Retribution (25 page)

"Indeed," said Wade, moving past the picture reluctantly. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to have lifted uneasily, and stayed that way, as he looked into the mind of the artist. He tried to remember the discussions he had had with Elyse over the years specifically about Charlie, but the only thing he could recall was Elyse's interest in what sparked the creativity, not what the creativity symbolized.

Laverman stumbled slightly, and Wade hurried to brace his elbow. His friend made a wry face and straightened. They looked at one another. Wade knew, of course.

George said, "I don't think I will be making that golf tournament this year."

"How bad is it?"

"They won't give me any more painkillers. I suppose I could resort to buying marijuana off some of the people I find in my courtroom, but that is not a choice I find savory." He gripped Wade's arm. "I am going to need you soon, Wade."

This was something that remained unspoken between them. George was dying and had no wish to suffer, nor did Wade expect him to. He nodded. He knew that George would not wait till his body began to give out on him, as well as the pain growing to be unbearable. "Just let me know." He released George's arm. His friend straightened proudly, continuing the tour of Charlie's works.

He took another step along the wall, trailing Laverman, as George spoke about awards and gaining recognition and touring Europe and England until her eventual collapse, but he only half heard his friend's voice.

Was he the only one who could see the tortured visions before him? Who could glimpse the workings behind the paint, the humanity past the canvases, the hope and dismay they held? Whose gaze raced along bold swoops of color, done by a brush held in a hand which must have been moving rapidly, joyously. The effortless way she suggested outlines, and brought the viewer's eyes to the details she wanted them to see, and left others in the background, ghostlike, suggestive, almost subliminal.

He paused and drank them in. He could not let her die. She had to live, perhaps to paint again someday.

She had to.

And he had to be certain she did.

Charlie put her head on his shoulder, and shifted so that her right leg lay between his, and John smiled to himself, put his arm around her and— brought her in even closer. He looked at the ceiling of her bedroom, which had faint, barely noticeable cloudlike designs, and thought of absolutely nothing at all.

She rubbed her palm on the flat of his stomach. "So tell me where you went this morning."

That jolted some of the well-being from him. He smoothed his hand up and down her bare arm, feeling the silken quality of her skin, trying to decide how to tell her.

"I went to see some friends," he said finally, "about your paintings."

"The new ones."

"And the ones in the article."

She did not move away, but he could feel tension return to her body, and he kept rubbing her arm, her shoulder, as if he could will it away. "What kind of friends?"

"Old friends."

She moved her leg, touching him, his leg, the old wound which had forced him into disability. She'd asked about the scar when they had been exploring each other, learning each other's bodies, and was remembering it now. "Police?"

"Yes." He still did not want to tell her, and realized from his very reluctance, that he had. He gripped her roughly and pressed her close.

After several long moments, she said, "Tell me all of it."

"I found something that seemed to match."

"You did." She paused. "Which one?"

"Both of them actually."

She buried her face against his shoulder. He could feel the warm dampness of her tears, though she made scarcely a movement. He kept caressing her shoulder. She rolled away from him, sat up, and started to dress, sniffing hard, stifling back her tears. "Someone took my nightmares… my Midnight… and went out and made it real."

"That's not what I said."

She paused on the threshold to the bathroom door. "You said what you found matched them."

"I found some details that were similar. I can't make a match until I get more information." He left the bed as well, pushing Jagger off his socks, and pulled them on.

"You would have told me if it was nothing." Charlie smiled ruefully before she disappeared. He heard the shower running while he finished finding his clothes and dressing. He fixed himself a cold drink, went to the kitchen phone, and checked his messages. There was one from a prospective client, and another from Sultry's owner, checking on her, asking how close to whelping she was. John knew he'd have to leave.

Charlie padded barefoot into the kitchen, dressed in worn jeans and a soft cotton shirt that she had only buttoned two buttons on, showing the slight cleavage of her breasts, and her navel, and stood, toweling her hair dry. He hung up.

"What do I do now?"

"You wait until I do some more research. One thing I can tell you. The murders go way back. Ten yeas, at least."

"What if…"

He put a finger on her lips. "What if you didn't have anything to do with it?"

"But what if I did? Those paintings have been in private collections for years. Now they're on exhibit again. What if whoever it was starts again?"

"Charlie, you don't know that they will… or they won't. You don't know that you're responsible. How can we trace someone who wandered in and out of… how many galleries… ten years ago?" He took her wrist and pulled her to him. "Don't feel something you don't need to feel."

"Don't tell me what to feel! I need to… I need to be alive again." She clenched her fist and punched him, not to hurt, but as if to emphasize. "I didn't know how dead I was till I felt those brushes in my hands again. How numb. How blind. How deaf…" Her words broke off.

He pressed his jaw to her head, feeling her golden-brown hair tickle his face. "I have never met anyone more alive," he told her.

"Then," she answered hoarsely, "help me stay alive."

* * *

He left Jagger with her even though there was a possibility some county official might show up at the kennel to make sure he was in quarantine. He let Flint out with Hans again and while the two tussled with one another and Flint let Hans race around him and snap playfully at his muzzle, John went to check on Sultry. She was lying on her side, panting, and rolled an eye at him.

He knelt beside her, and put a hand on her tummy, and checked her teats. Fluid beaded on them. John muffled an angry word. Her owner would not schedule the vet visit he'd suggested and now it looked as if she was in labor, early, and he had no idea for how long. He petted her face, stroking the dog, and told her soothingly he'd be right back for her.

He already had the whelping box ready in the corner of the storage room, warm, dry, solitary. He put down fresh newspapers and towels, got a leash, and returned to the bitch. She'd gotten up on her feet, and her tail wagged slightly as he clipped the lead on her.

As the dog settled herself into the high-sided wooden box, he called the vet and the owner, then went out, rounded up the boys and penned them up. Chow would have to wait till he had time.

He phoned Charlie just to let her know he would be busy for a few hours.

"Puppies," she said wistfully.

"Looks like it. I'll call you later." He hung up before she responded, as Sultry let out a low groan.

Puppies that might be caught, or turned sideways, or too big for the bitch to deliver. Complications he did not want right now. John made sure the front gate was unlocked, squatted next to the whelping box, and began to help Sultry bring her litter into the world.

* * *

Charlie cleaned house. She took the paintings and moved them to her studio, trying not to look at them, unable not to, eyeing them. She lined the wall with the canvases and hurried out, sweeping up the newspapers and stuffing the trash bag full of them, then opened up windows. She could smell the paint. It seemed to permeate the bungalow and she was sure anyone coming to see her would know. She found an old can of deodorizing spray under the sink and walked through the house with it until Jagger began sneezing and pawing at his nose.

Charlie took pity on him, letting him out into the backyard, where she took the paper and sat herself for a few moments. Her skin felt raw, incredibly sensitive where she and John had touched, melded, and she sat there, paper across her lap, not reading, not seeing, her thoughts turned inward to memory. When the phone rang long minutes later, her eyes fluttered, and she reached for the portable as if waking from a dream.

"Charlie. Thank God you've got that damned voice mail off," Quentin blustered in her ear.

"Hi, Daddy. I'm sorry." She switched hands. "You have me now."

"Good. I saw Clarkson today. What is this nonsense about not going in to the clinic? I thought we had that all straightened out."

She looked at the yard, its lush greenery, the hydrangeas in the corner beginning to bloom, the impatiens along the shady wall already blossoming, Jagger racing across the grass as a mockingbird scolded and dove at him. She thought of Midnight, descending on her, curtaining all that away from her. But did it… or did it lift a curtain from her eyes that most people could never have lifted? And what, if anything, might her illness have to do with any of it? Her gift, her paintings, her sight, Midnight. "I thought so, too," she answered softly.

"Look, you know I have no love for hospitals."

"I know, Daddy." She cherished the memory of the woman who had helped her learn to walk and eat again, silver-haired and sharp-nosed, soft-spoken, who told her to call her Nana, and treated her as if she were her own grandchild, who had fallen ill not long after her own slow recovery and lay helpless for almost two years before her strong body finally gave up and followed where her soul had already passed.

He said gruffly, "We've no choice in this, honey. I'll go in with you, if I need to. Let me know so I can rearrange my schedule."

"No… that's all right. Mom will go, I'm sure. And it's just the usual string of tests. I've done it all before," she added wearily.

"Then why haven't you gone in?"

"Dad… what if I need surgery again? What's going to happen to me this time?"

Silence on the other end. "There're no guarantees in life."

"I want one this time."

"What do you mean, Charlie?"

"Don't let them leave me a vegetable. Don't leave me that way."

"I won't, honey. Whatever it takes."

She felt a sharpness go through her, and pass, a sense of relief.

"I'll be there if you need me." Quentin cleared his throat. "I'll be the first one by your side… and I'll take care of things, do you understand?"

"I don't feel very brave right now." She sighed.

"How bad is it?"

"I'm having seizures again. I don't know when they're going to hit, I don't know how to stop them… and I don't know if I can survive them."

"God almighty. How long has this been going on?"

"A couple of weeks. I hoped… I thought… it can't all be happening again."

"You don't give up on us, honey, and we sure as hell won't give up on you. We have a contract, you and I."

"Thanks, Dad. I'll call later and tell Mom when to pick me up." Charlie disconnected, then rubbed her forehead. A slight, dull ache started to center itself behind her eyes, and she wondered if that was where it was. Hidden. Lurking. Searching out her mind and sinking into it. Charlie shuddered and put the phone back on voice mail, not wanting to talk to anybody else. She wished she had been asked to go along with John and see the puppies being born.

He had said to her, "Maybe next time."

She took those words and held them to her, a promise, as if they could keep her afloat in times that seemed determined to drag her under. She sat outside until dark fell and beyond, watching Jagger chase lightning bugs and that persistent mockingbird which must have a nest somewhere in the trees bordering the yard, and thought that night was never as dark as the inside of her mind.

* * *

The vet left and John cleaned up. The owner was out of town, in Vegas for some trade show or other, but would be back on the first short hop in the morning. John hung the old towel on its hook and took a look back into the storeroom, where Sultry lay nursing eight fat wiggling bodies which looked more like sausages than pedigreed shepherds. He watched them with pleasure before going to the phone to call and tell Charlie. Outside, it was late, the hills unseeable through the night, and the faint hint of fog and heavy moisture seeping into the air.

He got her voice mail and, disappointed, left a brief message. She was resting, he hoped. The sound of her on the recording was not enough to make him happy. For a moment, he thought of dialing it back just to hear it again. John laughed at himself and instead went to his computer. He had some research to do, the world literally at his fingertips.

He finished close to one a.m., stretched in his chair, and checked Sultry again, who decided she wanted out. He helped her out of the whelping box, disturbing only one of the little fat sausages, who made a grumpy noise before pushing around hungrily in the towels and papers. Sultry hesitated, as if to go back and settle down again, but he grabbed the ruff of her neck, urging her out the door to the exercise yard.

At the sound of him, immediately both Flint and Hans were at their kennel gates, silent, dark shadows, eyes glittering in the faint glow of the moon, watching him, almost wolflike. They did not bark or otherwise give sound, which he encouraged at night. They would not bark until they knew there was a quarry, and then they would bell like the Hound of the Baskervilles until they attacked and brought him to a halt.

Sultry paced back and forth, marked her spots, looked out at the hills, and her black moist nose moved as if she could smell coyotes on the evening air, threatening her litter. John looked up into the foothills, too, wondering where the coyotes were, for he had no doubt they were up there, their senses even keener than the dogs he had kenneled.