Winward turned the full force of his penetrating gaze on the man across from him. “Well now, that all depends, Mr. Shear. The girls hanging on your walls are missing and have probably been murdered,” he explained, turning to one of the paintings. “We were lucky enough to find one of the bodies and the murder weapon, but I find something very strange.”
“I fail to see your point, detective.”
“It’s just this, Mr. Shear. I have to ask myself, since a description of the murder weapon was never disclosed to the media, how could he, meaning you, possibly know so much about something that had never been revealed?”
Shear was silent as he met and held his gaze. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve lost me again,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re accusing me of.”
“Am I accusing you of something?” Winward asked, feigning surprise. He cast a glance at Hayes and shrugged. “I’m merely speculating.”
“All right. Then maybe you’ll be kind enough to tell me why I’m the focus of your speculation.”
Winward didn’t bother hiding his smug triumph. He pointed to a painting where a dark, un-detailed assailant leaned over a nude male body, sufficiently hiding his victim’s identity, with a glinting spiked ball and chain raised high above his head in a brutal attack.
“Because, Mr. Shear, the weapon we found next to Kathy Packard’s mutilated body happens to be identical to the one you’ve painted here.” He turned to watch Shear’s reaction. “Now, isn’t it a coincidence that the murderer of that little girl and an impressive man such as yourself should have the same gruesome taste in weapons?”
Thomas Shear digested this bit of information in silence as his gaze turned to stone. “I assure you, sir, that’s all it is.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Winward said, letting his disbelief ring in his tone. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Shear.” He turned abruptly and moved toward the door. “Oh, you’re not planning a trip anytime soon, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Shear stated, allowing Winward and Hayes to precede him from the room and lead the way back into the foyer.
“Good. I hope you won’t mind if we call on you again in the future?”
“Of course not.” Shear handed them their coats and opened the door to the driving rain. “If I can be any further assistance to you, just let me know.”
Winward smiled. “You can count on that, Mr. Shear.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The gloom of the day was held at bay by closed blinds, lights overhead, and the amber shaded lamp on Jonathan’s desk. The room was large and elegantly appointed. Jonathan’s prized maple desk was an antique like the cabinets and tables arranged throughout the sitting area. The crème walls held a couple of Tom’s paintings resembling his Life collection; an office warming gift when Jonathan had opened his own practice.
When the call waiting began to beep, Jonathan laid his pen down and gave the telephone an exasperated look. He was just finishing up and was eager to leave. He pressed the intercom button.
“Marilyn?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell whoever it is that I’ve left for the day and take a message, will you?”
“It’s Thomas Shear, Mr. Fields. He said it was important.” “Tom? Okay. Thanks, Marilyn.” He disconnected with Marilyn and took the call. “Hey, Tom, what’s up?”
“I need to talk to you, Jonathan.”
“Sure, buddy. Why don’t you come over to the house tonight? I’m sure Marsha won’t mind setting another place for dinner.” His eyes shifted to the brass framed picture of Marsha and himself, grinning like fools that sat on his desk.
“Not tonight, Jonathan. I need to talk to you alone.”
“What’s wrong? Is it Kelly?”
“No.”
Jonathan stilled. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so. I’m going to need your help.”
“Legally?” Jonathan asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
There was a pause as Jonathan took in the single word. “Okay. Let me finish a few things here and I’ll come over on my way home.”
“I appreciate it, Jonathan. I really do.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The subtle urgency in Tom’s voice worried Jonathan as he hung up the phone. Any other person probably wouldn’t have detected it, but he’d known Tom for too many years not to know his moods. Something was definitely wrong.
He leaned over the papers on his desk and tried to concentrate, but Tom’s words, or rather the lack of them, kept getting in the way. Throwing down his pen, he shoved the papers into his briefcase and left the office.
Shadows loomed thick in Tom’s den. The house was quiet except for the tick emanating from the clock hanging on the wall. It said the time was seven thirty. Darkness pressed against the glass of the window flanked by blue silk drapes.
Tom noticed Jonathan looking around as he waited. It was the first time he’d been in the room since Tom moved in. The entertainment center had been hooked up and set in place against one wall below the flat-screen TV. A bookshelf filled with everything from mysteries to artist instruction guides shared another wall along with a small bar. The leather sofa, two wrought-iron and glass end-tables with a matching coffee table, as well as the recliner in which Jonathan sat, filled the remaining corner space. The reading lamp by his side was the single source of light.
Tom’s black brow was knitted over turbulent blue eyes. He could feel the square line of his jaw flex with tension as he paced the carpet. Even though Jonathan appeared calm as he sat waiting, Tom knew his friend was growing more anxious as his curiosity mounted.
“Tom, what is it? It can’t be all that bad. You’re acting like a man who’s about to be sentenced to death.”
Tom stopped and stared at Jonathan. The arbitrary remark had made his blood run cold. Shrugging off the unnerving feeling, he shook his head and resumed his restless motion.
“Okaaay,” Jonathan said, startled by Tom’s reaction. “If you didn’t have my undivided attention before, you certainly have it now. Now sit down and tell me what’s happened. You’re making me nervous.” He pulled at the collar of his dress shirt, loosening his tie.
“I’m trying to find a way to explain the impossible.”
Tom turned his back on Jonathan to stand before the dark, rain-splattered window and saw his own reflection. Because he was wearing a black pullover, his pale face was all that could be seen and it unnerved him to think of his own floating head staring back at him from the other side of the glass. He turned away and gave Jonathan his profile.
“It’s all so fantastic. Sometimes I have trouble believing it myself.”
His head ached with his thoughts. Should I reveal Emmy’s existence? Will Jonathan believe the incredible truth? Or will he think it’s delusional insanity? Jonathan believes in hard facts. What facts do I have to offer as proof besides the obvious reality of my paintings?
And then there’s Kelly. How can I possibly protect Kelly’s involvement? There’s no way I’m going to drag her down with me. No way.
And what of the other secret he carried deep within himself, the deepest, darkest secret of all? The one so devastating and personal that he’d had to bury it for the sake of his own sanity. What of it? Any good detective, and Winward certainly seems to be one, will uncover the truth. Its coincidence will undoubtedly be misconstrued. What then?
It’s got to be told, he decided. He had no other choice now. It could help save his life—or condemn it. He suppressed a shudder.
“You’ll probably think I’m totally deranged. But you’re the only person I can trust.”
“Tom, I’ve known you too long to think any such thing,” Jonathan said. “Just take your time and start from the beginning.”
Tom turned to face Jonathan’s calm expression.
“After I moved in, I began having nightmares. They were so vivid, I can still remember every detail.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
“The first was of a little girl. She cried out to me for help, but as she came within reach, she was pulled away. Her screams were terrifying.
“The first night it happened, I went to my studio. The dream was still so clear in my mind, I knew there was only one thing I could do. So I set up my easel and started painting. I could feel her presence all around me. I could hear her cries in my head. I could even feel their resonating vibrations beneath my feet. I felt as if I were being drawn up in her sorrow, like I was being possessed. I know it’s a strong word, but that’s how I felt.”
“So that was the beginning of the Rage collection,” Jonathan said.
“Yes,” Tom answered, turning back toward the rain-streaked window, but at a different angle. “I thought, or maybe I should say, I hoped, that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. The nightmares continued and my collection grew.”
Tom hunched his shoulders to contain a shiver. He eyed the decanters on the bar, then picked up the glass he’d been using and refilled it. “Want one?” he asked. Jonathan shook his head.
“I thought I was losing my mind. Each time it happened, I became more and more disoriented. I’d find myself standing in front of a finished painting and realize I’d lost hours out of a day or night. And then the night I began setting up the Rage gallery, something extraordinary happened.” Tom paused as he lifted his glass to his lips. “I think this is the part you’re going to have a hard time believing.”
Jonathan watched his friend take a long pull from his drink. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Tom nodded and carried his drink back to the window. “After I’d hung the first painting,” he began, “the one of the first little girl, the room got cold. No, not cold, frigid; I could see my breath, and I had an eerie feeling that someone was watching me from behind.” He hesitated and turned to see if there was a change in Jonathan’s expression. Seeing none, he continued. “I turned around expecting to find an intruder. Instead, what I saw turned everything I believed in upside down.”
Jonathan’s expression filled with incredulous disbelief. “Are you telling me you saw a—”
“A ghost? An apparition? A disembodied spirit? That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Tom stated, watching Jonathan rise to the edge of his seat. “It was the ghost of the little girl in the portrait I’d just hung on the wall.”
Jonathan stared, then blinked and shook his head. “Tom, you know I’ve never been a believer in the supernatural. I’ve always considered the mere possibility absurd. I don’t know what to say,” he confessed.
“There’s nothing to say . . . yet. I’ve only just begun.”
Jonathan seemed to leap from his chair as he made his way to the bar. After pouring himself a generous shot of bourbon, he took a fortifying swig and motioned for Tom to continue.
“You’ve got to understand something before I go on,” Tom said, his voice firm. “There’s no way I want Kelly involved in any of this if there’s an investigation. She’s been through enough.”
“Kelly? What does Kelly have to do with this? And what do you mean by ‘an investigation’?”
“Before I say anything else, you’ve got to promise me Kelly won’t be involved.”
Jonathan searched Tom’s determined expression. “I’m not sure I should do that.” When it became clear Tom would refuse to say anything further, Jonathan heaved a resigned breath. “Okay, you have my word. Now, get on with it,” he said, motioning with his free hand.
“Last night, we came here to have dinner. I was putting on music when I heard breaking glass in the kitchen. After Kelly calmed down, she told me a little girl had appeared and pleaded for help.”
“Did you see her?”
“No,” Tom admitted. “At first, I thought it must’ve been Emmy.”
Jonathan held Tom’s gaze. “What do you mean ‘at first’?”
“Kelly went into the Rage gallery. I followed. That’s when she saw the other portrait.” Tom stopped and swallowed hard. “I’m still having trouble with what happened next. It was terrifying.”
“Just take it slow.”
Tom tossed back the remaining contents of his glass. After a deep breath, he continued. “As the temperature dropped, a frame of mist rose from the floor.” He avoided Jonathan’s incredulous expression by crossing to the bar. “It was the girl in the portrait. She walked over and took Kelly’s hand, but there was absolutely nothing I could do as she led her from the room. It was like I’d been drugged and was paralyzed.
“After what seemed like an eternity, whatever was holding me let go. When I found her, Kelly was standing dazed in front of the attic stairs. The way she looked scared the hell out of me and all I could think to do was to shake her. Then she started to cry, saying Jenny had entered her and that she couldn’t stand the pain.”
“What do you mean? Entered her how?”
“The same way Emmy entered me. Kelly absorbed the little girl’s spirit, Jonathan. She feels all of the emotional torment Jenny felt before and after she died.”
“Tom, do you realize what you’re saying? It’s incredible.” He took a hearty gulp of his bourbon. Tears came to his eyes as it burned its way down.
“I know, Jonathan. But you’ve got to hear me out. Today I had visitors. They were detectives.” He watched Jonathan’s eyes widen. “They wanted to know about the paintings in the Rage collection. Apparently, they’re investigating a case of murdered children. The children were all little girls.”
Jonathan let out a low whistle. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them the main concept came from newspaper articles.”
“Did they believe you?”
Tom’s grave expression darkened. “I don’t think so. But one of the detectives, Detective Winward, found something in one of my paintings that was pretty incriminating.”
“Which was?”
“A weapon identical to one that was found along with the body of one of the little girls. A weapon that’s unique because it’s a mace, a spiked ball and chain.”
Jonathan looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention, then ran his hand over his face. “Tom, this is unbelievable.” Jonathan shook his head. “It’s going to take me a while to digest what I’ve heard tonight. And I’ll be honest with you, I’m going to have to do some heavy duty soul searching before I can even fathom the possibility that your ghosts are real. If I had heard this story from anyone else, I would probably have laughed in his face.”
“I understand. I didn’t expect you to be totally accepting. Any man in his right mind would have his doubts. But please, don’t take too long. Winward said he’d be back. And I have a feeling it’ll be sooner than expected.”
Jonathan’s brow lowered into a suspicious scowl. “Why?”
Tom heaved a sigh. “I’ve held something back from you, Jonathan, from everyone. Something very personal. Something that, until now, I’d always thought would remain buried forever.”
Tom grew silent and turned away from Jonathan. He’d thought he had conquered the degradation of his past long ago. But as all of his repressed fears and anxieties came flooding back, he realized with sudden certainty that they had never been truly banished, only concealed from sight and mind. He wanted to cry out in anguished denial, but he knew the effort would be futile. The memories were seared into his being and would always be a despised, permanent part of his life.
When Tom finally spoke, his voice was strained and low.
“Up until I was twelve years old, I was the victim of gross sexual and physical abuse. I grew up in a house void of normal love and emotions, one dominated by the unnatural cruelties of an evil, overbearing father.
“At first, my mother did what she could to stop his advances toward me. But after being beaten to near death more than once, she finally gave up and started drowning my screams in a bottle. Don’t get me wrong,” he said, casting Jonathan a challenging glance, “she wasn’t a weak person
. Not in the beginning, anyway. I guess, after enduring so much physical and mental abuse, her spirit broke and she just gave up.”
Jonathan was speechless. He sank to the edge of the recliner, his glass dangling in his hand. Compassion glistened in the tears he blinked back, and Tom rejected the pity he saw by turning away. Stronger now that the initial shock had been absorbed, he continued.
“Somehow, we’d all managed to keep the years of abuse a secret. That is, until the day my grandfather decided to pay us an unexpected visit.” Tom lifted his glass and took a drink, then shook his head at the grim memory. “I can’t even imagine what he must have felt when he came into our so-called ‘home’ and found my mother, his daughter, beaten and unconscious on the floor. Or what it must’ve been like to find my drunken father hurriedly pulling on his pants over a naked and bleeding little boy.
“I can remember looking up through a haze of pain to see him beating my father until his cries of outrage turned into whimpers. I remember the tears on his face as he looked down at me, and I can still feel the strength in his big, gentle hands as he picked me up.”
Tom stared into his empty glass as if seeing it all again.
“He saved my life that day. I know without a doubt I would have died if I’d had to suffer my father’s abuse much longer. I think that’s why Emmy was drawn to me. Somehow she could sense my pain and saw that it matched her own to a certain degree. At first, I was confused by the fleeting look of pity I saw on her face, but now I think I understand. I think in some way, she’s trying to help me cope with what happened to me just as I’m trying to help her.
“So you see,” he concluded, turning to look directly at Jonathan, “if Detective Winward takes the time to dig it up, which I’m sure he will, the coincidence of the situation will surely cause him to be more suspicious of me than ever. How could it not?”
“Yes. I see your point,” Jonathan conceded. “If this gets out, which like you said, it probably will, we’ve got a dangerous situation on our hands, my friend. And I’m afraid it’ll take more than just me to handle it.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 11