Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Page 8

  The tenth maiden, Darcy Tate, has been taken. She sleeps, awaiting her transformation into a portrait of timeless grace and beauty. My exhibition will be on display within twenty-four hours for everyone to see.

  Two more maidens will follow the others into immortality before I rest…

  The Artist

  I said to Dawson, “He’s telling us the killings will end after Darcy and…a couple of more girls.”

  “The killer’s gonna just quit?” Hass asked.

  “These killers never stop until they’re caught or dead,” Zender said. “I think he means that he’s going to be finished with this cycle, but mark my words he’ll start over again.”

  Dawson scoffed. “Theories won’t solve this case. I want you two to go back over to the newspaper. Question everyone and anyone about the letter. Maybe somebody saw something.”

  Zender protested. “The editor’s gone, on vacation. The letter sat on his desk for most of the day before a secretary found it. We talked to his staff. No one…”

  “Our killer isn’t a fucking ghost,” Dawson said, cutting him off. “He doesn’t pop out of thin air and just drop something on a desk. Go over to the paper again, knock and talk the entire god-damned street and neighborhood all night until you find something.”

  After Hass and Zender reluctantly slogged off we met up with Darcy Tate’s parents again. I came over to the sofa and saw the questioning look in their eyes. “We’re going to dust the room for prints, any other evidence. Maybe something will turn up that will help.”

  Russell Tate shook his head. I saw the tears in his eyes. “It is The Artist. He has our daughter.”

  I searched for something positive to say but came up empty. I walked away as Russell and Gloria Tate fell into one another’s arms weeping.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We spent the night and most of the next day talking to staff at the Oklahoma City Herald and canvassing the nearby neighborhood, without results. It was late in the day by the time we returned to the police station with Hass, Zender, and Reed. The squad room was busy, cops coming in and out and preparing for the evening shift change.

  Haas and Reed trudged off to the break room. Zender went over to update Chief Gallagher on our investigation as Dawson and I went to our desks. My partner wasted no time pulling out a crossword puzzle.

  “Five hours, fifty-nine minutes,” I said, counting down the time Darcy Tate had left.

  My partner seemed annoyed with me. “Quiet, Buttercup. I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Now I was annoyed. “You’re working a puzzle while we’ve got a killer on the loose.”

  “I’m trying to solve the case,” he said, not looking at me. “I’m multi-tasking.”

  I decided that I needed a break and took a walk down the block to the local Starbucks. I bought a latte and muffin before coming back to the station and settling in at my desk. I was exhausted and wasn’t sure how I was going to manage to hold up the rest of the night. While Dawson continued working on his puzzle, I went over the murder files John Greer gave me one more time.

  I began by reviewing all the notes the previous investigator, Hugh McCray, had made on each victim. I found that McCray had been systematic, going through the background of each girl looking at relatives, friends, and acquaintances who might be a suspect. He’d also covered the art angle by checking with the colleges and art schools in the areas where the victims had been abducted, all without success.

  Just as John Greer had told me, they’d created data bases tied to individuals who had a criminal record and had worked as a veterinarian or assistant and might have access to the drug used on the victims. They’d talked to several of those individuals but nothing had turned up a solid lead.

  I was closing the most recent victim’s file when a piece of yellow notepad paper fell out. It had a few handwritten notes scratched on it but nothing looked remarkable. McCray had probably been doodling on the paper, drawing squares and triangles, maybe just passing the time while he was turning the facts of the case over in his mind or talking on the phone.

  “Does the name de Gaul mean anything to you?” I said to Dawson, reading something that had been scribbled on the corner of the paper.

  “Charles,” he said, not looking at me. “A general in France during the big war, later elected president.”

  “This is spelled d-e-G-u-a-l.”

  “Not Charlie, then. Maybe you should Google it.” He glanced up from the puzzle. “You planning to go on Jeopardy, brushing up on your trivia?”

  “It was written on a scrap of paper in one of the murder files Hugh McCray worked.” I yawned and typed the name into my search engine. “It’s probably nothing.”

  I found several references to the name, including the French president Dawson had mentioned, even though the spelling was different. Then I came across something that intrigued me and clicked on it.

  “Pablo de Gaul,” I said, reading from what I’d found to Dawson. “He was considered an outside artist.”

  “An outhouse artist?” Dawson said. “Maybe he drew while he was on the can.”

  I ignored him and went on reading aloud. “Outside artists typically have no association with the mainstream art world. In some cases their art is only discovered after their deaths. Such artists often suffer from mental illness, unconventional ideas, and sometimes express themselves in elaborate fantasy worlds.”

  I’d gotten Dawson’s attention. He came over to my desk, looking at my computer screen. “What about this Pablo guy?”

  I went on reading from the article. “The paintings of Pablo de Gaul were discovered in his home after his death in 1927 in the town of Lorca, Spain. It is believed that the artist suffered a psychotic breakdown when he was a young man studying art in Italy. He was considered a recluse, seldom seen by his neighbors. At the time, the works of de Gaul were dismissed as the deranged work of a madman by art critics who labelled them as worthless.”

  I looked at Dawson back to the computer screen, my voice rising and my adrenaline pumping as I read the final paragraph. “One of de Gaul’s paintings called, The Maidens of Eternal Sorrow, eventually fell into the hands of a private collector. The painting, although still largely unknown to the mainstream art world, is considered by many experts to be the work of a misunderstood genius.”

  “Maidens,” Dawson said, the interest in his voice also apparent. “Is there a picture of the painting?”

  I found a link at the bottom of the page and in a moment had the painting up on my screen. “Oh, my god.” I glanced at Dawson. “I think this could be the key.”

  We saw that de Gaul’s most famous work of art depicted vignettes of twelve young women, referred to as maidens. Each girl was dressed in a flowing white gown, just as our victims had been posed. The women were all young, beautiful, and full of life, except for one horrific feature—their eyes were missing.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dawson said, the impact of the artwork registering. “The Artist is recreating the painting.”

  “But why would McCray keep this to himself?”

  “Maybe he sucked his gun before he could tell anybody.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, going back to the original reference to outside art that I’d found earlier. “I think I saw a name—someone who’s an expert…”

  I grabbed Dawson by the arm, my voice pitching high with excitement as I read from the link. “Jason McCray is considered an expert on outside art. He studied at the University of Spain and wrote his thesis on Pablo de Gaul.”

  “McCray? Dawson said. “Do you think he could be…?”

  “I’d bet money on it,” I said, dialing John Greer’s number.”

  After a couple of minutes I ended the call and turned back to Dawson. “Greer checked the employment records. Hugh McCray had a son named, Jason. He has to be The Artist.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The flashlight cuts through the inky blackness, illuminating the narrow opening, the ladder leading down into the d
ark labyrinth beneath the earth. The Artist picks up an unconscious Darcy Tate, draping her over his shoulder. He climbs down into the abyss.

  “Time to go down the rabbit hole, Alice.”

  They reach the bottom of the ladder and enter a long passageway without supporting columns. The Artist has explored most of the salt mine and knows that the tunnels go on for miles. Once, he and Jason even got lost in one of the shafts.

  Jason.

  Just the thought of him sends a ripple of excitement through him, feelings of love. The memories are pushed away and he moves out. He makes his way through a familiar tunnel until he finally stops in an alcove, a partial branch of the passageway that was never completed. The area is his studio, the preparation room.

  “Afternoon ladies,” he says, nodding to something unseen in the shadows of the room before bringing Darcy down and carrying her over to a metal table.

  The Artist flips a switch. The battery powered overhead lights cut through the darkness of the tunnel. He takes a moment, tossing off his clothes, until his naked body is illuminated by the bright overhead lights. He walks back over to the table and sits across from the young woman—his sweet brown-eyed maiden.

  He reaches out, strokes Darcy’s hair, comes closer, and caresses her. “They’re all watching us, my beloved. Out there in the darkness, beyond the dazzle of earthly light they’re waiting in hopeful anticipation. You understand. You know the sorrow they have carried in their hearts, what it is like to have a gift that is sullied and trampled down beneath the horrors of life. The wretched ones, who in their ignorance and pettiness deny what is grand and glorious. You know. I have watched you.”

  The Artist bends over and inhales the scent of her. He listens to her rhythmic breathing. The cave is so quiet that he can hear Darcy’s heart beating. It carries him away for a moment. A thought surfaces: what would his life have been like if Ellian hadn’t found him?

  The Artist pushes the thought away and walks over to the makeup mirror in the corner of the alcove. He hits another switch and the lights around the mirror come on. He takes a moment, his gaze moving over his naked body.

  His figure is firm and taut, the muscles beneath his skin sinewy and strong. He can’t control another thought that comes to him. He is handsome. And then another. He is not handsome, he is incomplete. Yes, that’s what he is, unfinished—he is not whole. He feels the bile rise in his throat. He gags, runs into a corner of the tunnel and vomits.

  When he’s finished purging what’s left in his stomach he goes back to the mirror. He sees the tears like rivulets of blood streaming down his face. He braces himself, sitting rigid, waiting.

  The thoughts about being handsome but incomplete have been crushed. The image in front of him is now seen for the reality that it is: ugly, even horrific. It must also be purged. It has to go away. It must be transformed, just like the maidens. He holds his hands up to his ears, rocking back and forth, waiting.

  Even though she is across the room he can still hear the maiden’s breathing, her heartbeat. The shoosh of her breath, the drumbeat of her heart grows louder as he waits…waits…

  “IT IS TIME,” Ellian finally says, the voice crashing through the room. The voice is so loud that it seems to echo, long after it’s been spoken.

  The Artist’s naked body jerks as though he’s been hit by lightning. “Yes…yes.”

  “Look at yourself.” It’s Ellian again, commanding him, his voice harsh and judgmental. “See what you truly are.”

  The Artist does as he’s instructed. He again feels the revulsion, the sick feeling in his stomach at the horrific image in front of him, now seeing it for what it truly is. His breath becomes shallow. Perspiration pops on his forehead. The room begins to spin. He screams, “No…no…no…”

  “The body must be changed,” Ellian commands. “You are not this body. This body is hideous…horrible…vile. It must go away. NOW!”

  His body jerks, his hands moving forward as if they are controlled by a puppeteer. His trembling fingers reach out, finding the supplies in the drawer. He wills himself to be steady as he again applies the hues of red, green, blue, and gold paint.

  He takes his time, using the brush as he was trained, but now with the purpose that Ellian demands. The streaks of color start at his hairline and move down, covering his face, his chest, and even that place he never touches, the place where the vile, ugliness of his life is revealed. His process is methodical, precise. It takes almost an hour before he makes the final brushstroke.

  He studies himself in the mirror. The thought that he was handsome is now buried. The figure that stares back at him is something not of this world. It is a rainbow of all the tortured souls, the misunderstood artists that have existed, once reviled and ridiculed down through the ages, now resurrected for the task at hand.

  “The covering,” Ellian says. “Now the covering.”

  He reaches into a drawer beside the vanity and removes the headpiece. It shines like a beautiful jewel in the lights from the makeup mirror. When he places the partial skull, fashioned with horns and feathers on his head, he is transformed. The exotic horned, rainbow-colored creature that stares back at him is now complete. He is The Artist, the one who is the resurrected soul of those who were lost, now bringing glory and immortality.

  “The maiden,” Ellian says. “It is time to begin her transformation.”

  The Artist rises and passes by the other girls without looking at them. He moves over to the sleeping figure. He sees that the drugs are loosening their grip, The girl’s eyes are fluttering open. He takes his time, waiting until her brown eyes focus and fix on him. He sees the shutter of fear, the dawning awareness that Darcy Tate is seeing a god for the first time.

  “Hello, Darcy,” The Artist says. “It’s time to prepare for your exhibition.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Cowboy, you and the professor are with me and Sexton,” Joe Dawson yelled into the break room at Hass and Zender after snatching the keys to a marked police cruiser away from one of the uniformed cops. “Let’s beat feet people.” He saw Marcel Reed heading into the men’s room. “No time for a code brown, Porkchop. We’re taking the limo and I want you with us. If there’s a shooting we’re gonna need a target.”

  I’d called Greer back and gotten Hugh McCray’s last known address. It was outside Tulsa, near a town called Chandler, about an hour away.

  “What’s going on here,” Chief Gallagher asked, coming over with his deputy chief after hearing the commotion.

  “No time for chit chat, Gilligan,” Dawson said. “We’re taking a couple of your bulls on a cattle drive.”

  “Drive like you’re a heifer with a lump of hot coal up your ass,” Dawson said to Hass when we got into the big SUV. It wasn’t raining yet but there were some dark thunderheads in the distance. I was in the backseat, behind Dawson, with Kent Zender next to me. Marcel Reed was in the third row seat, probably thinking up ways to murder his new boss.

  “I think you may be jumping to conclusions,” Zender said after we were on the highway and I’d filled everyone in one what we’d learned. “If McCray’s son is indeed The Artist, why wouldn’t his father have done something about it?”

  “Maybe McCray found out what his baby boy did, couldn’t deal with it, and sucked his Glock,” Dawson suggested. “Or maybe Jason put on his hockey mask, shot daddy, and made it look like a nine millimeter selfie.”

  “That’s all just idle conjecture,” Zender said. “You’re operating on pure speculation.”

  Dawson titled his big head back toward Zender. “And I think your latency periods are decreasing, professor.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re talking profiler nonsense at a faster pace.”

  It went on like that as we drove through the gathering darkness to Chandler, Kent Zender taking issue with our belief that Jason McCray was The Artist, even after we explained about the de Gaul painting and his interest in the painter.

 
“I knew Hugh McCray,” Zender said. “We even talked about his son on a couple of occasions. The profile simply doesn’t fit.”

  Dawson raised his voice, his frustration peaking. “You couldn’t profile a pickpocket if he had his hand so far up your ass he was giving you a prostate exam.”

  Zender turned red, jabbed his finger at Dawson. “Insults won’t change the facts.”

  It began raining a few miles from the ranch where Hugh McCray had lived and I realized that Dawson had reached his limit with Zender. “I gotta take a leak, son,” he said to Hass. “Pull over.”

  “Really?” I said. “You can’t wait another ten minutes?”

  Dawson smiled at me as he opened the door. “Some things can’t wait, Buttercup. If it bothers you close your eyes. Course, then you’ll miss seeing why people call me a big dick.” He turned to Zender. “Hey professor, you wanna join me?”

  “The last thing I’m going to do is engage in communal, public urination,” Zender said. “Some things can wait.”

  “You got that right,” Dawson said, coming around, opening the passenger side door and pulling Zender out. In a minute he had the professor on the side of the road. Dawson quickly got back in the car. He told Haas to lock the doors and said, “Step on it, Jethro.”

  Haas did as he was told.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I said, watching as Zender banged on the window and then stepped back when we accelerated past him.

  Dawson cocked his big head in my direction. “The professor violated the local jackass ordinance. I just put him out to pasture.”

  Hugh McCray’s ranch included a ramshackle house and a weathered barn on a few acres of land just off the main road outside the small town. Our headlights illuminated a truck that was parked in front of the house that otherwise looked deserted. The lawn was dead and overgrown with weeds.

  I filled the others in on what I knew about the deceased agent. “According to Greer he lived here with his wife before he shot himself. There’s nothing in his personnel file about whether or not his son was living with them.”