A face floated across his mind’s eye and his lips twisted in a nasty caricature of a smile. “Thanks, mother,” he slurred, “for giving me such a satisfying goal in life.”
He saw the beckoning neon of a bar sign and pulled into the parking lot. He needed time to think. The day had been so overwhelming that he needed to come to terms with what to do next.
Thomas Shear is the key. There’s no doubt about that. All the police need is a little nudge and Shear’s house of gold will crumble around his ears.
His grin widened as he stepped into the gloom of the smoke-filled bar and AC/DC met him at the door ringing “Hells Bells.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tom stood motionless at the bottom of the attic stairs. He looked up into the gloom and watched the door at the top swing open to reveal a shaft of light. Detecting the faint sound of a rhythmic creak emanating from the glare, he felt light-headed from the hypnotic effect it had on his mind.
As the sound grew louder, with each pause in its rhythmic pattern, Tom felt himself being drawn further into the light under its entrancing influence. Its soothing cadence lured him up until he stood in the open doorway, bathing in the welcoming feel of the glow. He could sense his body begin to sway in perfect rhythm.
“No! You’ve got to run! Go back!”
Emmy’s voice shrieked, jerking him from his hypnotic state. Tom’s senses came alive and his heart pounded. The once enchanting light became oppressive, and the air was squeezed from his lungs by its crushing weight. Forced to his knees, he cried out in desperation.
“Emmy!”
The weight lifted from his body. Tom raised his head and saw nothing but the gloom of shadows surrounding him. Confusion muffled his mind as he rose to his feet and stared at the tiny shafts of light filtering through the shuttered windows.
Screeching hinges made him whirl and he could only watch as the attic door slammed shut. Hearing the rhythmic creaking resume, Tom turned back and the mutilated body he suddenly saw hanging from the rafters made his blood run cold. Bulging, sightless eyes seemed to stare down at him in warning, but he could only stand in horrified silence as the bloodied hands dangling by its sides twitched.
A tall silhouette of a man walked from behind the corpse and stood with obvious pleasure in front of it. Tom watched the assailant raise his featureless face to admire the desecrated body and felt weak with fear as the man’s shoulders began to shake with laughter.
“I’m coming for you next, Tom.”
The ominous words sent icy rivulets through Tom’s veins. He could do nothing but stare at the expanse of the man’s shoulders as the silhouette gained solidity. The menacing form threw back his head and cackled with blood-curdling laughter.
“You’re next, Tom!”
With insane laughter ringing in his ears, Tom flung himself at the door and cried out in horror as the knob came loose in his hands.
Tom jerked awake, opened his eyes, and let go a startled, harsh yell. A luminous figure loomed over him, its face only inches from his. Its bulging eyes, reddened by hemorrhage, pierced him. Its swollen lips moved without sound. The stench of dead breath made him gag before the specter vanished and restraints encircled Tom’s shoulders. Another harsh yell was torn from his throat as he thrashed against the arms holding him. He searched the shadows of the moon-lit room until the sound of Kelly’s crooning voice penetrated his mind and reasserted reality.
“Tom, it’s all right. I’m here. You’re awake now.”
“It was so real,” he whispered, gathering her in his trembling arms. His heartbeat began to slow and he felt his tense muscles relaxing beneath her stroking fingers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“No. Not right now,” he said, pulling from her embrace. “I have to go.” He knew who the specter was. He was sure of it. Theodore Chandler was reaching out.
“What do you mean ‘you have to go’?”
Tom rose from the bed to grope through the clothes that had been discarded on the floor. “There’s something I have to do.”
“What?”
When he failed to respond, Kelly got out of bed and turned on the bedside lamp. “It’s three in the morning. What’s so important that it can’t wait a few more hours?”
By this time, Tom was dressed and pulling on his shoes. “I have to go home. I think Emmy’s trying to tell me something.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re staying here. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“If you think I’m going to sit here and wait for the phone to ring, you’re crazy, Tom.” She picked her sweater up off the floor. “I’m coming with you.” Kelly pulled the sweater on over her head and covered her naked breasts, daring him to refuse.
“Kelly, listen to me,” he said, lowering her to the bed. “This is something I have to do alone. Besides, I want you where I know you’ll be safe. The gallery is the last place you need to be.”
“What’s so important that you have to go back there now?” she asked, her voice and eyes pleading as she looked up at him. “I have to paint.”
“Where have you been? Marsha said you weren’t in class yesterday and that you’d cleared today’s schedule.”
Tom squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and saw Jonathan standing on the porch. He motioned him inside.
“That’s right,” he said, ignoring Jonathan’s critical inspection as he took in Tom’s worn jeans and T-shirt that were smeared with different shades of paint and looked like they’d been slept in. Dark stubble covered his jaws and chin. His eyes felt bruised and sunken. His hair was tousled, and it was obvious why as Tom ran his fingers through its ebony strands for what must have been the hundredth time.
“I’ve been painting.”
“You need to have a phone installed up there. The least you could do is to keep your cell handy.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I’ve been trying to call for the past two days, buddy, that’s why.”
“Sorry.”
Jonathan looked at Tom and shook his head. “You’ve been painting, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Not another missing child, I hope.”
“No. Come on. You can see for yourself.”
Tom led the way up to his studio and stood back to let Jonathan pass in front of him. The room was cavernous and their footsteps sounded hollow on the raw planks of the floor. Thick rafters and wall studs were exposed making one think he stood in the torso of the house where the skeletal bones of its ribcage surrounded him. Six dormer windows, four on the front side of the house and two on the back, did what they could to let in light, but the main source came from five large skylights overhead. A sink had been installed and a table stood next to it with an array of artist tools. A portable stereo and a rack of CDs sat on another table beside a folding director’s chair. Dozens of past paintings leaned together in rows. A few left-over unpacked boxes were stacked along the far back wall. The air smelled of turpentine, oil-based paint, and aged, dusty wood.
Tom was silent as Jonathan stepped onto the drop-cloth and perused the three paintings perched on easels in the center of the room.
“Where did these come from?” Jonathan’s voice sounded strained.
“From a nightmare.”
Tom walked over and stood at Jonathan’s shoulder. He looked at the painting in front of them and felt his frustration rise up once more.
The distorted face of the hanging corpse was clearly that of Theodore Chandler. Whether Jonathan recognized the resemblance, he couldn’t tell.
His eyes shifted to the dark silhouette of the assailant standing by the corpse’s side. Its dark face was raised and Tom could almost hear its mocking laughter. A ray of light shone down on them both, illuminating the scene with glowing reverence.
“My God. Is this you?”
“Yes,” Tom answered, shifting his gaze to the next painting.
The assailant stood by the sw
inging corpse and pointed a condemning finger at Tom’s retreating likeness. The fear expressed on the miniature’s face as it glanced over its shoulder was startling and Tom’s chest constricted with the feelings it evoked.
Tom wrenched his eyes away as Jonathan moved to the next painting. This was a portrait of the assailant wrapped in silhouetted darkness. The face was ominously blank.
“I can see you’ve been busy,” Jonathan said, glancing at Tom over his shoulder. “When did this particular nightmare occur?”
“A couple of nights ago.”
“No wonder you haven’t been sleeping well. With dreams like these, it’s amazing you sleep at all.”
Tom snorted and turned away. “The thing is, I feel like I should know him. The corpse is obviously Theodore Chandler. But I’m not sure of the assailant.”
“Theodore Chandler?” Startled, Jonathan looked back at the first painting. “How do you know?”
“Because of the articles I read the other day. His picture was plastered all over the front page.”
Jonathan’s incredulous gaze riveted to Tom. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Perfectly.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Must I remind you that a confession was found on the scene? Chandler’s confession, I might add.”
“Consider this,” Tom said. “What if Chandler was a convenience? All the assailant would’ve had to do is stage a suicide and plant a confession. It would’ve been a gamble, but consider the publicity pressure surrounding the case. He would’ve had to rely on the police being in such a state of frenzy that they would have jumped on anything plausible. And they did. All except one, that is.”
“Winward.”
“Winward,” Tom concurred with a slow nod.
“Intriguing.” Jonathan studied the dark portrait of the assailant. “And you feel like you should know him?”
“Yes.” Once again, Tom ran his fingers through his hair. “The voice I heard in my dream was familiar in some obscene way. And the build of the man is familiar. I just can’t place it. I’ve tried to picture the scene as it must have happened.” He looked up at the rafter above his head. “From the position of the body in my dream, it must have hung from there. I can imagine how the assailant walked around the corpse with admiring satisfaction and my stomach turns with the smug expression he must’ve had on his face. I can even hear his laughter, a high-pitched, cackling, insane sound.” Tom grimaced at his maddening inefficacy. “The scene is so clear in my mind; everything except his damn face.”
Jonathan raised his eyes to the rafter, then shuddered and turned away. “Under the circumstances, I can’t see how you can work up here,” he said with a frown. “Just thinking about it gives me the creeps.”
Tom shrugged.
“What’s this?” Jonathan walked over and lifted the cover from a painting that stood alone in the corner. “Pretty,” he said, admiring the woman it portrayed. Her long, dark wavy hair was parted slightly off center and hung loose over one bare shoulder. The thin ribbon that pulled the neck of the white peasant blouse closed had been left undone to reveal the alluring flesh of her slender throat and chest and dipped low to entice the observer with the swell of firm, full breasts. Whiskey-colored eyes sparkled with seductive mischief. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. But I think she’s the woman we heard the other day. She performed for Michael Raymond as well.”
“That’s what the cold means, that a spirit’s present?” Jonathan asked.
“I wondered if you noticed the chill. But the woman didn’t bring the cold. Julie Dobbs did. She stood in the corner and listened to our conversation with Carson. And she looked pissed.
I think the cold comes when they’re upset or angry. Apparently, she didn’t like what she was hearing. It was the same thing with Michael Raymond when he was glibly talking about how their pain and suffering affected him.”
“I saw your distraction and caught a glimpse of her before she disappeared, just as Carson turned to look over his shoulder.”
“Thanks for keeping a cool head,” Tom said with a smirk.
“Just following your lead, buddy. But I do have to admit I had to work at being nonchalant. I almost peed myself.” Jonathan’s smile was self-deprecating as he shook his head. “I swear, Tom. I don’t see how you can stay here. When I heard that woman’s voice, every hair on my body came to attention. You must have the balls of a rhino.”
“I admit it was startling, but she wasn’t exactly new to me. She’d made her presence known before.”
Jonathan gave Tom a sidelong glance before returning to the portrait leaning against the wall. “She is a luscious looking woman. Hot.” He looked back at Tom and seemed to bite off whatever he was going to say next. He cleared his throat. “I’m not even going to ask.”
Tom’s smile was sardonic. “Good. Come on. We’ll go down to the den and you can tell me why you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”
Jonathan stood still, staring at the portrait. “Is she connected with what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“What? You think she’s just hanging out watching the show?”
“I don’t know,” Tom repeated, turning for the stairs. “But I do think she wants help for the little girls.”
“Huh, another baffling twist.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You know,” Jonathan said, descending the stairs, “if I were you, I don’t think I’d show those paintings to just anyone. I mean, how would you explain knowing the details of a murder scene unless you’d actually been there? It would probably raise more questions than you could reasonably answer.”
“I know. I’ve already thought of that.”
They entered the den and Tom walked to the bar to pour them both a drink. Jonathan pulled off his coat and sat back on the sofa crossing one silk clad ankle over one tailored knee.
“Now,” Tom said, handing Jonathan a glass. “What did you want to see me about?” He remained standing.
“I wanted to know if you’d had any luck with Merideth Chandler.”
“No. I tried phoning yesterday, but I got the same runaround. I guess I’m going to have to go and knock on the woman’s door. Which is probably what I should’ve done in the first place,” he said gesturing with his glass before taking a drink.
“Let me try getting through before you do that. Since I’m an attorney, maybe I’ll have better luck.”
Tom stilled. “Why? What’s happened?”
“My secretary, Marilyn, told me a couple of detectives named Winward and Hayes stopped by to pay me a visit today. Luckily, I was out chasing you down.”
“I’m not surprised,” Tom said, swirling his drink. “You know as well as I do it was inevitable.”
“I’ll have to talk to them,” Jonathan stated.
“Of course. Just put on that lawyer face of yours and answer their questions. They can’t do anything to you.” Even though Tom’s voice was confident, he knew if Winward and Hayes found out Jonathan knew more than he was willing to tell, he could be considered an accomplice. It could mean disbarment. Or worse.
“I’m sorry I got you into this mess, Jonathan,” he said, shaking his head. “I should never have told you.”
“You know I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I can take care of myself.”
“You have to tell them the truth, you know.” Tom looked his friend in the eye. “I don’t want you lying to cover my ass. You know what it would mean if you were found out.”
“I know. But if they don’t ask—” Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.
The phone rang, and the two men exchanged looks before Tom reached for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Tom? Marsha. Would Jonathan be there by any chance? I tried his cell but it sent me straight to voicemail.”
“Hey, Marsha. Yeah, he’s right here.”
Tom’s mouth quirked in a humorless grin as he met Jonathan’s gaze. “Brace
yourself,” he warned, watching Jonathan’s scowl darken as he pressed the receiver to his ear.
“Hey, babe. What’s up?” Jonathan looked at Tom as he listened. “What did he ask you?” he asked and grew silent, still holding Tom’s gaze. “What did you tell him?” After a moment, Jonathan shook his head as if Marsha could see him. “Don’t worry about it. You did fine.” He shook his head again. “No, I can’t tell you what’s going on right now. I’ll have to talk to you later.” Jonathan cast Tom a disquieted look as he ended the call and put down the receiver.
“Let me guess,” Tom said, turning toward the frost-etched window. “Winward and Hayes just left Marsha’s office.”
“Yeah, but just Winward. Hayes wasn’t with him.” Jonathan took a long pull from his drink. “She said he asked general questions, at first. How she knew you. How long she had known you. How long you’d lived in the house. Where you lived before moving in. That sort of thing. Then he got more specific and started asking about the Rage collection. Thank heaven she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t tell him anything besides the obvious. She said, at first, she was only puzzled by the interview. But when he started asking about your moods and how you had seemed lately, she got downright worried.”
“What did she tell him?”
“She told him you were acting normally. A little preoccupied maybe, but that that was understandable considering the strain you’ve been under with the opening of your gallery and handling prospective buyers while maintaining your scheduled classes.”
Tom shook his head and sighed. “What a mess. This thing’s getting more complicated by the minute.”
“You know I’m going to have to do some explaining when I get home tonight.”
“I know.”
Tom turned from the window. He dropped to the sofa and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes and began massaging his temples to ease the tension.
“We’ll have to tell Russ what’s going on,” Jonathan said. “He’ll need to be kept informed. Are you going to be home tonight? He’ll probably want to talk to you.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 17