From Black Rooms (10 page)

When he recovered his voice, Cal felt as if he, too, had been inhabited, that the words he spoke were not his, for they emanated from a locked room within him, the existence of which he had never before acknowledged.

"How soon would you need the paintings?" Amis did not seem surprised, merely pleased. "The sooner, the better, but no later than the end of the month."

The rational part of Cal's mind rejoiced. He could never complete the job, so he needn't regret turning it down. But the sealed black chamber in his psyche stil bled forbidden yearning.

"There's no way," he said, as much to himself as to Amis. "That many canvases--and they al have to be artificial y aged...

"The scope of the assignment is somewhat daunting," Amis conceded. "I understand."

"I don't think you do." Cal crossed the room and hitched a painting off the wal --a faux Rubens he'd nearly finished at the time he was arrested. "You say you want these fakes to fool an expert, right?" Amis nodded. "A man intimately acquainted with the originals, yes."

Cal turned the painting over so that his guest could see the rectangle of worn wood to which the canvas had been tacked. "Then you need stretchers from the appropriate period. That means buying a work by one of the artist's obscure contemporaries, stripping it, and painting over the canvas. That'l set you back at least a couple hundred thousand. Afraid that's out of my

budget these days." Cal pointed out the knots and wormholes in the stretcher's wood. "And see here?

Curators keep precise records of defects like these for authentication purposes."

"We can accommodate you on the canvases," Pancrit assured him. "And you don't need to concern yourself about the authenticity of the wood. Several of the paintings in question were cut from their original stretchers and mounted on brand-new ones."

"Unfortunately, that's not the only detail you need to worry about." Calvin flipped the picture again, angled it so the light reflected off the glazed sheen of the paint.

"See this pattern of hairline cracks in the varnish?

Chaos theory in action--like snowflakes and

fingerprints, no two alike. Museums digital y map them these days, and they're impossible to reproduce." Amis grew impatient with his quibbles. "The expert who'l see these forgeries won't have the opportunity to examine them that closely."

Cal tossed the cloned Rubens on his thrift-store sofa, stil ranting. "And even if I could make an identical copy--who the heck would I fool? Everyone in the

world's heard about the return of those stolen

paintings."

"Let's just say the man in question doesn't get out much."

"He must live under a rock. What if he goes to the Feds?"

Amis smiled, cheeks dimpling. "Mr. Criswel , I am the Feds. Not only can I assure you that you won't go to prison--I can promise you a permanent, salaried

position in the N-double-A-C-C's Art Division. Once your treatment is complete, of course."

Cal's gaze flicked toward the bottle of sickly green liquid in the briefcase, and he moistened his lips. "And how soon could I begin this...treatment?"

"How soon can you deliver the paintings?" Cal waggled his head as if to dispel the temptation. "No way. That many canvases would take months--"

"Then you can do one at a time," Amis suggested.

"When can I expect the first one?"

Don't do it, dude, the rational part of Cal's mind
warned him. This guy's bad news. Tel him you want to
sleep on it.

But the inarticulate, needy howl from the dark chamber of his subconscious proved more persuasive. For his entire career, he'd been nothing more than a parasite of artistic genius, a flea feeding on titans. Could he now pass up his one chance to join the pantheon of masters he worshipped?

Studio, living room, kitchen, and bedroom melted into one another in the shoebox-size apartment, and a few paces took Cal to his bed, where he crouched and slid a battered old suitcase out from under the bed frame. Drawing breath as if about to plunge into the ocean, he unfastened the latches and lifted the lid to reveal the secret he'd never shared with another soul: his seventh copy of da Vinci's Madonna of the Yarnwinder. It was the best work he'd ever done, and he'd decided to keep it when he sold the other six. At the time the cops raided his apartment fol owing his arrest, the Madonna was sitting in a safe-deposit box that he'd reserved under an assumed name, which was the only reason he stil possessed the painting. Given al they'd survived together, could he bear to part with it now?

He stared down at the baby Jesus, who grasped the yarnwinder's wooden cross with his pudgy hands in fatalistic fascination. Some sacrifices were inevitable.

"Wil this do for a start?" Cal asked, lifting the smal canvas from the suitcase and carrying it to his new boss. Amis took hold of the picture by its gilt frame, exulting.

"Flawless! I knew you were the right man for the job, Calvin."

"And the treatment...?"

"Can begin immediately." He set the phony Madonna careful y on the drafting table, resting the top edge against the wal , and took the gun and vial from their notches in the briefcase. Amis slid the bottle into a vertical tube above the device's trigger, where it locked in place with a hiss of released pressure. He turned to Calvin, brandishing the gun. "Would you kindly rol up your sleeve?"

Cal had seen neither Amis nor his Madonna since that night. He doubted that he would ever see the painting again, and Amis would not return until he came to reward Cal for completing another canvas...by giving him another injection.

Gazing in glum despair at the unfinished mess of his
Storm on the Sea of Galilee, he wished that he had
already undergone the whole "treatment," that he could cal upon Rembrandt himself to do this infernal job. Like that Violet girl did with Edvard Munch.

Soon, he thought, licking his lips. Until then, he was on
his own.

Cal set aside his brush and rubbed his eyes, which had begun to smart from the strain of the fine brushwork the Rembrandt required--or, perhaps, from whatever

biochemical magic had begun to change the shade of his irises.

To keep himself from imagining nasty side effects and to get a second wind for the long night of work ahead, he went to the countertop that served as his kitchen, dumped the grounds from his espresso machine's filter, and prepped a fresh brew. As he steamed the coffee into a chipped Dilbert mug, Calvin Criswel wistful y

wondered where his Madonna was now, and whether its intended audience appreciated his ultimate sham.

7

A Private Exhibition

ATTENTION, THE MAN KNOWN to some as

Carleton Amis fussed with the satin cloth that hung from the painting's gilt frame like a curtain over a proscenium arch. Intimidation depended on dramatic impact, and he did not want any portion of the picture revealed until the appropriate moment. He then

inventoried the items arrayed on the table next to the easel: the amber flask of sulfuric acid; the can of lighter fluid; the blowtorch; the knives, ice picks, and box cutters al laid out with the precision of a surgeon's tray. Special tools for a special torture.

Carl Pancrit had always considered himself an

extraordinarily patient man, but patience had its limits. Saboteur by suicide, Bartholomew Wax had already

caused him an intolerable delay. Then Markham

insisted that Pancrit move the entire project from the laboratory at White Sands to this abandoned

convalescent home in Pasadena, just so the madman could pine after his former sweetheart. Now, when Pancrit was at last ready to persuade Wax to cooperate, the Violet Kil er dared to keep him waiting while he stalked Natalie Lindstrom al over Creation.

An hour after the appointed time, Markham final y sauntered into the rest home's former dayroom, flanked by two hulking Corps Security agents dressed as

orderlies. With his face clean-shaven and his hair trimmed and dyed blond, Evan would have been

unrecognizable were it not for the sul en intensity of his gaze, which even his brown contact lenses could not dul .

"That's a new look for you," Pancrit commented. "Did it impress your girlfriend?"

Evan brushed off the sarcasm. "She didn't see me."

"She wil ."

"That's my problem, isn't it?"

"It's our problem until the project's complete."

"You don't want me to see her? Fine. I can go back to Corps headquarters." He turned as if to leave. Pancrit laughed and made a tsk-tsk sound. "Ah, the pangs of despised love! Wel , if you're not too

heartbroken, could we get started? I'd like to speak to the dead before I join them."

"Sure. I see you've saved a place for me... Markham crossed to an old wheelchair positioned before the easel in the center of the room and dropped onto its cracked Naugahyde seat. He stomped his sneakers onto the

metal footplates and spread his hands as if to say, What
are you waiting for?

Pancrit frowned but nodded to the Corps agents. The larger of the two, known only by the nickname "Block," was a seven-foot black man whose sumo-wrestler bulk barely fit into his orderly costume. He waited by the door, his stun gun drawn, while his partner, a tattooed, bearded ex-Marine with red hair and freckles, fittingly dubbed "Tackle," drew up behind the wheelchair. When Markham made no sudden moves, Tackle sidled around to strap the Violet Kil er's wrists to the chair's arms with ratcheted plastic bands. Evan submitted his

forearms for restraint with passive repose, as if receiving a manicure. Tackle then bound Markham's ankles to the metal rods of the footplates, checked the wheelchair's brake to make sure it was locked, and scuttled backward to his post at the door, never turning his back on the Violet.

Evan flexed his hands, tapped his toes. "Pretty snug. Feel safer now?"

After the unpleasantness in the cel at Corps

headquarters, Carl Pancrit considered the question seriously. He didn't know who he should fear more-the unpredictable madman or the unknowable Bartholomew Wax. Pancrit would not have thought the docile Dr. Wax capable of squashing an ant, much less cold-bloodedly euthanizing more than a dozen of his patients. What would he do when he found himself with the spring-loaded power of the Violet's taut

musculature?

"I have things under control," he murmured--less a statement of fact than an assertion of wil .

"Sure you don't want a SoulScan?" Evan's tone lilted with amusement, taunting him.

"I'l know if I'm talking to the good doctor. And if he causes any trouble...wel , we're prepared." Pancrit tipped his head toward the Corps Security guards, both now armed with stun guns. "Are you ready?"

"Always." Lizard eyes unblinking, Markham beckoned with his right hand. "Lay it on me."

Pancrit advanced to within a foot of the wheelchair and drew a folded business envelope from the inside pocket of his blue blazer. He thumbed back the flap and poured the envelope's sole item into Markham's open palm: the green bread-bag twist-tie Pancrit had taken from the hair of Bartholomew Wax's corpse.

Evan curled his fingers over the laminated wire and shut his eyes, his lips fluttering with soundless syl ables. His speech did not become audible until he raised his voice several minutes later.

"s
odium, magnesium, aluminum, silicon, phosphorus,
sulfur...

Belted to the wheelchair by the plastic bands, Markham continued to list the chemical elements of the Periodic Table in order, dipping his head forward then jerking upright again, like a deep-sea angler straining to reel in a sailfish. The volume of his spectator mantra rose with the ferocity of his bobbing trance.

"T
HORIUM, PROTACTINIUM, URANIUM,

NEPTUNIUM, PLUTONIUM--"

He snapped up, board-stiff, and the back-and-forth swaying gave way to a lateral jitter, causing the wheels of the chair to rock and squeak. Evan's expression roiled, as if another face fought to escape his skin. The wheelchair wobbled sideways, on the verge of tipping over, and the Corps Security guards started forward, but Pancrit raised his hand to stop them. When the Violet's eyes flicked open, the soul behind them quickly took in the surroundings and did not seem in the least surprised when it saw Carl Pancrit wave in greeting.

"Welcome back, Barty. Hope you enjoyed your little vacation."

Markham's face lengthened with the weariness of

Bartholomew Wax. "Carl. I should have known you were the Devil."

"Yes, actual y, I am. And I have a lien on your soul." Pancrit smiled. "You may recal that we had a business arrangement...

"To my lasting regret, yes."

"I delivered on my part of the bargain. Our Corps agents took significant risks filching your pretty pictures for you, but you welched on payment for

services rendered." He wagged a finger. "Nobody likes a quitter, Barty. That's why you're going to finish the project, even if I have to bring you back a hundred times to do it."

Wax tried to lift Markham's hands but could not twist them free. He let the Violet's head droop instead. "I can't. Not if you bring me back a hundred thousand times."

"There! You see? Negative thinking--that's your problem."

"Carl, you saw what happened to those people!" It was the first time Pancrit had ever heard the soft-spoken Dr. Wax shout. "Get it through your head: the treatment
doesn't work."

Pancrit shook his head. "Seems to me the only thing that's not working is you, Barty. But that's about to change." He returned to the easel, hooked his thumb and forefinger around one corner of the satin that covered the painting. "I know we don't see eye to eye on many things, Dr. Wax, but I have to admit, I like your taste in women. Particularly this one." He yanked the cloth away with a flourish, unveiling Calvin Criswel 's rendition of Leonardo's Madonna of
the Yarnwinder. If Pancrit had any remaining doubts
about the superlative accuracy of the forger's work, they disappeared when he saw Bartholomew Wax gape at the picture in strangled, openmouthed shock.