Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  Blackmoor lifted one of Torie’s pieces out of the case. “This, of course, is different. There’s a purity here, a nugget of truth.” He turned it over in his hand. “And the sad part of it is, it doesn’t mean shit.

  “The people in the marketplace aren’t looking for truth, Garner. They’re too busy worshiping the golden calf. Lucky for me, too. I hammered one out just yesterday.” He leaned closer. He smelled more like a color or a taste than a fragrance. I wondered how that could be. I watched him carefully put Torie’s maquette back on the shelf.

  “So to answer your question. Was it difficult being around that much natural ability?” Blackmoor looked me squarely in the eyes. “No. Talent doesn’t scare me. I just keep on doing what I do, as fast as I can do it, all the time looking over my shoulder for the guy who can gild a better cow.” He moved away suddenly; and I found myself working for my next breath.

  His self-contempt had nearly suffocated me.

  TEN

  I spent most of Saturday with Temple, shopping for something for her to wear to Emory’s party. She didn’t mention the scrap book or Dane Blackmoor, and neither did I, but I had a niggling feeling that I owed her some kind of explanation. To offset my guilt, I paid more for her outfit than I should have.

  When we returned to the house, I noticed Jack’s car. “You had a couple of calls,” he said as soon as I walked into the office. “Ms. Gold buzzed at eleven to say that under no circumstances would Blackmoor’s videocassettes be made available to you.” He made a face. “Five minutes later, Blackmoor’s on the line. He wants you to know you may be getting a call from his attorney, but you’re to disregard what she says. You can look at any tape he has.”

  “Generous of him, especially since the only ones that really matter happen to be missing.” I walked over to the refrigerator and took out a Diet Coke. “How’d it go with Torie’s parents yesterday?”

  “They were pretty heartbreaking. They said they didn’t file a missing-persons report because Torie had been disappearing repeatedly for months ever since she was twelve. Anyway, it’s all here.” He pushed over a stack of papers and a micro-cassette. “I taped the interview and took notes.”

  That was not my way of working. I popped the can. The carbonation fizzled, dribbling over Jack’s research packet. He had a funny expression on his face.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Jack leaned across the desk eagerly. “On my way back from Scarsdale, I stopped in Manhattan to talk to a friend of mine down in Soho.” He paused. “I hope you don’t mind me taking that kind of initiative.”

  Initiative was good, I reminded myself. So why did I suddenly feel so pissed off? “Tell me what you found out,” I said.

  He looked disappointed. I knew he’d been hoping to draw out this moment, but I had forced his hand. “The upshot is,” he said, “before he started working for Blackmoor, Graham Hadary was employed by none other than Conrad Vestri.” Vestri was currently serving a life sentence for the sadomasochistic murders of two young men.

  A ragged line of adrenaline zigzagged through me. It must have shown, because Jack picked up the thread of the story, more confidently. “Hadary was never implicated in the deaths of those boys, but it came out at the trial that he was the talent scout. He’d meet some young stud at a disco or a bar, and then invite them to one of Vestri’s glittering affairs.”

  “Did you happen to find out anything about Roberto?”

  He flipped through his notes. “Roberto Jurgensen—or as his mommy and daddy originally named him, Robert Jackson. One of Hadary’s protégés.”

  “Who happens to the the person who introduced Torie Wood and Ann Houghton, and who knows how many others, to Dane Blackmoor.” This was sounding all too familiar.

  It was sounding really great.

  Dressed in her expensive new togs, with the silver peace chain I’d given her around her neck, Temple could’ve easily passed for seventeen. The thought was somehow depressing. I was glad she hadn’t put up a fuss about me driving her to and from the party.

  The phone rang as I was getting my keys. I picked up the extension in the hall. “Hey, lady,” said the voice. “We went dancing last night in my head. I apologize for stepping on your feet.”

  “Jeff?” My heart dropped through the floor, wedging itself into the foundation of the basement. “Jeff.” I sounded disoriented, even to myself. “Is…is everything all right?”

  On the other end, he laughed easily. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “it’s just—you got me at a bad time.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you I’m going back to school.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, tentatively.

  “Majoring in industrial engineering, with a minor in art, like I always wanted to.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ve got my portfolio up at Pratt, and MIT, and they wrote me back and said they’re really impressed.”

  I tried not to sound shocked. “Those are good schools,” I said. Good northern schools. Good schools up here, in the north.

  “The best,” Jeff agreed. “But I’m going to need a letter of recommendation. From someone who can vouch for my character. And, of course, you’re the first person—”

  I don’t know whether it was actually Jeff, or all the stuff with Blackmoor, but I suddenly felt avalanched by the past. Buried alive by it. Outside, in the car, Temple leaned on the horn. “I really need to go,” I said, my breath coming in little gusts. “I’ll have to get back to you—are you in Myrna with your mom?”

  “No. Let me give you my new number,” the boy said.

  I pulled out the drawer in the hall stand, poking around for a pencil. “Look, I don’t have anything to write with here—”

  “That’s okay,” Jeff Turner assured me. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The horn was blowing again. I stood looking down at the receiver for a good two minutes before walking out to the car.

  ELEVEN

  When I returned from dropping Temple at the party, Jack was sitting in his car, with the hood up. The engine whined low, and then spluttered. I parked alongside.

  “So, what’s the inside dope on Emory?” he asked.

  “The parents seem nice.”

  “Does the brother pack a valid license?”

  “She told you about that?”

  Jack smiled. “She tells me everything.”

  I tried not to let this rattle me. “Yeah, well, Emory’s brother is definitely well past driving age. He’ll even be more past the first time I let my daughter ride with him.”

  Jack leaned up against his car. “Think maybe he’d want to drop me off at my place?”

  “Hop in, mister.” I smiled. “Just so happens, I’m going your way.”

  We traveled the winding road that followed the old seawall, stopping for dinner at one of the restaurants that dotted the peninsula. The dining room boasted a great view. In the summer months, it would’ve been packed, but on a Saturday evening in November, it was open season on tables. The maître d’ discreetly checked out our jeans and sweaters, awarding us with a deuce by the window.

  “Getting cold out there,” Jack observed, looking down at the water.

  The waiter brought a wine list. Jack ordered a good year of the Mondavi. It tasted delicious. “I wouldn’t worry about the call,” he said, reading my mind.

  “But how did he get my home number?”

  He swirled the wine around in the glass. “Probably that low life Shawde.”

  Nick, I thought. Yes, that would fit.

  “So are you going to write the letter of recommendation?”

  The wine made me feel suddenly beneficent. I liked Jack; I liked this restaurant—the smiling waiters, the rows of lit votive candles winking at us from the windowpanes. “Hell, yes.” I raised my glass. “To Jeff’s life in art.” We drank to that.

  “I made a few more calls this afternoon,” Jac
k said. “Talked to Beth Rice’s ex-husband.”

  Even this didn’t bother me. “What’s he like?”

  “A nice guy.” That was the difference between us. Jack thought they were all nice guys. I started out assuming they were bastards.

  “Name of Erik, with a K. Erik Karsh. They were college sweet hearts. The relationship lasted seven years, with Beth hanging on by bloody fingernails for the last two.

  “He owns a golf club in Maryland now. It took me a while to get him talking about Rice. At first, I thought he was being evasive, but it turns out he was more embarrassed than anything. According to him, the marriage was rocky from the start. The last couple of months, he was living with another woman, and coming home only for fresh clothes. Which Beth washed for him.”

  “Gee, he does sound like a nice guy,” I commented wryly.

  “He still feels crappy about it. Says he was afraid of what Rice would do if he left her cold turkey. She’d tried to kill herself a couple of times in high school, and once in college, when he tried to break up with her.”

  So. Elizabeth Rice is a little too intense about the men in her life. What a surprise. “Lucy Moon is another case.” Jack was on a roll now. “She hung out with a really rough crowd in the city. S and M clubs. The role-playing scene, with a heavy emphasis on violence.”

  “Don’t tell me.” I laughed. “And Richard Lewan is a convicted axe murderer.”

  “I haven’t found anything on him yet.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been busy enough.”

  He tugged on his beard. “I like being busy. It keeps me out of trouble. By the way, Ann Houghton seems to be exactly who she says she is. Would-be actress. The secretary in her agent’s office is very chatty. Says little Annie sees an older man, married, an actor on one of the soaps, who takes good care of her financially. She wouldn’t give me his name, but it shouldn’t be hard to track down.”

  “Leave it for now.”

  “So what’s he like?” Jack asked. “Blackmoor?”

  “Manipulative. Narcissistic. Arrogant.” I shrugged. “Nothing special.”

  Jack cupped his hand over the back of mine, covering it completely. “Good,” he said. We sat that way until the waiter came to clear our salad plates, when I took advantage of the opportunity to rest my hands safely in my lap.

  The temperature had fallen during dinner. We ran to the car, huddling against the cold. Ocean Avenue was deserted.

  “I see they’re finally getting around to restoring our part of the seawall,” Jack commented.

  “Yeah,” I said, coasting along on the our.

  Jack’s apartment was in a private home fronting the public beach in a small honky-tonk seaside town. Although I’d never been there, I knew the general location, slowing down only when we reached the right block. “That one over there.” He pointed to a boxy Cape with a ship’s anchor set against a piece of driftwood, in lieu, perhaps, of pink flamingos. I put the Volvo into park.

  “Come in,” he said. It was not a question, but not a command, either. I switched off the ignition, following him through the cold, over the gravel, up the stairs.

  He didn’t fumble. Not with the keys. Not with the lights. Not with anything. “This is it,” he said easily, flooding the small room with a snap of the overheads.

  It was an unmarried man’s apartment. Impressively neat and well kept, but for all that, hardly lived in. All the furniture was beige. The prints on the wall were the kind you see in sports bars. “It’s nice,” I said.

  He walked to the window, peeling off his sweater as he moved. Underneath he wore a pale blue turtleneck. His shoulders had muscles you can only get from working out on certain machines in the gym; his waist and hips were small and hard-looking. “It’s always so damn hot in here,” he said, cracking open the window.

  There was a decent-sized television set and a compact disc player on the shelves. I moved toward them, as though I were really interested in what kind of music he liked. He met me halfway, pulling me close, making light contact with my lips.

  I let him.

  The second kiss was a more complicated affair. He moved his tongue. I moved mine. His beard rubbed my skin, soft in some places, bristly in others. Somewhere along the way we had stumbled backward, against the wall. His body hadn’t appeared as though it could possibly be as heavy as it now felt, on top of me.

  I opened my eyes and looked up. It was a strange perspective. Jack’s eyes were shut, his mouth gaping like a fish, his head bobbing, as though guided by some inner sexual sonar that could find me, blind. The kisses were nice, the feeling was okay, but for some reason I wanted it to stop. I pulled away. He kept coming. I pulled away again. He persisted for a while, then stopped.

  “What?” His voice was raspy.

  “I have to go,” I said, “pick up Temple.” Jack tried to straighten up, and we almost fell on the floor together. I held him for a moment. “I’m just not sure this is right. For me.”

  “When will you know?” His face looked very young.

  I laughed. Then felt sorry I had. “I need some time.”

  He walked me to the door. I let him kiss me slowly, passionately. He was lobbying hard for this.

  On the long ride home, I rolled down the windows and cranked the radio up loud. The frigid air blew through my hair. I remembered Jack Tatum and his earnest, fish kisses, and tried desperately to drive all thoughts of Dane Blackmoor out into the cold, dark night.

  TWELVE

  By the time I reached Hopewell on Monday morning it was already snowing and the road was a slippery ribbon of ice. Newscasters were being cautious about the storm. The first wave would leave only a slushy glaze, they said; but, later on tonight, the tail end of the system could dump as much as six inches of white stuff. I gripped the steering wheel with gloveless hands, and gentled my foot on the gas pedal. Jack had telephoned early, my own personal Willard Scott. “It’s going to be treacherous on the roads.” I told myself he was only being nice. Thanked him, and promised to buckle up.

  The bridge into New Hope was slick. Up ahead, a car swerved. I had less than ten miles to go. No snowplows had passed through this part of Route 32. The Volvo’s skinny wheels pulled longingly toward the ruts of ice on the side of the roads. I held the wheel so tight my hands felt cramped and sweaty.

  The sleet dropped a sheer, glassy curtain between my wind shield and the surrounding landscape. When I finally spotted the Mill it appeared to be in another dimension, sealed and unreachable, like a snow scene in a domed glass. Shake it, and tiny sequins would swirl around the make-believe castle. I maneuvered the car up the drive and parked on a fresh carpet of snow. The granite tombstones were capped in white. I’d forgotten to ask Blackmoor about them.

  Roberto opened the door before I could knock. “Love your hat,” he sang. “Are the roads too awful?”

  “They’re pretty bad.”

  “Do you believe it? It’s my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, and we’re throwing them a big party in Frenchtown. Well,” he said, as if I had just convinced him of something. “I’m just going to have to leave early, that’s all.” Someone had put a coatrack near the door. I stamped the snow off my boots and hung up my coat and hat before following Roberto into the empty studio. “Where is everybody?”

  “Dane’s on the phone, talking to his attorney.” Roberto made a face. “Lucy Moon and Richard are up in the workshop. And Ms. Beth is around, spreading her own personal brand of sunshine, probably to Annie. Better her than me.”

  I found Richard Lewan in the second bay, dipping his hand into a small basin of water and moistening the split seams of a plaster torso. Kyra’s, I guessed. It was unthinkable that there could be more women around with waists that small. He didn’t look up when I came in. I watched him for a while. His fingers moved swiftly, as Blackmoor’s had during the original shaping. Enlarged photographs of the midsection were spread out over the table, but his eyes never strayed toward them. He obviously knew what he was doing.
/>   “Do you usually assemble the figures?”

  “We take turns depending on the project.”

  I moved closer, never taking my eyes off his hands. “Happen to remember who assembled Lady Sitting and Woman at a Mirror?”

  He worked the plaster into a smooth curving line. “Might have been Dane.”

  “Don’t you keep records?”

  “No.” With every question he seemed to startle anew, as though he were surprised to find me still there.

  “I heard you were sleeping with Torie Wood,” I said. Take that lump and smooth it, buddy.

  The hands stopped, then started again, moving a tad slower. “I’m married,” Richard said.

  “I’m not interested in your personal life,” I told him. “I’m just interested in anything you can tell me about Torie.”

  “I didn’t know her well.” I shot him a scoff, which he caught between clenched teeth. “It’s true,” he said stubbornly. “Torie fucked like other people shook hands. There was nothing personal in it.”

  “Was she shaking hands impersonally with anybody else around here?” I asked. “Like maybe Blackmoor?”

  Richard stopped working. “Dane doesn’t get it on with women who work for him anymore.”

  I considered that word, anymore. “Was there anyone else?”

  “Lucy Moon, maybe,” he said, hunching his shoulders over the plaster form. “You’d have to ask her.”

  I was still reeling from this when Elizabeth Rice walked in. “Garner! You made it! We were worried, with the roads so bad,” she cried. She had on a red wool pantsuit with a dazzling white blouse that exploded into tiny little pleats at her throat. Annie Houghton stood obediently by her, like a house cat that only pretends to like its master.

  “What a great jacket,” Rice chattered on. “You know, not everybody can get away with that style.” Her delivery left reasonable doubts as to which category I belonged.