From Black Rooms (4 page)

control ed, and focused. Unlike Hector, Natalie did not have a Soul Leash that could banish the artist's spirit if anything went wrong.

"Hey, kiddo," Wade Lindstrom cal ed out the moment she stepped through the connecting door from the

condo's garage. "Did you get it?"

Natalie made a face. She didn't real y feel like

discussing the Munch project with anyone right now, but her dad pressed her for details of al her Violet gigs, as if they were now the family business. "Yeah. Hector wasn't happy about it, but he gave me the touchstone, anyway."

"Great! Come here--I want to show you something." She detoured into the kitchen, where Wade sat at the breakfast table in front of a stack of open textbooks and a portable CD player. Although forced into retirement, he dressed as if he were stil traveling the country sel ing climate-control systems. Without the weight he'd lost since his bypass surgery, the sport coat and slacks sagged like tent canvas around the poles of his limbs, but he'd refused her repeated offers to buy him new clothes. Natalie had invited him to move in with her and Cal ie fol owing the operation, for he had little to lose by abandoning the former family home in New Hampshire, given that serial kil er Vincent Thresher had murdered Wade's second wife, Sheila Lindstrom, there. Wattles bunched at the open col ar of Wade's dress shirt as he bent his head over one of the books. He raised a hand when Natalie approached. "Just give me a sec...

Out of habit, she glanced at the calendar pil box on the kitchen counter and noted that the week's TUES

compartment was stil shut. "Dad, you didn't take your meds."

He fluttered a hand in annoyance. "I know, honey--in a minute. First, listen to this." Rising from his chair, he tugged his lapels taut and cleared his throat. "Hei. Mitt
navn er Wade Lindstrom." He smiled and gave a
diplomatic bow. "Det er en fornoyelse mote De." Natalie's mouth opened before she knew quite what to say. "Come again?"

"It's Norwegian! 'Hel o. My name is Wade Lindstrom. It's a pleasure to meet you.' " He spread his arms with a
ta-da! flourish.

Though she already suspected what he was thinking, Natalie hoped she was wrong. "Uh...you planning a trip to Scandinavia?"

"No, sil y! I want to help you with Munch." Her frozen smile melted. "Help me?"

"Sure. Like this: Herr Munch, hva vil De liker...oh, heck--" He shut his eyes a second, then peeked at one of the language texts on the table. "Oh, yeah. Herr
Munch, hva vil De liker male i dag?"

"Translation?"

" 'Herr Munch, what would you like to paint today?' " Wade beamed like a boy who's just learned to ride his first bike. "I figured you could do the summoning and I could do the talking."

Natalie rubbed her forehead, trying to think of a way to let him down easy. "Um...that's real y sweet of you, Dad, but I was actual y going to speak French with Munch."

Wade's face fel . "He speaks French?"

"Yeah. He spent several years in Paris when he was young, and since I brushed up on French for Monet and van Gogh... She finished the thought with a shrug. Her father cast a crestfal en glance at al the books and language CDs he'd accumulated. "But wouldn't it help to have someone with you while you're...you

know...occupied?"

The desperate eagerness etched in his expression tied a knot in Natalie's throat, and for a moment she couldn't reply. Ever since her mother, Nora, went insane from her work as a Corps conduit, Wade Lindstrom had

wanted nothing to do with Violets. He had hardly

visited Natalie during her years of training at the School, and had divorced Nora to start a new life with Sheila, a woman of exemplary normality. For him to volunteer to assist Natalie with her current work indicated how far he had come in conquering his past fears--and how much he loved her and Cal ie.

Stil , the thought of having Wade watch her inhabited by another person's soul was akin to al owing her dad to videotape her having sex. Natalie didn't want him to see her like that.

"I wish you could help me," she told him truthful y.

"But dead people can get touchy, and I have to handle them very careful y."

Wade shook his head, his blue eyes becoming rheumy with the water wel ing in them. "There must be
something I can do. I feel awful just sponging off you."

"Dad, you're not sponging."

"How can you say that? I invade your house, eat your food, kick you out of your own bed--"

"It was my idea to take the couch. I'm fine with it, real y." She felt that offering Wade the master bedroom was the least she could do, since he had been forced to sel his business in large part because the government had blacklisted him when Natalie left the Corps.

As always, Wade refused her consolation. "I'd like to help you make a living."

"Believe me, Dad--what you save me in day care alone more than pays your room and board."

The wisp of a smile returned to his face. "That's not work, and you know it."

"I know. But I also know it means a ton to Cal ie to have you here." She crossed the room and folded her arms around him. "To me, too."

"Thanks, kiddo." He started to hug her back, but abruptly pul ed away and looked at his watch. "Oh, shoot! Speaking of Cal ie, she must be about done at Dr. Steinmetz's office. I'd better run."

Natalie tried to stop him as he hurried out of the kitchen. "Relax, Dad, I can get her."

"No, no--not a problem. See you in a few." He rushed past her and waved a cheery good-bye.

Natalie snatched the pil box off the counter and went after him. "Wel , at least take your meds--" The front door slammed.

Natalie sighed, the hand with the pil box dropping to her side. She had moved to return it to the kitchen counter when the front door opened again and Wade leaned inside.

"Hey, kiddo! There's a guy out here to see you." He cupped a hand around his mouth and lowered his voice.

"Looks like another client."

Wade winked and flashed her a thumbs-up, then left again.

"Wait! Your pil s." Medication in hand, Natalie opened the door to catch him, but found a man with salt-andpepper hair waiting on the front step. He paused with his thick index finger only an inch from the doorbel , chuckled, and put out his hand. "Didn't even have to ring it! Ms. Lindstrom, I presume?" Dressed in a dark, double-breasted suit, he stood a head tal er than she, and she had to perch on tiptoes to peek past his broad shoulders at Wade, who strol ed down the front walk toward his Camry. Noting her gaze, the man on the doorstep indicated her father with his thumb. "Your associate said you were available. Is this a bad time?"

As her dad got in his car, Natalie gave up on trying to nag him; she'd force the pil s down him when he got home. She turned her attention to the stranger. "I'm sorry. What can I do for you, Mr....?"

"Amis. Carleton Amis. I understand you've been commissioned to work with Edvard Munch."

"I've been commissioned to do a painting in the style of Edvard Munch," she corrected him. Since she was no longer a registered member of the NAACC, Natalie

could not legal y claim her paintings were the products of deceased artists. That was why her works sold for thousands of dol ars, while pieces by Corps artists like Hector fetched mil ions at auction.

Amis held up a hand, as if to stop her from repeating a speech he'd already heard. "There's no need to mince words with me, Ms. Lindstrom. The col ectors who buy your work know they're getting the genuine article. And I'm prepared to pay a great deal more for what they've been getting on the cheap."

She eyed Amis, from his smug expression down to his Italian leather shoes, to decide whether he was a legitimate client or a Corps Security stooge sent to set her up. "Oh? You want a Munch original?"

"Not exactly. My needs are much more specific than that." He smiled. "I want you to persuade Mr. Munch to create an exact replica of The Scream."

3

The Crazy Norwegian

OH, BROTHER, NOT ANOTHER ONE, NATALIE

THOUGHT. WHAT DO YOU bet he wants a Mona

Lisa, too? Stil , she tried to exert some professional courtesy. It always paid to be polite to people of wealth--as Carleton Amis seemed to be--no matter

how clueless they might be.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'd like to help you, but I'm ful y booked at the moment." That wasn't real y true, but she hoped Amis would buy the excuse and save her the

trouble of explaining her real reasons for turning down the assignment.

No such luck. Amis didn't budge from the doorstep.

"I understand how busy you must be, but I assure you I can make it worth your while." He gestured toward the interior of the condo. "Might I come inside to discuss the project with you?"

Natalie shifted to block his view of the living room, where she'd left her sofa bed unmade that morning.

"I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess right now... Amis chuckled. "Understood. And I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I only wanted the chance to clarify the ful scope of my offer." He took a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his blazer and unfolded it. "You see, The Scream is only one of many paintings we'd like you to do."

The typed sheet he handed her listed the titles and artists of more than two dozen masterpieces. The

Concert by Vermeer, Storm on the Sea of Galilee by
Rembrandt, Madonna of the Yarnwinder by da Vinci,
Chez Tortoni by Manet...

Natalie scowled and passed the page back to Amis.

"These are al the Maven paintings."

His smile broadened. "Precisely. I'm a producer for Persephone Productions, and we want to make a movie about the artworks' theft and mysterious reappearance."

"Ahh! I get it." Natalie could easily see Hol ywood exploiting the art world's latest sensation. Stolen over a period of fifteen years, the paintings had, without warning, resurfaced a month ago at the museums from which they'd been taken. Police around the globe stil had no clues as to the identity of the thief, who had puckishly named himself "Arthur Maven," or his motive for returning the priceless works without

claiming any reward or ransom.

"We were very impressed with the work you did for
The Thomas Crown Affair remake," Amis said,
referring to a few Impressionist canvases she'd done for the film's museum-set dressing. "We'd be wil ing to pay handsomely for that kind of authenticity." Natalie shook her head. "That's very kind of you, but I'm afraid--"

"Half a mil ion."

The dol ar amount stopped her like a pair of oncoming headlights. Natalie had pursued the underground Violet art trade as a way to remain independent of the Corps while avoiding the il egal and often dangerous freelance conduit gigs that had once sustained her. Although she was glad to make a living using her skil s as a painter, the business had been a constant hustle and hardly lucrative. A thousand here, two thousand there. She hadn't heard a figure with more than four zeroes

since...

Since that nutcase Nathan Azure suckered you into
going to the godforsaken Andes, she reminded herself.
The English tycoon had promised her four hundred

grand for her help on a Peruvian archaeological dig, only to threaten and starve her in order to force her to find a fortune in Incan gold.

"That's a very generous offer," Natalie told Carleton Amis, "but I can't oblige you."

The severity of Amis's gaze belied the warmth of his smile. "Ms. Lindstrom, without these paintings as props, we have no movie."

"I understand that, but I think you'd be better off using an ordinary reproduction artist--"

"Absolutely not. We're going to be doing close-ups of al these canvases. If they can't withstand the most minute scrutiny, the whole film fal s apart. That kind of accuracy requires the touch that only the original artists can provide."

"Of course. That would be ideal." Natalie drew a long breath, sagging against the door frame. Apparently, she'd have to give him the long explanation, after al .

"What you don't understand is that the original artists
don't want to paint works they've already done."
Natalie had learned this fact the hard way when one of her first art customers had requested an exact copy of van Gogh's The Starry Night. Vincent became so

enraged at the crass demand that Natalie was afraid he would cut her ear off, and she had to evict him with her protective mantra until his temper cooled.

For the first time, her refusal seemed to disconcert Amis. "But your Thomas Crown works--"

"Were al originals. The director didn't need copies of existing paintings, merely pictures that looked like they were done by Renoir and Monet."

"Look, I know for a fact that Munch produced at least four copies of The Scream during his lifetime. Surely you could persuade him to do one more." Amis's tone lilted upward, cajoling her.

Natalie al owed him to hear her sigh, hoping he would take the hint. "Even if I could talk these artists into repeating themselves, you wouldn't end up with exact copies. The paintings on your list have al aged, some for hundreds of years. You'd need someone who could artificial y reproduce the fading, the darkening, the cracking."

"Couldn't you do that? I'd compensate you for the extra trouble."

Natalie shifted her weight from one foot to another, uncomfortable discussing forgery on her front doorstep. She tried to glance past Amis to see if Sanjay Prashad, the Corps Security agent on duty, was witnessing their conversation, but the visitor's monolithic frame fil ed her view. "I'm sorry," she began, "I real y--"

"Eight hundred thousand."

Natalie put a hand to her forehead. "The number of paintings you want done would take months."

"N
ine."

"I appreciate your generosity, but--"

"O
ne million."

The elevation of the price shortened her breath, and for a moment she couldn't speak. She'd refinanced the condo to pay down her credit cards, and Dad had

chipped in to make the monthly payments, but they weren't rich by any measure. Wade stil owed money for his heart bypass and wouldn't qualify for Medicare for another three years, while Cal ie continued to rack up thousands of dol ars in therapy with Dr. Steinmetz. A mil ion dol ars was more cash than Natalie had