Page 60 of Edge of Ruin
The mocking words echoed in his head as he followed Wilder out the door onto the gallery walkway. Wilder began walking faster. John lengthened his stride, closed the gap. Wilder began to trot.
Enough. John leaped, took him down. Wilder’s shoulder hit, with a brutal crunch, against the iron balcony rail. He started to scream.
It hurt John’s head. There was already too much screaming inside, that constant screaming, driving him crazy. He grabbed the guy by his collar and his belt, lifted, swung, heaved him over the rail ...
The screaming stopped abruptly.
Ah. Now he could breathe again, in the sweet, calm silence.
John panted for a moment, enjoying a sensation of intense relief, and then began to stroll the entire perimeter of the balcony. It gave him an opportunity to enjoy the effect of his handiwork from every angle.
He was feeling much better now. His vision had cleared, his breathing deepened, his heartbeat normalized. He was even feeling a bit nibblish.
He stopped at the table next to the enormous Waylan Winthrop bronze that held pride of place in the center of the gallery. The one he’d been so fascinated with a few weeks before. The one entitled Teeth.
He grabbed one of the napkins, and loaded it up with water crackers, mini caviar sandwiches, chunks of cheese, artichoke tarts. A couple of juicy pineapple chunks from the remains of the fruit bowl. He’d be wise to tank up on food right here. There would be no time for a meal tonight. He’d need to race to whatever airport had the earliest flight to Portland, Oregon. That old turd Haupt would insist on going, too, but at least John had gotten a lead at last. Maybe it would earn a break from the scolding.
It was lucky, that he’d been able to unload some bad energy. He could function now.
He stuffed his face with some more tasty tidbits as he gazed up at the new, revised version of Teeth. Dark drops of blood plopped heavily down, dangerously close to his shoes. He moved his feet out of range and ate another couple of juicy chunks of pineapple as he gazed up, admiring the effect.
He dug out his cell, framed the shot, snapped a few pictures. Very nice.
He’d gotten a feeling, weeks ago, when he first saw those sharp, spiky teeth pointing straight up into the air, that the sculpture was missing something. It lacked that extra little thing, some color, some interest, that would really make it pop.
It was perfect now.
Chapter Seventeen
Jack
The gophers were eating the Asiatic lilies again. I was going to have to rotate the bulbs to another field. The idea exhausted me.
I rocked back on my heels and stared at the big, spotted orange lilies, struggling to remember what the fuck I was doing at all. Bucket. Lilies. Clippers, in my hand. Yes, it would seem that I was cutting them. Then, I had to haul them to the cooler. Before dawn, I had to drive them into Portland. Right.
I grabbed the bucket, pushed my way listlessly through the towering stalks of Aconitum columbianum. The royal blue blossoms were just about to open. The vivid pink of the Campanula medium hurt my eyes. The Penstemon azureus was about ready, too. The Crocosmia ‘Lucifer ’. The gladioli, too.
I was behind. Slacking off. I’d been too busy rolling around in bed to keep up with my flowers. I was going to lose money if I didn’t haul ass.
That idea exhausted me even more.
I hauled the bucket across the field and squatted in front of the Physostegia, staring stupidly at the white blossoms. Snip. Put the cut stalk upright into the bucket. Mind on what I was doing. Second by second. Better to get used to it all at once. Much better than just to procrastinate and then have it ripped away again.
I’d be okay. I always had been before.
But goddamn, this was different. Vivi was everywhere. The cosmos flower reminded me of her posture. Colored yarrow, crimson bee balm made me think of her hair, her lips. My bed seemed as wide as a football field without her curled up in it. And her freckles. Faint constellations on her shoulders and throat. I knew them the way an astronomer knew the night sky.
I stared at a ladybug clambering into the glowing white cavity of a half-open Physostegia blossom, and thought of her skin, her throat. Her red hair, vivid against my pillows.
I had never even told her that I loved her. I hadn’t wanted to confuse things, complicate things. Set up expectations that I would then have to dash when reality finally hit us. Like a train.
It was raining. I had hunkered on my haunches so long, my feet had fallen asleep. I staggered to a tree and leaned against it, waiting for the pins and needles to die down. Rain pattering on the pine needles made me think of the first time I had seen her. The way her wet green shirt clung lovingly to her body.
I slogged toward the house, with the vague notion of making coffee, maybe some lunch, though it was late for lunch. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. I’d have coffee. See if there was anything edible in the fridge. I didn’t really care if there wasn’t. Fuck it.
In my kitchen, I was as confused and slow as I had been in the field. Coffee. Right. I unscrewed the pot, moving like an arthritic old man. Grabbed the half-and-half out of the fridge. The carton was empty.
I stared at it, wondering what I must have been thinking, putting an empty carton back into the fridge. So I’d drink it black. Fuck it.
