Jackal

by Jackal in the Mirror (retail) (epub)

  “Could you at least try to get something?”

  Sarah patted Iris’s arm. “I’ll give it my best.”

  “Well, one thing I noticed,” Sonia chimed in, “is that you never suggested for us to go the bookstore and meet James.”

  “Oh,” Sarah blushed, “It must’ve slipped my mind.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll definitely go see him,” Iris demanded.

  “All right. Tomorrow, for sure.” Sarah yawned. “Listen you guys, I’m beat.” She rose from the table and kissed them both good night.

  After she disappeared down the hallway, Iris turned to Sonia. “She was a big disappointment. I mean, I thought we’d encounter at least one ghost. What a let-down.”

  “C’mon. It’s not easy for her. I’m sure she feels bad that she couldn’t please us.”

  “You’re right.” Iris sipped the last of her drink. “Let’s call it a night. Maybe tomorrow the spirits will come knocking.”

  Relieved to be back in the quiet surroundings of her room and the comfort of her nightgown, Sarah relaxed in the armchair by a warm fire.

  As much as she’d enjoyed spending the day with Iris and Sonia, she felt ill at ease the entire time. What disturbed her most was not her failure to fulfill her friends’ expectations of witnessing their own personal ghost fest, but that she had not perceived a single life force whatsoever. That, in and of itself, denoted a clear departure from her usual instincts, and also appeared to confirm James’s assessment that the energy emanating from the entity or entities surrounding her book were actively blocking any other type of communication.

  Tired as she was, she pulled the book onto her lap and opened it. “Let’s find out what you have in mind this time.”

  Danger

  Andrew’s studio had been ransacked. Smashed sculptures lay strewn about the space, tables were overturned, paint splattered everywhere, paintings defaced or slashed, and all the women depicted in the oils smeared with red paint.

  The studio teemed with police officers and forensic personnel. Bizarre elongated shadows created by a lamp knocked upon the floor, produced an eerie effect on the walls and ceiling as the men and women moved about the room.

  Detective Austen, middle-aged and lethargic, wrote information on a small pad as he questioned an elderly man outside the entrance to the studio.

  “Woke up when I heard the racket, ‘bout two in the morning,” the old man said. “I came over and pounded on the door, but it didn’t do no good, they kept goin’ at it. I went back to my place to call you guys, and that must’ve been when they got away.”

  Karla climbed the stairs and attempted to push through the door past the two men.

  “Whoa, Missy. May I help you?” Austen blocked the way.

  “Sorry. The policeman downstairs said I could come up. I’m Karla Jordan. Are you Detective Austen?”

  “Yes I am. I appreciate you coming on such short notice, Miss Jordan.” He turned to the old man and opened the door wider. “Thank you, sir, you can go.”

  As the old man exited, Austen ushered Karla inside the studio.

  She froze, stunned by the violent destruction.

  Caught off-guard by her abrupt stop, Austen bumped into her. “Sorry.”

  “My God. What happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell us.”

  Shaken, Karla took in the brutal devastation of Andrew’s work. “This is appalling.”

  Austen followed her as she inched her way about the studio. “We’re dusting for prints, so, please don’t touch anything.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry we didn’t pay attention to your earlier call about his disappearance.”

  Karla spun to face him. “And now look at what’s happened! He could be dead!” Tears welled in her eyes and she turned away from Austen, wiping her face with her sleeve.

  With a deep breath, she turned her attention back to the studio and ambled through the chaos, searching, scanning the debris, unable to accept such violence. She glanced at the large easel in the center of the studio, which now stood uncovered with its back to her. The table with the newspaper article and the knife remained intact. Step by careful step, she advanced toward the easel.

  Austen followed her, trying to decipher her every move, her every glance.

  When she reached the easel and faced it, the color drained from her face. Immobile, she recognized the portrait of Martha McKenzie, the only painting in the room that portrayed a woman without an animal. A stunning rendition, it was also the only piece illustrating a woman that had not been smeared with red paint. Instead, the canvass had been slashed across her throat.

  “Were you acquainted with Martha McKenzie?”

  “No.”

  “Was Mr. Stuart?”

  “I have no idea.” She couldn’t stop herself from staring at the slashed painting.

  Austen observed her. “What is it, Ms. Jordan?”

  “This painting…he wouldn’t show it to me—and it’s so different. He doesn’t paint portraits. This is entirely different from his usual style.”

  “It’s a good likeness. There appears to be some connection between Mr. Stuart and her.”

  “I agree. Unless he’s working on commission for this particular painting.” She turned toward the detective. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I have no idea who could have done this or why.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Please try to find him.”

  Austen nodded.

  With tears welling up in her eyes, she fled the studio.

  The detective watched her disappear, then turned his eyes to the bedlam around him, and shook his head.

  Sarah closed her eyes and sighed. “Am I supposed to find Andrew? Is he the one in danger? Or is it Karla?”

  Sensing no response, she continued reading.

  Karla burst into Jeremiah’s studio. “Jer! I need to talk.” She dropped her purse by the door, shed her jacket, and kicked off her high heels.

  As if completely unaware of her presence, he continued painting.

  “Jeremiah!” She paced back and forth.

  He remained unperturbed.

  She stopped next to his painting and stared at him. “Please, listen to me.”

  “Relax, Karla. Pour yourself a drink and sit down. I need to finish this—”

  “I can’t relax.”

  He continued to paint.

  “Andrew’s studio has been destroyed!”

  Stopping mid-stroke, Jeremiah looked up.

  “And that’s not all. He was painting a portrait of the dead McKenzie woman. The one in the newspaper that had been pinned with the knife.”

  “A portrait?” His expression reflected incredulity.

  “Exactly! A portrait! No animals, a simple—no, an utterly realistic portrait. Not his style, at all. Jeremiah, something is terribly wrong.”

  Jeremiah put down his brush. “Karla, please calm yourself. Sit down.”

  “Someone slashed the portrait right across her throat.”

  Jeremiah approached her and took her into his arms. She gave in to his embrace. He held her hand and guided her softly downstairs to the sofa. He tossed some rags aside and sat her down, then stepped to his makeshift bar and grabbed a glass and a bottle of brandy. He poured a glass and handed it to her.

  She shook her head. He sat next to her and held the glass to her lips. “You’re in shock. This will help. C’mon.”

  She took a sip and grimaced. “Why did he disappear that morning? Why wouldn’t he show me the painting? Who is this woman to him? Where is he?”

  Jeremiah encouraged her to take a few more sips then wrapped her in his arms. “You’re a bit obsessive about this guy.”

  “Obsessive? I’m not obsessive about him! I—”

  Jeremiah held her at arm’s length and stared into her eyes. “What do you call what you’re doing? Fun? Y
ou can’t work—no—you don’t want to work. You spend your days, and probably your nights, pretending to be Ms. Detective Extraordinaire. And you’re trying to rope me into being your cohort. That alone tops it all.”

  After another sip of brandy Karla turned to him with a heartfelt sigh.

  “That’s my girl. Let’s dissect what’s really going on here.” He settled back into the sofa. “First, you need to admit you don’t like being dumped without an explanation.”

  Karla blushed.

  Jeremiah burst out laughing. “Ah, hah! We’ve pinpointed that female pride is in play.”

  “Yes, I admit that at first that could’ve been the case. And yes, I find him extremely attractive. But there’s much more to it than that. The allure started with the mystery surrounding him—the secrecy surrounding his whole life. Where did he come from, what’s his real name? I doubt that it’s Stuart. Why this fixation on jackals or wolves or whatever they are? Why refuse to reveal anything about his past? Add to that the mystery about his sudden disappearance, the knife stabbed into the newspaper article, and now this…this desecration of his work. All these unanswered questions irk me. I can’t let go. I need to get to the bottom of this.”

  “There you have it. That’s the Karla I love. You’ve rekindled the fire within. So get your ass out there and use your considerable wits to dig it all up.”

  “I will.”

  “Let’s toast to all the jilted women who won’t let go.”

  Jeremiah held up the brandy bottle and Karla raised her glass. “Now my dear, you must leave, I have a deadline and so do you. My advice is to center yourself, do the reporter writer stuff you do so well, and research the hell out of this McKenzie woman. By the way, not a single vendor in the whole city has been in contact with Andrew in a while.”

  “Thanks, Jer, I needed that.” She got up and kissed him. She slipped her shoes on, grabbed her jacket and purse, and headed out.

  “For the record, Jeremiah,” she said as she opened the door, “you make a splendid cohort.”

  Sarah placed the book on the table. “It’s Karla’s story. But it’s tied to Andrew’s. The next step is to find out why their stories are interlaced with the poems.” When no response came forth, she continued to read.

  From the shadows of the corner building, Karla’s unseen observer watched her emerge from her car, lock it, and trudge down the steep sidewalk toward her duplex.

  Focused on searching in her purse for the house keys as she walked, she failed to hear the footsteps behind her until they drew closer. Reluctant to look over her shoulder and signal her awareness, Karla hastened her pace. Abruptly, she stumbled and fell to the concrete. The contents of her purse spilled to the sidewalk. She scrambled to collect her things as footsteps drew nearer. Karla looked up as a policeman squatted down to help her collect her belongings.

  “May I help you, ma’am? Sorry to startle you, but I noticed a man following you and I rushed over. He took off when he saw me.”

  “Thank you, officer. I must’ve stepped on one of those cracks, and my heel got caught.”

  The officer helped her to her feet and finished collecting the spilled contents of her purse. He stuffed them in her bag and handed it to her, touching the brim of his cap. “I’d be happy to walk you to wherever you’re going.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that. I’m going to the next building.”

  The officer looked her over and noticed her leg. “Looks like you’ll need a Band-Aid or two on that knee. Are you sure you’re okay? This is a steep hill.”

  Karla looked at her scraped knee and ripped stockings. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She removed both shoes, and allowed the officer to escort her down the hill.

  Across the street, the observer slipped through the darkness, concealed from the policeman and Karla as they made their way to her duplex.

  Karla opened the front door, thanked the officer, and stepped in. The policeman looked around casually and headed across the street toward the onlooker, who stepped back into the shadows for a moment and re-emerged after the policeman passed by.

  Sarah turned the page, but the story had disappeared. “You have a knack for keeping me in suspense,” she sighed. “So be it. I’ll read the poem.”

  ANOTHER NIGHT

  It’s that time of night again

  When the darkness says the things

  It shouldn’t

  To my soul

  I’m looking through the windowpane

  At the dark and lonely night

  Asking

  Where you are

  I can’t hold back the jealousy

  Or the pain of knowing

  That someone else might see

  The things that made me love you

  Unless I’m there to say

  Your love belongs to me

  7

  The Dream

  Sarah sat up, wide awake, her body bathed in a cold sweat, her heart pounding as she struggled for breath. She turned on the light, jumped out of the bed, and headed to the table where the book rested. She grabbed it, steadied her trembling hands, forced herself to open it, and read.

  Release

  Molly lay in the center of the wooden floor, the sheer pink scarf tied loosely around her neck, the black and white striped t-shirt discarded indifferently in a corner of the room. Her brassiere, skirt, and underwear were missing. A circle of votive candles around her provided the only source of light, their flickering shadows almost masking the imperfections of her worn-out body. Her lipstick had lost its luster and the sparkle in her eyes had been dulled by death.

  Youthful, masculine hands softly caressed her limp body, the tips of the fingers lovingly stroking her. Tenderly, they untied the scarf and glided it off, stroked her hair, and removed the stray curls from her face. The left hand, red birthmark clearly visible, reached for her eyes and gently closed them.

  His face concealed by shadows, he leaned in to kiss her cheek, curled up next to her corpse, and wept.

  Crickets chirped in the distance as a rhythmic paddling gradually broke through nature’s sounds. The nude body of Molly lay lifeless in the stern of the old rowboat.

  The small boat slid easily across the water.

  The rowing stopped and the oars were shipped. The moonlight shined on the birthmark on the back of one hand as the man hefted Molly’s corpse and slipped it overboard.

  Clasping the edge of the boat, he waited until she sank into the dark water. When the ripples subsided, he grasped the oars and rowed away.

  There it was, word for terrifying word.

  She slammed the book shut and set it down.

  “I dreamed this entire scene.” Sarah returned to the bed, grabbed her cell phone and dialed.

  “You all right?” a sleepy Conrad answered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it is.”

  Alarmed by her voice, he asked, “What happened?”

  “I had a horrible dream. The man with the birthmark might have killed a woman and dumped her in the lake.”

  “You dreamed it?”

  “The same exact version showed up in the book, word for word. I dreamed it first, and then I read it. The same lake and boat as before.” Shivering, she drew her knees up to her chest.

  “Did you see his face? Who was the woman?”

  “No, I didn’t see his face. What I get are flashes of his hands, his actions, and he always has his back to me. But I have seen the woman before. She was in the bar where Karla went to look for Andrew. The bartender said she was a regular and a model for the artists.”

  “Can you at least tell when these events are taking place?”

  “Not exactly, but I have a strong feeling that the story is about Karla and that she’s the one in danger.”

  “From Andrew?”

  “Part of me says yes. A
fter all, the birthmark is quite a telltale.” She sighed. “But what about his studio? He couldn’t have done that to his own work. Could he?”

  “He could if he’s lost his mind.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “What about James, have you asked him?”

  “He refuses to hear a word about the book or the story. He says it isn’t meant for him, so I can’t ask him anything about it. It’s clear that it’s okay for me to share it all with you, but apparently not with James.”

  “He can’t have the details, I get that. But what if you ask him questions about the places you’ve read about? You have the actual names of the galleries Karla visited.”

  “Yeah, I’ve looked them up. They’re in San Francisco, but some are also in other cities.”

  “Describe the house by the lake to him. Maybe he’s familiar with it. How about the bar? You said he works with cops—maybe he’s crossed paths with Austen. I can ask Sheriff Williams here to track him down.”

  “Boy, oh boy, Dr. Watson, you are amazing. None of that occurred to me.”

  “As, always, I aim to please.”

  “You please me plenty.” She sighed and realized that her body had returned to normal. “These horrible images are so unsettling that I can’t think straight.”

  “Plus you have Iris and Sonia to deal with. Don’t allow the book to interfere with your friends. Try to enjoy the next couple of days. After that, maybe James can guide you, or once you come home we can look more deeply into it. Can you stop reading it and stay away from the book for a couple days?”

  “It seems that if I don’t read it, I dream it. Frankly, I’d much rather read it than be shaken awake with disturbing visions.”

  “I can understand that. Wish I could help.”

  “I’ll be okay. Sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes. You have no idea how much.”