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Trying to release all the knots in her body, Jody groaned through her stretch. She slowly swung her head to loosen the muscles and reached up to massage her neck. Why the hell does my neck hurt so bad?
Her mind still muddy from sleep, it took a great deal of effort to open her eyes. Feeling befuddled, she scanned her living room, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out why she felt so confused. Rubbing the grogginess from her eyes, she strained to sit up. “I must have taken a nap. Damn. I’ve got to get a better couch. Sheesh! Feeling this bad after a good rest is ridiculous.”
Trying to get her bearings, Jody sat stock still. Glancing at the windows across the room, a prick of alarm hit her square in the gut when she realized darkness had fallen. That’s impossible. When did I fall asleep?
An unexpected feeling of dread washed over her when she noticed the computer sitting on the table in front of her. Staring at the laptop as if it would reveal some important secret only served to intensify her distress. A wisp of a thought niggled somewhere in the back of her mind trying to get her attention, but she just couldn’t grasp the problem. Her brain, still in the process of coming back to life, didn’t allow for rational thought. Considering everything in her field of vision, she tried to determine what was out of place. Something wasn’t right here. Her gaze shifted back to her coffee table and zeroed in on the computer again. She bolted upright, reaching out to the laptop without actually touching it. “Why is the computer…”
As the memory of Fiona jumping into her body and kidnapping her spirit seeped slowly into her mind, Jody’s eyes widened in horror. Without thought, she jumped to her feet. “That must have been hours ago! How long have I been out?” Her legs wobbled and felt heavy like she’d just run a marathon. Every ounce of energy had been drained from her body leaving her weak as a kitten. Unable to stay upright, she flopped down hard on the couch, trying desperately to piece the recent events together in her head.
The memory of the bone-crushing landing at the end of the tunnel had her examining herself to determine if any damage had been done to her physical body. Her hands busily ran up and down her limbs. She touched every place she could reach and found no injury other than tired, sore muscles. Thank goodness.
As the memories of her out-of-body moments started coming back to her, her cell phone rang—the noise cutting through the quiet like a slap in the face. She shrieked with fear as if something had just jumped out and screamed boo. Clutching her head, she tried her best to get a hold of herself.
Straining to stand, she cursed the weakness in her legs. Focusing all of her attention on putting one foot in front of the other, she crossed the room to find her phone in her purse. When Nathan’s number popped up, she started to answer but stopped short.
“Oh my God! What time is it?” She glanced at the clock on the wall and almost fainted. Dropping the phone without answering, she hustled toward the kitchen. Her body needed some sugar, needed that quick rush to get herself moving. She tried to summon every ounce of strength she had left while stuffing her mouth with Twinkies and a banana. Sugar will just have to do until I can drive through someplace and get a burger on the way to the show.
Putting the events of the day aside, she couldn’t miss Terry’s art exhibit. The show was too important to him which made it important to her. She would be there to support him come hell or high water, or even little Fiona.
Chapter Ten
Disgruntled, J.D. found a painting with the least number of people around it and planted himself there in the background. He wanted to kick himself for saying he’d come to this event. In the span of fifteen minutes, the evening had proved to be exactly what he thought it would be—a big, fat, fucking waste of time. What the hell was I thinking?
When Nathan invited him to come, J.D. had intended to say no, but his instinct kicked in and urged him to accept. Something had drawn him here tonight. He only hoped he had the patience to hang out long enough to determine what that something turned out to be. So here he stood, getting more agitated by the moment, suffering through the high-dollar perfumes and the oohs and ahs of the partygoers. Annoyed at himself, he couldn’t keep from rolling his eyes and wondering how his gut could’ve been so faulty.
Even though J.D. had grown up in wealth and, as an adult, continued to add to the family coffers, he’d learned very early on that money didn’t transform people into better versions of themselves. However, affluence could indeed corrupt them and nine times out of ten did just that.
For the most part he preferred his own company. Seclusion guaranteed there’d be no chance of getting blindsided by someone else’s agenda. In his humble opinion, most people living the so-called upper-class lifestyle were unreliable and potentially as dangerous to the public as psychics were.
Throughout his years as a P.I., he’d had the great misfortune of having to deal with too many of the elite, uber wealthy as well as the parasitic fortune-tellers. His investigations had proved the filthy rich and lowly soothsayers were all out to make a buck, usually off the backs of poor working stiffs.
In the case of psychics, the mark could be rich or poor; everyone had a big bull’s-eye on their back. All grieving people were ripe for the picking and would pay anything for the chance to hear or see their loved ones again. Idiots. While each case was different, he’d been successful at proving they were all parasites and took great pleasure in waving as they were carried off to jail to pay for their thievery.
While he made a habit of doing pro bono work for the less fortunate, he would always jump at the chance to take money from the upper class for an investigation. His only criterion for new cases being, the work had to spark his curiosity and have the potential of a lengthy jail term for a greedy asshole.
Two women interrupted his internal bitching as they made their way to the portrait in front of him. “I swear, Claire, this artist is fantastic! Just look at how he uses the colors on canvas. The sea is boiling as if it’s alive, actually tossing and turning. You can almost feel the storm deep down in your bones as it sends shockwaves of fear straight to your heart.”
To keep his groan from escaping, J.D. pinched the bridge of his nose. What pretentious crap! He had seen the painting, and yeah, it was pretty—a word he seldom used, but ‘shockwaves of fear straight to your heart?’ Give me a fucking break. Sometimes a painting was just a damn painting.
He loathed the arrogance of the rich. Their exaggerated seriousness about intellectual pursuits only served to piss him off more. Tonight, he’d been forced to listen to their wild imaginings being ascribed to this artist as if they had some secret understanding of his creative intentions.
Needing a distraction from his growing irritation, J.D. scanned the area for a waiter. He’d have a few more drinks, look around a bit longer, and then head home to watch some baseball. That was his idea of relaxation.
Even on those rare occasions he found himself in a social environment, J.D. never broke character as a private investigator. Always able to blend in with his surroundings, he kept his mind alert and his skills keen. He was considered the best in his field, begrudgingly known as the chameleon by the long list of prestigious criminals he’d had the privilege of bringing to justice.
Being inconspicuous made it easy for J.D. to avoid participation in tedious conversations. Going unnoticed made his eavesdropping on private discussions a piece of cake and a handy tactic to have in his line of work. He’d picked up many juicy and valuable tidbits of information this way. After a few glasses of wine, people let their guard down with friends. Believing their conversations were private, they spilled all sorts of confidential information. He smirked to himself. Nothing’s private.
As J.D. made his way toward the exit, his ears perked up at the constant repetition of the name Solitude. Everyone seemed to be struggling to describe their reaction to one of the paintings on exhibit. At first, he assumed the chatter was just more of the typical pretentiousness he’d had to endure throughout the evening. Ea
ch new conversation he’d heard about the struggles to describe a simple painting, served to pique his curiosity. Perhaps there was something worth seeing here after all. Placing his glass on the tray of a passing waiter, he decided he could afford to spend another fifteen minutes to find a canvas called Solitude before heading home.
Scanning the room, J.D. noticed a group of people in the process of leaving a large canvas. Their heads were tilted back to get one last view of the artwork as they ambled away. From his position, he wasn’t able to see the painting itself. Carefully working his way through the partygoers, he moved efficiently across the room to see the mysterious portrait which ostensibly had everyone in attendance confounded. As he got closer to Solitude, the crowd dispersed, seeming to clear a path for him. Perfect timing.
As soon as Solitude came into view, J.D.’s eyes locked onto the portrait. For the first time in many years, his situational awareness failed him. His field of vision faded to black, disappearing altogether, leaving only him and the woman of Solitude.
His body betrayed him as he gazed at the canvas. It never crossed his mind to question the sensation of being pulled into the portrait. Hell, he allowed it to happen. He wanted it to happen.
The woman of Solitude stood before him, somberly staring through the rain-streaked window panes as her essence drew him to her. So lifelike, and in so much pain, he was certain at any moment she would turn and see him. Somewhere deep in his mind, he envisioned her slowly lifting her hand out for him to clasp. She called to him, begging to be held, comforted, and kept safe. She wanted—no, she needed the warmth and love restored that had so brutally abandoned her. If he obliged her, in turn, he knew she would give him warmth and unconditional love for the first time in his life. The world as he knew it disappeared. His hearing sharpened as he listened to her gently calling him.
He didn’t have a clue as to the tragedy that befell her in the moments before this rendering. Nor did he or could he understand the gravity of her loss in that one moment in time. But instinctively, he knew whatever the cause had been it had provoked a life-changing event.
Something or someone important to her was now absent. Whatever or whomever she had lost affected her to the point of grieving. He wanted to be the person to wrap his arms around her and hold her until she felt his warmth and strength. He wanted her heart to know he would be the one to make everything all right for her.
Solitude’s effect on him was profound, to say the least. His body unwillingly started vibrating with something to which he couldn’t put a name. The portrait forced him to feel with his inexperienced emotions, making him extremely uncomfortable. Confused and more than a little concerned by this insane reaction, J.D. tried to force his rational mind to battle for control—control over what he didn’t have a clue. But in the end his rational mind was no match for whatever this was he found himself experiencing.
He tried to take a step back, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, the canvas drew him forward toward an inexplicable chain reaction. While this situation should have left him running in the other direction, instead he felt, surprisingly enough, comfort and peace. Two blissful states of mind for which all the money in the world hadn’t been able to provide.
A hand grabbed his arm, rudely shaking him from his trancelike state. It took all of his willpower not to jump at the intrusion.
“I’d love to tell you about this piece if you’d like to learn more about it.” A woman slid a brochure in his hand and luckily, his fingers were able to hang on to it.
He could only stand and stare at the portrait in front of him. As the long-winded woman beside him continued to speak, he tried every trick he knew to regain some semblance of composure.
“Everyone who has seen this piece has felt an emotional connection to it. This type of art is called Hyperrealistic Portraits. The artist takes a snapshot, either color, or black and white, and creates an exact duplicate with pencils or pens on canvas. The effect is so lifelike that viewers have difficulty seeing the difference with the naked eye between the original digital picture and the completed handcrafted version. It’s hard to believe anyone would have the skill to make an ordinary picture from a camera come to life in this manner. The artist tasks himself with adding what a camera can’t catch—the emotion of the subject. It’s an incredibly difficult skill, but, as you can see, one which has been done flawlessly with Solitude.
“Pens and pencils—just everyday items we all use. The average person is incapable of realizing the beauty these simple objects can unleash when held in the proper hands.”
Thankfully, the woman seemed to have run out of breath, finally shutting up. J.D. had regained his senses enough to convey in no uncertain terms his commanding, no-nonsense mannerisms before he spoke.
“I want to buy it.”
“I’m sorry, but this piece isn’t for sale. I can show—” The hushed noise as his hand crushed the brochure she’d given him produced the desired effect. She stopped the incessant chatter. He put the crumpled paper in his pocket.
Never before had he thrown his money around to get what he wanted, but the time had come to pull out all the stops. He couldn’t leave without Solitude. There were no tenable words that could explain why this was so, but he knew it would be like leaving a piece of himself behind. Later, he’d take the time to reason it all out. Right now, he was prepared to do battle for Solitude and the woman within the portrait.
Calling upon his most intimidating manner, he purposely ground his teeth, clenching his jaw muscles tightly to demonstrate his displeasure. Even with people that didn’t know him, this action spoke loud and clear.
“No. I want this piece. Everything’s for sale. Name your price.”
“I’m sorry, but the sale of this portrait is not up to me. The…”
He finally turned to her showing the full force of his intent. It pleased him that she took a protective step back. “Get me the gallery owner.”
Her muscles constricted tightly in an attempt to dampen her displeasure with being talked to in such a manner. Good. I have her attention. She tentatively stepped forward with her hand extended. “I’m Julianne Warren, owner of Beauty in the Desert Art Gallery.”
He glanced down at her hand with mild disgust and then back to Solitude, effectively dismissing her. “If you can’t help me procure this portrait, then I want to speak directly to the artist. Find him for me.”
From his vantage point across the room, Terry had watched the interchange between the large, raven haired man and Julianne. The man had a poker face and wasn’t giving anything away. Well, nothing other than the fact he seemed furious about something. The longer he watched from afar, the more he recognized the extremely effective display of intimidation tactics. From this distance, Terry wasn’t able to tell what the man thought or what the topic of conversation was. But Julianne was becoming more agitated by the minute, so he decided now would probably be the best time to intervene.
Terry sauntered up to the man and stood next to him waiting patiently for an acknowledgment of his presence which never came. Finally he decided to take the lead. “Is there some sort of problem here?”
He glanced over at Julianne, who held her hands up in surrender. She visibly relaxed and slid a short distance away to give them some privacy.
Still staring at the portrait, the man stated in no uncertain terms, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for Solitude.”
Upon hearing the man’s take-no-prisoner voice, Terry allowed a sheepish grin to cross his lips. Now he understood the problem. The issue of Solitude not being for sale was something he could handle. “It’s not for sale.”
“Twenty thousand.”
“No.”
“Fifty thousand.”
Anger quickly reared its ugly head between the two men. Flattery over someone willing to pay that kind of money for something he’d created had been the only thing keeping Terry from punching this ass. The privileged attitude he exuded only served to piss Terry off. Who the hel
l does this guy think he is?
No longer willing to spar with him, Terry turned to face the man whose gaze remained glued on Solitude. He’d seen the money-can-buy-anything type before. Granted, not quite to this extent. The only effect this kind of behavior propagated was to irritate the shit out of him. He didn’t like this asshole, and he’d give Solitude to Goodwill before he sold it to him for any amount of money. “Look, dude, I will never sell this portrait. I don’t care what you offer me. This piece of work means more to me than any dollar figure you propose. I’m not selling it.”
When the bastard finally stepped back and faced him, they were nose to nose…well, more like nose to Adam’s apple since the man was at least a full six inches taller. Terry had to dig deep to find the courage not to turn tail and run. This is one fucking scary man.
“I will have this portrait.” Each word had been spoken through clenched teeth, making his statement sound more like an angry demonic hiss than human communication. If Terry wasn’t so pissed off and, he had to admit, intimidated, he’d laugh at the temper tantrum.
The men stood there in a standoff, staring daggers at each other, silently willing their opponent to flinch.
Camera flashes erupting throughout the room drew J.D. out of the aggressive stare-off. Everyone in the gallery had their phones lifted and pointed in his direction. Angry at having his picture taken, he swiftly twisted around to admonish the gallery owner. As he turned, he found his gaze boring into the stunned and all too real face of the woman in Solitude. The first glimpse of her beautiful face left his body trembling.
J.D. realized almost immediately, the art enthusiasts had recognized the woman and wanted a piece of her for themselves. Their personal photos of her would act as a concession of sorts. A souvenir for them to remember this highly sought after portrait which seemed to be unattainable to anyone else but him. Because he would secure Solitude for himself. Of that he was certain.
Troubled Spirits Page 7