Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1)

by Cynthia H. Wise

  Sterling paused for effect, but Winward’s menacing scowl shattered the melodrama he’d hoped to create.

  “You’d better not be jerking me around, Sterling,” Winward said as he shifted a black gaze to the man sitting beside him. “What does an art exhibit have to do with eight murdered girls?”

  “I’m gettin’ there.” Sterling huffed. “This friend of mine has a thing for missing children stories, so he was familiar with the case you’re investigating. You’ve got to understand, this guy’s a pretty tough character. So when he said he was floored by what he saw, I believed him.”

  Winward’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth. “Get to the point.”

  “Man oh man, Winward. I thought you’d have caught on my now. Geez.”

  Winward remained silent and fought the urge to hit Sterling as he rolled his watery blue eyes.

  “The paintings, man.” Sterling heaved a sigh, blissfully ignorant of how close he was to finding his face the target of the detective’s brawny fist. “The whole collection was of missing children. Little girls, to be exact. The very ones you’re lookin’ for.”

  Winward felt the blood drain from his face. His head snapped around and he narrowed his dark gaze on the informant. “Where?” he ground out.

  Sterling was either brave or stupid enough to toss Winward a smug smile. “Somehow I knew you’d ask me that.” He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “In fact, I was so sure, I had him write down the address.”

  As Winward took the paper and silently read the scribbled print, the muscles tightened in his throat: Shear Gallery. 1122 Church Street.

  “Get out,” he barked, starting the engine.

  “Would you mind drop—”

  “I said get out,” he repeated with menacing calm.

  Sterling fumbled for the handle of the door. He barely had time to plant his feet on the ground and shut the door before the engine revved and yanked the car from the curb.

  Winward was five minutes away from the station, but he made it in four. He burst into the squad room, located Hayes, and motioned for him to follow. They entered Swainer’s office without knocking and closed the door.

  “We’ve got to talk to you,” Winward said, ignoring the phone pressed against his chief’s ear.

  With drawn brows, Swainer motioned for them to sit. “Puckett, I don’t give a rat’s ass what he told you to do. I want that report on my desk now!” He heaved a frustrated sigh and slammed down the phone. “Okay, boys, as you can see, I’m not in the best of moods this morning. What’ve you got?”

  “Maybe this will cheer you up.” Winward handed Swainer the piece of paper with the address on it and sat back to watch the chief’s reaction as he explained what it meant.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Events from the night before replayed themselves for the thousandth time in Tom’s mind as he lay awake in Kelly’s bedroom. His mind had screamed warnings as she accepted the outstretched hand, but his frozen lips had refused to form the words. He’d felt immobilized, for all he could do was stand paralyzed as Kelly was led away.

  Then, whatever controlled the vice holding him released its grip. Acute panic had shoved him forward and Kelly’s name rushed from his lips as he sprinted into the foyer in time to see her cross the second-floor landing. He’d found her dazed, gazing up at the closed attic door. ‘She’s inside me, Tom,’ she had said to him.

  Futile anger rose up once more and Tom opened his eyes to stare at the light rain tapping against the window. He’d forgotten to pull the shade. No matter. The early morning light was dim and gray; it made the lavender and rose of the bed seem faded. She was beneath the sheet and comforter and he lay on top fully clothed with her warm body cradled in his arms. He listened to the sound of her breathing and knew pure exhaustion had forced her into slumber.

  As she stirred against him, he braced himself to, once again, soothe her frightened cries if she began struggling from the depths of another nightmare.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

  “What time do you have to leave for the university?”

  “Not for a while. Go back to sleep,” he repeated, giving her a gentle kiss. “I’ll wake you before I go.”

  She rose up on her elbow to look at him and he hated the look of worry on her face. “Tom, what’s going to happen now? I mean between us. I don’t want you trying to protect me by sending me away.”

  “That’s probably the best thing I could do for you.” He sighed. “I have to think of your safety. I can’t let anything else happen to you.”

  “Well, I won’t go, you know. I won’t let you go through this alone. You’ll just have to think of something else.”

  “Kelly—”

  She silenced him by placing her fingers against his lips. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “All I want right now is to feel safe in your arms.”

  Tom’s heartbeat quickened as he imagined stripping off her nightgown and lying with Kelly’s naked body against his as he aroused her flesh with a teasing tongue.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re vulnerable right now. Just holding you like this is driving me crazy. Besides, we’re supposed to be taking things one step at a time, remember?”

  “Consider it the next step.” She leaned closer until she was a breath away. “Kiss me, Tom.”

  Desire surged through him as he gave in to her plea. A groan of longing rumbled in his chest as he gathered her up and saw the glow of passion in her eyes.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked. He wanted Kelly with every fiber and knew if he accepted what she offered, he would be lost in her forever.

  Her eyes fell to his lips. “Positive.”

  Tom rolled Kelly beneath him and slowly devoured her with one heated, possessive kiss. The seductive play of his fingers as he released the buttons of her nightgown made Kelly’s body quake. Then he rose to his knees and pulled down the covers. His lust soared when he saw that her nightgown had risen to her hips during the night, revealing long, smooth, perfect legs.

  Tom couldn’t resist feeling her supple skin. Starting at her ankle, he felt his way up to the inside of her thigh and she groaned as she raised her knee, following his caress. Kelly’s hips lifted and Tom heard her gasp as he boldly continued, giving the heated flesh between her legs one deliberate, gentle stroke. He pushed her nightgown up further and his breathing almost stopped at the sight of her neatly trimmed auburn V pointing the way to where he desperately wanted to be.

  Tom raised her up and in one fluid motion, peeled the garment over her head. Tossing it aside, he urged her back down, hungrily devouring her body with his eyes. He began at her dainty, manicured toes, up her legs to her firm, flat stomach and narrow waist. Her breasts were perfect orbs and Tom barely contained a lustful groan as he watched her dark pink nipples tighten as the cool air caressed her skin.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking into her eyes, knowing that she had been watching his every move, his every expression.

  The whispered endearment lingered between them as he lowered his head to place a kiss on the flat surface of her stomach, his morning stubble teasing her skin, before rising from the bed. He saw her shiver with the loss of his heat and raised his eyes to hers to watch them grow cloudy with desire as he stripped his clothes away. He was long, thick, and hard, and Tom felt his skin burn as her simmering eyes scorched across his smooth, sculpted torso, and then down, following the line of dark, fine hair beneath his navel to his throbbing erection. He leaned over her and captured her lips. He slid down beside her and drew the covers up and around them. Pulling her close, he molded his body to hers and began ravaging her mouth until they were both breathless and aching with need.

  Tom heard her purr as he nibbled his way to the nape of her neck and down to the erect peak of her left breast. He sucked and pulled with his mouth, then teased with his tongue
, savoring the taste of her. When he turned to the other and started his play all over again, Kelly began to writhe beneath him. She was running soft, eager hands over him, raking his skin with her nails, testing each nuance of his body until a shiver of pleasure passed through him. When her exploring hands found and wrapped around him, Tom gritted his teeth as his stiff erection responded with a jerk.

  “I can’t stand it,” he said, stopping the stroking motion of her hand. “I want you so badly it hurts.” He pressed her against the mattress and kissed her long and deep. When he dragged his lips away, he met the possession of her eyes.

  “Good,” she whispered. “I want you to want me.”

  Tom kissed her once more, proving his surrender. Then he became unrelenting in his assault. His touch was light and exploring—deliberate. He suckled and teased until the tiny hairs covering her body rose, tracing the path of his fingers, lips, and tongue. As his touch went lower, she opened her legs, urging him to find the slippery crease of her body. He stroked and circled until Kelly’s moan sent him deeper and he slipped a finger inside of her. He massaged her clit with his thumb as he pulled his finger out and slid two in. Her hips rose to meet his next thrust. She was so wet, he had to taste her.

  Tom positioned himself between her legs and pressed her knees to the sides, opening her up to his gaze. Her pink skin glistened and wept, waiting for his touch, and he obliged as he spread her open further and covered her with his mouth. He heard her gasp as he sucked her clit into a swollen, throbbing nub. Her orgasm tore through her and Tom felt her clenching spasms against his tongue as Kelly cried out and whimpered, thrashing her head from side to side.

  When he finally lifted his head, Kelly was breathless. He pulled himself up and their fevered gazes fused until he pushed inside of her, slow and smooth and deep. Her second orgasm was instantaneous and he felt her body squeeze and release around him. His groan was torturous as he clenched his eyes and held himself motionless until he could trust himself to go slowly and not find his own release too soon. Then they began moving in an age-old rhythm that consumed his soul.

  Tom drove to the university with thoughts of Kelly filling his mind. The passion they’d shared had overwhelmed him with its intensity. He had never felt anything like it before, and the thought of interfering forces destroying the most precious thing in his life made him seethe with self-preserving determination. He had to find a way to handle the apprehension that had settled in the back of his mind. If he didn’t, he knew the experiences he and Kelly had had, and the circumstances surrounding them, possessed the power to destroy everything they held dear in life.

  His preoccupation seemed to extend the day, and Tom was relieved when it was finally over. As he drove home, the rain increased with every mile. It pelted against the roof of the Jag with the reverberation of a drum as the windshield wipers thumped from side to side, fighting methodically against the relentless onslaught. The sound began to blend until it gave way to fists meeting flesh.

  The man’s face was scarlet and his eyes bulged. Shouts grew louder as he cursed the woman at his feet before turning the full impact of his attention on Tom. “What are you looking at, you little shit?” the man growled.

  Tom shook with fear and turned to run. A sudden grip stopped him as vise-like fingers dug painfully into his bony shoulder. He was sent reeling by the back of his father’s hand and barely heard the advancing man’s words over the ringing in his ears.

  “Where do you think you’re going, slut? I’ve got something special in mind for you.”

  A blaring horn shattered the image, and Tom jerked the Jaguar back into his lane. His shaking hands gripped the wheel. He took a deep breath. The roar of traffic moving along Church Street was muted by the driving rain. What could be heard most was the swish of tires as they gripped their way through collecting water. Storm drains gurgled as they fought to keep the streets from flooding.

  He clicked on his right turn signal and slowed as he approached his driveway. He turned in and pulled through the shelter of the colonnade. An immaculate red Impala was parked in the lot behind the house. He could barely make out two men sitting in the antique’s dry interior through the blur of the torrential downpour. Now what?

  Tom steered into his parking space and turned off the engine. After flipping his coat collar up, he got out of the car. Instead of admitting visitors through the kitchen’s back door, he trotted to the shelter of the colonnade to the porch steps at the side of the house. He searched his key ring for the front door key as his steps thudded across the porch.

  Tom heard two car doors slam and the sound of hurrying steps splashing their way toward him. A voice rumbled, “Damn puddle.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Shear?” Tom inserted his key before turning to see two men crossing the porch toward him.

  One of the men was black and huge: six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds, all muscle, and in his early forties. The other was a well-built Caucasian: six foot, one hundred and eighty pounds, early thirties, dark-brown hair that brushed his collar, brown eyes that were almost black in a somewhat handsome, clean shaven face.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I hope so,” the smaller man replied. “My name’s Detective Mark Winward.” He removed his badge and held it up for Tom to see. “This is my partner, Detective Don Hayes. We’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Tom said. His curiosity developed an uneasy edge. “We can talk inside.”

  Winward smiled, showing straight, white teeth. “We’d appreciate that. It sure has turned out to be a nasty day.”

  “That it has,” Tom agreed, leading them inside.

  After deactivating the security system, he took their damp coats and hung them on the foyer coat rack along with his own. Tom had not failed to notice the shoulder-holster strapped to Detective Winward’s chest securing what looked like a Glock 9mm, or the hip holster on Detective Hayes’s belt holding the same make gun before the two men straightened their dress-coats.

  “Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen? I must admit I’m puzzled by your visit.”

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Shear,” Winward said, his gaze sweeping the interior taking in details. “It’s come to our attention that you have a collection of paintings that could be vital to an investigation we’re conducting. We’d like to see them, if we could.”

  “I fail to see how my paintings could possibly serve in an investigation. I create my work from my own imagination and feelings.”

  “I’m sure. But we’d still like to see them, if you don’t mind,” the detective persisted. So far, the giant by Winward’s side had maintained a brooding silence.

  “Of course, but I have several collections. If you can tell me which one you’re interested in, I’ll be happy to show you,” Tom said, his tone casual.

  Winward flashed a smile. “It’s a collection of little girls.”

  Tom had expected the answer, but his heart thumped nonetheless. “That would be my collection of Rage.”

  “Collection of Rage, Mr. Shear?” Winward raised a challenging brow and pinned Tom with eyes the color of black steel.

  Ice formed in Tom’s stomach. “If you’ll just follow me,” he said, “I’m sure everything will be self-explanatory.”

  Tom saw the glance the two detectives shared and his mind whirled with questions as he turned toward the left side of the staircase and led them down the hall. Why would they be interested in my paintings? How did they even know they existed? His mind froze. Emmy. Is this what you’ve been trying to tell me?

  “Right through here,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded serene, and yet, very far off like he was speaking through a tunnel.

  Tom pushed the doors of the Rage gallery open and stepped inside. As he flipped the light-switch, he watched the two detectives enter the room and saw the involuntary widening of their eyes.

  As Winward walked from painting to painting, scrutinizing each one, his insides twi
sted with a mixture of excitement and disgust. The resemblances were so familiar there was no need to refer to the pictures he carried in his pocket.

  The only child missing was Kathy Packard. In her place was a face he didn’t recognize, and the implications it presented chilled his blood.

  He moved on and his heartbeat quickened as he stepped in front of a painting bursting with agony-filled faces. He counted seven all together; all were tormented and helpless within the confinement of the canvas. Their images were so clear, he could almost hear their moans mingled with desperate cries for help. Suppressing a shiver, he moved on.

  “How long have you lived here, Mr. Shear?” Hayes asked. His voice rumbled low like the thunder outside.

  “I moved in the first week of November; so, a little over a month.”

  “Have you always lived in the area?” the detective questioned while studying a painting filled with instruments of torture.

  “Basically. I lived in Atlanta before moving up to Marietta.”

  “And how did you happen to find this particular house?” Winward asked, hoping to find a chink in the man’s defensive barrier.

  “By taking the usual steps, detective. I consulted a real estate agency.”

  A thick silence shrouded the room as Winward slowly turned from his perusal of the fake closet doors with their slide-bolt locks to face Shear’s shuttered expression. “Mr. Shear, how did you come to paint these paintings? To create this setting?” he asked, motioning toward the doors. “And please don’t try to tell me they came entirely from your imagination, because I wouldn’t believe you.”

  Shear’s smile was indulgent, softening the glint in his eyes. “Of course not,” he said. “Even though the overall effect evolved from simple imagination, the root of the theme came from the very common source of newspapers.”

  “As simple as that.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Shear looked from him to Hayes and back again. “May I ask what this is all about? Have I done something wrong?”