F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 by Mirage (v2.1)

stepped back for a
better look.
                 More
abstract than what Julie remembered of Sam's work. No recognizable images. She
was struck by the ferocity of the colors and the brush strokes, as if Sam had
been slashing at the canvas. The painting radiated danger and heat. She sensed
that if Sam's brush had been a knife, she'd be looking at shredded canvas now.
                 She
felt as if she were staring into the heart of the sun — about to go nova.
                 Not a painting I'd want in my apartment.
                 Julie
moved to the next canvas, this one all blues and blacks, with a heart of
darkness, seemingly fueled more by fear and hopelessness than anger.
                 And
on to the next, and the next; the emotional intensity of the series was almost
overwhelming. These canvases more than spoke to Julie; they reached out and
grabbed her by the throat and yanked her in. By the time she'd made a circuit
of the room, she felt exhausted by their power.
                 "Ah — it's that boyfriend of hers," she heard Mme. DuPont
saying. She seemed calmer now and was speaking slowly enough for Julie to
understand.
                 "Boyfriend?"
Julie said. "What boyfriend?"
                 "Oh,
he was about all the time, practically lived here until the week before she
became sick. Then she wouldn't let him in. I heard him yelling at her."
                 "They
had a fight?" Julie said.
                 She
gave a Gallic shrug. "Possibly. I do not know. She would not let anyone in
during that last week. She kept the door locked and would only open it when I
brought food to her room and insisted that she eat. I was worried about her. But
at least she ate the food."
                 Julie
caught Eathan's eye. "Sounds like a breakdown," she said in English.
Then in halting French to Mme. DuPont: "Do you know what she was doing in
here all that time?"
                 "Of
course! She was painting. Yes, her hands were always full of paint,
dripping with color. And — and I saw a large canvas on
her easel. But Mademoiselle Samantha looked sick. Very pale. Her eyes were
strange. Her hair was not combed. And I must tell you: She was not bathing. I
thought she was going mad."
                 Maybe
Sam truly had been going mad, Julie thought. Why hadn't this woman called
someone? Maybe she didn't know anyone to call.
                 "But
about this boyfriend — was he here?"
                 "He
came every day — many times a day. Banging on
her door so loudly. But she had it bolted from the other side and would
not let him in. He was very angry. Many times I picked up the phone to call the
police — but he always left."
                 "What
was his name?"
                 "Jimmy
... she called him Jimmy Walsh."
                 "Where
does he liver'
                Another Gallic shrug. "I do not
know." She swept her arm toward the empty bureau and its scattered
contents. "But even though I have changed the lock, I am sure that he did
this."
                 "Then
he could have been in and out without your knowing it?"
                 "Of
course. I have six tenants. I can't keep track of all their comings and goings.
But I knew when he was here that final night." She pointed to the new lock
and doorjamb. "He broke the lock,
                 Julie
shivered at the violence done to the wood. "He didn't hurt her, did
he?"
                 "I
don't know. I don't think so. I heard the crash and was on my way upstairs when
he came racing down shouting that Samantha was sick, unconscious. Already I was
worried about her because she hadn't answered when I last knocked. I went up
and saw that she was lying on the floor before her easel... then 1 called for
an ambulance. As soon as it arrived, her young man fled."