Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (16 page)

The plot thickens, he thought.

What the highboy had been covering was an oil portrait
of the girl whose picture he'd found in the desk, the brighteyed brunette. "All right, Hildreth, you're intriguing me
now," Westmore talked to himself. He looked closely at the
painting, which was obviously very new yet admirable in
the way its dark swirls and brushstrokes duplicated High
Renaissance style. A pastoral scene at night, trees edging
around a cemetery. The girl looked contemplative in a
broad ruffled blue dress with white-lace cuffs and neckline.

And she was pointing straight ahead which, from where
he stood, made it look like she was pointing straight at Westmore.

Interesting, he thought. And weird, like everything else in this
house ...

Then he considered something.

Did the artist craft the painting to appear as though she
were pointing at anyone looking at it, or did he-

Westmore did an about-face. With no one standing there,
she was pointing to the other side of the paneled room, and
there, exactly in line with her painting was another picture
in an identical frame.

He walked over. This one wasn't a painting, it was an engraving; it looked old, the work's single subject more like
Michelangelo than Raphael. Hunched over an angled table was an old man with flowing long hair and beard; he was
writing on a scroll of paper with a stylus pen, and somehow
the engraver had captured the most unique contradiction of
expressions-in the eyes--a look of dread but also a look of
rapture. In the corner the artist had left his name (which
appeared to be Albrecht or Albrekt) and a shocking date:
1610. Words in Italian had been etched across the bottom,
and a clearly much more recent translation could be found
on a small gold plate.

ST. JOHN THE DIVINE SCRIBES THE HOLY
REVELATION AT PATMOS, CIRCA A.D. 90.

Westmore squinted closer, and noticed the intricately engraved stippling which spelled the word REVELATIO at
the top of the scroll, and just below it: CAPIT 13.

Chapter Thirteen of the Book of Revelation, Westmore thought
with a frown. It was a benchmark for hokey Christianmysticism and apocalyptic study, and-

And for these freaks into the occult and devil worships Chapter
Thirteen is the "Biggie," Westmore knew, where John reveals
the cryptic number of the Beast: 666.

It was all hokum; Westmore was confident of that, and he
also felt confident that it divulged more of the real Hildreth-a crackpot.

Somebody should've told John that the real number of the beast
is George Steinbrenner's phone number, he joked and went back
to the desk. He took out the snapshot of the brunette again,
then held it up right next to her painting. Now it was easier
to see that whoever Hildreth had hired to do the painting
had used this photograph as a model for the face. The artist's
name was in the corner, very small, with a date: about a year
ago. For no reason he pressed a finger against the paint and
of course found it dry.

But something seemed odd..

The painting didn't move, as any painting would if hung
in the traditional fashion: string and a nail in the wall.

He pressed the corner of the frame. When he tried to lift
the painting off the wall, it didn't budge at all at first. He
exerted more strength, felt it give, then pulled harder, and it
began more or less to slide away from the wall. Somebody
mounted this with pegs, he saw when he looked behind the
picture's frame. And he saw something else, too. What the
hell is that?

A few more tugs backward, and the painting came away
from the wall, to reveal-

Another painting in a frame.

It was set back several inches into the wall, obviously via
some custom woodworking. Westmore tilted the desk lamp
to shine directly into the large, square indentation, then saw
that what hung there wasn't a painting but another engraving that, if anything, looked older than the other one. Its
frame was actually box-cased and covered in Plexiglas.

Westmore examined the work. Instead of a decidedly old
St. John wielding a stylus pen, the subject of this engraving
was another engraver, younger with short, curly hair, a largish nose, eyes intently slit as he manipulated the burin of
an engraving plate: the likeness of a monstrous face. West
more noticed the autograph. Albrecht-Same as the other
one-and the date: 1599.

Words in German this time traced along the bottom.
Westmore didn't know any German, but a convenient plate
translated: MY SELF AS I DARE TO REFASHION THE
COUNTENANCE OF MY VISION: BELARIUS.

So Albrecht engraved his own self-portrait, Westmore
thought. And Belarius? He squinted further. That ugly-as-shit
face that he's engraving. A picture in a picture.

And all meaningless to him. He could only presume that Hildreth had hidden the engraving because it was valuable,
but why hide the painting of the brunette? Thus far, she was
the best thing he had to go on, even though he believed that
she wasn't Hildreth's daughter.

So who was she?

"It's a start," he mumbled, not altogether unhappy with
the day's discoveries.

Then: I u ender ...

Excitement gripped his heart when he pulled on the engraving and felt it give in stops just as the painting had. But
when he lifted it away-

"Oh, Christ. Not more DVD's!"

Another short stack of discs sat in the compartment
which existed behind the engraving. Westmore groaned
and withdrew them, then noticed something else.

A seam in the black-velvet backboard, as well as a tiny silk
ribbon whose purpose was instantly recognized.

They're doors .. .

He pulled the ribbon and the black board separated, rC-
vealing a wall-safe of serious quality. A picture in a
picture ... and a big-ass safe in a fuckin' call.

Brushed stainless steel gleamed back at him. From the
center protruded a brass combination knob sided by a steel
latch-handle. Perhaps it was the most basic human impulse
but Westmore instantly burned to know what was inside,
imagining gems and stacks of cash.

But what else might be in there?

Now all I need is the combination ...

"I'm hot aware of any safes," Vivica Hildreth was telling
him a minute later over her cell phone.

"It's hidden behind a painting and an engraving, up in his
office on the third floor," Westmore clarified. "You're sure
you've never seen it?"

"I've never been in the mansion, Mr. Westmore, which I
told you when we met."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. But did he ever mention a safe?"

"No."

"Well, I'd really like to know what's in that safe, and I'm
sure you do too. Would Mack know the combination?"

"He must not know about the safe, either, and I'm sure
that Karen doesn't. They would've mentioned it."

Skit ...

Vivica didn't seem like the excitable type, but the long
pause over the line verified her concern.

"I'll ask Mack."

Now her voice flirted with anger. "Ask Mack and
Karen."

"But you just said they didn't know-"

"I don't care what I said. Ask them, and if they don't
know the combination, break into it."

Westmore stifled a laugh, eyeing the safe. "You don't understand, this isn't a piggy bank. This is a serious safe. I'd
have to-"

"Do anything necessary to get that safe open. I authorize
any expense. Tell Mack. And tell Mack to call me; he's supposed to call me several times a day."

"I'll tell him. He was just here." Westmore was going to
mention the ten grand but instantly nullified the idea. Let's
wait and see, instead. See how long it takes him to tell her about it.
Did he think Mack would keep quiet and pocket the
money? It seemed the fastest way to gauge his character, especially given Vivica's sudden outpouring of neglect. "I'll
find him right now."

"You do that. You tell that cocky punk to take his hand
out of his pants long enough to do his job."

Ooo-eee, is she pissed! "Yes, ma'am."

Another hissing pause. "I want to know what's in that
goddamn safe, Mr. Westmore. I'm trusting you to find
out. "

"Understood."

click

What a sane that wns ... Then he groaned; he'd forgotten to ask her if she knew anything about the brunette in
the snapshot, and given her mood, he wasn't about to call
her back now

Instead, he hailed Mack on the videocom, found him in
the South Atrium. "Hey, Mack. You know the combination
to Hildreth's safe?"

"There is no safe."

"I'm standing here looking at it."

"In the office?"

"That's right."

"I never knew he had a safe. Kind of ticks me off. I
thought he trusted me."

..All that aside, there's a safe, and Vivica wants it open."

"You told her about it?"

Westmore smirked. "Of course. And she wants it open,
any expense, she said. She also wants you to call her."

"Shit. Was she pissed?"

"I'd say that's an accurate description."

"Shit. Okay, okay, take care of the safe."

"How?"

"Call a locksmith, and I'll take care of her."

"Okay. Oh, and could you ask Karen if she knows about
the safe?"

But Mack had already hung up.

"Ask Karen about what safe?"

Westmore spun, startled. "Don't sneak up on me like
that."

"Why?" Karen asked in the doorway. "Nervous? Squeamish?"

"In a mansion where over a dozen people were
butchered only a few weeks ago? Yeah, maybe just a tad."

"I didn't know Hildreth had a safe in here," she stated
and drifted in, still wearing the tight leather jeans. The image of her figure sculpted by the jeans and gray tube-top
distracted Westmore nearly to the point of annoyance. She
had a drink in her hand, twirling the ice. She was looking at
the safe.

"Who's that girl?" he asked, and stuck a finger at the
painting.

"I don't know," but she didn't seem to look very hard.

"How about this girl?" He showed her the snapshot.

"It's the same girl," she noticed. "I've never met her."
She kept peering at the safe. "That pisses me off he didn't
tell me about the safe."

"Mack said the same thing. Maybe you guys weren't as
'in' as you thought."

"I never thought I was in," she said, as if the remark insulted her. "It's a good thing you don't drink. You should
see the liquor bar downstairs." She held her glass up. "This
is twenty-four-year-old Glenlivit."

Westmore ground his teeth. Thanks a lot, God ...

Karen picked it up at once: "So this painting was behind
the cabinet, then you moved the cabinet away?"

"Yeah."

"And she's pointing to-" She turned. "St. Johnnie
writing the Book of Revelation. That would be too easy,
wouldn't it?"

Westmore just got the gist and felt immediately stupid.
He rushed over, grabbed the safe's knob.

Karen watched, bemused, reciting, "'And the Kings of the
earth drank the wine of her wrath and her fornication-"'

"What?"

"Just dial the number."

He dialed in 6-6-6 on the combination.

Nothing.

Then 13-18, and variations of those numerals.

Nothing. "You're right, that is too easy." Next he called
the nearest locksmith in the phonebook, noticed Karen
dully examining the second engraving, the self-portrait.

"Is it wired?" a rocky-voiced man on the line asked.

"I ... don't know"

"Any lights on it?"

"No."

"Does it have a keypunch or any kind of buttons on the
door?"

"
Nope.

"Then it ain't wired, and if it ain't wired, we can open
I'll be there in the morning."

Westmore frowned. "How about tonight? Your ad says
twenty-four-hour service."

"Extra charge for that."

"We'll pay. I need it opened as soon as possible."

"Okay. I'll have one of my people stop by, say ten p.m.?"

"Perfect! Thank you."

"What's this?" She'd picked up the engraving.

"That was behind the painting of the girl. Kooky, huh?"

"There's always been a lot of kookiness in this house."
She sat up on the desk, thighs parted. "Looks like we're getting a fair dose today."

"What? The safe?"

"No, I mean downstairs. They were getting on my nerves so I split, started looking around for you." She finished the
scotch, then leaned back on her hands. The pose was nearly
lewd, and Westmore guessed she was doing it on purpose, to
rile him up.

He looked away, flipping through the stack of DVD's.
"Something happened downstairs?"

"You might say that. Willis saw something on the second
floor and about keeled over-"

"He did keel over, and he threw up. In one of the parlors.
I helped him up."

Now she was wagging her feet back and forth, as a toddler might, sitting on a ledge. "That's the thing about him
that bothers me. I think he's for real."

"What about the others?"

"I don't know. I've read about the geeky chick. And
there's something about her that seems genuine."

"Maybe she's just a genuine drug addict."

"Maybe. And Cathleen got raped."

Westmore dropped the stack. "WHAT?"

"Says she was touched sexually by a 'subcarnated spiritual
agency' which I guess means a ghost."

"For God's sake .. " Westmore lit another cigarette, lusting more after Karen's empty scotch glass than her parted
legs. "You think she's a genuine psychic?"

"I doubt it. She seems like a phony, but-Christ-what a
body. Makes me jealous ... like Vivica. Some things just
aren't fair." Now she lay back flat on the desk, sighing.
"And don't worry, I'm not coming on to you by lying
down like this. I'm just ... really tired."

"I understand."

"And you're the only person in this kook-house I feel
comfortable around."

I guess that's a compliment. Westmore did what he always
did when he was uncomfortable. He changed the subject.
"And Nyvysk? Real or phony?"