She didn't warn him. And the shock he felt when he looked at that painting was cold, overwhelming, visceral.
"Jesus Christ," he heard himself say hoarsely.
"I wish I could destroy it." Leaning back against the worktable, arms folded tightly as if she were cold, Maggie stared at the painting with a fixed intensity that was almost painful. "I want to destroy it. But the ironic thing is, it's the best work I've ever done. I seem to be too much an artist to destroy my best work. No matter how horrible it is."
He tore his gaze from the painting to look at her for a moment, then moved closer to the easel and forced himself to study it as calmly as possible.
Maggie was right, it was horrible. But she was also right in saying the work was technically superb, with an extraordinary, savage power he'd never seen equaled. It was almost impossible to believe such force had come from Maggie, had emerged from that slender body, from a spirit so sensitive it could literally feel the pain of others.
Trying to get past that, he concentrated on studying the dead woman, barely able to ignore his nausea at what had been done to her.
Maggie said, "This is how I knew she was dead, John. You wondered about that, didn't you? This is how I knew. Because I painted this. Last night, I painted this."
He looked at her quickly. "Who is this, Maggie?"
"Samantha Mitchell. And I've never seen her, so how could I have painted her if this wasn't real?"
John studied the painting again, this time more carefully, then turned and went to Maggie. "It isn't her."
"What?"
"I saw the photograph of Samantha Mitchell, remember? In the case file. Maggie, she looks completely different from this woman. She has short reddish hair and freckles, an upturned nose."
Maggie stared at him. "Not- Then who is she?"
"I don't know. But I think we'd better find out."
It was already dark by the time Jennifer got to the Fellowship Rescue Mission, and since the night promised to be a wet and chilly one, half the available beds had already been claimed by people in need. She only glanced into the two large dormitory-style rooms downstairs, one for men and one for women, where cots were lined in neat rows literally wall-to-wall; with the poor description of the man she was looking for, she doubted her ability to recognize him by sight and so went in search of somebody in charge.
She found Nancy Frasier, the surprisingly young and extremely placid director of the mission, just coming out of an upstairs room with an armful of blankets.
After peering shortsightedly at Jennifer's badge, the director listened to what she had to say and frowned. "David Robson? It's not a name I know, but then most of them don't offer names, especially if they're just passing through. You say he was arrested the other day?"
"Yeah, for causing a disturbance, but nothing serious. He was out within twenty-four hours." She offered the brief description that was all she had.
"And you're trying to find him-"
"Because he may have witnessed a crime or seen something that could help us solve one."
"I'd like to help, Detective, but I couldn't say if he'd even been here before, not by the name or description. You're welcome to ask other staff members, or even some of our regulars-though I will request that you not disturb those already resting for the night."
"I understand."
Frasier nodded, then added, "Oh-and I should tell you that we tend to have at least a few new people here most days of the week, so if you don't find him tonight you might try again in a day or two."
"I'll do that," Jennifer said, hoping she wouldn't have to.
But by the time she had talked to nearly a dozen men who had no clue who David Robson was, and another three who weren't sure of their own names, she was more or less resigned to not finding him tonight.
She left her card with Nancy Frasier, saying, "It's a long shot, but if you should hear his name, I'd appreciate a call."
The director accepted the card and frowned, asking abruptly, "Is it about that rapist? I know they found one of the women only a few blocks from here."
Jennifer nodded. "Yeah. This David Robson may have seen something. Probably not, but we're pursuing every lead."
With a nod back toward the women's dormitory, Frasier said, "Our female population has more than doubled in the last few weeks. Lot of scared women out there. And even the men are nervous, I'd say. Look, I'll ask around, okay? Some of them may talk to me when they wouldn't say squat to you. If I find out anything, anything at all about this man, I'll call you."
"Thank you." Jennifer made her way back out to her car, depressed as always by the homeless, rootless, or just plain mindless people, most of whom certainly deserved more out of life than a narrow cot in a room full of strangers.
She unlocked her car, gazing absently toward the mission as she watched a couple of bearded men dressed in ancient army jackets standing outside, smoking. She grimaced when one of the men stooped to pick up a discarded cigarette from the sidewalk and then put the filter end between his lips without hesitation.
It was only then that she realized she was rubbing the nape of her neck. She stopped, aware now of the tingling, uneasy sensation. Moving her head no more than necessary, she shifted her gaze to sweep the area, trying to see whatever it was that had put her instincts on alert.
There weren't many people about, and those were grouped near the mission, unthreatening as far as she could tell. A damp, chilly breeze had sprung up, and she could hear it stirring trash in the gutter on the other side of the street and rattling a loose street sign nearby.
But as far as she could determine, there was nothing else. Nothing to make her feel so uneasy.
"Jumping at shadows, Seaton," she muttered.
She got into her car, locking the doors immediately, and sat there for a moment. She was tired and more than a little bit unnerved to find her thoughts drifting toward Terry. She glanced at her watch, wavered for just a bit, then swore under her breath and started the car to head back to the station.
Later, she thought. There'd be time later for Terry.
"It sounds like Tara Jameson," Andy reported. "According to descriptions and the photo we have, she's very delicate, almost childlike. Dark hair, long and straight; almond-shaped dark eyes; high cheekbones; sensitive mouth."
"You're still at the apartment?" John had called Andy on his cell phone.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"Forensics turned up a few human hairs in the laundry chute, so you two were probably right about that being the way he got her down to the basement. From there, it looks like he took her out of the building through a service door that was supposed to be securely locked; it wasn't forced but picked by somebody who knew what he was doing. We still don't know how the bastard managed to avoid getting his picture taken by the security cameras, but I've got my people looking at all the tapes and checking out the computer that runs this place's electronics system. Her door wasn't forced, the apartment's security system was deactivated with her own code-all par for the course for this guy."
"Have you had any luck trying to find whoever sent the ransom note to Mitchell?"
"Not so far." Andy lowered his voice. "So if your FBI buddy finds anything, let me know pronto."
"I will."
When he closed his phone and dropped it into a pocket, Maggie said steadily, "It's her, isn't it? The painting is of Tara Jameson?"
John half turned on the couch to look at her where she sat curled up at the opposite end. "From the description Andy gave me, yes."
She drew a breath and leaned her head back against the couch, looking at him. "I thought it was Samantha."
"No, it definitely isn't her. And knowing that, do you still believe Samantha's dead?"
"Yes." Maggie didn't hesitate.