Dreams of Shreds and Tatters (4 page)

“S
O
,” A
LEX SAID
the next morning, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Tell me everything you know since Blake moved to Vancouver. He met Alain online, didn’t he?”

Sunlight streamed through the balcony door, catching sparks of gold and brass in his damp hair. With the clouds burned away, the city seemed less like something trapped in a snow globe. Mountains rose in the north, soaring snow-veined peaks that might have sprung up overnight. Wind rattled the windows, sharp as a razor despite the morning’s brightness.

Liz sat curled in one corner of the couch, still wearing her pajamas, a second cup of coffee cradled in both hands. It wasn’t helping; fatigue weighed on her, dragging at eyes and limbs. She’d dreamt no more portents last night, but fitful sleep took its toll.

“In an art forum. A year later Alain came to New York for a week. Blake and I took a train to the city to meet him. You were in London that summer. He was—” She raised a hand, groping for words to describe someone she’d only met once. “Sarcastic, irreverent, sweet. A month later Blake visited Vancouver.”

“And decided to stay.”

She nodded. It had been no surprise by then, not after seeing the two of them together. Hearing the way Blake’s voice brightened every time he answered the phone. There had been no warning dreams, only the bittersweet happiness of a friend leaving. She’d known Blake liked to run—she knew about the nightmare that had been his family, and his escape from home at seventeen. She’d watched him run from half a dozen other situations—some better, some not—before they moved in together. But when he left for Vancouver, she thought he was running
to
, not
from
.

“He wrote at first. Emailed. Called a few times. He talked about the city, about the gallery that showed Alain’s work. Everything seemed like it was going well. He sounded... strained the last time I talked to him, but he said it was stress about a show, money, his visa. And then—” She shrugged.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “And then you had the dream.” Liz nodded again, staring into the depths of her cup. The room’s powdered creamer left an unappetizing skin across the surface. She’d called again this morning but reached nothing but voicemail.

She hadn’t left another message.

“Liz.” The tone of his voice drew her head up. “If something has happened—
if
—you can’t blame yourself for it.”

“Of course not.” But she was never any good at lying, not even to herself. “I didn’t call as often as I should have. I stopped writing—”

“You have a life. So does he. You can’t be there all the time. Nor should you.” His voice softened. “I know about Alice—” She recoiled—head turning, arms crossing, one knee pulling toward her chest.
I don’t have to ask how it makes you feel,
Dr.

Matson’s voice echoed in her head.
Your posture tells me that
. “I’m sorry,” Alex said.

“No.” She forced herself to unknot, to face him. “Don’t be.”

She never should have told him if she didn’t want it mentioned.

“Blake isn’t Alice.”

“No. Of course not.” He leaned forward, feet sliding to the floor. “You wrote each other—you have his address. That’s the best place to start.”

T
HEY CAUGHT A
bus across town, within a block of the address Blake had given her. The apartment was a narrow building above a Korean grocery and a palmist’s shop, grimy brick walls and rusting wrought-iron balconies.

A dark corridor lined in mailboxes ran past Madame Cecile’s, thick with the scent of kimchi and patchouli. An
Out of Order
sign on the elevator sent them up three flights of creaking stairs. Graffiti hieroglyphs tagged the walls, and green and amber bottles were piled in the corners—someone trying to stay warm.

The fourth floor hallway smelled of musty central heating and damp carpet, cooking spices and trash that should have been taken out a day ago. One overhead light buzzed in a low locust drone. A TV blared at the far end, dramatic music and impassioned voices.

They walked the length of the hall twice, somehow missing the right door both times. The stuttering light set her pulse throbbing queasily in her temples. The air was heavy, and she unbuttoned the collar of her coat. Alex tugged his long striped scarf away from his neck, one hand slipping into the pocket where he kept his inhaler.

Liz began another pass down the corridor, counting every door under her breath. 425, 423, 421, 417... She pulled up too fast and nearly stumbled, but Alex’s hand closed on her elbow, hauling her back to the disappearing door. 419. She pressed a hand against the wood veneer, half expecting it to dissolve at her touch.

She knocked, gloved knuckles muffled against hollow-core, but no one stirred. The door rattled softly under the pressure of her hand; the handle was scratched near the lock plate, as though someone had tried to force it. She rapped again with no better luck.

Alex glared at the door. “I feel something, all right, and I don’t like it. You’re sure this is the right address?”

She pulled an envelope out of her coat pocket, brandishing it like a warrant. Alex nodded and reached for his wallet. He took out a card—a university copy card, the same size and thickness as a credit card—and held it up in a mirroring gesture. “How badly do you want to look inside?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Will that work?”

“It does in films.” He glanced both ways, but the hall was empty. The television soundtrack swelled to a crescendo. “Nothing like a little B and E to enliven a vacation.”

The card slipped between door and sill, scraping against metal. Alex cursed softly, then leaned on the handle. The door swung open with a creak. Liz flinched, expecting shouts, accusations, a sudden blare of sirens. Only silence greeted them, and a draft of cold, stale air that smelled faintly of Chinese food and art supply stores. It was the smell that let her take the first cautious step over the threshold.

Alex shut the door quietly behind them and reached for the light switch, but it clicked back and forth uselessly. Wan daylight seeped through a window across the room. Posters watched them from the walls: Tom Waits, Peter Murphy, a
City of Lost Children
print. Ikea furniture, a threadbare red velvet couch. Art supplies lay scattered across the room, a familiar controlled chaos that made her chest tighten.

“This is it.” She spoke in a whisper, but it was still too loud for the silent room. “This is the right apartment.”

“It would have been embarrassing if it weren’t,” Alex said dryly. His voice was thin and strained, his lips pinched pale. His chest swelled as he took a hit of his inhaler and deflated again with his sigh. “I’m fine,” he said before Liz could ask, waving her toward the room. The strange pressure and nausea faded as she stepped away from the door.

Newspapers and books covered the folding table in the dining nook. The window opened onto a fire escape and a view of another dirty brick wall. Dishes filled the kitchen sink and white paper cartons littered the counter. Liz’s nose wrinkled at the sour tang of old lo mein noodles and sesame chicken. At least it was too cold for flies.

“This has been here for days, at least,” Alex said, risking a closer look at the cartons and retreating quickly.

If the apartment had been broken into, she couldn’t tell at a glance. The TV and stereo were still there, and it was impossible to tell if anything was out of place amid the mess. Except...

Sketchbooks were strewn across the scuffed wooden floor, pages bent. Despite the chaos, Blake had always been careful with his supplies. Alex knelt, smoothing creases in heavy paper, and handed her a sketchpad.

Liz recognized Blake’s work; even simple pencil and charcoal sketches had a powerful economy, a grace of line and form. Disembodied features and anatomical studies covered the pages— the curve of a jaw, hands stripped of skin, a slender back with spine and muscles bared. Over and over she saw the same eyes, dark and narrow beneath a sweep of lashes. At the back of the book she found another pair—pale eyes and arching brows, hints of nose and cheek. Not Alain. Pages had been ripped out, tattered edges caught in the spiral binding. Liz closed the book carefully and set it on the couch.

“What do you think, Watson?” Alex asked, picking up a stack of mail from the coffee table.

Liz tried to raise one eyebrow, but suspected she was only squinting. “What makes you think you’re Holmes?”

“Justifiable arrogance and a predilection for pharmaceuticals. And you’d look silly in a deerstalker.”

“So would you.” She leaned over his elbow to look at the mail. Bills, junk mail, something to Alain Ngo from the University of British Columbia.

“He never wore one in the books, you know. That’s—”

“A cinematic invention that became part of the folk process,” Liz finished, rolling her eyes. “I know.”

“I heard that eye roll,” he said, not looking up from the mail. “What was the gallery Blake told you about?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure—it’s in an email. Something with an M, I think.”

“The Morgenstern Gallery?” He pulled flyers out of the stack and handed them to her with a flourish.

“That sounds right.” She stared at glossy paper.
Carving Spirals: sculpture and paintings by Gemma Pagan
.
The Seduction of Gravity: photographs by Robert Files
.
Black Dogs and Blue Girls: photography by Alain Ngo.
“This must be it.”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “What do you think, Watson? Shall we investigate?”

T
HE
M
ORGENSTERN
G
ALLERY
was three stories of red brick, wedged into a row of art and music stores along Granville Street. On the sign above the glass double-doors, a faceless angel lifted a star. Its halo was black, an absence of light, and golden wings dissolved into smoke and flame. A poster in the window advertised the newest exhibit.

Deaths and Entrances: Transitions in photography, sculpture, and oils. Open to the public December 20
^nd
through January 25
^th
. Private showing December 19
^th
@8:00 PM
.

The gallery was closed, but lights were on inside. Pressing her face against the glass, Liz saw movement. She rubbed the oily nose-smudge off the door—then, before she could stop herself, she knocked.

At first the figures inside ignored her, but after the third knock a dark-haired woman emerged from the shadows. Her sigh was audible even before she threw the bolt and pushed the door open a few inches.

“We’re closed,” she said, a German accent sharpening consonants already crisp with annoyance. She was tall to begin with, and the doorstep gave her another few inches of imperious height. “The next exhibit opens—”

“I’m sorry,” Liz interrupted, voice cracking. Anxiety clenched cold fingers around her throat and stomach. Her cheeks burned with nerves and her tongue felt three sizes too big.
For Blake,
she reminded herself when she wanted to turn and run. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Elizabeth Drake, and this is Alex McLure. We’re friends of Blake Enderly’s. I can’t get in touch with him, and I was hoping maybe someone here could help.”

The final syllable came out a squeak, the last of her courage run dry. The woman’s eyes widened and she leaned back, dragging the door open another inch. “Oh.”

A man stepped up behind her, filling the gap in the doorway. “What is it?”

The woman glanced at him. “They’re friends of Blake’s.”

“Oh.” He blinked in a nearly identical double-take. His eyes were unnervingly pale in the shadows. “Then you know about the accident?” His eths were zees, like the woman’s.

“We don’t know anything,” Liz said, her voice rising in frustration. “Only that something’s wrong and we can’t reach him. What accident?”

The man sighed and dragged a hand through his short brown hair. “It’s... not a long story, perhaps, but an unhappy one. There’s a café just down the street—would you like to get some coffee and hear it?”

A
ND SO THEY
ended up two blocks away at Café Al Azrad. Red awnings cracked in the breeze and light glowed from the windows—only early afternoon, but clouds rolled off the sea and the day greyed and dimmed. Warm air gusted over them as Rainer—Rainer Morgenstern, the gallery’s owner—held the door for them. Liz sighed as she breathed in coffee and cinnamon, and Alex’s shoulders straightened from a pained hunch.

As they stepped inside, a picture caught Liz’s eye—a framed print dark against the sandstone wall. She moved closer and froze, even when Alex collided with her shoulder.

A man’s face floated in black water, his dark skin tinged green. Half-lidded eyes rolled sightlessly back, creased by lines of pain and laughter. More lines connected the flare of broad nostrils to the corners of his full-lipped mouth. A hand and foot and part of an arm floated around him.

Liz’s mouth dried. She knew the title before she looked at the plaque:
Osiris
, by Blake Enderly.

“What is it?” Alex asked, only to answer himself on the same breath. “Oh.”