“That's good.”
“While we're in Oregon, he won't be disappearing anywhere, and from his MO, we know he doesn't kill again for a long time,” Darwin thoughtfully reminded her.
“If our guy sticks to pattern.”
“He will. He has so far,” Darwin assured her as they found the museum curator's office.
After finding out all they could about Orion from museum authorities, they were referred to a woman named Lucinda Wellingham. “Daughter of a major contributor to the museum,” said Karen Quinelson, the curator. “Lucy… Lucinda runs her own art gallery at this address and number,” she finished with a flourish by ripping off a notepad with Lucinda Wellingham's logo, address, E-mail address and fax number. Get in touch with Lucy if you want to know more about Orion. Trust me, the rest of us had very little to do with Mr. Keith Orion-nor would he be showing here in this life if her father hadn't made a sizeable donation.”
Jessica and Darwin had next rushed out for a cab to make the airport, stopping only to pick up his bag at FBI headquarters and hers at the hotel.
They had made their respective calls from the cab on the way to the airport. Keith Orion's life was about to become an open book.
Now, her eyes closed, her head resting against a pillow, Jessica's mind filled with the vile shapes, forms and splatterings of lurid color and oils of Orion, the trash some dared call art, Keith Orion's most outrageous splatter-punk paintings. And while some of his work appeared less bloody and vile and disgusting, even these depicted rape, sodomy and torture against women. In one painting not one but three women were hanging as if crucified, their toes just touching pedestals, and all three appeared to be in the final stages of life, all three having been “simultaneously” tortured by electric shock, and an array of horrid instruments laying about on tables and on the floor, including a pressure washer. The caption on the painting read Homage to Author Joe Cur tin.
It could not be called disturbing in the Clive Barker fashion of disturbing literature that ripped at the core of being human. Disturbing was too high a word for it. Disturbing art at least had purpose, meaning, depth, a reason for being, a spine. Ironically enough, Orion's work lacked backbone, along with artistic worth. No, it did not even rise to the level of disturbing due to its own level of disgusting filth and hatred of the world and women in particular. In panel after panel of work that was meant to be episodic, each painting adding more to the story, Orion depicted women in various frescos of being slashed to pieces. The total effect was one of a mural of horror, thus the name of the exhibit: Horror's Raw Mural-The Downside of Being Dead.
Jessica normally enjoyed dreaming while cruising at sixty thousand feet, but she didn't care for the lingering imagery of Orion's exhibit impacting her nap, insinuating itself on her in its tastelessness, its sheer crudity. She awoke to Darwin's shaking her and saying in her ear, “Heads up. We're landing. Get your seat belt on.”
“I dreamed bad things about that Orion guy, Darwin. If he isn't the killer we're looking for, he's sure doing a hell of an imitation.”
“Thank God we can't convict a man on our dreams. Still, I like him for the murders, too.”
“Yeah… spectral evidence was thrown out in 1693 with the end of the Salem witch-hunt. Still, sometimes your gut knows what you instincts are talking about long before there's a dialogue between the two.”
“We've got good people on Orion. They're not going to lose sight of him. Right now, I want your mind focused on getting a new trial for Robert.”
“Sure… you're right, of course. Don't worry.”
The plane began its descent.
“Local field ops're set to meet us and run us out to the governor's mansion.”
“We've got our ducks all in a row. We're ready for Hughes and anything he can throw at us, Darwin. Rational thought will prevail.”
“I wish I were as confident as you. Forty-eight hours. We've got a lousy forty-eight, Jess.” Again his eyes glazed over with glistening wetness, threatening to tear.
She placed a hand over his, recognizing his distress. “It's going to be all right, Darwin.”
“Sure… sure it is.”
“The cavalry has arrived. Your friend, Towne, is not alone anymore.”
“Friend? I never said the man was my-my friend. He's a wrongly accused black man, who… who deserves better… a better shake. That's all he is to me, Dr. Coran.”
“No. No, he's much more to you than that. Darwin, are you related to Robert Towne?”
His gaze met hers, and he swallowed hard. “You can't let anyone else know.”
“I understand. I also understand why you wouldn't want Govenor Hughes to know that.”
“Press gets hold of it… that Robert's my half brother… and what credibility does that leave for my fight to free him? None, not a scintilla. Everyone would simply believe I had no evidence, only a blood tie.”
“You could have trusted me. You might've given me the benefit of a doubt.” She felt betrayed, hurt.
“Don't take it personally, Doctor, but if I'd have told you on our first meeting, would you have worked so hard on Robert's behalf? Would you have sent Richard Sharpe to Minnesota? Would you even be here now?”
“I'd feel better if Sharpe had something concrete in Minnesota.”
“He's on it, you said.”
“Best man we could have put on it. Think Gary Cooper, High Noon, who else could've played the part?”
FBI Agent Richard Sharpe felt he might go mad in Millbrook. Nothing had gone well. The lab had not completed even the preliminary work on the scrapings taken from Louisa Childe's nails, cellular tissue almost invisible to the naked eye with an infinitesimal amount of dried, degenerated blood clinging to it.
In Dr. Herman Krueshach, he had a real winner. Krueshach had shopped out the work to Minneapolis, only now telling Sharpe that Millbrook wasn't big enough to handle the process, not without taking chances, not with the limited and limiting equipment, and not with the limited amount of material taken from Louisa Childe that they had to work with. Much of the substance they'd scraped had been compromised and broken down over time due to the poor quality of the coffin, allowing dampness and water to seep in.
“That's what the bird on the overhanging branch wanted,” Richard had decided, stating it aloud now. “The water she… the corpse… had been lying in.” To Krueshach he added, “So everything has been transferred already to a lab in Minneapolis?”
“Ahhh, St. Paul to be exact.”
“Christ, you might have consulted me.”
“This decision is mine.”
“Give me the information. What's the name of the lab?”
“Cellmark of St. Paul. They're quite reputable. Do a lot of work for the Mayo Clinic.”
“And they have a backlog and Mayo's at the top of their list of clients. Shit, gaw-blimey for a fool!”
“No, Agent Sharpe, they promised to put it at the head of the line.”
“And can you trust that? I'm going there to await results. To sit on them.”
“Suit yourself, Agent.”
“I damn well will.” He stormed from Krueshach's lab and shoved past Brannan as he was entering. Brannan threw up his hands and asked Krueshach, “What gives?”
After Krueshach explained, Brannan rushed after Sharpe, catching him on the steps of the police station. “I'll arrange to drive you to St. Paul,” he offered. “Don't do me any favors.”
“Goddamn it man, I'm not doing shit for you. I want this freak that killed Louisa Childe more than anyone, and if it's not the guy in Portland, then by God, I want his execution set aside, so we can search for the real motherfucker!”
The two men glared at one another, their eyes boring in, twisting and turning before they mutually pulled back. Finally, Richard said, “Then it would appear we both want the same thing.”
“Exactly.”
“All right then… all right, I accept your offer to drive me to St. Paul.”