Deathscape (2 page)

She opened her sketchbook and picked a composition she’d been playing with, laid out her favorite brushes, then uncapped the first color, cerulean blue, and squeezed some onto her stained palette. Then the next color, then the next.

There had been a time when the scent of paint had filled her with euphoria. Now the blue smelled like the sharp chunks of crushed ice on the reservoir, the brown dark and threatening, the odor of wet earth, the smell of a grave.

She unloaded her chosen colors, what she would need for the first layer, adding crimson the very last, no more than was absolutely necessary. Of all the shades of red, she hated the wet, sticky brightness of crimson the most.

Her muscles drew tight as she dipped the brush into one color, then the next, the right amount from each, loaded the brush just so, then dabbed off the excess. Her hand trembled as she lifted brush to canvas. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. When the first rolled down, she blinked.
Not today. It’s not going to happen today.

Through the nose, breathe in…

She’d painted that morning, and everything had been fine. But now, suddenly she didn’t dare touch color to all that white.

Lately, every new painting began like this—with fear. The reason why she rarely painted anymore. Which had led to her dismal financial situation. Which had to end.

She made herself relax her death grip on the brush.

When the phone rang, her sense of relief at the delay was tangible. She didn’t even look at the caller ID as she reached for the receiver. At this stage, she would have been happy to take a call from a telemarketer.

But instead, she came close to a smile when she heard her agent’s voice.

“
Hope I’m interrupting a mad work session,” Isabelle chirped into the phone, a vibrant and successful twenty-four-year-old with a client list even industry veterans envied. She had energy to spare, instincts that rarely failed, and a personality that meshed with just about anyone, a big plus in an industry where divas and prima donnas abounded—both in her circle of artists and her circle of clients.

Ashley trusted her implicitly.

“
I’m starting a new project. Two, actually. I already have another partially finished.”

“
When can I see them? Some top galleries are still asking about you.” The
still
was said with undertones of,
they won’t forever
. “You have to keep producing to keep your momentum.”

They both knew her momentum was gone. Her last solo show at a big-name gallery had been over a year ago. But Isabelle was a cheerleader through and through who’d never met a lost cause.

“
I could come down next month to see what you have. Do you need an advance?”

She bit her lip. Even to Isabelle, she couldn’t admit the full truth. “I guess I should order some supplies online.” She no longer drove into the city to pick up her own supplies.

“
I’ll wire the money today.”

“
Thank you.”

“
What are you painting?”

“
An abstract.”

Ashley glanced to the back of her loft studio, at the five-foot-by-six-foot landscape she’d been working on before the accident. The image waited unfinished, frozen in time. She thought of some of her signature pieces with longing for a split second before she shook off her nostalgia. She no longer painted people or landscapes, if she could help it.

Her abstracts did well too. She’d been earning a couple of grand a piece. That much money could keep her afloat for a few months before she had to touch a brush again.

Professor Mathew Daniels-Roderick’s lecture flashed into her mind. A celebrated artist in his own right, Roderick had been the best mentor she’d had the good luck to study with. “At the beginning, if you could draw a picture others recognized, you were considered an artist. Then came a higher form of art that showed emotion. Then, even better, made you
feel
emotion. You cried with the woman losing her lover, despaired with the revolutionaries in front of the firing squad.”

“
What about abstract art?” she’d asked, a first-year student who’d never really understood the abstract, had no intention of ever painting it.

The professor had focused on her with the full intensity of his lively gaze, instantly making her regret that she’d spoken up.

“
When you paint a scene of great joy, a mother finding her long-lost child, and that same joy shines on the people who view your painting, if that joy shines in their hearts, you’ve created art. But if you can call forth that joy with two triangles and a circle, if you can use the movement of the lines, the emotion and rhythm of the colors in a way that connects to another human being on a level so profound…” The professor paused. “That is
great
art.”

So she’d been trying lately, sporadically, to create great art—without letting the darkness claim her. Sometimes she succeeded, and sometimes she went to hell.

“
I’m flying to Philadelphia in a couple of weeks to meet the owner of a new gallery on South Street,” Isabelle said. “I have to go to Baltimore to see a client after that. I could stop in to catch up. It’s been a long time since you came up to New York.”

Ashley hesitated as long as she could without being impolite, possibly longer. “Okay.” She could give no other answer, really.

“
Jeez, don’t be so enthusiastic.” Isabelle laughed on the other end. “It might go to my head.”

“
I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“
I get it. Artists are introverts. If you were out there socializing all the time, you wouldn’t have time to contemplate and create. I have artists who are social butterflies. I’m not making a lot of money off them.” She paused.

She was probably reflecting on the fact that she hadn’t made much money on Ashley lately either.

“
Graham called again,” she said after another second. “He keeps trying to convince me he’d be the perfect person to give you the right start. I’ll give up agenting before I let you hang anything in his two-bit gallery. You don’t need a start. You already made it. You just have to keep on producing.”

“
I’m working on it,” she said, appreciating the vote of confidence. “Graham called me too, by the way. A couple of weeks ago.”

Graham Lanius was one of the local gallery owners. He fancied himself the godfather of local talent, a Maecenas, but had trouble with boundaries. You worked with him and sooner or later he would try to tell you what and how to paint, which rubbed a lot of artists the wrong way.

Still, he had plenty who went to him, the insecure who fed on his direction and grudgingly doled-out approval, and those who were happy to have their paintings in a gallery, period, and weren’t too choosy what they had to put up with.

“
Just keep telling him your agent schedules all your shows,” Isabelle said.

“
Exactly what I did.”

“
Is this about Andre?”

“
Probably.”

Andre Milton, descendant of famous Pennsylvania artist Franklin Milton was the big local talent. He had a good eye, and his famous last name didn’t hurt either. He sold exclusively at a local gallery that was Graham’s biggest competition. Which was why Graham wanted Ashley.

“
Listen, somebody just walked in. I’ll give you a call when I know what day I’ll be down your way,” Isabelle said. “I can’t wait to see what you have.” She sounded warm and cheerful as always. If she felt concerned about Ashley’s recent lull in production, she didn’t show it.

Ashley fidgeted around for a few seconds after they hung up, then walked back to her easel. She had to work now. The paintings were already promised. The money would be wired, and Isabelle would be here soon, wanting to see how far along the projects had progressed.

Ashley picked up the brush again and lifted it to the canvas, except now the colors seemed all wrong. The light had changed too. She looked through the row of oversized windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up the whole north end of the loft. Moody snow clouds had drifted in, casting a fatigued gray tint on everything.

Her hand jerked, leaving an angry slash in the middle of the canvas.

A headache drummed to life in the back of her skull.

It’s not going to happen today.

She ignored the shiver that skipped down her spine.

This is a normal day. I’m painting a normal composition.

But it was too late. It was happening already. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images flooding her brain, but no resistance would help now. She couldn’t escape.

This time, the body—a man, midthirties—lay in a shallow grave surrounded by low brush. A distinct rock loomed nearby, blocking the view of a creek beyond.

The image stirred faint memories that refused to come into focus.

Her headache intensified.

She could walk away, had done so in the past. But if she did, neither the pain nor the image would go away; they would pound at her mercilessly. The only way to be rid of the pain was to get the image out of her head, put it on a canvas that she could pick up and hide later.

So she gritted her teeth and remixed her colors. Then she grabbed a brush.

Background first. She went as fast as she could, needed to be done so she could curl up in her lumpy armchair in the corner of the loft and find some numb place inside to escape to. Darkening sky in blue and gray, big, sweeping brushstrokes. The rock cast a wreathing shadow in the clearing. She picked and discarded brushes without conscious thought, mixed colors on instinct.

She delayed painting the body for as long as possible, pressing her lips together as she finally drew the shape. When she had that right, she used a fan brush to complete the see-through, drape-like material he’d been wrapped in—shower curtain?—before reaching for a soft sable brush for the face. She’d always hated this part the most, even before she’d realized that the bodies were real.

She drew the main outline, keeping her fingers on the ferrule—the metal piece that clamped the bristles to the handle—and created a nose, mouth, and eyelids. For a moment, she wondered what color his eyes might be, then shoved aside the macabre thought. He had a strong, square jaw, his hair pushed back, looking sticky from the dirt that had been thrown directly onto his face.

She shadowed the man’s skin and added smudges of dirt to his cheeks and closed eyelids. Her real art, the paintings she sold, had a completely different feel from this monster. This looked as if the artist had X-ray vision, portraying the landscape along with what lay hidden beneath the ground. She hurried but had enough skill to have the face done well even with those few strokes.

Then the gruesome image stood completed, her headache ebbing. She could draw her lungs full for the first time in the past two hours. Her pulse slowed. The room came back into focus, seemed lighter all of a sudden.

But still that terrible sense of emptiness lingered inside her, and she knew it would stay with her for days.

It’s over.

Breathe.

The brushes needed to be cleaned, so she did that, careful to avoid looking at the picture as she moved around. After the paint dried, she would wrap the canvas up and stack it in the garage with the others. And if she were lucky, she would have a long reprieve before the next dark compulsion to paint another vignette of horror.

Her muscles that had been clenched the whole time went weak with relief, and she walked away from the sink on wobbly legs. But as she passed the easel, the odd rock that sat in the middle of the painting drew her eyes and the vague memory took shape at last in her mind.

Cold, disbelieving shock sucker punched her.

She knew that rock, had painted it before, albeit from another angle, from the creek side. The creek that ran at the far end of her hundred-acre property, land she had bought after her first major art show.

Before she had time to consider the implications, her gaze slid lower. She broke out in cold sweat as her eyes zeroed in on the face of the man who occupied the lower right quadrant of the canvas.

He stared at her.

She blinked. She could swear she’d painted his eyes closed. She had meant to. But she had thought about the color…

Goose bumps prickled her skin. His face had less gray than the other victims she’d painted in the past. His body too lay differently—limp but not frozen in death with the stiff angles of a corpse.

As her breath hitched and her heart slammed against her rib cage, terrible thoughts clamored in her mind. This one was on her land. And he was still alive.

Fear pushed full force against the thought that she should help. She was all alone. Twilight was falling. Her land was impassable—back when she’d bought the property, there had been some tractor trails through it, but she’d left them to be overgrown long ago.

She
could
drive down Hadley Road until she reached the right spot, then walk in.