Max Collins - Before the Dawn

“Is fake,” Logan said with a nod.

“Well, what about the others?” Seth seethed.

“I’ll need a few minutes,” the expert said, and returned to his work.

Logan stood and placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder; that the boy did not brush it off was a small miracle.

“Come on,” Logan said, smiling a little. “We’ll go into the kitchen. Get out of Pepe’s hair.”

“What there is of it,” Henderson said good-naturedly.

“Are you high, Logan?” Now Seth did brush off the hand. “I’m staying right here — your buddy could switch paintings on us.”

“What with?” Logan asked savagely, gesturing all around, suddenly fed up with Seth’s paranoia. “The only thing Pepe brought with him was a small case with his machine. Where do you think he would put six more fake paintings?”

“He... he could have ’em rolled up his pant legs!”

Henderson glanced over. “Fellas, I’ll check your paintings for you, and be happy, too — but if you think I’m gonna drop trou, you got another thing—”

Logan held up a hand. “No, that’s okay, Pepe... please get back to work.” He looked at Seth, an eyebrow raised. “You ready to come back to Planet Earth?”

Seth, embarrassed, turned toward the art expert. “Listen — I didn’t mean anything... You think they’re all fake?”

Bending over a canvas, sharing his ass-crack, Henderson said, “The way this works is, I don’t have any preconceptions. Some pretty sophisticated collectors can get fooled by fakes... sometimes a collection can have a forgery hanging right next to the real thing... Bottom line, till I do my thing, we’re all just flappin’ our gums.”

Logan took Seth gently by the arm. “Let’s go have something to drink... We’ll talk.”

Reluctantly, Seth followed Logan, who poured them cups of coffee in the kitchen, where they sat across from each other on stools separated by a high butcher-block counter.

His anger simmering into frustration, Seth said, “God damn it! Here I thought I was finally going to catch a break, for a change, have something go right, in this screwed-up life of mine.”

Logan sipped his coffee and allowed the young man time to vent.

The stool couldn’t hold Seth long, and soon the boy was pacing around the kitchen, pissing and moaning. Modern and airy, the room was a study in stainless steel and natural wood, with plenty of cupboard space. Logan, a neatness freak, kept this room as meticulous as the rest of his condo — reordering the chaos of the world might be beyond his control, but his living space sure as hell would do as he told it.

“I can’t believe this,” Seth was saying. “All that work for nothing.”

“It was hardly for nothing,” Logan said quietly.

“What in hell makes you think so?”

Taking a long pull from the coffee cup, Logan considered the question a moment before answering. “Think it through, Seth — Manticore gave you more than just superior warrior skills... you have an exceptional mind. Use it.”

“Blow me.”

“I’ll pass,” Logan said, “but thanks for the offer... Look, there’s only two reasons for a collector to hang fake paintings on the wall.”

Seth just looked at him.

“One,” Logan continued, “said collector’s trying to protect his collection... so, he has it hidden away, somewhere.”

“And hangs duplicates in their place,” Seth finished.

“Yes — like a wealthy woman with a fantastic assortment of jewelry, who wears paste versions when she’s out on the town.”

“You think that’s what Sterling did?”

“Frankly, no.”

Seth frowned, but more in thought than anger, or even frustration. “Why not?”

Logan shrugged. “Our friend Jared has spent way more money for forgeries of this quality than he would have to, to just put something on the wall to fool his friends. These weren’t meant as decoys, protection against home invasion; they were meant to fool everybody, even Pepe.”

“Your pal Pepe spotted them easily enough.”

“No — not easily... he had to use all the tools of his trade, exert all of his professional skills. Ask him if he would have known these were forgeries, had he just been looking at them hanging on a museum wall... and I think he’ll say they would have fooled even him.”

“But, then... what the hell is the point of the fakes?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I think Sterling was passing these off as the originals... when in fact, the originals have been sold overseas.”

“Why would he do that?” Seth asked, pausing in his pacing. “Doesn’t he have enough money already?”

“People like Sterling never have enough money. They’re always looking for more.”

“Oh, but you have money,” Seth said sarcastically, “and you would never think to scam me out of—”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Logan interrupted curtly. Then, wryly, he added, “But Sterling’s kind?... If you feel his hand in your pocket, he’s not making a pass.”

Seth stared at Logan, any accusation long gone. “You sound like you know something about the species.”

“I do.” Logan sighed. “Seen it up close and personal.”

This seemed to interest Seth, who asked, “Where?” and returned to his stool.

“Long time ago,” Logan said. “’nother life.”

Logan didn’t want to get into an extended biography of himself and his family. Ever since his parents had died, he’d been trying to put that part of his life behind him; and he definitely didn’t want to get into this discussion with Seth, a borderline sociopath who had no point of reference regarding parents, anyway.

Henderson cleared his throat by way of announcing his presence, as he strolled wearily into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee, and pulled up a stool next to Logan.

“They’re all fakes, aren’t they?” Seth asked, his voice so subdued Logan wondered if the kid might not cry.

The art expert nodded. “Sorry, son — please don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Shit,” Seth said. “Shit, shit, shit! ”

Henderson sipped his coffee, sighed, and said, “If it’s any consolation, these are, without a doubt, the finest forgeries I’ve ever come across.”

“Really?” Logan asked, interested.

“Oh yeah — canvas is the right age, paint is old, properly crazed...”

“What’s crazy about them?” Seth asked.

“Crazed — cracked,” Henderson explained. “I have no idea how anybody could pull off something so... sophisticated.”

Logan shifted on the stool, studying Henderson the way the art expert looked at a painting. “How did you know they were fakes then, Pepe?”

Henderson’s eyes opened wide, and he smirked. “I didn’t — it was the UVIN that figured it out.”

“You put my paintings in an oven? ” Seth asked, frowning.

The expert shook his head, saying, “Ultra-Violet Imaging Network... measures a bunch of stuff, using UV rays.”

Logan nodded. “And what did the UVIN tell you?”

“That despite the fact that the paint looks old and cracked, the chemical makeup is about four years old.” Gesturing with his coffee cup, Henderson said, “Take the Sargent painting, for example — Alpine Pool. ”

“What about it?” Seth asked.

“Well, the real one was painted around nineteen-oh-seven.”

Hand to his forehead, as if testing for a fever, Seth stared into nowhere. “Goddamn it. I shoulda known. What a chump I am...”

“Hardly,” the expert said. “If I’d seen these paintings in any respectable museum or private collection, it would never have occurred to me they might be fakes.”

Seth and Logan traded looks — Henderson had just confirmed what Logan had told the boy earlier.