The ground floor offers nothing of interest. The usual rooms are filled
with comfortable but unremarkable furniture.
Upstairs, he stops only briefly at each room, getting an overall picture
of the second-floor layout before taking time for a thorough
investigation. There’s a master bedroom with attached bath, walk-in
closet . . . a guest bedroom . . . kids’ room . . . another bath .. .
The final bedroom at the end of the hall–which puts him at the front of
the house–is used as an office. It contains a big desk and computer
system, but it’s more cozy than businesslike. A plump sofa stands under
the shuttered windows, a stained-glass lamp on the desk.
One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double
row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are
obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without
exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skill,
twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on
which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted
against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the
gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where
menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps,
leafless trees with coly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached
skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet,
a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and
lace-trimmed bedsheet . . .
He likes this artwork.
It speaks to him.
This is life as he knows it.
Turning from the gallery wall, he clicks on the stained-glass lamp and
marvels at its multi-hued luminous beauty.
In the clear sheet of glass that protects the top of the desk, the
mirror-image circles and ovals and teardrops of color are still lovely
but darker than when viewed directly. In some indefinable way, they are
also foreboding.
Leaning forward, he sees the twin ovals of his eyes staring back at him
from the polished glass. Glimmering with their own tiny reflections of
the mosaic lamplight, they seem to be not eyes, in fact, but the
luminous sensors of a machine or, if eyes, then the fevered eyes of
something soulless–and he quickly looks away from them before too much
self-examination leads him to fearful thoughts and intolerable
conclusions.
“I need to be someone,” he says nervously.
His gaze falls upon a photograph in a silver frame, which also stands on
the desk. A woman and two little girls. A pretty trio.
Smiling.
He picks up the photograph to study it more closely. He presses one
fingertip against the woman’s face and wishes he could touch her for
real, feel her warm and pliant skin. He slides his finger across the
glass, first touching the blond-haired child, and then the dark-haired
pixie.
After a minute or two, when he moves away from the desk, he carries the
photograph with him. The three faces in the portrait are so appealing
that he needs to be able to look at them again whenever the desire
arises.
As he investigates the titles on the spines of the volumes in the
bookcases, he makes a discovery that gives him an understanding, however
incomplete, of why he was drawn from the gray autumnal plains of the
Midwest to the post-Thanksgiving sun of California.
On a few of the shelves, the books–mystery novels–are by the same
author, Martin Stillwater. The surname is the one he saw on the mailbox
outside.
He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these
novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dustjacket
illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on
the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a
variety of translations, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish,
Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.
But nothing is as interesting as the author’s photo on the back of each
jacket. He studies them for a long time, tracing Stillwater’s features
with one finger.
Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the
first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.