A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  Until I send Michel my resignation, I’m still a goddamned conservator.

  She e-mailed her colleague back. But the gallery was now closed.

  Her key card gave her master access to exhibition halls. Blockbusters like the Van Gogh had guards stationed inside at night, but smaller exhibitions like the Samurai were monitored by 24/7 cameras and Israeli alarms that detected movement. After hours, the galleries were secured by wire with bicycle locks. She called Frank.

  “I need to inspect a helmet in Samurai.”

  She left her backpack on her desk and locked the lab. She crossed the bridge to the main exhibition gallery. A newer member of the security staff, brawny young Joey, met her there. He had a dab of red sauce on his chin.

  “Want me to stay, Ms. Sparks?”

  “Finish your dinner, Joey. I’ll call when I’m done.”

  He switched on the lights and locked the gallery behind her.

  Lily made her way past the Samurai in full regalia to the three warhorses. A mural of warriors fanning their troops into battle extended to the room behind them, to unify the display and distract visitors from having to circle around the partition. The helmet in question belonged to one of the group of Samurai standing at eye level behind the velvet rope on the other side. She could have squeezed through the opening between the horses’ platform and the next room, but out of respect for the exhibition’s designer took the long way around.

  She remembered this particular group of Samurai from opening night. Her warrior was to the right, next to the partition. His chain mail and plated armor required a balancing act; his hips and arms bent forward and his upper body leaned back. His helmet was the most spectacular: melon-shaped, with a gold chrysanthemum at its crown and wings extending from the sides. His throat guard had a leather strap and a hole to release sweat. His grimace was more outraged than fierce.

  “You poor dear.”

  In the bright light his expression seemed comical. His eyebrows arched as if they shared a private joke.

  She glanced at the photo on her cell and began examining the helmet. Its visor and iron plates were inlaid with silver vines and delicate leaves. The inlay looked intact. She stepped back for a longer view. A faint rustle came from the vicinity of the Samurai at the forefront. In the corner of her eye, something flickered. She looked again.

  Nothing.

  A trick of light on his helmet, compounded by the busyness of the mural on the wall. That was it. Or maybe it glinted off his short sword. He was the only one with a weapon. She glanced sideways at the adjacent display. Was some of the armor missing, along with a sword? The one they used to disembowel themselves. A wakizashi. The Objects Conservator must have taken the armor and sword down. Taking another step back, she scrutinized the Samurai again.

  There were five. She remembered four.

  They fanned out behind their leader like a pack of dogs.

  Suddenly the gallery went black. The darkness was as soft and dense as a blindfold.

  Did Ops forget she was there? With the display at the center of the maze, she couldn’t see the Exit sign. She visualized the layout. Partition to her right, five paces behind her a case of masks. Past the masks, the path curved back to the warhorses. From them it was more or less a straight shot to the door. No reason to panic. A flute softly began to play, accompanied by singing like a banshee’s wail.

  “Joey?”

  She took three deep breaths to clear her head. She was there to document the condition of that helmet. Raising her cell phone, she took another step back and focused on where the melon-shaped headgear should be. Her camera flashed just as the Samurai with the wakizashi moved. She blinked to refocus. He was at the rope. He lifted his leg to climb over it.

  Oh, shit.

  As it brushed against chain mail, the wakizashi clanked. She saw Kurtz riven from his pelvis up, gutted and his entrails smeared on the wall. The Samurai clambered over the rope.

  This isn’t a joke. He’s going to kill me!

  But she was paralyzed, frozen. In a black lake, trapped under a glazed crust with an immense hand dragging her away from the bank. The monster in the lake was back. Her chest burned from holding her breath. Her head was about to explode—don’t breathe! She took a massive gulp. No... But instead of icy water flooding her, it was a whisper of something foul. She was in the Samurai Exhibition. This monster was real.

  Swish. Air brushed her cheek as he drew his wakizashi back.

  Get to those horses.

  She leaped forward and to the right. Her shoulder hit the partition, but she squeezed through the crack. Behind her came the crash of armor.

  Blindly, she felt her way to the horses. Another crash—did he hit a display case? She dove under the stallion in the center. Grabbing hold of his stirrups, she hoisted herself up. She barely reached around his girth, but she was light enough and had the leverage to cling to the stirrups and his belly. Her arms throbbed. She tucked her knees to her chest. How long could she hold on?

  He was in front of the horses now. His breath was fetid. The air swished as he moved to the stallion to her right. Chain mail clinked as it hit a stirrup. He had a heavy, shambling gait… Her shoulders and legs burned. He grunted in frustration. In one moment—

  Brrrinnggg!

  Her cell.

  The Samurai turned.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Ms. Sparks?” A blinding light shone in her eyes.

  “Joey?”

  He helped her down from the horse, taking her weight as she let go of one stirrup and then the other. Her arms were frozen, elbows locked and fingers spasming. Then she was shaking so badly she couldn’t stand. Joey sat her on the platform. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. The gallery lights came on and he turned off his flashlight. Did he frighten the Samurai away?

  “You saw him?” she said.

  “Who?” Joey’s brown eyes showed concern.

  “The Samurai. The one with the sword.”

  “In the display?”

  “No! He’s real, not a mannequin.” She made herself slow down. “I had to do an object report.”

  “On the horse?”

  “No, a helmet. The lights went out—”

  “They were on when I left you.”

  Did he think she turned them off? “Then the music started to play.”

  “Music?” None now.

  “He came out of that group of Samurai behind the partition, Joey. There were five of them, not four. He had a wakizashi.”

  Joey looked at her doubtfully. With the lights on and him beside her, she began to feel foolish. But his gallantry prevailed. “Let’s take a look.”

  They took the normal route from the horses to the group of Samurai. Four warriors stood on the platform. The one with the wakizashi was gone.

  “I took a photo. Maybe I caught him.” Trembling, she pulled out her cell. The caller had been her dad, who never left messages. The photo was a blur. But even with the lights out, the security cameras in the ceiling detected movement. “Did your monitor get a signal?”

  “If it did, it was probably you. Let’s badge you out.”

  Now she understood. Ops knew she was fired. They didn’t even trust her to badge herself out. She shook her head. “My backpack’s in the lab.”

  “I’ll escort you.” She was being eighty-sixed from a bar.

  Joey waited while she gathered her things. He was too polite to comment on the cartons and bare shelves. The thought of being escorted from the building—surrendering her lanyard and badge at the loading dock like a common thief—was suddenly unbearable.

  Until I send Michel my resignation, I am the fucking Conservator of Paintings.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said. “I have to write that report.”

  “Frank told me to wait.”

  “No!” Her vehemence surprised her. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Joey hesitated. “If there’s anything—”
<
br />   “Tell Frank I’ll be down in five minutes to badge myself out.”

  ―

  When Joey left, she sank into her chair. Now she was angry.

  How could they not believe her?

  That Samurai was real. He knew the museum well enough to gain entrance to a gallery, hide there after it closed, and exit without being seen. He rigged some kind of remote to control the lights. He armed and armored himself from the adjacent display. Did he work at the museum, or was he just ballsy enough to steal an access card?

  It was past 7:00 p.m. In the building across the park, people were working late or having an office party. Did he come after her because of Kurtz? And where was he now? In her lab she was safe. Ops knew she was there and she’d said five minutes. She had to pull herself together.

  She turned on her desk lamp and got out her makeup bag. Where was her compact? She searched for it, then remembered it was gone. God, how she missed it! She shakily applied her lip gloss blind, then speed-dialed her dad but got no answer. Booting up her computer for the last time, she wrote and filed the incident report. Work inspected, no damage noted. With a defiant flick of her finger, she sent her resignation to Michel. The silence was broken by the familiar rumble of the freight elevator creaking up the shaft.

  Workmen made deliveries at night. The museum was bigger than her, a universe that would continue after she was gone. The elevator shuddered to a halt. The doors opened with a groan. The delivery man would be surprised—

  “Hello?” she said. She rose and went to her doorway. Like the galleries, the lab was windowless. The only light came from the elevator. Clinkety-clank. The doors closed, plunging the lab into darkness. But someone was there.

  “Amy?” she said.

  Whoomph. The elephant trunk over the heat vacuum table blasted on. It did that throughout the day to vent solvents, but at night? Under the noise she sensed a coiled energy.

  Ops knows I’m here.

  “Joey?”

  She looked at the heat vacuum table. The illuminated readout said the heat on both sides was on. Solvents and varnishes were flammable. Leaving the table on was worse than careless. She reached to shut it off.

  “Nick?”

  A blast of dry heat hit her.

  A strange odor—chemical or electrical—came from the table. It was on full blast. She reached again for the controls. The floor trembled. Someone was behind her. She froze.

  This isn’t happening again.

  His tread was slow and deliberate, smoother without the armor. He smelled of oil and metal and sweat. He circled the table like a wolf corralling its prey.

  He came back to finish the job.

  She made her legs move. With each of his steps, she took one back. He wasn’t a monster and this wasn’t a lake. Ops knew she was here and—

  He’s human. This is my turf.

  She knew every weapon in the lab. Paintbrushes in the top drawer of the cabinet by the broom closet. A ferrule—the crimped metal band that kept the bristles in place—could take out an eye. Syringes in the second drawer—harder to aim. Tacking iron on the counter—heats to 425 degrees, metal nose tapered to get in tight. Scalpels, medical grade, in the drawer directly behind her… She grabbed one. It was cool and sharp.

  The lamp on the wheeled stand lit like a phosphorous bomb.

  Tilted in her face, its twin black filaments pulsed like eyes in a demented moon. Blinded, she flailed, but it was like swinging a broomstick at a moving piñata under a strobe. Her head hit something hard—a vacuum hood. She was trapped between the table and the spray bath. His breath on her cheek was a foul kiss.

  She aimed high and thrust as hard as she could. Her scalpel cut through meat to bone. A grunt of surprise, a howl of rage. Before she could do it again, he lunged. She threw out her left arm. She hit the table.

  A second scream, higher pitched, filled the lab. A smell like burned meat.

  He stumbled towards the broom closet. The door creaked and caught. Something heavy fell. Scrabbling, metal against metal as the rusted door to the roof was wrenched open. That terrible scream—like an animal in a trap—again and again.

  Is that me?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Pounding at the main door.

  Is he back?

  Gripping the scalpel, she crouched behind the table. That awful smell…

  “Ms. Sparks?” A kind voice, concerned.

  The overhead lights went on.

  “Jesus!” Frank kneeled beside her. He took the scalpel away. He and Joey looked scared. “Your hand’s bleeding. And good lord, your arm ….”

  “He threw me on the table.” The words sounded like they came from someone else. “He—”

  “Who?” Frank looked at Joey. “We need to get her downstairs.” He put his arm around her shoulders. He lifted her to her feet. She squeezed her eyes against the light and started to shake. “Are you cold?”

  She began to cry.

  “Ms. Sparks—”

  “He used the freight elevator.”

  Frank turned to Joey. “Was the elevator here when you left?”

  “No, I—”

  Her right hand throbbed. She couldn’t feel her left arm. Frank’s expression said it was bad. “He went out by the roof.”

  Joey went to the broom closet. “The door to the roof’s open.”

  Now they’ll believe me.

  But her attacker was gone.

  ―

  In the Ops office, Frank swabbed her hand with antiseptic. He wrapped it tightly in gauze. Gently he turned over her left arm.

  “Jeez!” Joey said.

  From elbow to wrist, most of the skin was gone. What was left looked strange. Bubbly.

  Frank turned to Joey. “Call 911.”

  “Just give me a couple Advil.” She started to rise. “Denver Health’s on my way home.”

  Frank stared. He spoke slowly, like an adult to a child. “Lily, I don’t think you understand. You’ll lose the use of your arm if it gets infected.”

  She sat and let him wrap her arm loosely. He gave her two Tylenol with codeine from his private stash. Suddenly cold, she reached for her hoodie. He draped it over her shoulder.

  “I’m filing a police report,” she said.

  “On the burglar in the lab?” Frank said.

  “He wasn’t a burglar.” Now she was almost too warm. Was it the codeine? “He attacked me in the Samurai exhibit and came back to finish the job.”

  The men exchanged a glance. “We’ll do that Monday.”

  Frank doesn’t believe me either.

  “The man who attacked me works at the museum.”

  “Let Joey drive you to the ER.”

  Three blocks from her condo was a walk-in clinic. She’d go first thing tomorrow—if she made it out of here alive. The codeine was definitely kicking in. She rubbed her eyes. Her face felt foreign, and the pain in her hand made it hard to focus. She painted on a smile for Frank.

  “Straight to Denver Health. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Friday night crowds were heading for the bars, and LoDo’s unending construction funneled traffic into two lanes. The Prius inched down Speer Boulevard. Her hand throbbed. Hospital, or the police? This wasn’t over. Far from it.

  He must have stolen a museum ID. She’d never thought twice about leaving her backpack in the lab. If he took her ID and copied it, he could have her new condo key too. Stalled at a light, she pulled out her phone. The codeine put her in the worst of all worlds: fuzzy and in pain. Her arm felt like it didn’t belong to her. Her shoulders and chest ached from clinging to the horse. It was unreal. Maybe Nick had something stronger than codeine. She speed-dialed him and got no answer. She passed Denver Health and was stopped by traffic. Scrolling for messages, she saw her dad had called again. Kurtz, the Degas, Jack… Who would the killer go after now, when he couldn’t get her?

  Dad.

  Cutting off an SUV, she got into the turn lane. With th
is traffic the bungalow was twenty minutes away. Would the killer beat her there? Ignoring furious honks, she wove in and out of cars on University Boulevard. Her hand made it hard to grip the wheel.

  A siren blared.

  What the hell?

  Before she could pull over, a firetruck roared up behind her. Like a train barreling through a crossing, a red blur zoomed past. A second truck followed.

  She drove on. The sky lightened to yellow and pink. A false dawn. The closer she drew to his house the brighter it was. His street was closed off. She smelled smoke. On the next block she screeched to the curb.

  “Stop, miss…”

  She shook off the cop’s hand and ran to the bungalow. The McMansion at the corner was untouched, but her dad’s roof was on fire. His windows stared like a blind man’s eyes. Behind them something flickered and burned.

  Firemen herded neighbors in nightclothes to safety across the street. Gas, she heard a fireman say. She grabbed his arm.

  “My dad’s in there!”

  He nodded, then huddled with his partners. A third truck and ambulance arrived. She watched them unroll a flat canvas hose. They shrugged on heavy vests as methodically as surgeons scrubbing up. But surgeons failed too. Three firemen marched up the walk. The flames were at the front door. Suddenly the walls buckled and swelled.

  The bungalow exploded.

  Debris flew like pickup sticks, sending the crowd back.

  The house burned like a candle, flaming blue at the center and blossoming into red-orange petals with yellow tips. Someone said Aaaah…