In college, I had respected my grandmother’s wishes to major in law, but my heart had never been in it. I’d always dreamed of a career in art history and managed to fill as many of my elective hours with as many art and architecture classes as I was allowed. One of the more interesting classes I ever took was a study of art related criminology, in which we learned not only why art was stolen and what professionals looked for to determine forgeries, but also signs of stolen art.
Lying in the middle of the table was an oil painting that had obviously been stolen, though not very carefully. The edges of the canvas were rough, suggesting that whoever had cut it out of the frame had done so in a hurry, meaning that this painting hadn’t been intended for the black market. Not surprising, as I didn’t immediately recognize it as a Picasso, Rembrandt, or similarly coveted artist. The subject matter was striking in that it seemed familiar, however it stirred up feelings of discomfort that I couldn’t put my finger on.
The picture depicted a nude woman sitting at a dressing table, brushing out her long blond hair. It wasn’t until I noticed the macabre scene reflected in the mirror that I realized where I had seen the painting before.
“Oh my god,” I blurted, instinctively turning away from the image.
“Disturbing, isn’t it?” Evan commented. “I can’t find a single report of a stolen painting that matches this description. I was hoping you might be able to pull from your art history and help us identify it.”
“Oh, I know what this is,” I said with a shudder. “It won’t be reported missing because it was supposed to have been destroyed almost one hundred years ago, along with most of the others in the series.”
“Are you sure it’s not just similar to something else? Maybe by the same artist?” Evan pressed.
“Positive. The day I learned about the life and art of Erwin Arthur is one I won’t forget. Do a search for his name and the ‘Lucy’ series.”
I turned back to the painting while the others gathered around Evan’s computer or pulled out their own phones. Erwin Arthur was a New England portrait artist who gained popularity at the beginning of the twentieth century. He was an average painter whose portraits were not exceptionally realistic, but he would hide symbols and clues about the lives and personalities of his subjects throughout his art. His works were highly regarded conversation pieces that the rich would commission simply for the novelty of having what amounted to a glorified Where’s Waldo painting hanging over the mantel.
In 1912, he was commissioned to do a portrait of Lucy Havre-Courtney, the wife of a wealthy Boston banker. Arthur immediately began an unhealthy infatuation with the woman that ended in her murder and his suicide more than a decade later, in 1923. When his studio was searched, police found journal entries depicting Arthur’s descent into madness, evidence that he had been stalking and terrorizing the woman who had made clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. They also found dozens of portraits he had done of Lucy, each with his trademarked hidden clues, and each clue more disturbing than the last.
The painting in Evan’s office was titled, ‘Lucy Will Die First,’ and it was the last thing Arthur ever painted. Not long after it was finished, he murdered Lucy and then took his own life. In the portrait’s mirror, Lucy’s arm hangs limp, her hairbrush fallen to the ground, and a disembodied male arm pulls a straight razor across her throat. I remember my professor mentioning that many historians theorized that Arthur may have tortured and killed other women in order to capture the realistic disfigurement of expression caused by terror. Daring another glance at the horrific scene in the mirror, I could believe it.
All of the paintings were thought to have been destroyed at the request of the victim’s family, but in the sixties, a man who had been one of the police officers responsible for carrying out the destruction admitted to keeping three of the less horrific portraits, as well as Erwin Arthur’s journal. All items had been sent to a private museum in New York, but last I had heard, they were kept because of their historical significance and were never hung in the gallery. This painting was not one of them.
There were several stifled expressions of disgust and horror as the others read the wiki entry on Arthur. I had had the same reaction when I learned this in school, yet despite my instinctive revulsion, I still felt a guilty sense of excitement over being able to study a piece that was thought to have been lost.
“Well, that’s officially the creepiest thing I’ve read today,” Holly said with an apologetic look. “I can see why you didn’t want to just tell us about it.”
“I don’t like it one bit,” my father added. “Unlike the other clues, this one seems to be a direct threat against you, Lucy.”
“I’m inclined to agree with Isaac,” Evan said. “I think it might be a good idea to keep you close to the city center, or maybe reassign your partner.”
As soon as I recognized the painting, I had been anticipating this argument. Fortunately, I was ready with a rebuttal.
“Now hang on a minute. Don’t start going into over-protective parent mode on me,” I said to my father before turning back to Evan. “I think it’s safe to say that I haven’t exactly been your ‘secret’ weapon since the first night I hit the streets. Sure, the ES, Daughters, and all other vampire groups know about me and yes, they’ve all been after me in one capacity or another for a long time now. Nothing has changed. I don’t intend to hide now just because someone sent us a picture of a woman who was murdered a century ago who also happens to share my rather common name. Besides, I’m not the only one these threats have been leveled at. Wasn’t the body found last night hanging over the vandalized grave of your great grandfather?”
“That it was,” Evan admitted. “I’ve suspected that most, if not all, of these were intended to be threats against us. Though if that’s the case, some are rather vague.”
“How do we know these other clues aren’t each intended for a different person?” I asked, gesturing to the array of odd objects on the table.
“I was thinking the exact same thing just a second ago,” Mike added, coming over to the table and picking up the first item that was found: an ornate broach in the shape of a Celtic knot. It had been found on the body of a dead vampire about a month ago. When I say on the body, I mean jabbed into the center of the forehead, which we would have had to have been idiots not to notice. “Johnny mentioned that this particular design was familiar because his grandmother had them all over her house. It’s supposed to be lucky, like a horseshoe over the doorway.”
“Um, oddly enough, it’s apparently called a Dara knot,” Holly noted, showing us a picture of a similar symbol on her phone. “So it might be meant for her.”
“I think the name might be a coincidence,” my father said, picking up the next item, a small figurine of a Minotaur. “Found this one next, didn’t we? Hugh’s nickname in the military was The Bull.”
“And the next was bloody ballet slippers,” I added, my heart sinking to my stomach. “Saba was a dancer when she was attacked. They’re going in order of recruitment.”
“I admit that our records have been compromised in the past, but some of this information is personal. We certainly don’t have a file on the décor of Johnny’s grandmother’s house,” Evan remarked with a frown. “Though the next one fits,” he added, indicating the Vietnam era dog tags. Dennis, the next hunter to be recruited, had fought in Vietnam. “But the next one has me stumped. Carlos was Hispanic and this is clearly a Greek coin.”
The four of us exchanged uncomfortable glances, having understood what Evan missed. Finally, my father cleared his throat. “Ancient Greeks put a piece of silver under the tongue of the dead as payment for passage to the underworld.” Carlos had been killed just a few months earlier during the raid on Bluebeard’s compound. A heavy silence hung in the office until Evan spoke again.
“Michelle was recruited next. This one was the guy in the Tigers mascot costume, right? I know for a fact that she never went to LSU. In fact, I don’t think she
went to college at all.”
“Black belts in the martial arts she studies are called tigers,” I piped up, remembering that Michelle had mentioned this while she was teaching me some attacks during my training. “Who was next?” I asked, picking up the ring that had creeped me out since we found it. It was a delicately detailed snake who was swallowing its own tail.
“Miles,” Evan said. “But we, well he and I, had already assumed that there was significance behind this one.” Evan’s remark earned him a collective confused look from all of us. “This was one of the symbols used by the branch of military he worked for prior to joining us.” The finality of the statement made it clear that this was all of the information that we were going to get out of Evan about the mystery of Miles’ military involvement. The next item was a small crown, the meaning of which became clear as soon as I learned that Edgar was recruited next. Edgar’s teen years were spent running with a gang called the Kings before turning to the military to straighten his life out.
Following that was a miniature cornhusk doll, which baffled me, but everyone else immediately recognized it because Lance had played football in Nebraska prior to his brief military career. When I asked what football had to do with dolls, several eyes were rolled at me, as if I should have known there was a football team named after corn. Lou had been recruited next, and it was well known that she could trace her ancestry back to the famous Lafitte pirate family, so the corpse found behind the Blacksmith Pub, wearing a cheap eye patch, was easy. But the next object, a small marble pyramid, was baffling.
“Um, so is Andre a member of the Illuminati?” I asked Evan, who chuckled in response.
“Not exactly. Andre’s paternal grandparents were Egyptian. Garnier was the name they chose when they became French citizens,” Evan explained. I didn't know this, but it did explain the striking contrast between Andre's dark features and Evan's blonde hair and blue eyes.
"Well now, that just leaves this little guy," said Mike, pointing to a figurine of a pirate. "Rather rude, don't you think?"
It took me a moment to figure out why the pirate, meant for Jordan, was supposed to be rude. After all, he was Lou’s nephew. But when I noticed the peg leg, I couldn't help but laugh. "Sorry," I said sheepishly, "It is rude, but Jordan would probably think it's hilarious." Jordan wore a prosthetic leg after losing most of his to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. I hadn't known this for the first six months that we worked together and finding out had been a surprise, especially considering that he was one of the more agile members of the team. It certainly didn’t stop him from beating my time on the obstacle course every single time we trained together.
"And obviously, the painting is Lucy, so that's the last of the original hunters, followed by our fearless leader, tying the pieces together," Mike noted. "I'm guessing whoever is doing this is trying to scare us by showing that they know who we are, but we don't know them."
"And that they have access not only to classified government information, but personal stuff as well," Holly added.
"Maybe it is the government," I suggested. "Maybe it's a cheap scare tactic meant to make us think we are being watched."
“I think everyone in the government knows better than to try scare tactics against me,” Evan said with a frown. “But given the order in which the message was delivered, I think I can shed some light onto the mysterious nature of these threats.”
He moved over to the wall and switched on the large monitor. The pictures my father had taken of the crime scene earlier that morning appeared. A body hung from a low tree branch, its feet grazing the top of the crypt. Scrawled across the marble, in red paint, at least I hoped it was paint, were the words, “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.” It was a tired cliché that I probably saw crop up in my Facebook feed at least once a week, but somehow, seeing it in the context of a threat breathed new and terrifying life into the quote.
“There’s a reason my grandfather had our family name Americanized,” Evan told us. “My great grandfather, Horace Conneauroix, had been a notorious gangster and land shark who ran afoul with a rival group of equally despicable characters. Unfortunately for Horace, the head of the rival organization, coincidentally also a descendant of the infamous Lafitte brotherhood, had stronger political connections, making him nearly untouchable. But that never stopped Horace from trying to gain the upper hand. At one point, he had the bright idea to hire away his rival’s second in command. Turns out, all he managed to do was invite a spy for his greatest enemy into his inner circle. Within a week, every one of his closest confidants was murdered, working their way up the chain of command until only my great grandfather was left. By this point, there wasn’t a man in New Orleans who hadn’t been swindled, or known someone who had been swindled, by the notorious Horace Conneauroix. Needless to say, nearly half the town showed up for the impromptu lynching party while the law conveniently looked the other way.”
Evan switched off the monitor with a sigh. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it turned out that the government picked a rotten apple out of my family tree to use as a scare tactic. But to be honest, aside from deliberately withholding information, the Department of Defense has been more than cooperative. No, what this looks to be is a real threat that we need to take seriously. We already know that a vampire organization, possibly The Eyes of the Sun or Daughters of Darkness, possibly another entity all together, has had complete access to classified government information including our own sealed files. We know nothing about them, but they know all about us, and they’ve issued a threat. I fully expect that there will be attacks aimed at every one of my hunters and perhaps everyone who has had dealings with my organization, and I will not take them lightly. I’m calling an emergency meeting tonight to discuss the findings with the rest of the team.”
“Do you think this is something that we should inform GTAC of?” Mike asked. “They’re expecting our weekly report in about two hours.”
GTAC stood for Genetic Terrorism Action Committee, which was the vague name given to the newest incarnation of the shadow organization that dealt with the vampire threat. Every time the organization was found to be corrupt, it was shut down and a new organization with a new name sprang up. This one was headed by Margaret Cervantes, a former NSA agent, which in itself was enough to make me distrustful. We were already taking bets on how long this one would last.
“Not yet,” Evan said thoughtfully. “I’m not convinced that Cervantes has everything as secure as she thinks she does at this point. If it comes to that, I’ll request a meeting in person to discuss it.”
"Let me know if you learn anything else before this evening, Evan," my father said. "I've got to get this info over to the chief and poor Lucy looks like she's about to keel over."
"Hm? Yeah, I'm pretty exhausted, but I doubt I'm going to sleep after this kind of information overload." To be honest, I wasn't tired at all, but my head had begun pounding once again and I was having trouble concentrating on the story that Evan had told.
When I got home, I was ready to pass out, but to my surprise, Andre was in the living room, half watching Judge Judy and half asleep.
“I can’t believe you watch this crap,” I said as I settled myself next to him on the sofa.
“Why not? It’s mesmerizing,” he replied, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “What was up with Evan?”
“Emergency meeting tonight. Turns out the clues we’ve been finding have been veiled death threats against us.”
“I thought we already assumed as much?”
“We did, but we confirmed it. Evan will probably send you the info soon, but right now, I’ve got other ideas.”
“Such as?”
I leaned over and kissed him lightly. “I couldn’t help but notice that we’re both home, both awake, and blessedly alone for the foreseeable future. Don’t you think it would be wise to take advantage of this remarkable timing?”
A wicked smile formed on his lips. “I think I am quite agreeable to
that suggestion.”
Unfortunately, we were only halfway up the stairs when Andre’s phone rang. “Ignore it,” I whispered. “It’s probably Evan, and I’ve already claimed you for the next hour at least.”
“It’s the school,” he informed me with a sigh. I held out hope that it was an automated call, telling us about a teacher conference meeting or something, but after thirty seconds, I heard the words I had hoped to avoid.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be right there.” He ended the call and turned apologetically to me. “I’m so sorry, Ben’s got head lice. They’re sending him home.”
“I’ll run to the drug store so you don’t have to drag him around,” I offered, mentally cursing our bad luck.
“Thank you, Lucy. I’ll make it up to you,” he said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek as he left.
“No problem,” I mumbled, only to find that he was already out the door. With a heavy sigh, I shoved my feet back into my shoes, grateful at least that there was still half a pot of coffee on the stove.
Chapter 3
“I hate being right. You owe me fifty dollars.”
I stuck my phone back in my pocket as another request came through for a pick up. It was the fifth in the last hour. Layla, my current partner, just shook her head in exasperation.
“Okay fine, but Lucy, you’re blowing this out of proportion,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “You can’t tell me you aren’t just as freaked out as the rest of us. Someone wants you dead.”
As a matter of fact, I was freaked out, but not because my life was in danger. Well, that wasn’t completely true. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t have my share of sleepless nights. Anxiety attacks, frequent nightmares, and a host of other post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms were an unfortunate side effect of our dangerous occupation. If it wasn’t for regular meetings with Dara, I’d probably be a basket case. But I had to admit, the best way to keep from having constant panic attacks was to find something else to obsessively worry about.
The Eyes of the Sun: The Complete Trilogy Page 65