Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“Surely there were other university cities you could have gone to, where autoimmune diseases have more of a priority? Did you consider other offers?”

“Wherever I go, the treatments are essentially palliative. You must know that, Doctor. I find that I do better by simply living in denial and doing the best I can.”

“I see. Have you been tested for organ function in the past year?”

“No.”

“Do you have your blood pressure checked regularly, at least?”

“No.”

“You realize that accelerating hypertension is a hallmark of-”

“I’m not a fool, Doctor. I’d rather move on to something else, please. My time is too short to spend it discussing what is killing me.”

A wave of pity rolls through me at Lenz’s relentless questioning. “Why doesn’t he leave the guy alone?”

“He feels he’s onto something,” Baxter says in a taut voice.

“Do you think he is?”

“Diagnosis of a terminal disease is a major stressor. It could initiate homicidal behavior in a predisposed individual.”

“Are you aware that there are some revolutionary new treatments being tried?” Lenz asks. “In Seattle for example, they’re using autologous bone marrow transplant-”

“I’m aware of all this, Doctor…?”

“Lenz.”

“Doctor Lenz, thank you. I fully understand my situation. I wonder if you do. I’m an artist. I have no family. My priority is my work. I shall do the work I am strong enough to do for as long as I can do it. When I die, my work will live after me. That’s more satisfaction than most men will ever know.”

Wheaton’s voice is a knife blade of truth, and it demands respectful silence, the way a prayer does.

“Come on,” Baxter says, anxiously tapping the console before him. “Get her in there.”

But Lenz doesn’t know when to quit. “I’d like to move on to-”

“I apologize, Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says sharply. “Our photographer was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. If-”

“Go!” Baxter says, slapping my knee.

I throw open the van’s rear door, and in seconds I’m clacking across the sidewalk toward the Newcomb Art Gallery, fighting to keep my balance in unfamiliar heels, my heart pounding against my sternum.

The smell of oil paint hits me as I go through the door, and grows stronger as I move toward the main gallery, guided by my memory of a floor plan Baxter showed us in the van. The entrance area is ornamented with Tiffany stained glass panels, mounted on both sides of a wide doorway. When I walk through, I find myself facing a curved white wall. Then I see wooden framing. I’m looking at the back of Wheaton’s room-size canvas circle.

To my right is an opening in the curved wall. As I go through, I concentrate on Baxter’s instructions to act detached and professional, but my first sight of the painting stops me in my tracks.

The circle of joined canvas panels is eight feet high and at least thirty-five feet across. The scale alone inspires awe. But it’s the image itself that takes my breath away. I feel as though I’ve walked into J. R. R. Tolkien’s Mirkwood, a shadowy world where roots wind around the feet and gnarled limbs bind the throat, where tangled vines and deadfalls conceal things we wish would remain out of sight. Through this dark world winds a narrow black stream, occasionally rippling white over rocks or fallen branches. The scene shocks me because I expected something abstract, as all Wheaton’s later work has been. This is what Lenz meant by “a return to your original inspiration.” I feel I could reach into the painting, pick up a twig, and snap it in two with a loud crack. Were the smell of paint and linseed oil not so strong, I think I would smell decaying leaves. Only one curved panel is unfinished, and before it stands Wheaton himself, paintbrush and palette in his white-gloved hands.

The size of the artist is my second shock. The head shot I saw last night gave me the impression of a slight man, but that merely proves how deceptive photographs can be. Wheaton is but an inch shorter than Kaiser, who stands six-three. He has wiry arms but large hands with long fingers, and shoulders only slightly bowed by age. His face is so strong that the wire-rimmed bifocals he wears – I can see the lines on the lenses from here – seem merely an ornament rather than functional spectacles. At fifty-eight, he has a full head of silver hair that sweeps back from his forehead, some of it reaching his shoulders, and his skin is remarkably smooth. He gives the impression of a man who has reached a place of extraordinary peace, though from the little I know about his history, that is a misconception.

“Is this your photographer?” he asks, and then he smiles at me.

Wheaton’s smile fades as he turns to Lenz, who like Kaiser has not even heard the artist’s initial question, so intent is he on picking up signals of recognition in Wheaton’s face. I could save them the trouble. This guy has never seen me before in his life.

“Yes, sir,” I say loudly, trying to snap them out of it.

Wheaton turns back to me. “What are you here to photograph?”

“Your work.”

“Well, fire away. As long as your pictures will be held by the FBI, that is. I don’t want any reporters seeing this painting until I’ve completed it.”

“Absolutely,” Kaiser says finally. “They’ll be held in the strictest confidence.”

Kaiser glances at me, and I see instantly that he too shares my judgment of Wheaton. The big Vermonter has no idea who I am. After this initial moment of confusion, I realize how hot it is in the studio. Kaiser has removed his coat, revealing a pointillist abstract of sweat on his shirtfront, but Lenz still has his jacket on, probably to hide a suspicious bulge or trailing wires. With the Mamiya I used at de Becque’s, I take a few flash shots of various panels of the painting, but it’s all a sham. Many of Wheaton’s paintings will be confiscated as soon as this interview ends, which in the true sense it already has. I feel guilty being part of this charade, knowing how the subsequent acts will affect and confuse the artist, who appears willing to do all he can to help us.

As I work, Wheaton drags a ladder to the unfinished panel, laboriously climbs it, then begins painting with small strokes about seven feet up. A few times in my career, I’ve sensed I was in the presence of true greatness. I have that feeling now. I have a powerful desire to shoot Wheaton, to document the artist at work. After a moment’s hesitation, I take a few shots of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s spare film in my fanny pack, and in less than a minute I’m reloading, so caught up am I in the essential act of my profession. Wheaton has a gift that many great men possess: the ability to carry on with what he’s doing as if no camera were there. Even as I shoot, I know these pictures will be remarkable, and some corner of my brain hopes the FBI won’t insist that the negatives remain their property.

Lenz and Kaiser have moved across the room to confer quietly, and I sense that they’re ready to move on to Leon Gaines. Sure enough, Kaiser catches my eye and nods at me to wrap it up. There’s more film in the van, so I finish out the roll before I walk up to the ladder and offer Wheaton my hand. I don’t usually shake hands, but in this case I feel I should make some gesture of thanks for his generosity. Leaving his brush and palette atop the ladder, Wheaton climbs down and gives my hand a gentle shake. Even through the cotton gloves I can tell his hand is soft as a woman’s. His disease must keep him from any sort of manual work other than painting.

“Thanks for making that easy for me,” I say.

The artist smiles shyly. “It’s very easy to tolerate the attentions of a pretty girl.”