* * *
Hubert was at autopsy. Quinn found it disturbing that he’d become such a frequent visitor to the morgue these days, he was barely greeted before someone escorted him to Dr. Hubert—whether he was in his office or at autopsy.
The attendant suggested he might want a mask and gown. He accepted.
When he entered, the body of Bryson Arnold had already been cleaned. Still, he was glad of the mask. The tinny scent of blood seemed heavy in the air.
Hubert looked at him through the plastic visor he was wearing; he’d evidently finished the Y incision and measured and inspected the man’s organs. He’d taken the saw to the skull and weighed the brain.
Folds of Arnold’s skin lay open, leaving a gaping hole as his chest. The skull looked like something out of a horror movie, only it was real. To Hubert, Quinn knew, there was no horror in it. It was science.
“Just in time,” Hubert told Quinn.
“For what?”
“For me to tell you that this was a healthy man of forty-three who might have lived to be a hundred. All that blood you saw? It came from one wound. Here’s a fact I continue to ponder—the strength needed to cut so swiftly and deeply. Cutting someone’s throat might sound easy, but it’s not. The throat has muscles and tendons. And severing the spinal column... Decapitation is hard.”
“Thankfully, I’m not usually looking to decapitate anyone,” Quinn muttered.
“I’ll be doing tests on the brain, of course,” Hubert said. “But I believe we’ll find that it’s normal. I’m seeing no lesions, cysts or bruising—nothing that would suggest injury or disease. The man was in perfect mental condition.”
“Are any of us in perfect mental condition, Doc?” Quinn asked.
“Probably not, my friend. But, as far as our standards go, he was in good physical and mental condition—before he bled out, of course.”
“I saw Grace at the crime scene and she demonstrated where Arnold would’ve been standing when he died. And if the intruder was in front of him, someone else had to be there, as well.”
“I heard the cameras were knocked out when the intruder got into the room.”
“True,” Quinn said. “Or more or less true. They weren’t knocked out. They just recorded fog.”
“Fog? Inside a house? There had to be something wrong with the cameras. Maybe an electrical surge. Whatever happened, it was certainly a convenient malfunction for the intruder.”
“The police are still going through the recordings,” Quinn said. “And I believe technicians are searching for anything that might have caused such...images.”
“But you don’t think they’re going to find an explanation?”
“For the cameras going on the fritz? No. I do think they’ll discover that the man who entered the house exited with the painting,” Quinn said. “I doubt they’ll actually come up with a third person. Oh, there might be footage of Danni and me breaking in and finding Mrs. Lamont. What I mean is, I think there was one person, and he has to have been in collusion with Bryson Arnold. Arnold made it possible for the intruder to just walk in. Whether that intruder intended for Bryson to die...I’m not sure.”
“Well, dead he is,” Hubert said flatly.
“Thanks to a sharp blade.”
“Yes. Very sharp. Those who set out to do bad things...often die badly. I guess the old adage that he who lives by the sword dies by the sword still applies. As you’ve just said, there’s not really much of a mystery. Sad to say, Mr. Arnold here was abusing his position with Mrs. Lamont and making deals with a partner who betrayed him rather than share stolen goods.”
Quinn was silent.
“So,” Hubert continued, “the painting is loose in the city. Or I guess I should say whoever took it is loose in the city.”
“That seems to be the gist of it,” Quinn said. “I really need help here, Dr. Hubert. What do you know about the painting?”
Hubert shook his head, looking down. “I’ve never seen the real thing. I’ve seen likenesses of it in books, that’s all. I know very little about it beyond the fact that it’s disturbing and ugly. I never cared for it—and never gave it much thought.”
“That’s it?” Quinn asked. “Come on, you must know more. I mean, legends and stories must’ve come down through your family.”
“I know that bad things happened around the painting, yes.” He shrugged. “But bad things happened in the world. All wars are dreadful. The painting was caught up in the thievery that went on during the Second World War—but that meant nothing against the multitude of lives lost.”
“True, but I have to find that painting, Doc.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe the killer will wallow in it and die himself. Or sell the blasted thing out of the country or dump it in the Mississippi. Better than dumping it in the river, the damned thing should probably be burned.”
“Aha! Say what you will, man of science. You believe it is evil?”
“I see evil every day, Quinn. I see the evil people do to other people. Gunshot wounds, knife wounds...drug deaths.”
“You’re hedging, Doc.”
Hubert paused and sighed deeply. “I’m a medical doctor, Quinn. A scientist. But do I believe perception can create reality? Yes. That painting is bad news. And, yes, I believe it should be destroyed.”
“Then help me find it.”
For a minute, Quinn thought Hubert was going to ask him how he could possibly help. Then he said, “Come by tonight, after eight. I won’t be home until then. Lord, it does seem that I’m married to my work and my work never seems to end. But I do have a home. No wife, no children, no siblings even...” He exhaled noisily. “Back to your request, I do have old family papers. I’ve never shown them to anyone. If you think they’ll be of any use, you’re welcome to them.”
* * *
Danni had come across an especially interesting chapter in Millicent Smith’s book—“Creations in the Blood of Evil.”
Apparently, there’d been a case similar to the one they were working on that had occurred in 1614 in Yorkshire. An artistic young miller had painted a duel between two knights, in which one of the combatants had cleanly sliced the head from the neck of his opponent. Millicent supplied a sketch of the painting. It was gruesome, with the sword still in midair and the head flying. The young miller, who’d been paid by his friend, a local cobbler, to create the painting, died soon after he completed it, suffering from an unknown malady. The painting was taken away by officers in the hamlet; they were soon found dead—decapitated.
James VI of Scotland and I of England was king at the time, and was a huge believer in witchcraft. He ordered the young man exhumed, burned to ash and then the ashes were taken and scattered in the ocean. But the killing didn’t stop—until a local priest discovered that the painting remained intact. Through neighbors, who recognized the men in the painting, he learned that the cobbler had commissioned the work. He’d ordered the miller to paint himself as the vanquished knight. When the cobbler was arrested, he admitted giving his blood in the creation of the painting and “awakening” it with more blood.
Goods from several locals who’d been killed were found in his house. Most people assumed the cobbler had done the killing. He was hanged and burned on a pyre, along with the painting.
The killing stopped.
“Those who were innocent, killed for their blood and goods, did not become as demons on earth,” Smith commented. “Whatever way men choose to see the Great Power above, innocence is not punished in the afterlife. But those who are seduced to evil will rest with evil. Yet a demon may lie dormant and await the years. Men must take care, for men are weak, and too easily seduced by the demon.” Danni drummed her fingers on the table. The seventeenth-century painter had died; his accomplice in the creation of blood-paint had also died.
So, according to what she’d read, the cobbler and perhaps the miller had been willing to dabble in black magic in their quest to gain riches—the riches of the people killed by the
painting, which had been activated by blood. The cobbler had given his own blood, starting the whole process, and then continued it by periodically adding blood to the canvas.”
She carefully closed the book and rose. She needed to get a good look at the real Ghosts in the Mind. Or at least the copy.
Bo Ray was chatting with an attractive woman at the counter. Danni mouthed to him, “Just going down the street. Back in five!”
He nodded, and she grinned as she left. Healthy and spruced up, Bo Ray was darned cute these days. And he deserved a chance to flirt and maybe get lucky sometime soon.
But she forgot Bo Ray as she hurried down to Image Me This.
She didn’t see Niles as she walked in, and Mason was busy extolling the virtues of a local artist’s painting of Saint Louis Cathedral to a couple of visitors.
That was good. She didn’t want to talk; she wanted to study the giclée of the Hubert painting, Ghosts in the Mind.
She positioned herself so she could see the “evil” angle of the painting.
She studied the characters. The man and the woman, presumably the parents, the three children, the two suits of armor, the butler, the two official-looking men who’d just arrived and the medieval knight in the portrait above the hearth.
Of course, the chess pieces were alive at this angle, too, running from the children. And the heads of the decapitated dolls were screaming.
But something still made her believe that the chess pieces and the dolls were victims. It might have been the horror on their faces and the way they were screaming.
That left eleven.
Were the eleven faces pictured the faces of killers? And she had to wonder—did Hubert include himself in the painting?
She asked herself again how a toddler could be a killer. Bad enough to think that children of say eight and ten might have been cold-blooded.
“Ah, you’re drawn to it! Fascinating—absolutely fascinating piece!” she heard.
Mason Bradley had come up to her. He was smiling, but rather grimly.
“It’s interesting, for sure,” Danni said. “How are you doing with it?”
“People are something, aren’t they? Since all the hoopla over the original being in the city and people being killed so it could be stolen, the giclées have just about jumped off the walls. We have two left—the one on the wall, and one Niles put away for you.”
“Wow,” Danni said. “I guess we are a gruesome lot.”
“So, how’s your own work going?”
She thought of the last “painting” she’d done.
“Fine. I’m not ready for another show yet.”
Mason was a striking man. He’d have made a great hero on a prime-time drama, so tall, blond and charming. He smiled at her with a rueful curl to his lip—one that, ironically, made him even more attractive.
“Hate to admit it, but I’m not ready, either. You know, Niles mentioned the other day that we should do a show together. Maybe a few months down the line?”
“I’d love to do a show together. Maybe ‘Street Scenes’ or something like that. When we’re both ready, of course.”
“I know how hard it can be. And Niles keeps bringing it up.” He lowered his voice. “I know he loves me, and I love him—as a friend. A best friend. I’m just not in love with him the way he’d like me to be.”
Danni nodded sympathetically.
“Anyway, we’ll nudge each other every few weeks,” Mason said. “I do so much survival work on restoration—it’s great to get to my own stuff. Hey, where’s that great big pile of dog—Wolf?”
“Oh, he’s...he’s with a friend right now.”
“Ah. Don’t lend him out often. He’s a great accessory for you. Beautiful, tall, long-haired woman, beautiful big wolf-dog at her side—it’s a great look.”
“Thanks. Dog as fashion accessory. Oh, I’ll mention that to Quinn.”
Mason laughed. “Hey, would you like your giclée delivered today?”
Yes. She should have it at the house.
No! She hated the damned thing!
“Sure, Mason. Thanks.”
“Niles will be back soon and we’ll wrap it up. And don’t worry—if you’re out, we know to deliver it to Billie or Bo Ray,” Mason told her.
“Thanks. That’s nice of you two. Well, I should get back. Thanks again, Mason.”
“Always a pleasure, Danni. Too bad you fell for that good-looking one-time cop,” he said, winking. “You and I would’ve been great together.”
She laughed. “Mason, you and I would’ve been horrible together—artistic egos clashing constantly. Not to mention that you’re enjoying your life as a...”
“Womanizer?”
“Flirt.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “See you soon.”
She fled the store. She wondered why she dreaded having the giclée in the shop.
It was just a copy.
Quinn wouldn’t share her apprehension. He’d be glad that they could study it—and try to figure out the evil secrets trapped in the original work.
Bo Ray had new customers when she returned. She interrupted him briefly to smile and welcome the customers—and let him know that the giclée would be arriving some time that evening.
Then she went back to the basement and resumed her study of Millicent Smith’s book, hoping she could find more information. Sadly—as she’d already learned—the book offered many answers, but they weren’t always easy to find.
Danni was deep into a chapter called “Devils and Demons” when her cell phone rang.
It was Bo Ray.
“Everything okay at the store?” she asked. “You are still in the store? I mean, you’re calling, but I can’t be more than sixty feet from you.”
“Yes, I’m in the store. But so are a number of customers. In the interests of no one attempting to take our merchandise without paying for it, I’m calling. I’m just giving you a heads-up. Natasha is on her way down to see you.”
Danni thanked him, and a minute later, she heard Natasha on the stairs. “Come in!” she invited.
Natasha did, cracking open the door and entering the room. She glanced around the “collection” as if she’d expected something to have changed. Nothing had. The Victorian coffin with its glass face plate was still there, along with the sarcophagus, the fortune-telling machine and other mismatched remnants of history.
Natasha took the chair across from her. “I see you’re reading Millicent’s book,” she said with a smile. “Found anything?”
“All kinds of things, but I haven’t actually put them together yet. What are you doing here? Everything okay? It’s still business hours, and you hardly ever leave your shop when its open,” Danni said.
“I have Jez,” she said. “So, Mrs. Lamont is alive, the butler is dead and the painting is gone. What now?”
“Hattie Lamont is staying at Quinn’s house in the Garden District. Billie and Wolf are with her. I’m studying the book. The police are following whatever leads they have. Quinn got Hattie and Billie set up, and he’s gone to the morgue. He wants to talk to Ron Hubert tonight. We’ve speculated that the killing will stop now that whoever wanted the painting so badly has it.”
She didn’t entirely believe that, and Natasha confirmed her fears.
“The killing will not stop and you know it. The painting waits for the weak and unwary—those who feel they’ve been slighted or cheated in life. Or those who—like Henry Sebastian Hubert—so desperately want to be part of the ‘in’ crowd,” she said with unconcealed scorn. “People think they’ll use a piece like the painting. They will not. The painting will use them.”
“I know you’re right,” Danni said. “What I’m thinking is that Hubert used blood for his red pigment or mixed it into the paint. Of course, I don’t have the painting itself, so I don’t know for sure. Ideally, we’d have chemical analysis done. But I also thought maybe he’d painted himself into the scene. I went back to look at the giclée this afternoon, and I’ve gone through my art
books and studied every image of him I could find. He doesn’t seem to be in it. He’s not one of the chess pieces, and he’s not one of the decapitated doll heads. He’s not in it. Although...I can’t be a hundred percent sure. All the faces are clearly depicted—except that of the man with the pistol behind his back. We can’t really see his face, so I can’t tell if that’s Hubert himself or someone else. Not only that, I haven’t figured out who all the other characters are.”
“Then you need to figure that out, don’t you?”
“It was painted so long ago—and so far away,” Danni murmured.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?” Danni threw her a puzzled glance.
“I was doing a reading today for a neighbor. Tarot cards. It was a perfectly normal reading. The cards fell in cycles that fit with her life and the decisions she has to make. Then I was staring at the ‘hanged man.’ Now, you know that can mean many things. For my client, it’s a reversal. She and her husband separated, but they want to be together. They split over money problems and just need to see them through. But there was the card and suddenly...I was someplace else. Back on that hillside. There were dark clouds roiling above, and there was a lake churning and white-capped. There was also a castle, an old stone castle, dark and foreboding. The place was just...grim. It was meant to repel invaders. I could feel that it came with dungeons, that people had suffered there. And, Danni, you were standing on the hill again. You were looking up at the sky and then at the castle. I was terribly afraid for you. It was as if you’d been...summoned to the castle. Drawn to it. As if some powerful force wanted you there. And it wasn’t good.”
Her friend was obviously distraught. Danni stretched her arm across the desk, taking Natasha’s hand in hers. “You were reading the hanged man card, which, as you just said, can mean reversal. The painting’s taken us on a kind of reversal. It was painted in the distant past, in a castle. That’s why you saw...what you saw.”
Natasha went on as though Danni hadn’t spoken. “I kept screaming at you not to go to the castle. You didn’t hear me. Or maybe you did, but you ignored me. You started walking toward it and it was...”