Now You See Her (23 page)

She hadn't wanted this. She had been perfectly content in her self-contained world, isolating herself from people and not letting anyone really touch her. She knew analysts would say that in her childhood she had learned to protect herself by mentally distancing herself from the people in her world, and she knew they would be right. But the change had opened her up, made her really see people, made her feel, and she didn't know if she would return to the old way even if she could. There was Richard now; she didn't know what she felt for him; she was afraid to even try to put a name to it, but she knew her life would be poorer without him in it. There was passion growing in her, passion he was carefully feeding, and she could never be content now if she didn't discover the full reach of it.

There was no going back. Instead of fighting the changes, or at best trying to ignore them, she should be opening herself up to the experience. For the first time in her life, she should
live.

As much as she loved the painting of the baby
and the balloon, she could no longer focus on it. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the other canvas. Waiting. Waiting for the night, when sleep lowered all her mental barriers, or perhaps just waiting. Perhaps she could do it now.

She approached the easel as one would a snake, cautiously, ready to run. Her heart hammered, and her breathing was quick and shallow. What was wrong with her? This was just a painting, even if it was a weird one. Okay, maybe not
just
a painting, but neither was it a snake. She knew art, knew the techniques, knew how to scale and shadow and foreshorten, how to manipulate light with the thickness of the paint, how to highlight or downplay with her choice of colors. Since art was the medium in which this particular gift was expressing herself, perhaps she could look at the painting strictly on that level: assess it on its artistic merits, and go from there.

Yes. She could do that. Calm descended on her. She took several deep breaths, just as insurance, and forced herself to study the composition objectively.

The composition and scale were good. The position of the woman's feet looked as if she had just fallen. The shoe lying on its side would have come off when she fell. They were nice black pumps, three-inch heels, and light gleamed on the rich leather. But they weren't right, she thought, frowning at them. The shoes weren't right. Something was missing.

She had no idea what it could be. All the basic parts of a pump were there: heel, sole, upper. There were endless designs and decorations one could put
on shoes, however. This might be something she would have to do in her sleep, when she was open to suggestions.

The man's shoe disturbed her, not because there was just one, but because of the way it was positioned. He would be looking directly down at the woman. He was too close. A bystander wouldn't be so close. Anyone running up to give aid would be crouched beside her. A cop . . . Where would a cop be? An investigator would be crouched, she thought. Medics would be crouched. The way this shoe was positioned, the man was just. . . looking at her.

He had killed her.

The thought was a flash, electrifying in its surety. She was painting a murder scene.

She hurried to the phone, called Richard. When he answered she said, without preamble, “Was Elijah Stokes murdered?”

He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

Sweeney gripped the phone tighter. “Because I think this shoe thing is the beginning of a murder scene. Don't try to protect me or humor me; just tell me the truth: was he murdered? Did you see something in the painting I missed? Is that why you contacted his son?”

“Yes,” he said. “Look—I'm scheduled for a business dinner tonight, but I'll cancel it and be right over.”

“No, don't do that. I'm okay, I've just been doing a lot of thinking. Besides, I'm working.”

Another pause, then he gave a low laugh. ‘And don't bother you, right?”

“Right.” She stopped, frowning. Having to consider someone else's feelings when she wanted to work was a new concern for her. “Did that hurt your feelings?”

“Of course not.” There was a hint of tenderness now.

“Good.” She took a deep breath. “What made you think Mr. Stokes had been murdered? What did you see?”

“The head injury. You didn't paint any stairs, and he was obviously lying between two buildings. It looked like blunt-force trauma to me.”

“‘Blunt-force trauma,'” she repeated. That wasn't laymen's lingo. She had the exciting sense of discovering a facet of Richard she hadn't suspected existed. “Do you have medical training?”

“Only in the rough first-aid stuff we needed in the field. I can set a simple fracture, rotate a dislocated joint back into place, stop bleeding. Things like that.”

“But you know what blunt-force trauma looks like.”

“I've seen it.”

Somehow she had absorbed enough information about the military to know that, in general, only medics were given that kind of training. Of course, her information came from books and movies, so her impression might be wrong. But a medic would have had much more extensive training than what Richard had described. “Just what kind of army were you in?” she asked curiously.

“The United States Army,” he said, amused
again. She could almost see his lips curving. “But I was in a special unit. I was a Ranger.”

She knew about forest rangers. She knew about the Lone Ranger. Other than that, her memory bank was empty of information on rangers. “My military experience is kind of limited. What do Rangers do?”

“They wear really snazzy black berets.”

“Other than that.”

“Rough stuff. It's a specialized infantry organization.”

“Specialized in what?”

He sighed. “Raids.”

“Raids.”

“You sound like a parrot.”

“You were a
commando,
weren't you?” Her voice rang with astonishment. She had known nothing but gentleness from him. No, not gentleness. That was the wrong word. Tender was more accurate. But determined, too. And she had seen firsthand how he could affect people with just a look, seen how easily he dominated Senator McMillan.

“That's one term for it, yes. Honey, I'm thirty-nine years old. I've been out of the army for fifteen years. What I did back then doesn't matter.”

“In a way it does. You knew what blunt-force trauma to the head looked like, knew to ask questions. Knowing Mr. Stokes was murdered gives me a different view of what I'm doing now. I think the murderer is standing looking down at her.”

He followed her thoughts with ease. “Because of the way the man's shoe is positioned?”

“If he were there to help her, or investigate,
wouldn't he be crouched down? A bystander wouldn't stand so close. I'm going to try working on the painting while I'm awake, see what happens. I don't think she's dead yet; I think I'm picking up on something in the future and that's why I'm doing just a little at a time. If I can finish it, see who she is, then maybe I can stop it from happening.”

He said, very gently, “I don't think you'll be able to finish the painting until it's too late.”

His concern furled around her like tender arms. “But I have to try,” she whispered, her throat suddenly tight. She swallowed. She refused to cry in front of him again. When she cried, she wanted it to be about something real important, like being cold.

“I know. Got a pen?”

She reached for the pen and pad beside the phone. “Got it.”

“Here's my cell phone number.” He rattled it off. “I'll have the phone with me tonight. Call me if anything happens and you go into shock again.”

“How many numbers do you have?” she muttered. “That's three.”

“Well, there's the fax number, too, if you want it.”

“I don't think I'll be sending you any faxes.”

He chuckled, then said, “Take care of yourself. The last few days have been rough on you. Don't let this get the upper hand.”

“I'll be careful,” she promised, and went back to the studio warmed by the ease with which they communicated, the sense of being linked. No matter how upsetting this situation got, she wasn't alone.

She stared at the painting for a long time.

Assuming she was looking at a murder scene changed her perspective. Picking up a stick of charcoal, she lightly sketched in the logical position of the woman's body, given the position of her legs. And if the man's right foot was
here,
then his left foot would be
here.
No, that was wrong. The angle was too severe. She needed a more direct angle, not exactly head-on but close to it.

She knew instinctively when she got it right. Her fingers moved rapidly over the canvas, sketching a rough outline of two people around the details she had already painted.

When she finished, she was trembling, as exhausted as if she had worked for days instead of—of however long she had worked. Glancing out the window, she saw night had fallen. She had no idea what time it was, but her stomach growled a warning that it was a long time past supper. She was a little chilly, but nothing unusual. Her efforts hadn't triggered that scary, bone-deep cold, at least not immediately. She had no idea how she would feel in a few hours.

She rubbed her eyes, then remembered her hands were black with charcoal. Muttering under her breath, she went into the bathroom and peered in the mirror. The black smudges all over her face weren't a surprise. She washed her face and hands, then went into the kitchen.

Soup was always good. It was fast and hot. She opened a can of chicken noodle soup and nuked it. What did Richard eat at business dinners? she wondered. More to the point, would he ever expect her to eat
with
him at those business dinners? The
prospect wasn't a pleasant one. She would manage, she decided. If necessary, she would even buy some high heels.

Good God, this was serious. She should be running as far and fast as she could. Instead she sipped her chicken noodle soup and smiled a little at the lengths to which she was willing to go for Richard, should he ask.

She showered and went to bed, and woke a little after dawn feeling warm and relaxed. She was almost disappointed; lying in Richard's arms wasn't exactly a hardship, no matter how cold she was.

She lay there for a while, enjoying the warmth. An electric blanket wasn't as good as Richard, but she would have to make do. She daydreamed for a while, smiling, before noticing that the sunlight wasn't getting any brighter.

She sat up and looked out the window. Fog pressed against the panes, white and a little luminous, as if it were just thin enough to allow a little sunshine through. The light was strangely reflective, filling all the shadows in the room the way sunshine on snow did.

Afterward, she didn't remember getting out of bed. She got dressed, in her usual thick socks, sweatshirt, and jeans. The coffee hadn't started brewing yet—she had got up too early—so she turned off the timer and turned on the maker herself. Then she went into the studio, because this white light was too unusual to miss.

She knew exactly what was missing from the high-heeled pumps.

Twenty minutes later she stepped back, blinking. The heels weren't solid. A small gold ball formed the middle of each heel. The shoes were very distinctive, impossibly stylish. If she had ever seen a pair like them before, she would have remembered.

And the skirt. . . the skirt was fuller than she had sketched it last night. Flirty.
Black
The woman was wearing a black dress.

In some corner of her mind, she laughed. This was New York City; what else would the woman be wearing but black?

Hours later, the ringing of the phone jerked her out of her trance. She shuddered and stepped back, for a moment unsure of where she was or what that noise meant. Then she realized it was the phone and raced to answer it.

“Are you all right?” Richard demanded, and she realized she should have called him.

“I was,” she said, still more in a daze than out of it. “Nothing happened last night. But this morning—I was painting. I just
knew
how it should look. What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty.”

She had been working for almost four hours. She remembered very little of it.

C
HAPTER
    F
OURTEEN

S
he was wrapped in a blanket when Richard arrived, a freshly nuked cup of coffee in her hand. She was cold, but the cold wasn't unbearable, at least not yet. He bent down for a quick kiss, then started to take her in his arms to battle the chill.

“Wait,” she said. “I want you to see the painting first.”

He went with her into the studio and in silence studied the canvas. The scene was graphic in its violence. The woman's body was sprawled in a pool of blood, which had soaked into a pale carpet. Her chic black dress had been slashed to pieces, and one arm, the only one Sweeney had completed, was covered with wounds.

The man standing over her was relaxed, the knife he had used in his right hand, which was hanging at his side. Working from his shoes up, she had
completed him to just above the waist. He wore black pants, perhaps jeans, though jeans were a bit incongruous with the wing tips. She had also painted the beginnings of a black shirt.

“A burglar, maybe,” Richard said with the cool distance in his voice that said he had switched into his analytical mode. “They're both in black, but she looks as if she's been to a party. The shoes are wrong, though; a burglar would wear track shoes, or something else with a soft sole.”

“I thought there was something strange about the shoes, too. They look awkward.” She didn't like the way she had done the feet; they were vaguely out of proportion. But when she had begun studying how she could correct them, the mental image refused to form. Perhaps she was just exhausted and she would be able to think better after she had rested.