Thomas Cook - Sacrificial Ground

“Good,” Caleb said. “No place to hide in that little shack.” He picked up the radio. “This is A one zero four. We’re checking out a murder suspect. Extent of danger, unknown. Would appreciate backup at one two one Mercer Place. No siren, please. Just be there if we need you.” He put down the mike, and smiled. “That puts a lid on it, Frank. “ He opened the car door. “Let’s go.”

The door of the shed was wide open, and a wide slant of light swept out of it. From time to time a shadow would flit between the lamp and the sheeting rain, and each time Frank saw it, he felt his breath catch in his throat. As he walked toward the open door, he felt the lightness of his flesh, the weak, uncertain web that held his life. He glanced at Caleb and felt a sudden overwhelming urge to touch his arm and warn him to take care.

Instead, it was Caleb who turned. “Be careful, Frank,” he whispered. Then he smiled and walked on.

They stopped at the edge of light, paused for just an instant, then knocked lightly at the door.

“Who’s there?”

Frank pulled out his badge and went through the door.

“Police,” he said.

The man looked up. He was tall, slender, with blond hair and light blue eyes that gave his face a startling beauty. He was standing by the sculptor’s bench, his thumb poised at the statue’s throat.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Caleb came up beside Frank. “Just a few questions.”

“About what?”

“Are you Vincent Toffler?”

“Yes. Why?”

Frank returned his badge to his coat. “We have a few questions for you.” He took out the picture of Angelica Devereaux and held it up. “Do you know this girl?”

The man nodded. “Yes.”

Frank took a small, cautious step toward him as he pocketed the photograph. “How did you happen to know her?” he asked.

“She was my subject,” the man said matter-of-factly. He pointed to the large painting to his left. “That’s her, as you can see.”

“How well did you know her, Mr. Toffler?” Frank asked, almost amiably.

“She was my subject.”

“You said that.”

“Well, that means that I painted her,” Toffler said. “She was my model. You can’t paint what you don’t know.”

“So you got to know her fairly well?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Toffler said. He looked at the sculpture. “Do you mind if I continue with this while we talk?”

“Not at all,” Frank said. He took another step. “So she was your model.”

“Yes,” Toffler said indifferently. He pressed his thumb into the statue’s upper arm and drew it down smoothly.

“Where did you meet her?” Caleb asked. He walked over to the opposite wall and leaned heavily against it. “From the look of that painting you did, you got to know her better than fairly well.”

Toffler glared at Caleb. “That’s offensive,” he said.

“Why don’t you just answer his question?” Frank replied.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly that I painted her,” he said. “It was more like I painted what she inspired.”

“Which was?”

“Desire,” Toffler said. “She was the central figure, the creature who made it possible.”

“Made what possible?” Frank asked.

“My study.”

“Of Angelica?”

Toffler laughed. “Angelica did not merit a study,” he said. “No, my portrait of human desire. That’s what I wanted to capture. Desire in men and women of all ages. Angelica inspired it in people.” He smiled slightly. “She could walk into a room and make everyone in it want her, more than anything they had ever wanted in their lives. That was her gift, that kind of beauty. They wanted to touch her, all of them.”

“How do you know that?” Frank asked.

“I could see it in their eyes,” Toffler said. He returned to the sculpture, carefully rubbing his thumb across the woman’s throat. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Where would you see these people?”

“Wherever I sent her,” Toffler said. “It was the same kind of reaction no matter where she was. It could be a poolroom or theater, it didn’t matter.”

“How about an art gallery?” Frank asked.

“Even more,” Toffler said. “Even more.”

“So you would take her to various places, is that it?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“And watch the way people reacted to her?”

“Watch their desire, watch the way they hid it,” Toffler said. His thumb dug into the clay. “She was made to be watched. That’s what I explained to her.” He drew his thumb from the clay, then tried to smooth over the wound. “And she understood it, at least for a while. She did it well. People yearned for her. It was more than lust. Angelica inspired a deep, deep longing. That’s what I wanted to capture.”

“And so you used her?” Frank asked.

“The way I might use a brush, yes,” Toffler said. “What’s wrong with that?” He looked at Frank evenly. “Nothing should ever come before one’s work.” He returned his attention to the sculpture. “Besides, she did it all quite willingly.”

“All of it?”

Toffler hesitated. “Well, at first.”

“But then she stopped?”

“She met this ridiculous old man, a painter.”

“Derek Linton?”

“Yes,” Toffler said. He didn’t seem surprised they knew. “She met him at a gallery. I saw them standing together in front of one of the galleries, so I know it was Linton who did it.”

“Did what?”

“Killed her.”

Frank took another step toward him. “Derek Linton killed Angelica?”

“Killed her reason for being,” Toffler said impatiently. “She was on assignment one day, at one of the galleries. That’s when she bumped into Linton. She looked at that mindless idiocy he paints, and was … seduced by it.” His voice grew thin. “Faded old romantic. Lost in the mists of Innisfree. Ridiculous.” He dug his thumbnail into the statue’s shoulder and peeled away a small bit of clay. “I saw them together. I knew what she was trying to do.”

“And what was that?” Caleb asked, as he edged away from the wall.

“To fuck him, I guess,” Toffler said. He turned toward Frank. “What happened to your face?”

“You dressed her up in various ways,” Frank said. “And then you set her up in a gallery or some place else, so that people would see her.”

“Yes.”

“And then you watched the people who watched her?”

Toffler nodded. “It was living art, fantastically successful, perhaps the best work I’ve ever done. “ He shook his head. “But then Angelica vulgarized it. She became a disgusting little tease in front of that old man.”

“I guess you guys went a few rounds over that, didn’t you?” Caleb asked.

Toffler’s eyes flashed toward him. “What?”

“You fought,” Frank said.

“I fought for my art,” Toffler said.

“But Angelica wouldn’t give in,” Frank said.

“I tried to make her understand,” Toffler said, “but she had lost it. Even then, I think I still could have been able to work with her, but then she ruined herself, ruined the whole project.”

“By getting pregnant,” Frank said.

Toffler nodded. “That was unbearable. She was going to be just another fat, flabby, pregnant teenager.” He stared at the portrait of Angelica. “What good would she be after that?”

Frank eased himself forward cautiously, his feet hardly leaving the floor. “And so you killed her,” he said.

“No,” Toffler said. “Of course not. That would have been ridiculous. In fact, she even had a change of heart. She came back to me. She said she’d gotten a lot of money by telling her guardian that she was pregnant and was going to keep the baby.”

“But she wasn’t going to do that?” Frank asked.