were in costume.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Well, a black blouse, very low-cut,” Theodore said. “I mean, for maximum exposure. And she had on a black leather skirt, quite short.”
Frank wrote it down. “Anything else?”
“She’d changed her hair.”
“In what way?”
“It wasn’t down. She’d piled it up on top of her head. And there were little curls everywhere. Sort of baby-doll curls, you know?”
“Baby-doll curls?”
“That’s what really finished the effect.”
“What effect?”
“The, well, seductive effect,” Theodore said, as if it had all just come together for him. “That’s what it looked like she was aiming for. Seduction.” He glanced about the room. “And there was something else. She wasn’t really looking at the stuff on the walls. She didn’t pay any attention to it at all.”
“Then what was she doing?” Frank asked.
“Well, she just wandered from room to room,” Theodore said. “She’d hang out in one for a while, then move onto another one. She was sort of slinking around.”
Frank looked up from his notebook. “So, you didn’t leave the gallery immediately?”
Theodore’s face gave the appearance of someone who had just discovered an odd but incontrovertible fact. “I guess I didn’t,” he said slowly. He looked at Frank. “I guess I must have followed her.”
“Do you think she saw you?” Frank asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Theodore said. “But I’m not sure if that would have mattered to her.”
“To be followed, you mean?”
“Yes,” Theodore said. His eyes dulled; their light turned inward. Then they suddenly snapped back toward Frank. “Because I think that may have been exactly what she wanted, to be followed, to be admired.”
“By you?” Frank asked.
“Not me in particular, no,” Theodore said.
“By everyone?”
“She was the thing that was on display in that sordid little gallery, Mr. Clemons,” Theodore said with an odd certainty. “It was as if she had decided to be her own dark work of art.”
19
As soon as Frank pulled into the small gravel driveway of the Knife Point Gallery, he realized that Theodore’s description of it could hardly have been more accurate. If anything, it appeared even more dilapidated than he had described. The unpainted wooden porch slumped to the right, and even from a distance Frank could see where wind and rain had all but eaten through one of its supporting columns. A single noose of thick brown rope hung from one of its sagging beams.
Frank touched it lightly as he stepped up to the door. It swung languidly in the thick summer air, its dark gray shadow passing almost the full width of the narrow porch.
As Frank walked into the front room, he felt himself engulfed by the odd, disquieting atmosphere. The air seemed to hold a sense of barely controlled violence. He could feel it like a small, hissing breeze, and for an instant he felt the impulse to button his coat and lift his collar against the chill.
“Welcome to the Knife Point.”
Frank turned and saw a large man in a black suit and white, open-collared shirt. He was very tall, his head almost touching the low ceiling, and when he smiled, Frank saw the glint of metal in the back of his mouth.
“This is what we call a gallery of the Alternative,” the man said quietly. “Have you ever been here before?”
“No.”
The man nodded slowly. “Then you are in for a treat.” He smiled thinly. “This is the front exhibition room,” he said, as he swept one arm out gracefully. “It’s not very large, as you can see, but we manage to use the space well.”
Frank followed the swing of the man’s arm. The room was dimly lit by a scattering of freestanding lamps. Their orange shades turned the air faintly yellow, and yet oddly luminous.
“Light is an atmosphere,” the man said. “Because ofthat, we at the Knife Point think of it differently than the more established galleries. We do not seek to illuminate. We seek to shade.” He nodded toward the opposite wall. “Our first exhibit.”
The entire wall had been painted red, and a great black feather seemed to swirl out at its center. It created a strange, willowy maelstrom, and for an instant Frank felt himself drawn toward its center.
“It is called
It was a large canvas, painted white, then streaked with blue. Oval drops of blood fell from the strips of white, then gathered in scarlet pools at various places along the green base of the canvas.
“Do you find this disturbing?” the man asked.
Frank continued to look at the painting. “No.”
“Some do,” the man said. “It’s called
Frank felt himself quite unexpectedly moved by the image before him. It seemed to speak more deeply of the world he knew than anything he’d seen in Theodore’s gallery or Karen’s living room.
“Who painted this?” he asked.
“Derek Linton. Ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s a local artist,” the man said. “Perhaps the best there is.” He watched as Frank returned his gaze to the picture. “We have a few more of his works in the other rooms.”
Frank continued to look at the painting. The rain of blood seemed to fall silently and without melodrama, then gather in small lakes of quiet grief.
“Who sent you here?” the man asked, after a moment.
Frank turned to him. “Sent me?”
“Well, you don’t exactly look like an art collector.”
“I’m not.”
“Then how did you find out about the Knife Point? It’s hardly on the tourist itinerary.”
“James Theodore told me about it.”
The man looked surprised. “Theodore?”
“Yes.”
The man laughed derisively. “Then I’m surprised you came at all.”
“Why?”
“Well, Theodore is hardly supportive of our work,” the man said. “Have you ever seen
“Yes.”
“Paintings for the rich and oblivious,” the man said. “Works of art that are just placid enough so as not to disturb your guests while they sip their champagne.” He smiled proudly. “As you can see, we are not interested in such things.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Frank said.
“So, Theodore sent you over here. Why? To scoff? To have a laugh?”
“No,” Frank said. He pulled out his badge. “Frank Clemons.”
The man glanced at the badge, then back up at Frank. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a member of the
