Читать книгу The Collector - Cameron Cruise - Страница 13

Gia Moon stared at the six-by-four-foot canvas. She’d come home from the police station and headed straight for her studio, dropping her purse on the concrete floor at the entrance.

She’d started work on the painting at one o’clock that morning. That’s when she’d woken from her dream.

She hadn’t woken gently, slowly easing to the surface of wakefulness. That’s not how it happened, these visions. She’d sat up abruptly, gasping for breath, horrified by the images still burning so brightly inside her head. Her daughter had uncharacteristically slept in her own bed that night, a godsend.

In her bathroom, Gia had splashed water on her face. Grabbing a robe for warmth, she’d headed for her studio in the garage.

This is what she did; it was who she was. The woman who painted nightmares.

Her mother had warned her once. You’re so strong. Be careful. Dark spirits are always attracted to the strong.

“No kidding, Mom,” she said, staring at the painting of the demon who had killed Mimi Tran.

That morning, she’d taken only a short break from painting for coffee—it wasn’t her day to drive carpool, another lucky break. She’d had more than enough time for her vision to become almost fully realized on the canvas before she’d read the article in the paper, making the connection.

Gia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the detective’s card. When she’d gone to the precinct, she’d wanted to blurt out her story and leave. Mission accomplished.

She propped the card up on the easel.

They hadn’t believed her. She’d expected that.

She took a long breath and stared down at her hands. They were shaking. She balled her fingers into fists.

I’m next.

It had been a bold declaration, one she hadn’t planned on making. But she had a temper, and she’d let herself get pushed.

Not good, Gia.

Sometimes, she could understand what had driven her mother all those years. People wanted proof, something tangible. They wanted the world to make sense. Things needed to add up, like a mathematical formula. Forget about dreams and visions and the kooks who claimed to have them.

Erika Cabral was one of those skeptics. The kind of person who thought Gia only wanted to scam the desperate out of their money.

The interview had been surprisingly nerve-racking. Gia didn’t like the spotlight. She required anonymity. To the outside world, she was an artist, a painter whose pieces some claimed showed a glimpse into another world. But it was all below the radar. Those few souls who managed to find her never asked for more than peace of mind. In exchange for connecting with lost loved ones, they kept her secrets.

Now, that might not be possible.

“Wow. That is one ugly mother.”

Hearing her daughter, Gia turned toward the door. She had no idea how long she’d been standing there. She had a habit of “losing time” when it came to her paintings. Past three o’clock, she told herself, if Stella was home from school.

Her daughter walked into the garage studio, popping her gum, a vile habit she well knew her mother despised. Gia figured that was the point. Stella dropped her backpack in the middle of the floor. Gia didn’t comment on that, either.

The girl came to stand next to her and immediately fell into the painting.

That’s what Gia called it: falling in. It happened all the time with Stella. Gia watched as her daughter’s eyes grew unfocused. That was the problem with Stella’s gift. She was too sensitive, didn’t have strong enough defenses. She hadn’t learned how to guard herself—and, in complete denial of her gifts, she wouldn’t allow Gia to teach her.

Stella took a step back, away from the painting. In complete silence, she reached out and slipped her hand in her mom’s.

Gia pulled her little girl into her arms. At twelve years old, Stella was still under five feet, small for her age. Gia kissed the top of her head. Stella had Gia’s black hair and blue eyes. But the curls—those riotous curls brushing the tops of her shoulders were all her daughter’s.

“Okay,” Stella said, pushing back to once again look at the painting. “I already hate it. What is it?”

“I don’t know, baby. A demon of some sort.”

“It killed somebody, didn’t it?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Gia said. “Maybe lots of somebodies.”

Gia didn’t bother to try to hide things from Stella. She’d learned a long time ago the futility of that—nor did Stella appreciate her efforts at protecting her. Gia chose instead to try and explain what her daughter saw. But even then, she fell short. Half the time it was Stella who told Gia the meaning behind her art, such was her daughter’s talent.

The painting didn’t show Mimi Tran’s lifeless body. Gia rarely painted death, choosing instead to objectify such things.

Mimi’s symbol was the red eye. It faced the beast, ready to do battle. But the monster proved too powerful. Part of the eye melted down the side of the canvas, the heavy red paint flowing like a river of blood off the edge.

Gia used her paintings to make sense of the images that came to her in dreams. Sometimes it worked, other times she just had macabre works of art to show for her efforts.

“They didn’t believe you, did they?”

“The police? No, darling,” she said. “They didn’t.”

She didn’t ask Stella how she knew about the police. Gia hadn’t told her about her trip to the precinct or the conversation she’d had with the detectives there. Her daughter preferred to pretend her ability was a fluke, or a figment of their imagination. She did the ostrich thing, getting angry whenever her mother pointed out the obvious.

I don’t want to be a freak like you! That’s what she’d screamed the first time her abilities came shining through.

There’d been a time when Gia, too, had said those very words to her own mother.

Stella gave a sigh that sounded much too old for her years. “I don’t know why you even try.”

“Because I was supposed to.”

“Your guides,” Stella said, in the voice of a supreme skeptic.

In the world of psychic phenomena, often times guides from the other side would help a medium make contact. They served almost as an umbilical line to the dead spirits trying to communicate. While many had names, Gia’s own guides chose to remain anonymous.

She bit her lip and stared at the simple business card propped on the easel. Detective Seven Bushard. City of Westminster. Homicide.

She remembered the electric shock of his touch.

She’d felt his sadness like a blow to her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She’d seen his story like a movie in her head. His brother and the man he’d killed. The vision had been dark and murky and without a lot of details, but grisly nonetheless.

From the moment the detective had walked in to that interview, he’d been watching her with an almost hungry stare. Gia knew what it meant to have people want something from her.

You say you had a dream?

That was the other detective. The woman, Erika Cabral. Gia recognized that tone. The freak…the nut job. It only made her smile, because she could clearly see an entity standing next to Erika, shedding a protective white light.

Gia never argued with a disbeliever. Sometimes she wondered if that’s not what she wanted. Don’t believe me. I did my duty. My conscience is clear. If you don’t make use of my knowledge, that’s not my concern.

Only, she couldn’t really say that now. Mimi Tran was different. This time, Gia wasn’t the uninvolved observer.

She might very well be responsible for that woman’s death.

She looked back at the card, remembering Seven Bushard’s words on parting.

“Call if you have another…dream,” he’d told her.

“The man. Is he going to hurt you, Mommy?”

The question came from nowhere, as they often did. Gia always forgot how connected she was to her child.

She’d been thinking about the detective when her daughter asked the question. But Stephen Bushard wasn’t who she feared.

She answered, “No, sweetie.” She kissed her daughter again, giving them both the pabulum. “I’ll be fine. We both will.”