Jackal Read online

  Sarah acknowledged his advice with a smile, and they silently embraced before going their separate ways.

  Once ensconced in the comfort of her room, Sarah sat by a window that overlooked the town. It seemed clear to her now that not a single word of the disappearing story had actually been written. The entire tale of Jackal in the Mirror was being created inside her mind, courtesy of the entity sharing the information.

  “Very well, if that’s the case, let’s run with it.” She opened the book.

  Discern

  Karla, dressed in a two-piece royal blue suit, briefcase in hand, swung open the glass door to a high-rise building and marched in. She crossed the bustling marble lobby to one of eight elevators, and briskly entered a moment before the doors closed behind her.

  She burst from the elevator and headed a short distance down the hallway to a double door displaying in bold gold letters the words: WOA – World of Art – The International Magazine of Art. Underneath, in smaller letters, was, Gerard Simonet – Founder. Karla pushed the doors open and sauntered through.

  The huge reception area was carpeted in white, punctuated by chrome and glass furniture with white cushions. At the center, a narrow translucent desk encircled an attractive receptionist who busily handled a phone bank and an oversized desktop computer. She recognized Karla and nodded. “Good morning, Miss Jordan. They’re waiting for you. Your tea is ready.”

  Karla smiled in appreciation. “Thanks, Linda.”

  She strode down a narrow hallway toward the end office and opened the double doors.

  “Welcome, mon chou.” Gerard, a thin, blonde, elegant man of forty-four completely dressed in white sat on a white armchair next to a glass and chrome coffee table.

  “Merci, Gerard. How are you?” Karla asked, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Testimonials to Gerard and the magazine, as well as imposing paintings, sculptures, and photographs that covered every available surface, glamorized the otherwise monochromatic office.

  Occupying an armchair next to him sat Nicole, a slender, exquisite woman in her late twenties, dressed in a revealing fuchsia silk dress that totally clashed with the dominant white and chrome motif of the office and its owner. She lounged coquettishly, cradling a china coffee cup in her hands, and stared at Karla with poorly disguised disdain.

  Karla tactfully kissed Nicole on both cheeks, sat across from Gerard, picked up her cup, and sipped her tea.

  Gerard tossed a pile of photographs onto the coffee table. The top photograph was of Andrew. “I am very proud of you, mon chou, for getting this story. Although I’m disappointed that he refused permission for us to print his photograph.”

  “It is said you managed to acquaint yourself with him quite intimately,” Nicole said in a snide tone.

  “Well, Nicole, your sources are always far more crafty than mine.”

  Pouting at the obvious jab, Nicole leaned over and caressed Gerard’s hair to assert her control over the man.

  “Karla,” Gerard interjected, pushing Nicole’s hand away, “do you have any photographs of his statue in the park, the one with the jackals? I’d like to show their eyes in particular. The image could help punctuate the article’s comments about the inner life you observed in his art.”

  Karla flipped open her briefcase and thumbed through the photographs, found the one she was searching for, and pulled it out. “How about this one?” She handed it to Gerard.

  The photo had been taken at sunset. The life-size bronze sculpture depicted two jackals, with one animal seen in the background through the snarling fangs of the other. Their eyes vibrated with life and an intense mixture of pleasure and anger.

  “Merveilleuse! This is perfect, my dear.”

  Nicole attempted to create a sense of secrecy by leaning in toward Karla and whispering. “Tell me, chérie, what is he like? Intimately?”

  Karla raised her cup to her lips and shrugged.

  “Never mind all that,” Gerard scolded as he patted Nicole’s knee. He shifted to the front of his chair and leaned across the table toward Karla. “You wrote nothing about his family, education, childhood. Why? That is what our readers are most interested in.”

  “My research uncovered absolutely nothing about his life prior to his debut as an artist. He categorically refused to discuss anything at all regarding his past. He only agreed to do the story if it centered exclusively on his work. What is ‘real and lasting,’ as he put it.”

  “Why?” Nicole said. “Is he hiding something?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Seeing a chance to attack, Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “But you should, shouldn’t you?”

  “Later, ma petite,” Gerard said with obvious condescension, and gently brushed Nicole’s cheek with his hand. “Karla, there’s one more thing. I have three pages to fill in the upcoming issue with something witty and bright on the Chinese miniature exhibit at the Asian Art Museum. Can you manage something?”

  “What’s my deadline?”

  Gerard rolled his head from side to side. “I need it in four days. Only you can do it.”

  “Flattery will get you anything, Gerard,” Karla said with a sly grin. “But it’s going to cost you.”

  “You’re worth every penny, my dear. Send me the bill.”

  Karla smiled as Gerard returned his attention to her photographs of Andrew’s work.

  “It’s imperative that you get something personal on Andrew—if not from him then from his acquaintances. Although it doesn’t look like anyone has befriended the recluse.”

  “I’ll give it a go. But don’t hold your breath. It’s been hard enough to get what I do have.”

  Karla closed her briefcase and rose to her feet. She bent down to kiss Gerard on both cheeks, ignored Nicole, and headed for the door. “Adieu.”

  “Va bien, mon cher.”

  She closed the doors and made her way back toward the ever-smiling receptionist.

  “How did it go, Miss Jordan?”

  “Fine, Gerard shot me some extra work. Oh, Linda, give me a line on the phone over there, would you, please?” She indicated a phone on a table across the reception area, between two large chairs.

  “Sure, Miss Jordan.”

  “Thanks.” She rested her briefcase on the floor, picked up the receiver and dialed. She allowed the phone to ring several times, haltingly replaced the receiver in its cradle, picked up her things, and with a worried look etched on her forehead, left without saying good-bye.

  Sarah looked up from the book and sighed. “Is the story about Karla? Is she in danger?” She set the book down, stood up, and ambled about the room to stretch a bit and loosen her joints. “The birthmark on Andrew’s hand clearly points to him as the one who caused Martha McKenzie to fall down the stairs. But he didn’t appear to be violent or…deviant in any way when he was with Karla. His art is unusual, powerful, and somewhat disquieting, no doubt about that. It’s intriguing and certainly eye-catching. But what if he is the one? Tossing Martha into the lake was despicable.” She shook her head. “However, his rapport with Karla was tender and loving. Sincere.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, Book, we have one hour before Iris and Sonia arrive.” She returned to the window and opened the book. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Flash

  Karla roamed through the exhibit of Chinese miniatures from the Han Dynasty. Signs displayed the dates going as far back as 206 CE, and identified the objects encased in protective glass and individually illuminated. The room was crammed full of visitors, staring, speaking in hushed tones, and enjoying the unique exhibit. As she turned her attention to one of the display cases, she caught a glimpse, from across the room, of the back of a man who looked like Andrew. “Andrew?”

  He disappeared behind a case.

  Karla pushed her way through the crowd. “Excuse me, please. I’m sorry.”

  The
man sped away.

  “Andrew!” She continued to push through the visitors. “Excuse me.”

  The man rushed out of the museum, the large front doors closing behind him.

  Karla emerged onto the busy street, searching everywhere for him, but he’d disappeared into a sea of unfamiliar faces and foot traffic. Frustrated, she trotted down the museum steps and headed up the street.

  Sarah blinked as the words on the page dissipated, leaving only the poem behind. “Looks like we’re done for the day.” She waited a moment. “So be it. Let’s read the poem.”

  COME BACK

  Somehow

  The breeze is different when you’re gone

  It doesn’t kiss the leaves

  In passing by

  It throws them in its fury

  Here and there

  It doesn’t sing of far off lands

  It cries

  Like loneliness and fear

  It doesn’t give relief

  To a hot and moistened brow

  It lashes out

  Against the heart

  And tries to freeze the skin

  Come back

  And help the wind

  To be a breeze

  Again

  5

  The Friends

  Restaurant 301, located on the ground floor of the Carter House Inn, cast a warm glow over the three friends, as they enjoyed a delicious meal of crisp garden-grown vegetables accompanied by fresh seafood, and exquisite wine.

  “C’mon Sarah, tell me more about this James fellow,” said Iris.

  The changes the last couple of years had produced were, in Iris’s case, quite noticeable. Several pounds heavier since Sarah’s wedding, Iris chose to accentuate her curves by wearing bright colors with festive designs. Tonight she’d chosen a rainbow skirt, an aqua blouse with multicolored butterflies, bright orange hoop earrings, and a matching necklace. A myriad of white strands ran through her dark brown hair, and her lipstick perfectly matched the deep red polish on her nails.

  Sonia, always more demure in comparison, had aged more subtly, though a pair of rectangular frameless eyeglasses now rested on the bridge of her nose. She’d allowed her white hair to grow down below her ears into a soft wave that encircled her neck, and, though she still avoided full makeup, she’d added a touch of rouge to her cheeks and lips. She’d changed from studs to small hoop earrings, and continued to wear comfortable, practical clothes in muted tones that matched well with her complexion.

  “I’ve told you everything. He’s brilliant.”

  “And he’s like you,” added Sonia.

  “We both have…skills, that’s all.”

  “Skills? Really? Is that what you call it?” Iris asked. “No need to play coy with us, missy. I bet you he’s head over heels for you. And, who can blame him? I mean, how in the world can you look even more beautiful today than when you got married?” Before Sarah could attempt an answer, Iris went on. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve come to the conclusion that life is too short to allow myself to be miserable, so if I get fat, so be it. I’m no longer going to deprive myself of anything.” She giggled and leaned into the table. “Between us, the hubby is tickled with the new voluptuous and freer me.” She wriggled as she slid her hands down the sides of her body, and they all laughed.

  “But enough about me. Conrad must continue to tickle your fancy. You look like you’ve blossomed into a gorgeous flower.” She reached for Sarah’s hair. “Look at this, Sonia—shiny, wavy, auburn hair with mere whispers of white here and there. That cinnamon skin of yours would be the envy of every beach bunny in the country, your hazel eyes stand out without any need of makeup, and to top it off, you’re more svelte than ever. Conrad must possess some serious magic for you to look this good.”

  Sarah blushed and shook her head.

  “There you go, Iris,” Sonia protested. “See what you’ve done? You embarrassed her.”

  “Nonsense, she’s always blushed easily, and done that crumply thing with her forehead. That has never changed. Probably never will.”

  “C’mon, she does much more than that.”

  “Yeah, let’s not forget that she talks to spirits, too. And, this place is supposed to be filled with them. I’m so excited to hear what they have to say.” Iris rubbed her hands, clearly ready for an adventure.

  Sonia held up her hands. “Whoa. Let’s not get carried away, Iris.” She turned to Sarah. “Where do you suggest we start tomorrow? How about some kind of easy intro so we can keep Iris in check?”

  Sarah nodded. “We should start by exploring Old Town. There’s a narrated walking tour we can do and, after that, we’ll be on our own to browse about the place.”

  “Will they tell us about the haunted houses?” asked Iris.

  “Take a sip of your wine and ease up,” snapped Sonia.

  Sarah laughed and both her friends looked at her.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Sonia.

  “It’s like old times. The two of you arguing while I sit back and watch.”

  “Except that now your secret is out,” retorted Iris, “No escaping that.”

  “It wasn’t a secret.” Sarah shook her head. “I simply wasn’t ready.”

  “Well, missy, you’re the expert, so we’re going to put you to good use in every haunted house we can find.”

  “Iris,” interjected Sonia, “we are not doing that. Leave Sarah alone. We’re here to have fun, not to impose on her.” She turned to Sarah. “I would like to meet this James. From your description he’s my kind of hunk.”

  “Now, look who’s talking. You’re a married woman, Miss Sonia.” Iris turned to Sarah. “Not that I wouldn’t like to meet him, too. Married or not, we can always enjoy the view.” She winked and raised her wine glass. “Right?”

  The three laughed and all raised their glasses.

  “How about going to the Booklegger after our tour? Hopefully he’ll be there and you can both take turns embarrassing him,” Sarah suggested.

  “Works for me,” Iris said with a wink.

  Later that evening, after coaxing her friends to their respective rooms, Sarah sat by the fireplace with the book on her lap. She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed her husband.

  “That was a long dinner,” Conrad said with a smile in his voice. “How did it go?”

  “We had fun. I’d forgotten how much they like to argue. Those two are at each other’s throats every other sentence.”

  “I remember. They’re more like sisters than friends. Their husbands get a kick out of it and, to be honest, so did I.”

  “Yeah. It’s interesting to realize how different I am now than back in our teaching days.”

  “You are the same, but you perceive the world differently.”

  “Thanks, I needed to hear that. I do wish you were here.”

  “No, no, no. This is your time to spend with your friends. Make the best of it.”

  “They desperately want to meet James.”

  “So?”

  “I’m insecure about that.”

  “Why? From what you’ve told me about him, he’ll be delighted to meet them. I can’t fathom any problem with that.”

  Sarah heaved a deep sigh. “I suppose you’re right. I’m being egoistic.”

  “Boy, are we back to the fancy words after a few hours with your buddies? I hope you don’t get an attack of circumlocution.”

  She laughed with heartfelt amusement.

  “Sarah, you are far from trivial. But you’re right; maybe sharing him with them isn’t in the cards at the moment. You’ve met an extremely unusual man who shares your abilities—a first for you. And to top it all off he turns out to be someone your father greatly admired. It’s natural that you’d like to keep him to yourself.”

  “How selfish you make th
at sound.”

  “Maybe so. It is what it is.”

  “My dear Watson, you are replete with existential sagacity today.”

  “I aim to please, Sherlock, I aim to please. What about the book?”

  “You’re up to date. I’m about to open the book and find out what it offers.”

  “Good luck. Call me if you need to bounce something off me. I’m at your beck and call.”

  “Okay. Good night, darling. Thanks for cheering me up.”

  “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” She ended the call and picked up the book.

  Harmony

  Karla stood by an open balcony peering out over the bustling city. Behind her was a crowded studio, smaller than Andrew’s, with paintings of portraits, landscapes, and delicate nudes strewn throughout.

  Jeremiah, a stringy-looking man in his late fifties, stood in the middle of the studio touching up the background on a large painting. At this point, the canvas portrayed the vague outline of a woman, and the background itself was a shapeless mass of light and shadows ranging from salmon to a dark maroon. It was evident, however, that the woman had long hair and was looking over her shoulder while holding an object in her hand.

  The artist boasted a long salt and pepper beard that covered most of his t-shirt. The beard flowed directly from under equally long hair that he’d abandoned with complete disregard to the occasional spatter of paint. He gazed intensely at his work from under bushy eyebrows that resembled large gray caterpillars. His bright blue eyes provided a surprising dash of color to his otherwise pallid appearance. Possessed with obvious sensuality, Jeremiah was without a doubt an artist with a strong affinity for the female shape.

  He spoke to Karla without his eyes ever leaving the canvas. “Little info is known about the guy. Bumped into him here and there, but we’re not buddies. I’m clueless about whether he’s got any pals. You asked me for help and I set up the meet. End of story.”