His Masterpiece (4 page)

I was gambling here. I had no idea if he had any statues. I'd only seen the bust by the student of Rodin, but I was willing to bet he had more.

My gamble paid off. An expression of exasperation passed over Don's face. “Damn,” he said. “I don't suppose you'd know which statue in particular?”

I tried to look contrite and shook my head.

He sighed and checked his watch. “Fine,” he said. “If you do not know where they are, you must find them, and do so in the next quarter hour, or I will shoot you.”

“What?”
I cried. “That's not fair! I have no idea where they are!” I gestured at the boxes around me. “How the fuck am I supposed to find them in all... all
this
in fifteen minutes?”

He shrugged. “The clock is ticking, Miss MacElroy. I suggest you hurry.”

Enraged, I whirled away from him, my mind racing.
If I'd been hired to move a crazy rich guy's stuff, what would I do?
I'd label everything for starters, and I'd organize it in the warehouse. But would the movers hired have done that? There was only one way to find out.

Hands sweating, heart pounding, I darted away from Don. I heard him curse behind me as he made haste to follow, and I silently swore that the warehouse wasn't as terribly cluttered as Malcolm's house had been. I could have hidden, maybe... except there was only one way out. I decided to ignore what-ifs and could-have-beens for the moment and concentrate on forming a plan.

The harsh lights overhead gave the whole warehouse a weird, surreal quality. My orientation was thrown off and I found myself bumping into things as my panicked thoughts chased each other in and out of the labyrinths in my head. I jogged on, through the mountains of boxes and furniture, clipping corners with my hip, scraping my arm over rolled up rugs. My anxious eyes swept over the packages surrounding us, some piled high and neat, others lumped together haphazardly. The only saving grace was that each one was labeled quite clearly, and I found that there was a sort of order as I scurried between the groups while Don, larger and more ungainly than me, squeezed through the narrow aisles.

Here were the
Dolls (Living Room)
and there were the
Accordians (Library).
Collectibles. My hands floated out from my sides, brushing over the scratchy cardboard as I searched for the art section. I passed through a maze of bookcases, then through their neatly organized guts (
fiction, fiction, atlases, history...)
Large squares wrapped in brown paper—paintings, the descriptions of each floating across the surface of the paper like a pale ghost of the image inside—told me I was getting warmer. I shuffled through the phantom gallery, squeezing between
Fox Hunt
and
Nude Homosexual Couple,
making a beeline for the huge, shapeless lumps wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. Those would be the sculptures.

The chilly air caressed my cheeks as I stopped, breathing hard with fear and adrenaline. I heard Don behind me, his fine shoes scraping over the dirty concrete, and I hoped they had become scuffed to hell and back. As I had thought, Malcolm had quite a few sculptures, but not as many as I had feared. Good. I just... just had to figure out what I was going to do now...

I stepped forward and dug my fingers into the tight wrapping of one large lump. My fingernails tore at the plastic and tape as behind me Don caught his breath and said, “Ten minutes.”

Fuck you,
I thought. What was I going to do? I tugged and swore until the wrapping had fallen away completely and I ran my hands over a large, abstract sculpture made of welded bits of farm equipment. Rusty corners caught my numb flesh, and I gritted my teeth. Was there something here I could use as a weapon? How would I even get close enough to use it?

“Shit!” I said. Tears gathered at the corner of my eyes.

“Eight minutes.”

I whirled around, breathing hard. So many sculptures, and I had no idea what to do with them. I'd bought all the time I could...

I reached for another one, hoping it would give me some kind of inspiration, but the packaging came away easily, revealing a ceramic vase painted with naked ladies. I looked inside it, for appearances, but of course there was nothing in it. The thumb drive between my legs poked and prodded me awkwardly. I moved on, ripping wrapping from sculptures and curios, sticking my hands through the gaps, making a show of looking, my mind racing.
If I were a shithead,
I thought giddily, despairingly,
what would I be thinking right now?

I'd probably be enjoying my frustration... but I'd be frustrated myself. Without knowing where that evidence had gone, I would be forever looking over my shoulder, forever wondering when I would be caught out.

My hands mechanically ripped away the plastic covering another sculpture, and my breath caught.

The Rodin.

I'd thought it was by a student of Rodin when I'd first seen it, but now, close up, my hands actually
on
it, I realized it was the work of the master himself, and my lungs hitched as I had a tiny, artistic orgasm that had nothing to do with the circumstances I currently found myself in.

It wasn't beautiful. In fact, it was pretty weird looking, a bust of an old man all pushed and pulled and warped until the weariness of the world rolled off it, but that was the mark of Rodin. The celebration of the real, of the run down, of the tired and beaten. I loved it. It spoke to me, and for a tiny split second the world ground to a halt. The cold air fell away, the high, tight panic in my chest withdrew, the noise of the street outside and Don's impatient sighs faded as I took a tiny moment to enjoy this piece that I'd admired since I'd first seen it.

A ghost of a thought grazed against my brain. Malcolm saw something in me like I saw something in this sculpture. Something strong. Beautiful despite its flaws. Or maybe because of its flaws.

Something
expressive.

And heavy,
I thought. It wasn't the traditional bronze of a Rodin, but it was plaster. God. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't. I had to, though.

I'd found the bust sitting on the ground, so I hunched my body around it as I tore the paper and bubble wrap away. I gasped, feigning surprise, and behind me Don's shoes ground over the concrete as he stood up straighter and took notice.

I ran my fingers over the sculpture. “I...” I hesitated. “I think I found something. It's here, I think.” I remembered then how I'd grunted and acted weak as I'd lifted the door, and I did so again. A great groan burst out of me as I struggled to lift the plaster sculpture. My baggy artist's clothes made me look smaller than I was, and I stopped trying to lift it, breathing hard, though it was from fear more than effort. “Help me,” I panted. “I think there's something under it.”

The footsteps behind me were hurried, and my stomach drew tighter and harder. He was buying it, but there was no joy in me about that. Not yet. I was so close. My hands were slippery on the plaster, and I frantically wiped them on my jeans. I'd need a strong grip when the time came.

“What's wrong?” he said. He was only a few steps behind me. I felt the oppressive presence of the gun like a weight in the world.

I licked my lips. “I need you to help me lift it,” I said.

He laughed. “You must think I'm stupid if you think I'm going to put down this gun.”

“But I only have five minutes,” I replied. My voice was starting to shake. If I didn't get him at least
close
to me, I was fucking dead.

“Try again. Just shove it over if you have to.”

Real outrage surged through me. “No! This is a
Rodin,
it's priceless. It'll break if I push it over.”

He sighed, but it was impatient. “Here,” he said, reaching down for the head with one huge hand, and there, peeking from the sleeve of his jacket, was a small shiny scar, the size of a cigarette.

Time stopped and I stared at that wrist.

Scarred, just like me.

This man,
I remembered.
He's just like me.
Abused. Knocked around. The world had failed him, too. But I would never kill anyone for any amount of money. Why would he?

And then, gently, the question turned on its head.

Why
wouldn't
I?

I didn't have to be good. He didn't have to be bad. And yet here we were. Was that part of what Malcolm saw in me, the alternate path Don could have taken? Where the wounds turned rage inward instead of outward? Where the disappointment and the fear and the sadness came out in stunted art and a bitter tongue rather than ruthlessness and cruelty?

And then I had no more time to think about it, because his hand was almost on the sculpture, and I thought to myself:
What the fuck does it matter?

It didn't.

So I brained him with the Rodin.

I heaved. I was not weak like he thought I was, and the plaster lifted from the floor with just enough effort to give it a deadly heft. He tried to back away, but his greed for the evidence had unbalanced him. He was leaning forward, couldn't correct his course in time. The bust swung up and out at the end of my arms, flew gracefully through the air in a beautiful, aesthetically pleasing arc, and slammed into Don's head with a crunch that sounded like the singing of avenging angels.

I'm not a poet, I'm a painter. But it was art.

Then the statue cracked in two, and the gun went off.

White hot pain speared through my side. I couldn't breathe. The lights shone in my eyes, searing hot. The ceiling, I realized.

I was on the ground, on my back. In slow motion I lifted my head. Don laid across my crumpled lower body, groaning. A dent in his skull was filling with blood. The stench of copper hung around us.

I've been shot,
I thought.

Then:
Get up.

A heavy weight lay on my chest and shoulder. A piece of the Rodin. For some reason I felt its loss far more than the bullet in my side. With a limp hand I shoved it off me, onto the ground, and I heard it chip. Teeth clenched, pain ripping through me like wildfire, I rolled over, dragging my legs from beneath Don's body. Something shone in front of me, and I squinted, trying to see clearly.

The gun.

I lunged for it, but something was off. My balance. My brain. I couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. At my feet I heard Don gasp, realizing what I was doing, and without thinking I kicked out, sharp and hard. Another crunch, and he howled with pain and collapsed to the ground. One last lunge and the gun was in my hand.

It felt good. A heavy, solid weight. Safety. Vengeance. I could kill Don right now, if I wanted to.

I heaved myself to my feet instead.

Agony engulfed me. I couldn't feel myself think. I pressed my left hand to my side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the thick fabric of my hoodie, but there was a lot of it. Sticky, hot, but rapidly cooling. The skin of my face was clammy, cold, wet. I stumbled forward, the gun in my right hand, and crashed through the discarded debris of Malcolm's life.

I walked like the dead. Shambling. Unable to think. I hurt. I don't know how I made it to the front of the warehouse, but I did. I somehow found it in the maze, and when I fell against the door the metal slats clattered so loudly I thought I would fall apart.

I had to bend down to reach the handle. I had to let go of my side.

Dizziness overwhelmed me as I removed my left hand and wrapped it around the handle. I watched from inside my head, trying to figure out what was wrong when I couldn't get a grip.

Red,
I thought.
Blood,
I thought. My hand fell from the door, limp against my jeans, and with supreme effort I wiped it clean and tried again.

Metal screamed, and so did I.

It was almost impossible. It hadn't been heavy before, I had just been pretending, but now it weighed a million pounds. But I had to get out. I
had
to. I had to get to Malcolm, prove his innocence, or all of this was for nothing.

Red blood gushed from my side. Ruined muscles screamed in pain, unable to do what I asked of them. I panted. My mouth was dry. I wanted water.

Focus. Focus.
Squat. Lift with the legs, not the torso.
Oh god.

Three feet. That's as far as I was able to lift it. It was enough. I fell to my hands and knees and crawled under the door, into the blinding gray light of the windy March day.

The sound of a car door opening. Wind whipped over my clammy face. I was going to be sick, but I forced myself to look up. The black car we'd taken here loomed like a hulking black beast in the street. On the far side, the driver was getting out, his mouth hard and set, his eyes glowering at me as though I were a naughty puppy. He was huge, enormous, a giant unfolding toward me.

If he gets me,
I thought,
it'll be all over.

I lifted the gun and fired.

A look of surprise flashed across his face, as though I'd just grown a clown nose. Then, silently, he folded up and slumped over.

I didn't even bother to check if he was alive. I crawled along the narrow sidewalk. A chainlink fence on one side of me, and I reached out and pulled myself to my feet before I staggered onward.

A corner.
There were always people at a corner. Stores. Human beings. I had to get to a corner. If I could get away from Don, I would be okay.

Well. Malcolm would be okay.

Help me,
I begged silently, and then I was stumbling down a long tunnel toward two men. Dark faces, dressed like me. They were staring. They'd heard the gunshot, and as I staggered toward them they backed up. I realized they were afraid of me.

I looked down and saw the gun still in my hand. I dropped it. Mercifully it just fell to the concrete and didn't go off. I looked up again, peering down the tunnel.

They were still there. Not running.
Thank you.

I reached out, but my vision was blurring, the world tilting. The wind nipped and bit at me, cold against my skin, but nothing compared to the dark void opening up inside me, blooming like a black rose.