The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) (25 page)

“Would you like to give some interviews?” Claude was asked with excitement.  He could not describe to Claude what was about to happen tonight and how glorious it would be because the man would never understand.  It would be like explaining philosophy to a houseplant.

“Go down there and charm them for me, Claude.  Tell them there is more to come.”

Claude swallowed, his voice cracking in excitement, speaking low as though to be any louder would destroy the conversation.

“It’s ready?  Your masterpiece is ready?”

Guillotine nodded.  Claude almost fell to his knees.  He took Guillotine’s hand, his palms clammy with sweat, trembling from being so close to greatness.

“May I see it?” Claude pleaded.  “Oh, let me see it, please, I beg you, I’ll do anything, just let me be the first.”

Guillotine looked in Claude’s eyes; saw the hope, the desperation, and the belief in him.  He clasped the little man’s hands in his own and whispered in a tone that, to Claude, was like god’s breath moving over his face.

“Claude, you are going to be a
part
of it.”

Chapter Fifty Three

The Tactical Team had pulled up in their van across the street from the courtyard that led to the gallery.  Two of them had got out and taken elevated positions on the rooftop of the building adjacent.  They watched the courtyard and the street through the night vision scopes on their sniper rifles.  Brouchard had parked his car at the end of the street and got out with Lara and Jason.

“We go in together,” the Inspector said.  Lara nodded agreement. “Jason, your job is to help us find him in there.  Do not be stupid, do not be brave.  We have a team of professionals to do that.”

“Thank you for the confidence,” came the Team Leader’s voice through Lara and the Inspector’s ear piece receivers, letting them know they could hear every word.

“Nobody moves, nobody shoots, nobody breathes unless I say so,” Brouchard ordered.

Brouchard led them across the street and in to the courtyard.  There were cars parked everywhere, some very expensive.  Music was booming from within the gallery.  There were two sliding glass doors on either side of the building to allow guests in and out and the entire front section of the gallery was glass.  They could see the exhibition inside and the crowd of people who had come to see this new artist.  Lara already knew this was going to be tough.  Big crowds were dangerous if they got out of hand.  She cursed herself for not waiting until the event was over.  But then, they might miss him.

She walked across the cobbles of the courtyard, up the two stone steps and in to the gallery.  It was cool in here, the open doors allowing the night chill inside.  The lights had been lowered and there were individually arranged spotlights on the exhibit itself, which appeared to be some kind of maze that had been constructed in the centre of the room. Brouchard walked past her as if he didn’t know her, melting in to the crowd, his eyes scanning every face as he searched for the man with the scars.  Jason walked up behind Lara.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“Why not in there?” Lara gestured to the maze.  Jason looked nervous, but he was holding it together.

“Let’s go,” he said and followed her to the entrance of the maze.  The picture on the outer wall was a sketch of a beautiful young woman in repose.  She looked as though she was sleeping.  She looked like an angel.

Lara walked in to the maze, passing the paintings on the walls.  They increased in detail and power the deeper she moved inside.  She assumed this was the intended effect and his work was undeniably powerful.  Some of the people moving up ahead of her could not force themselves to look again at some of the works that hung on the white walls that boxed them in.  The paintings had a medieval feel, scenes of torture, pain, purification.  There was a religious element to them, some of the paintings containing crosses, stained glass window motifs and angels.  The colors were strong, bold, but dark, the blacks deep and inky, the bright colors- usually reserved for the faces, the flesh on display- made all the more shocking.  They weren’t all depictions of torture, but they contained a pain that bled out of the canvass and hung cloyingly in the air around them like a thick vapor that stained the senses.  He had interspersed much happier hand drawn sketches of young women in between the paintings, which made the whole exhibit even more disturbing.  She imagined he was sitting somewhere, watching, laughing.  She checked the corners, the faces of everyone she passed, looking for him.  She was on edge, adrenalin pumping through her body, the ribbon in her mind’s eye that led to Janelle seemed so clear, fluttering ahead of her the further inside the maze she went.

She looked behind her; saw Jason was keeping his distance, doing what he had been told to do.  She didn’t like the fact he was here but at the same time she was glad he was.  It was nice to have someone good beside her while she navigated the dark corners of this man’s mind, which he had so brazenly decided to display on the walls in neatly framed renderings.  She moved on, focusing through the loud conversation in languages she couldn’t understand.  She came to the middle of the maze, half expecting him to be right there in the center of it all, standing on a raised platform waiting for people to adore him. 

Jason moved up behind her, still keeping enough distance between them to make it look as though they were in here by themselves and not together.  The people who had been ahead of them moved on to the next section of the maze, giving them the centerpiece all to themselves for a few moments.  It was an enormous painting, hanging on an oversized canvas that created its own wall, dwarfing everything else in this part of the maze.  It depicted a vision of heaven and hell that blazed in dark reds and midnight blacks, showing scenes of horrific suffering that burned off the canvas. Angels were lashed to tall wooden posts, in various tableaus of suffering.  There were chains, deep sunken pits dug in to the earth with multiple wooden spikes planted in the dirt, spikes that held the bodies of those who had been impaled upon them.  There was so much pain in the picture, it raged with its own life and was obscene in its detail, but impossible to look away from.  One could almost hear the people in the painting scream out for help. 

Lara shook herself back to the present, feeling dazed and moved on, knowing she would never forget what she had just seen.  She pushed forward, and, as she came out of the other end of the maze, she turned and saw something that made her lose her breath.

Hanging on the wall directly outside the maze was a huge collage of hand drawn sketches.  Portraits of young, beautiful women, like the ones that were peppered inside next to the darker pieces.  These were more intimate than the ones he had hung up inside the maze.  They were not as polished, almost hastily made, but there was something so tangible about the women’s faces on the paper.  They were the same girls whose images she had seen in the painting of heaven and hell in the centrepiece.  The sketches were terrifically detailed. He had captured their faces, their feelings, their essence.  The sketches had been arranged on the canvas in neat rows. He had distressed the images with water, making them look as though they had recently been left out in the rain, where the water had run down the faces, leaving behind streaks that stained their skin with charcoal tears.  The girls looked like they were crying from some deep sorrow, trapped inside the paper.  And there, in the center of them all, was Janelle’s face.

“My god,” Lara uttered, feeling as though she had been hit hard in the stomach. Then, pure rage exploded inside her and she was unable to contain herself any longer.  That time was over.

“Guillotine!!” she called out, her voice rising above the chatter of the people on the main floor.  Jason stepped out of the maze behind her, looking around the room for the man he had seen last night on the hotel roof.  People were turning, watching her.  Their voices died down and she shouted again. “Guillotine!!!  Show your face, you sonofabitch!” she demanded.  People were silent now, all eyes on her.

On the upper level, Guillotine stepped back behind the people beside him, out of sight but with a clear view of Lara below him.  He had not expected this, for her to call him out in public.  He had gambled on her being far more subtle. He felt a little disappointed.  She began to address the crowd.

“This man is a killer. He poses as a sketch artist and he abducts young women to be part of his work.  These portraits on the walls- they’re his victims. This one right here,” Lara pointed to Janelle’s portrait.  “This is my sister.  Her name is Janelle McBride.  He kidnapped her.  He tried to kill me.  This is some kind of fucked up performance art piece and you’re all part of it.  Isn’t that right, Guillotine?  Come on, you coward, show yourself, gottdamnit!”

There was embarrassed laughter; some people simply started walking out before the situation became more embarrassing.  The reporters were loving it, hoping the show would continue, looking around eagerly for Guillotine to make an appearance and answer this mad woman’s accusations.  Claude scurried down the steps to address the American woman causing the scene.

“Madame, I don’t know what you’re trying to do but you are making a spectacle of yourself.  I suggest you leave immediately.”

Security Guards began moving in behind Claude.   Brouchard came out of the crowd with his identification badge held over his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Inspector’s voice boomed out over the gallery, surprising even Lara with its power.  “Please remain calm and stay where you are.”

On the upper walkway, Guillotine watched as the people in the room became confused and a little scared.  The DJ’s music abruptly stopped as the Police man told him to kill it.  Now, Guillotine knew he only had a matter of minutes if not seconds to get out of the building or risk his masterpiece never being seen at all.  And that would not do.  He backed up against the wall, his face down.  Beside him on the wall, he saw the fire alarm.  He drove his elbow through the glass and the alarm howled instantly.  Emergency lights began to blink around the room.  People began to scream.  Down by the maze, Lara knew what was coming next even as Guillotine pulled the lever for the sprinklers.

“Smart sonofabitch,” she said and looked over at Brouchard. 

When the sprinklers burst on and showered the entire gallery with cold water, that was when the screaming started.  Panic and chaos exploded through the gallery like a howling wind and people began to surge for the door.  Brouchard was pushed back outside with the current of the crowd, separating himself from them once he was out in the courtyard.  He called for the Tactical Team to seal off the gates, but it was too late.  People were running.  It was a stampede.  The water was raining down hard on the exhibit, making the paintings run, melting them, twisting them into deformed shapes, the colors running in to a toxic looking smear of hate that spat on the world.  Now, all the portraits looked like they were crying, a maze filled with tears.  As the water continued and the downpour increased in intensity, the charcoal began to run, blurring the faces until they were just shapes and blurs on wet paper. 

Guillotine allowed himself to be swept along with the people moving down the steps to the exits.  Both the doors were jammed with people, creating a back up of screaming people, doused in the sprinkler water.  One man in his thirties with a clearer sense of self-preservation than anyone else grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and hurled it through the glass front of the building.  The floor to ceiling window shattered and the crowd pushed out on to the cobbles.  People were cut from falling glass, some fell and were trampled.  Guillotine slipped out with them in to the courtyard, his eyes on the main gates.  All he had to do was remain calm and get to the van at the end of the street and he would be fine.

He saw armed Police in what looked like assault gear pushing their way through the crowd to get inside the gallery.  Two more of them were at the gates ahead trying to keep the people corralled inside, but the heightened fear of the crowd meant there was little chance of that happening.  Guillotine found himself out on the street and saw the van at the far end.  He began to run.  Many other people already were.

Lara came out of the gallery and saw that Brouchard had climbed on to the roof of one of the cars parked in the courtyard.

“There is no fire!!  Please!  Walk, don’t run!” he was calling to the crowd, but nobody was listening.  He saw Lara on the cobbles outside the gallery.

“Get your team in there.  Find the man who organized the exhibition.  He knows who Guillotine is.  He knows where he lives.”

Brouchard began speaking in to his lapel mic for the Tactical Team as Lara headed out of the courtyard.  She thought Brouchard had made a great decision to get himself an elevated position and she followed suit by climbing up on to the roof of a parked red Peugot on the street near the gates.  Hers was an island of calm in the middle of the frenzied storm of activity.  She looked at the faces in the crowd, looking for him, but most of it was a blur.  Then, at the far end of the street, she saw a white van pull out and aggressively force its way down the street, clipping a couple of pedestrians without stopping.  Lara spoke in to her lapel mic.