Art's Blood (44 page)

Cautiously, silently, she began to explore the dark, deserted hallways. Somewhere there must be a pay phone. Or had the all-but-ubiquitous cell done away with that quaint amenity?

She crept on, at every step coming closer to the room she had just escaped. Her flashlight’s beam glanced against the walls, revealing tattered notices, garish paintings, and a strange assortment of objects that had evidently been designated as art by hanging them on the wall and giving them enigmatic titles. Elizabeth tried to ignore them as she methodically tested door after door in search of an open studio with a working phone. Several doors yielded to her touch but the rooms beyond were either empty or piled with assorted objects, none of which were working telephones.

At the end of a corridor she saw a flickering orange glow. Turning off her flashlight, she advanced stealthily to find a series of rooms, all dedicated to neon art. The narrow tubes, fashioned into every imaginable shape, pulsed and flickered and hissed in the dim space. Elizabeth sidled past a pair of giant red lips that puckered and released every few seconds. Surely someone must be here, would not have gone off leaving all these electric signs humming.

She passed from one room to another, still without finding either a person or a telephone. She was about to retrace her steps when she noticed a little alcove, almost completely hidden by a folding screen.

Clad only in cut-off jeans he lay sprawled across a lumpy daybed in the center of the little space: a claustrophobic cube devoted to human genitalia expressed in neon. On the wall behind him a giant phallus rose and fell repetitively. A video camera’s glassy eye watched from a tripod— trained on Ben’s unmoving body.

For a moment Elizabeth stood frozen. The sight of her nephew’s limp form was like a blow to the stomach and she struggled to breathe. Dropping down to the bed, she put her hand to his shoulder.
Warm, thank god.

A snorted breath lifted his chest. “Ben, are you all right?” She shook his shoulder violently and was infinitely relieved to see his eyes open and blearily focus on her.

“What’re
you
doing here?” His expression was puzzled and a bit annoyed. “Where’s Kyra?” He looked foggily around the room. “What time’s it anyway?”

He tried to stand, staggered and collapsed back onto the daybed. “Legs don’t wanna work; still sleepy. Inna minute.” And he fell into an openmouthed, snoring sleep from which no amount of desperate shaking could rouse him.

D
AMMIT,
B
EN, YOU’VE GOT TO WAKE UP.
W
E’VE GOT
to get to a phone.”
And why don’t you carry a cell phone like every other person your age?
It was useless. His breathing was deep and regular but he was not responding.

At length she concluded that the only thing to do was to leave her comatose nephew and continue her search for a telephone.
The community kitchen! Didn’t Kyra mention a pay phone in there?

With a last, desperate look at Ben, she headed back to the dark hallways and toward Kyra’s studio. She hurried through the winding corridors without hesitation now, guided by an urgent necessity to bring this nightmare to an end. As she passed through the strange bridgelike affair that connected the two parts of the Candlestation, she heard the low creaking and rumble of something in motion. Her flashlight illuminated the cavernous opening of the freight elevator. The platform was in descent and as it drew level with the floor, she could see something stirring in its back corner.

Kyra sat cross-legged there on the elevator’s filthy floor. Just as on the night of the fire at her house, she was rubbing her fingers obsessively, and her eyes were closed. She wore a short dress of some thin material, its moony sheen marred by ugly brownish-red smears.

Her close-cut blonde head was bent over her hands and she was whispering to herself as she rubbed the back of one finger in tiny circular movements. As Elizabeth’s eyes focused, she could see that Kyra held a reddened square of sandpaper and was erasing the tattooed rose from her finger. The backs of the other fingers were raw and oozing red.

“I have to do it or it’ll never stop.” Her green eyes opened wide and blinked in the glare of the light. “Is that you, Elizabeth? I’m sorry I locked you in; I thought you’d be safer in there— away from him. I didn’t realize that he might think it was me in there.”

Her voice was dreamy and she seemed in a trancelike state, oblivious to the scraping of the sandpaper and her gory task. When all of her fingers bore fresh wounds, she transferred her attention to the ring of rosebuds inked around her ankle. Droplets of red began to creep across the white arch of her foot as she scrubbed her skin away.

“He thought he could get rid of me with fire— but I wasn’t in there and you were.” She examined the saturated pad of sandpaper, opened it out, refolded it to an unused side, and began on another rose. “Are you a ghost, come back like she does sometimes?”

“Kyra, I saw the
Entelechy
piece.” Elizabeth’s voice was trembling but she forced it to harshness. “You can stop this stupid game— I don’t believe you’re crazy. I saw the sketch for the piece— a sketch you made months ago, long before Boz and your great-grandmother were dead. You
planned
all this; I’m not sure why. Maybe you were tired of being one of three and wanted to be the star. Maybe you—”

The motion of the sandpaper stopped. Kyra lifted her eyes to Elizabeth with a look of chilling intensity. “What would you know about it? Your ‘friend’ Phillip will believe me. You’re wrong; it’s my father who’s done these things. Reba knows. She’s been there from the beginning; she’s seen it all. Reba’s explained it to me. She told me what would happen so I could put it in my painting. And when the painting dries, it’ll all be over and I’ll be free. Reba explained it all.”

Kyra’s green eyes glowed like a cat’s in the glare of the flashlight. “He almost had me convinced that he loved me— I thought that he was only looking out for me when he had Boz killed. But now I know the truth— GeeGee told me. Rose wasn’t my mother. And now I have to take these away.”

The icy expression melted and the ethereal face of an angel gazed up at Elizabeth with pleading eyes. “He said he was my real father; he said I have a brother…but he sent the brother away and now he wants to kill me. Reba told me why. Reba knows all about it. Now he has a young wife who can give him children and he doesn’t want me because I’m soiled. If he tries to hurt me, will you stop him?” She spread her red-stained hands in appeal. “Please, Elizabeth?”

Kyra shifted her position there on the floor, revealing the ugly bulk of a pistol that had been concealed by her skirt. Following Elizabeth’s startled gaze, she glanced at the weapon.

“It was in my car.
He
put it there so that I’d be blamed. But he has another one; that’s why I have to get all of the roses off. Reba says that I have to stop making him angry.” She returned to her obsessive scraping— her face showing not pain, but a fierce determination— almost a manic joy.

“Kyra, what did you give Ben to make him so sleepy? Why is he back there in that awful room?”

The long lashes fluttered over the green eyes. “Ben? What awful room? Ben’s gone. I sent him to take a load of my paintings off to GeeGee’s house, where they’d be safe. I told him to stay there, away from my father.”

Kyra began to sway dreamily as she methodically moved the sandpaper against her raw and bleeding skin. “Reba says my father wants Ben dead too. And I have to take away the roses.”

The ring of wounds circling her ankle oozed red as the sodden sandpaper inched its way around. Kyra bent her head to observe the effect of her work and smiled calmly as once again she refolded the bloody pad.

This crazy routine could be just an act. I’m almost sure it is. But the gun, how do I get it away from her?

As if Elizabeth had spoken aloud, Kyra picked up the pistol and held it out, butt first. “Is this bothering you? Then
you
take it. But if he comes after us, you’ll have to use it.”

Elizabeth took a cautious step forward and held out her hand. With a flutter of her eyelashes and an odd little giggle, Kyra pulled back the outstretched weapon and examined it as if seeing it for the first time.

“But maybe it
would
be better…” The cold green eyes bored into Elizabeth as Kyra lifted her other hand and deliberately reversed the pistol— bringing the muzzle to bear on Elizabeth. “Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do.” The frail-looking young woman held the weapon in both hands, taking dead-steady aim at Elizabeth’s heart.

She’s going to kill me.
Elizabeth felt a chilling weakness sweeping over her body. She tried to speak, to think, but all time seemed to have stopped as she stood there, staring at the bloodstained Kyra.

An eternity of seconds passed. Then, with a laugh like the tinkling of shattered crystal, Kyra once again reversed her hold on the pistol and once again offered it to Elizabeth— butt first.

“No, I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.” Her smile was innocent, angelic. “Here, you’d better have it.”

Utterly confused but relieved to have the weapon in her possession, Elizabeth took the heavy gun from Kyra. It felt familiar in her hand: Sam had had one like it— a .45 automatic— and had insisted that she and the girls all learn how to use it. She pulled back the slide; yes, there was a bullet in the chamber. Then she punched the button to release the clip. It contained seven bullets. She shoved the clip back into place and trained the gun on the young woman sitting there at her feet.

“Get up, Kyra. I want you to go with me to the telephone. We have to make a call.”

Kyra smiled. “Elizabeth, you silly old woman, is this a citizen’s arrest?” She rose nonetheless and started in the direction of her studio. Elizabeth followed close behind, flashlight in her left hand and gun in her right.

As they made their slow way through the dark hall, Elizabeth’s flashlight began to pick up bright blotches of the fluorescent green paint on the floor. “Stop, Kyra, I want to look at your shoes.”

At the peremptory words, Kyra stopped, shrugged, and exhibited a pristine pair of sandals. “Really, Elizabeth, I think you may be the one who’s crazy. I’ve heard that menopause can do strange things to a woman’s mind. Have you thought about trying St. John’s wort? Or Kava kava? They could help your mood swings.”

“You’re quite the authority on herbal medicine, Kyra,” Elizabeth said. “What else did you give Kimmie along with the raspberry leaf tea? Were you trying to kill her or just cause a miscarriage?” The gun was still trained on Kyra but Elizabeth was beginning to feel less sure. Who had been outside the door if it wasn’t Kyra?

A muted noise in the hall behind her caught her attention. As she swung the flashlight around to investigate, its strong beam picked up a perfect fluorescent footprint.

E
LIZABETH STOPPED DEAD, LISTENING INTENTLY.
T
HE
sounds that had caught her attention became footsteps— slow, cautious, pausing and then resuming, but coming nearer with each step. Kyra caught at her arm.

“You’re going to have to shoot him or he’ll kill both of us, Elizabeth.” The whisper was frantic. “Reba told me the truth. He wants to get rid of me. If I’m dead, he can blame it all on me. He’ll make it look like I shot you; he’s smart.”

The flashlight’s beam reached only partway down the long hallway, and whoever was coming toward them was still hidden in the gloom. Kyra’s whisper was urgent. “Elizabeth, you have to do it. Shoot now! Don’t let him get me! Shoot now!”

A host of possibilities and potentialities whirled in her brain while Kyra’s impassioned words filled her ears, goading her to action. Holding the flashlight steady in her left hand, Elizabeth slowly raised her right, fighting to steady the heavy automatic.

The footsteps grew closer and Kyra’s grip tightened.
“Now,
do it now, before he gets here! Kill him! You have to!” Kyra’s whisper had taken on a frenzied quality and she pulled desperately at Elizabeth’s arm.

The flashlight slipped from Elizabeth’s hand, fell to the floor, and rolled, its beams dancing crazily over the walls.

“Do it! Shoot him!” Kyra shrieked.

Elizabeth stepped back, turned, and trained the pistol on Kyra.

“That’s enough of it, Kyra. It’s over.” She watched the flashlight roll and come to rest against a pair of familiar boots. “Ben, we’re over here.”

“Aunt E?” Her nephew picked up the flashlight and shone it in her direction. “Wha’s going on?” He sounded groggy and uncomprehending. He sounded drunk. “Whatcha doing with a gun anyway? Shouldn’t point guns at people, you know that. Don’t point guns ’less you ’tend to shoot: that’s the law….”

He stumbled toward them. “Kyra, where’ve you been? I was waiting—” He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall and stood there blinking in complete bewilderment. Then slowly he began to slide down the wall, his eyes closing as he came to rest on the floor. “Just ’nother quick nap.” And he was asleep once more.

There was a sudden clatter of feet ringing on metal and the loud protracted squeak of a door being thrown open, then multiple beams of light swept the hallway beyond them. Howling sirens could be heard in the distance.

In the momentary confusion Elizabeth lowered the gun. With a peal of mad laughter Kyra whirled and pelted down the dark hall away from the approaching lights.

Instantly Elizabeth was after her with a burst of speed she hadn’t known she could achieve. But the pale form flitted elusively ahead of her. Taunting snatches of laughter echoed down the corridor. “Catch me if you can, Elizabeth!”

Her heart was pounding and there was a roaring in her ears. The heavy gun seemed a useless impediment but she held it in front of her as she pursued the mocking wraith leading her ever deeper into the darkness. Her breath was coming in sobbing gasps and she knew that she couldn’t go on much longer.