The Montague Portrait

by Matt Drabble

  He reached the glass door and was relieved to see daylight streaming in, but equally concerned to see two hulking silhouettes standing guard. Back in the office, his masculine pride had taken a hit during his rescue, and he was determined to restore the balance.

  As he ran, he snatched a fire extinguisher off the wall in one swift movement that was more luck than judgement. Smiling to himself he reached the door and didn’t slow down; instead he hurled the extinguisher through the glass. The two orderlies staggered away in shock and a second later he hit the door with his dipped shoulder and exploded through in a shower of shattered and scattered glass shards. Hoping the woman behind him had followed suit, he slowed to check, but suddenly she passed him with fleet feet flying as she ran for the exit.

  Shouts and screams sound-tracked their escape as desperate hands reached out with grasping brushing fingers. Almost as soon as they started running, they were outside – free if not completely clear.

  ‘My car’s over here,’ Travis shouted as he broke to the right.

  ‘Mine!’ the woman yelled in a tone that demanded obedience.

  Travis opened his mouth to tell her where to go, but he found himself following her regardless of what his mind was dictating.

  They hit her car which was a small non-descript three door, and she wrenched the unlocked door open. He leapt into the passenger seat beside her and then they were driving away in a gravel churning cloud as if the devil himself was chasing them.

  ‘Slow down,’ Travis shouted at his driver-saviour-kidnapper.

  The woman kept her foot pressed firmly to the metal and the engine groaned in protest.

  ‘Dammit, slow down before you get us arrested,’ he said.

  This time she took note and eased the breakneck pace until the scenery slowed to just a flashing blur.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, taking the very question from his mouth.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The flame-haired woman turned to him for longer than seemed safe while driving.

  ‘My name is Charlotte Goode.’

  The surname sounded vaguely familiar, but still struggling through the dizzying events of the past hour, he couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Travis Parker,’ he answered in a matching deadpan tone.

  As the distance grew between them and the retirement home, they sat in an evaluating silence, carefully eyeing each other within the small car.

  ‘Well?’ they both said together.

  Travis relaxed as the awkwardness between them warmed up a degree or two. Fighting to suppress the ghost of a smile that crept to his lips, he noticed when he glanced at her again, that she was doing the same.

  He eventually gave in. ‘I’m … I used to be an insurance investigator. I’ve been hired to track down a painting that may or may not have been destroyed.’

  ‘Who hired you and why?’ she asked, a little more softly.

  Travis considered his usual client confidentiality, but decided that this case was anything but usual. ‘A guy named Vargas. Some insurance firm paid out on a huge policy after the painting went up in a fire. But now they’re worried that the painting was never destroyed and they want their money or the painting back.’

  Despite the hair-raising events back at the home, he was starting to feel … well … to feel something for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Ever since the funeral he had drifted through his life like a ghost haunting himself and his surroundings, never connected, never really there, and barely existing.

  ‘Now would you like to tell me just what the hell your part is in all this?’ he asked, glancing across at her to see her smiling.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘for one thing it looks like saving your butt.’

  ‘I think there was a little mutual butt saving,’ Travis said, barely above an embarrassed mumble.

  She silenced him further with an eyebrow-raised stare.

  ‘Who the hell were those guys anyway?’ he asked into the gap in the conversation.

  ‘How am I supposed to know? They were your playmates.’

  ‘Then where exactly did you spring from and why have you been following me?’

  Charlotte looked at him in surprise, ‘You knew I was following you?’

  ‘It’s the hair,’ Travis said, enjoying his own smug smile for the first time since he had been rescued. ‘That flashing red mane is always going to get you noticed. In your game, you should get a haircut or at least a hat.’

  ‘Well now, aren’t you the smart one!’

  Travis sat back in his seat relishing the moment.

  ‘So smart that you were tied to a chair and about to get skewered by a mad doctor,’ she finished triumphantly.

  Travis’s moment didn’t last long.

  ‘And you had to be rescued by a girl,’ she added smugly.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Travis said as his memory finally kicked in. ‘Goode? You said your name was Charlotte Goode? The Goodes are the family that cashed in the insurance policy for the Montague Portrait. It was your family the company want investigated. They think that that your – I’m guessing parents – set the fire, hid the painting and filed a phoney claim –’

  ‘There was no lie involved,’ Charlotte said, her voice low, deep and far harder than the expression on her face. ‘My parents both died that night. The fire destroyed the painting, killed my father, and my mother was …’ her voice trailed away.

  Travis looked at the woman sitting next to him. Her face was suddenly set like stone and he recognised the look of all-consuming grief that he had witnessed a thousand times in his own mirror.

  They sat in silence and Travis could only ponder just what to do next. He knew that this whole thing was taking a decidedly sinister turn and the smart thing to do would be to walk away. But there was always Vargas, and more importantly the promise of funds that would allow him to revive Amy’s gallery and secure her legacy. Despite his brief flash of feeling alive again, he still wasn’t far enough back to care enough about his own wellbeing.

  ‘So what exactly are you looking for in all this?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘I want that painting,’ she said.

  ‘But I thought you said the painting was destroyed in the fire?’

  ‘It was.’

  Travis shook his head, already tired of enigmatic meanderings.

  ‘So who were you seeing at the home?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Some old guy who used to work at a gallery back in the nineteen-thirties. He reckoned that Hugo Montague somehow leapt from his painting, possessed the guard, and forced him to storm home with an added limp no less, and murder his wife.’

  Travis waited for a laugh from Charlotte that never arrived.

  ‘Did you hear what I said? Possession from a painting? Pretty nuts, right?’ He grinned, but Charlotte remained thoughtful and silent.

  Travis sighed. This was getting him nowhere. ‘Anyway, next thing I know, some guy whacks me from behind and then I’m tied up in Dr Doom’s lair about to get tortured.’

  ‘What did they want from you?’

  ‘They wanted to know who sent me and why I was asking the old guy about the Montague Portrait. Uh, thanks by the way,’ he mumbled uncomfortably, remembering his rescue.

  ‘Welcome,’ she mumbled in return, just as uncomfortably.

  ‘By the way, where exactly are we going?’ Travis asked, gazing out of the car window at the unfamiliar countryside.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ Charlotte admitted.

  ‘Well it’s about time we started,’ Travis said.

  ‘We?’ Charlotte raised a surprised eyebrow.

  ‘Well I’m guessing that as you’re going to follow me around anyway, we may as well split the fuel bill.’ Travis smiled, the grin feeling unusual on his lips.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AGENDAS

  Telfer Vargas stood astride his dominium like a Greek god surveying his minions on the board. He was a man of power and influence, broad of shoulder and of
mind. He was looking out of the thirtieth floor window of his building – his throne sat high above mere mortals. His office was a testament to his majesty; the room was encased in wealth with art dripping from every surface. His desk alone was a 1760 Goddard Chippendale-style Secretary desk, and had cost him $12,100,000 at Christies in a ferocious bidding war with a Japanese business man.

  Things were finally progressing, he reflected as he linked his hands behind his back, his chest inflated and his chin tilted up. He had a lifetime of patience ingrained into his bones, a lifetime of watching and waiting. There was only one piece that had eluded him, one piece that had taunted him from afar, drowned in myth and legend, one piece that was his life’s work. The Montague portrait had forever mocked him from a distance, forever placed within the hands of the unworthy, hanging on walls under the gaze of the undeserving, favouring them with its blessings that were rightfully his to possess.

  He clenched his powerful fists, and his manicured nails cut bloody half moon grooves in his palms.

  It would be his soon.

  It would soon be home.

  ----------

  Chris Taylor sat pensively, his elbows on his desk and hands clasped, his thumbs resting against his mouth. His mind was troubled; he was being pulled in several directions at once. His loyalty lay in more than one place and he had no way of determining which way to turn for the best. Janey should be his main priority; after all he had paid a terrible price to obtain her. She was desperate for him to play his assigned part and leave his emotions at the door. But his fevered brow could not tame itself for long enough to pull away completely.

  ----------

  Dr Gabriel Lochay stood holding the telephone receiver with angry white knuckles as he barked instructions down the line.

  ‘Travis Parker,’ he said, ‘and some redhead who burst in out of nowhere. I’ve sent an image from the CCTV cameras. I want her name and I want their backgrounds on my desk by this afternoon. Not tomorrow, not next week, today Godammit. Today!’ he roared as he slammed the handset down.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FORWARD MOTION

  Charlotte drove in silence for several miles while Parker dozed; her mind was racing as so much had happened in such a short space of time. She had been tracking Vargas, then had switched to Parker, followed him to a retirement home and had to launch a daring but somewhat violent rescue. She had surreptitiously edged her way around Shady Oaks while Parker was conducting his interview. She was unable to get close enough to overhear their conversation but she managed to witness Parker entering the home. She had slipped in through a fire exit door that a couple of nurses had propped open as they snuck out for a smoke break, and was just in time to see Parker being dragged unconscious into an office. It had been the mantra of her life ever since watching her father murder her mother and her house burn down, to be ready for anything. She was adept at physical confrontations, and had little fear of stepping into the unknown. Whatever Parker was looking for at the home, it was sufficient for him to be rendered unconscious. She had rescued him mainly to initiate her own interrogation; she couldn’t afford to let his newly gained knowledge be lost.

  She felt uncomfortable at the idea of working with him. He seemed solid enough and had recovered quickly to be of use during their escape, but it had been a lifetime since she had existed alongside anyone. She grew up alone, bouncing around from one distant relative to the next, each only interested in her parents’ estate, and all finding their interest in her waning when they discovered that the money was ring fenced securely in her name until she turned eighteen. Her life’s course had forever altered from that fateful night; any thoughts or dreams of her own destiny were shattered and redirected.

  She turned to Parker, ‘So what did you learn and where exactly do we go from here?’

  ‘I got a name – Pierce Barnes.’

  ‘Who’s that?

  ‘Don’t know yet, but I know someone who can help. I’ll need you to pull over so I can make a call in private.’

  ‘You don’t trust me? After I pulled your ass out of the fire?’

  ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘‘I don’t even know you.’ He looked directly at her for the first time. It was a look that gave her a weird but not unpleasant chill.

  ----------

  She slowed down and drove into a deserted picnic area. The grass was well mowed and maintained, with wooden bench tables that were clear of the graffiti etchings of bored adolescent minds. It was an agreeable spot with a view stretching out over the open countryside.

  Travis exited the car and pulled out the phone that Vargas gave him. He had promised himself to try not to involve Chris if he could help it, but all he had to go on was a name. He was stuck with a stranger to whom he admittedly owed a debt, and currently had no access to any research facilities. He needed Chris.

  Before he could dial his number the phone jumped into life and he almost dropped it in surprise.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, Mr Parker.’ It was the unmistakable deep rumbling voice of Vargas. ‘How goes our little project?’

  Even at this distance Travis could feel his intimidating presence. It was a domineering voice from a domineering man.

  ‘What the hell have you got me into, Vargas?’ Travis said, striving for an authoritative tone. ‘It’s all kinds of crazy out here.’

  Vargas chuckled merrily. ‘I don’t remember telling you that this was going to be easy. I’m afraid that you are actually going to have to earn your money.’

  ‘Maybe I should just walk away,’ Travis said, almost to himself, knowing that he could do no such thing.

  ‘Oh, I don’t see that as any kind option, Mr Parker.’

  Travis didn’t know whether to take that as a threat or a mindreading trick.

  ‘Just tell me what you have found so far,’ Vargas ordered.

  Vargas both irritated and scared him. ‘Not much yet. One name led to some rather uncomfortable situations and confrontations, which eventually led to another name,’ Travis answered, unwilling to offer more.

  ‘That’s not exactly a comprehensive report,’ Vargas said with a menacing tone.

  ‘Well, it’s the best I can do at such short notice. Why don’t you just let me get on with the job you’re paying me for?’

  ‘All right, Mr Parker,’ Vargas said, his voice dropping several degrees. ‘Just don’t forget whose tune you dance to.’

  Travis was about to cut the connection when he suddenly had a thought. ‘Did you send someone to babysit me? Perhaps a certain red-haired somebody?’

  ‘Who? Is she with you now?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you trust her, Parker. Don’t you dare –’

  ‘I guess not then,’ Travis interrupted with a smirk. ‘It’s been a pleasure as always, Vargas. I’ll catch you later.’ He pushed the red button on the phone.

  With a lot to think about, he sat down on the damp wood of one of the picnic benches. Despite asking for a little privacy, he could sense Charlotte Goode’s burning gaze through the trees. If she wasn’t put on his tail by Vargas, then what exactly was her part in all this? He had tried to sound magnanimous when he suggested they work together, but in essence he had wanted to keep a closer eye on her. She was obviously more than capable of handling herself. The fracas in Dr Gabriel Lochay’s office had proved that.

  And just what stake did the good doctor have in all this? His mind was buzzing with too many questions: What was Vargas’s agenda and why did Chris want him to stay away from this case? For that matter just what kind of case was he working on? He had been told a tall tale of Hugo Montague inducing a man into committing murder; a painting that supposedly was destroyed in a fire that had killed Charlotte’s parents. He had a mind full of questions and it was time to start finding some answers.

  He presumed that if he used the Vargas phone, the big man would be monitoring the numbers that he called, or was that just paranoid thinking on his part? He suddenly felt more tired and drained than he could ever remember.
He closed his eyes and thought of Amy; she was his rock and his centre, and he swore to himself that he would not let her down – not again.

  Taking a deep breath he plunged back into deep waters: he punched in the number for Chris and waited. Normally Chris answered promptly, but the tone rang and rang. He was about to hang up when Chris picked up.

  ‘What do you want, Parker?’

  It was a relief that his mind wasn’t quite as fried from the blow on the head as he had first feared, for he immediately realised that Chris knew this number even though he had only just been given the phone by Vargas. He kept that nugget to himself and maintained a neutral and sociable tone despite his friend’s decidedly frosty manner.

  ‘Just a little help on a couple of names, my man.’

  ‘I told you that I can’t help you on this one,’ Chris whispered, as though he was worried about who was listening.

  ‘Dammit, Chris, we’ve been friends for over twenty years and now you’re just going to cut me loose without any explanation?’

  His friend was silent for a moment and when he finally spoke it was with such a deep unhappiness that it tugged at Travis’s heartstrings.

  ‘What do you need?’ Chris asked wearily.

  ‘Two names,’ Travis replied, quickly jumping through the open door. ‘Charlotte Goode and Pierce Barnes. Everything you can find. That’s all I need, I promise.’

  Travis held his breath as he pictured his friend pondering over whether or not to comply with the request.

  ‘Okay,’ Chris finally said. ‘I’ll get you what I can find. Where are you staying?’

  Travis rattled off the address of the B&B he’d already booked on the drive down that morning. ‘Thanks, man, I really appreciate it,’ he said, but the line was already dead.

  He pocketed the phone and sat deep in thought. Whatever Chris’s reluctance to help him was, he wasn’t telling. The only secret they ever had between them was the details of what exactly Chris did for a living and just who exactly he did it for. His stomach churned at the idea of something standing between them, but for now he had no answers – no answers for anything.