F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (9 page)

           
"If you remember," Julie
said, "her art almost got her killed. If that theater director's wife
hadn't been so drunk, her aim might have been better and we'd have lost Sam
then and there."

 
          
Eathan's
smile was rueful. "She didn't need me to deal with that particular angry
spouse, but there were others."

 
          
Even
Julie was forced to smile. Incorrigible, insatiable Sam; she went through men
like a drunk goes through beers.

 
          
"Lots
of angry wives over the years, I imagine."

 
          
He
nodded. "And once, a very angry husband."

 
          
Julie
felt her jaw drop as the meaning registered. "You don't mean...
?
"

 
          
He
shrugged. "I've probably said too much already. Let's just say that your
sister's tastes are, um, eclectic, and leave it at that."

 
          
When
am I going to learn never to be shocked by Sam? she thought.

 
          
"Sounds
like you've spent a lot of time running around the Continent putting out Sam's
fires. Why? Don't you think that might have contributed to the problem?"

 
          
"You
mean am I
—
what's the fashionable term
—
an 'en-abler'? I don't like to think so. I certainly didn't
think so at the time. I was mostly concerned with keeping her out of trouble
and making sure she had enough money for food and rent so she could continue
her work."

 
          
"Money?
What about her trust fund?"

 
          
"Well,
as you know, your trusts pay out in stages, a certain percentage every year
until
—
"

 
          
"We're
thirty-five. I know."

 
          
That
gave Julie a little over $100,000 a year, disbursed every January 2. At
thirty-five she'd get the rest of her trust in a lump: three million at last
count. She'd be able to fund the memoryscape project herself then. But that was
seven years away. It was this year that was do or die for the project.

 
          
"Sam
ran through her last installment by midsummer. Like most of the installments
before it." *"What does she
do
with it?"

 
          
"I
can only guess. But I didn't want lack of funds to stop her from painting. We
both know she's enormously talented. I want her to be recognized for that
talent. I want her to be famous."

 
          
Famous.
How many times had they heard that growing up? Fame had always been one of
Uncle Eathan's hang-ups. He'd supported both of them in every endeavor, but it
never seemed to be enough that they merely succeeded in life. He wanted them to
be recognized for their work, revered
—
famous.
And that
didn't quite go with his low-key, almost reclusive lifestyle. He didn't crave
the limelight for himself, but he certainly wanted it for his nieces.

 
          
Maybe
it was a vicarious thing!
—
he'd feel famous through
them. It was curious.

 
          
"Sounds
like you were always on call."

 
          
He
shrugged. "I got used to that during my years as an internist. But it's
become more of a problem since I took the position at the university. The
department head has been generous with leaves, but I can push him only so far.
I've made a point of keeping tabs on her, dropping in on her regularly, helping
her out when she needed it, giving her encouragement when she got into one of
her funks. And when she agreed to therapy, I helped find the right person. You,
on the other hand..." He reached over and patted her hand. "I've
never had to worry about you. You're the self-starter of the pair. But I hope
you don't feel neglected."

 
          
"Not
at all," she said, and meant it. She didn't want anybody, even her dear
uncle Eathan, looking over her shoulder all the time. "Sam's always been
the squeaky wheel."

 
          
Then
Eathan slowed.

 
          
"We're
here?"

 
          
"Almost...
I'm not too sure we can park on this block."

 
          
Julie
looked right and saw a man with jet-black eyes and a sinister mustache looking
at her. She pushed the lock button on the door.

 
          
In
the middle of the
rue
was a cluster of gray-stone apartments, standing
shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the narrow sidewalk.

 
          
"This
is where she lived?"

 
          
"She
wanted to be near the galleries up on
Montparnasse
. I never liked that she lived here."

 
          
Then
Eathan pulled in behind some cars parked on the left.

           
"This looks okay...."

 
          
He
killed the ignition and got out. Julie sat there a moment, reluctant to leave
the car. Why? Scared of the neighborhood? Worried about what she might see
inside? Or was it just fatigue?

 
          
Why
did she want to come here? What did she expect to find? She supposed she wanted
to see Sam's latest version of herself. Sam was constantly redefining herself.
Maybe the apartment would give a clue to the latest iteration... and maybe a
clue to the cause of the coma. Maybe even her paintings would have something
to say about what was wrong with Sam.

 
          
She
followed Eathan up the three steps to the front door. He rang a bell labeled
DUPONT and waited. A moment later, a middle-aged woman with a worn apron
around her middle and her hair in a scarf opened the door. A little girl with
dark hair and dark eyes, determinedly chewing gum, hovered behind her.

 
          
The
woman nodded to Eathan, addressed him as "Dr. Gordon." Then she
looked at Julie and cried out. She threw her arms around Julie's neck and
sobbed as she hugged her, crying, "Samantha! Samantha!"

 
          
It
took Eathan a while to pry her off Julie and convince the woman that this was
Samantha's
sister.
Mme. DuPont seemed crushed. Julie struggled to
understand her as she inquired in rapid French how his other daughter was
doing. Eathan's French was much easier to understand as he corrected the woman
regarding his relationship with Sam and Julie and told her there'd been,
tcmt
pis, pas de
change.

 
          
He
asked if Sam's sister might see her apartment.

 
          
"Mais
end,"
was the reply as she pulled a key ring from her apron and led
them to the third floor.

 
          
Stocky
Mme. DuPont was panting by the time she reached the final landing. She waited a
moment to catch her breath, then went to the door on the left. Julie noticed
that the door-jamb was unpainted and the lock looked shiny and new.

 
          
"Mon
Dieu!"
the woman cried as the door swung open.

 
          
Hands
on hips, she stormed into the apartment and began shouting in machine-gun
French far too rapid for Julie's un-practiced ear. Julie stepped inside and
froze as she realized what Mme. DuPont was shouting about.

           
Sam's studio had been ransacked,
though from what Julie remembered of Sam's room when they were kids, this was
not too for from the usual state of her sister's living quarters. Sam thrived
on disorder.

 
          
But
the landlady was running around, hands to her face, pointing at the open drawers,
the papers on the floor
—

 
          
Eathan
hurried to calm Mme. DuPont while Julie drifted through Sam's space.

 
          
And
that's what it was
—
a space. A single open room
with a window at the far end and a huge, dingy skylight in the slanted roof. An
empty easel in the center of the room, unframed canvases on all the walls and
stacked on the floor, an unmade bed in the corner, and a single dresser. An
empty
dresser. All the drawers had been pulled out and dumped onto the floor.
Bras and panties, some shirts, crumpled bits of paper, matchbooks.

 
          
No
syringes, at least, Julie thought.

 
          
She
poked at one of the piles with the toe of her shoe and saw a metallic flash.
She stooped and pushed a tangle of bras aside. A gold chain lay on the wooden
planks. She picked it up and examined it. No pendant, just a fine herringbone
chain of good quality, possibly twenty-four karat. She poked around some more
and found a gold ring set with a ruby. She pocketed both as she rose. The
jewelry bothered her.

 
          
Obviously
whoever had ransacked the place had something other than robbery in mind.

 
          
Was
there a connection between this and Sam's present condition?

 
          
She
turned to say something to Eathan and found herself inches away from one of
Sam's paintings, a brilliant mass of orange and red. She stepped back for a
better look.

 
          
More
abstract than what Julie remembered of Sam's work. No recognizable images. She
was struck by the ferocity of the colors and the brush strokes, as if Sam had
been slashing at the canvas. The painting radiated danger and heat. She sensed
that if Sam's brush had been a knife, she'd be looking at shredded canvas now.

 
          
She
felt as if she were staring into the heart of the sun
—
about to go nova.

 
          
Not
a painting I'd want in my apartment.

 
          
Julie
moved to the next canvas, this one all blues and blacks, with a heart of
darkness, seemingly fueled more by fear and hopelessness than anger.

 
          
And
on to the next, and the next; the emotional intensity of the series was almost
overwhelming. These canvases more than spoke to Julie; they reached out and
grabbed her by the throat and yanked her in. By the time she'd made a circuit
of the room, she felt exhausted by their power.

 
          
"Ah
—
it's that boyfriend of hers," she heard Mme. DuPont
saying. She seemed calmer now and was speaking slowly enough for Julie to
understand.

 
          
"Boyfriend?"
Julie said. "What boyfriend?"

 
          
"Oh,
he was about all the time, practically lived here until the week before she
became sick. Then she wouldn't let him in. I heard him yelling at her."

 
          
"They
had a fight?" Julie said.

 
          
She
gave a Gallic shrug. "Possibly. I do not know. She would not let anyone in
during that last week. She kept the door locked and would only open it when I
brought food to her room and insisted that she eat. I was worried about her. But
at least she ate the food."

 
          
Julie
caught Eathan's eye. "Sounds like a breakdown," she said in English.
Then in halting French to Mme. DuPont: "Do you know what she was doing in
here all that time?"

 
          
"Of
course! She was painting. Yes, her hands were always
full
of paint,
dripping with color. And
—
and I saw a large canvas on
her easel. But Mademoiselle Samantha looked sick. Very pale. Her eyes were
strange. Her hair was not combed. And I must tell you: She was not bathing. I
thought she was going mad."

 
          
Maybe
Sam truly had been going mad, Julie thought. Why hadn't this woman called
someone? Maybe she didn't know anyone to call.