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

by Chris O'Neill

Brouchard watched Lara try the door. Locked, of course.

  “Getting a warrant’s gonna burn time we don’t have,” she said.

  “Indeed, but we need a reason to be able to go in and look around.”

  “If the door was busted open that would be pretty good probable cause, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Brouchard agreed. Lara kicked the door so hard it splintered the wood and took off one of the hinges. It hung loose and broken and Lara simply looked at the Inspector.

  “Well, look at that,” she said, “looks like someone tried to break in.”

  She stepped inside and turned on the light. Brouchard looked over at the burning ambulance, where the fire crews were almost done dousing the flames. Foche was on his cellphone, his back to them. Nobody had seen Lara kick the door open. At this point, he wasn’t even sure he cared. He just wanted to find this man now, but he wanted to protect Lara while they were doing it. He followed her inside.

  The garage was cold and spartan. A work table sat on the concrete ahead of him, a cot bed up against the wall and a small closet, the kind one would buy from a store and spend half a day trying to assemble from instructions that were far more complex than indicated on the page. The whole place felt wrong and for that very reason, he knew they had just walked in to the world of the man they were hunting.

  “See the oil stains on the ground there?” Lara pointed out to him. He saw a large slick of oil that had clearly been made over some time. He noticed that the two garages had been opened out in to one large unit that ran the length of the building. His workshop.

  “He had a vehicle waiting. That’s why this alley. Beth’s alive.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “If he had killed her, he wouldn’t need to bring the ambulance here, so close to home. He might as well as send us his address.”

  “Perhaps he is just being reckless, like you said.”

  “He needed to get her in to his own vehicle quickly and quietly without being seen. Then he set the blaze. Didn’t matter to him after that, he just wanted her out of here. Which means he has somewhere else where he keeps them and Brenner’s theory was on the money.”

  “This place is off the beaten path enough. Perhaps there is a basement here.”

  “If this was where he was keeping them, he would have taken Beth somewhere else and burned out the ambulance. He wouldn’t have led us here. This isn’t his home base. This is just…”

  “..his workshop.”

  “Right. He led us here. He knows how close we are. He’s playing a game. I think he likes being pursued after so many years of going unnoticed.”

  “Perhaps you have put pressure on him and he does not know what else to do. He’s gone crazy.”

  “No, I think he’s become reckless. He’s an artist. He has an artistic temperament- extreme highs and lows. Volatile. Unpredictable. Now he’s become reckless because he wants what every artist wants.”

  “Which is what? I’ve never been particularly creative myself.”

  “I think whatever he’s been collecting these Angels for, he wants to give us a ringside seat to view his work. He wants an audience, Inspector.”

  Lara walked over to the closet, opened it up and saw a jacket hanging inside.

  “Do you have gloves?” she asked. Brouchard searched his pockets and found a pair of disposable rubber gloves. He often had them in his suit jackets in case he got a call for a crime scene and had to handle evidence. He handed one to her and she snapped it on.

  “Best if I do this myself, so you have some plausible deniability,” she said as her fingers reached in to the jacket pockets. She tried the inside breast pocket and pulled out a flyer, a glossy card promoting an art show.

  “Les Arts des Guillotine,” Brouchard read off the card.

  “Guillotine as in the revolution?”

  “The very same.”

  “So he has a sense of humor.”

  She saw the “HH” initials on the bottom corner of the card. She put her finger on it.

  “That’s the same mark he put on the sketch we found in Beth’s room,” Brouchard said.

  “I’ve seen posters for this show all over town. It’s his big coming out to the world party. We found him, Inspector.”

  “So now we can release his picture.”

  “We don’t have to. We know where he’s going to be. He has a show tomorrow night. He’s not gonna miss that.”

  Now she had his name. Guillotine. She had his face. She knew where he was going to be. She had him. For the first time since she had heard his voice on the plane, Lara McBride felt relief. It was all coming to an end. Soon. She looked at Brouchard, his brow furrowed in concern.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “If he led us here with the ambulance as you said, then he left this for us, too.”

  “Or he could have forgotten it. We’re gonna get nothing on the alias for the garage rental. Maybe he thought we’d spend the next twenty four hours chasing that down to the Louvre.”

  “Or maybe he left this flyer here for us on purpose. For you.”

  “What if he did?”

  “Then he knows you’re coming to the show tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Guillotine had made good time back to the farmhouse. This part of the barn was his workshop, where he repaired his broken Angels. It was lit with one bare bulb, drenching his workbench in harsh white light and throwing jagged shadows around the room. Behind him, on the wall, was a display of weapons he had been collecting for many years. Medieval axes, knives, antique swords from the greatest periods in the history of art. A sword from the Renaissance, a dagger from the Romantic period. He admired their history and paid more for them if they had reportedly killed someone. He found the idea delicious. He had a larger display in the main part of the barn. The ones in here were his favorites. Somehow, they gave him comfort.

  He stepped back and looked at Beth’s broken body. He felt pity, such a thing of beauty so crippled. The fall had not killed her but it had stolen too much from her. He knew now, looking at her broken and still as she slept soundly on the table before him, that she could not complete his Masterpiece. That his Masterpiece did not, in fact, need to completed. It was already perfect. She would have been a welcome addition, but, after he had thought about it, he already had a perfect Angel. He had Janelle. He had not given her the due she deserved. He had allowed some kind of obsession to get the better of him in pursuing Beth. She was beautiful, Angelic, to be sure. But he realized he didn’t need her. He had already put in the hard work and had underestimated himself and going after more when what he had was perfection already.

  He hoped she was dreaming of better things, better places, a world where there wasn’t so much horror, where Angels couldn’t be broken. He had got her out here, only to find her slipping away from him. He wished he could dream with her now and placed a hand gently on top of her head, trying to absorb her dreams through his skin. He wanted to be somewhere soft and silent where the dark could not touch them. He wished he could dive inside her mind and swim there with her in a soft, warm liquid existence where only the moment existed for both of them. Then he took an axe from the wall and cleanly took off her head at the neck. She would be at peace now. He knelt down and took her head in his hands and wept for a very long time on his knees, his forehead pressed to hers.

  By noon the next day, he emerged from the barn, worn and starving in the harsh bright sunlight, just as he had so many years ago. Back then, when he was eighteen, he had staggered to the house in desperate search of food and vengeance. As he walked to the house now, he remembered every step he had taken back then. He had pushed the front door open, gone straight to the bedroom where Madeleine slept and used the razor on her as she took an afternoon nap. He didn’t recall getting in to Marie’s room, but he remembered how warm her blood felt and her eyes blazing defiantly at him in a mix of hatred and disbelief that he had somehow managed to escape and come for his rec
koning. His Aunts were Demons, as evil and twisted as the ones he had seen painted on the wall of that church as he been sodomized by the Priest. He would find the holy man later and exact a similar vengeance.

  As his Aunts had laid dying, he went to the kitchen and ate until he passed out, tearing hunks of bread from the fresh loaf on the sideboard and drinking fresh clean water from the tap that tasted like paradise after the filth he had been forced to drink in the barn for years. He sat and watched the sunlight shine through the window in a stark white beam, bathing the table in a pure and pristine light where he sat. That was a lifetime ago and he had come a long way since then. He remembered that time as the day he had been reborn, birthing himself back in to the world through blood and pain. And tonight, he would achieve the very thing he had been born to gift to the world.

  He wondered what it would be like to have Lara McBride out here, where it would be just the two of them, implacable forces of nature that would not yield or bend. He felt sure she would come for him. Perhaps the unveiling of his Masterpiece and her arrival in his life was meant to be and they had been playing out a grand game designed by the Fates that he had been a fool to think he had any control over. Perhaps she could answer the question that had haunted him- was Heaven or Hell the stronger force? He had to know. It had been seared in to the front of his mind since he had arrived at the farm as a child. Perhaps she would help him find that answer. Perhaps he would help her find the answer to her own existence.

  Perhaps out here, in the dark of the barn, they would find each other.

  Part Three

  Heaven And Hell

  Chapter Fifty One

  Lara watched the Tactical Team gearing up in the squad room. They were carrying a larger array of weaponry this time than when she had first encountered them by the river. There were sniper rifles with night vision scopes, infra red goggles, flashbang grenades and a lot of side arms. It was the same team, all of them pumped up and ready to go. They seemed eager to make amends for what had happened last time. She felt they had taken what had happened to her by the river as a personal affront and now wanted to make amends- after all, what good was a Tactical Team if they couldn’t protect one Officer? For that purpose, they had a determination about them now that was razor sharp and focused on protecting her at all costs. They had equipped her with another earpiece, microphone and camera. The GPS tracker was a button on her lapel. This time, there would be little chance of Guillotine getting her to remove any of it. Normally, the team would muster and gear up in their own area, but the Team Leader wanted Lara to be there with them so they could equip her. He thought if she saw they were bringing their best, it might make her feel more secure. She appreciated the gesture at least.

  Brouchard was checking his pistol and securing his Kevlar vest behind her. She was already wearing hers. The Team Leader had put it on her himself. Brouchard looked at Lara.

  “You should have a gun,” he said.

  “Glad we finally agree.”

  “I have the one you were using yesterday. You understand, officially, I cannot give you a weapon, but if you were to look in my desk you might find something of interest, with two spare clips. Where did you get it, by the way?”

  “Friends in low places.”

  Lara headed for his office and saw Jason step inside the room. The Tactical Team looked him over without missing a beat, continuing to load up.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, genuinely shocked to see him. She had expected him to be home all day, nursing a wicked hangover before reaching for another bottle of Scotch. The man continually surprised her.

  “You said you’d call me. You didn’t. I came down to see what’s going. So, what’s going on?” he asked.

  “We know where he is and we’re going after him. You should go home and let us do our job.”

  “I want to help. And fuck you for cutting me out of everything after what we’ve been through.”

  He looked at the wall and saw that missing persons pictures that had been in the middle of the display had been replaced with enlarged photos of what looked like an art gallery. Red marker had been used to circle the exits and numbers had been assigned to the vantage and breeching points.

  Lara motioned for Jason to follow her to Brouchard’s office. She opened the desk drawer and, sure enough, there was the pistol the Motorcycle Cop had taken from her the night before. And two new clips, fully loaded. Damn, that Frenchman was growing on her. She checked the clip, slapped it back inside and racked the slide, putting a round in the chamber, then clicked the safety on and put the pistol in her rear waistband.

  “You’re not going to leave are you?” she asked Jason.

  “No,” he said, honestly. She believed him.

  “Then we better get you a vest.”

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Guillotine could barely contain himself as he stood in the gallery office on the top floor of the building watching the news. They were still running the story about the murdered hotel maid and a missing American businesswoman. They showed a photograph of the maid and one of Beth. He waited for a picture of himself, but the program moved on to talk about politics. There was no picture of him. He was expecting to see a Police sketch artist’s rendering at least, maybe even some blurry image from a hotel security camera he had missed. Lara McBride had seen him, so had the British man. Either of them could have easily given a detailed description to come up with the most rudimentary sketch of his face. He had left the portrait of Beth in her room on purpose. And the flyer in his coat in the garage. He had practically given them directions and yet here he stood, a free man. He wasn’t sure what to think. He was uneasy. The attention was necessary. Lara McBride being a focus of the media was an added bonus, meaning the cameras should be here. But they were not. He was in unknown territory. The game he had been playing with her had changed and he felt exhilarated by that.

  Claude was fussing around by the desk behind him, handling a last minute phone call to a magazine to make sure they had sent someone over to cover the show. Guillotine stood in wonder at the ridiculous little man and how he had no idea who was stood before him. Guillotine thought of a broken mirror, all the slivers of glass reflecting their own light, having their own purpose, unaware of the others around them. He felt that best described his world right now and the people in it, all shining their own little lights.

  “Are you excited?” Claude trilled, hanging up and approaching him with two glasses of champagne.

  “Very,” he said.

  “As you should be! I have waited for this day for so long!”

  “As have I, Claude,” he allowed himself a smile and sipped his champagne. He was getting anxious to get out in to the main area, watch the people admiring his work, to hear their thoughts and see their reactions.

  “Let us toast to your success! To a great artist, the likes of which the world has never seen.” Claude was glowing, a twinkle in his eyes and his cheeks were blushing from three glasses of champagne he had downed already before Guillotine had even arrived.

  “Let’s go meet my public,” Guillotine said and walked out the door with Claude following like a loyal dog.

  The gallery was a converted slaughterhouse. Made of stone, cold to the touch and steeped in blood and time, it was the perfect venue for unveiling his work. The upper level looked down on the main floor with a wraparound walkway giving access to the offices. There were two stairwells on either end of the floor, the whole place having somewhat of an open plan feel. Below them, the exhibition had been arranged like a maze- per Guillotine’s instructions- and the workers had, indeed, followed his designs for the exhibit. Each wall of the maze displayed a different piece from his collection. People milled around the exhibition, some of them stood in shock and wonder, unable to take their eyes from the drawings and paintings that hung on the walls in strategically placed displays. Claude had done well to attract a fair sized crowd and now Guillotine, the grand designer, could look down upon these people and d
rink in their feelings as their eyes gazed upon his work. Glasses clinked, champagne was poured, people were talking about him. This was, of course, the appetizer for the main course and it tasted better than he imagined. His eyes kept flicking to the door, waiting for the authorities to come through at any moment. That would be fine, as long as they brought the news cameras. He intended to stay on the upper level, out of the crowd. It would not end here. Within twenty-four hours he envisioned his face on the front page of every newspaper in the world, on every news website, his name on the lips of every person. He would not be in the shadows any longer.

  “Would you like to give some interviews?” Claude was asked with excitement. He could not describe to Claude what was about to happen tonight and how glorious it would be because the man would never understand. It would be like explaining philosophy to a houseplant.

  “Go down there and charm them for me, Claude. Tell them there is more to come.”

  Claude swallowed, his voice cracking in excitement, speaking low as though to be any louder would destroy the conversation.

  “It’s ready? Your masterpiece is ready?”

  Guillotine nodded. Claude almost fell to his knees. He took Guillotine’s hand, his palms clammy with sweat, trembling from being so close to greatness.

  “May I see it?” Claude pleaded. “Oh, let me see it, please, I beg you, I’ll do anything, just let me be the first.”

  Guillotine looked in Claude’s eyes; saw the hope, the desperation, and the belief in him. He clasped the little man’s hands in his own and whispered in a tone that, to Claude, was like god’s breath moving over his face.

  “Claude, you are going to be a part of it.”

  Chapter Fifty Three

  The Tactical Team had pulled up in their van across the street from the courtyard that led to the gallery. Two of them had got out and taken elevated positions on the rooftop of the building adjacent. They watched the courtyard and the street through the night vision scopes on their sniper rifles. Brouchard had parked his car at the end of the street and got out with Lara and Jason.