Painting With Fire (16 page)

Claudia started to pull at the rope but Tom shook his head and pulled her, stumbling through the smoke to his desk where he cut them loose from each other with an X-Acto knife. They pawed the duct tape off their faces.

“Thank God for cheap IKEA shit,” she started to say and he kissed her with the taste of adhesive lingering on their lips.

“To be honest,” he said. “I’ve imagined you tied up in my bed before, but not quite like that.”

They dropped down in search of air and crawled over the gritty wooden boards toward the window. The air was better down here and their eyes didn’t sting as much.

“Tom, we’re going to have to go out the window,” she said, coughing. “You think we’ll make it down three stories alive?”

“We don’t have time to tie t
he bed sheets together,” he said. “Fuck, there’s nothing left to tie anything to.”

They leaned out the window and yelled for help but didn’t hear any sirens. The room was getting warmer against her back and Claudia couldn’t stop coughing. The mattress was going up in intense yellow flames, burning fast and churning out heavy black smoke behind them.

“I’ll hold it and you go first.” Tom threw his comforter over the edge of the windowsill. “I’ll lower you down as far as I can.”

He leaned his body weight back. She held onto the fabric in an iron grip as she stepped over the windowsill.

“We can’t wait,” Tom said. “You have to jump.”

“You have to drop feet first,” he said. “You have to roll.”

“What about you?” she hesitated.

“I’ll try not to fall on you,” he said.

He leaned and she dropped a few more inches. She dangled from the edge of the blanket, her fingers desperately clutching the fabric.

“I love you,” he yelled.

And then she fell. It reminded her of jumping into a pool. She tried to relax but all her muscles tightened in anticipation of the ground. She rolled and rolled in the muddy crab grass.

She lay sprawled for a second and then heard a thud and a cry behind her. Funny, it was not the first time she’d heard something like that, she thought dreamily.
It reminded her off the time she fell down the stairs as a small child, carrying her doll in her arms. The doll was almost as heavy as she was, with glass eyes that flipped open and a box inside her chest that made a crying noise if you shook her. Claudia had tumbled down the steps, hitting her tailbone hard, but the doll was the one who cried at the bottom of the stairs, not her. She was soundless.

And there she was, lying on the grass with the wind knocked out of her.
Claudia couldn’t speak. She wondered if her body looked the same from her window as Steve Jackson’s did, minus the snow. Or if she looked like an old doll with blinking glass eyes.

When she finally managed to open her eyes, she saw a spray of sparks nearby where fireman were cutting into the side of the building. She saw big, black rubber boots stomping all around and the metal hinges jump upright on Tom’s stretcher. It smelled like steaming water dashed against a campfire.

Then she was hoisted into another stretcher. Beneath the old tree, she saw Doris argue with a man with a notepad. She kept pulling the oxygen mask off and putting it on her dog’s muzzle.

“You don’t understand,” she yelled over the noise of the engines and water pumps. “I don’t care about the insurance money. My photographs, my belongings. After 80 years, they’ve become like little pieces of me. My things, they are who I am. I’ve lost everything.”

“At least you’re alive.” The man patted her shoulder.

Tom was not moving. Claudia realized this as he was loaded into the ambulance. His eyes were closed. She reached over and tried to squeeze his hand. His wrist was wet and sticky.

She was in shock. She was in a collar of some kind, tied to a plastic board. She stared up at the building. She could see a huge hole into their apartment and the paintings burning. She could see the angel painting burning slowly, with a black wave of ash moving toward its face. Suddenly, she noticed pops of light.

“What are those flashes?” she said.

“Damn newspaper people,” the paramedic said and loaded her into the ambulance. She expected a jolt but it was like floating.

Chapter 34: Preying

Alice streaked down the front stairs, with Dave behind her
.
She had met the man at a meeting two years before. It was one of the advantages of volunteer work with addicts – a steady stream of customers and employees.

The man and the dog had a lot in common, she thought. They were both strong, stupid and loyal. As they walked out the stairwell, she let the door slam in the dog’s face, trapping him inside behind the glass. The mutt whimpered in the smoke.

“Sorry, buddy,” she mumbled but didn’t open the door.

Sometimes, it felt good to pretend she was a savior,
to open the door, but Alice knew what she was, a predator. She liked the way Dave called her an angel. He was always following her around, like an unwanted dog looking for love. She told him she’d help him, if she could, but she needed a place to set up shop. She liked the way he thanked her each time she took away a little bit more of his life.

When Dave went into
withdrawal, he had a tendency to call out for “Jesus Christ” over and over again. That was the spark that gave Alice the idea of squatting in the old church close by. The great thing was she actually got donations to do it and she got to play the hero. It made her laugh as she hit the sidewalk. It was so easy to pretend.

Alice was like a psychology experiment gone awry. She had read all the textbooks. She knew what signs people looked for to spot a lie. Don’t fidget. Don’t blink. Don’t pause. Don’t touch your face. And above all, don’t ever look away.

She could already see the flames shooting out of the windows on the third floor.

Her neighbors were scurrying down the stairs. Many had pulled their shirts up over their mouths to block the smoke.

She put on her most concerned expression, tightened the edges of her mouth down into a frown and pretended to cry. Dave had already vanished into the crowd, but Mr. Washington was near enough to give her a pat on the back.

Perfect, she thought.

When the firemen came, she clapped her hands together at her chest, squeezed her eyes shut and appeared to pray quietly. But really, all she was doing was mumbling.

When she heard the neighbor next to her scream, she realized Claudia and Tom were not dead yet.

“They jumped!”

Alice started slowly walking away, back to the church, back to the beginning. It was time to collect the money and run. She didn’t need to see if they were dead or alive. If they were dead, it didn’t matter. If they were alive and able to talk, better to leave as soon as possible.

Standing mindlessly amid the hoses and streaks of water on the ground, Ted
was busy talking to himself. He had gone down the list of names at least three times, counting the residents on his fingers, before the panic suddenly clenched up his muscles and crushed his fingers into tight fists. Why hadn’t he remembered her earlier?

One resident was still unaccounted for.

“What apartment did she live in?” The firemen huddled around him.

He pointed to the second-story window.

The firemen ran up the back stairwell and pounded on the door.

“Is anyone there?” the rookie yelled and paused for a moment. “Coming in.”

He kicked the bottom of the heavy door with his fire boot. The wood splintered but didn’t give way. Then they started hacking at the door with their fire axes until the part of the door around the lock collapsed in and it swung open.

He ran through the gray air and h
is heart sped up as he saw the black woman lying in her bed, motionless. He scooped her up.

“Smoke inhalation,” he yelled
through his mask.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” his friend said, his boots crunched on the broken glass on the floor.

The rookie cradled her neck and head in his glove and carried her out running onto the lawn. His knees sank under seventy pounds of gear and the weight of her body.

“She needs oxygen,” he said. “Why aren’t you doing anything?” He shouted to the paramedics.

“Put her down, Jim,” his friend said.

At that moment, he noticed two things: how stiff she was and that her black hair was stuck to his glove. The blood had congealed into a dark
, hard syrup. He put her down on the stretcher and the paramedics shook their heads.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?”

“She’s been dead for a while,” one of them said. “We’d better call the coroner.”

“But she’s still warm,” he pleaded.

“From the fire, Jim.” His friend patted his shoulder. “From the fire.”

Chapter 35: The Price of Fame

Fame could not have come at a worse time.

Not a single reporter knocked on the front door after Steve Jackson’s body turned up. But the house of God turned drug house was big news
, a freak show. It was unprecedented. And the fire was perfect for flocks of TV crews and news websites. The image of the burning angel made the front page of the local newspaper and went viral online.

It was visually stunning
, and Doris told the newspaper people all about the mysterious artist who lived upstairs and saved his wife by lowering her down as far as he could. She told them he was on the brink of death after his fall.

What ever happened to fact checking? Claudia wondered.

The fact was, Tom didn’t die. His right wrist broke and his left femur shattered, but he was very much alive.

“I may as well be dead,” Tom groaned. “I can’t even hold a paintbrush.”

“It’ll be OK.” Claudia patted his arm. “You’ll get better.”

She stood next to his bedside.

“Why don’t you sit,” he said, tilting his head and eyeing the plastic seat next to him.

“I’ve broken my tail bone and I have a purple spot on my ass as big as a blueberry IHOP pancake,” she said.

Tom laughed and his cell phone rang.

“Would you get that, babe?” he said. “I don’t feel like talking right now. Tell Paul I’m fine.”

“Tom’s phone,” she said. “No, he’s not dead. He’s just not answering right now. He’s in a world of hurt, but he’s alive.

“I’ll tell him. I don’t think he’s in any condition right now to make business decisions and I don’t think he’d want you selling his shit for him. Can’t it wait a few goddamn days?”

She hung up the phone. “Some people.”

“Apparently, because everyone keeps thinking you’re dead, your work is going for a lot more than you were originally selling it for,” she said. “Paul’s hiking up the prices and he’s getting a lot of questions from big-time curators. Some downtown gallery wants to do a ‘Burnt’ show of your pieces burnt in the fire, as well as the newspaper photographs.”

Tom sat up a little more and smiled. “You mean they saved some of them? I feel better already. And it’s not just the little pills I’m popping.”

Just then they heard a knock and the young resident popped in with her clipboard.

“Sir, there’s a policeman here who wants to talk to you,” she said. “Are you up for it today?”

“Sure,” Tom said. “But I am loopy on painkillers, so tell him not to trust me too much.”

The resident pulled back the white curtain and her blond ponytail swished behind her as she walked out.

Stan walked in out of uniform. He had circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” he said, sitting down in the plastic chair next to the bedside. “You’re just a chronic victim. It’s the second time a woman has attempted to murder you – that I know of. I should’ve told you Alice was a serious, dangerous suspect. I underestimated her and I should’ve made sure we kept watch on you.”

Tom glared at him. “You’re a fucking crooked cop.”

“I’m going to disregard that because you’re on heavy painkillers.” Stan glared back. “And I need your help.”

His expression softened. He shifted in his seat and faced Claudia. “What happened?”

“Alice and this tall, wiry guy with busted-up teeth set the whole place on fire. Please tell me you already have them in custody.”

Stan leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and frowned.

“We’re looking for them, darling,” he said. “We’re not finding them, but we are looking for them.”

“Don’t call me
darling,” she said. “You call me darling one more time and I swear to God I …”

“You threatening a police officer?” he barked. “You’re right though. I am a bit old fashioned about women.”

“Maybe that’s why you didn’t take Alice seriously enough,” she spat out.

Stan slumped in his chair. “
I’m sorry. Tell you what, Claudia, I promise you I’ll never call a woman dear or darling again unless I love her, unless she’s my wife or daughter.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“The sad thing is we have another victim.” He sighed.

“Who?” Claudia asked.

“Sorry, you haven’t heard?” Stan said. “Janice.”

“How did this happen? How could you let this happen?” Claudia yelled. “You should’ve saved her.”

“I’m not God. You act like it’s my fault.” He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe it is.

“
We’re trying to piece it together, but only one person can really tell you what really happened to Janice, and we’re looking for her.”

Stan ran his hand through his
hair. Claudia noticed how a few silver wisps had started to streak through his black hair, lining the edges of his brow like the silver cracks on an old canvas.

“As far as Alice. Even if you think you know something you gotta prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. Juries are fickle. You’d be shocked by how many
murderers just walk away. You know they’ve killed people. You can just feel it, and it doesn’t matter.”