Retribution (13 page)

Midnight had come, and carried her away, bringing her here.

And she did not even remember the trip.

Charlie dropped the paintbrushes. They bounced off her feet and scattered on the floor, one rolling to a rest under Jagger's nose. The dog opened his eyes, sniffed at the instrument incuriously, and then shut his eyes again.

She stared at the bare canvas, afraid she would see that she had… somewhere… somehow… touched it. Touched it unknowingly as Midnight had touched her. Finally she put her hand out and stroked the canvas. It was old and she could feel the dust upon it, layered by its exposure over the years as it waited on the easel to be prepared and used. She would have to have new canvas, she could order it in the morning, paint thinner, new paints—

Charlie inhaled sharply.

Unthinkable. What she planned was unthinkable. She swayed, her right leg feeling its weakness, and she grabbed for the edge of the worktable, a sturdy, plain pine table, its surface stained here and there from its usage over the years, and as she looked to make sure she could steady herself, she saw the tube of paint.

Uncapped, coiled upon the palette, ready to be used in prepping the canvas. A thickened blob leaked from its silvery mouth, looking venomous in the pale moonlight.

She had almost put her hand into it, though she doubted if the paint could actually be used, it was far too old, it would have separated and then dried. Charlie lifted her hand to sniff it lightly. She had already put her hand into it. She could smell the linseed oil very faintly. She had opened the paint during her sojourn with Midnight.

She ruffled her hands across the table, darkened in the night, searched and found them, open, her wooden box of charcoal and sketching pencils, the drawer holding them slid out, her fingernail catching a ragged edge of the battered box, bringing up a splinter. The momentary pain stabbed and she flinched, recoiling, then pulled the splinter out. In sheer reflex she sucked on the wounded fingertip, tasting the grit and woody flavor of charcoal.

Charlie brought her hands down and stared at them, turned them over and looked at her palms and saw the faint dusting of charcoal on them.

She cast her gaze about the studio, wondering what else she had done. In the dim light, she could see little more than shape and shadow, though the easel was placed where the moonlight caught and highlighted it, and she realized then she had moved the stand and canvas. The notion made her shiver.

What had she sketched upon the canvas? What had she drawn in pencil and charcoal? What lay there to be prepped for actual painting? What had she seen? What had Midnight brought to her?

Charlie swung back on the easel, shaking. She grabbed a leg and dragged it over nearer to the beacon of light coming through the blinds, afraid to turn on the overhead fixture, afraid to flood the room with illumination, afraid to see what she might have done. She stumbled away from the worktable, caught her lazy foot on a paintbrush and fought to right herself, to keep from pitching forward and crashing into the easel and table, threw her hands out, clutching at air, at nothing, at straws.

Jagger scrambled up and into her legs, his weight catching her, and she grasped for his ruff, finding her balance. He whined anxiously and licked his chops in reflex as her grip pinched at him, but he never winced or yelped, instead leaning against her as though knowing he was her only anchor in the dark night.

Never since she had left Valdor had she felt so terribly, achingly alone.

She had been lucky last time. She had lost some motor coordination, had some right side motor weakness. That she had coped with.

This time, she might not be so lucky. She could well lose herself.

Charlie let herself drop to one knee, looping an arm lightly around Jagger's warm neck. The dog responded with a hot, wet tongue to her face, a quick lick of reassurance. She hugged him closer and felt her throat tighten and an unwanted tear roll slowly down her cheek.

How could it have grown back so quickly, so devastatingly? Her last scan had been clear, normal, as had all the others, and only weeks ago… and the first time, she had gotten ill slowly, over months and months, years by the time it insinuated itself so fiercely it could no longer be overlooked.

This time… mere days, in comparison. As though it had a rationality to its malignancy, as though it had cut a trail into the mind and body it well knew, so that it could find its way back speedily.

How long did she have? How long could she hide it? Did she have any hope at all of staving off Midnight until it could touch her and her alone? How long would it be before others noticed, before she could not work at a steady pace, before she would begin to miss deadlines?

How much time did she have before her mother would know? Before the endless hospital corridors would swallow her up for testing and treatment, before the surgeon would shave her head once again and take a scalpel and bone saw to her skull, and carve away whatever it was that was killing her, and carve away as well whatever it was that made her alive.

"Oh, God," Charlie murmured softly, and laid her cheek to Jagger's head, feeling the soft hair and warmth, and she cried until the dog squirmed in her hold, his pelt wet with her grief.

Charlie woke to the insistent drilling of the alarm clock/radio. Jagger sat by the edge of the bed, his ears pricked in doggish anxiety at the sound of a noise he rarely heard, as she struggled free of the bedcover. Only slightly successful, she pounded her hand upon the radio until she hit a button and squelched it. Jagger whined, licked his chops, and flicked his ears forward and back. She lay back for a moment, still entangled in blanket and sheets, and stared at the ceiling. Her face felt crusty, and as she rubbed at it, she could also feel fine, golden dog hairs sticking to her skin.

Charlie reacted in disgust. "Oh, God." She sat up, peeling both sets of sheets up with her and then shedding them like a second skin to get out of bed. As she put out a hand both to greet Jagger and brace herself on his frame, she looked at her bed. Not only had every corner come untucked, but the mattress itself had slewed around on the frame, hanging over the far edge by nearly a foot. It looked more like a wrestling pit than a bed.

She shoved the mattress back in place and collapsed on the corner. Her eyes felt raw as she rubbed at them. The clock/radio began its insistent drone again— she had evidently hit the snooze button— and Charlie lay down on her stomach to reach it and tap it off correctly, staring into the face of the appliance, trying to remember why it was necessary to be up so early after such a horrible night. She turned her cheek to the satiny blue mattress and stared into Jagger's caramel eyes. Now that the dog was awake, he would need to be let out. Because of security concerns, Charlie did not have a dog door built in to the back of the house, and normally Jagger kept to her flexible schedule with little trouble, but the undeniable fact of that matter was, once awake, he needed out. He whined a little and made as if to lick her nose, not quite reaching her.

"All right. All right." Head pounding, she got up, swaying across the hardwood floors, Jagger pacing happily at her knees. Every morning was a good day to him, every anticipation his doggish skull could hold an excellent one. Exercise, play, food, and visiting. More play and food. Sleep. As she unlocked the rear door and opened it for him, she saw that he had cowlicks of hair going every which way in the ruff of his neck as if someone had taken hair mousse to his golden hair.

As he bounded past her into the yard, two mourning doves taking flight and winging off over the back wall, Charlie felt her jaw drop and the quick, sharp edge of her grief, her tears, her keening in the night returned to her. She shut the door and ran through the house to the studio, threw herself on what should have been a locked door, a door which swung open violently, nearly dropping her to the floor.

Charlie balanced herself on the doorknob, looking in, squinting as the shades could not hold back the flood of morning light into the room. The easel had left marks on the tile where she had dragged it. Paintbrushes lay scattered next to the worktable. Even the faint smell of oil paint came to her, though that tube she'd found open last night had been mostly drying. With a shudder, Charlie stepped into the studio and looked at the canvas which lay facedown on the workroom floor, toppled from its easel pedestal.

She could hear a faint bark from the yard, Jagger telling her he was done and wanted to come inside and eat. Ignoring it, she dropped to one knee, hands trembling, and reached for the canvas to turn it over.

The confident slash of charcoal and pencil, detailing the impressionistic picture which would be painted there, met her eyes. Took her in. Gripped her. Even the insistent barking from the rear of the house did not register as she looked at the skeleton of what would be a painting.

Did not recognize it at first.

Then she saw it. An interior scene, looking out a window into an exterior. Benign. Unimportant. Harmless, perhaps even pleasant. Palm trees, cars on a street below, far below from the perspective, other tall, impressive buildings outside, inside a desk with its chair rolled back, or perhaps its occupant lolled in it, looking out the same window the painter and viewer were drawn to, daydreaming. An office of moneyed influence, quiet, powerful, yet totally nonthreatening.

Charlie closed her eyes a long moment in relief, then opened them and stood, bracing herself on the worktable, as she lifted the canvas back onto the easel. The pounding in her chest and ears slowly almost immediately as the anxiety began to ebb away.

She tightened the vise into place, holding the canvas. "Midnight, you've lost your grip." She backed up a step and took a second look at what she had sketched, before shrugging and turning away. She would finish it, Charlie thought, already knowing what paints she needed to buy to restock, what she would need to mix to bring out the color of the couch she'd drawn in hastily yet convincingly. It would be one of those oxblood leather couches, with brass nail head studs instead of welts edging it, a piece of furniture bespeaking quiet, conservative, old money. The blue of the sky outside, the metallic flash of expensive cars parked down below, the bloom on the myriad of potted plants lining the vast windowsill. All that and more she knew instantly; having sketched it, she now had to paint it.

She crossed the house quickly to let Jagger back in, singing over and over a line from a popular song that was going through her head. "How bizarre, how bizarre,"

Jagger tossed his head and slobbered on her hand, joyously awaiting breakfast. Charlie caught a glimpse of the kitchen clock, and suddenly remembered that today was the day scheduled for the wall textile installation at the Kensington corner office suites. Grant Kensington would be there, as well as her mother, the two of them planning a charity benefit for one of her many auxiliaries, and Charlie had made reservations for the three of them to have lunch. She had forty minutes to shower, dress, eat, and be on the site before the delivery trucks and workmen arrived.

She got there fifteen minutes later than she'd hoped, but the first of the delivery trucks appeared another ten minutes after that, just as Grant Kensington's XK8 Jag pulled into his designated parking slot. Jagger recoiled ever so slightly in his harness and against her leg as the powerfully built businessman swung out of his car, a paper cup of coffee in each hand. Grinning at her, he swung a hip into his car door to close it.

"Good morning, Charlie! Everything underway?"

"It will be. Everything should be installed and ready for the dedication next week, right on schedule." She took the hot disposable cup he shoved at her, returning his smile. The Kensington office suites would house his corporate offices, planning and sales and property management, and the room left over would be leased out to those interested. Though Grant had not said anything to her, Mary had told her that there was already a two-year waiting list to get leases for available space. The office building was intended to be, and would be, a showplace for all that Kensington could do for its clients. She had met Grant through his father Oliver and through hers, and though Grant had been businesslike and easygoing, there was no doubt in Mary Saunders' mind, at least, that Charlie and Grant ought to see more of each other. Her mother seemed to be unaware of the fact that Kensington had a male partner and absolutely no sexual interest in Charlie whatsoever.

She pried the plastic lid off her coffee, preferring to drink it from the rimmed cup rather than through an insipid hole in the plastic covering. Grant toasted her.

"Ready to take me up on moving your design studio here? I have just the corner for you. You can take an upstairs loft, high ceilings, as much room as you need. We can even install a private elevator." Grant tossed down a gulp of steaming coffee that made Charlie blink. He must have a throat of iron inside as well as out. "Dog run for Jagger here."

"I'm comfortable at home."

"Charlie, you need more room. You need a showroom as well as a design studio and a work area. You're limiting your potential if you keep working out of that closet."

"I don't feel like expanding my operations. We've discussed this. Right now, it's hands on for me, and that's the way I like it. Besides, if I need to rest, I'm there."

He bounded up the walkway and turned to wait for her. "That's why I mentioned the loft! I can have a retreat built in there for you, small, noise-proof bedroom, private bath. You can take an elevator half a story up, close the door, and viola! You're home again."

Turning slightly away from his enthusiasm, she watched as the delivery trucks marked with the name WindRiver Mills circled and drivers and installers began to unload. It was always a bit of a shock to see textile designs she had worked so intimately on being delivered in massive carpet rolls, and it was always a bit of a thrill as well. WindRiver was one of the nicest mills she had ever found to work with, a small family business, flexible to her needs and designs and delivery timetables. In slow periods, the family refused to reduce their payroll, always finding a way to tide their workers over, and even in busy times, they were never too busy to work with Charlie. Even Quentin spoke begrudgingly well of WindRiver.