Chapter 3: Listen To The Power

Down in the underground park, various expensive cars filled the area, Lamborghini’s, Rolls Royce’s, and Woods favorite, the Aston Martin.

He walked towards his gray car, keys in hand.

He looked behind him to see Madison strolling towards a black motorcycle, no not one, but two.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Going to the museum,” she replied, and then looked at him suspiciously. “What about you?”
”Museum as well.”

They both looked at each other from opposite ends of the underground park.

“So…?” he said.

“What? What’re you waiting for?”

She prepped her bike, and then Wood noticed that she wasn’t going to wait for him. He jumped into the car and then followed her out.

At the museum, Wood got a lot of looks, while Madison merely looked like a normal person owning a motorbike with no brand name on it.

The museum was right in the middle of the city Metropolis; it was in facing People’s Square, flags of its exhibits flying free.

Madison parked her bike and he parked his car right behind her.

She walked up the steps, with Wood trailing after her.

Inside, it had a nice peaceful vibe, a desk was right at the door. A man in a black tie less suit sat at the counter.

“Welcome, how many?”

Madison took her I.D card out.

“Madison Powers, freelance for the F.B.I, I’m here about a man called the Artist?”
The man lost his welcoming mood.

“Ah, I was told to expect you, and… a man named Duncan Wood?”
”Here….” He said.

The man nodded and took a small microphone attached to the desk.

“Sir, they’re here now.” He spoke into it.

A minute later a man with white hair and beard, slightly overweight came to greet them.

“Ms. Powers and Mr. Wood, so finally glad to meet you.”
Wood shook his hand but Madison didn’t.

The curator cleared his throat.

“My name is Harrison Stanley, I am the curator of this fine museum, would you care to take a quick look at some of the arts here?”

Wood was going to play along with the curator but Madison spoke first.

“Sorry, we’re here on official business, we ‘re here to take a look at a painting of a man stabbed by a knife in the gut.”

Stanley paused. “Right this way, it’s in the back.”

They followed him and Harrison spoke to them quietly.

“After I realized that the painting was a premonition of someone’s death, I just had to have it taken down.”

He lead them into a steel vault which was really a large room filled with paintings and old sculptures.

“Here it is.” He said gesturing to the painting.

There it was, the man Howard Samuels depicted in a gruesome painting of death. Just like in the picture Gus Taylor showed them.

“That’s…”
”Enough talk Wood.” Madison said. “We have some questions about it.”
”Ask away,” Harrison said carelessly. “I wouldn’t want anything more than to not have a painting by this horrible artist in my museum again.”
”OK, first question, did you see who would’ve handed this in or any description?”
”No, not at all, it was however, mailed to us, I have an address from where it was sent.”
”May I have it?”
”Most certainly,” He said. ”I’ll be right back, its in my office.” He carelessly strolled out.

“That was fast.” Wood said.

“What?” she asked.

“You know, getting an address from him.”
”Yeah, and you were about to tell him you wanted to look ‘round at other paintings Duncan, stick to the case please.”
”I was just trying to bring him down easy.”
”What are you trying to do? Tell him its over and you don’t want to see him again? I think he knows that a murderers paintings in his museum vault, shit I mean come on Duncan, it’s a murderer that I don’t want running around.”
”Please don’t call me Duncan.”
”What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “Its just that you’re a freelance, you shouldn’t really care about murderers out on the loose.”
She punched him hard in the stomach.

He fell to his knees clutching his sore gut.

“Here I am!” said a jolly curator. He looked down at Wood. “Oh my, is there something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Madison said. “Just being all dramatic over a sore stomach, it’ll be fine.”
Harrison nodded and handed her an address, 457 Clandestine Road.

“Thank you,” she said. “Also can we get your phone number? So you can call us if anything comes up.”
”Certainly.” Harrison said handing her his card.

“Thanks.” She said.

“Not at all, mind you did you get a close look at the painting?”
”Not really.”
Wood was back on his feet.

“What’s this white line here for?” he asked tracing the line with his finger.
”I don’t know, maybe a mistake or its supposed to be something.” Madison said.

“During the final hour of the painting, a good artist always looks at his work to analyze the cons and pros.”
Madison leant back up.

“Well, that’s all we need so far, thank you for your time Mr. Stanley.”

He nodded. “Stop by again sometime, maybe next time we can converse about magnificent art.”

She nodded and dragged Wood out back onto the street.

“That wasn’t helpful.” He said.

“What?”
”Dragging me out like that.”
”Oh like anyone cares.”
”They will, it’s a bad image.”
”Image?”
”I have to keep my standards up, its just a regulation, you’re a freelance you don’t really care do you?”
Madison looked up.

“What were you saying?”
”Never mind.”
She handed the slip of paper to Wood.

“I don’t know where it is, I’ll follow you if you know.”
”I got a GPS.”
”Cool.”
She mounted her bike and followed Wood out on the road.

The location was out of the city and deep into the forest where a small community resided.

They were a literary society who named their places of interest with convoluted words that mean simple things.

Wood got out of his car, moist dirt caked the wheels.

“This the place?” Madison asked.

“What do you think?” he responded curtly.

She shrugged.

The area was moist with rain, a large building made of logs stood before them. In fact, all the buildings that they had seen so far had been made of timber.

The door was open.

Wood entered first and Madison behind him.

The inside was dark, and small shafts of light got through the gaps between the logs.

Everything was gone save fro some tables and some easels leftover.

“Search the area for any traces of the Artist.” Wood told her.

“I know what to do, I’m not a rookie like your girlfriend.”
Wood faltered.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”
”Sure…” Madison responded.

“You don’t believe me don’t you?”
”Of course not, there’s no need to hide it, a friend of mine says that you shouldn’t be tempted by girls with hearts of silicone and chests of air, you’re all good.”

“Shit…”
”What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”
Wood scanned the easels and saw little containers with red paint in them.
Then he realized it wasn’t paint.

“Hey Madison come here.” He said uneasily, not because it was what he thought it was, but he used her first name for the first time in front of her. It felt demoralizing.

She looked up. “What?”
”I think I found something.”
She strode over beside him; she looked closer at the liquid.

“Are you saying it could be blood?”
”Yeah, no idea whose though.”
”Take a sample, forensics can identify it later.”
Wood carefully poured some of the blood into a small tube and pocketed it.

“You find anything?”
”No, we’re done here.”