by T F Allen
The first link sent a chill through her body. The words confirmed everything she’d feared and hoped against. It was an article in the Sun-Times, by a reporter named Hannah Klein:
Michael Delacroix Caught Destroying His Own Masterpiece
By Hannah Klein
Staff Reporter
CHICAGO—Police were called to the Art Institute of Chicago early Wednesday morning and arrested famous artist Michael Delacroix, 29, for destroying a painting on display in the Modern Wing of the museum. Ironically, the damaged painting is one he had painted himself.
Police found the young artist sitting on a bench in front of the ruined painting, holding a short knife, which he had used to stab and rip through the canvas painting multiple times in an apparent fit of rage.
Delacroix was booked and released on a $50,000 bond from the Cook County Courthouse at noon Wednesday after the judge ruled he was not a threat to the public. He immediately boarded a flight back to his home in San Francisco and has not responded to any calls from the media since that time.
Delacroix first came to prominence when he was discovered as a youth living on the streets of San Francisco…
Sister Mary Elizabeth spun away from the monitor and faced a portrait of Saint Christopher hanging on the wall. She clasped her hands together. “God, help me. I’ve got to get to San Francisco.”
CHAPTER 8
I wasn’t proud of fooling a sister of the Catholic faith into thinking I was God, but it didn’t stop me from getting excited when Sister Mary Elizabeth woke Sister Rachel and asked for a ride to the airport. Soon she’d learn that Michael’s arrest in Chicago was the least of his problems and that he wasn’t just hiding from reporters and paparazzi. Michael was like a son to her. She wouldn’t fly home until she knew he was safe, no matter how long it took. This was the first thing I’d done right in days, an important first step that might lead to Michael’s rescue. But I couldn’t pin all my hopes on a sixty-one-year-old nun.
I needed someone else on his trail who desperately wanted to find him. Someone who liked to dig deep to get to the truth and wouldn’t stop at the first sign of resistance. Reading along with Sister Mary Elizabeth on the computer screen in the convent’s small office, I realized I’d met a person like that two days ago in Chicago.
I closed my eyes—then paused. Traveling this time would be different. Focusing on a person instead of a place was risky. I could end up anywhere, from a strange bedroom or an abandoned rest stop to the top of a skyscraper, depending on what the person was doing. I braced myself.
Focus. Lock. Pull.
When I opened my eyes, I was sitting in the middle seat of a Boeing 737. The engines’ constant roar and the gentle sway of the cabin told me we were midflight. To my left, a man slept with his head leaning against the window. To my right, Hannah Klein clicked on the keyboard of her laptop while sipping from an energy drink can. Most of the other passengers were asleep.
Her computer screen flashed. The image was a picture of Michael’s Jolene. It served as the header of the painting’s own Wikipedia entry—an entire page dedicated to his most famous work. Her eyes darted across the text as she scrolled down, like she was taking in information faster than a digital scanner. As I jumped into her head, I wondered if she needed my help at all.
Some people’s minds ran fast like a race car. Others chugged along like a steam locomotive, making connections and forming thoughts at a slower speed. Hannah’s brain was rocket fast, the fastest I’d ever experienced. She absorbed the images and words on the screen and committed them to memory more quickly than I could note the web addresses. I gave up reading and focused on her thoughts.
This Delacroix cat had a pretty interesting background, but the online information revealed several holes she needed to fill. He grew up in the foster care system in rural Louisiana, then left to become a San Francisco street kid in Golden Gate Park for a few months before getting “discovered” by an art professor at SFAI. After attracting the attention of a few rich collectors, he created a painting that mixed beauty with rage so perfectly it landed in a museum. And then the weirdo destroyed it because—well, she knew the Universe would tell her even if Delacroix wouldn’t. She touched the crystal hanging from the silver chain around her neck and smiled.
The energy she’d felt in the backseat of that taxi with Delacroix was off-the-charts special. She remembered the way the fine hairs inside her nose had vibrated while she waited for the right moment to talk to him, the bluish sparks that erupted in his irises when she suggested he hated his own painting. That had never happened in an interview before. Surely it was a sign. He intrigued her in a way that made her want to crawl inside his head and find out what made him tick. There was much more to the story of Michael Delacroix, and it was her job—her destiny—to discover it. She’d known this from the moment she decided to jump into that taxi in front of the courthouse. The Universe would never lead her wrong.
She thought about her editor at the Sun-Times. He’d been less than convinced, shutting down her idea for an in-depth follow-up interview. And because she couldn’t explain how she knew Michael’s story was so important, she decided to take a few personal days and buy a plane ticket with her own credit card. Now she was on her way to finding that story, and no one could stop her. She only needed to follow the signs from the Universe, and she’d be fine.
I’d never heard such a strangely confident inner dialogue before. But faith came in many flavors, and I never knew anyone who didn’t benefit from having some. She’d brought her own drive and motivation, and I’d provide the direction. After pretending to be God earlier tonight, it wouldn’t take that big a leap to impersonate the Universe He created.
“Need another?” a passing flight attendant said, pointing at her energy drink can.
Hannah downed the rest of her drink in one big swallow. “One more couldn’t hurt. Thanks.”
The flight attendant reached into her cart and set a fresh can onto Hannah’s tray table. Then she dug into a pouch in her apron and showed Hannah the top of a miniature vodka bottle.
Hannah dropped her empty can into the attendant’s trash bag. “Better make it two. I have a big day tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 9
I left Hannah Klein, her energy drinks, her mini vodka bottles, and her overwhelming sense of destiny on a plane headed for San Francisco and returned to Michael’s cell. Even though he probably still felt the aftereffects of the sedative, there was a chance he’d woken up during the night. I was worried. The last time I left him for more than a couple of hours, things didn’t go well.
The day he flew to Chicago to attack his painting, I made the mistake of leaving when he was vulnerable. He was in the middle of a frustrating painting session when we both decided to take a break. Remote in hand, he dusted off his television screen with the cuff of his shirt and flipped through the channels until he found a PBS documentary showing the private artwork of the papal residence in the Vatican. Even in non-HD the images captivated us both, and at the first break I decided to visit Rome for a closer look—an indulgence, I admit. But everyone deserves one now and then.
During that same break, Michael switched to a true crime program featuring unsolved cases. The story of a missing university student triggered his memories of Jolene. Every detail reminded him of the days after she disappeared—the search parties, the family press conferences, the flyers stapled on telephone poles until the wind and rain tore them away. He thought about the unfairness of it all, how Jolene never got a chance to graduate and start her career as an artist, how she’d never know how he felt about her. And then there was the painting she would never, ever see. Wringing the remote in his hands until it cracked, he agonized over a truth he couldn’t run from: the image he’d painted of the woman he once loved—the same image he’d tried to ruin out of anger and regret—was the only reason the art world loved him. He hadn’t earned his fame and adulation. He didn’t deserve to have his paintings hanging in museums around the wor
ld. It was all the result of a tragedy that happened to someone else—someone more deserving of fame and adulation than him.
He boarded the next flight to Chicago. One call to the head curator ushered him through the doors, around the metal detectors, and past the awestruck guards. By the time I caught up to him, he wasn’t hearing any arguments. His painting needed to be murdered, no two ways about it. The constant reminder of what happened to both Jolene and the young, shy artist who loved her couldn’t exist any longer. He never wanted see those awful scars again.
When I opened my eyes, Michael wasn’t sleeping in his bolted-down bed. He also wasn’t avoiding the two-way mirror that protected his painting of Jolene. Instead he stood directly in front of it in a fighting stance. He raised his knee as high as he could, rotated his hips, and delivered a powerful kick that echoed against the cinder block walls. He kicked the glass a second time, then again and again, grunting with each try. None of it even made a scratch. The glass was too thick, probably shatterproof. But Michael didn’t pause to notice. He kicked and kicked and kicked, changed legs when he got tired, then kicked and kicked again.
I rushed across the cell and grabbed his shoulder. It’s no use. Please stop!
Michael stopped, but only long enough to try another way. He ran to the window and tore the curtain rod from its supports. Holding it like a spear, he jabbed at the mirror as hard as he could. He didn’t even stop to take off the curtains, letting the maroon panels flutter in the air as he stabbed at the glass. Michael was lean and wiry, but as he rammed the metal curtain rod against the mirror again and again, each time with more force than before, I wondered if it might shatter.
The rod made several arc-shaped marks on the surface, but the glass—or Plexiglas, or whatever it was—held firm. Not a crack, not even a chip. Apparently Donnie knew how much Michael hated this painting after all.
He gave up when he couldn’t stab at the mirror anymore. His arms hung from his shoulders like dead weights as he glared at the painting. This was useless. Donnie had won this round. With a final grunt, Michael flung the curtain rod and its trailing panels toward the gate to his cell. It clattered against the stainless steel bars, then fell to the ground. That’s when we noticed a pair of frail hands sliding a breakfast tray under the gate.
The hands pulled away into the darkness before Michael could react. As fast as they’d appeared, they were gone.
Michael sprinted to the gate and threw his entire body against it. He grabbed the bars and rattled the gate against its lock. “Wait. Please come back!”
But the person had already retreated too far into the hallway for Michael to catch a glimpse. We heard the sound of hurried footsteps, the squeak of metal hinges, and the final slam of the trapdoor.
Michael slumped to the floor and buried his face in his hands. I jumped over him and dashed through the bars. We both knew those weren’t Donnie’s hands. Someone else was working with him. And I needed to find out who.
I ran down the hallway, through the trapdoor, and into the cool morning air. Predawn darkness still covered the vineyard, but I spotted someone racing down a row between the vines—a blond woman in a long dress and a heavy coat, running like someone was shooting at her.
It took only a few seconds to catch up. I ran beside her and leaned in to get a better look. She was crying. Running and crying, her mouth open in a silent scream and tears trailing across her cheeks. Under those tears, I noticed deep red scars that ran along her jawline, down one side of her temple, and in a sinuous arc across her forehead.
I let her go. I couldn’t do anything else until I stopped to think. The woman ran until she reached an access road, turned, then disappeared over the next ridge. No doubt she was headed for the mansion. I turned back toward the trapdoor that hid Michael from the rest of the world. But the image of what I’d seen stayed with me no matter where I looked, an image I’d never be able to explain or forget.
Jolene Anderson was no longer missing.
CHAPTER 10
I thought she was gone forever. I’d searched for her dozens of times, using my focus-lock-pull ability. Each time I ended up a mile above the city. I assumed that meant she could never be found and that her body was either burned or buried. The first to lose hope were the police. Jolene’s family followed a few months later. I held out as long as I could, and it took Michael nearly two years. But we were wrong. We were all horribly wrong.
Seven years missing. It was too impossible to imagine. This woman had spent most of her twenties in a place so dark even I couldn’t find her. Seeing Jolene’s face again was more unbelievable than seeing Michael’s original painting of her behind the two-way mirror. But somehow here she was, scarred and broken, delivering Michael’s breakfast in the predawn darkness.
Those scars, those tears. That silent, desperate scream. Donnie had probably abducted Jolene just like he took Michael, dragged her to this same area of the Harkrider Vineyard, and forced her to help in whatever experiments he was trying. He’d kept her here, possibly in that same underground cell for the last seven years. And now—for some reason—she was helping him do the same thing to Michael.
I chased her again. She hadn’t stopped running, and I caught up when she reached the back door of the mansion. She leaned against the door, drew a few deep breaths, and wiped her face with her sleeve.
Once inside, she hung her coat on a hook near the back door and stepped into a small bathroom, checking her face in the mirror. She tilted her head back and sniffed the last remnants of emotion out of her expression, then she walked deeper into the mansion. I jumped into her mind when she passed through the next doorway.
Everything I saw through her eyes looked a shade darker than before. As she worked her way through several rooms, each one larger and more extravagantly decorated than the one before, I felt her pulling herself inward, dulling her own senses to the point where everything became blurry. Only her direct path stayed in focus. Up the first flight of stairs, a turn to the left, up another flight of stairs, another left, down a long hallway, then finally to the last door on the right. She leaned in toward the doorframe and heard the crackle and hum of a welding machine, a sound that sent a chill down her spine.
She drew inside herself even deeper, refusing to let the fear in, keeping it from fully penetrating. She imagined her blood vessels constricting, sending less life-giving blood to the outer layers of her skin, her nerve endings deadening. It was a technique she’d taught herself during her time with Donnie, a technique that had saved her from more than one night of horror. Showing emotion—any emotion—in front of Donnie was a very bad idea. It was like carrying a stack of rib eyes into a lion’s den.
She forced every muscle in her face to go slack. She could forget what she’d seen and go back into zombie mode. It was the only thing she was still good at, the only thing protecting her. She turned the door handle and walked inside.
Donnie’s studio looked the same as before. The strange and disturbing artwork was still on display. I noticed the faint white trail Donnie’s knife had carved into the drywall when he challenged me to show him what I could do. Apparently he’d given up searching for me. He knelt over the metal jungle cat again. His welding rod created a whitish-blue light as he secured another piece into place. The sculpture’s fur looked nearly complete now. Only a small patch behind the right front leg remained uncovered.
He stopped welding and flipped up his mask. “Did he see you?”
Donnie’s words barely registered with Jolene. She would only look at him peripherally. Instead she focused on the slag-stained drop cloth on the floor. “Just my hands.”
“Good.” Donnie shut off the welding machine and inspected his work. “I’ll give him time to wonder who the hell you are.” He paced around the jungle cat like he was stalking it or somehow expecting it to move. “Once I show him, he’ll be ready.”
She was grateful Donnie’s attention seemed focused on the metal sculpture instead of her. As an artist, he was talent
ed by any measure, and he never seemed to run out of determination and effort. His level of focus while at work was incredible. His voice would penetrate every room of the mansion as he cursed and shouted at his subject. At first she thought he was trying to imitate the sculptor Michelangelo, who often shouted at his works to “speak” as he chiseled them out of blocks of marble. But that wasn’t what Donnie was doing. He’d work himself into a fit of rage, arguing against himself, the walls, and even Mother Nature if he felt like it. Only in such an agitated state would he feel inspired to begin a new project. It was scary and annoying, but she’d learned to put up with his shouting and screaming because it could have been worse. Donnie was capable of much more than just raising his voice.
In the days and weeks after her abduction, when she was the one sleeping on the bolted-down bed in that underground cell, Donnie focused all his attention on Jolene. First he showed her news articles about her disappearance, proving the police weren’t sure whether she’d run off on her own or been kidnapped. He showed her videos of her family pleading for anyone with information to come forward. During the playback, he heckled them, grinning like he knew they’d never catch him. Donnie had graduated the semester before, and just like Michael, no one at SFAI seemed to notice the attention he’d focused on Jolene. His name never came up as a person of interest, and his hideaway near the edge of Napa Valley rested safely outside the police search area. All of this convinced her she’d never be found.
Back then, the angst and fear she expressed for her own fate seemed to excite him. He told her he didn’t mean any harm, that he only wanted to enhance her artistic abilities and focus them in a new direction. Weeks later, when her despondency turned to outrage and desperation, Donnie surprised her one morning with an easel and a set of paints and brushes. Painting was the absolute last thing she wanted to do, but it wasn’t about want to with Donnie. He forced her to create paintings when she was angry or scared, using his physical strength when he thought he needed to. And as the weeks turned to months and her fountain of emotions ran dry, Donnie introduced her to a new form of pain and fear. He marked her with a savagery she could never forget and left her with scars that changed the way she looked at herself.