The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1)

by Chris O'Neill

  Lara had driven back from college an hour after she had received the phone call that changed her life. She was nineteen, a big age difference between her and Janelle. She didn’t have much in the dorm room and it all went in the trunk of the beat up Honda she had paid for with the money she’d earned spending all summer working at the morgue. She had seen dead people many times. Never expected to see her parents that way so soon. Once she got back and had come to the hospital for Janelle to sign the identification forms that the deceased were, indeed, her parents, reality had hit her. She was responsible for Janelle now. She couldn’t hand her over to anyone else in the family. They didn’t know her. Moreover, she didn’t know them. Or trust them. That meant she would have to move back permanently. She could transfer her degree, go to college in Los Angeles, make it work somehow. She wasn’t just Janelle’s sister anymore. She was her guardian.

  She looked at Janelle and brushed her hair out of her face as she played with Fred. Janelle looked at her. Lara could tell she was sad, but in that child’s way, she was dealing with the present, with what was happening right now and she needed someone to tell her what would happen next.

  “Will they come back, Lara?” Janelle asked, hopeful.

  “No, sweetie,” Lara said, putting her arm around the little girl’s shoulder and kissing her on the forehead. “It’s just you and me now. I’ll be here for you. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

  “Promise?”

  “On my life.”

  Janelle moved in closer and hugged Lara. Fred was in her hand, on Lara’s knee, watching placidly with his big crocodile smile. Lara suddenly felt cold and looked around the room. It was empty. Everyone had gone, left them alone, locked in here with the dead. She knew this wasn’t right. She stood up and approached the caskets. Janelle was on her feet, clutching Fred close to her chest, her big eyes welling with fear, standing in the aisle.

  “Where did they go?” Janelle asked.

  “Heaven, I think,” Lara said.

  She looked at her father’s face. Peaceful, serene, not really him, but an artist’s rendition, put together by someone who never knew him. He used to smell of cologne and soap. Now he smelled of bleach. She saw the black ribbons flutter up from beneath the casket and she took a step back in shock. They looked like tentacles snaking out from an unseen entity that had torn its way in to her world. They wrapped themselves around the casket, then reached out greedily for their mother’s. Lara saw the ribbons shoot up from the back of the room, rapidly covering the wall and the cross hanging from it. The caskets were gone, the black ribbons so fine and so many that it looked like this part of the room had been removed from existence, replaced by the vast eternal darkness of oblivion. There was no emotion or feeling here. Everything was simply fact- the darkness existed and it could infect anything else in Lara’s vision just by touching it. She heard Janelle scream.

  She turned and saw her sister running for the door at the other end of the aisle. The ribbons shot out from behind Lara, passing over her, reaching desperately towards Janelle.

  “No!” she cried and began to run after her.

  Janelle pulled the door open and stopped in shock. A tall, thin figure, little more than a silhouette, stood in the doorway. The face was a blur except for the scars on its face. The scars stood out, as clear as the rest of him was out of focus. He wrapped his arms around Janelle, holding her close to him. She struggled, trying to get away from him, but she couldn’t. Fred fell on the carpet. Lara was running as hard as she could towards him. The black ribbons reached him first, wrapping around him, lifting him up and bringing him suddenly with terrifying speed right up to Lara. She slammed in to him and fell on her back. He loomed above her, a Silhouette Man with a blurred face, clutching her sister and floating just inches above her.

  “You look like an angel, Lara. Weep for me,” he said.

  Helpless, she was trapped in a nightmare that had fused her memories with her dreams and her subconscious would hold her prisoner until she could find the trigger that would wake her up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Guillotine stood across the street from the hospital and watched the Police cars arriving one by one. He thought he might be able to slip inside, get his hands on a doctor’s coat and gain access to the room where she was being held. But, with all the Police activity, there would be too many eyes, too many guns, too great a possibility his mission would fail. He had to be patient, think through all the angles and then make his move. There would be an opening, a chance oversight that would allow him to close in on his target. He had to stay sharp and aware and be ready to move once he saw his chance. He would not have much time.

  At the front entrance of the hospital, he saw a tall man with an immaculate beard and a long flowing overcoat giving explicit orders to the uniformed cops. This must be the head Policeman, he thought. An Inspector, by the looks of him. The same man he had seen down by the river giving orders to the paramedics and Police. He was instructing the officers here to guard the American woman’s room, never to leave the front door unattended. Every visitor had to be checked, their ID’s copied no matter who they were or which patient they claimed to be visiting. The Inspector clearly meant business and that would make Guillotine’s job harder. But he loved a challenge and he savored the opportunity to figure out how to succeed against what appeared to be overwhelming odds. He would not fail again.

  The Inspector got in his Renault and drove away, leaving one cop at the front door, another three going inside. The game had already begun and he felt he had arrived late. Lara had been good and, given time, would probably have found him through sheer dedication and persistence. He knew all about persistence and what it took to focus on achieving one single goal. He broke life down in to a series of goals to accomplish, all smaller parts of a bigger machine. Playing cat and mouse with the American cop had given him a rush, and, selfishly, he thought he must be close to realizing his dream and unleashing his greatest work on the world, for why else would fate send someone like her to pursue him and try to stop him now when he was so close? It was a test. Success was his for the taking.

  He started crossing the street and noticed the small side entrance on the west wing of the building the cops had overlooked. There were simply too many access points to gain entry in to the hospital for three officers to keep an eye on them all. He had to move now while they were still mobilizing. Then he stopped as he saw two news vans pull up outside the hospital. A cameraman and a beautiful woman with far too much make up who could only be a reporter hopped out of the first van and walked with purpose to the entrance. The officer stationed there rolled his eyes and walked out to stop them. Guillotine was heading for the side entrance when he saw one of the other cops through the glass window of the door, a little further inside, by the elevators and stairwell. Even if he got in now, he would get no further. He cursed his timing and wished he had got here sooner, forgoing the trip to the storage garage, which, it seemed, had cost him valuable time. He weighed up all the angles, knew he could not stay out here much longer before he was seen. To turn back now, though, meant failure. A few seconds later, he saw more Police cars racing to the scene and knew he was completely outnumbered. He had missed the window of opportunity and would have to settle for waiting for another day. In the meantime, all he could do was hope the wound he had inflicted would take its course on his beautiful pursuer and finish her sometime later in the night.

  He turned and walked away. Leaving what happened to Fate made this game an art and he lived for that. Not a victory, not a defeat, the game was still playing out. And so, Guillotine went home. To work.

  Chapter Twenty

  Three Days Later

  Lara McBride woke up in the hospital room, felt the tube in her mouth like it was trying to choke her. She pulled it out of her throat and dropped it on the bed cover and thought she was already dead. If she was, then purgatory was a sterile, off white room with two large windows and the smell
of detergent thick in the air. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound she heard. She felt groggy, her throat was sore and her eyes were heavy from the morphine drip inserted in her left wrist. Her body was not responding as it should have been. It seemed disconnected from her brain and for a moment she thought she had somehow lost her limbs, until she saw the bed sheet move as she drew her left leg to the side. She raised her arms and felt the tubes in her veins. They dropped out of sight, below the bed and snaked back in to various machines holding drip packs intravenously feeding her drugs and saline. Then she remembered the dream, the reality it was based on, the man with the scars and his wicked sharp knife and she wondered how badly he had hurt her. Too many questions, not enough answers. That needed to change- stat.

  There was a call button beside the bed. She pushed it repeatedly and tried to calm her mind as her brain started to power on and the thoughts flooded in. She felt sick, her stomach squeezing, knotting, about to shoot out whatever was in it. She dry heaved as she lay prone and almost lost consciousness, but she fought through the desire to slip back in to sleep and focused on a black spot on the ceiling to keep her awake. The door opened and two nurses hurried in. They spoke in French and she had no idea what they were saying.

  “Water…” she croaked, her voice low, raspy and unrecognizable to her. A Nurse was changing the IV pack beside her, the other was speaking in to a radio, calling for the Doctor.

  “Water…” she repeated, anger growing inside her. Her stomach stopped squeezing. She motioned to her mouth, hoping they would understand the pantomime. One of them left, returned a minute later with a glass of water. Lara took it and drank half. Then her stomach decided it wasn’t ready for such things and sent it straight back up. She leaned over the side of the bed and let the water explode out of her mouth and spatter on the floor. She wiped her mouth, heard the Nurses fussing, waited for her stomach to stop cramping, then laid back on the bed.

  The Doctor walked in and took charge, giving the nurses orders in French. He spoke fast and with authority. He stood above Lara, looking down with an easy smile that made her instantly know what he was doing.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

  “Hello,” her voice was pathetic. She hated that and felt ashamed of herself for sounding so weak in his presence.

  “Please try to relax. My name is Renee. You are in the Hospital of Mary Our Savior in Paris. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Lara. McBride.”

  “Good. You were attacked we think in what was a robbery but I am sure you can tell us more.”

  “How… how bad is it?”

  “You’re awake now. We didn’t think you would come back to us.”

  “Perm…” she swallowed. “Permanent damage?”

  “No. You were lucky. The angels were watching you.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Guillotine was eating breakfast in the kitchen of the farmhouse, looking over the new posters for his exhibition when he saw the news report on the TV he had mounted on the wall. Lara McBride had awoken from her coma, they said. Lara. He put his fork down and turned up the volume. This could go either way- the news stations could make this a big deal and within the hour his face could be up there next to hers if she remembered him well enough and then everything would be over. Or they would like the story for a short time and then move on like the jackals they were. He felt his right eye tremble in his skull, a dull pain throbbing from behind it.

  As the reporter continued, revealing little more information other than that the woman had come out of her coma, he felt his eye tremble faster and then he fell to his knees as a bright light burst across his vision, blinding him. Searing pain sliced across his head and he fell backwards on to the cold stone floor. He began to convulse, his bladder emptied and he thrashed uncontrollably, desperately trying to breathe like a fish pulled from the ocean. Then he heard that voice, clear and deafening in his ear;

  “..dirty pig”

  His Aunts were in the room, not far from him. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t see anything but the bright white burning light. Then it began to clear like fast retreating fog, retuning his vision to normal. His Aunts, Madeline and Marie, whom he had watched die many years ago, stood with their heads down, faces obscured by the lace of their funeral hats. They watched him from the doorway, stood defiantly in the morning sun like an obscenity to God. Through the veils, he could see their eyes, those same cold, cruel little marbles that had gleamed at him as a child. The voices were sharp enough to cut him through time.

  “ Worthless child… Let him live with the pigs…”

  Guillotine listened helplessly, still unable to move, as he heard the dead women rage against him with renewed hate and disgust. Their voices boomed in the small stone room, making his head throb with each word, threatening to break the china plates displayed on the wall. They spoke over each other like birds pecking at carrion, feeding on him, on his fear of them. He knew they couldn’t be here, had known it for the last few months that he had been seeing them. But, somehow, here they were and he could not dispute the fact they had found him, beyond death and here they were in the daylight.

  He curled in to a fetal position. He repeated in his head, they’re dead they’re dead they’re dead. The Masterpiece would show the world what he was capable of, how far he had come, what he was able to accomplish. He wasn’t a child anymore, hidden in the barn, written off and forgotten, left to die and disappointed them even in that. Now he was a grown man with resources and talent and ambition and he would make everyone see that he was powerful and his voice would roar through time and echo through the world. He opened his eyes and they were gone.

  He lay there a few minutes while his heart calmed down and his ears focused back on the television. The reporter was finishing up, stood outside the hospital.

  He would let Fate decide what to do with Lara McBride. He had one more Angel to find, a far greater and more important task than going after the American detective. One more Angel and the Masterpiece would be complete. Perhaps then, he would finally be free of his Aunts and his work would banish them to whatever hell he had dispatched them to many years ago.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Lara’s head hurt from all the questions. Derek Shaye was here, a US Marine escorting him and his boss, the Ambassador, who introduced himself as Robert Calthrop, with a handshake and a game show host’s smile. He had silver streaked hair, a fair build, deep tan and the perfect teeth of a movie star. Lara disliked him immediately.

  “Detective McBride, if there is anything we can do to help you transition back to California, you just let us know,” Calthrop said. Shaye shifted uneasily on his feet behind him.

  “I need to find my sister,” Lara said, looking right at Shaye. He never returned her gaze.

  “Yes, I understand the Paris Police were assisting you. They’re very good. I have liaised with the State Department and they assure me from the very highest levels that they are doing everything in their considerable power to help.”

  “Bullshit,” Lara said. Calthrop looked disappointed at her use of language. “I asked for help when I got here. Nobody listened. Janelle is still missing.”

  She could see the gears turning in Calthrop’s head, working the percentage in whether a manhunt could turn out well with the embassy’s involvement. He was in it for the publicity and promotion. She hated him.

  “Did you get a good look at this man? If you did, I’ll arrange to have one of the Police artists come over and do a sketch. Would you like me to do that for you?”

  “I can do that myself. You’re still not helping.”

  Calthrop didn’t know what to say, which, for a diplomat, was a bad spot to be in.

  “I’ll do whatever I can, Detective, but we feel it may be best if you returned to the States as soon as you can be discharged.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It would be better for the local Police to handle things. This is their town, after all. You wou
ldn’t want a Paris Detective carrying out a private investigation in Los Angeles. Imagine the difficulties they would face with the language alone. Just like in your case. They will do a fine job and I will liaise with them daily and contact you with updates.”

  Shaye smiled nervously and nodded at her. Lara looked at Calthrop, the pompous ass.

  “That’s very generous of you,” she said politely and watched them leave.

  The Doctor entered with a smile. He was carrying a clipboard and a plastic cup with two small pills.

  “Bonjour,” he said as he walked to her.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Doctor,” she smiled back. She liked him, one of the few people she had met since she arrived in Paris who did his job properly. He handed her the pills and took the glass of water from the bedside table and held it out for her. She took the glass from him and swallowed half of it, but left the pills in her hand. He raised an eyebrow, ready to object, but had spent enough time with her now to see there was no point arguing with this patient.

  “Inspector Brouchard will be here soon. I hope you can find the one who did this to you.”

  “It’s all politics now. Gonna be a lot harder for me. An American cop in Paris. If word gets out why I’m here that could cause a media frenzy. They want me out and gone as fast as possible just to make sure I don’t embarrass them.”

  “It sounds very complicated. What do you intend to do?”

  “Find him and get my sister home. The plan hasn’t changed, there’s just more players now.”

  “I wish you would let me help you with the pain.”