slower, as she had to bypass the barriers to make this work. It would never be as good as with a better model, but, given Cayce had no choice this time, it’s what she would have to do.

  While Naomi seemed to think that Cayce was fast and on target, today wasn’t really going as smoothly, as timely, or as well as Cayce would have liked. And she didn’t have time for interruptions. She turned to the stranger. “You haven’t identified yourself,” she said in a cool tone. “What’s going on?”

  “I am Detective Richard Henderson,” he said, pulling out a badge.

  She frowned, reading the name on the badge. “What do the police want here?”

  “Doesn’t matter what they want,” Naomi said with a throaty laugh. “They can send all their hunky detectives my way anytime.”

  Naomi’s words gave Cayce everything she needed to know, without even turning toward Naomi to see the same darkness oozing from her pores. Nerves. Fear. Uncertainty. Insecurity. Cayce studied her model for a long moment, then faced the detective, noting no change in his energy. He was completely unfazed by Naomi. Neither was he attracted to the mostly naked woman.

  Interesting.

  “Detective, why are you here?”

  “Because we found your friend,” he said with added emphasis on that last word.

  “Which friend?” she asked, not understanding where he was coming from. “What do you mean, found?”

  “Elena Campbell,” he said. “Remember her?”

  Frustrated now, she gave a quick nod. “Yes, I already told you that she’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Her body was found in a dumpster yesterday morning.” His gaze was hard, angry. “What do you know about that?”

  Cayce took the blow almost viscerally. Her body bowed against the pain. Her knees sagged, and her heart crushed from the horrific pressure of the shock. “Are you serious?” she gasped out. “Oh, my God.” She sank to the floor, shutting her eyelids, as if that would somehow stop the assault on all her senses.

  Her mind was completely overwhelmed, as shards of pain splintered through her. Was that why the last two days had been so rough? She’d fought the headaches and the nausea, and, when a darkness had enveloped her, she’d really wondered what was going on. When she found out Elena had been replaced in this installation, Cayce hadn’t been happy—as in seriously not happy—and had figured the ugly energy was due to that. That, in part, had been behind her bad mood.

  Although her being forced to use Naomi hadn’t helped. She liked to choose her own models. Not deal with the ones who were sleeping their way to the top. Naomi hadn’t fit the bill yesterday. She hadn’t fit the bill today. Cayce’s models had to have that extra something.

  Naomi didn’t have it.

  Elena had it … in spades. No, … had had it. Past tense.

  The grief crushed her, and she couldn’t get air into her lungs, as she stared at the detective.

  The detective squatted in front of her. “Breathe.”

  She struggled, then gasped, and drew in a deep breath, her gaze wide and painful as she stared at him. “How? When?”

  “She had already been dead for several hours,” he said softly, as he studied her. “Her throat was cut.”

  The shocks just kept reverberating. Her body shook involuntarily. Then she added her own headshake. “Oh, my God, dear God, no.” She continuously shook her head, her lips firmed into a straight line, her eyes filling with tears. “Please, no,” she whispered again, turning to the detective. “Elena was special. Why would anybody want to hurt her?”

  “You body-painted her, correct?”

  She nodded, her gaze still locked on his, searching for anything to say, but her throat had closed, her heart shutting down at the terrible horrors filling her mind’s eye.

  “And what did you paint on her that night?”

  She stared up at him, and sadly, she whispered, “A masterpiece. I painted her into a masterpiece.”

  “Well, guess what?” he said, his voice hardening. “A collector found something else to collect. Her skin.”

  At his last words, her body automatically took a fetal position, rolled over, where her stomach revolted, and she vomited all over the floor.

  In her heart of hearts, she knew the murderer hadn’t just collected a masterpiece of art. Something was so very special about Elena. Her energy was pure gold.

  When her killer took her life, her painted skin, he’d also taken a part of Elena’s soul.

  *

  He stared at the beautiful painting in front of him. It would be a challenge to preserve this. He’d taken multiple photographs, and he’d already stretched out the canvas. The stretching bars were ever-so-gently tightened in order to fine-tune the tension to get the look that he wanted. It was a stunning picture—sunsets and an eagle—but something was just luminescent about it. He was desperate to capture
that luminescence. He quickly coated it with yet another layer of preservative, trying to keep it as it was, trying to keep that something special. He looked at the discarded masterpieces he had worked on before.

  Most of them were no good, but he’d taken photographs and had them blown up, just as a reminder. But they were something. They were a memory, faint, just a shadow of what they should be, what they could be. This one, however, he had high hopes for. He studied the piece again carefully, analyzing the stretchiness of it. And then quickly tightened just one millimeter on one of the top bolts to stretch that one portion back out again. Satisfied, he sat back and took more photos. He was obsessed with the painting. It was just so good, so stunning. He’d hadn’t realized she’d become so big, until he’d seen the artist at a huge installation.

  She had created a great big wall painting and was doing an incredible job of taking people from their normal reality, dropping them right into the fantasy world she wanted the observer to experience. He’d watched the artist work, as she painted a doorframe and walls, all the way down, giving it a 3-D effect, as if you could walk right in, and yet into what? And that was the thing that she invited you to play with—into the world beyond, into the world within, into the world that you had yet to explore. He’d spent most of the day there, absolutely enthralled with her work.

  And he hadn’t been alone. A lot of other people busily worked, standing and staring in surprise, shock, and wonder. He couldn’t leave it alone. He’d become obsessed, knowing he had to own a masterpiece himself. Only she didn’t sell them—at least not at a price he could afford. But so much life existed in her paintings. So much life force.

  He’d painted at her side for a time, but she’d taken off, and he hadn’t.

  He pondered the idiosyncrasies of fate that left him here in this dreary hidden space, while she was queen of the art world.

  When he realized he’d never own a Cayce masterpiece, he’d become inspired to pick up his paintbrush again. He’d been an artist for years. Surely he could copy her work. Make something so similar that he’d be happy. But it hadn’t happened yet. Those failures had fueled his determination to not only own one of hers—now something he’d succeeded in, even if it was only a tiny piece of Cayce’s art—but it was here beside him for him to copy, so he could become the king of the art world.