Suddenly the peripheral thought that had floated through my mind last night snapped into place. I leaned closer to the painting and read two words nearly invisible, now obvious because I knew what to look for, tucked inside a rivulet. A signature. The Artist.
I straightened up quickly. Someone had stood on this landing, probably for days, likely on scaffolding or ladders as he reached to the top of stairway. Someone who had murdered Linda Courtnell as well as many others, someone who must be well known at The Three Arts Institute.
The silence in the huge entranceway was deafening. Two things instantly occurred to me as I stood there, my heart pounding. It was as though my eyes had been shut and now they were forced open wide.
Another memory that had tugged at me last night appeared as three words—my dear boy, said in a singsong, unnatural tone.
I knew who had killed Linda Courtnell and nearly one hundred other people. My first impulse, one that cut through every caution and concern for my own safety, was to warn my husband.
I raced down the remaining stairs and through the doorways into a waning sun as it tucked itself behind the mountains.
When I got to the pathway, I remembered exactly what was next door, in the opposite direction to the pub.
A place in which Will had vowed he would never again set foot. I cut across the lawn and sprinted toward the Marketplace.
Already the lights on the pathway were flickering as they came alive in the settling dusk. Lots of people strolled up and down the sidewalk, laughing or arm in arm, or speeding toward the Aquabus. I nearly ran into a bicyclist, who swore at me and disappeared.
I was out of breath. It took me a few seconds to realize I had arrived at the Marketplace, because it was completely transformed. Instead of a pile of concrete and pillars, a modern facility with wide clear windows and flowerbeds beckoned.
I ran along the outside, then stopped in the doorway. The place buzzed with people. No staircase. How were the studios accessed these days?
I raced back outside and noticed a recess in the wall. The staircase had been enclosed, creating an exit straight to the outside. I yanked the door open and hurried up the tiled steps to the landing.
The door into the second floor was also closed but unlocked. I threw myself into the hallway.
Carpeted and hushed, subdued lighting adorning its walls, the entrance to the studios was certainly posh thirty years later. I slowed up and gasped back my breath as I neared the studio Will had rented.
I hadn't set foot in this building since Linda Courtnell's death. Suddenly, I was in front of the door that had led to my husband's hell.
It was so quiet I began to wonder if Will had gone somewhere else. Had he really come next door to his former studio? Was my instinct wrong? Had we merely missed each other in transit?
Then I heard voices, a low, murmuring sound from inside the room. I knocked and turned the knob. The door opened effortlessly so I stepped over the threshold without waiting for permission to enter.
At first I couldn't see anything but a floor-to-ceiling partition to the left that cut the room into two sections. A soft orange light glowed from the opening by the far wall. A jumble of furniture and easels to the right was shrouded in darkness.
Suddenly a face appeared in the entryway of the divider, grinning at me, looking incongruous beside the Japanese motif of the panels.
The face belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man. Very like Will in stature and body type, this man could certainly have stood in a backlit window and been mistaken for Professor Thompson.
Greg Hughes waved with a royal flutter of his long thin fingers. As he approached, I could see he was still a handsome man. His affectations, as they always had been, were extreme and pretentious. An actor who was not very good at his trade.
He was dressed in a flamboyant, checkered suit, a blood-red scarf at his neck. Hair slicked back, a hint of make-up and lipstick, he looked like a character from a 1940's film. He looked exactly as he had at the airport two nights ago.
He grasped my shoulders tightly and kissed me on each cheek.
"Mrs. Thompson, my dear girl. How nice of you to join us! I did think you might drop in."
Stepping sideways quickly, his hand still on my arm, he locked the door.
I moved away from him, unsettled and terrified.
"Greg, where is William?"
The man crooked one finger at me to follow as he ran-walked back through the partition. I followed, though my heart pounded with apprehension. My ability to think was clouded by fear and a certainty my warning was too late.
Now I was close enough to see through the doorway. That was when I saw my husband.
Will stood on a wide bench that was anchored to the floor. From the ceiling above it, a series of pulleys dangled. I thought immediately of the block and tackle assembly in Alain's old garage. He used it to raise engines from automobiles.
Presumably, the studio was outfitted to lift heavy art objects in a similar way. In this case, though, the object was human.
A thick rope wound around Will's neck. Hands tied behind his back, he was red faced and gasping.
I realized he was standing on the tips of his toes. The noose, hooked up to the block and tackle chain, was tight around his throat.
I could see a crank on the wall, immediately next to Hughes. As though to demonstrate, Greg turned it lightly. It made a clicking sound as it pulled Will forward and upward, inching him closer to the edge of the bench.
"I am trying to make a bargain with your husband and he just isn't being very nice."
His voice was a high-pitched, whispery imitation of Marilyn Monroe.
Suddenly my hearing and sight went into overdrive. I could feel a huge wave of energy bursting through every cell. My thoughts were rapid and photographic.
To my left, a small table piled with paraphernalia. Small open cans of paint. A large pail of thick, translucent liquid. Brushes. A long, silver instrument. Needles.
To Greg's right, another small table. An enormous black gun. A shiny hunting knife.
Ahead of me, The Monster I detested. A rope, the instrument of death, dangling near his elbow.
A small distance to The Monster's left, my husband, my Will, eyes bulging, gasping desperately for oxygen.
"So you are The Artist," I said, inching forward, my heart lurching.
"I am indeed," Greg answered.
"You painted the mural in the hall."
Another quarter step forward.
He laughed, a grating sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
"My dear Mrs. Thompson, why would you mention that of all things? Yes, I painted that beautiful work of art. Not that anyone ever noticed. They walked by it every single day, never appreciating its significance."
I noticed Greg's voice was climbing slightly higher, as though he too were running out of air.
"But you raped her," I said.
Thrown off guard by this statement, he stared at me for a moment, then laughed again as understanding dawned.
"Aha. The gay thing."
He fluttered his right hand exaggeratedly. He spread his fingers out in the air, crunched them into a fist, and pulled slightly on the rope with his left. Suddenly his voice was deep and booming. No trace of the affectations, the act. Just the Monster.
"It was the best disguise ever. People expected me to be different. The prejudice against homosexuality is still quite alive, my dear, despite some appearance of openness. Back then it was rampant, especially among the police. No one ever thought of me as a suspect, especially in the Linda Courtnell case, because she was raped. They erroneously thought rape is about sexual attraction and as a gay man, I couldn't possibly have done it. Isn't that stupid and disgusting?"
"Yes."
Closer.
"You're saying people are generally stupid and disgusting. Is that why you kill them?"
"Oh my, no, not at all. My dear Mrs. Thompson, didn't they let you read my letters? Didn't you learn about The S
pring? I was doing my victims a favour. I wish I had time to teach you. There would be so much for you to experience. You too could have died into perfect creativity. Maybe they thought you were too refined, too delicate to bother with such matters. You should demand to read the letters, dear."
"I read them all right. They were stupid and disgusting."
His eyes flashed and I regretted my show of temper. The crank clicked loudly in my ears.
Now Will's face showed a tinge of blue around his eyes. He was straining to stay on his toes and I could tell he was close to falling off the edge of the bench. I had to be careful.
"Maybe I just don't understand, Professor Hughes," I offered in a calm, reasonable voice.
"That is probably true, you poor thing. The only way to really achieve perfection is to suffer and die. It's only at the point of death that you and Art, you and The Spring of all creativity and utter, flawless beauty, are one. I killed people to give them the greatest gift they could ever receive."
"I did kill Linda because she was going to out me though. Not to mention the fact that she kept winning the contests I deserved to win. And I did love the revenge on the Professor here. But at the end, even Linda had that look. The look of knowledge and of gratitude that I was the one who led her to that higher place."
"What do you mean, Linda was going to 'out' you? Was she going to tell everyone you weren't gay?"
Greg laughed.
"No, no. It was far simpler. It was her portfolio. She had a painting I had copied. You see, I'm extremely good at copying. In fact, I've made a good deal of money pretending to be other painters. How do you think I was able to copy your husband's sorry attempts at art? I've sold Monets and Morrisseaus and all kinds of other masterpieces besides my very own."
"I had a pseudonym, too. Rangel Guzman. Isn't that clever? It's a mix of two Mexican artists. I used it to enter your husband's stupid contests, which I never won, as I might have mentioned."
"I came close to winning a Seattle contest with one of Linda's paintings. She found out about it. She was going to tell everyone what I'd done. That night, the cunt actually came down the hall to my office from his…"
Greg's face turned purple with anger. His hand, waving in the air, landed on the pulley. Will made a soft moaning sound, but he stayed on the edge of the table.
"To show me her painting in her portfolio, the one I had entered in the Seattle contest. She said she could prove I had committed art fraud, and why did I do it? As if Linda Courtnell's paintings were worth hundreds of thousands or something! Art fraud. Fuck."
"I have no idea how she found out, the little bitch. She must have researched all the art contests in the world. Naturally, I was stupid enough to use my own name and somehow, she saw it, along with her goddamn painting. Must've been in one of those local newspapers or art mags or…never mind. Suffice it to say, I had to get rid of her."
His face suddenly transformed into deep sadness. He tapped the gun and the knife.
"One Hundred, Emily. And he will not cooperate. I had to resort to the use of other cowardly instruments. And still he won't do as I say."
He gave another small click on the pulley.
"And here I was such a fan of his. I got a studio in the same building. I even made my own key so I could come in after he left just to admire his work. And he shunned me and my genius!"
Greg turned and spoke directly to Will.
"I had to pay you back. You must understand that, my dear boy."
He had his back to me now.
I moved silently. I was very near the table at my left. So close to The Monster I could smell the sweat of his insanity mingled with the aftershave of his persona.
"Maybe I can help persuade him," I said, keeping my voice steady.
Greg didn't appear to notice my proximity. He turned and gave me a look of pure gratitude.
"You would do that for me?"
He turned away from Will and took several steps toward me. Now we were only a small distance apart.
Clearly, the RCMP psychologist had been right. Greg was disintegrating before me. His eyes welled up with tears and he was now pleading. From flamboyant actor to cruel killer-rapist, to philosophy teacher, to begging little boy in a matter of minutes.
I could touch the table now.
Will made a choking sound as his toes gave way under the strain. For a second, he dangled on the rope before he was able to scramble back to a semistanding position on the edge of the bench.
His eyes clouded over. He was going to die if he stayed that way much longer.
The knot of anger burst through its restraints. Pictures flash-bulbed through my mind.
Linda Courtnell, tortured, painted and mutilated. My baby, draining from my body in pieces. My husband, pale and withdrawn behind a prison enclosure, unable to touch me. My mother, leaning over to gently brush my hair from my damp forehead. The skin canvases. Will, trussed up, deprived of oxygen, next on The Monster's list.
With a roar scarcely recognizable as human, I picked up the cans of paint one by one and flung their contents at Greg Hughes. He crossed his arms in front of his face, standing in one spot, whimpering, sniveling. I kept hammering the paint at him, red, yellow, blue. Catching him on the side of his head, through his fingers, into his eyes. The Artist dripped with oily colour.
"You bastard. Did you give any of those poor souls a choice? Did you ask them if they preferred death?"
I grabbed the needles and flung them like darts. They bounced off his legs. He moaned and wept, but didn't budge.
"You're no god. You're a sick, worthless monster who likes to torture and kill people. Did you think they looked at you with gratitude when they died? You're an asshole, an idiot, a fucking lowlife. They looked at you with pity because you are nothing but a loser."
When one of the needles lodged itself in his foot, he removed his arms from his face and stared at me, tears streaming down his ugly, demented, disgusting cheeks.
"You're a fucking pervert."
I dipped a large paintbrush into the pail of nondescript liquid and flicked it at his face. I was howling like a wolf, a bear, an animal cornered and attacked.
Keep the air flowing outward. Don't breathe it in. The warnings flashed through my head; cold objective calculations of my risk accompanied the heat of revenge.
He stood there, arms outstretched in a crucifix, his head bent forward.
I kept dipping the brush and flinging the liquid at him. A hiss and spurts of gas emanated from his skin.
He opened his mouth and said, "I am the Creative Force…The Artist…"
I flipped a huge blob at his face. Fluid landed in his mouth, just as he inhaled to continue his rant. His eyes bulged as he took a breath and swallowed.
Instantly, his legs folded. He dropped to the ground, spittle and dust flying into the air. I felt several stings, as though I had put my hands and arms in a wasps' nest.
I looked down and saw little red blisters bursting from my skin. My anger was suddenly replaced with a pitiless scheme. My husband and I will survive, but you will not. I won't breathe it in.
Greg Hughes was vomiting on the floor, writhing uncontrollably. I sidestepped him and reached over to release the pulley.
Jolted free, Will almost fell, but I was there. I blocked his fall with my body, strong beyond my weight, fierce and self-possessed. Pushing him back to sit on the bench, I yanked with all my might at the knot around his neck. Within seconds, the rope was curled on the ground like a dead snake. Will wasn't exactly breathing deeply, but then again, neither was I. And that was a good thing.
In a moment, he was on his feet, weak and disoriented, but able to move. Limping and dragging, I pulled him around the partition, through the darkened room, and into the deserted hallway. We both took a ragged breath. Will immediately slumped down and passed out.
My hands trembling from both shock and pain, I pulled out my cell phone and dialled 911.
Inside the studio, I could hear The Monster
choking and coughing. Once again, I held my breath and rapidly crossed over to the injured man.
My mind was a red-hot mass of anger. All I could see were his victims, tortured and trussed, the pain indescribable before their humiliating deaths.
I lifted the pail of liquid off the table, and holding my breath, dragged it close to his head. I put the paintbrush, now withered and corroding, into the colourless fluid.
Upending the pail very close to Hughes, I watched for a moment as it snaked its way along the floor toward him.
I remembered Montgomery's stark words. According to the letters, some of the bodies are buried in specific places, while the rest he dissolved in sulphuric acid. I had known what that clear colourless liquid must be and I was well aware of what it could do to a body, living or dead.
Back in the hallway, I collapsed against my husband. I shut my ears to the grotesque sounds from within the studio, the thrashing, gasping and sizzling. I closed my eyes to the blisters bubbling on my skin.
I focused on two things only—Will's shallow breathing and the solid thump of his heart.
Chapter 26
March 2009
The late morning sun speckled the hospital windows with dust. I opened my eyes and examined my arms, plastered white with bandages.
In the other bed, very close to mine, Will was sound asleep, a mild snore rumbling from his nasal passages.
Jacob looked up from the chair next to me and gave me a weak smile.
"Hi, Em," he said, his deep-blue eyes filling with tears. "How are you?"
"I'm okay, Jacob."
I saw doubt flash across his face.
"Really. A bit sore, but they must've given me some good pain meds because this…" I nodded at my covered wounds "Doesn't hurt. I do feel like I just woke up from a terrible nightmare."
"You did," he said. "I'm still in shock, so I can't imagine what you are going through."
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