by Holly Rayner
My gaze went to the chickadee painting on his wall.
“Like the paintings on my walls?”
“Yeah, actually. They’re beautiful. Where’d you get them?”
“I made them,” he said, and now it was my turn to gape at him.
“You…made them?”
“Yeah. I—”
At the kettle’s screeching, he hurried over to the stove.
“One minute.”
He poured us two mugs and then gestured to a mahogany-colored couch. I sat down, and he handed me a china cup with little red flowers on the edge.
After blowing on his tea, he said, “I’ve been into art since I was a kid. I was always drawing, painting, making stuff with whatever I could get my hands on. Being an artist has always been my dream. It’s just…life got in the way.”
His gaze was on an old-looking chest with concentric boxes and twining lines carved into its wooden exterior. Something told me that this “life” that got in the way was a lot worse than Brock was letting on, no matter how nice he seemed.
“Well, you certainly have more than enough talent,” I said. “These are fantastic.”
He nodded and said “thanks” without looking over at me, his gaze still on the chest.
I blew on my tea and then took a sip, the burning heat searing my mouth immediately.
I spat it out.
“You okay?” he asked, and I nodded, glaring at the light brown liquid sitting innocuously in the little flower teacup.
After a minute, my glare shifted to the man who had sipped the lava-like tea easily. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to be burned by this job much worse than that.
“So what about you?” he said after another easy sip of his tea. “What do you do? You live here?”
“Yes,” I said, then paused, trying to figure out the next lie that would be easiest to tell.
“I…run my own business,” I said.
At this, he once again looked at me with interest.
“Oh yeah? How do you like that?”
“I love it. I have my dream job. It’s just that…it’s hard too. Everything’s up to me—I mean, success, failure, paying the bills. If I don’t work hard, I’m the only one who suffers. And it’s scary not knowing what the future holds.”
As I ventured another sip of my tea, Brock nodded, smiling ruefully.
“I know what you mean. Every upside has its downside. People always make out that working for yourself, being your own boss, means never having to worry again, when the reality is the opposite. It’s incredibly stressful and hard. Worth it, but hard.”
“It’s weird,” I murmured. “Hearing you talk, it’s almost like…”
“Hearing myself,” Brock said.
Our gazes met. I was hyperaware of his position next to me, his knee pressing against mine, the slight drooping of his eyelids, his parted lips.
If he tried what I thought he was going to do, would I let him?
“I have to go,” he said, rising. “Need to get wood. For the fireplace. There’s a storm coming in.”
I took another sip of my tea, finally able to enjoy the flavor.
“Great. Want help?”
But Brock was already halfway out the door, tossing a “no, no, it’s fine” over his shoulder.
Putting the teacup down, my gaze was drawn to where he had been sitting on the couch. This job hadn’t stopped surprising me. Brock wasn’t anything like I had expected, certainly not anything like an “unhinged criminal.”
I stood up and stretched. I thought of the picture in my car of the sinister-looking man I had come to nab, the Brock I had pegged wrong from the start. Now wasn’t the time to get sentimental about a target. It didn’t matter how handsome or kind he seemed; I had a job to do. After one step toward the chest, I hurried over to the front door to make sure I was in the clear. I opened it a crack and found myself face-to-face with Brock.
Chapter Six
He opened the door fully, regarding me with an unconcerned sort of curiosity.
“I…I was just…”
“Sorry. I’ve kept you quite a bit. We could meet in town some other time,” he said, coming in past me without looking at me.
I watched him dump his armful of logs into the fireplace with dismay.
“No. No, I…”
“The storm could be here soon, and then you’d be stuck here,” he said with a gentle firmness, still addressing the strewn-about logs.
“Okay,” I said.
He turned to face me and nodded.
We stood there eyeing each other for a moment.
My mind slid ideas around uselessly, forming nothing I could do now, no excuse I could give to stay.
“You know where to find me,” Brock said finally.
I nodded again.
“Great meeting you,” I said. Then walked away, my face burning, back to my car.
Though I grabbed the handle, I stopped at the door for a minute.
Somehow, I couldn’t bear getting in, stepping into the stuffy car and sinking into the worn seats, into the full realization of my failure.
The click of the cabin door behind me indicated that it was finished now. I had left, and there was no going back. I had failed. My hand gripped the car handle tighter. Had I failed though? I was still here, wasn’t I? There must have been something I could do. My gaze ran over my car once more. Right under the window was the scratch from when Charlie had driven it.
Charlie.
Hadn’t he stayed over one night by faking that his car wouldn’t start?
The next morning, when I’d been draped in his T-shirt and his lies, he’d even taken me out to it, shown me the little cylinder he’d called the fuel pump. We had lain down on my cracked, mossy driveway tiles, and he’d put it back in right in front of me. We’d laughed about it, like it was this silly, charming thing, the way there was no lie too small for him to tell to get what he wanted. Love did that to you. But now, on my own, with a screwdriver that might or might not have been in my glove compartment, would I still be able to find the fuel pump? I inserted my key in the door and turned. The only way to find out was to try.
Once I had gotten the screwdriver that was in my glove compartment and quickly unscrewed the bottom of my car, it didn’t take long for me to locate the fuel pump. I quickly took it out and screwed the bottom of my car back on before I scrambled out from under my car.
Now standing there innocently, I cast a wary glance toward the front cabin door, sure that Brock must have seen me, must have suspected something after hearing no car sounds for what had to have been at least five minutes. But the door was closed, the window curtains shut; there was no sign of activity in the little place.
Good. If Brock hadn’t seen what I’d just done, I might have a chance. After one last look at my car and with a deep breath, I headed toward the cabin.
Who would’ve ever thought that Charlie and his numerous and various lies would have had any practical use in my life? And yet here I was, fuel pump tucked in my pocket, striding back to the criminal I was going to nab with evidence I was going to find tonight.
Here went nothing.
I knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, it opened. Brock looked surprised to see me and—was I imagining it?—a bit pleased.
“My car won’t start. I have no idea what’s going on,” I said, with what I hoped was a convincing pout.
His face grew concerned.
“Let me have a look,” he said, walking past me.
By now the snow was coming down in big wispy fluffs, while the wind had grown into an icy slap.
Stopping at my car in much the same position I had been, Brock turned to me.
“I think the storm’s hit.”
As if eager to confirm him, a huge gust of wind flung a swoop of snow into his face.
Striding past me, he said, “I’ll have to check it later.”
I followed Brock inside, where there was a painting laid out on the table. It was only a
wispy outline, but at my glance, he grabbed it and stowed it in the cupboard.
“Looks like you may be stuck here after all,” he said, a strange tone to his voice.
I nodded, standing awkwardly at the door until he gestured to the couch.
“Are you hungry? I could make something.”
As I sat down, I shook my head.
“No. I…actually, why don’t we have those cookies I brought?”
He sat down beside me, noticeably farther away than last time.
“Okay. Why not?”
And so I placed the bag between us, reached in, and grabbed one. He waited until my arm was completely out before he reached in and grabbed one himself.
After a few bites, he voiced my thoughts. “They’re…really good.”
“After I had one, I knew I needed more,” I said.
Another rueful smile slunk onto his face as he cast me a sidelong glance.
“So really, you just got these for yourself.”
We laughed.
“Not exactly. I mean…if you had sent me away at the start, I certainly wouldn’t have not eaten them, though.”
“So this whole coming out here thing was an excuse for you to buy cookies. It was a win-win. If I said yes, we shared the cookies. If I said no, you got all the cookies for yourself.”
More laughing, and then I snatched the bag away.
“I can still take them away, you know.”
His eyes dancing, Brock grabbed the bag, his fingers closing over mine. Again our eyes met. Again he pulled back, then stood up.
“Looks like the storm is getting worse. I should get more wood while I have a chance.”
And then he was out the door before I could ask him if he would have liked any help.
Which was good, really.
My glance at the five logs in the fireplace confirmed my suspicions: Brock was going to be gone a good while finding more wood. Now was my best chance to snoop and find the evidence of criminal activity that I needed. I took one long look around the cabin before I got to work. The place was small, but there were still numerous places to hide things if you were clever, which Brock clearly was.
Still, my search went slower than I had even feared. First I checked the loft, careful not to disturb the swaths of Aztec-patterned blankets or the smooth slats of wood, none of which moved or concealed any hidden compartments. Then I checked the bathroom, felt under the bathtub, even peered behind the toilet. Back in the main room, I checked the cupboard, the kettle, the pot, the fridge. Still nothing, and Brock could be back any minute. I slipped my hand behind every painting frame, craned my head under the couch, and finally lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling dismally.
What if there was nothing? If Russell Snow had been so sure there had been evidence, wouldn’t he have known what it would be? Then my gaze fell on the chest, and suddenly it was so obvious that I almost laughed at myself for missing it.
Sure enough, inside the chest were several guns, all with the serial numbers scratched off.
Just then footsteps sounded around the house. I ripped my phone out of my pocket, snapped a picture of the chest’s contents, and then slammed the lid shut just as the front door opened.
I scrambled back to the couch and then rose as Brock staggered in, his arms overflowing with logs.
“Went a little overboard,” he grumbled as he heaved the logs into the fireplace. “Though that should be it for tonight,” he said, answering my next question.
He collapsed on the couch beside me, closer than last time though not as close as the first time.
“Can I?” he asked, with a flick of his wrist at the cookie bag next to me.
“Sure,” I said, adding, “just a few” right as his hand came out of the bag with two cookies in it.
He shot me a guilty smile and then asked, “What, are you hungry? Do you want some real food?”
A glance in the bag revealed six more cookies.
“No. This is fine,” I said.
As I reached for another, my phone rang.
One glance at the caller and I immediately hung up.
What was Russell Snow doing calling me now?
A few seconds later, my phone rang again. Again, Russell Snow.
I declined again, this time turning off my phone completely.
“They must really want to get ahold of you,” Brock said.
He wasn’t looking at me, but he could’ve been before. Had he seen the caller ID? Did he know?
“It was my mom. She’s always calling me nonstop, checking up on me,” I said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Brock said. “I can go outside or whatever.”
I shook my head.
“No. It’s fine. One night off will be nice.”
A slight smile slid over Brock’s lips.
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
“Oh?”
“I’m changing professions. Only problem is, my profession is…well, it’s not the best profession to be in, and it’s a damn hard one to get out of.”
His tortured gaze was once again on the chest. Pity panged through me.
“So…this job...how bad is it?”
“Bad. That’s all I’ll say,” Brock said. “Can’t tell you any more than that.”
I nodded, and Brock shook his head.
“There is a bit more than that. I used to be a Navy SEAL, you know. I was good at it too, the fast pace, taking orders and giving them, helping my friends, serving my country. Even had a bit of time for painting every once in a while. And then I got booted. Dumb politics I hadn’t even wanted to get involved with in the first place. Me and a few friends, one day we were in, the next we were out. There wasn’t much left for us; I didn’t know how to do anything else. My friend—Garth, the funny one—he was the one who came up with the idea for the two of us, a just-for-now scheme that swelled until it was out of control.”
Brock shook his head.
“But it’s over now, and everything will be fine soon. I told him I was through a month ago, and I’m making a new life for myself here. This is just the beginning.”
After another minute, I still didn’t know what to say, but luckily Brock rose and strode off to the kitchen, saying, “Would you mind if I painted? Talking about the old days just gave me some inspiration, and sometimes I lose the thread if I let it go.”
“No. Not at all. Could I join?”
Already opening the cupboard, Brock paused.
Inwardly, I groaned, averting my gaze. Why on earth had I asked that?
“I don’t have to,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m not like an artist or anything. It’ll just be a waste of paint.”
But when Brock returned, two canvas boards tucked under one arm and several tubes of paint in the other, he shook his head.
“No. I…just never thought of it. I want you to; it’ll be fun.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling at him.
Putting the canvas boards and paint tubes on the floor, he added, “And don’t worry about getting paint on the floor. God knows I have already.”
At his words, the paint flecks on the floor suddenly stood out to me, the little dashes of yellow, blue, and red seemingly everywhere. Funny, how some things you only saw once they were spoken of, how clear some things were in retrospect. What else in my life was like that?
“We can share these brushes,” Brock said, slapping an old tomato tin filled with paintbrushes on the floor between us.
“Any advice for a newbie?” I joked as we sat on the floor side by side.
“Yeah,” he said, shooting me a sidelong smirk. “Don’t take anyone’s advice. Art is art, not a science. It’s personal; it comes from the heart. You have to feel your way through. Just do what feels right.”
As I reached for a brush, he added, “That, and if you mix all the colors you’ll end up with brown.”
We laughed, he grabbed a brush of his own and got started.
At the beginning, I
only circumspectly watched Brock out of the corner of my eye, his face focused yet calm, a strange light in his eyes as his brush flowed across the page.
Until he growled, “Get to work or your canvas is getting confiscated.”
Surprised, I glanced at his face to see a silly grin.
Next thing I knew, his brush was sweeping over to my canvas, flicking a navy line in the center.
“There, I gave you a starting point,” he said, returning to his own canvas.
I looked at the navy line dubiously. A blank white canvas and some random line were supposed to inspire me? What had I been thinking, wanting to paint anyway? I was no artist. I was a logical, curious private investigator who, even as a child, had hated coloring.
But as I stared at the line, it began to grow and swell with potential, swirling into a raindrop, into a bent-over back, an outstretched finger. Suddenly, I knew what I was going to paint.
I started out with more navy, outlining the spread-fingered figure with her thin, ponytailed head looking up. Then it was some brown for the outside, for the bricks around the window. There was yellow for the inside, a whole coat of it for the window. Then black was for the figures joined at the arms, the ones bent over the table with the cocaine baggie between them. White was for the baggie’s contents, yellow to cover it all again, only halfway. The dark, sad figures were bathed in yellow light, the yellow reaching out, brushing against the spread-fingered girl outside. Above it all was more navy for the uncaring sky, a dab of yellow for the sliver of moon. And then I was done, finished and looking over Brock’s shoulder at his canvas, which contained army-green figures with their guns connected in the center, all of it light-haloed just like mine.
“Not bad. You have an artist’s eye,” Brock said with an approving look at my canvas.
My gaze slid from my canvas to his and then back to mine again, and I laughed.
“Don’t tease me.”
Brock squeezed my shoulder.
“I’m not teasing. I mean it. That’s a really compelling scene, and those colors you used to frame it, the point of view, it’s all great. What’s it of?”