Color Blind (31 page)

L
iz sat back against the couch, glanced around at all the art and precious objects in Kate’s living room. “It’s been good to have a little time off from Quantico, I can tell you that, see my sister, her kid, and you—though I haven’t seen enough of you.”

Kate offered her old friend and partner a wan smile. “The case. Cases, I should say. Sorry. It’s been a full-time job.”

“I thought you’d been retired.”

“I thought so too.” Kate sighed. “I just met with the squad, filled them in on what I was telling you—about the psychiatrist and the doctor.”

“The disturbed, color-blind teen.”

“Yes. Pilgrim State verified he vanished without a trace, and NCIC provided the stats on the murdered nurse. The MO is just like our unsub’s.”

“So you think it’s your guy.”

“Could be,” said Kate. She stood up, sat, then stood again. “Listen, I’ve got an hour or so before I head down to see Willie. How about a walk?”

O
utside the San Remo, there wasn’t a hint of blue sky. Low clouds hung over the city, a relentless gray.

Liz looped her arm through Kate’s. “You know, I’ve never seen Strawberry Fields.”

“It’s just across the street, opposite the Dakota, where John and Yoko lived.” Kate indicated the pseudo-Gothic monolith that hovered on the corner of Seventy-second Street. “Come on.”

The park was quiet, the path winding into Strawberry Fields overhung with trees.

“Here we are,” said Kate, pointing to the mosaic circle on the ground, the word
IMAGINE
in the center. “Originally Yoko Ono put an ad in the
Times
requesting gifts from all over the world, and from what I understand, almost immediately they started pouring in—Moroccan benches, French fountains. But the Parks Department returned them and Yoko came up with a simpler plan of an international garden.”

Liz stared down at the mosaic. It was strewn with coins and photos, a bouquet of flowers past their prime.

“People paying their respects,” said Kate, and felt a wave of sadness and grief. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you a really special, very quiet part of the park.”

I
s it real? Is this happening? Or is it just his eyes playing tricks on him? He lifts his sunglasses and rubs his eyes. He can hardly believe it.

The art
her-story-n
. In living color. Chestnut hair blowing in the breeze. He feels as if he might die, and right now, that would be fine.

The last time he stood outside her building he thought perhaps he had invented her, that she was a figment of his imagination. But no. She is real.

“Look, Tony,” he whispers. “It’s her.”

He watches as she crosses the street with the other woman, his heart beating fast.

K
ate chose a path that followed along the lake, which today was a deep, opaque green. It was quiet and still, just a few boaters out on the lake.

“You’d never know you were in the middle of Manhattan,” said Liz.

“Olmsted’s genius,” said Kate, referring to Central Park’s original designer, Frederick Law Olmsted.

“Did the squad go for it, the idea of giving your unsub a show?”

“It’s being considered,” said Kate. “And I’m hoping they try it. Action is better than inaction.” What she had been doing for two weeks: moving, constantly moving.

Kate took a few steps onto a small bridge, stopped a moment for Liz to take in the scene.

“Weird,” said Liz, staring down at the perfectly still water covered with algae so thick the pond glowed an intense yellow-green, gorgeous and sickly. They crossed over and followed a path practically hidden by trees.

“This is it, the place I wanted you to see, the Ramble.” Though as Kate looked around, taking in the dark trees and secluded path, she wasn’t sure it had been such a good idea. There wasn’t another person in sight.

H
e knows the area well, has his preferred spots among the trees and hills, but his favorite is somewhat inaccessible—one needs to climb a fence—though it never stopped him, or the hungry men who paid for his services.

He hovers above the art
her-story-n
and the other woman sheltered by the trees and shrubs. She gestures and talks, and though he cannot make out her words, her tone is instantly recognizable from her TV show. He would like to charge down the path, touch her, hold her awhile, explain to her what she has done—given him the ability to see color, and to go on living.

Oh, God, how he loves her.

A flash—a face. That other face. Her face. Love? Hate? What is it he feels?

Hold her. Caress her. Hurt her. Fuck her! Kill her!

No. Not her. Who then? Which her? Which one? His mind, like a radio station, is losing reception, all static.

Relief. That’s what he needs.

K
ate led Liz on a path that cut through a series of large rocks that felt almost prehistoric.

“I’ve taped a promo for the exhibition that PBS will air every hour once we give them the word,” said Kate.

“You think he’s watching?”

Kate hesitated a moment. Had she seen something move in the trees, the slightest hint of flesh among all the deep green foliage? She popped a piece of Nicorette into her mouth. “Well, the theory is he’s been watching my show. That’s how he knew about Boyd Werther.” Kate shivered. Was it simply thinking of Boyd—or being in the Ramble, where the shadows had added a chill to the fall air?

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you chew gum. Even in the old days, before you were a
lady
.”

“Funny,” said Kate. “It’s Nicorette. And I can’t stop. I’m thinking about going on the patch to get off the gum.”

Liz laughed, then looked around at their deserted surroundings. “You know, it’s sort of creepy in here. I haven’t seen a single person since we came over that bridge.”

“That’s what makes it special,” said Kate. “Though I wouldn’t recommend walking it alone.” Another chill, and that buzzing sensation. “You know, it’s getting to me too. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Come on. If we head up this way, we’ll be at Belvedere Castle. There are always people there.”

N
o. She can’t be leaving. Not yet. He has to—what? Speak to her? Ask her questions?
Have you driven a Ford lately? Do you really want to hurt me?
Tell her things?
I want my MTV! You’re in good hands with Allstate.

Concentrate. Which way were they headed? Belvedere Castle? Must be.

But how will he contain himself?

The fence is no problem, easy for him to scale, the staircase, carved out of rock, dark and cold. He knows where it ends—the barricaded cave. He takes the steps quickly, a fifteen-step descent into hell. How many times has he been here? A dozen? A hundred? The perfect place for twenty-dollar trysts, so many, he’s lost count.

At the bottom of the steps he unzips, frees his erection.

A collage of faces and images—Kate’s face, her face, the nameless faces of those he has killed, and colors, dazzling, imaginary colors—skitter through his brain.

That’s it. Zip up. Get moving.

A castle is calling.

K
ate stood on the stone terrace perched atop Vista Rock and looked out over Turtle Pond, dark green reeds and murky water, forbidding.

“Nice,” said Liz. “But lonely.”

There were twenty or so people, tourists, thought Kate, not really looking at them, a couple of kids tossing pebbles over the terrace.

Lonely:
the word resonated. She had no idea if she felt lonely or not; she hadn’t taken the time to figure it out. Is that why she was unable to shake the creepy feeling she continued to have?

“We should get going,” she said.

T
he children are infuriating him, the way their parents dote, and their shrill laughter.

He stands among them, two couples speaking a language he cannot understand. He wonders if it is some sort of code, if they are aliens. No matter, they offer camouflage. The art
her-story-n
cannot see him. Though he sees her clearly, and the other woman, who looks oddly familiar. Why? He can’t figure it out. Not now. He’s too excited.

Kate stares at the water.

She looks sad. He wonders why.

What’s she got to be sad about?

He sticks close to the tourists, shifting with them, remaining hidden, and then, when he thinks he might actually do it—approach her and ask some simple questions—
How did you do it, turn the color on? Was it magic?
—she moves away and starts down the path.

He follows, staying off the path, hanging back, watching them, two slightly blurry figures among the trees.

When he catches sight of her, the trees flash bright green; when she disappears, they go black.

Oh, yes. She’s got the power.

She’s the one! Coke is it!

At the edge of the park the two women hug, and then Kate hails a cab.

Hidden by those green-black trees, he hesitates a moment, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, and when he sees her shut the cab door, he sprints down the path and imitates her gesture.

A moment later he is closing himself into a cab of his own. He stares at the meter clicking off dollars and cents as inky gray-brown trees of Central Park blur past the windows. Only a bit of color. But enough to give him hope. He can’t lose her. Not now.

“Where’re you headed?” the driver asks.

“Could you like, uh, follow that cab,” he says. “It’s my…friend.”

He’s never done this before, feels as if he’s in a spy movie. “Stirred, not shaken,” he mumbles to himself.

W
as it simply the idea of giving the killer his own exhibition that had gotten under her skin? Kate wasn’t sure. She glanced out the taxi’s windows at the neon lights of Times Square, artificial color shimmering. What would it be like if all the movie marquees and ads were nothing more than dull gray?

She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

The fact that her name was now in his paintings crawled into her psyche like a parasitic worm. Damn, why did she always end up chasing felons or having them chase her? Was it simply that she got too close—or that she touched something in them?

Kate thought back to all the atrocities she had witnessed, all the ugliness a cop had to see on a daily basis—the reason she had gotten out the first time. Not to mention the shitty pay and the nagging suspicions that eventually got to every cop—that all human beings were liars and cheats and possibly worse, all of that spilling into your private life, if you managed to have one.

The Ramble. Why had it so unnerved her? Was it just the case, Richard’s death, everything that had happened? Central Park was usually one of her favorite places. Kate closed her eyes again, thought back to her first date with Richard—an opera in the park. Three weeks and six dates later, the two of them in a pizzeria down the block from her Astoria precinct, where he had proposed. Man, how she had jumped at the chance to get out and start a new life; how much she had loved him, their future stretching out in front of them like the ocean’s horizon on the clearest day of the year.

And it had turned out well—even better than expected—and it wasn’t the money or the privilege, though surely that hadn’t hurt. Of course it wasn’t perfect. But what marriage was? She wasn’t perfect, that was for sure. She could be moody and withdrawn, and Richard could be selfish and immature, a spendthrift, though that spending spoke of his generosity, she’d always thought, particularly in regard to her. The idea brought her back to the money missing from Richard’s firm. It just didn’t make sense. Kate still believed Richard would have told her. Their life together hadn’t been a lie, had it?

It wasn’t a lie, was it, Richard?

The city blurred past the taxi’s window.

Their marriage may not have been perfect, but they had loved each other, that much she knew—and trusted each other. It was the reason she was willing to pursue this, to risk everything to prove she was right, to prove that Richard was a good and decent man—that their life together had not been a lie.

But how would she do that now?

P
eople were
doing
the galleries, as it’s called—artists, collectors, tourists, and voyeurs, all darting back and forth across the wide Chelsea street, hugging jackets and sweaters to their bodies, wondering who had stolen the usually bright fall sun.

Kate was happy for the distraction, particularly a preview of Willie’s paintings, though she could not stop thinking about Boyd Werther’s murder or questioning the wisdom of giving the psycho his own exhibition.

As she crossed the street, she checked her watch, and wondered if Nola was already at the gallery. She pictured Willie’s last exhibition and paintings, the way he orchestrated his large complex pieces that integrated painting and mixed media as well as abstraction and representation, and was so lost in thought that she suddenly found herself part of a tour group of suburban woman that filled the entire sidewalk, all of them chattering.

“Ow,” said a blonde groomed to museum perfection—lacquered hair, flawless makeup, Chanel suit with all its neat brass buckles and chains, similar ones on her matching loafers, which Kate had just stepped on.

“Sorry,” said Kate.

The blonde frowned, then lit up. “Oh. My. God. You’re Katherine McKinnon.”

Instant surround sound, a dozen women speaking at once—“I
adore
your show!” “It’s fabulous!” “
You’re
fabulous!”—and enough perfume to fix Lady Macbeth’s hand problem permanently.