Brigham wanted to run out of there and get the police. But then what? They would see Charles sitting there, looking like the president of a fucking bank while Brigham appeared wild-eyed and haggard, hair waving about like Beethoven after a good drunk, not to mention that he was somewhat off his rocker with gin. Guess who would be going to an institution. No. No cops. He would see where this went. Maybe Charles knew the whereabouts of Rose. His stomach turned at the thought of where she might be and what might have happened to her.
Brigham’s hand shook as he sipped his drink. “Why come here and tell me all this?”
“Simply put: I like you.”
“I hope you don’t mean in a culinary sense,” Brigham said, trying to smile, not knowing why he thought it would be a good time to try to be funny.
“No, dear boy,” Charles said, waving his hand. “I like you, and I like your work. You are jaded, cynical, and funny, not to mention a brilliant painter. An interesting person to be around. I intend to bring you into my fold. Add you to my collection.”
Brigham swallowed some more gin. “Your collection?”
“Yes. I collect people.” Charles folded his hands together on his lap.
“You collect people? You mean like friends?”
Charles shook his head. “No, I mean an in-house, on-a-shelf collector’s item.”
Now we were getting down to the punch line. “So, I’m to be part of your collection, am I?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Can’t we just be friends? Have a few laughs? You buy a few paintings now and again?”
“No, I’m the possessive type. If I find someone who interests me, I can’t just be their friend. I have to own them. Mind, body, and soul.”
“What if I don’t want to be part of any collection?”
“Oh, I think I’ll be able to convince you.”
“You seem to know a lot about me. Then you must know I don’t really like being told what to do.”
“I’m aware of that,” Charles said through a smile.
“You haven’t added my wife to your collection, have you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My wife seems to be missing. It’s a little too coincidental that she disappears and you barge in here shortly after, commanding me to be part of your people collection.”
Charles shrugged. “I’m sorry your wife is missing, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You had absolutely nothing to do with her disappearance?”
“No, dear boy. I have no reason to kidnap your wife. I’m shocked you would suggest it.”
Brigham ran his fingers through his hair. The son of a bitch must be lying.
“Did you ask our friend Zorzi?” Charles asked.
“Yes. He doesn’t know either.”
“Have you reported it to the police?”
“Yes, but they’re not exactly the FBI.”
“I know what you mean . I can inquire, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“If you say so.”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“That would be great,” Brigham said, rising from the chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. I appreciate your interest in me and my work, and I hope we can do business in the future, but I’m not going to be part of any collection.”
Charles stood and slowly walked around the studio, studying the paintings. “I haven’t yet told you everything. You don’t think I’d simply demand that you come with me and be in my collection, do you?”
“That’s the impression I had.”
“I’m not that base. There’s plenty in it for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I understand you’re having issues with the prospect of getting old and dying.”
“How do you know that?” Brigham asked as he walked to the coffee machine on the counter. Better stop with the gin.
“For now, let’s just say I know.”
“Go on.” Brigham poured a cup of coffee.
“How would you like to live forever?”
Brigham blew on his coffee and took a sip. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“No, dear boy, I mean it literally. What if I had the power to make you live forever?”
Brigham had no desire to die, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that he had a fear of death. At the same time, he believed that once you were dead, that was it. He didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, didn’t believe in any god, and certainly didn’t believe that Charles had the power to give him eternal life. He was taking the shroud eater thing all the way.
Brigham returned to his chair. “Sure, why not? So what do we do? You bite me on the neck?”
Charles sat on the sofa. “Don’t be coarse.”
“What, then?”
“There is a procedure.”
“Is that how I’m to be added to your collection?”
“Yes. I offer you life never-ending,” Charles said, extending his arm toward Brigham, palm up.
Oh, brother. Brigham cocked his head to get the kinks out of his neck, then sipped his coffee. It had kind of a biblical ring to it, but this was no God, Jesus, Zeus, or Thor sitting on his sofa in a nice suit, nor was it a pixie of the fucking woods. It was just an old man. But if he was what he said he was, then he wasn’t just an old man; he was evil. As evil as evil got.
Looking not evil, but good, the worst kind of evil; coming with a smile, hand out, all friendly like. Pink Jesus watched with a look of horror and curiosity.
This can’t be true. But he would play along. “Looks good on paper,” Brigham said, “but the devil is always in the details. What’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“You prance in here—”
“Prance? Now, now,” Charles said in a gravelly voice.
“Okay, waltz in here—”
Charles smiled. “I’ll take waltz.”
“You waltz in here, tell me you’re behind all the horribleness that’s going on in Venice, offer me eternal life for no apparent reason, and with, I might add, scant proof. Why me? I ain’t worth a shit.”
“You’re being modest. You’re just the sort of person I like.”
Brigham could think of no argument against that.
“Go on.”
“If you come with me you can accomplish everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more. You will have eternity. Just think of what you could do.”
A boat on the canal outside the studio blew its horn as it turned the corner.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe any of this.”
“Of course. I intend to give you proof,” Charles said. “Come to my house tonight at midnight. You will find it most enlightening.”
“So you are going to take me into your world? You’ve already admitted that the bodies in the canals are your handiwork, and now I suspect you are going to show me how that is accomplished.”
“Yes,” Charles said, fiddling with his handkerchief.
Late afternoon sun angled through the room, refracting through a jar of turpentine.
“How do you know I won’t go to the police?”
“Have you ever been flayed alive?”
Brigham’s eyes narrowed. “Flayed?”
“Yes. You know, peeled. The skin stripped from your body while you were alive.”
“Not so far as I can recall.”
“If any word of this gets out, anything about what I have told you or what I am going to show you, you will experience it firsthand.”
“Ah, well, mum’s the word, then.”
“See you tonight.”
“Not so fast,” Brigham said, fetching another cup of coffee. “We still haven’t gotten to the catch.”
“Yes, right, well—”
“Spit it out.”
“You have to become what these people call a shroud eater.”
“A ghoul?”
“Yes.”
Brigham shivered. “And how
is that done?”
“You have to die.”
“Die?”
“Yes.”
Brigham ran his fingers through his hair. “Kind of defeats the purpose, does it not?”
“You won’t be dead long, don’t worry.”
“You don’t mind if I inquire further, do you?”
“Go ahead. What would you like to know?”
“First off, how is the dying part accomplished?”
“You are given something to drink which brings you to the point of death. You then are given an injection that brings you back to life as one of us.”
“Is it painful?”
“No. Not really.”
“No and not really aren’t the same thing.”
“Let’s just say there is a certain discomfort.”
“I equate discomfort with pain.”
Charles smiled. “That’s one reason I like you. You have a sense of humor.”
Brigham sipped his coffee. “I’m not trying to be funny.”
“See you tonight, then?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Midnight.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“MOST INTERESTING,” PINK JESUS SAID. “Do you understand what he was telling you?”
“Yeah,” Brigham said. “I read between the lines. He’s a nut.”
“Then you misread him. He may be clinically insane, and he may be a sociopath, but if by ‘nut’ you mean he’s making it all up and playing the vampire, or whatever he is, you’re wrong. He’s serious, and he’s right.”
Brigham reclined on the sofa, arm along the back, one foot on the floor. “What do you mean ‘he’s right’?”
“He and his minions are responsible for the bodies in the canals.”
“I got that part.”
“They kill and eat people.”
“I get it. I was there.”
“You could do that?”
“They live forever. And anyway, I told him I would think about it.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Brigham sipped his coffee while staring into the distance.
“And what about your wife?”
“What about her?”
“Do you think she could live with someone who has to kill and eat people?”
Brigham went to the window and stared out at the shimmering water, hands clasped behind his back. “No.”
“That complicates your analysis, doesn’t it?”
Two women rowed a boat past, standing, in the Venetian style. “I suppose it does.”
“And although you will live forever, she will not.”
“She could die first anyway.”
“True.”
Brigham turned back to the studio, where the warm afternoon light glistened off the bottles and bits of metal on brushes scattered about.
“And there is the moral question.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, the immorality of killing a person every day for your own benefit.”
“Wouldn’t bother me.”
“Forever.”
He lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling.
“Might get old,” Pink Jesus said.
“Getting old is getting old.” Brigham closed his eyes.
“Yes, but consider the alternative.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
ROSE SAT PROPPED ON SEVERAL large pillows in the huge canopy bed wearing a nightgown of white cotton. She was no expert on furniture, but she had seen some examples in antique shops and museums in Venice. She was sure the bed was fifteenth century. It was covered in a large damask spread and heavy linen sheets. A fire burned in the stone hearth across the room.
She worried about the dogs and about Brigham; from his perspective she had vanished without a word. He probably thought she ran off. What would he think when he contacted everyone he could think of and they hadn’t heard from her? He probably wouldn’t believe them. On the other hand, he’s not stupid. He will see that she had left the dogs outside, left the door open, and did not have her phone, keys, or passport. He would surely conclude that she had been kidnapped. He may or may not know why.
Was she blameless in this? Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Brigham’s concern for getting old, his fear of death. That, to some degree, is what led him to involve himself with these people, wasn’t it? Or was it more his desire to be an artist? Or was it a combination of both? Perhaps she could have prevented the whole thing by showing a little more interest and compassion.
No, she bore no guilt. She was the victim, not poor Brigham. This all happened so fast, she had no time to react. And he could be one stubborn son-of-a-gun. The question now was what could she do about her situation?
The little woman who came to help her get dressed seemed to be her only hope. Maybe she would be sympathetic.
They told her she was in 1756, but how could that be possible?
The image of the candles on a table near the window reflected from a mirror on the opposite side of the room and from the glassware on the night table. The room was certainly cozy, but she didn’t like being kept here against her will. Screaming and shouting did no good. She had tried it until she was hoarse. Charles had told her this house was not her prison, but time was. Perhaps she would put that to the test tomorrow. She lowered the pillows and lay back to go to sleep. She lay awake staring at the ceiling. After a while, the woman knocked and came in, put out the candles, straightened up here and there, and made sure Rose was safely in bed. Satisfied, she left. Rose lay there thinking for a while, then drifted off to sleep.
THE LITTLE WOMAN KNOCKED just after sunrise. Pale orange light shone through the edges of the shutters. The woman entered the room with a tray of food.
“Buongiorno,” the woman said as she placed the tray on the table near the window.
“Buongiorno,” Rose said. No reason to be mean to this poor woman; Rose had taken a number of women’s studies classes and was painfully aware of the plight of servant women in this era. They were often beaten and sometimes raped, and when they showed up pregnant without the benefit of wedlock, dismissed in disgrace.
The woman opened the shutters onto a clear, sunny day and spent several minutes getting the fire going.
As she left, Rose thanked her. The woman did not respond but simply closed the door.
She got out of bed, put on the robe provided (pale green silk with salmon-colored embroidery), and went to the table. The tray contained plates of poached eggs, fruit, bread, jam, and a pot of tea. She poured the tea and sat down. In spite of her agitation at being held prisoner, she was hungry.
As she ate, she took stock of the scenery out the window. For the first time, she noticed a formal garden behind the house. After breakfast she would explore it and see if there was a way out. Although Charles had told her she could go at any time, she feared simply walking through the front door. She didn’t know why, but her better judgment told her not to do it.
The clothing she was wearing when she had been kidnapped had been cleaned and pressed and lay on a bench at the foot of the bed. She washed in a basin of warm water the woman had prepared, then got dressed.
The door to her room was unlocked. She opened it slightly and peered out. No one there. The house was silent. She stepped out and walked down the hall. After a short distance she came to a wide staircase leading down to the first floor. At the bottom was a spacious foyer and the front entrance. On the opposite side of the foyer stood an array of doors opening onto the garden.
No one was about, so she stepped out onto a gravel path that led through the manicured grounds.
An elaborate fountain stood in the middle of the garden, water jetting from dolphins and centaurs with panpipes. A row of low sculptured hedges led off to a group of hedges ten feet in height. They formed a solid wall. She walked along it for some distance until she came to an opening. A maze.
BRIGHAM TRIED TO CARRY ON in spite of Rose’s
disappearance, so he went forward with the visit from the gallery. The owner, Giorgio, was a man of about thirty-five, much younger than Brigham expected. He brought with him a young man and a young woman, both of whom looked art-snobby. The young man wore his hair closely cropped, a leather jacket, yellow scarf, tight jeans, and pointy shoes. The woman was dressed entirely in black to match her long, black hair and wore large white-framed glasses. They regarded Brigham briefly and scanned his studio as though they had never seen anything like it. A disheveled old man in the midst of a right chaotic studio. Mr. Todd was with them, looking his regular bald-headed self.
“Very interesting,” Giorgio said, standing before a work in progress. “You were right, Mr. Todd. Very colorful. Energetic.”
The young people smiled faintly.
“Brigham has made a couple of sales recently,” Mr. Todd said. “Very tidy sums.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Brigham said. “There is definitely a market for this type of work.”
The young people, who had moved off to another part of the studio, laughed quietly in front of Pink Jesus.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Brigham asked.
“Coffee would be great,” Giorgio said.
“I’d like a spritz,” the young man said.
Brigham was at the counter making coffee. Oh, the things that went through his mind. But he kept his mouth shut, not really knowing who in the fuck these two people were. “I’m sorry, this bar doesn’t serve spritz. You want gin or scotch, you’re in luck. Maybe even red wine, but—”
“That’s okay,” Mr. Todd interjected, having had firsthand experience with Brigham’s wit and charm.
“Red wine would be great,” the woman said.
Brigham gave them each a glass of wine and Giorgio his coffee.
“Great work,” Giorgio said, “but I don’t know if I can sell it.”
Brigham felt the blood rush to his face.
“As I told you,” Mr. Todd said, “Brigham has made two large sales in the past two days.”
Giorgio gestured as if to say, “I heard you, but I still don’t know.”
Mr. Todd’s interruption gave Brigham time to cool off. “I did some research on your gallery. It’s an important gallery, and I would be proud to be associated with it. This work is in line with what you sell but not like any of the others.”
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 16