Matthews had a headache.  He’d been getting them a lot lately, and nothing seemed to help.  He rubbed his head and sighed.  Thomas looked over sympathetically from the driver’s seat.  “I have some aspirin if you need it,” he said.

“Already took some,” answered Matthews shortly.  He didn’t want to talk.  He didn’t even want to be here.  He liked Thomas, but the man talked incessantly.  Mostly he had nothing to say, but he said it anyway.  They had met back in Boston a couple of years ago, when Thomas needed a private detective.  He paid well and the work was easy, so Matthews had kept the connection. 

“You know, you’ve had a headache ever since you got down here,” Thomas commented.  Matthews grunted.  At times like this he hated the man.  Thomas had picked him up at the Old Inn and had talked the whole way to his house. Now he was going to be sympathetic and talk some more.  Useless, trivial prattle would pour from his lips like dripping water, bouncing off Matthews’ brain until he thought he would go mad, and all he really wanted him to do was just shut up, for God’s sake!

The abrupt silence brought his eyes open, and he realized suddenly that he had said that last bit out loud.  Thomas was staring at him with his mouth wide open.  He shut it and turned back to the road, pulling the car over to check the mailbox.  “Sorry then,” he said stiffly, and got out of the car. 

Matthews sighed and got out himself.  “Look, this headache is beastly.  You go on and check the house.  I’m going to see if I can walk this off.  Maybe the air will help.  I want to check the woods anyway, see if the places marked in the paintings are really there.  I’ll meet you shortly.”  That was ghastly, he thought as he walked towards the woods.  What possessed him to act like that?  He hated it when he acted like that.

Thomas rifled through the mail and threw it on the seat.  He reached in and retrieved a cigar, and leaned against the mailbox as he smoked.  He was a little worried about Matthews.  The guy was always rather curt, but he didn’t blow up.  That must be some headache, he thought.  A car pulled up next to his, and he looked up to see the constable.  He threw the cigar away and walked over to talk to him.

“Evening, Thomas.  I thought I told you not to come out here alone,” Fred said.

“Matthews came with me.  He’s checking the woods for the spots in the paintings.”

“Gonna be here long?”

“A little while.  I want to check the house and let Matthews look around, and I need to pack some things for Amanda.”

“Thomas, this is Katy, Moisey’s sister.  I’m taking her up to Moisey’s place.”  The two said hello, and Fred continued.  “We shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes, I shouldn’t think.  I’ll stop in on my way back.”  Thomas nodded and stepped back as the cruiser pulled away.  Then he sighed and glanced over at Matthews, already nearing the edge of the woods.  The wind was blowing hard today, and his overcoat swirled around his legs as he climbed back in the car and pulled into the drive.

Fred watched the retreating back of Matthews as he drove on down the road.  Again, something was nudging his brain that he was looking at something important, but darned if he knew why.  He was pulling up to Moisey’s house before he realized what it was.  “Look, Kate, I hate to do this, but maybe it’s better.  I need to talk to Thomas right away.  Moisey’s door doesn’t lock, so let yourself in and stay here.  Don’t go anywhere, okay?  I’ll be back in a little bit.’  Kate looked a little startled, but obediently got out and headed for the front door as Fred drove quickly back to Thomas’s.

Fred let himself in the front door and looked around the pretty cottage.  He had been in here the other day with Amanda, and saw nothing different now.  Thomas was nowhere in sight, but Fred could here footsteps upstairs headed for the back bedroom.  Suddenly the sounds stopped, and he heard a muffled curse.  Quickly and quietly Fred mounted the stairs and peered down the hallway.  Thomas was standing in the doorway, his hand rifling his hair.  “Thomas?” said Fred quietly.

Thomas flinched and turned.  “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “Somebody’s been in here; come and look.”  The bedroom was a mess.  Sheets and blankets were strewn over the floor.  The pillows were lying haphazardly where they were thrown.  Pictures were knocked down and broken.  Shards of glass lay everywhere, from the broken dormer window.  The frigid wind howled through the hole and washed over the two men like a cold frost.

“Matthews back?” asked Fred.  Thomas shook his head.  “Thomas, I want to ask you about him.  How long have you known him?”

“A couple of years, I guess.  Why?”

“Oh, just to be thorough.  How’d you meet?”

“He answered an ad I put in the paper for a private detective.  He did a good job and I put him on retainer.  I use him fairly regularly.  We’re more or less business acquaintances, I suppose.”

“Do you know much about him personally?”

“Not really.  I know his wife left him and he lives alone.  He had a car accident shortly before I met him, said he was struggling with some memory loss.  He gets headaches sometimes, like migraines.  He doesn’t talk much about himself.”

Fred walked over to where he could see the woods surrounding the back yard.  “Thomas, you said he went to check the woods; find the places marked in the paintings.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How’d he know where to look?”

Fred turned to look at Thomas, who clearly did not understand what Fred was saying.  He tried again.  “You and I talked about the paintings.  I assume you talked to him as well.  But neither of you looked at them.  I know, because they’re locked up in my office.  Now, you’ve seen them before, but you never saw the figures in the woods; Amanda told you about them.  He’s never even seen that much.  Take a look at the woods, Thomas.  It stretches all around your house on three sides, and from your yard clear back to the crags.  How did Matthews know where to look for the two spots where someone stood smoking?”

“I – I don’t know.  I guess maybe he just wanted to walk a bit.  He’s having one of those headaches today, and snapped at me in the car.”

“That could be it.  Just seems a little strange, is all.  I watched him walking when I left your place earlier.  He had on that long overcoat, and the short hair….  Well, it struck me funny.  I think we need to get out of here, Thomas.  Gather up what you’re here for and let’s wait for him downstairs.”

Thomas was a little shaken by the conversation, but did as he was told.  In a few minutes he was done, and they headed for the stairs.  As they passed the bathroom, though, Thomas suddenly heard a sharp crack and whirled around to see Fred falling to his knees.  Matthews stood behind him, the butt end of a revolver raised in the air.  He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Matthews glared angrily at him.  “Where is she?” he growled.

“Where’s who?” stuttered Thomas, edging backward toward the stairs.

“My wife!” Matthews shouted, and leapt over Fred’s prone body.  Thomas turned and fled down the stairs.  At the bottom he threw the satchel he was carrying, tripping Matthews and giving him time to get around the corner.  Where now?  And what wife?  He had no idea.  Getting away was the only important thing right now.  Quickly he sped through the kitchen and into the mud room to the back door.  Locked!  Of course it is, you idiot!  He thought to himself, and turned around.  Matthews was already there. 

The two eyed each other, Matthews grinning slightly and Thomas breathing hard.  “It doesn’t matter,” Matthews said.  “I’ll find her later.  Probably ran back to the inn without you.  You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” said Thomas, “And I don’t know why!  What is it you think I’ve done?”

“Well, let’s start with breaking into my house; fooling around with my wife!  You think you can just take a man’s wife and he’ll just walk away?  Is that what you think?”  Matthews was working himself up to a primal rage, Thomas could see.  He felt confused, and lost – and more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

Just then Fred’s voice came from behind them in the kitchen.  “Blackwell, stand real still now!”  He barked.  Fred was weak, and holding on to the counter, but had his gun trained on Matthews’ back.  “I know you’re angry, but this isn’t the way to handle it, Blackwell.  Just put the gun down, real slow, and back up a step.  It’s my job to arrest this man, and that’s what I’ll do.  Put the gun down, now.”  Fred continued to talk, slowly and surely, and Blackwell listened.  Slowly his gun lowered and he began to turn towards the kitchen.  Fred motioned Thomas to move to the side and continued talk to Blackwell, his eyes never leaving the man’s face.  Suddenly Blackwell started to cry, a low, soft keen that grew in pitch into a wild howl.  He spun the rest of the way around, lifting the gun as he did.  The sharp report of Fred’s revolver filled Thomas’s ears, and the man he had known as Matthews crumpled to the linoleum floor.

(To read the beginning, go to The Artist, Chapter 1)