“No,” Marsha said, aghast. “Do I look like I belong in public with decent, sweet-smelling people?”
Tom’s lips twisted in a rueful grin. “You’re right. I’ll call takeout,” he said and bent to dig out the telephone directory from a box. “I discovered a great little Chinese restaurant that delivers.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tom raised his hand in farewell as Jonathan’s car pulled away. He stood for a moment gazing at the sky as the evening stars glistened against an empyrean of soft, blue-black velvet. He sighed with contentment. In the deepening night, brittle leaves rustled in a subtle breeze. He lifted his face to enjoy its touch then turned and entered the house.
He closed and locked the door, set the new security system, turned out the foyer light, then headed for the stairs. The delicate scent of roses stopped him in his tracks. His heart thumped as it wafted around him then drifted away, leaving him aroused as if by a lover’s touch. He stood motionless in the dark, half fearing its return, then let out his breath as his heartbeat eased.
What the hell was that? Tom looked around then shook his head as he rubbed the hair that had prickled along his arms. It had happened so quickly, he began to wonder if it had really happened at all. “I’m delirious,” he said aloud, attempting to shrug it off.
He climbed the stairs and pulled his T-shirt off as he entered his bedroom. The soft light from the lamp on the bedside table made the window appear black. Imagining someone across the way with binoculars—a lonely housewife, a depraved teenager, or maybe a deranged criminal—Tom pulled bedsheets from a box and tacked them over the dark glass. Satisfied, he finished undressing, anticipating the luxurious spray of a hot shower.
He stood under the pelting water and let it drench his body. The liquid heat felt like a touch of heaven, and Tom could feel the tension of the day slipping away as he rinsed shampoo from his dark hair. He was here. He had made it. His dreams were coming true, and he didn’t even try to stop his goofy grin or child-like chuckle.
After toweling himself dry, Tom returned naked to the bedroom. The new carpet was soft under his feet as he picked up the remote and turned on the TV sitting on his armoire in the corner. Ignoring the boxes stacked against one wall and the bare tops of his dresser and chest of drawers, Tom turned out the bedside lamp, got into his king-size bed and pulled the sheet to his waist. His muscles sighed in relief. He was lulled by the anchorman’s voice and struggled to keep his eyes open. Tom barely noticed as the voice began to fade.
Suddenly, a soft whimper came to him through a rising mist that was surrounding him. It grew in volume until his mind filled with the muffled, heart-wrenching sound of a sobbing child.
Searching blindly through the fog, Tom became disoriented and stopped to recover his bearings. His heart lurched when a little girl, perhaps six years old, emerged from the mist directly in front of him. The expression of suffering on her battered face impaled him.
Her brown eyes were huge with fear. One eye had been blackened. Her small jaw was red and swollen. A dried and crusted trickle of blood from a gash at her temple streaked her face. Her arms and legs were black and blue with bruises, some of them resembling large hand prints. Her long, dark hair was matted and stringy, and the blue and white dress she wore was stained and torn. White lacy socks, now grimy, sagged around delicate ankles. She wore no shoes.
The cruel reality of a child being forced to endure the vicious abuse that her little body displayed made him tremble with rage. He longed to ease the wretched sorrow clouding her dark eyes by enfolding her in the safety of his embrace. But as he moved forward to her tiny, reaching hands, he was cheated of the chance by a grasping arm that snatched her back into the consuming fog.
“Please! I want my mommy. Please!”
The desperate, terrified plea shrilled through the air, forcing him to cup his hands over his ears.
“No!”
Tom jerked awake. His heart pounded and his body quaked beneath a cold sweat within the harsh, gray light radiating from the television. Drawing in deep, jolting breaths, he threw off the tangled sheet, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and reached for the bedside lamp. Unsteady fingers sliced through his damp hair before he grabbed the remote to snap off the set.
He sat a moment as his trembling subsided and filled his mind with the things that still needed to be done before his gallery could be shown. Then he pulled on his jeans and left the room. He roamed aimlessly through the quiet house and soon found himself standing in the doorway of the red gallery. He switched on the light and the frightening memory of his dream came back to him in a startling rush.
Tom remembered how he had felt when he saw the child’s beaten and battered body. He remembered his frustrating sense of futility when the unseen figure snatched her from his grasp. He remembered the rage and paralyzing helplessness that had consumed him. And when he remembered how her desperate cry for help had ripped through the silent mist, Tom suddenly understood the room’s purpose, the reason behind its creation and its crimson walls.
He ran upstairs to his studio and searched the boxes in the attic until he found a fresh canvas, brushes, and paint. Then, with the empty canvas propped on the easel in front of him, Tom cleared his mind except for the image of the haunting dream.
His hand guided the brush across the canvas and the image of a child began to take form. As her face emerged, her eyes stared back at him and Tom began to feel the sadness of her presence beside him, watching as he brought her heartbreaking image to life. He could hear the sound of her tiny child voice, crying out in tormented sorrow, filling the empty space around him. It seemed to ricochet from the rafters to the floor, bouncing off the walls to engulf him in its desperation. He had never experienced anything so vividly real in his imagination before, and he let it guide his creative hand across the expanse of the canvas.
As the skylights above him lightened, Tom stopped and laid his paint and brush aside. The tiny presence that had been his companion throughout the long, emotion-filled night had vanished with the final stroke of his brush and was now silent in the morning light.
Without bothering to inspect the painting, Tom turned and left the attic.
CHAPTER SIX
The morning sun pierced the windows of Tom’s bedroom. Feeling its warmth against his naked shoulders, he was vaguely aware of its glaring brilliance as it drew him up from a sound, dreamless sleep. He opened one eye just enough to peer at the digital numbers of the bedside clock, then groaned in frustration as he buried his head beneath his pillow.
Suddenly, the sound of a compressor rumbling to life beneath his window shattered the silence and Tom’s eyes flew open. He withdrew the pillow from his head and rose to one elbow. The painters. With a moan, he fell back against the mattress and rubbed the sleep from his stinging eyes. Then he slowly lifted his head. Bare windows. He looked over and saw that the sheets he had tacked up the night before were in a puddle on the carpet. He stared for a perplexed moment until he heard a shout from outside.
Pushing the discarded sheets to the back of his mind, Tom crawled out of bed. He located clean clothes and began to dress. As he tied his shoes, his eyes strayed back to the sheets lying rumpled on the floor. With a shake of his head, he left the room and made his way outside to find four men in painter’s whites standing in the front yard. He could barely make out the sound of their voices over the vibrating hum of the compressor.
One of the men saw him advancing and broke away from the group. He was tall and rangy, covering the distance between them with a long stride. Tom took in his bald head glinting in the sunlight, then almost smiled at the small animal-like thing on his face. What the man couldn’t grow on his head, he made up for on his upper lip. The thick mustache was salt and pepper in color and hung down at least three inches on either side of his mouth.
He greeted Tom with a wide, toothy smile. “Mr. Shear?” His voice sounded like gravel.
“That’s right,” Tom said, shaking the man’s strong,
bony hand.
“My name’s Joe Douglas. You surprised me just now. I didn’t think anyone was home. We rang the bell, but no one answered. You must have been dead to the world.”
“Yeah, I guess I was. How long have you been here?”
“Since eight this morning.”
“Really?” Tom couldn’t believe he had slept through the noise. “I guess there’s no use asking if you’ve had time to look the place over,” he said, his lips creasing with a grin.
Joe chuckled. “Did that first thing.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Oh, I’d say we could have this place looking brand new in about ten days or so. That is if the weather holds. You should be all set for Thanksgivin’.”
“That soon? I was expecting longer.”
“Well,” Joe drawled, “I know how anxious you are to have the house finished, so I’ve added a couple of men to my crew.”
“I appreciate it,” Tom said. “Joe, you’ve just made my day.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I need to return the U-Haul. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“No problem,” Joe said. “Take your time.”
Tom turned toward the moving van. The swish of uncut grass beneath his feet reminded him that he needed to look into buying a mower. Considering the size of his lot, one he could ride was a must. Suddenly, he was smiling at the prospect of having the house completed the following week. Everything was progressing a lot faster than he had anticipated, and his excitement grew as the reality of his first public showing drew near.
He drove through the square and was caught by each red light. As he waited with the rest of the traffic, he made a mental note to check out the antique shops in town, of which there were several. At the next light, he saw Eddie’s Trick Shop and thought of Jonathan and his fake ice cubes with bees. Shillings restaurant was on the corner, and he added to his mental list to try its cuisine.
To his left stood the multi-floored municipal buildings, which were designed with gold-tinted, reflective windows. On this bright, sunny morning, they seemed to glow. The store-fronts lining the sidewalks were sheltered with nameplate awnings, which were, in turn, shaded by the steady parade of well-spaced water oaks. People on business errands and people browsing walked past curbside shrubs and raised beds of colorful flowers. The centerpiece of this square roundabout was the garden-like park, with an actual old-fashioned bandstand gazebo. In the center, a fountain and park benches were available for whoever wanted to linger.
The car in front of him began to pull forward and he followed. A half-mile south of the Square, Tom turned left onto Clay Street where the U-Haul rental center was located. He parked the lumbering vehicle with the others and got out. Inside the store, he waited at the counter while the male clerk rang up a woman’s purchase of boxes.
“Congratulations on your nuptials,” the clerk said as he handed her a receipt. “Good luck to you.”
“Thanks,” the woman replied with a smile. She turned with a glance in Tom’s direction then did a double-take and met his gaze. Her smile broadened with a flirtatious twist to her lips. “Hello.”
Tom’s mouth twitched with a grin. “Hi,” he responded, then both men watched as she gave him a quick wink and sauntered out the door, hips swaying.
“Women,” the clerk stated with a shake of his head. He chuckled and the belly hanging over his belt jiggled. “Can’t live with ’em, wish we could live without ’em. Tie ye up in knots if ye let ’em.”
Tom’s grin turned sardonic as he handed the man the keys. “I’m returning that truck,” he said pointing out the window. The man hitched up his trousers and waddled outside to inspect the vehicle. When he returned, he printed out Tom’s receipt.
“You have a good day.”
“You, too,” Tom replied then made his way to his Jaguar that he’d left the day before parked in the lot.
He stopped for groceries on his way home. After putting them away, he fixed himself a smoked turkey sandwich, then carried his lunch up the attic stairs to escape the commotion of the painters outside.
The faint insistence of the doorbell yanked at Tom. He shook his head to dislodge the heaviness within it, then looked up through the skylights. The light outside was fading. Hours had slipped by without notice.
He realized his hand held a paint-filled brush. Looking at the painting in front of him, Tom sucked in a startled breath as a shocking array of children’s faces, distorted by their pain-filled screams, leaped out at him from the canvas.
Some had eyes wide and staring in different shades of blue and brown. Others had their eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming down their pale faces. Also, they were all little girls. Their stricken expressions were so alive he could almost hear the chilling sound of their voices crying out in chorus with the physical and mental pain they displayed. The canvas was covered with this image from corner to corner, some faces overlapping others, making Tom wonder how such a devastating scene could be held within the confining space of a single canvas.
Even though he heard the faint chime of the doorbell once again, Tom was unable to move away from the painting’s haunting image or the intensity of its sudden existence. He had to close his eyes against it before he could turn his body away, and, even then, he felt the tormented faces at his back straining to keep him near.
His heart pounded as he descended the narrow attic stairs and practically sprinted down the main staircase. He dared not look back, for the shiver that ran through his body was like a warning that had him shuddering within its grasp. When he reached the bottom, Tom forced himself to stop and take a deep, steadying breath before crossing the foyer.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Shear,” he heard Joe say as he pulled the front door open, “but we’ve done all we can do today. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“That’ll be fine,” Tom replied, forcing a smile.
The painter nodded as he looked curiously at Tom’s pale face. “You have a good evening, sir.”
“Thank you. You do the same.”
Tom closed the door thinking of the horror-filled painting upstairs. How could such a painting exist when he had no memory of creating it? And how could he let the entire afternoon slip by without remembering?
Tom shook his aching head then activated the security system and turned out the foyer light. Ignoring the rumbling of his empty stomach, he ascended the stairs in search of the oblivion of a dreamless sleep.
Don’t cry, little girl. Everything will be alright. Why are you so frightened? I’m right here. I’ll help you.
Tom could hear his words in his mind, but could feel no movement on his lips. What’s wrong with me? And why is the little girl suddenly so quiet? He strained to detect the slightest sound.
Footsteps! Understanding invaded Tom’s muddled thoughts and a chilling deluge of fear washed over him. He’s coming! His voice grew frantic. He’s coming up the stairs. We’ve got to run, but how? We’re trapped. There’s no escape. No escape ... except... death.
I can’t move. I’ve got to try and get away. Get all of us away. How many are we? Why can’t I see? I know they’re here. I can feel them. They are all around me.
Tom heard the rattling of a key in the lock. At the sound of grating hinges, the urgent need for freedom overwhelmed him. He pulled frantically against the cold metal encircling his wrists and ankles, but felt only searing pain as the unyielding bindings cut into his flesh.
The menacing presence drew closer. Footsteps thumped on the bare planks of the floor. Tom began trembling with fear.
He’s getting closer! NO, his mind roared. Please, no more!
The footsteps stopped close beside him. Tom pried his eyelids open, feeling the crust that covered them crack as his lashes pulled apart, and saw the blurry vision of a figure towering above him. He could see the ominous glint of metal dangling by its side and felt his body cringe with terrified expectancy. He watched its arm rise up,
holding tight to the threatening object. He quailed in terror as it came lashing down.
Tom was held defenseless against the onslaught. He writhed in pain as the deadly object made contact again and again with his exposed ribs. The sound of cracking bone rang in his ears and he felt his blood go cold with the sense of detachment that accompanies mortal fear, pain, and death.
His feeling of detachment intensified as numbing darkness seized his mind and Tom felt himself begin to rise. Suddenly released from the excruciating pain, he found himself floating against attic rafters. His naked body lay beneath him, bound and helpless, bleeding on the rough planked floor. His horror-twisted face was caked with blood.
Looking around, he searched frantically for a means of escape. It was then Tom noticed the buckled leather straps hanging from the rafters.
With growing curiosity, he began scanning the depths of the attic. He saw a table scattered haphazardly with a grizzly array of blood-stained tools: hammers, pliers, knives, clamps, long screws and spikes, wire, ropes, razor blades, a butane fire-lighter. They were all there, ready and waiting to be used on the tender flesh of the children.
Tom shifted his gaze and a tiny form, huddling in a dark corner, caught his eye. And then he saw another. And another. Looking more closely, he noticed several sets of manacles bolted to the floor around the frightened little bodies. Along the wall, he noticed a large wooden box with holes in its padlocked lid.
Maniacal laughter brought him back to the central scene below and a bone-chilling horror washed over him at the sight of blood streaming across and between his own body’s legs from mutilated genitals. The display of his naked body, lying mangled and bleeding on the cold attic floor, left him with a sense of rage more intense than anything he had ever felt before. His blind fury wanted to lash out against his tormentor, but as the man’s arm rose up once more, Tom felt himself being yanked from the rafters by the lifeline he could now see stretching between himself and his body on the floor. His scream of denial gurgled in his throat as the annihilating weapon came crashing down against his skull.
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 4