Later that night, I’m driving west on Harbor Drive, my boot pushing the accelerator as my cloudy brain tries to make sense of Hunter’s artwork, including the one of him and my wife. Were those paintings just a part of Hunter’s twisted imagination? Or was he Eastpoint’s celebrity stud, preying on the minds and bodies of small-town women?
I reach Locust Road, ease up on the gas pedal, and take a hard right, shutting off my headlights in the process. There are three houses on Hunter’s dead-end street. His is a two-story colonial that sits at the end on two acres of land. I hang a left into his driveway and turn off the engine. As I emerge, the cool October air smacks me in the face, which I find refreshing under the circumstances. I jiggle the doorknob open, then fold my six-foot frame under the crime scene tape and let myself in, locking the door behind me before flicking on my flashlight.
I own the place now that Earl and his investigators are gone, which, according to my watch, is about four hours after finding Hunter’s body.
I retrace my steps and enter Hunter’s sex chamber, my breathing erratic. It’s not from the climb, but the thought of removing that painting. The room is technically part of the crime scene and off limits, though in my capacity, I wouldn’t be challenged unless Earl found me burning the stuff in Hunter’s backyard. But since there isn’t a soul around and the investigators never discovered Hunter’s treasure trove, I’m not about to reveal my little secret.
At some point the public might feast its eyes on Hunter’s artwork, minus the one I’m after. I can’t risk destroying all of the paintings. It’s my own moral dilemma.
Inside Hunter’s upstairs studio, I aim my flashlight on the easel and keep it there for a few uncomfortable moments before bouncing the light wildly around the room.
“Where the hell is it?” I hear myself shouting as I drop to the floor and start crawling around on my hands and knees, knocking over a few copulating couples. Who knew about this room? “Who?” I demand, upset with myself for not being able to destroy the painting earlier.
Then, as though Hunter’s spirit had been set free, I hear the sound of rapid movement coming from downstairs. Within seconds the back screen door slams against the house.
I spring for the ladder and charge downstairs, listening for a car engine to turn over, but the only sound is coming from my breathing. I race out the back door waving my flashlight at the trees, but it’s too dense to see anything.
The metal sound of a car door echoes through the trees, followed by a roaring engine. I sprint for my patrol car and grit my teeth. The keys are missing!
I pop open the hood and retrieve a spare key, then peel out, spitting up dirt.
Arriving home I block the driveway and dash inside, stopping at the kitchen table to catch my breath. I casually enter the living room, where I find my wife, Susan, sitting comfortably on the sofa reading a Patricia Cornwell paperback. She glances up and smiles faintly.
I give her a quick hi and ask, “Been reading long?”
“Ah-huh. Almost finished. I know who did it.”
I’m wondering if she’s referring to the painting. “The butler?”
She smiles. “Not in Cornwell’s books.”
Our eyes stay on each other for a few moments before Susan returns to her reading. I gaze at my wife of fifteen years, who is as beautiful as the day we met, her black silky hair draping over her shoulders, not bound in her usual ponytail. Susan’s soft, pallid skin shows few signs of aging. When my eyes stop at her lightly painted crimson lips, the knot in my stomach returns and I trudge off to the kitchen.
“Your stomach again?” Susan asks.
I don’t turn, but sense her standing at the door. I nod and pop a few antacids into my mouth, chewing with a vengeance.
Susan approaches quietly, her warm breath hitting my neck. The scent from her favorite Zinfandel fills my nostrils. It’s a little too close, but I can’t move. She gives my rear a quick squeeze. “Not bad for an old guy, Hank.”
I turn abruptly. “Like John Hunter?”
She recoils, throws me a confused look. “Hunter?”
“Yeah, him. Only he’s dead.”
“How?” she asks, her voice lacking emotion.
“Overdose. Evidently, he swallowed too many pills with his booze,” I say straightforwardly.
“What a horrible way to go,” she says, shaking her head.
I search my wife’s face for signs of infidelity or guilt, but Susan is good. She can be cold and withholding, especially when it comes to sex, which is one of the issues that has been dragging our marriage down for the past few years.
“Did he leave a note?” she asks, suddenly interested in my dead friend.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
She shrugs. “Just curious. What did it say?”
I’m debating whether to tell her, but since the suicide is cut and dry, I say, “Only that he couldn’t live with himself anymore.”
Susan remains deadpan, so if she’s relieved that the note didn’t mention her, she doesn’t let on.
“Guess he was in a rush to go,” I add sarcastically.
Susan scowls. “That’s not funny, Hank. The poor guy was obviously in a lot of pain.”
I finally drew some emotion out of my wife.
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“John was an advice columnist—”
“John?” I interrupt.
“That was his name, wasn’t it?”
“He went by Hunter.”
“Whatever.” Susan’s eyes gaze past me. “A shame he couldn’t help himself,” she says thoughtfully, then sighs. “Oh, well, I guess I’ll get back to my book. I was just getting into a love scene when you walked in.” She smiles wistfully.
“I gotta go out for a while,” I say before Susan has an opportunity to invite me to join her and her book. Outside, I lean against Susan’s black Honda Civic, contemplating my next move. I now realize how Hunter’s suicide and betrayal has clouded my instincts. Something so simple, so elementary. I touch the hood of Susan’s car.
It’s warm.