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Alex couldn’t understand why the man seemed so nervous. Mr. Martin often sold paintings for a great deal more than Alex’s work. One of R. C. Dillion’s paintings would have gone for well over what Alex had just earned for six. Maybe it was just that it had all been in cash.
“What then?” Alex asked, his suspicion growing. “Did the man say anything else?”
“There’s a little more to the story.” Mr. Martin straightened the orange knot at his throat. “After he had paid—in cash, the same cash I just gave you—he said, ‘These are mine, now, right?’ I said, ‘Yes, of course.’
“He then picked up one of his paintings, pulled a fat black marker out of his pocket—you know, the indelible kind—and started writing all over the painting. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do.
When he had finished, he did the same to each in turn. Wrote all over them.”
Mr. Martin clenched his hands together. “I’ve never had such an experience. I asked the man what he thought he was doing. He said that they were his paintings and he could do any damn thing he wanted to with them.”
Mr. Martin leaned closer. “Alex, I would have stopped him, I swear I would have, but, well, they were his, and he was very…insistent about what he was doing. By his change in attitude I was beginning to fear what would happen if I were to interfere. So I didn’t. I had the money, after all—cash at that.”
Alex stood with his jaw hanging. He was overjoyed to have the money from the sale but at the same time he was incensed to hear that his work had been defaced.
“So he finished marking all over my work and then just took his ruined paintings and left?”
Mr. Martin scratched his jaw, his gaze turning aside. “No. He set them down and said that he wanted me to give them back to you. He said, ‘Give them back to Alexander Rahl. My treat.’”
Alex heaved a sigh. “Let me see them.”
Mr. Martin gestured to the paintings sitting against the wall in the corner of the office area. They were placed face-to-face, and no longer in frames.
When Alex lifted the first one and held it out in both hands he was struck speechless. In fat black letters sprawled diagonally across the painting it said FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.
The painting was covered with every other hateful, vile, vulgar name there was.
“Alex, I want them out of here.”
Alex stood, hands trembling, staring at his beautiful painting covered with ugly words.
“Do you hear me, Alex? I can’t have these in here. What if a customer should happen to see them? You have to take them with you. Right now. Get them out. I want them out of here. I want to forget all about this.”
Through his fury Alex could only nod. He knew that Mr. Martin didn’t fear a customer seeing them. Many of Mr. Martin’s artists routinely spoke like this in front of customers. The customers took the artist’s “colorful” speech as an indication of social sensitivity and artistic introspection. The more times an artist could drop the F bomb in a sentence the more visionary he became to them.
No, Mr. Martin was not offended by the words—he was used to hearing them in the gallery—he was frightened by the man who had written them, and by the context of those words: raw hatred.
Mr. Martin cleared his throat. “I’ve been giving the matter a great deal of thought, and I think it best if for now we don’t display any of your work.”
Alex looked up. “What?”
Mr. Martin gestured to the painting. “Well, look at it. This kind of man could get violent. He looked like he was ready to break my neck if I dared lift a finger to stop him.”
Alex’s first thought was that it was Bethany’s doing, but he dismissed the idea. He was pretty sure she didn’t have that kind of money to spend on a grudge.
“What did this guy look like? Describe him.”
“Well,” Mr. Martin said, taken aback a little by the heat in Alex’s tone, “he was tall, and good size—about like you. He was dressed casually but not expensively. Tan slacks, some kind of bland shirt, not tucked in. It was beige with a vertical blue stripe of some sort down the left side.”
Alex didn’t recognize the description.
He felt sick with anger. He ripped the canvas off the stretcher, then did the same with the other five. He only briefly saw the insults and obscene words desecrating the scenes of beauty. The range of profanity turned his stomach, not so much because of the words themselves, but because of the naked hate they conveyed.
They were just paintings of beauty. That’s all they were. Something to uplift people who looked at them, something to make people feel good about life and the world they lived in. To harbor hatred for beauty was one thing, but to go to great expense just to express that hate was quite another.
Alex realized that Mr. Martin was right. Such a man could easily become violent.
Alex hoped to meet him.
9. (#ulink_ac9d5f7e-e212-57fa-b39a-2038a867af43)
WITH THE ROLLED-UP RUINED CANVASES under one arm and the painting that he’d carefully wrapped in brown paper tucked under his other arm, Alex left Mr. Martin’s gallery without an argument. Despite how much he was fuming, there wasn’t any point in arguing. Mr. Martin was afraid.
Alex couldn’t really blame the man. Alone as he was most of the time, he was a sitting duck in the gallery. The stranger could come back at any time. What was Mr. Martin supposed to do? Alex couldn’t expect the gallery owner to have it in him to be able to handle an altercation that could become violent.
Conflicting emotions raged through Alex’s thoughts as he made his way out into the elegant halls. He was depressed, he was furious. He wanted to run home and lock himself away from a world where such people roamed free. He wanted to find the guy and shove the black markers down his throat.
When Alex looked up, the woman was standing not far off in front of him, watching him approach. He slowed to a stop.
She was in the same black dress, with the same green wrap draped over her shoulders. He thought that he saw wisps of vapor—a hint of steam or smoke—rising from her fall of blond hair and her shoulders, but as soon as he focused on it, it was gone.
As impossible as it seemed, she looked even better than he remembered.
“You come here often?” he asked.
Her gaze never left his as she slowly shook her head. “This is only my second time here.”
Something about the serious set of her features gave him pause. He knew that she wasn’t there to shop.
His grandfather’s old mantra, Trouble will find you, echoed through his mind.
“Are you all right, Alex?” she asked.
“Sure.” The sound of her voice made him all right. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
A small smile softened her features as she glided a step closer. “I am Jax.”
Her name was as unusual as everything else about her. He could hardly believe that he was really seeing her again.
“I’d give anything to paint you, Jax,” he said under his breath to himself.
She smiled at his words, smiled in a way that accepted them as a compliment, but didn’t reveal her view of them or her willingness to be the subject of a painting.
He finally pulled his gaze away to check around, to see if anyone was close. “Did you hear the news on the TV?”
Her brow twitched. “News? No. What news?”
“You remember the other day when we first met out on the street? When that truck nearly ran us over.”
“The pirates, as you called them. I remember.”
“Well, later that same day those two cops who stopped the truck were found dead.”
She stared at him a moment. “Dead?”
He nodded. “The news said that both men had been found with their necks broken.”
The method of murder registered in her eyes. She let out a long sigh as she shook her head. “That’s terrible.”
Alex suddenly wished he hadn’t started the conversation with grim news. He gestured to a bench set in among a grouping of large round planters.
“Would you sit with me? I’d like to show you something.”
She returned the smile and at his bidding sat on the small mahogany bench. Huge split-leaf philodendrons created a green roof over the bench. The planters overflowing with plants to either side and behind made it resemble a forest retreat for just the two of them. The planters and vegetation blocked them off from most but not all of the shoppers strolling the halls.
Alex set the rolled-up canvases on the bench to his right, on the side away from her. He placed the painting on her lap.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A gift.”
She stared at him a moment, then pulled off the brown paper.
She looked genuinely stunned to see the painting. She lifted it reverently in her hands. Her eyes welled up with tears.
It took her a moment to find her voice. “Why are you giving me this?”
Alex shrugged. “Because I want to. You thought it was beautiful.
Not everyone thinks my work is beautiful. You did. I wanted you to have it.”
Jax swallowed. “Alex, tell me why you painted this particular place.”
“Like I told you before, it’s from my imagination.”
“No, it’s not,” she said rather emphatically.
He paused momentarily, surprised by her words. “Yes it is. I was merely painting a scene—”
“This is a place near where I live.” She touched a graceful finger to the shade beneath towering pines. “I’ve spent countless hours sitting in this very place, gazing off at the mountain passes here, and here. The views from this hidden place are unparalleled—just as you’ve painted them.”
Alex didn’t know what to say. “It’s just a painting of the woods. The woods can look much the same in one place as another. A species of tree all look pretty much the same. I’m sure that it simply reminds you of this place you know.”
With the edge of a knuckle she wiped a tear from under an eye. “No.” She swallowed and then pointed to a spot he clearly recalled painting. For some reason he’d put extra care into the trunk of the tree. “See this notch you put in this tree?” She glanced up at him. “I put that notch there.”
“You put it there,” he said in a flat tone.
Jax nodded. “I was testing the edge I’d put on my knife. The bark is thick there. I sliced paper-thin pieces of it to test the edge. Bark is tough, but is easier on a freshly sharpened blade than other things, like wood, might be.”
“And you like to sit at a place like this?”
“No, not a place like this place. This place. I like to sit at this place. This place is Shineestay.”
“Shineestay? What’s that mean?”
“It’s an ancient word that means ‘place of power.’ You have painted that exact place.” She looked again at the scene and tapped a spot to the side of the sunlit glen. “The only minor difference is that there is a tree, here, near the side of this open area, that you have not painted. This is the exact same spot, except for that one tree that’s missing.”
Alex felt goose bumps tickle the nape of his neck. He knew the tree she was talking about. He had painted it.
He had originally painted it exactly where she was pointing, but while it might have been right in such a forest, it had been compositionally wrong for the painting, so he had painted over it. He recalled at the time wondering why he’d painted it in the first place, since it didn’t fit in the composition. Even as he looked where Jax was pointing, he could see the faint contour of the brushstrokes of the tree beneath the paint that now lay over it.
Alex was at a loss to explain how it could be the place she knew. “Where is this place?”
She stared at him a moment. Her voice regained a bit of its distant, detached edge. “Alex, we need to talk. Unfortunately, there is a great deal to say, and like the last time, I can’t stay long.”
“I’m listening.”
She glanced at passersby. “Is there somewhere not far away that’s a little more private?”
Alex pointed down the hall. “There’s a restaurant down there that’s nice. The lunch rush is over, so it would be quiet and more private. How about if I buy you lunch and you can tell me what you have the time to tell me?”
She pressed her lips tightly together a moment as she considered the place he’d pointed out. “All right.” He wondered why she was being so cautious. Maybe she had a grandfather like Ben.
As they stood, she held the painting tightly to herself. “Thank you for this, Alex. You can’t possibly know what this means to me. This is one of my favorite places. I go there because it’s beautiful.”
He bowed his head at her kind words. “I painted it because it’s beautiful. That you like it is a greater reward for me than you could know.”
He still wanted to know how he could have painted a place she knew, a place she knew so well, but he sensed the tension in her posture and decided to go easy. She’d said that she wanted to explain things, so he thought it best if he didn’t intimidate her out of wanting to do so.
Alex picked up the rolled canvases and then tucked them under an arm as they started down the hall.
“How did you come by the name Jax?”
She brightened, almost laughed, at the question. “It’s a game. You toss jax on the ground, throw a ball up in the air, and then try to pick up the jax and catch the ball in the same hand after it bounces once. It’s a simple child’s game but as you try for ever more jax it requires a sharp eye and quick hands. Certain people were amazed at how quick I am with my hands, so my parents named me Jax.”
Alex frowned as he tried to reconcile the story. “But when you were born you couldn’t have played anything yet. A kid has to be, what, five to ten years old before they can play that kind of game? How could your parents know you were going to be quick with your hands when you were just born?”
She stared straight ahead as she walked. “Prophecy.”
Alex blinked. “What?”
“A prophet told them about me before I was born, told them how everyone would be amazed at how quick I would be with my hands, how it would first be noticed because I would be a natural at the game of jax. That’s why they named me Jax.”
Alex wondered what kind of weird religion her parents belonged to that put that much stock in the words of prophets. He thought that if her parents expected her to be quick with her hands then they would encourage her to practice and as a result she would end up quick. He wanted to say so, to say a lot of things, ask a lot of questions, but a growing sense of caution reminded him to take it easy and let her tell her own story. So he kept his questions on the light side.
“But Jack, like in jacks, is a boy’s name.”
“The boy’s name Jack is spelled with a k. My name is spelled with an x. J-A-X comes from the game of jax, not the boy’s name.”
