Color Blind (40 page)

N
ola?” Kate called out and shut the door behind her.
Damn.
She had hoped Nola would be home.

The hallway was dark, but Kate didn’t bother with the lights. The click-clack of her heels against the hardwood floor seemed louder than usual. She made her way past the den, also dark, no sign of Nola, no glow from the TV set, her heart beating fast.
Stop it.
She was working herself up over nothing, a name, for Christ’s sake.
Dylan.
It was ridiculous. She really did need that vacation.

What was that? A voice? Or just the old San Remo creaking?
“Nola? You home, honey?”

Kate peeked into the girl’s room, also dark, empty.

She’s fine. Gone off for coffee with Mr. D’Agostino, that’s all. She’ll be home any minute.

So why couldn’t she shake the feeling that something was wrong? Kate didn’t want to act like a worried mother, but she was being one and so might as well give in to it. She opted for the cell phone in her bag, hit the auto-dial for Nola’s cell, and when she heard the phone ringing somewhere in the apartment, she felt relieved.
Probably in the kitchen, gorging on milk and cookies.
“Nola?” Kate called out again.

The living room was dark. Kate went for the light switch, but when she tapped it nothing happened.

Was that breathing, or the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears?

“Nola?”

Kate hit the dimmer again. Nothing. She knew her paintings, antiques, and furniture hovered in the shadows, waiting to be illuminated, but she felt blind. She pictured the room: twin sofas straight ahead, square low table in front of them, other tables with lamps on either side.
But where exactly?
And what was wrong with the lights? Not another blackout. She should call the doorman—see if something was wrong with the building’s power—it wouldn’t be the first time the old landmark building had blown a main fuse. Kate squinted toward the windows and realized the shades were almost completely drawn, just thin rectangles of ambient city light at the bottoms of each. Had Lucille pulled them closed? Kate almost always kept them open.

She caught a whiff of Nola’s musky perfume, and became conscious of the fact that the darkness had sharpened her senses. Had the girl been home and left? Without her cell?

Kate took a few steps, bumped her knee against one of the side tables, reached out for the lamp she knew was on it, and as she did something crunched beneath her heel that sounded like peanut shells or dried leaves. The lamp was dead.

Kate dragged her fingers along the floor to see what she had stepped on. She felt a jab, then pain.

Glass. Broken glass.

“Damn.”

Kate sucked on her finger; the blood tasted strong and sweet. She stood perfectly still, allowed her other senses to do the work.

That’s when she heard it, the slightest intake of breath, a sigh, and yes, smelled Nola’s perfume, too strong to be just a trace. And then the darkness opened up and the room began to reveal itself—twin couches, deco lamps, an African mask, its shell-teeth glinting.

Kate’s eyes came to rest on the oak counter that separated the living room from the dining area, a normally flat slab, eight feet long, but the silhouette had changed, morphed into an irregular mass, and from it came that sound she had been trying to locate:
whimpering
.

Kate took another step into the living room, and the mass was unmistakable: Nola stretched out on the counter, hands and feet bound with tape, more across her mouth, the silhouette of a man behind her, one of Kate’s carving knives in his hand.

Oh, God.

“Sorry about the lights. But it’s easier for me this way. They’ll be okay, the lights, I mean. You can get new bulbs.” For a moment, colored lights swirled in front of his eyes, artificial blues and greens, Sara Jane’s bulbs. But he blinked them away.

Kate took another step. More glass crunched under her heels. She knew the .45 was in her bag, just hanging on her shoulder. She had to distract him.

“I needed to talk to you,” he said.

“Yes. Okay.” Kate was holding her breath. “But I can’t see you.”

“I can see you.”

“Don’t you want me to see you?”

“This is better. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.”

“Were you trying to trick me?”

“Trick you? No. No. Of course not. I would never.”
Think. Think.
“Why would you think I’d try and trick you?”

“All those police, waiting for me.”

“That wasn’t up to me. I couldn’t stop them. But it was my idea to give you the show. I thought you would like it. I hope you did.”

“Yes, it—it was beautiful.” His voice cracked. “But it’s over now. They’re gone.”

“The paintings?”

“Yes.”

“But I saw them, and so did a lot of other people.”

“Did they laugh?”

“Oh, no. No. They wanted to buy them.”

“Why would they do that?”

Because they’re a bunch of sick fucks.
“Because they liked them so much. But I wouldn’t let them because I didn’t think it was right. I wanted you to have them back. And I would have, but—”

“Donna said it was for the best.”

“Your friend?”

“Yeah.”

“A good friend, I’ll bet.”

“The best.” He swung the knife over Nola’s belly and Kate gasped.

“Please. Don’t.”

“I won’t hurt her if you’ll talk to me. Sometimes people won’t talk to me unless I force them.”

“Of course I’ll talk to you. As long as you’d like.” She had to get her gun, but couldn’t chance it. Not yet. Even if she got a shot off, he would need only seconds to use the knife on Nola. She could just make out the girl’s face, and the terror on it.
Flatter him.
“I really liked your paintings.”

“Did you?”

“Very much.”

“I’m a good painter, right? A pepper—a painter—a pepper—a painter!”

“Yes, yes, you are.” Kate shivered.

“I did the last ones for you. I’m glad you liked—”
Have
you driven a…Betcha can’t eat…Coke is it!
He pressed a hand to the side of his head. “Stop!”

“What?”

“Your name.”

“Yes, in the borders, I saw it. Thank you. I was very flattered. But may I ask you, why? I mean, why did you paint them for me?”

“Because you cured me.”

“How did I do that?” Kate’s hand was sweating on the cell phone.
The cell phone. Was it still on? Did I turn it off after calling Nola? No, it’s still on.
Her fingers played over the raised circles. Could she figure out the numbers without looking?
Brown is on auto-dial, but what number?

Celebrate the moments of your—
“Stop it! Please.”

“Stop what?”

“Kodak moments. Not you.” He squinted, blinked. “That painting over there, it’s a beautiful blue, isn’t it?”

“Which painting is that? It’s a little dark for me to see it, but I’m certain you’re right.”

“You wouldn’t kid me?”

“Never.”

“I didn’t think you would.” A flash.
Her
face. Laughter. And music. “Every breath you take,” he sang.

“I like that song.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“No. She liked it.”

“Who was that?”

“
She.
The one. And the others, like her.”

“What others?”

“The others. You know. The ones who helped me to see. I had to do that to them, to her. To see.”

His victims, the eviscerated bodies. He thinks he had to do it
.

Dr. Schiller’s statement flickered in her mind:
He thought that killing enabled him to see color.

“But why Boyd Werther? Why hurt him?”

“I didn’t mean to. Not at first. I just wanted him to help me, but he wouldn’t.” He sang again: “Every breath you take.”

“I thought you didn’t like that song.”

“No, but Brenda does. And she’s a good friend.”

“Is she here? Now?”

“Of course.”

“You’re lucky to have such good friends…”The slightest hesitation then she added, “Tony.”

“Why are you talking to him?”

“I thought, maybe, that Tony was
your
name.”

His laughter sliced through the dark room. “That’s funny, isn’t it, Tony?”

Kate joined him in the laugh. She was still thinking of Dr. Schiller, and her patient, Tony the Tiger, a name he said he had borrowed from a friend. “Hi, Tony?” she said. “I didn’t realize you were here too. I think you are grrrrrrrreat.”

“See that, Tony. What did I tell you? I knew she’d understand.”

“Yes, I do.”
Keep him talking, distract him, then go for the gun.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long, and—
here’s the story, of a lovely lady, who was
—”

“I know that show.
The Brady Bunch,
right?”

“Show?”

Oh, he thinks it’s real.
“Tell me your name, okay?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“She called me Jasper.”

“Shall I call you Jasper, would you like that?”

He considered that a moment. “You can call me Jasper, because…it’s like the artist, Jasper Johns.”

“You like him, Jasper Johns?”

“He’s one of my gods. Same name, and…he’s afflicted, you know. Like me.”

“Is he?”

“Oh, yes. But I’m better now and I’m going to help him get better, and maybe you can help him too.”

“Yes, of course.” Kate glanced at Nola, could almost make out the panic in the girl’s eyes. She inched her hand toward her bag. “I was worried we’d never get this chance to talk. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me.” A short laugh. “It was a trick.”

“And smart. The way you fooled the cops. How did you do that?”

“Easy. I paid him, you know, the kid, a street punk. After I killed the cops outside, I sent him in just ahead of me, into the gallery. Made him wear the sunglasses and all, go right up to the door. They were so excited. They thought they’d caught him. Me. Then it was easy, you know, to go in while they were all so distracted, not expecting me to show up a minute later, and then,
bang bang,
you’re dead; not you, them, and the others, the ones in the car, they were already dead, kaput, goners,
pop pop.
I liked the sound the gun made with the silencer on it,
pop pop.
” He aimed the knife like a gun, and Kate debated a quick run, tackling him, but the knife was still only inches from Nola. “They never saw it, me, coming.
Pop, pop. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz
—Sometimes I can be invisible.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But not now.” He seemed to shudder, and the knife quivered in his hand, and Kate had to hold back from leaping across the room. “Made me sad. I mean, like Prince says—when doves cry—but then I got to look for a while and it was so good, I mean it felt really…fine, my paintings, on the gallery walls, where they belonged, and—” His voice cracked again. “Sometimes you have to sacrifice, right?”

“Yes.” Another inch toward her bag.

“It’s all about the work. I mean, I kind of knew it was
counterproductive,
but I had to, I mean, I just had to. And it was good—
Hurts so good!
—and the right thing to do, right, right, right?” He licked the tips of his burned fingers, still throbbing, thick scabs on several of them.

“Right. You were very brave.”

“I am brave. Tough as nails. Hard as steel. Able to leap tall buildings!”

“Superman?”

“Superman. Right. And you’re Lois Lane.”

“Am I?”

“No.” He laughed. “I know who you are. Don’t confuse me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“People are always trying to confuse me. Hurt me.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You cured me.”

“So you said. How did I do that?”

“You made me see. It was a miracle.”

“Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show me how you can see.”

“I don’t know.”

“I really want to see how well you can do. I’m so happy for you, that you can see, and proud of you, really proud of you. But I could be even prouder.”

“How?”

“You can show me what you’ve learned. How I’ve helped you, cured you.” Another step closer, broken light bulbs crunching.

“Please stay away. I don’t want to hurt you, don’t want you to hurt me—
come on, baby, make it hurt so good
—”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“Everybody hurts. Do you know what they did to me?”

“Who?”

“In that place. The doctors. My head and—” A series of sensations: cold steel on his back, needle in the arm, rubber in his mouth. “My head.”

Kate knew what he was referring to—the electroshock therapy Dr. Schiller had spoken of. But she did not picture
him
in that place, on a gurney,
his
body receiving enough electricity to trigger a grand-mal seizure; rather it was her mother she saw, who could not hold on to words or thoughts after only a few treatments, her mother, whom the treatments had failed, who committed suicide in the very hospital that was supposed to have saved her.

Kate looked at him and saw his pain and sadness. But then he swung the knife, and Nola squirmed and moaned.

“Don’t. Please.”

“You should know me. I thought you would from the things I put in the paintings.”

“What things?”

“The faces I drew—with the tape.”

“Yes, I saw them, but…” The image shimmered in Kate’s brain, but it made no sense.

“I thought that would help you know. Help you remember.”

“I’d like to. But…Why don’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer, just swung the knife like a pendulum above Nola, playing with it, a toy.

“Please. Don’t you want to show me how you can see?”