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He’d stared at it for so long. He’d known that it was almost perfect, with a depth and a power to it that no one else would be able to match. Thathecertainly hadn’t been able to match the next time that he tried to paint.
The inspiration hadn’t lasted. His muse was dead, and his inspiration was gone. After that, he’dneededto kill again. He hadn’t wanted to. There hadn’t been a reason to, but he’d needed to. He’d needed another muse, and Hope Jackson had been the obvious choice.
He’d stalked her. He’d killed her. It hadn’t felt right to string her up in the same way he had with Aiden. He’d gone for a different pose, a different posture, a different scene. He’d followed his inspiration with that, just as he had with his painting. He’d killed her and now . . .
Now, he was producing another work of truly stunning beauty, disturbing in its power, perhaps, but undeniably something special.
The only frustration was that he wasn’t going to be able to exhibit, at least, not yet. Perhaps in a year or two, when he had finished his sequence and when the attention around it all had died down a little, things would be different. Perhaps he would be able to say that he had merely heard the story of the events and been inspired by it. Perhaps he could call it a comment on the darkest aspects of humanity.
For now, he set down his paintbrush and looked over his latest work. It was, if anything, even better than his first attempt. There was a power here, a mixture of the real and the surreal, that was impossible to deny.
Was this his art? Were the paintings his main work, or were the killings themselves? Were the killings mere preliminary sketches or maquettes? Or were the paintings mere side pieces to the main works of performance art?
Even he didn’t know right then. Hedidknow, though, that the painting in front of him wasn’t going to be enough. The moment he’d completed it, it had ceased to be enough. It wasn’t an endpoint, merely one step along a whole sequence, a triptych at least, perhaps more.
He set his hand to a fresh canvas. The only problem was that, even as he did so, he could feel the inspiration fading from him. Last night had given him one work, but it wouldn’t give him another. He’d done what he needed to do for today, but if he wanted more . . .
Well, the answer to that was simple. If he wanted more, and he did, then he was going to need to find another muse to kill.
CHAPTER NINE
“This isn’t what I expected,” Paige said as she stepped into the Arnville City Museum.
“What were you expecting?” Christopher asked.
“I don’t know. Something . . . smaller?”
With a town like this, Paige had been expecting some small, out of the way building filled with local exhibits. Instead, it seemed as if someone had shrunk the Louvre or the Guggenheim, producing a museum steeped in a mixture of classical architecture and postmodern renovation, with artwork on the walls that . . . well, Paige was no judge, but most of it looked expensive.
Even the historical exhibits had that sense of something grand about them. This wasn’t the kind of place that had a few broken sherds of pottery or small fossils. Instead, it seemed to have items from around the world, grandly displayed in large glass cabinets.
A young woman in a museum uniform came up to them. She was maybe twenty, with dark hair in a slightly chaotic mess, her dark uniform offset by a nametag saying that her name was Marie.
“Hi,” she said in a bright tone. “Can I help you find any of the exhibits?”
“This is a lot more impressive than we imagined,” Christopher said. “Where did all of this come from?”
“The main bequests came from the Pyle family seventy years ago after the heir to their manufacturing empire passed away unexpectedly. Since then, the museum has been able to add to its collection with some of the best in historical and contemporary art.”
That had the sound of something she’d been taught to say, suggesting that a lot of the visitors asked the same question. Only Paige and Christopher weren’t normal visitors. They had a job to do.
Paige flashed her badge. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking into what happened to Aiden Martlet.”
She saw Marie’s expression change and watched her carefully, trying to assess her reaction. She didn’t have any reason to suspect that this young woman had anything to do with the murders, but she still watched for any sudden expressions of guilt or worry related to the fact that the FBI were there. There was always a chance that the killer might give themselves away when they first met Paige and Christopher.
To Paige, Marie seemed shocked, but didn’t show any obvious signs of wanting to avoid the two of them.
“We—it was so horrible, hearing about it,” she said. Paige saw her flinch slightly as if just the thought of it was painful for her. “I can’t imagine how anybody could do something like that.”
Paige had heard that response from people before. Indeed, understanding how people could become killers had been a big focus in her PhD research into serial killers. It had been a question that had fascinated her ever since her father’s death.
“Can you tell us about Aiden?” Christopher asked.
“I . . . I didn’t really know him that well,” Marie said. “He was nice enough, always quick to laugh. We worked together on an exhibition of seventeenth century Dutch painters a couple of months ago.”
“Was there anyone who didn’t get along with him?” Paige asked. “Did he have any enemies that you know of? Were there any incidents here involving him?”
Marie looked uncomfortable as Paige asked that. Paige felt sure that she knew something, but she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’d have to ask someone else.”
